If you don't behave we'll ship you off to Milton Keynes

May 31st – There’s lots of places that have a ring of tarnished hope about them. When I was working for The Game Conservancy, back in the 70’s, I lived in Milton Keynes… All of the propaganda and hype surrounding it was so far from the actuality it may as well have been describing an off-earth colony that no one would ever quite see. Galley Hill (a corruption of Gallows Hill…say no more) was a new-build of mono-pitch dwellings that the song Little Boxes was written for. Mind you, at least where we lived the houses were just semis. Up on Stantonbury they built terraced blocks a quarter of a mile long; if you came home pissed you could be trying the lock on every one else’s house...for hours. I’ll tell one day of my visit to one of these houses for dinner and of my trip to their toilet; not a pretty story that should serve as a warning to all.

One of the initiatives the Milton Keynes council came up with (in league with a desperate government of the time...and probably a pact with the Devil too) was to uproot and ship out 400 problem families from the East End of London and dump them on the Galley Hill Estate. Excellent. Well thought out demographics there. So, you get these folk from the 24 hour capitol of entertainment (in all its guises) and you dump them in a place where the only entertainment is watching the squirrels watching the house builders fell their woodland only interrupted by the odd hedgehog disagreement. There was no cinema, bowling alley, pub (!) club, youth club, night club…in fact the only club was an increase in membership of the pudding club, there being an awful lot of time on people's hands (and other members); that and the opportunity to haunt the myriad underpasses that served as safe access to the bright lights of Stony Stratford…which reminds me, that’s where I first discovered my love of wine; in an hotel restaurant in Stony Stratford, may even have been called the White Hart…? We had lunch there and I, in my wish to impress, ordered a bottle of 1970 Nuit St. George, grown and bottled by Bouchard Pere et Fils…simply magnificent. The bouquet and finish were the stuff of legend and I can still recall the sensation of that first sip…
Anyhow, Milton Keynes.

I think we were there for about a year before we moved out to Gayhurst (stop it…stop) in a farm cottage…wait a minute; I believe that was the place where one of the Guy Fawkes conspirators was captured as he tried to get a boat along the Ouse. He was harboured at Gayhurst House (I think Prince Gallitzin owned it when we were living there) and the tunnel that leads under the old Gayhurst Road, at the mouth of which the would-be assassin was captured, is still plainly visible as it leads onto the river…sorry, Milton Keynes…OK, well it’s not a place to plan your retirement…or anyone else’s...apart from a sworn enemy; and that’s how I feel about Redditch.

I can hear the roar of anger from here. Like Milton Keynes, I don’t say it’s a bad place to live, I just think the eventuality never quite lived up to the promise. I have several friends who either live or lived there and I have family that way too so my visits were, at one time back in the 70’s and 80’s, frequent. Never took to the place at all. An expanded conglomerate of housing designed by an architect who you just knew buggered off to his neo-classic pile in the Shires after his day was done. The housing boom of the 60’s/70’s has a lot to answer for…take a look at the Council HQ in Truro then try to tell me that’s architecture.
So, Redditch held no thrills for me…until I discovered that, on this day in 1948, John Bonham was born there! Oh, right; John Bonham – Led Zepplin. Why didn't you say so?

Right. So, where was I…oh, yes, Redditch… Well, as I've always said, a veritable jewel in the pantheon of English town planning and architecture. Marvellous. Oh, to be part of that state of grace that can only exist in such a place of tranquil beauty and uniformity. The grandeur, nay the majesty of its environs and inhabitants…

Cleaning up the act

May 30th – There’s a certain type; a person has a certain aura about them that singles them out not only to night-stringers but also, in many cases, to the ordinary Joe in the street. Teachers do it well, those who've had a little training in the first instance. There were (and I guess still are) schools where the incidence of recreational sherbet-taking is, if not rife then certainly not uncommon. Morning duties not only require the taking of the register, there are also the ‘eye-test’, the ‘whiter shade of pale test’, the ‘continuing to wear long sleeves in the height of summer test’ and the ‘regular nosebleeds test’. Tell-tale signs that can’t be disguised in a pupil’s pupils, pallor or demeanour that marks them out for further research.

Trouble is most folk who take drugs all start out with the belief that it’ll not claim them. Wrong. It will in some way or other either financially, socially or healthily. The lucky ones either listen to those who bring it to their attention or notice the signs themselves and either draw back or quit. For those who have the money and back-up things are a little easier, inasmuch as they can be closer to the edge than most and be able to call on the help of experts (at a price) to bail them out. The Priory, Castle Craig and Promis are just three of the many rehab centres in the UK where help and guidance can be found if all else fails (and it often does) trouble is just like the drugs, it comes at a price.

The cheaper end of the market is around £650 per week, the middle end? £5k per week and then upwards. So, your best plan? Cut it or quit it before the bills do it for you…and, if you do have to check in then have the common sense not to do it more than once, huh? Rehab to rehab is no way to travel, trust me. Once upon a time there was guy called Pete Doherty; remember him? If your answer is “vaguely” then his binges and repeated rehab use have done their job, same as they did for Dee Dee Ramone, Amy Winehouse, Bill Ward, Anthony Kiedis, the list goes on…and on…and in most cases you can say, on hearing that they’re undergoing yet another summer holiday with granny;

“Well, yup. That figures.”

And then there are those who, when you hear they've succumbed to the demon drug you say;

“Bloody hell. Who’d have thought it?”

Such a one for me was Diana Ross who, on this day in 2002 entered a rehab clinic to clear up some personal issues. I always thought her life was pretty well sorted but then, you never can tell and the tales of how addictions can creep up on you and stab you in the back when you thought, all along, they were your friend are legion. My guess is she did the right thing and chose the right place. It may seem that at $33,500 for the cost of one month at the Promises Rehab Centre in Malibu would be prohibitive but let’s face it any clinic that can clean up Charlie Sheen has got to be worth stumping up the fee for, what say you?

A compilation of farts perhaps?

May 29th – The rock idiom is to have fast women, make a fast buck, drive fast cars and live a fast life; some folk take this last ideology too far as we've found out on many an occasion. The idea is if you’re gonna go then go out in a blaze of glory, not with a whimper but with a bang, and some have managed to do that. Car and plane crashes figure high on the list, as does shooting, motorcycle accidents and drug OD’s. All of these have a certain…charm when it comes to maintaining the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle-image that’s peddled in the industry. Keeps the flame alive…and the record sales too. What’s important in all of this is to have the demise of the star as well publicised as possible. This allows for extra sales to be generated on the current catalogue as well as a flurry of activity in the cutting room and back-catalogue for out-takes, fluffed rehearsal tapes and general recording studio dross. Of course, they’re doing it for the fans, there’s no money being made by the company…now, you may think I'm exaggerating…?

Case in point; Jimi Hendrix. 

He died in 1970 of asphyxiation on vomit…not very RnR but he did do it after a pill and booze binge so…fair play. Since that date there have been a steady file of recordings released (escaped) and re-released by Jimi (?) as  follows:

Studio Recordings: - 

6 in the 70’s

7 in the 80’s 

19 in the 90’s 

12 in the 00’s 

37 in 10’s 

Live Recordings: - 

8 in the 70’s

16 in the 80’s

20 in the 90’s

9 in the 00’s

8 in 10’s

33 compilations

7 unofficial releases

15 interview albums

91 tribute albums

12 home recordings………starting to get embarrassing, isn’t it?

And I guess that all the money made from these releases has gone to fund a worthy charity in Jimi’s name? Yeah, right.

So, you can imagine the kerfuffle at Profit HQ when Iron Butterfly’s bassist, Philip Kramer went missing on Feb 12th 1995. I mean, he’d made ‘phone calls threatening suicide but…where was the corpse?!? Without it the marketing department was on-hold and precious record selling time was ticking by. As it was, four years was lost until, purely by chance on this day in 1999, some photographers found Mr. Kramer’s skeletal remains at the bottom of Decker Canyon in Malibu; too late to market him meaningfully (and posthumously) but at least the mystery was solved. Trebles all round!

INXS-iveness.....

May 28th – It’s a bit like buses; nothing for hours but, if you wait long enough, two will come along together; the fact that both will be full and will sail blithely by caring not a fig for your predicament is neither here nor there. Trust me, I know 'bout these things. You’re chatting with a bloke who used to catch a bus twice a day in Wolverhampton. They’d got it off to a fine art. Knew just when to pull away so’s you’d almost catch it…and, in the words of Bob Newhart, their ‘accelerator/brake, accelerator/brake’ technique for standing customers with armfuls of shopping was second to none.

Those who've followed my musings over the past X months will know that I'm not nor never have been in thrall to The Doors. Some of the live stuff they released (supposedly as a shop window for the band’s talent) has numbers that are distinctly out of tune or key and vocals that have all the verve, excitement and spontaneity of a slug pulling a house-boat. Although I never met him (not likely to now either) I have to decide whether it’s an attitude I've invented; something I misheard or picked up in interviews or quotes that alienated me from Jim Morrison… erm…well, yes, in a word, it is. I thought he was a con artist with little talent and lots of chutzpah…is that definitive enough? Hope so. I'm sure his friends all thought him wonderful and, in truth, even from one such as me, his end was one you wouldn't wish on anyone, no matter how much one thinks that his own input into his demise was pretty substantial. Well, that sort of feeling ran through me when I went to see Queen at Wembley Stadium on the It’s a Kind of Magic tour.

I’d heard some of INXS’s music before I saw them there, as support, along with Status Quo and Big Country, so wasn't unfamiliar with the stuff and the reputation of their front man, Michael Hutchance. Touted as the next best thing, I can grant that his overt sexuality and way with a tune would sell both him and the records but I had the feeling of déjà vu; the first thing that had come to mind when I first saw him on video was;

‘Oh, that’s a Jim Morrison clone’

and that feeling was rubber-stamped when I saw them at Wembley, but…

Suicide Blonde has got to be one of the all-time great ‘90’s’ singles. It had all the right ingredients for Mr. Hutchance to strut his stuff against…however; I'm still not convinced they really were live at the MTV awards in ‘91’. For one thing there’s only two amp and speaker sets on stage…for four guitarists (?) there were no foldback monitors for either vox or, more importantly, for the harmonica player. Rock bands even now are paranoid about foldback – or in-ear monitoring as it’s now known – and I've yet to meet a drummer, certainly from that era, that didn't require a speaker stack the size of Kent in order to hear the rest of the band. Added to that, when the drummer hits the snare (with all the force of a sledgehammer) there’s no movement from the rest of the kit and the skin is solid…like it’s rubber maybe...and you can hear the toms even when he doesn't hit them; There’s also a lot of well-timed cut-aways…and is that an organ I hear…or am I just being picky? 
What I would say, in their defence, is that Mr. Huchence’s vox seem live and he really knows how to put it over, like I say, very Jim Morrison. When INXS became big, after they supported Adam and the Ants on tour on this day in 1983, he was very aware of his part in that rise to success and of his marketability (essential in a frontman) and so picked his songs well; What You Need’ – Need You Tonight – New Sensation – Devil Inside, all aimed at the right market for what he was selling; a sexy, desirable, lithe, louche and ever-so-slightly feminine guy; everything a girl could want in a lover.

It also has to be mentioned that with his premature demise he joined the ranks of those who lived fast, died young and made a beautiful corpse. Death by suicide has all the hallmarks of a troubled genius succumbing to the stresses and strains of greatness; it perpetuates both myth and record sales; and, let’s face it, death by suicide is far more rock ‘n’ roll than the other official verdict, ‘erotic asphyxiation’ i.e. throwing one off whilst wearing a plastic bag and rope.

Holly; not just for Christmas

May 27th – There are some performers in the pop world who don’t have to don an outfit of rebellion in order to get noticed; they do it by the sheer quality of their musical output and nous.

You have to wonder where Kylie Minogue would be if she’d relied on her own song writing ability when she first started out. Stock, Aitkin and Waterman were around at just the right time, as they were for Dead or Alive or Rick Astley…although I have to wish they hadn't been in the case of those last two, but…

I think my musical snobbery will show through now, but I have to say I believe a singer/song writer is a talent but a singer is just a mouthpiece…ooo, bugger… Wow. Now how does that make me stand with Sinatra? I’ll have to think about that bit…

OK, row a back a little, I believe a singer/song writer is a talent but most singers are just an interpreter. Have I salvaged my credibility? Maybe not, but now you know for sure I don’t rehearse these things I write, you get it as I think it, warts an’ all. That way you can say, out loud and to friends if you like;

“Peter, that’s bollocks.”

And, if nothing else, it gets you making the decisions on these weighty matters (?!) and deciding how you view them. Anyhow, these other singers may put a song over really well but that’s the extent of their talent; they are just a voice and as often as not have no instrumental ability. That’s not to say some of them haven’t got a way with a tune but I much prefer to see and hear singer/songwriters selling their wares; it’s one of the things that I most admired about Buddy Holly.

Described by critics as;

‘The single-most influential creative force in early rock and roll’

for me he was the quintessential, best-pal performer, the person who spoke most directly to me. Not about shocking events or risqué ideologies but about life for everyday people, folk just like me. He managed to cross over into the black consciousness when everyone else struggled and his direct, no-nonsense lyrics spoke to anyone who’d been in love, felt injustice or just wanted to have a good time whilst not hurting anyone. Those who felt his influence are legion (Dylan, Elton John, Lennon, McCartney, Keith Richards, Springsteen…the list goes on) and they pay him ample tribute in the why’s and wherefore’s of how they got to where they got to; but Mr. Holly’s influence was deeper than other performers track to fame. What he did was reduce what it felt like to be a post-war teenager in the 50’s. If you only listen to ten records this year, make four of them That’ll Be the Day (released on this day in 1957) and Words of Love (both written and performed by Mr. Holly) and Love Is Strange and Rave On, written by others but performed by Mr. Holly to become, even in the words of the songwriters, ‘the gold standard’.

There’s two particular quotes that I recall from Mr. Holly that about sum him up really: 

“I’m not trying to stump anybody; it’s the beauty of the language I’m interested in”. 

You only have to read the lyrics to his songs to see how right he got that one.
And:

“Death is very often referred to as a good career move.”

You only have to read the eulogies of the famous to see how right he got that one.

Soundtrack to our death

May 26th – As alluded to yesterday, I have hidden shallows. I try and cover all forms of music in this daily Mcguffin I write (I'm already looking forward to December 31st) and today’s gubbins was going to circulate round that doyen of the music hall stage, him with the ukulele, pushy wife and aversion to spending money, Mr. George Formby. He was born this day in 1904… But then, like a child who sees a sparkly new toy and throws aside the one he’s holding in order to grab at it, I noticed that, in the same year as me, on this day, was born? Stevie Nicks!!!!!!!!! So, a no-brainer really. Probably the best pop voice in the business at the height of her fame, without doubt one of the most attractive ladies on the 70’s thro’ 90’s scene and the writer/singer of one of my DDI’s, Landslide to boot…but THEN…

It’s an amazing thing how popular songs and music enter the national psyche and become the backdrop to love and life. The ubiquitous headset that’s so prevalent now and which started out as The Walkman only to grow into the MP3 and beyond now provides the soundtrack to people’s lives; it has to be reported too that those sad individuals who are too preoccupied with the latest recordings by Flim and the Flams (or whoever the latest X-Fuckter toss-pot is) to notice on-coming traffic, these devices also provide the soundtrack to people’s deaths too. Sad to say this soundtrack is oftentimes how we measure the success or failure of our days/hours/minutes/seconds. It’s no longer worthy of an exclamation mark in one’s day to see two people walking side by side with a single earpiece in their ear, the ear alongside their companion open to conversation the personal player they each wear probably playing two different, customised tracks.

I'm no different. I can mate a song to an event in portions of my life; like a scent. How often is it we hear a track and are transported directly back to the space, mood or personnel of past happenings? The first kiss, the first ache of love (not knowing why it feels like this but knowing how it sounds) the first real loss and the last real find. Many of these events have their own soundscape that we weld on to them and which act as a doorway back into times of the other.

Well, in 1868 things were no different. The sound reproduction paraphernalia may have been different but the sentiments remained. On this day outside Newgate Prison the last public execution took place when Michael Barrett was hanged. 

To accompany his last seconds in this life, the soundtrack sung by the assembled masses gathered to watch his full-stop was a music-hall standard of the day; Champagne Charlie. Just what you want to hear at that time in your life; a song about a drunken toff who was a member of the privileged society that brought you to this end.

Carol King's the Queen....

May 25th – Don’t know what it is about her, but Carole king has been a woman in my musical consciousnesses for a great many years and, unusually for me, this has nothing to do with her looks…as I mentioned way back in January when I first started this daily verbiage, what I write often doesn't show me up in a particularly pretty light; I am, after all, just a chap. Not that she wasn't or indeed isn't an attractive lass, not at all, but I have to say, honestly, is that what first grabbed me about her was her song writing abilities. 

Even I, a guttersnipe from the gravel beds of Wolverhampton, was startled by the brutal honesty of, Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? (WYSLMT?) in fact most all of the tracks on her Tapestry album, released in 1971 for goodness sakes, is one I still play tracks from to this day and say to myself, when I hear WYSLMT, or I Feel the Earth Move or You've Got a Friend;

‘Blimey girl, that’s a rare talent you’ve got there.’

It’s also because her list of clients holds such names as Gloria Estefan, Celine Dion, Shania Twain, Aretha Franklin, Mariah Carey, Clapton, Slash, Mary J Bilge...these people queue up for her to write them a hit, include them on her next album or want her to guest with them on tour. But then, when you've won four Grammys my guess is you've cut your chops or, as one music journo once said about her live performances;

 “On stage, Carole King's performance is all spunk and exuberance”

(I've seen the ‘Live at the Troubadour’ gig she did with James Taylor…let me tell you, that description is accurate). 

No, what it is, apart from her phenomenal tune-smithing, is that politically and environmentally she is on song with much of the things I believe in. However, what sealed the deal for me is that at the height of her fame and earning potential and after concluding a 12 show tour, on this day in 1973 she gave a free concert in NY’s Central Park for 100,000 fans…just like all those other rock stars have done…yeah, right.

Let's destroy Dylan...

May 24th – As a hangover from a chat I was having last night with a very precious friend it could be, for the second time, we hear the cry from the audience of, “Judas!” It bothers me nowt though ‘cos y’know, I've never been a Dylan fan (that’s Bob not Thomas) who was born this day in 1941 (that’s Bob not Thomas, again).

Not a fan back then, not now…there’s an admission. Feel I should qualify that a little by saying that there is some of his stuff that’s timeless and very prescient not only to the time when the various albums were written/released but also to today, but I can remember conversations with my contemporaries back in the 60’s in a little place called ‘The Rendezvous Café’ in Shirley (place not woman) near Brum where I was looked on askance when I said these things (yup, even back then I’d made the decision about Mr. Zimmerman). See, I always had the feeling he was not quite the real-deal; that he was somehow riding on the coattails of greater talent…much like Donovan. Woody Guthrie is the genre performer that springs to mind immediately; and would it be unfair of me to put up Phil Ochs as a Mr. Dylan contemporary who, IMHO and in many ways, said it better? Discuss…or stone me.

Maybe it was the US equivalent of the English cloth-cap image Dylan pedalled that didn't sit comfortably with me; I know, I know, all been said before but it doesn't make it any the less relevant and it also might make what follows slightly incongruent.

You all know that I’m a pretty sad individual where music and musicology are concerned. I dissect, I criticise, and ponder and become affected, for better or worse, by the stuff that goes on in the industry, but then, I could be out mugging squirrels or terrorising hedgehogs so, be grateful for that. I, no doubt like some of you…(and if you've not then I can highly recommend it to while away a rainy afternoon BUT you have to do it properly and be VERY strict about the criteria) I've put together my own Desert Island Discs (DID); you know, choose eight pieces of music that you would be happy to find on a desert island; only eight. Did it about fifteen or so years ago in the mistaken belief that one day I’d become a famous author and get the invite; good job I didn't hold my breath. Each year, since compiling that original list, I sort of revisit and update it. That’s because new stuff always comes up and can, on occasions, put other formerly selected songs out of the top eight. This has happened a couple or three times over the past few years (Jesus…see what I mean? I’m writing this stuff as though it’s important, f’ goodness sakes…!) Anyway, whatever, I have to say the core six songs have remained the same, and one of those core songs is, lo and behold, courtesy of Mr. Dylan (nee Zimmerman). Written by him in ‘62’ and released as part of the The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan album, the track, Masters of War is as near as dammit is to swearing the perfect anti-war song. Full of bile and straight-talking to within an inch of its life it is the quintessential protest song. Mr. Dylan’s rendition is pretty damn good but that’s as close as I get to holding musical hands with the guy that most everyone else thinks is a god. You see it’s inclusion on my DID list does not allow for his worthy effort. This Masters of War is sung by someone else I've not got much truck with…however, it gets worse.

I’m driving along in a van, on tour with a show going from somewhere to somewhere. I usually listen to Radio 4 most of the time and certainly when I’m in a vehicle, but I think on this occasion I’d switched to Radio Two (probably because that gobby idiot, Clive Anderson, was on with Loose Ends; more like ‘The Clive Anderson Show with Guest Appearances by…’) I can’t remember the Radio Two show I locked onto but suffice to say it was an ‘in conversation’ piece and the subject was Julie Felix… Now I don’t know ‘bout you, but I always considered her very lightweight in the music biz in general but more particularly in the folk idiom. We’re All Going to the Zoo Tomorrow? Remember that one? Me too. So, wearing my customary derision face, I was listening to this programme of chat and music for about twenty minutes when the interviewer said;

“Now, Julie, you’re going to play something live for us; what have you chosen to play?”

‘Oh, great,’ I thought,’ just what we need, JF and We’re All Going to the Zoo Tomorrow. There was the ominous sound of a guitar being picked up and our Julie said;

“Yes. I’m going to play a Bob Dylan song called…? Yup, you got it… ‘Masters of War”.

‘Oh, my,’ I thought, ‘this should be interesting…’

And away she went. 

It’s not often that it happens but I had to pull the van over and park, so good was her rendition; I mean truly astounding, left me breathless unable to do anything else but concentrate on her astounding, electrifying delivery, particularly not be in charge of six tons of speeding metal.

I've searched the net (this was about six or so years ago) but have not been able to find the programme or a copy of her performance, but I am willing to say something I never thought I’d say in all my years of music listening; I have a Julie Felix performance on my DID list and it’s been there, immovable, for the past six-plus years.

What's in a name? The reflection of a tosser possibly?

May 23rd – There will always be bands that, no matter how popular they become you just don’t get. For the life of me and to this day I can’t work up any enthusiasm for The Four Tops and it’s not for lack of familiarity either. We used to sprinkle our set with some of their popular stuff as a sweetener, to allow the audience to dance a little instead of standing round the edge of the dance-floor listening to a musical tirade emanating from a group of anal-gazing prog-rockers, a gang of fully-committed (we should have been) long-hairs.

Thing was, y’see, many of the gigs we did relied on the audience dancing so they’d consume more alcohol (although how anyone can sink more than two Babychams is beyond me) and so perk up the bar sales. If the pub owner saw serried ranks of morose looking folk all gathered around a single array of empty glasses two things would happen.

1) He’d be over to the stage with a couple of mates suggesting we rearrange our repertoire and

2) It’d probably be last time we’d be offered the gig there if the dance-floor wasn't a heaving mass of sweaty bodies within ten seconds of this facial-rearrangement trio’s ultimatum.

Trouble was we were a heavy-duty, psychedelic rock band complete with costume and attitude eager to showcase our own material albeit with a sprinkling of popular covers. Now I know there’s been a shift in the meaning of the word, attitude, from now to then. Then (60’s/70’s) attitude consisted of standing on stage looking slightly bored, massively arrogant and in a torment of pain and effort over such things as doing a lead break or singing a high note or hitting the cymbals; now attitude just consists of doing a Justin Bieber.

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida was, to all intents and purposes, a seminal piece of progressive rock; it certainly hoisted Iron Butterfly to super stardom. The album from whence this track came is a gateway allowing the listener to get as close as a cat’s chin to a cat’s whisker in their search for the sound of the sixties. The title track has the mesmeric, repetitive trance beat, the vocals are louche (very Doors) and the subject matter (Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden) is sufficiently intellectual to attract the pop-cognoscenti to its pollen. All the ingredients are there so what it is about the song and the band that just seemed so…made-up for my taste?

Well, for one and as far as this particular track is concerned, it’s the lyric. I bet they must have sweated embryos gathering these pearls of wisdom together; embryos. It would seem they possibly ran out of time (or money) and so had to rush to do the vocal track of an early morning after a particularly heavy night on the bong. Trouble was they omitted to write down the lyric so they sent Doug Ingle (vocalist and organist) into the booth with a fond fare-thee-well and an instruction to ‘make some shit up’. My guess is that, just like a toaster can become the focus of attention to an over-eager, party-going smoke inhaler as he/she stands in the host's well-dressed kitchen dazed and confused through too much weed, so the rest of the band were so far out of it to be ‘wowed’ by his seeming lyrical perspicacity…Mr. Ingle, it would seem, was their toaster. 

As for the band, well, you must remember that I knew about them from the get-go so none of my feelings come from hindsight. I was a cocky little drummer boy back then (some would say I still am…but without the drummer codicil). I can remember discussions in the band about Iron Butterfly (and others) and the one overriding thing I had about them was that any band who took on a tambourine player into the line-up and announced it to the press as if every band should have one really were a bit UTOA. What sort of mollified my ire and allowed me to arrogantly write them off as unworthy of my effort was that the name of the tambourine player was Darryl DeLoach and it turns out it was through his parents that the band got the garage to practise in at no cost…DeLoach's parents owned it. Now, I don’t know ‘bout you but… 

After that little announcement they felt sort of stained in my psychedelicher-than-though attitude; but the last laugh lies with them. You see, on this day in 1971, Iron Butterfly, this band I’d written off as just a group of patsy’s with pretensions to poetry, broke up, but their album, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida? It went on to sell 30 million copies and is included in the top 40 best-selling albums of all time: as I’m so fond of saying, what do I know?

Cream knickers on the floor...

May 22nd – I picked up my copy on the day it was released. I was working in a record shop…you know what one of those is, don’t you? You know, a shop that sells gramophone records; LP’s and 45’s? No…? Oh, OK, I’ll try and keep it simple. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. Well…erm, once upon a time, back in the long dark ages when plastic was new and the recorded cylinder had just been superseded by the flat pancake called a disc recording youth emerged from their black-painted bedrooms where they’d suffered from dreams of death and angst, go to their local record store and exchange up thirty shillings (£1.50) for the latest recording of their favourite musician then return to their mausoleum in order to continue their naval-gazing. Sometimes there would be queues at these Ye Olde Recorde Shoppes and peasants would gather to be anointed with the latest three-minute epistle released by their chosen ones for the emancipation of youth. All clear now? Good. Amongst these chosen ones was a band called Cream.

Ginger Baker (drums) Eric Clapton (lead guitar) and Jack Bruce (bass guitar) were the heralds of the power trio and over the coming years this would become the 60’s/70’s rock band standard format. Apart from the Jimi Hendrix Experience who were far superior to Cream IMHO, there were many emulators but few matched up to them, Taste, Budgie, Blue Cheer, possibly Skid Row as a leftfield entrant (have a look at their YouTube footage of An Awful Lot of Woman then tell me 1 – that aint leftfield and 2 – just what the timing sequence is to the opening 42 seconds) oh, and us, the band I was in at the time, Tendency Jones, but apart from that, Cream were the mould.

I've mentioned before, a couple of years ago, about their live recording of Spoonful off’f the ‘Wheels of Fire’ double album and where it ranks in my musical sensibility, but before all that, in 1968 their album, ‘Disraeli Gears’, was released and, on this day, was certified gold. Not surprising really. Full of original work and musical ideas it was a seminal piece that changed the face of popular music, creating a split between hippies and popsters, marking out the territory that would be fought over throughout the next ten years until the cash-cow of progressive rock was slaughtered on the alter of punk...which reminds me...

A later release, ‘The Very Best of Cream’ supplied the band I was in with a track we covered and used to open up our second set; N.S.U. 

As a complete aside to everything and just so’s you have something to talk about at your next cocktail party, N.S.U. is an acronym for non-specific urethritis, a 60’s version of a modern-day STD. 

So, back to the band. It was The Pear Tree in Dudley, I believe, that was the setting for a memorable performance. Ten seconds into our N.S.U. cover a girl in a very short crochet dress got up on stage and began to dance wildly to it; so wildly in fact that her drawers slipped down to end up as a tourniquet to her ankles severely restricting her foot movement and the blood flow to most of my body…I believe she stayed on after the gig…it’s all a blur…not a boast; not proud of it, just a 60’s flashback.

Hell hath no fury like a manager scorned

May 21st – There’s threads that run through all businesses; some more than others. Take the music business. I figure, on the performer side, that in any endeavour where the article being sold is the person, you, and your talent is up for grabs and comment then you’re going to suffer some degree of paranoia, selfishness, insecurity and recklessness in equal measure. If, on the other hand, you’re part of the management side of this deal it’s not unfair to sat that there will be a fair measure of slight-of-hand, bullying, greed and a regular use of underhand tactics but to be fair, not all of these acts of kindness are perpetrated against the performer. Managers and agents are, after all, dealing with club owners and drinking-den promoters, many of them riding the ragged edge of law-breaking. With their daily struggles against the gales created by rivals trying to sink them the active the non-payment of a band’s fees is a breeze barely noticed by such entrepreneurs. We’re all aware of how musicians, writers and performers being cheated out of what is justifiably theirs by unscrupulous folk working in the biz, supposedly working for them, but this is the industry for which the term dog-eat-dog was coined.

It’s much like the recent information that’s become known concerning women in the U.S. armed forces. The incidences of sexual harassment and, unfortunately, rape that women in the various branches of the military have had to undergo is only put to shame by the number of women who've felt unable to take the matter to their superiors for fear of; 1) Having to undergo even worse treatment from their regimental comrades when their disloyalty to the badge of honour that is the regiment leaks out.

2) Knowing they'll be signing their own death warrant as far as promotion goes if their predicament is disclosed to a superior officer.

3) The knowledge that their superior officer will, in many, many, many cases tell them to keep shtum because things will look bad for them (their superior officer) if it becomes known that this sort of behaviour has taken place on their watch.

Good ‘ere, innit? It’s also highly likely that this sort of behaviour has taken place in the British regiments but, as with the Yanks, they close ranks to protect their own – read the information about the events at Deep Cut Barracks then tell me it aint so. 

You stick your head above the parapet at your own risk. We see this in so many walks of life and we've all been made aware (unless you’re from the ranks of the chosen ones that is) that our success or failure in some position or other is in the gift or denial of another staff member and depends to a large extent on just how you treat them. It’s certainly what Fontella Bass found out when she asked for fair treatment.

Never mind that on this day in 2000 she was inducted into the St Louis Walk of Fame. All her ability, talent and truth counted for nowt when the credits for the writing of her million-seller single, Rescue Me were decided upon. As co-writer she should have benefitted from the royalties accrued by that song and its uses. Did she? Well, whaddya think?

In 1965 the single was released, sold in millions and reached gold status. It took Ms. Bass until 1993 (so, just 28 years; not long then) for her to gain what was rightfully hers. All good then? Well, not quite. You see, Ms. Fontella Bass asked for what was rightfully hers without due servility, without due humility, without bended knee and smile. Work dried up, offers stopped arriving, career doors slammed. She was branded a trouble maker and made to suffer because of her ungrateful temerity. And on that note about the milk of human kindness we all skip off into the distance whistling, “I wanna be a rock ‘n’ roll star.”

Religion; don't take my word for it...

May 20th – Religion; can’t live with it, can’t live with it… So how does that work then? How come religion got so intertwined with music? Is it because…hang on, let me think…because of those early Gregorian chants, the drone and the trance-like state that they represent? I know that, on the occasions I've ventured into a church or cathedral and have been lucky enough to time it with choir practise, the whole event is mesmeric. 
I did a tour of Eastern Europe which included Hungary and when we did Budapest I made time to visit St Stephens’s basilica in Buda…or was it Pest? Whatever. I can highly recommend it…worth a look on Google Images if you've not had the pleasure. How the church, any church, can have that much static wealth… But then, that’s all been done before and it’s not my place to whinge. Certainly true that whatever your religious leanings, the basilica is stunning, the ceiling so high and the paintings, many by an artist named Gyula Benczur (nope, me neither) that adorn it; stunning. When I visited they’d been burning fresh incense and there was a pall of what can only be described as scented clouds filling the upper reaches. As these smoke clouds drifted and shifted around in the air movement so gaps in the clouds revealed the paintings of cherubs, angles…the Virgin Mary offering Hungary to St Stephen… So, what do you reckon a peasant coming in from the fields and being told about God the Devil and the life of purgatory that awaited those who didn't empty their pockets into the collection plate would feel? Bloody terrified, I’d say. The height, the smoke from incense, the wonder, choirs, chants…sufficiently in touch with the other; enough to make a saint swear, I’d say. 

Like most folk of my generation who were a result of the love-life production line from WW2 and coming of age during the Vietnam war, I searched for the meaning of how the world and its peoples were being treated. I dabbled in Hinduism, Buddhism and Mormonism and revisited my roots of Protestantism coming up short each time. You want a better explanation than that, we can talk; this isn't the forum. Gradually things were weeded out until I arrived at my present destination; an atheist christian. What has stuck are the Yoga, which I've practised since the 60's and still use today and, latterly, the Tai Chi; non-religious activities that invoke trance and discipline without having to nail some poor bugger to a cross in order to get it verified.

A large number of high-profile slebs and musicians have also gotten into the religion bit; some because they think it fits the tenet of their beliefs and some because they’re stoopid. ‘Madge’, Mr. Travolta and Mr. Cruise are three in the latter category. Have a read about those who've joined the Scientology movement, read the background to the gospel according to L. Ron Hubbard then handed over their cash; you’ll be so disappointed at those who did.

One who didn't, however, was George Harrison. On this day in 1967 he visited the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi for the first time and took up transcendental meditation and the living of a life through reality to reach fulfilment and freedom. No drugs, no opiates just course fees and the opportunity to learn to play the sitar…no wonder our George fell under the spell of the incense smell.

Cache

May 19th – Consider the following: - 

“Louie Louie, oh no, Me gotta go Aye-yi-yi-yi

Fine little girl waits for me

Catch a ship across the sea

Sail that ship about, all alone 

Never know when I come home.

Louie Louie, oh no, Me gotta go…”

Probably worth a visit from the Bad English Police but probable cause for an FBI investigation? And governments wonder why its citizens have a conspiracy theory mentality.

What’s so annoying about this sort of national security crap is that, while they’re doing this they aren't actually concentrating on the things that really matter. Things like catching people who smuggle baked beans past the toast police; folk who tease chickens with tales of pheasant-puckers’ mates or, heavens-to-Betsy, evil crooks who ruffle the fur of Pekingese puppies the wrong way, and we all know what happens then; their eyeballs pop out and you have to wrap them in greaseproof paper and take them to the Chinese-eyes-ease who put them back in gently, that’s what.

Those lines above are a truncated version of the Kingsmen’s Louie Louie and, on this day in 1965, these lyrics were investigated by the FBI as subversive material…I kid you not.

The song is about a guy going back home to Jamaica, possibly, to see his girl that he’s not seen for a long time. The girl could be his wife, fiancée or daughter; all is not made clear given the remit of the three-minute pop song. What is made clear is the level of paranoia in the US government at the time…and probably still is now. Such was the thrall that rock ‘n’ roll was held in back then and I thought;

‘With all their collective intelligence, surely they had something to go on?’

 So I thought I’d try and understand their take on it, to see if I could decipher the hidden message.

Louie Louie – a reference to the boxer, Joe Louis, the so-called Brown Bomber and the upsurge of anti-apartheid activism in the deep south?

oh no, Me gotta go – a reference to the poor, mainly black quarters of various states complaining about the lack of sanitation?

Aye-yi-yi-yi – ditto above?

Fine little girl waits for me – a reference to white, sexist subjugation so prevalent in some of the more backwoods areas?

Catch a ship across the sea – a reference to the slave ships?

Sail that ship about, all alone – a reference to the scourge of Somali piracy to come…and the use of voodoo to see that far into the future?

Never know when I come home – a reference to the keeping of late hours by people who should really have been locked up at dusk?

Louie Louie, oh no, Me gotta go… – repeat as necessary.

So, there you have it; proof, if indeed proof were needed, of the dastardly plot being laid by Johnny Foreigner to overthrow the legally elected government of the USA…no wonder they sent in the lyric police.

Bay City Rollers version 1, or is it 5?

May 18th – How it works, see, is that as soon as a tried and trusted formulae clicks with the silver-spending public, say Bourne… or Pirates… or Ice-Age… or The Beatles or Fifty Shades and Shaggin’… there then ensues an undignified scramble to replicate it. Unfortunately and unlike those other replicants in Blade Runner, we can’t just send them crashing though a plate-glass window with several bullets in their back; we wish.

One of the tricks of doing anything artistic is not being afraid to fall. You  know the saying;

‘…all the people…some of the people…all the people all…’?

Well it applies here. All you can do is the best you can do; the work you do you do for the work, not for the perceived success or failure; just for the work. Trouble is there’s not enough people in the accounts dept. who have the luxury of feeling that way. I think it was Bob Newhart who, when he was doing a skit on the retirement speech given by a fictitious accounts clerk for a large conglomerate, included the line;

“…I always thought that if you got within two or three bucks of it…then all was OK.”

and if you get the chance, listen to his Infinite number of monkeys skit or the one he does on Superman trying to get his suit back from the cleaners…excellent comedy. I digress; bandwagon entertainments. Right. 

That’s why there’s so many cover bands all trying to recall past, better (?) times for the pop public. I mean, OK, Elvis. I've mentioned him before but only because it’s difficult to write anything about contemporary music without addressing his contribution. I preferred Little Richard ‘cos he always sounded more truthful to me, but Elvis did make a mark (understatement) and his influence should never be disregarded. That’s what made the poster I saw the other day, about some bloke touring as The European Champion Elvis Presley all the more sad for Elvis and his worth…no, not sad…erm…pitiful; no...I know, all the more…empty. Whatever. Anyhow, I've done this before; move on. 

So, I sort of did some rummaging around in what I laughingly call my mind to consider what it was that made the replication of a successful formula so successful and a complete failure at one and the same time; the one thing that does ring true is the demographic. Young people, particularly girls are the prime target, and I know you didn't need a half-wit like me to tell you that. What is a puzzle though is that this sort of behaviour hasn’t been sort of weaned out of the species. It’s an undesirable trait that serves no useful purpose…or does it? Maybe it’s akin to the first novels that appeared in the early-mid 18th century. Young women were sternly advised against reading them because they made the pulses race and filled the head with fanciful notions of love. What they also did (and what was, I suspect, behind all these dire warnings…given by men, I hasten to add) was to allow the curtains to be parted just a little and allow in the light of development of the emotional brain; give women a clearer view, not only of the world that surrounded them but also of themselves and their place in it.

The modern boy-band or girl-power-band phenomena is the 20/21st century equivalent of those self-same novels. Never was much of a one for the Spice Girls or Take That. Interesting harmonies aside there’s no way I would have paid money to go see either, but I can understand the why’s and wherefore’s of both their appeal and the effect they had on a whole host of youngsters, not all of it good, but… However, I draw the line at the Bay City Rollers. 

What was the point of all that? Jeezzee…just a cloned Beatles-Monkees frame-alike cross out dog and put in goldfish addition to the pop rip-off…IMHO. And yet they made millions and had a following that put even the Rolling Stones to shame. For the life of me I can’t fathom it but, as I've said so many times before in this guff I write, what do I know? Nothing…except this:

On this day in 1975, apparently, The Bay City Rollers were appearing at Mallory Park (I used to go there car racing years ago, sports car stuff; Minis and Fiats and Hillman Imps, very enjoyable) where they were due to do their set on an island in the middle of a lake. Throngs of fans tried to swim out to them (!?!), mayhem ensued and The Bay City Rollers never got to perform…now I would have paid money to see that.

Killing in the name of...

May 17th – Not sure, even now, where it is but I do know there’s a line that a person crosses that takes them from being a fan to being a fucking nuisance – forgive my French. I mean, do we think that Mr. Chapman well and truly crossed that line? I’d say yes. What about the guy who attacked Hugh Jackman with a razor…bit over the top in the fan-love basement? Or how about when Robert Baldo shot Rebecca Schaeffer? A bit precious? Probably. How about the belief, stated by one such, that; “Every celebrity needs a stalker”?

Is this true? Do we think they deserve the treatment because they’ve put themselves into the public domain and by that very fact have forfeited the right to anonymity, privacy and discretion? 

I find it a bit rich that the press who are railing about celebrity stalkers are the same ones who are publishing yet more pictures of some sleb or other whom they no doubt stalked in order to get the photo. I mean how many photos of Madonna or Beckham do we need? Is not everyone else, like me, sick of the sight of them staring out of every second periodical because they had the temerity to wear jeans on a Sunday or go out shopping without wearing full make-up or some other heinous crime against stardom?

It’s often the case that bands are vilified by their fan base if they dare deviate from the album or single or film genre that first brought them to prominence. In the film/TV business they call it being typecast and the same holds true in the music business. You’re only as good as your last release, and that’s the one the fans want to hear. I've been to many a gig where the crowd have actually whistled and jeered at bands that have tried to incorporate new material into a show that, according to the fans, should be riding on the coat-tails of their back catalogue. The three times I've seen Rush in concert have all had their fair share of ribald comment from assembled groups in the crowd whenever they introduce anything that isn't Big Money or Freewill. It’s as if the fans want their heroes preserved in amber; something that’ll always be the same, won’t alter the memory they carry of their first contact. And in most cases this is enough…it’s OK for them. That’s why they buy and play the record or DVD or whatever because it’s always the same. It’s when that first flush of adoration is spoilt by ,new work, or new friends or a new venture, when the song doesn't remain the same, that folk can get…well, upset…cross really.

On this day in 1966, Bob Dylan dared to introduce an electric guitar into his set in Manchester and someone shouted out;

“Judas!”

at him.

A folk purist was how the perpetrator was described…Judas, apparently, returned to the farm he had bought with the silver he obtained for betraying Christ, and deliberately fell upon a sharpened stake…bit like a BIG knife…and killed himself. Gosh, some folk, eh? I mean, it’s only rock ‘n’ roll, y’ know…just a bit of music, not life and death…Oh, hang on, strike that.

Stupid behaviour in the creche of pop.

May 16th – I’m sorry, I know we've covered him before but this sort of toss-pot stupidity just gives the human race a bad name and needs flagging up. I know that, as a popular performer, it may be seen as a good thing to keep your image fresh in eyes of the public, but you’re so wrong and on so many levels.

With anything or anyone that becomes popular, why is it, do you think, its or your legion of fans took to you or it in the first place? Do you really believe that after pledging allegiance to your flag they then wanted you to, oh, I don’t know, change the layout of the Marmite bottle for instance…call it after the Aussie variety (Vegemite)? Do Walkers really believe that if they changed the name of their Salt and Vinegar crisp to the crisp formerly known as Salt and Vinegar they would double the sales, or capture a whole new audience? No, they wouldn't. What the audience want is what you sell, that’s why they buy it…I mean, Marathon – Snickers; WTF was that all about? And, while I’m on the subject, doesn't Cadbury’s chocolate taste crap now the Yanks have bought it up…? Kraft have single-handedly and in the space of a couple of years reduced what was the quintessential taste of English chocolate into something resembling the scrapings from a Twinkie bar…or the underside of a shoe. I’m waiting for Green & Blacks to have the same bland, uninteresting, homogeneous taste now that they, too, have been taken over by the company that gave us Dairylea Cheese Slices. The nation who have gradually brought the rest of the English-speaking world to believe that by putting cheese on something they turn it from just food into a gourmet experience. Couple more years and their world domination of turning once lip-smacking treats into just so much mush will be complete… sorry, off on one; sorry.

What it is, if you’ll remember from previous posts, is that, of a sudden, they (the stars) begin to believe their own press cuttings and from then on they become, like Gazza (footballer not district of Palestine) or Taylor Swift or, heaven forefend, Donald Trump; embarking on a highway to ridicule. Don’t know ‘bout you but, I actually liked some of Prince’s early work. I mean I didn't rush out and buy any but I thought his tour show done in the round was quite interesting and, although his continuing use of numbers in the titles of his albums is really quite childish and annoying, he does put out some worthy work…if only he’d stop buggering about with his name!

On this day in 2000, The Artist Formerly Known as Prince announced he will start using his name again; Prince. Not Jamie Starr or Christopher or Alexander Nevermind or Joey Coco or Some Silly Symbol or The Artist Formerly Known as Prince or The Artist…just Prince… FFS, Prince, it isn't big (neither are you, but that’s beside the point) and it isn't clever. Stop it or I’ll take away your crayons.