Presley and the War

June 30^th – I’d like to state, at the outset, that I do NOT bear grudges. Never have. I’m a very firm believer, as far as any mistakes I’ve made goes (and there are plenty, some I’ll never be able to forgive myself for, so how big a sheet of paper y’ got?) and how ever many wrongs have been done to me, once sorted and apologised for you ‘put the baby down on the doorstep and walk away’. Something that some politicians and some countries seem incapable of doing…unless it suits.

Pre 41, Japan and the United States of America had a bit of previous. With negotiations still apparently on-going about the Japanese designs on furthering their empire post the Nanking Massacre, the attack on the USS Panay and the moves by the U.S. to shore up their military presence in the Philippines (it was nothing to do with us, we were just innocent by-standers) in December 1941 the attack on Pearl Harbour commenced. With heavy losses on the U.S. side and the part ruination of the pacific Fleet, President Roosevelt said it was;

“A date which will live in infamy”

or at least until 2006…when we’ll completely change our mind because we got the scent of money.

What does the name Elvis Presley mean to you?

To the youth of the time it meant a glimpse of a freedom that had been curtailed since the opening salvos of 39-45. In his gyrations and body-bopping people sensed the strait-jacket of parental demands on how they should behave and what was important (job for life, do as the man says, car, wife, house, kids, retire, grandkids, die) was loosened and they could express themselves in whatever way they thought fit. In his songs they heard a voice and an expression akin to their own, that knew how they felt about love, lust, life…and how to howl at the moon. In his lyrics they discovered it was OK to disagree with your parents, with your peers, with your government, after all, how much worse could they do to you than send you off to be killed?

For the government of the day he spelt out A.N.A.R.C.e.H.Y. He spelt out disagreement. He spelt out dissention. He spelt out non-obedience. He spelt out the words of ruling classes’ personal demon…F.R.E.E.D.O.M. That’s why they banned him and his ilk, denigrated him and his kind, laid him and his rock ‘n’ roll contemporaries alongside The Devil, Satan, Beelzebub, and threatened those who listened to his blasphemy with an outcome as advertised by Vlad the Impaler, where you’ll burn in the fires of hell for an eternity…or at least until 2006…when we’ll completely change our mind because we got the scent of money.

On this day in 2006, Dubya (President G. W. Bush of that name) took the Japanese P.M. Junichiro Koizumi on a visit to Graceland where, I guess, they kissed and made up at the site of what was considered by one leader to be the home of its country’s arch nemeses in the company of the leader of the land that was once seen by each other as either country’s arch nemeses…if that makes any sense at all…

Funny how history turns out, huh? Do you ever get the feeling that all that fighting was because, back in the lead up to WW2, a couple of guys hadn’t got the strength of character to put their greed to one side, be honest with one another and have the nous to sit and talk, even if it was to someone they didn’t really like and from whom they’d hear truthful things they didn’t find particularly palatable? I mean, if they could get together over the ashes of a dead rock ‘n’ roll singer, just think what a couple of sides of Jailhouse Rock could’ve achieved.

Answers to yesterdays quiz: – The clue was in yesterday's slug-line so, if you got right, you get no points for  just being observant.

The Intro and the Outro by The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band from the album Gorilla released in 1967 and dedicated to; ‘King Kong, who must have been a great bloke’

Jazz (Delicious Hot, Disgusting Cold) is the standout track on the album for me – first time I heard it I was laughing out loud at it; excellent.

Lionel Richie versus Gorilla

June 29^th – OK, folks, it’s quiz time! Yes, again…alright, alright… repetition is often a sign of popularity y’know, so live with it…! See how quickly you can guess the song’s title, the band name, the album name and who the album was dedicated to…oh, and the year the original album was released from the following opening lyrics. Partial answers count as a fail, I demand it all!

“Hi there, nice to be with you, glad you could stick around. Like to introduce ‘Legs’ Larry Smith, drums,

And Sam Spoons, rhythm pole…”

Any good? OK, another two hints.

1) Roy Spear was born on this day in 1943 (DON’T go rushing off to Wikii, help stave off dementia and try to recall it) and

2) It’s an interesting cast list that follows those opening stanzas. Answer tomorrow…

As a lead off from the lines that followed that opening, and which you will be no doubt frantically Googling right now, there’s a certain perverseness to the world of PC and offensive behaviour that’s surfaced over the past, oh, 30 years, I guess? So much has been banned now in the name of bad taste, f’rinstance, where would we be now without the Butthole Surfers? How would life look without their titles for albums such as Hairway to Steven and Rembrandt Pussyhorse?

When I was stage manager at the Arena Theatre in Wolverhampton, I well remember a show called Taboo. It was done by Theatre de Complicite, I believe, a one-man show, and it opened up with a blank stage then faintly, in the distance, was heard music; opera music. After a short while for the music to establish itself a man, a naked man dressed only in a tied strait-jacket and walking backwards, appeared U/S/R. It was obvious he was pulling something behind him which, after a short while turned out to be a ghetto-blaster on a skateboard the end of which was attached to a piece of string…the end of which was attached to his penis. Great opening to a show; certainly got the audiences’ attention.

In stand-up there seems to be a requirement for bad language and foul descriptions of the human condition. For folk like Jimmy Carr and Jethro and Kevin ‘Bloody’ Wilson it’s their trade mark routine; what they’re known for, what the punters come out to hear. No problem with that, nothing I would stir from out my armchair for (’cept maybe to reach for the remote) but a lot of folk do; Mr. Carr, in particular, does two shows a night and sells out both…every time. If swearing is part of the gig then I prefer the more artistic type as done by Bill Hicks or (although I have some reservations through my past contact with him…quiet at the back there!) Eddie Izzard, and from the modern crop of funny men Peter Kaye makes me laugh, and there’s very little bad language in his work, but usually the ‘f’ word is now par for the course…or coarse; did you see what I did there? Huh?

We’d all like to figure that no new slant on the sexual innuendo-peaceful passer-by harassment-fuck-wit-on-a-stick incident is possible; not now we’re civilised and we’ve got the laws and the sociology sorted; but there’s no end to human kinds’ inventiveness when it comes to being an arse; hence the need for so many reminders of just how not to behave. There was also a lovely double-switch that happened and I’m sure you’re all aware of it, so it’ll make the telling easier. It was that incident in Swansea, what, a year or so ago? CCTV cameras followed three piss-heads down the street of a Friday night as they harassed and threatened passers by with their gleeful antics (Ha-Ha! How we laughed at their un-original swearing and un-enlightened drunken, boorish behaviour). Anyhow, as the security cameras showed, towards then past them, walked two, what they figured were, transvestite gents out for an evening of enjoyment. Long story short: they threatened the trannies who turned out to be two professional cage-fighters on their way to a fancy dress party… If you’ve not seen it take a look on Youtube; it’ll warm the cockles of your heart.

The other side of that example of natural justice took place on this day in 1988 when Lionel Richie's wife, Brenda, was arrested for assault after allegedly striking her husband after finding him in bed with another woman. On the scale of natural justice evinced in the Swansea Trannie incident referred to above, what your average comedian can get away with in front of a mixed audience nowadays and the changes of acceptable reaction/action from then to now, Mr. Richie is lucky his misdemeanour took place in the 80’s. Today she’d be entitled to cut his bollocks off to the ringing applause of the multitude and exhibit them on the nearest lamppost…NOT that I recommend this as suitable punishment, you understand; one has to retain a modicum of decorum in these circumcisions, sorry; circumstances.

Ozzy posits the question, George Harrison qualifies it

June 28^th – Isn’t there a line somewhere on the new Black Sabbath album that goes;

“…I don’t want to live forever, but I don’t want to die…”?

Trust someone like Ozzy to come up with that one. He’s paraphrasing a theme played out in countless stories but one that probably only came to popular notice in the story-throughline of Highlander. Whatever we think of the movie and the accent of Christopher Lambert in the title role of the film (which rates 7.2 in some reviews but is classed as ‘clumsily put together and makes bugger-all sense…’ in others and is dismissed as, ‘…Just Christopher Lambert running around with a very sharp sword’ elsewhere) yet the themes and questions asked and expanded upon throughout Gregory Widen’s story are, in a populist manner, quite profound.

His ideas about immortality and the sense of mortal loss and yearning that must inevitably come with it were preceded by JRR Tolkien when he partnered the immortal Arwen with the mortal Aragorn. That must be the epitome of purgatory mustn’t it? That we live to relive the passing of loved ones we meet in each successive generation as they die and we continue with our life, only to be granted an encore of the demise of yet another true love…an endless, repetitive encore of heartbreak; Queen sort of touched on this in the soundtrack to Highlander with their song Who Wants to Live Forever? My guess is Freddie Mercury would’ve, or at least have been granted a bit longer anyhow…but that was just a pop song interpretation that revolved around the self and, yes, although it made a statement yet that statement was all about the me generation and the supposed immortality of fame, it didn’t step into more challenging territory; writing to the strait-jacket of a movie or a three-minute pop song can cripple one, artistically.

Whatever, in the turmoil of grief for a loss, we can often be caught wondering how the world can possibly carry on when the personage of so-and-so is no longer living in it. That’s the one thing that comes to mind with the loss of a really close person; that you walk out of the room where the news is imparted and life is continuing on, as if nothing had happened, nothing has changed; which, in the grand scheme of things, it hasn’t.

As one of my characters in my second novel, The Quarry says;

“The graveyards are full of indispensable people.”

Is that a comfort? That those we hold up as icons, beacons to a life well lived and major contributors to our sum knowledge and understanding of life, the universe and everything have gone before us and yet still we, the seemingly less worthy, live on, but that we will be granted the same opportunity of death as they have had; that this, at least, puts us on an equal footing with our heroes; ‘for kings and beggars He comes’.

I’m not a Beatles fan, you all know that by now, but one has to reflect that, on this day in 1997, George Harrison had an operation to remove a cancerous growth from his neck and he said, a year later;

“I’m not going to die on you yet, folks.”

He was right in one way because it took him a further three years to succumb to the disease but succumb he did…and who could imagine a world without The Beatles in it? (I asked myself the same question when Jimi Hendrix died). As far as The Beatles were concerned, we’d had Mr. Lennon taken out of it by Mr. Chapman (that’s one) and then the imminent demise of a second (Mr. Harrison, that’s two) and then suddenly the possibility was (and is) there; the four members of the Beatles would be, eventually, dead. Would we want them to live forever? Is that not giving them consecutive life sentences? Or is it enough to know that we lived at the same time and in the same world as our present-day heroes, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, et al as their partners and friends even if it was from the distance of a song?

Lamb of God and the stage-diving toss-pots

June 27^th – At what point in a series of events (unfortunate or not) do we become responsible for the outcome? OK, those of a nervous or easily offended disposition read no further. You have been warned.

Let’s discuss two true cases and one personal true story and see if we can’t tease out where the responsibility lies and what the H&S ruling might have been.

Case 1)

Uroko Onoja, a practising polygamist with six wives, was caught by five of his other wives having sex with the sixth. She was by far the youngest of the spouses and the other five, who were jealous of her, threatened Uroko with knives and sticks, demanding he have sex with them…and right now! After servicing four of them in quick succession, and before mounting the fifth, Uroko complained of chest pains, stopped breathing and was dead within a few minutes. Now, where does the blame lie?

Is it with Uroko for submitting to the demands of the wives, by not saying;

‘I don’t think so, ladies; I’ve got a headache and I don’t feel like sex.”

Does the blame lie with the wives who couldn’t control their own sexual urges and jealousies? That his regular conjugal attention of the youngest wife had nothing to do with Uroko wanting a younger model in preference to the mid-range wives he’d already got but because she was vulnerable and insecure and needed much more comforting?

Would the H&S Executive have been satisfied if Mr. Uroko had been allowed a fifteen minute recess between bouts?

Would it have satisfied current legislation if Mr. Uroko had been allowed to get the wives to join in with a six-some, or would this have infringed the rights of the wives to ‘obtaining a participatory orgasm with a male partner’?

From the male perspective, does it really matter?

Case 2)

Kenneth Pinyan died of acute peritonitis after receiving anal intercourse from a stallion. Info-Grabber: His case led to the criminalisation (this was in 2005, btw…those Yanks, huh? Such a God-fearing bunch and so full of fun) his case led to the criminalisation of bestiality in Washington State… 2005…? Right… You really do have to re-read that then shake your head at the human race at times, don’t you? Right. OK, so, onward. Who is to blame?

Should it be Mr. Pinyan for believing that a horse would find him in the least bit attractive and want to spend the rest of its days with him as a partner…other than the fact he’d offered his body as an incentive?

Is it the legislators of Washington State by failing to protecting the good people from the advances of amorous stallions?

Would the H&S Executive have been satisfied if the Horse Racing Betting Levy had been informed as to the odds of Mr Pinyan surviving such a union and been able to open a book on the outcome?

Case 3)

I was sat in a hospital canteen when my late father was ill, just before visiting time started, having a cup of tea … now there is a H&S calamity; hospital tea… and reading a paper when a couple of nurses sat at the next table in front of me. They began chatting and I continued reading, only slightly aware of their conversation when, gradually, my attention was grabbed as I heard the one nurse say;

“…so we had to get the snipe-nosed tweezers and pull the blue-tack out; only way we could do it, his penis and urethra were in such a bad way by then…”

Who is to blame?

Is it the makers of blue-tack for designing something as sexually charged as a blob of blue squidge that just oozes fornication?

Is it the makers of blue-tack for creating something that is mouldable into a million sexually charged shapes that scream “erotica!” at the passing shopper?

Is it the makers of blue-tack and should they be up in the dock, alongside the makers of bubble-wrap and parcel aircushions?

Would the H&S Executive have been satisfied if the blue-tack had been of a firmer manufacture and so would have required a larger orifice for secretion and sexual gratification?

These are the kind of weighty problems, living in the age of Health and Safety legislation that we have to consider. I mean, where do you stand on allowing a customer in a pub to carry a tray of drinks back to his/her table if he/she hasn’t received the correct training in carrying a tray of drinks? Can you see the inherent dangers in having knives in a kitchen? Would we better off erecting scaffolding to change a light bulb rather than using a ladder? You see? We are beset with major decisions about how far we are prepared to push the envelope of stupidity in order to either enjoy ourselves or get the job done.

This is the sort of dilemma that faced Randy Blythe of the heavy metal band, Lamb of God when he returned to Czechoslovakia on this day in 2012 after a two-year gap. When he was there the last time he’d pushed a stage-diving tosser (SDT) off the stage; unfortunately, said SDT had whacked his head and had died two weeks after the incident. Lamb of God had left the country by then as their tour continued and it was only on his return that Mr. Blythe was arrested for manslaughter. So, where does the blame lie?

Is it with Mr. Blythe, who was probably sick to the back teeth with having individual wankers coming to their gig and showing off to their friends by stage-diving, regardless of whom they inconvenience and had decided that one less body on stage would make more room for the band and, because he was a stage-diver this person would be leaving the stage with some force at some point so, sooner rather than later?

Is it with the concert promoter for designating areas of the floor in front of the band an area where individual wankers can barge their way into other individual wankers in what they euphemistically call ‘the mosh pit’ regardless as to whom they inconvenience?

Is it with individual wankers being allowed into concerts at all?

The defence rests.

Strictly for The Byrds

June 26^th – Raymond Froggatt anyone?

One of the bands of the 60’s and on thro’ that I was never sure I really got, and that confused and annoyed me, was The Byrds.

It was their pre 1968 hit/miss folk-rock style that confused me a little, I think ‘cos I was into a harder edge than they put out and so, although I recognised their relevance to the 60’s scene, their cuddly bunny philosophy and their sometime syrupy production values bordering on everything I find irksome about flower-power music, and that was a turn off not a turn on; that was until they released Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Maybe it was Gram Parsons’ influence on the band that makes this album sit so well with me and mine. I know The Byrds stuff often came up for chat in the dressing room when we were gigging in the late 60’s and, I think, we were all of the same mind; Mr. Tambourine Man was a top-drawer work but Turn, Turn, Turn! (T-T-T!) and the album of the same name was a lost soul of a recording IMHO. The problem for me was that the title track, the one that set the timbre for the whole album, seemed a bit of a ‘meek shall inherit the earth’ bleat, far outside the seething demands for social change that we were all a part of, or liked to think we were; the last thing, in our vision, was a season for all things and you had to hang around and wait for it: fuck the seasons, change it now!

Mr. Tambourine Man, which went to No. 1 in the States on this day in 1965 and was originally written and recorded by Bob Dylan (The Byrds seemed to specialise in Dylan stuff recording ‘Lay Down our Weary Tune’ and ‘The Times They are A-Changin’ on the T-T-T! album) and The Byrds cover was, imo, a far, far better version than that original…and anything that anyone else has done too. See, even now I’m confused about them, The Byrds… Bloody annoying. What I can say, though, is that I have no compunction in how I view Sweetheart… which also contains two Dylan compositions; it’s just a standout album and the first glimpse of what folk-rock would become.

There was a pub in Brum that I’m desperately trying to recall but I know that, as I write this, at 00.24 on the 26^th and into my second drop of malt, I’m not going to do it. We used to gig there regularly…bugger…what was it called? The ‘something’ arms, I think…never mind, another day. Anyway, we used to gig there and on a couple of occasions we supported Raymond Froggatt (come on, keep up!) when he/it was The Raymond Froggatt Band (RFB). I remember Louis Clarke was with him at that time, him who went on to achieve great success with ELO (he also made a mint with The Pops go Classic but, draw a veil) and between Messer’s Froggatt, Clarke and the other band members they made a fair fist of covering Byrds stuff.

Talent was well on display and I think it’s the only time I’ve ever watched a band we were supporting from the front and thought;

“Not bad that.”

grudging, curmudgeonly bugger that I was even back then; I also think now;

“If the RFB could do a cover of The Byrds catalogue and I’d get it, then how come, when I hear the original band do the same stuff, the majority of the pre Sweetheart… releases, I don’t? Musical philistine, I guess, and an outcome that blows my verdicts on cover bands right out the water…sorry you’ve wasted all this precious time. Past now; gone forget it, but I did too so…it was good to have your company.

Nothing to do with Scott or the Antarctic...

June 25^th – Funny how some bands have a multitude of hits, a fan base in the millions and yet, after their time centre-stage, float off into oblivion never to be heard of again.

OK, let’s see how rock-savvy you are. I’m gonna give five clues and by the fifth you should have got the name of the band but I doubt, unless you’re something of a geek and need help in the form of chipmunk therapy, that you’ll get it before that. Here we go:

1) A duo active from the mid 70’s to the mid 80’s

2) Six number one hits, 34 charted singles, 7 platinum and 6 gold discs

3) Most popularly known by just the use of their second names

4) One name is where the school’s morning prayers and notices took

     place

5) The other name is found on the front of a Scottish breakfast cereal

So, how’d you get on? At what point in the above list did you say;

“I know!”?

Did you scratch your head and say;

“I’ve never heard of a band called ‘Assembly and Porridge’?”

Or did you think;

“I’ve got better things to do than waste time on this shit”?

OK, the band name was Hall and Oates.

There. I bet you’re so glad you stuck with it. I suppose the real test is to see if you can recall anything they recorded? I mean, when was the last time you heard one of their songs played on the radio? I have to be honest and say that I really struggled with either; it was only after about twenty minutes that I came up with Maneater and that was only because it was around at the time my life was falling apart for various reasons; not, I hasten to add, that the song’s title is in any way descriptive of anyone I knew, it was just that the song’s tone and attitude struck a chord with my mood and level of cheerfulness with the world; and that was the only reason I could recall anything at all by them. So I read up on them and was surprised to see just what they’d achieved and who rated them.

Surpassing the Everly Brothers as most successful rock/pop duo, being inducted into the songwriter’s hall of fame (they penned Every Time You Go Away – Paul Young’s No. 1 hit and Physical – Olivia-Newton John’s No. 1 hit) and being placed at No. 15 in the 100 greatest acts of all time by Billboard Magazine? I‘d say that’s not bad for a duo that barely anyone can recall.

It was on this day in 1970 that Hall and Oates recorded together for the first time under the snappy name, Whole Oats… I doubt I would have remembered that name either; it seems some bands, no matter how successful they are during their hot period, are destined for worldwide obscurity…

Procul Harum; or how to hold a grudge

June 24^th – Like many a love affair, at the start the band’s usually all good. A few good friends with an all-consuming passion in music, a creative desire and certain instrumental ability gather together and begin one of the greatest bonding sessions ever when they make music together. Most of you know I played (loose terminology used here) drums over a number of years, full on from the late 60’s through to the end of the 80’s and then sporadically up ‘til 2010, but what’s not common knowledge (biography spoiler coming up) is that I sang backing vox for all the bands I gigged with.

I’m an ex choir boy so have a voice that’s at least reasonable (compared to, say, a cat that’s having sex with a hedgehog) and so, when family or friends are together here and we gather round a piano, a full set of drums being a little out of place in such circumstances, or when I spend time with some folk-singing fellows of my acquaintance, I can join in with the joyful and emotionally bonding practise of making music together for no other reason than the thrill of making music together. This is what the first formation of a band is all about and for. There are dreams of fame and fortune of course but, much like all of us when we utter those facile words;

“If I won ten million on the National Lottery it wouldn’t change a bit not a jot.”

Yeah, sure…You’d still keep the menial employment you have and no-one would think you were lording it over them when you insisted that you pay for the drinks, the meal, the taxi…’course not. All your friends would remain just that; your friends; no change…life as normal…blah, blah…

That’s how bands go on when they first strike it popular and then the money, entourage and management come into the equation. Like Lottery Winners, all of a sudden and no matter how much you try to deny its entrance, the thought permeates;

Is it me or is it the money/fame?’

Human nature; it’s a funny old game. Anyway, as the hits and dosh pile up the first cracks start to appear. The songwriter gets royalties, the band just get performance fees, then the various factions begin to extrapolate on their influence on each record released;

‘Would it have been such a big hit if it hadn’t contained that drum pattern, the one I invented and played?’

Or

‘That harmony I added on the spur of the moment when the vox was being recorded; that made the chorus the crowd-rouser it is.’

And with this the spectre of being poorly recompensed for your artistic input into the finished article begins to permeate your soul…and that’s when it gets shitty.

When Procul Harum released A Whiter Shade of Pale and it galloped to the number one spot in the UK and then, on this day in 1967, entered the US charts on its trail to world domination, the members must all have been good chums in the light of their success. It was only later when Matthew Fisher, the organist on the track and original member, pursued his claim that Gary Brooker, the other original member and vocalist, and Keith Reid, poet and lyric writer, were cutting him out of the story of the song and its payback that friendships were…how shall I put it… dissolved. Over four years judges, committees and Law Lords deliberated on the ins-and-outs of the various claims and counterclaims.

Eventually Fisher got his way, but my suspicion is that his name was crossed out of several Christmas card lists for, in following the various transcripts of their court appearances, it’s fair to say that claws were unsheathed as the friendship contract was torn and scuffed and the former esteem of musical abilities lowered in order to discredited one or other musician causing much fur to fly…but then, the band were named after a pedigree cat, so…

In trouble? Don't think so; Adam Faith's my accountant...

June 23^rd – My feeling is that, if you want someone to look after your money the last person you’d pick is a pop star; fickle as a fart, they’d blow the lot on cars, birds, booze and drugs within the first week the waste the rest. I can’t think of a less likely statement coming from the lips of a pop singer in reply the question;

“What interests you most outside of the music industry?”

Than;

“Oh, financial management really.”

Looking back, it’s interesting to reflect on the mimicking of the US rock scene by the front rank of British pop talent. Riff Pilchard and the Shaggers, Marty Wilde (he’s still touring, honest!) Billy Fury, they all cloned the look, hairstyle and sneer that was the stock-in trade of Messer’s Presley, Cochrane and Lewis and although we didn’t quite nail it, we did it in a very British way which was, at one and the same time ,infuriating and endearing. The one thing they did do though, these Brits, was stick to what they knew and for that pop stardom rewarded them with hits and fame.

Amongst them were some who tried to branch out a little from the strait-jacket of pop idle (sorry, idol) status and try their hand at acting and, it has to be said, so very, very few of them ever made a fist of it. Wooden to the point of being indistinguishable from the kitchen table, they, Messer’s Donovan, Faithful, Heinz (don’t ask) their choice of vehicle matched their talent and it was thanks be to God that the paying public were spared the possibility of any of them attempting Shakespeare. No, far better that they eked out a living churning out trite pop than lacerate the bloated corpse of serious acting with their idiocy…although, every once in a while…

Say after me: ‘Bay-Beh’ then tell me the name of the singer?

Easy, wasn’t it? Adam Faith who was born on this day in 1940. No competition really. Seeing him on The Six-Five Special in the late fifties-early sixties he seemed to be just another stuffed-toy heartthrob who reminded one of Del Shannon but with a bigger nose. It was when, in his later career, when he tried his hand at acing that he revealed a better, more talented side to his ability. On TV as Budgie and in Love Hurts (with Zoe Wannamaker) on stage as Billy Liar and in films such as Stardust and its sequel (with David Essex) he proved he had above average acting talent for a mere pop singer…then someone forgot the maxim that opened this blurb and gave him financial control of their investments…should’ve gone to Goldman-Sachs…

As it was, Mr. Faith went to the wall owing a reported 32mill…but he did serve an ace with Chris Evert so that probably wipes out any other misdemeanour and anyway, it’s only money.

Cindy Lauper - A retraction.

June 22^nd – I would guess I’ve been as bad as the next at jumping to conclusions about things and people…what was that lovely comment… erm, oh, that’s it…

“Why did you take an instant dislike to me?”

“Saves time.”

Trouble is, do it often enough and you can sort of get into the habit of writing off people, things and events that would otherwise inform or fascinate.

Like everyone else too, I fight against the desire to be hyper-critical and judgemental (except when it comes to politicians…oh, and the over privileged and jam doughnuts that, when you bite into them, contain no jam…oh, and people who invite you round to dinner and then don’t serve a dessert). Apart from those minor irritations…oh, and conglomerates and those Go Compare ads…apart from those minor irritations I try to see the obverse side before I make a call on it or them…isn’t there a saying that goes;

“Before you declare your dislike for someone and their lifestyle, try walking a mile in their shoes; that way you can continue to dislike them AND you’ve got their shoes.”

Well, that was me and Cindy Lauper who was born on this day in 1953.

No, I didn’t steal her shoes, idiot. I mean when she first came on the music scene in the 80’s I have to admit I did write her off as just another bubble-gum songstress of the Bananarama-Bangles idiom…sort of all filler-no killer, if I may corrupt the saying. I think the media hyped the ditzy blonde, the stereotype I’d been living with since I was able to comprehend the written word, which had permeated to such a degree that it was ingrained. Luckily for me, the experiences I’ve had (I’ll never be able to use that car park again) and the things I’ve been involved in (nor that restaurant) have allowed me to alter those perceptions…that’s what I mean when I write about the content of the red-tops and slag-mags, about the Eastenders blueprint for healthy living and the cheap-to-produce abuse and suffering programmes on TV that Jeremy Kyle wallows in…sorry, got sidetracked…

Me and Cindy Lauper. Now? Well, I can’t say I’m a convert but I value her musical output and her stance on issues that both inform and educate to a greater degree now since I heard an hour-long interview with her on Radio Two…and Time After Time really is an excellent track. So, I’d like to apologise, Ms. Lauper; sorry.

i-Pod degeneration?

June 21^st – 1948 was an exceptional year.

Sir Don Bradman scored the first of his back-to-back centuries against India, the Hells Angels were founded in California, the first chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous is formed (I think they knew something about the future) HUAC started their persecutions, a pack of wolves killed several children in Russia, three of the top songs of the year were, Bumble Boogie by Freddie Martin, Woody Woodpecker by Kay Kyser and I Can’t Go On Without You by Bull Moose Jackson and his Buffalo Bearcats… and I was born, so, all-in-all a perfect year.

How times change.

Music’s grasp on almost every facet of our society and its people compares to a saturated cloth and it seeps into every corner, whether we want it to or not. The wonderful Porcupine Tree summed it up beautifully on their track; The Sound of Muzak (was it off their album The Incident? Not sure; if you feel the urge look it up, or you may know it by default, and let me know). Anyway, that track sort of encompasses music, its legacy and its very uncertain future. Certainly the methods of obtaining and reproducing what is one of the foremost discoveries and developments of humankind are legion now, and with that ease, I reckon, comes complacency. From what was a simple device for communication and descriptive storytelling we have created the soundtrack to our lives and loves. We carry millions of our favourite songs around in handy pods the size of a matchbox and can have its companionship at any time and anywhere…or we can at the moment. If earphones for iPods get any bigger we won’t be able to get into the back of a 45ft truck to listen to our streamed muzak.

The Dansette portable record player (portable providing you had access to a team of oxen and several well-proportioned friends that is) was the musical reproduction technology of choice when I was 11 or 12. It ran on a needle that travelled along the grooves cut into a revolving disc (called a record) and this needle was held by an arm that sent the sound from the disc along wires and out the speaker on the front. The needle (a high-cost piece of technological engineering which sported a diamond head – Mr. Bowie stole all his ideas) lasted a relatively short time so, if the need and depth of pocket demanded, it could be replaced by a thorn from a hawthorn tree.

It was also on this day in the year of our Lord 1948 that Columbia Records announced the breakthrough technology of the long-playing vinyl phonograph record which could hold up to 23 minutes of music…PER SIDE!!!! Eat your heart out, Apple.

Rolling Stones? £1,000 a pop? I'll take three...

June 20^th – What would you pay? I mean, at what level would you still think;

“Yup, that’s great deal I got there”

In all branches of the arts over the past years the sorts of money being asked for and, more importantly, paid to performers in both the music (classical and rock) and acting professions has and is bordered on the obscene. Many will say it’s not about the money it’s all about my art. My reply of;

“Fine, then you won’t mind doing this show/tour for free then”

soon shuts the buggers up. Exorbitant prices for our tickets to go see some performer or another on a one-night stand usually mean that the star, his agent and entourage are walking away with a fistful of cash at the end of the gig. I’m all for people being paid a fair wage, but I do draw the line at a stand-up or gang of four making £30k a night for a 90 minute gig…think that’s scary? Top comedians often gross £20m per tour…now that’s scary.

With the top film actors, $20m per movie is average (gulp) with some making in excess of $70m per movie plus 15% executive fees plus all the cossie they wore and the cars they used in the movie. They’ll also all tell you, at the end of their day, just how exhausted they are (I’ve even had this phrase used by actors who’ve just done a matinee and evening performance of a play); my reply of;

“Yes, but then, you’re not minin’ coal, are you?” soon shuts the buggers up.

Pay and perks isn’t all either. It’s far from unusual for actors, particularly in theatre, to have their dressing room/s redecorated to their taste if the run is a six-week or more one; not unusual to have multi thousands spent on such re-fashioning only to have to change it shortly after to accommodate the demands of yet another ego.

You'd think, back in the day, that the art would sufficient, fuck the gravy-train...well maybe not; everyone was on it. When Jimi Hendrix played the Newport Jazz Festival (don't ask) this day in 1969 his fee was...$125,000. They also paid his travel, his accommodation in a hotel and transport via helicopter to the gig; he played a two-hour set then buggered off; that'll be $125,000 please; thank you. Worth about $2.5m nowadays. That's $20,833 a second... Me? I think they got him for a snip.

Film music by... The Chipmunks.

June 19^th – There’s always another buck to be made in the music industry. At one time it was enough just to have the hit single or album. The cash that came from that was distributed (unfairly) by the production company and everyone (or almost everyone) walked away happy. The fact the tour costs to promote the single or album were taken out of the artist’s cut was a cross to be borne and, anyway, a good time was had by all on the profits and journey.

As time went on other avenues were pursued and new outlets sought to increase the shelf-life of product. Sheet music was one way but this was gradually phased out as the desire to hear a piano vamp of Hendrix’s All Along the Watchtower only had limited popularity. Adverts were another way; backing tracks to tubes of toothpaste, sanitary towels and diarrhoea stoppers have saved many an aging rock star’s career…did you see what I did there? Career; diarrhoea? Value for money here, folks.

The increase of sales brought about by the use of songs or, in some cases, of whole albums in film scores is a fairly modern-day transfer for the pop industry. There was a time when the services of a Shostakovich or a William Walton, a John Barry or a Carl Davies would be sought out for the construction of a soundtrack that reflected the film’s artistic bent; no more. Now it’s sufficient just to tack on a load of pop songs to gain immediate street cred, and many a clunky movie was rendered memorable in the public’s collective consciousness by the virtue of a memorable song or soundtrack – An Officer and a Gentleman’, Mad Max – Beyond Thunderdome, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves to name but three.

This outlet can increase sales and audience fondness for both song and movie exponentially and the better the final movie product the greater is the standing of the artist to his or her paying public. Certainly being associated with, say, a Tarantino movie is, I would say, the height of cool; however, being associated with a film about a vampire-fighting, U.S. president is, I would say, decidedly un-cool.

On this day in 2012, the film Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter was released (escaped?) in the U.S. and, judging by the pre-release hype, Linkin Park who supplied the credit play-out song, Powerless must have been rubbing their hands at the thought of all those additional sales on the back of the film’s garnering of Oscars and BAFTA’s; alas, they were cruelly mistaken.

To have your song playing at the end of what was, even by fantasy-film standards, a laughable plot, dénouement and resolution has probably consigned that song to the dustbin of failure and you know what, it’s not such a bad song? What’s bad is having it allied to a movie where the head vampire is stabbed to death by a pocket watch…

Answers to the day before yesterday’s quiz: If you got ANY of them right you need to get out more.

1)   Surprise September wedding at Boone Hall Plantation in South Carolina for Gossip Girl and her Two Guys – Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds wedding

2)      Match the baby to the mum – Blue Ivy with Beyonce Knowles. Noah with Megan Fox. Olive with Adele.

3)      Everything is suddenly klum as bodyguard seals breakup – Seal and Heidi Klum breakup

4)      Dottie P takes on The Klan – Kardishan Klan sing up to Dorothy Perkins

5)      10 carrots for Friend’s engagement – Jennifer Ansiton engagement to Justin Theroux

6)      Rosalind Arusha Arkadina Florence Thurman-Busson makes debut – Uma Thurman’s name for her baby

7)      Right leg, right  photo op – Angelina Jolie on the red carpet

8)      Smells like further Fame for a Lady – Perfume launch for Lady GAGA

9)      Thrown out of Paradis by pirate – Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis split

10)  Snow White snogging session ends partnership – Kristen Stewart 

Is it a stage collapse or a life-and-death situation? No, it's just a Metallica concert....

June 18^th – With stage effects now at such a level of sophistication it’s hard to see sometimes where the line between fantasy and real-life is drawn. There’s many theatre shows now in operation that just leave the watcher awestruck (have you seen How to Train Your Dragon) with their ingenuity and lifelike props and set.

This theatricality spilt over into the rock arena during the late 70’s with Mr. Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust and Queen’s We Will Rock You tours (that’s the original We Will Rock You tour not that shite Ben Elton cobbled together from other people’s work, you understand) and on into the 80’s with Kate Bush’s (do you think, if I asked nicely, she’d marry me? No, me neither but what’s life without dreams) with Kate Bush’s Never For Ever tour and then on thro’ to the 00’s and shows like Okonokos and Lady Gaga (although her Bad Romance opening is too near the apocryphal ‘band in a pea pod’ routine that blighted the life of Spinal Tap for me to feel comfortable with).

I guess, in a way, the rock show that relies on personality rather than performance is more inclined to feature outrageous sets and costume in order to compensate for poor performers and so, whenever the opportunity arises to add a bit of colour to a particular set or song in order to salvage it, the use of F/X, specifically pyrotechnics, becomes the point of contact for the crowd/band/drama. It’s only when these things go wrong, however, that the blurred line of fantasy/reality become just a little bit too fantastically real to be recognised and acted upon.

That’s what struck home when watching the footage of the stage collapse in Edmonton when Metallica played there in 2012. Shan’t lay out the details, you can catch it on YouTube if you want, but suffice to say there’s what seems to be a major truss collapse (stop sniggering) and various bites of set fall to the stage along with a guy who, one imagines, was a follow-spot op. Dreadful. Lights go out, a lighting gantry falls near the audience and one of the crew runs off stage, his clothing alight…a really serious set of terrible accidents…except… Seems it wasn’t.

The guy who’s set on fire is wearing a mask and padded clothes and positions himself strategically over the pyro grill (anyone doing this for a living would know where not to stand in the case of a misfire…and misfires are only looked at after the show, not  during). The guy who supposedly falls from the top truss has his plummet to earth controlled by a fly-line on a pulley and all the truss and gantry land strategically around him, and in a complete reversal of what any respected crew and band would be trained to do in the case of such an accident, they all either remain on or rush onto the stage. Anyway, nobody died. But…what if sufficient members of the audience had believed it to be a real overhead staging collapse; what if the falling gantry had been sufficient to start a mass exodus. What then? It’s this blurring of the lines that can sometimes detach the real from the unreal.

There’s been many such real rock show disasters to choose from. Woodstock 1999, the Pukklepop Festival in Belgium, Roskilde in Denmark, the Damageplan shoot-out in Ohio and the Love Parade gig in Dusseldorf have all claimed multiple lives, real lives, and these incidents can happen anywhere, anytime and in any size venue.

On this day in 2012 the scheduled Radiohead concert for 40,000 in Toronto (Canada, again) was cancelled after their over-stage rigging collapsed, killing one and injuring several: When Great White set off their pyros at the Station Club where 462 people were watching their gig, the reality took several precious seconds out of the escape time for 100 people as, at first, I seemed to be just part of the show, a fantasy; just part of the show long enough for folk to be filming the blaze as it engulfed the stage, ceiling above it and then them… Tell you what, rock concert organisers recognise your responsibilities and, for my sake and 'cos I love you, each show you go to as a punter just remember to remain sensible enough to recognise fantasy from reality...just might save your life; OK?

Gay? No, just happy...

June 17^th – Salacious gossip is what sells newspapers; there’s a revelation that you’d not considered, isn’t it? And they’re iniquitous too. You don’t think? OK, let’s see how many slebs you can figure out from the following, slightly doctored clues:

1. Surprise September wedding at Boone Hall Plantation in South Carolina for Gossip Girl and her Two Guys

2. Match the baby to the mum – Blue Ivy with ? Noah with ? Olive with ?

3. Everything is suddenly klum as bodyguard seals breakup

4. Dottie P takes on The Klan

5. 10 carrots for Friend’s engagement

6. Rosalind Arusha Arkadina Florence Thurman-Busson makes debut

7. Right leg, right photo op

8. Smells like further Fame for a Lady

9. Thrown out of Paradis by a pirate

10. Snow White snogging session ends partnership

Now, you may have never read the stories that go with the above (I’d like to think you’re above such mundane stuff) may not even have seen the headline…and yet still, somehow, you know the personalities involved or the stories written. Innocuous innit, and just like an argument on Eastenders; if you’ve just missed one, stay online for a further few minutes ‘cos there’ll be another along shortly; there you are, a sting perpetrated by your Super-Soaraway Sun on Tilusa Constovstavius maybe? Perfect timing. Don’t want to discuss the events ‘cos I couldn’t care less, what I was intrigued by was the suggested aftermath of the case. Namely that our Super-Soaraway Shit has passed the dossier (that’s the word they use to try and give their gutter-sniffing a feeling of authenticity, of legitimacy) passed the dossier over to the cops who have arrested Tilusa and charged her. When the case came to court there is a question mark over the outcome due to the nature of how the press have operated in this particular case. What transpires is that, and I quote her ‘spokesman’ directly;

“Tilusa is unable to comment whilst the police investigation was on-going. She intends to tell (I read it as ‘sell’ – Freudian slip there) she intends to tell her side of the story, if she is cleared.”

Nothing to add to that statement, it’’s all there. You can work out the dirty details for yourself and my guess is you’ll shake your head at the pithy, schoolkiddie, childish….shite that’s going on here, all in the name of prurient entertainment for the masses: we should all be ashamed of ourselves because, when it comes down to it they do it in our name because we continue to buy this particular drug they peddle.

Walter Busterkeys anyone? The new film about him discloses what we all knew from the get-go. The only folk who didn’t know he was gay were those amoebas living in the southern swamps of the planet Tharg. Now, when the Daily Mirror printed this revelation, Buster threw a hissy fit, screamed that he wasn’t gay, sued them…and won! I believe he said

“I cried all the way to the bank”.

So, now we know he was as gay as a yellow duster (and a spiteful, manipulative little shit into the bargain) does the Daily Mirror get a refund? Bit late, I know, seeing as how Liberace is a long time gone but still…fair play…

Monterey led to 'The 00's Summer of Procrastination'

June 16^th – I think one of the things that sadden me most about the ‘then and now’ syndrome that we will all, in our advancing years (should we be granted the opportunity to do so…growing old is better than the alternative, remember) one thing we’ll all go through is the difference in belief.

Nope, this is not a religious polemic, honest, my religious convictions are reserved for face-to-face chats. What I’m writing about is the core beliefs of, predominantly, the younger generation, of which I was one once; I wasn’t born this age and a cynical moaning old git to boot, I grew into it. The fact that it now fits me like a second skin is just proof a chameleon can change its spots (now there’s a mixed metaphor for you). Neither am I running the old, my time was better than your time routine either. Each generation and age range has its own idiosyncrasies, hopes and ruinations; the tune may alter but the song remains the same (mixed metaphor two).

On this day in 1967 the first Monterey International Pop Festival in California was held. The bill was filled with what are now, in hindsight, the leading proponents of what can be classed as the beginning of the Summer of Love. The line-up included The Who, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin and Big Brother and the Holding Company, Jimi Hendrix and The Animals to name but a few and it was The Animals that immortalised the event on their album, The Twain Shall Meet, released in 1968 with a track called…Monterey. But that’s not what I want to write about; this isn’t me running the old, my bands were better than your bands routine.

Whatever ‘we’ as a collective think about the Summer of Love or Flower Power or any of those other epithets that were posted on behalf of the psychedelic generation, both by newspapers to trivialise the movement and by politicians to discredit it, the one overriding fact that cannot be removed and that I still, now, at my advanced years feel in my breast is the we really believed that we could change things, and for the better. Now, whether we could in any way shape or form have actually done that is irrelevant, what counted was the fact that we believed we could, and that’s what frightened governments shitless.

Privately, the behaviour of JFK and MLK may have been questionable but there is no doubt their beliefs and speeches contained the elements of what Flower Power stood for. That war was indeed not the answer. That at some time you would have to sit down and talk to people that, in truth, you weren’t at all comfortable with and hear them say things that you weren’t at all comfortable in hearing, but that this was the only way forward; the flower in the gun barrel wasn’t just a cheap shot. At the beginning of the 14/18 war and throughout the four years of its slaughter people were vilified in the streets, tarred and feathered, shot by firing squad, beaten, humiliated for refusing to join the merry men in the trenches. Throughout the 55/75 Vietnam War people openly defied their government’s draft for them to join the merry men in the jungles and were supported and applauded for it. Ban the Bomb became a cause that could be won and was, to a greater extent, and at one and the same time the first real changes began to show in the equality of the sexes. We really believed that we could change things, and for the better; believed it.

Then came the Thatcher years and union disbandment, the three-day-week engineered by capitalist Britain to bring the working classes to heel and, in the final analysis, it took Bush and Blair to finally fuck this belief over, to rape it – as they say – like a lion on a lamb but in a bad way. Now, I talk to folk who are of the same age as I was back then and that’s the main difference; they no longer believe they can change anything; not even their political minds; and this isn’t me running the old, my politicians were better than your politicians routine. The dilemma is that the parties are indistinguishable from one another, now it’s all about style over substance and to follow the reasoning is to follow the money, so all that will become available is more of the same. What’s to vote for there?

The Police: There's excuses and then 'there's excuses'.

June 15th – Pretty well nothing more crushing than having a band or artist that you've followed for years, a band or artist that you've saved up your pennies to buy a ticket for to see one of their all-too-infrequent gigs on an all-too infrequent tour, cancel their gig at the last minute. I know these things happen and, in the rock ‘n’ roll world, where the plethora of extra-curricular activities can unseat a fellow, in truth the surprise is often that the band can function at all; certainly in the case of Motley Crue. In these cases and others that circulate around folk in the public eye, euphemisms are used to cover a multitude of sins and save embarrassment all round. Take the married, U.S. Ambassador to Belgium for instance.

Accused of using prostitutes, in some cases under aged ones, he stated he was;

‘shocked and horrified’,

 by these;

‘baseless accusations’, then added, and I quote verbatim;

“I live on a beautiful park in Brussels that you walk through to get to many locations and at no point have I ever engaged in any improper activity.”

So, the fact you regularly ditched your bodyguard when crossing this park, a park that’s a known hot-spot for soliciting by under age hookers and rent-boys, that’s just a coincidence, is it?

Bands do this kind of crassness all the time to get themselves out of a hole;

“There’s an illness in the family.” i.e. the drummer’s OD’d again.

“The singer had a family crisis to attend.” i.e. his wife found out he’d been shagging the girl who’d been seen on the front row of the last three concerts.

These cancellation excuses are all allowed because, after all, it’s a hard business, the rock business and there are casualties along the way. However, to cancel a recording session and tour, as Stewart Copeland of The Police did on this day in 1986, because of an injury incurred whilst playing polo? How terribly un-rock ‘n’ roll.

Eric Clapton, Greta Garbo: who they then?

June 14^th – My cynicism concerning the rock industry is well documented, not only by those who kindly and with a level of patience never before charted in the human race read these daily burblings of mine, but also by anyone who happens to mention the words, ‘Simon’ or ‘Cowell’ or ‘X’ or ‘Factor’ within earshot of what is, in the everyday, a deaf old trout like me; even under these aurally-challenged circumstances I still hear it, sense these words almost, and go off on one.

I also feel a similar rise of bile about folk in the sleb market who strain every muscle to become famous and recognised the world over only to then complain about their lack of privacy, but neither have I any truck with the shopping in slacks photos that are peddled as a staple of Hell Magazine and the like. Trust me, they’re not that interesting, neither subject nor photo, yet still they take them and still the mags print them.

Greta Garbo: now there’s a name to conjure with. Let’s just take a snapshot of her career. Think of anyone in the game nowadays that you consider has worldwide fame then treble it; honest. She was commanding film fees of $300,000 (doesn’t sound like much ‘til you realise that, back then as compared to now, you can times that by ten) and her gross earnings over 20-odd movies was $35m so, famous and rich. She never signed autographs, never answered fan mail, gave very few interviews, wouldn’t sign publicity contracts and never appeared at the Oscars despite being nominated for best actress. In 1931, Garbomania was at its peak and she was the most recognisable movie star on the planet; all the time remembering this was at a point in our history when the telephone was still a rare item in any household and a television non-existent so the fastest way to contact someone was either by telegraph or, failing that, by letter or, failing that, carrier pigeon…and yet she still dominated the movie world like a colossus and everyone in what could be classed as the modern world knew of her…everyone…and what’s the line that’s most associated with her?

“I want to be alone; I just want to be alone”,

and we all thought;

“Yeah; right, Greta, ‘course y’ do, that’s why you chose this career path; to remain discreet.”

But she did, she really gained that level of fame and then retired from the public eye; completely. When asked about her infamous comment she said;

“I never said, ‘I want to be alone’; I only said, ‘I want to be let alone’. There’s a world of difference”, and Greta is absolutely right; there is.

When Eric Clapton, global rock star and according to the graffiti of the time GOD, said he was tired of the hype and the weight and just wanted to be one of the band we all thought;

“Yeah; right, Eric”. But he did, he just wanted to be in the band. He formed Derek and the Dominoes, which opened on this day in 1970 and then went on to tour with Delany and Bonnie and Friends…which brings me nicely round by this circuitous route to the point of this guff.

One of the songs that has featured in my DID list every now and then is a live recording of, I Don’t Want to Discuss It, made on the European tour in 1970. Just a great piece of work done by the best in the business (Delany and Bonnie, Mr. Clapton, Leon Russell, Dave Mason, George Harrison, Bobby Whitlock, Carl Radle, Jim Gordon, Bobby Keys, Jim Price, Rita Coolidge) and all at the very top of their game. The song features a standout lead break by Clapton that’s played from the back of the stage, just like any other muso, and the relaxed solo shines. Maybe, to achieve that level he, too, just wanted to be ‘let alone’ too…