Nat King Cole: something of an enigma

November 30^th – I think that, apart from being a bit of a rock-head, I’ve had a soft spot for what were known as crooners for as along if not longer than I’ve understood music.

Like us all, I suppose, most of my musical dictionary has been led by my parents;

Rock-head/Parents? What are you trying to say, Peter?

Well, yes. Both my folks were musically savvy enough during the 40’s and through the 50’s/60’s to be open to the new music and were also politically savvy enough to understand what was being done in their name by their elected representatives. They’d both been through WW2 (dad serving, mum in the munitions factory) and so had come into contact with the American GI’s (better late than never) who’d been billeted over here or who’d fought alongside dad on the various front-lines he was posted to. This meant that blues, swing and be-bop was within their grasp and so, when Bill Haley made it over here, albeit on film, they were also savvy enough to know that (within reason) if you ban the kids from something then that’s what they’ll end up doing…so they took us along to watch it; Penn Cinema, Wolverhampton 1956 or 7, I think.

However, amongst this catholic taste in music of theirs was included their first love, opera (and in particular the great singers of the day; Gigli, Schwarzkopf, Sutherland, Callas, Fischer-Dieskau, etc) and a smattering of the lounge crooners and jazz singers of the day (Sinatra, Crosby, Damone, Fitzgerald, Cantor, Bowlly etc) and one other…Nat King Cole. Mr. Cole who, on this day in 1954 began a six night run at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem, was also a favourite of my late first father & mother-in-law’s. I found out from chats with them all the racist hoops of the day he’d been made to jump through in order to get where he was at the time I came into contact with him, probably about 1959 or 60. Throughout his early time as a popular singer he’d remained outside the mainstream anti-racist movement, choosing to keep his head down and just perform, choosing to use a certain level of amusement to combat overt racism when he encountered it, which was quite frequently. One of my favourite quotes about him was when, in 1948, he bought a house in the all-white area of Hancock Park L.A. In response to his temerity the KKK erected a burning cross on his front lawn and the head of the Neighbourhood Property Association told Mr. Cole that they didn’t want any undesirables moving in, to which Mr. Cole replied;

Neither do I. And if I see anybody undesirable coming in here, I’ll be the first to complain.

Nice line in FU there, Mr. Cole. Not always possible but if you can hold onto your temper for long enough humour is by far the best way to shut up aresholes.

It was after he was attacked whilst on stage in Alabama (Birmingham, how’d you guess you clever things you…his hometown too) by white supremacists that his situation and choices came under scrutiny and were narrowed. His downplaying of the incident was taken as an unwillingness to get involved in the struggle, to not use his considerable profile in order to change the situation (which, I guess, it was) and he was accused of being an Uncle Tom. After this pressure he did become involved in the call for change and his involvement increased, both in content and profile, but it did, nevertheless, take a vociferous challenge to his not my problem stance to get him to see where his loyalties were and where his weight should be placed.

Don’t know how you react to all that. What would we do in the same situation? There we are making a very good living, not getting bothered and bludgeoned by the ruling whites who had the whip-hand on just about everything one needed in order to make a living, just enjoying the things we’ve worked hard for. So, what do we do? I know the knee-jerk is to say;

I’d be up there straight away, fighting, calling for change, refusing to work for the man and ready to close up my career, my house, my livelihood, my family.

Would we? Would we jeopardise our career, our family…? When they start following your kids to school, stopping them on their way to the shops to get some sugar, knocking the shopping out of your wife’s hands in the supermarket car park, would we go round and have a word, have a word with the people who controlled the law, the judges, the politicians…and hated you for just being you? I know the popular maxim is to Mandela it;

I am prepared to die for this’

Are we? My guess is that viewpoint and its truism are only available to a few; but to the many…? One of the quotes that have stayed with me from when I first heard it in the 60’s and that I’ve tried to conjure up in moments of conflict in my life is;

I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.

I’m just glad that, up to now, I’ve not been called upon to test out that belief in a life and death situation. I’d like to think I could Mandela it, but…

Something of a womaniser, Mr. Cole had, probably and IMHO, the best crooner voice of any of his contemporaries; maybe even better than Mr. Crosby; hm, now there’s a contentious statement I can cope with. I still rank his renditions of When I fall In Love, Unforgettable (I really disliked that fuckin’ Aero chocolate bastardisation of it) and I Wish You Love as probably the bench-mark of all lounge singers. It’s how he uses his voice in them to conjure up intimacy and worldliness that turn it for me.

He was of the belief that if he smoked really heavily it would preserve his voice’s worn-mahogany texture which it did, on record. In real life however it did for him and he died, at just 64, of lung cancer, even after having one lung removed.

As I write that I’m reminded of the skit by Bill Hicks about John Wayne. According to the sketch, when Mr. Wayne was diagnosed with lung cancer and told he’d have to have a lung removed he replied;

Take ’em both, I don’t need ’em!

But then, John Wayne was a gun-toting white man and a national hero and Nat King Cole was just a black guy trying to earn a living so…

The John Mayall Apprenticeship

November 29^th – One of the differences about getting to a point where you can make rock music pay a wage and any other occupation is that there’s no apprenticeship to speak of. It’s not the pathway many take but if you’re a painter you can go to art classes to learn the basics of perspectives and how chiaroscuro works; a writer can go to creative writing classes to learn descriptive technique and when and when not to use a semi-colon; a classical musician can go to the conservatoire to read the scores of the great masters and learn all about time and meter; a rock musician can…well, a rock musician can only do it by feeling it and by doing it really.

The apprenticeship is served by watching and listening to others of the chosen genre and that choosing only happens with the music that moves the listener to want to imitate then extend the genre. I wonder what percentage of present-day rock musicians can read music, and I don’t mean stagger their way through a songsheet, I mean really read music to the point where they can pick up an unseen sheet, put it on a piano rest and whack it out. My guess is not many. That’s not a downer on them BTW it’s just an observation and a possible confirmation of my belief that, as far as rock music is concerned, the majority of the learning experience comes from the heart not from the head. Neither is it a put-down of the classical tradition. It may be that I think the art is withheld by the composer and most classical performances are just a reinterpretation of what’s gone before, but still one has to admire the performer’s abilities and dexterity even if originality is harder to discern. After that little lot I expect to be startled from sleep tonight by the close presence of a guy in tails and dickie-bow, an axe raised above his head…

Where I think an apprenticeship can be gained in rock however is if one had the good fortune to be invited to perform with the modern blues legend that is John Mayall, born this day in 1933. I’ve had the luck to see him live, back in the 60’s and again just this year when I worked on his show, and my goodness but he and his fellow musicians were outstanding…outstanding. Here is the archetypal blues-boss who has presided, for the past 50+ years and with his band The Bluesbreakers, over the careers of many of our foremost (and I do mean foremost) rock players. I’m not big on lists but I’ll make an exception this time: See how many you recognise, how many you’ve heard and how many you still listen to; OK?

Eric Clapton – Peter Green – Jack Bruce – John McVie – Mick Fleetwood – Mick Taylor – Don ‘Sugarcane’ Harris – Harvey Mandel – Larry Taylor – Aynsley Dunbar – Hughie Flint – Jon Hiseman – Dick Heckstall Smith – Andy Fraser – Johnny Almond – Walter Trout – Coco Montoya – Buddy Whittington – Keef Hartley – Colin Allen – Stephen Thompson – Chas Crane – Jon Mark – Gerry McGee – Blue Mitchell – Ernie Watts – Gary Moore – Jonny Lang – Steve Cropper – Steve Miller – Otis Rush – Billy Gibbons – Chris Rea – Jeff Healey – Shannon Curfman – Chris Barber – Rocky Athas – Greg Rzab – Jay Davenport – Jimmy McCulloch – Roger Dean – Kal david – Randy Resnick – Sonny Landreth – Eric Steckel – Robben Ford – Tony Reeves – Hank Van Sickle – Dr. John – Paul Butterfield.

I know some of these names will mean more to some than others but trust me, that’s some legacy, and the list of bands the above players have either gone on to form or have played an integral part in is even longer. John Mayall is also a hell of a harmonica player and a well-above-average pianist and guitarist too. He’s released over 90 albums, is still touring today, and even though he carries a reputation as a hard task-master as far as his fellow performers are concerned, is the one guy all musicians of any store want on their C.V. Trouble is with Mr. Mayall now pushing 80 they’re running out of time and, unfortunately so are we when it comes to appreciating further live performances so can I suggest you take time out to visit his official site and see if you can’t get along to one of them. No, I’m not his agent but I believe if you miss the opportunity to see a genuine white blues-man in action then your musical apprenticeship and education will be the poorer for it. 

Candy Flip - How to miss the point

November 28^th – Nostalgia’s OK providing we don’t think back on it too much; it’s only as we get older these memories become corrupted.

Most of the things that occur to us from childhood have a rosy tinge to them, hence the oft used (oft moaned-at statement by others);

It was better than this when I was young.

Thing is it probably wasn’t but we, as humans, have a habit of cutting out the shit times and embellishing the remainder until they have all the lustre of a roaring log fire and cup of cocoa…with three foot of snow outside and sufficient stores in the pantry and fridge to mean no need to be going anywhere for a week… For me, back then, the days seemed longer and sunnier than now but that’s probably because when I was six I didn’t give a shit about our national obsession with the weather and I had only myself, my toy cars and the dirt outside our house and bird watching to consider. What this drip-feed to the conscience does do, for writers and artists in particular, is provide a steady stream of comparison data to draw on, hence the number songs written about the time back when; such a one was The Beatles single, Strawberry Fields Forever.

Composed by John Lennon and released this day in 1966 the song’s background harkened back to a time in his childhood when he would go to a Salvation Army’s children’s home to listen to the band, a time much like mine when the woods were his playground and the days stretched out to forever. During the time it was being written and under development in late ‘66’, Mr. Lennon was, like many of his day, experimenting with drugs, particularly LSD, and my guess is his tinted recollections of that time must have become intermingled with his present-day drug experiences and the revelations they disclosed, and probably were also partially responsible for the hazy, dreamlike vocals that were used for the recording.

But even though drugs were a part of the song’s emergence they were not allowed to overshadow the work’s deeper meanings. The song’s structure, musical accompaniment and lyrics all speak of a simpler time for Mr. Lennon when fame had yet to sail rudely onto his level horizon. It also allowed him a time of introspection and us a glimpse into his childhood under the guise of just another pop song, albeit one of such haunting quality (and that verdict comes from a committed Beatles flatliner). The lyrics tell of innocence, of the guilt and confusion experienced in the growing-up stakes, themes we all wrestle with (some more than others) spend a whole lifetime trying to make sense of and keep under control. The roadsides are littered with the careers of the fallen; those who failed to keep equilibrium, to choke off the demons that will inevitably rise up to challenge their self-esteem and memory bank in those sometime dark moments of nostalgia and regret. Pity is, as with many things the subtlety and shade are wrung out it, sometimes by a misguided arse.

In 1990 a duo known as Candy Flip released a dance cover of Strawberry Fields Forever which became something of a rave classic but removed the heart from the original in two deft strokes. The band, Candy Flip, were named after the slang term used by ravers to describe those taking LSD and ecstasy at the same time (?!) thereby homing in on the drug references only vaguely alluded to in the original work and making the drug theme the dominant reason for the song’s conception. As per requirement of the dance floor use of electronic synth beats were used destroying the delicacy of the original’s musical passages of cellos and horns that were so deftly added by George Martin to emphasise the musical timeframe of the piece. I guess that’s nostalgia but…it aint what it used to be…

James Hendrix Esq

November 27^th – On this day in 1942 in Seattle, Washington a 28 years journey began that would culminate in a change to the musical landscape the reverberations of which are still felt today. Jimi Hendrix (James Allen Hendrix) was born. That’s it. Nowt to add. Perfect day.

Nicholas Cage - Born to play...well Nicholas Cage really

November 26^th – There’s lots of creepy things go on in the world. In the wider world there’s the folk who spend inordinate amounts of cash on relics of the famous/infamous, like the stuffed remains of Cher Ami the famous homing pigeon that flew 12 missions in WW1; in the world of entertainment it’s just as creepy. Folk who’ll spend other inordinate amounts on star memorabilia like a pair of Madonna’s panties (that’s Madonna as in sex-book and crap film fame not Madonna as in mother of Jesus fame, you understand) or, heaven forbid, making a successful bid for Larry Hagman’s gallstones. There’s also folk who’ll go to any lengths to collect an autograph including breaking and entering, kidnapping and using a gun as a negotiating tool. There’s the avid souvenir hunter who’ll buy just about any old junk that in any way, shape or form appertains to their hero/heroine not matter how tenuous the connection; like cut-out masks of their faces, dolls that have facial features more in common with Godzilla than their target or facsimiles of invitations to various social gatherings (yup, that’s right they’re not even the real thing, they’re copies…)

I’ve heard of memorabilia sales that have included Keith Moon’s Esso jump suit, wedding stationary from Marilyn Manson/Deeta Von Teese’s wedding and the demand for Kyile Minogue memorabilia is astounding… absolutely astounding. Collectors come in all shades and have all sorts of desires some of them, IMHO, very, very shudderworthy.

My guess is Lisa Marie Presley couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else’s daughter; she’s a dead ringer for her dad who, if truth be told, was indeed a hunk of a man in his younger years. As the sole heir to her father’s fortune and memory back-catalogue she’s had a reasonably successful career as a singer/songwriter (and e-Bay punter one would think) gaining above average reviews for both recorded and live work and has (haven’t they all) managed a charity for the homeless and gotten involved in several deserving foundations. But one has to say that, worthy as her own output is she’ll always be walking under the shadow of being that man’s daughter. On the credit side is her move to the UK because;

We have found the quality of life so much more enriching and fulfilling. The civility, the culture, the people and its beauty have reawakened me and have smoothed out some of my bleak and jagged views about people and life.

An unbiased Spot-On from me, Ms. Presley.

Nicholas Cage is an actor whom I believe finds it difficult to shake off Nicholas Cage in any role he undertakes. It’s not that I could do better, I couldn’t, but my suggestion is that, because he is a professional actor, he should be more character-savvy than he has been, not so one-dimensional. I’ll give way on the reason that it may be to do with the parts he’s offered, maybe he should be more choosy or the demands of the tally-man every Friday mean he’s not got room for manouvre; don’t know. What I do know is that, for me, IMHO, I think he’s only been truly watchable in Lord of War (mainly because of the content) The Weatherman (mainly because of the character suitability) and Peggy Sue Got Married (mainly because it was a captivating story that was well acted by both Mr. Cage and Kathleen Turner). What I wasn’t aware of was his deep and meaningful interest in Elvis Presley; I mean he’s a real fan, a major fan, collecting all sorts of stuff owned by, part of or about The King. So, does anyone else find it slightly worrisome that he married Elvis’ daughter, Lisa Marie Presley and then, within four months and on this day in 2002, divorced her citing irreconcilable differences? 
Does anyone else have a flash-back to Terence Stamp in The Collector…?

No, no, sorry; ’course not. Just me and my warped imagination.

Nick Drake - now there's a coincidence...

November 25^th – S’funny how things work out, innit? Some call it fate, others coincidence…some even attribute it to a god figure but me, I’m not sure whether we’re seeing the prompt or prompting the vision; not sure. Anyhow, I’ve been a little preoccupied with sorting out the next novel (there’s a brag, some call it ‘writer’s block’ others – me – call it constipation of the story-duct) and about three weeks ago I decided to do something really productive other than fret which was to sort out my iTunes library… I know, I know, ‘There’s brave, there’s decisive; that’ll really move the process on, Peter…’ Well, whatever, it’s what I did so… Not gonna bore y’s with the minutiae, you all know how much music means to me so; suffice to say it was a difficult task. Like going through our library at home with the intention of creating more space and coming out with a smug expression and one pamphlet to hand, feeling drained but believing this decision will make such a lot of difference.

So it was that, on my rummage through the musical equivalent of an explosion in a duck-down factory, I reacquainted myself with the work Nick Drake. I know many of you will be familiar with his work and many also familiar with his short life, but that’s not what this chat is about. His album, Five Leaves Left, particularly Cello Song from that album and the later track Black-Eyed Dog always bequeaths me with a breathlessness I can’t shake off for many an hour afterwards; probably why I’ve given it a miss for a while. Thing is, Mr. Drake’s songs kind of draw you in subtly and if, like me, you’ve had mental problems in the past, depressions and breakdowns and such, then the connection seems to be reduced down to its component parts, and some of those parts can be quite shitty. Not that I’m suggesting you should go through such difficulties in order to appreciate his music; not at all. Not necessary, not recommended. Actors portraying a murderer don’t need to go out and murder; I don’t need to have served in Vietnam or fired a machine gun to appreciate Jimi Hendrix’s Machine Gun track from the Band of Gypsy’s album. That’s the devilish beauty of Mr. Drake’s compositional abilities (and Mr. Hendrix’s come to that) that Nick Drake can speak directly to the delicate consciousness in everyone and make a yearning heart of stoic people.

Then I became aware of a radio programme about Mr. Drake which showcased his work amongst discussions and memories…and then heard about the publication of a biography, Nick Drake: Remembered for a While written by his sister, Gabrielle Drake, and supported by Cally Callomon… Now I’m not claiming anything other than coincidence, there’s no psychic hogwash going on here, its just the way scythed wheat falls. What this collision of connections did do, though, was remind me of the closeness concerning the where’s and whyfore’s of the point of balance when it comes to our coping with the touchstone’s of experience. That there are some people, writers, songsmiths, philosophers…Winnie the Pooh, who can take the sum total of all we believe we’ve become, shake us gently by the shoulders and get us focus on the fragility of the path we walk. On this day in 1974 Nick Drake (26) died in his sleep. At the inquest the coroner stated the cause of death was due to acute amitriptyline poisoning, self-administered whilst suffering from a depressive illness and concluded a verdict of suicide.

Now that all reads very depressingly (no pun intended) but it needn’t. His painful shyness and inability to communicate with those around him, those most precious to him, meant his isolation became complete, and we all know how the mind can fuck you over at 03.30 of a winter’s morning. In revisiting those tracks of his it becomes obvious that, although there are times when the renowned, disobedient black dog can slip both kennel and leash and sit on your chest but, on revisiting his life, I believe that, far from wanting us to join him, Mr. Drake was laying out the pitfalls of his condition and psyche so that, if at all possible, we could avoid them… work out strategies to control them, and that’s a hell of a legacy to leave. The seemingly simple solution of talking when talking’s the last thing you want to do is something that bypassed Mr. Drake, can also bypass us.

What we all have to try and recognise are the signs of an enclosed confusion in each other, not easy when the victim is so reticent, and be prepared to spend time and effort in listening to those who’ve temporarily had their ability to communicate fractured; feeding the beast with silence is no training tactic.

Freddie Mercury, Nelson Mandela, Margaret Thatcher...or Missing Link?

November 24^th – Doing some background research for my writing… Well, what a day…and what a time to listen to politicians justifying themselves and their behaviour.

Was anyone else made sick to their stomach at the time when listening to Norman Tebbit on Radio 4 a year ago today, or was that just miserable-old reactionary me? Here was a being whose considered opinion on the plight of the jobless (jobless because his government, under the brutal reign of Thatcher, was destroying the manufacturing base of this country and hiving it off to their friends) was for them to;

Get on their bikes and find work.

Then he has the temerity to tell the interviewer (who had the audacity to question his and his government’s role in the shoring up of apartheid) that he;

Got very annoyed at people who judged the past by the present without fully understanding the time that the political decisions were made in. Oh, really, Mr. Tebbit? You see, I’m just a simple peasant and you’ve got so much intelligence. I didn’t realise that there was a time when it was considered OK to beat someone to a bloody pulp with iron rods, string them doubled over on a pole and shove chilli pods up their arse in order to get them to admit they wanted a fairer world; so silly of me. That it was OK for a colonial power to keep a whole nation under control by beatings, murder, torture and rationing (blacks only) as well as deny them safety from oppression, a fair law policy and the vote; so silly of me. That it would serve the best interests of the population to deny them access to services, places and options for betterment because the white-folk saw it as their right but not the black mans’; so silly of me. Thank you so much for pointing that out; just think of the fool I could have made of myself if I’d spoken of these things in public. WAC.

I did a gig at the Albert Hall, ‘85’ I think, and amongst the covers we sprinkled in the set was, for me, a Queen pseudo-classic. On this day in 1991Freddie Mercury died and much has been made of his musical legacy, most of it deserved, although I have to say I considered his liaison with Monsterrat Caballe was ill-advised. Never mind, we’re all allowed the odd mistake, to get things wrong, even Nelson Mandela who, you may have noticed also died today. He once said;

I am not a saint, unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps on trying.

Think you’ll find, Mr. Mandela that most folk would consider you a more deserving saint than, let’s say Saint Aaron of Aleth or Saint Opportuna. Not that I’m against either of those two worthy individuals but…well, read up on ’em if you want but I think you can take my word that Mr. Mandela is probably the more deserving.

Anyway, back at the Albert Hall, we (Missing Link) did a cover of, Is This the World We Created a track that pleases and annoys me in equal measure. Thing is the lyrics (see below) are very much in tune with the majority of my tenet of beliefs but the delivery is what lets it down but the way Mr. Mercury sings it (not to mention the syrupy guitar accompaniment by Brian May, as beautiful as it is. If it was me announcing these hideous crimes on humanity, I’d want my words to be accompanied by a buzz-saw and the merry sound of gelignite going off. Instead it comes out as plea, a begging request for tolerance; which, forgive my French, really fucks us up. Those in power rely on this sentimentality, this mawkishness if you will and our readiness for tears which weakens what should be our demands that they either join in the forces of intellectual understanding as to the meaning of right and wrong or they fuck off out of it. It deflects us from the need to kick down their fuckin’ doors grab them by the throat and shake them ’til their teeth rattle for their stupidity, their greed and their callous disregard for society…for want of a better set of words, their willingness to listen to saliva-soaked Tebbit-isms and be so stupid as to think;

Yup, that’s the way to go.

So today we lost Freddie Mercury and Nelson Mandela, both of whom had a way with words and so I give you three sets of them from three different sources…take your pick.

Freddie Mercury: From his song, Is This the World We Created: -

You know that every day a helpless child is born,

Who needs some loving care inside a happy home,

Somewhere a wealthy man is sitting on his throne,

Waiting for life to go by.

Margaret Thatcher: From her speech on Nelson Mandela: -

…that grubby little terrorist…

Nelson Mandela: From his speech at his trial in 1962: -

I was made, by the law, a criminal, not because of what I had done, but because of what I stood for, because of what I thought, because of my conscience.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3NclYjPLLP4

Spooky Tooth - a fine title you've gotten me into

November 23^rd – I’m a blues man at heart. Most of my musical core stems from those early recordings I heard of Sonny Boy Williamson II, John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters, and I only came across them by accident as I used to spend inordinate amounts of time shuffling through the serried ranks of records in my local store. In fact, I do believe I spent so much time in there one guy actually thought I was on the payroll. I’ve mentioned before how, as a kid, I used to collect disused cigarette packets so the culmination of all these different coloured single labels and album covers was just a natural titillation of my collecting gene; but the added bonus was the music. It was Mr. Williamson II who drove me to take up harmonica playing and even though I say it myself (and I have to as there’s no one else to ask so you’ll just have to take my word for it) I got to be PDG on it, wouldn’t have baulked at standing alongside The Master, albeit in a subservient role. Haven’t picked one up for years (35 poss 40) but I wanted to put this down as a marker to emphasise the fact that all drummers are not necessarily musically inept…quiet at the back there!

I had the good fortune to support a lot of the, what I suppose one can call (without being rude) pseudo-blues bands of the 60’s and 70’s. Band’s that were superb performers and interpreters in their own right and used the backbone of the blues upon which to build there repertoire; bands like Taste, Savoy Brown Blues Band, Duster Bennett and Brian Auger and the Trinity. I guess these bands are not that well known to many, certainly not if you’re not of that time zone. That reads very patronisingly, it’s not meant to, you know me better by now; it’s not your fault you’re young, indeed crusty old buggers like me think it’s in your favour. However I know that the Rolling Stones or The Who will be known to you all. They all based their early acts and rise to stardom on the back of the collected output of such as Howlin’ Wolf, Sonny Terry, Big Bill Broonzy, Lucille Bogan or Elmore James to name just a few. One band that may not be familiar to many however and that I held a sneaking regard for was Spooky Tooth.

I figure the reason they didn’t make any great strides along the shit street of success is because they held true to their roots in 95% of all their work. Whilst all around them were concentrating on getting that chart-topper (at any price) Spooky Tooth were staying grounded (and probably poor) with such classic tracks as Evil Woman, Better By You, Better Than Me and Waitin’ for the Wind. Probably a-typical of their treatment of now well-known songs is their rendition of Tobacco Road which was penned by John D. Loudermilk in 1960 or ‘61’ I think. Most people who know the song think of the Nashville Teens hit, which is very up-beat, and Johnny/Edgar Winter do a passable version but the Spooky Tooth track from their 1968 album It’s All About is probably the gig; not to everybody’s taste I know, but the commitment and feel are just excellent, and the depth of their immersion in what gave them their reason to make music in the first place (the blues) are clearly on display.

The codicil to all this guff is that on this day in 1974, Gary Wright, one of the original members of the band left to launch a solo career. Nothing remarkable in that one might think except…

Spooky Tooth suffered 11 line-up changes in forty years and a total of 12 musician changes in the same time period. Their members have filled positions in the foremost rock bands of the 20^th century including Humble Pie, Joe Cocker’s Grease Band, Matthew’s Southern Comfort, Foreigner, Stealer’s Wheel and Mott the Hoople and are still performing today with, ostensibly, the original line-up… Not bad going for a gang of blues-hookers, and it has to be said they have, IMHO, the finest album title ever: You Broke My Heart So I Busted Your Jaw. Good innit.

Mandy, I am my own father....

November 22^nd –There’s a fair bit of nepotism goes on in life, y’ think? There’s the usual everyday innocuous sort, y’ know, where the father/mother wants to hand on the dynasty (billions or a handful of gambling debts) to the children rather than have the government snaffle it all up into their greedy little chicken claws (as is their wont) or the money lender come and break their legs with a claw-hammer as part-payment. Those sorts of things are what we would all like to be able to do (well, apart from the handful of gambling debts that is) and it’s only natural for us to put our children first. Where it can get shitty is when the nepotism starts to impinge on positions of power and influence, particularly when these positions of power and influence are handed on to a chinless, undeserving arse; such an instance was the dealings underhanded by our fragrant Lady Thatcher and that shit of a son of hers, Mark.

My dislike and level of contempt for Ms. Thatcher is well documented but there’s a special place reserved in my lexicon of dislike for her son. Never in the field of human nepotism has so much been deposited into someone so undeserving by someone so lacking in integrity. That anyone except another of his ilk could have had any faith in a person who’s mother praised Pinochet and rubbished Mandela has been proved beyond any doubt in his last, notable (but probably not final) brush with the forces of law and decency.

Along with a couple of other very shady characters he tried to orchestrate a coup in Equatorial Guinea in 2004 which, although it failed spectacularly, came close to netting him, his family and his cohorts a stake in a country rich in minerals and cheap labour. Mummy’s influence got him off relatively lightly and his plea bargain, blaming everyone else for the mess and pleading ignorance on the whole coup ideology, laid the pathway for a hefty fine and 4-year suspended jail sentence…and what does the establishment do with such a shady, slithey character? Why reward him, of course! He’s proved himself to be one of the gang and is now a Baron and uses that oxymoron of all oxymorons used by many in his position, the title of the Honourable… If there’s another on this planet who is less deserving of this title, I’d like to meet him. After the coup attempt it was suggested he should be stripped of his title…so, whadd’ya reckon…deal or no-deal…? The upper echelons of the ruling classes are riddled with such tales of nepotism of the most blatant kind and we all know damn well what would’ve happened had it been you or me or some other schmuck without contacts…seventy-billion years in a single hole in the ground with nowt but well-used toilet water and rats for company and food. So it’s good to read a tale that can at least raise a grin as to the outcome of nepotistic shenanigans.

On this day in 1990 Bill Wyman (remember him) informed the world’s press he was divorcing his third wife (of just 18-months) Mandy Smith (a sometime model – aren’t they all – and music performer of doubtful abilities…aren’t they all…but allied to people in the biz and in the know the sky’s the limit) who he’d been dating since she was 13…and by her admission having a sexual relationship with since she was 14…  He was 34 years her senior (so possibly enough life left in the old dog then) and his calling a halt to proceedings of a marital kind was probably urged on by Ms. Smith’s mother accompanying them on honeymoon; you’d think that was some strange kind of nepotism going on there…but it gets worse and now you really do have to stay alert…OK?  
It took £½mill to end the marriage and Mr. Wyman feels he was badly treated by the press over the affair (?) and, knowing how the red-Top press behaves that's probably true, but that’s not the codicil (and the possibility of nepotism of the very highest order) to it all. Shortly after the end of the affair, Mr. Wyman’s son, Stephen, courted and married Mandy’s mother, Patsy, who was 16 years his senior and, if you’ve been paying attention, you’d have realised by now that, had Mr. Wyman stayed married to Ms. Smith then he would have become his own grandfather…

Judy Garland - That's my mum....

November 21^st – You ever been embarrassed by one or other of your parents? I don’t mean something lightweight, something like meeting either of them at the local supermarket only to find them wearing their slippers, that or having your father come down the stairs, on the night when you’d invited various work colleagues round for late supper, dressed in your mother’s negligee because he couldn’t find his dressing gown. No, I mean something that can scar you mentally for life. Say, having a parent arrested for being out of their wad on smack or highlighted in the national press for cheating on their married partner with a lithe, beautiful but very young carpet polisher.

Both sexes are prone to these little aberrations and, when one is young and single, these alterations to what’s accepted as socially responsible can be glossed over as the sowing of one’s wild oats. Where it starts to get sticky (?) is when, let’s say, fame and fortune come one’s way swiftly, followed by an often ill-advised marriage, a short sojourn down the for better for worse, in sickness and in health, ‘til death… road before finding one’s way to wreckage park and the arrival at an unplanned bundle of potentially career stopping joy; and when you see some of the choices made one is amazed that the previously labelled doting couple make it through the ceremony. I’ve covered short-lived star couplings before here but will just revisit a couple of last year events swiftly in order to refocus context; Nigella and Charles. WTF? It has an air of inevitability about, don’t you think? A sort of tailor-made-for-the-red-tops story that the gutter-press follows and comments on with such brutal glee all for the amusement of the masses. A big mistake, taking these sorts of things to the press because all that happens is that instead of these sorts of secrets and behavioural quirks remaining in the family, now everyone knows about them and they’ll be played and replayed in full colour cinemascope every time the protagonists name’s come up in conversation; private or public. And I’m as guilty of this sensationalist ogling as anyone…I mean, no matter how the court case plays out, I would like to say here and now I’m a great fan of Ms. Lawson; I watched her for ten shows before I realised she was cooking.

Remember the only sensible piece of dialogue in the totally predictable film, Notting Hill? That section where, after the press find out her whereabouts from Hugh Grant’s deranged flatmate, the Julia Roberts character, Anna Scott, talks about how it may seem like nothing to him (Hugh Grant’s character, William Thacker) that the mucky photos are covering that day’s tabloids and, in Thacker’s words;

They’ll be tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappers

And she replies that, on the contrary, every time anyone has to write up anything about Anna Scott this early indiscretion will be trawled up and replayed. Given, then, that this was a fantasy situation and they were in an affair and so had no others to consider, how do we think the Lawson/Saatchi debacle will prey on the lives of the children? Not well, I’d imagine and this is, in the annals of the lives of the children of the stars, just a little roadside scuffle. When the mega-stars come out to fuck up their lives, I’d not be surprised if their pets didn’t need therapy too. Thing is, in a lot of cases, these oldies are just trying to be cool and down wi’ th’ kidz and up to a point that’s sort of OK. I mean, kids spend an awful lot of their former years trying to be grown up (unfortunately we’re at the point now where parents indulge them in these follies, allowing them to dress and behave inappropriately. But although things which involve parents old enough to know better, and their children can seem cute and an interesting add-on to their stardom, it’s not always suitable material as they both grow older. Comments about your daughter’s breasts (Joe Simpson) or loudly and publicly discussing your daughter’s amorous adventures (Monica Braithwaite) or dissing your son’s well-publicised Liberal leanings (upon which much of his culture of cool has been built) by demonising Barack Obama as pretty much a child of Satan (Jane Pitt) are just a few of the Heffalump traps that await the unwary. But all this fades into insignificance when viewed through the lens that is the parental past of Lorna Luft, born this day in 1952.

Judy Garland, told by the studio execs oft and anon that she was unattractive and who then proceeded to manipulate her throughout her screen career, gave life to these demons by going through five marriages (not that being a star puts a shelf-life on one’s ability to hold a partnership together…someone asked the other day how long I’d been married and when I told him he replied

Christ, you’d get less for murder

So even in my severely un-star-crossed life it would seem the odds of me making it through my one brief sleep-over on this planet by remaining within the same marital arrangement are seen as limited). However, Ms. Garland’s four divorces, fiscal difficulties that would sink lesser beings, extended stays in sanatoriums, several breakdowns and suicide attempts and a repeated selection of alcohol and drug addictions that would eventually do for her really are in a different league; at just 47 years old she was discovered dead in her hotel room and described in a funeral eulogy by her fellow performer in The Wizard of Oz, Ray Bolger, as;

Just plain wore out

…at 47…!

With a mother who Ms. Garland herself described as;

…no good for anything except to create chaos and fear…

it would seem that a poor start and role model for her formative years did nothing to provide Ms. Garland with a steady foundation on which to build her life, and particularly a life in Hollywood in the 20’s and then way, way beyond. So how did this life of turmoil and distress play out with her daughter from her marriage to Sidney Luft?

I can only say, from personal experience having had the chance to work on a show with her a couple of years ago that Ms. Garland’s daughter, Ms. Luft, has shown remarkable resilience and a level of integrity and courage to become the lady she is when one considers she started her life in the centre of the storm that was her mother’s career and difficulties. A charming, personable, dignified and very grounded woman, the stories she tells of her mother are touching and deeply affecting, often recounted with a naiveté stemming from a childhood spent with what, to Ms. Luft was just her mom.

So, it would seem there are times when the sins of the fathers (mothers) cannot only be overcome but can be used as building blocks to produce a finished building of real strength and character and much of that credit must go to Ms. Garland who, by all accounts and in the midst of real life challenges still found time to be a mum to her daughter.

Mountain had a whale of a time...

November 20^th – Would you allow me to give you the definition of poetic justice…? You would! Excellent. Kick back and enjoy.

Mountain was an interesting 70’s band that put together some excellent albums of music. Using intelligent research and apocryphal tales from their region they layered out a selection of poetic and stimulating work, none more so than Nantucket Sleighride. A track off’f their second album of the same name released in 1971, it gained popularity through its use as credit music for the British political programme, Weekend World aired in the 70’s/80’s on London Weekend Television (LWT). I’ve had a liking for the track since then. There’s a story-line trajectory to the music that conjures up the fast movement like an out-of-control ride on a tin-tray down a very snowy slope, or a big dipper that’s decided to go by its own rules and it wasn’t until I discovered what a Nantucket Sleighride was that I connected with the route the music takes and how accurate it was.

Now, I should say here and now that the following can be a little upsetting for those of a nervous disposition all I can ask is that you remember the opening line of this missive and just stick with it. Trust me, I’d never take you on a journey that was hurtful to you, honest, but what follows is a true tale that I’ve tried to make a little less heavy. However if you are at all squeamish then best not read further. OK? Right. On with it.

You’ll all know this so forgive me for being a little slow on the uptake, OK?

A Nantucket Sleighride was the euphemism used by 19^th Century whalers to describe what took place once the harpooned leviathan made to distance itself from the longboat. The harpoon was attached to the boat by a rope and the whale dragged the boat and the men along at sometimes terrifying speeds until it became exhausted and could be hauled along side, made fast and dispatched. This was the whaling industry of the 19^th Century, a cruel and bloody business. What one has to remember is that the uses these whales were put to were part of commerce and at that time no substitute was available…not like now where there is, in 99.999999% of cases, perfectly serviceable replacements for the continuing slaughter of whales and dolphins; it’s only the meat that has no replacement and it’s only in the far east there seems to be no desire to stop consuming this luxury item. But that’s not what this blurb is all about. Once I’d discovered what the title of the track meant, I researched the background…and here’s the pay-off.

It turns out that Nantucket Sleighride was inspired by a true event that took place on this day in 1820. Whilst out whaling in the southern Pacific Ocean, thousands of miles from land, the whaling ship, Essex out of Nantucket, was rammed and sunk by a sperm whale. As a by product of this event, Herman Melville wrote Moby Dick but that’s by-the-by, it’s what happened after that collision that intrigues, and here I’ll précis as much as possible.

The crew scrambled into the poorly equipped harpoon boats and eventually made it to one of the nearby islands. Had they gone a relatively short distance (100+km) in a SW direction they would have reached Pitcairn Island where there were a few survivors of HMS Bounty still living and things would have turned very differently. As it was they went the other way and lolled up on the uninhabited island of Henderson. They gorged on what wild creatures they could find, quickly exhausting what the island had to offer by way of gourmet dining and, realising they would starve if they stayed, set off toward the Easter Islands…but drifted way off course and decided to head for Mas e Tierra Island some 2,926 km east. Then the three boats became separated as delirium and tide took its toll on directional abilities. With no food, no fresh water and little room in the first boat, one by one the men began to die. The first couple were stitched into their clothes and buried at sea, as is the custom. The next man, Albert Cole, was stashed aside as it was realised that here was the men’s salvation; a ready source of protein. They didn’t take much persuading to indulge in cannibalism and the men in this boat had finished up Mr. Cole and were on the verge of starvation again when, 90 days after parting company, they were rescued by another whaling vessel, Indian.

The other two whaleboats, one with the captain, Mr. Pollard, on board with three others, also ran out of food very quickly and, as with the first whaleboat, cannibalism ensued. These two boats stayed in contact for a while but eventually drifted apart, the one boat and its men never being seen again. On the third boat the men weren’t dying fast enough to satisfy the hunger of the remainder so lots were drawn as to who would be sacrificed to save the crew. A 17 year-old lad (aptly named Owen Coffin) drew the black spot, was shot and a hearty feast ensued. Reduced to such a diet and drinking their own urine it was a sure-fire thing that there would be further casualties and a second seaman died, mercifully of something other than a bullet. Now only two men remained and they only survived by gnawing on the bones of the deceased until they were rescued, 95 days after the sinking of the Essex, by that pesky whale, by  yet another whaleship, Dauphin.

In all, seven corpses had been devoured and although the remaining 8 survivors all returned to sea they suffered much in the way nightmares of their ordeal, some ending their days in mental institutions such was their trauma.

So, what can we say?

Well, how about;

Whaleship Essex 0 – Sperm Whale 7?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqWqCuHR0Og

Badfinger for the Singing Postman

November 19^th – They do say that no one is ever prepared for it; fame, that is. No matter how much the soon-to-be-famous prepare for it, no matter how many times the handling-of-adulation scenarios are played out in the head, in the vast majority of cases it always catches people off-guard with the fickle, rapid and brutal changes it makes to a person’s life. It would seem there’s no magic path to walk that will allow general survival either, certainly not in the first stages of fame and these are the risky times, the watch your step times, the times when its all too easy to miss one’s footing and come crashing down. And it isn’t made any the easier by the fact that, in the majority of cases the obstacle that causes the downfall has been laid by people inhabiting the shadowy periphery of fame; you really are swimming with sharks. The dealers who want to peddle; the girls/boys who just want your bodily fluids, the franchisers who just want your signature…you are just a commodity, an extension to their own agenda and they rely on fame’s bus principle; miss one and there’ll always be another one along in a few minutes. Let’s take two seemingly different ends of the fame spectrum, dissect them and find the similarities.

Alan Smethurst, born this day in 1927, was a painfully ordinary chap with no history and no pretensions of ever becoming anything even vaguely near becoming famous. Bullied at school and blessed with a questionable appearance, certainly if the beautiful people of pop mantra that’s constantly being chanted by the fashion and music industry is to be believed anyway; until he got picked up by the music industry giant, EMI that is. Billed as The Singing Postman Mr. Smethurst was thrust from the quiet backwater that was Norfolk (although he was a Lancashire lad) where he worked as…yup, you’ve guessed it, a postman! The music industry is nothing if not pragmatic, transparent and shallow. Have You Got A Light, Boy (pronounced and written up as, Hev Yew Gotta Loight, Boy) was a major hit for Mr. Smethurst and he was swiftly swallowed up by the machine as they churned out EP’s, LP’s and singles by him and marketed his country-credentials as part of his charm.

These country-credentials however made him a vulnerable and bemused star and his discomfort at coping with live performances and appearances was assuaged by booze; beer then later scotch being the preferred route to becoming comfortable numb. He did OK out of the record sales, certainly enough to keep the alcohol flowing…right up to the point where he checked into a Salvation Army hostel, broke but carrying a gift from the largesse of pop; an alcohol problem. He died aged 73 in this same hostel which was located in the glamour capitol of the UK, Grimsby. Cause of death was a heart attack and it’s certain sure that the booze accounted for some of that organ’s discrepancies in keeping on keeping on. Blimey, to travel all that distance along fame’s highway to the stars and wind up there… in a Sally Army Hostel; some journey, huh?

Be careful what you get into.

Badfinger had everything going for them and my guess is they knew they were going to make it. In the business since the very early 60’s they knew how to hustle and how to work the game, but my guess is nothing, nothing they could have imagined would have prepared them for the eventual outcome. Badfinger had been around the major acts of the time (Spencer Davis Group, The Who, Moody Blues) as a support act and when they were picked up and signed by Apple and endorsed by none other than The Beatles they felt ready to take on the world. Hit records followed (Come and Get It written by Paul McCartney, No Matter What and Baby Blue) and they prepared themselves for some of that largesse mentioned above that fame would bring…and they waited…and waited.

Legal wrangles, counter-claims and management fuck-ups all took their toll on the band’s health, wealth and temper, at one stage causing Badfinger guitarist, Joey Molland’s wife, Kathie to say at a band meeting;

What is it with this? The band’s got hit records and management deals and yet we still haven’t got a fridge and a TV?

(Gosh, I’ve heard that statement in different guises over and over again in this oftentimes shitty business).

Bad deals and questionable financial practices just compounded things and band tensions were inevitable, as was the eventual acrimonious breakup. On April 24^th 1975, Pete Ham, the band’s singer/songwriter hanged himself; his suicide note concluded with;

…PS. Stan Polley…

the band’s manager with a much admired professional reputation but possessing very questionable financial practices

…is a soulless bastard. I will take him with me.

Now the dream was well and truly over. Badfinger dissolved leaving all they had worked for and expected lying around them in tatters. After this further unpleasantness’s took place including continued legal wrangling all leading up to the oft quoted financial difficulties which caused the sales of much-loved guitars and various kit and memorabilia in order to stay afloat on a purely bread-and-milk basis. No amount of forward planning could have prepared them for this outcome and I can only imagine the acute bewilderment, anger and loss a sense of self they must have felt when they surveyed the charts rebounding with their hits as they pawned their treasured items.

On this day in 1983 just 8 years after the suicide of Mr. Ham, Tom Evans, the band’s guitarist/songwriter committed suicide by hanging. It would seem he never got over Mr. Ham’s death, and the continued arguing and bad blood both within and between the band and its various sessions of being fucked-over by business partners and managers took a deep and unrecoverable toll on Mr. Evans. His wife said of him;

He went to see Pete’s body and he said to me, ‘I want to be where Pete is. It’s a better place than down here’.

Them as deserve it never get it, so it seems. Be careful what you wish for.

Move Bill Wyman to Chicago...will that help?

November 18th – There’s ego and then there’s EGO.

In the entertainment industry one of the main driving forces is the projection of the self. It’s what gives the money-people sufficient confidence to invest the millions it takes to get an act launched these days; it’s unfortunate that most of this expenditure is self generating. Who would've thought that each and every band member had to have a personal assistant or a personal trainer…what does a personal trainer do exactly? I mean if, as a performer, they need someone constantly around telling them how wonderful they are and whether it would advisable to drink carrot juice or a cup of very weak Lapsang Souchong for breakfast then I’d suggest they’re in the wrong business, in fact I’d go so far as to suggest they’re unsafe to be let out on their own…oh, hang on, OK, I've spotted it…OK, got it.

I've had the dubious pleasure of working with a goodly number of fruit loops whilst being involved both on and back stage. I've had couples who've insisted the whole room be altered round to take advantage of the Feng Shui flowing through the gaff…nothing odd there? There is when it’s the first night of a four-month UK tour and you’re in one of the many, many one-night B&B’s you’ll all be staying in throughout the duration of said tour.

I've had actors refuse to come on stage because prior to performance they've realised the audience could (if they were a) interested enough and b) able to stand on tip-toe without spilling their drink) see said actor through the one patch of clear glass in a half solid-half frosted glass stalls bar door... And this will destroy the magic of the actor’s character.

I've had actors so determined to be last on stage, otherwise their performance will be ruined…ruined, darling, that although they start the whole gig and are set on stage prior to curtain-up, have held the show up for six minutes because one of the other actors, who wasn't on stage for the first ten minutes of the show, had gone back to the dressing room to collect a forgotten prop.

With these and many more tales besides it’s hardly surprising that talent gets short shrift from those who see theatre and performance as it really is; a job of work. Yes, it’s done right, yes, the high level of professionalism we all feel runs throughout the performance time, but it would help things along a great deal if those involved learnt the difference between being on stage and off.

I guess it has to be said, in fairness, that a lot of folk have a lot riding on each gig. The money and time invested, not to mention the work, often turns on a knife-edge of the fickle audience’s reception or the flick of critic’s pen and the show gets a panning; when they’ve invested several hundred thousand quid in what turns from the next best thing into a turkey in one fateful night is not a pleasant thing to experience. The thing is, and here I am using the benefit of hindsight and experience to make me seem perfect in every way (which, indeed, I am) I find it increasingly hard to believe that people who are supposed to be the best in business, and are feted as such by their incessant publicity, can’t spot a show that’s going to hit the skids even before the ink’s dry on the last page of what turns out to be a constantly changing script.

Is it that they ask the wrong people for rehearsal feedback…are afraid to ask in case they are told the truth…is it better to live in ignorance and a cloud of hope? In honesty all they have to do is ask the stage crew their opinion of how it’s going. They’ll get far more useful information than if they talk to the other actors (who are just glad to be in work and will do nothing to jeopardise that) or, even more so, the sycophants and publicity people who hover around said talent, complete with clipboard and inane grin, pandering to their paymaster’s every whim. How many of us, if we were in the position whereby we were dependent on another person being relaxed and happy so they could do their job and we could continue to receive our extravagant wage and perks, how many of us would be prepared to say, with, say, ten days to go to opening night;

Well, in honesty, you’re shit in this part. It does nothing for your present and will do even less for your future. For me, I’d walk and fight the contractual issues through my agent; that’s why he’s paid 10% of everything we earn.

Not gonna happen, is it? What the majority of us would do is ride out the storm after first night but, up ’til then we’d vacillate, procrastinate and if all else fails blame the project’s failure on the loss of those lucky pants that went missing after the dress R/X. These sorts of vanity issues cover all sorts of perceived trespass, real or imagined, on what’s considered by the talent to be their domain, their right; take band names for instance.

When The Chicago Transit Authority first began to get a reputation they were pounced on by none other than the City of Chicago. Now I don’t know about you but I’d be hard pressed to mistake a rock band for a city but legal action was indeed threatened (by the city) and so The Chicago Transit Authority became…Chicago…and apparently all egos were left intact.

The Canadian band, Death From Above (nope, me neither) got into a dispute with DFA (nope, nor them) the Canadian record label and had to add the date 1979 after the band’s name so as to placate the ire of DFA the recording giant (that’s their phrase not mine) and quell any mix-up in the minds of the public and, consequently, any lost sales accruing from that mix-up…? I’d just like to add that I've never heard of Death From Above 1979 or DFA Records either so a fat lot of good the name change did them…either of them….or me…whatever.

Verve is a jazz recording label in the States and so, when Richard Ashcroft formed his band, Verve the US label quickly slapped an injunction on them and threatened legal action. Mr. Ashcroft was quick to respond with a radical band name change and Verve became The Verve; hell, it seems, has no fury like a popular rights owner slighted.

So, given these idiotic spats I was not unsurprised to read that, on this day in 2002 the Rolling Stones bassist, Bill Wyman, sent a cease and desist letter to Bill Wyman, a journalist for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution saying the continued use by Mr. Bill Wyman (journalist) of his name, Mr. Bill Wyman (Rolling Stones bassist) violated Mr. Bill Wyman’s (Rolling Stones bassist) copyright of the name, Bill Wyman (my italics). Confused? You will be.

Thing is Mr. Bill Wyman (Rolling Stones bassist) was christened William George Perks and only took the name Bill Wyman legally when he was 28 (so that'll be in 1964) and then accused Mr. Bill Wyman (journalist) of having the audacity to use the name (Mr. Bill Wyman) that he (Mr. Bill Wyman - journalist) was christened with on his birth in 1961. So, Mr. Bill Wyman 1961 (real name) and Mr. Bill Wyman 1964 (made-up name)…chicken – egg? Now, I don’t know ’bout you but I-spy a precedent here; you?

I believe the threatened law suit fizzled out although I’d really like to think that Mr. Bill Wyman (journalist) told Mr. Bill Wyman (Rolling Stones bassist) to go fuck himself.

All I can say is look out Ms. Jane Wyman…and come to that, Albert Wyman, our paper-boy.

Beatle haircuts, the source of all our social ills

November 17th – Want to know why we've got the shit country we've got now? The UK? In the main it’s because well-connected people of little skill, experience and integrity but massive greed are running the core services of our country… and it really is that simple.

But the furore last year over the Attorney General accusing particular sections of the governing public of inbuilt corruption was only wrong in one aspect, and that was; the accusation being levelled at one particular country only. As far as recent events are concerned every country has its fair share of corrupt people in the high offices of both government and commerce. The US, the UK, France, Italy, Germany, all have sections of the populace or individuals who’re only interested in themselves and the making of a buck, and they really, really don’t care who and by how much they injure the general public. If you start out from a position of my ultra cynical belief that we really don’t amount to a single scintilla of shit to them then you’ll be ahead of the game when they make the next fuck-up on our behalf and you are forced to have to sort truth from fiction and act accordingly. A couple of recent items will suffice. As the saying goes: The reason I take an instant dislike to so many people as it saves me so much time in the long run.

Last year the Royal Bank of Scotland (RBS) was accused of deliberately driving businesses to the wall and into liquidation by withholding loans and funding so they could seize their assets and make a profit from them; if this accusation is proven (you’ll be so pleased to know there’s an inquiry going on and lessons have been learned) do you think for one moment that anyone will pay with their job, pension or, heaven forbid, go to prison?

At one and the same time, Serco and G4S were under investigation for deliberately falsifying accounts and information and swindling extra payments, amounting to multi-millions of pounds, from the government (that’s as in us the taxpayer) after they had taken over the several billion pound industry of looking after prisoners from their friends and shareholders in government.

Since hearing of the case of number 1 last year, I’ve noticed not a single banker wearing an arrowed suit and begging on the streets; you? In the case of number 2 and after a similar hiatus of…well anything really...I have to ask;

Then what the fuck am I paying my taxes to cover the cost of the justice and prisons departments for? Surely I could save a shit-load of cash  by sacking the ministers and their cronies in the civil service and let the corrupt outsiders run them; at least the salaries saved would pay for the fiddles.

Of the 600+ UK politicians at present in Westminster over 70% of them had claimed falsely for monies or benefits they were not entitled to; final amounts may never be known but the bill ran into multi-multi-millions; that’s nearly three-quarters of our elected politicians on the make during the expenses scandal. Of that 70% only around seven have paid with their jobs and only four have gone to prison. We paid for their defence bill when they had the audacity to fight the obvious in court, as well as for all of their court costs. The same has happened in the US and Canada…in Iraq, Syria, Australia, Thailand, Burma…countries full of greedy little fuckers who can’t see past their snout. Only the past-master at dodging anything regarding responsibility and making a name for himself for bullet-dodging, Lord Falconer (he of the O2 Arena debacle – and of course it was nothing to do with him, the total waste of funds and under budgeting, not his fault at all…) could come up with the definitive statement;

We are not corrupt.

What a tosser.

Problem is, in the UK, what we've inherited, from all the way back to the beginning of peopled time, is a world built on gaining positions through bribery and favours and a who you know culture that will continue to exclude over 96% of the British public from real positions of influence. When any post comes up in any department where influence might affect real outcomes that post will always go to someone already well-connected: always. Conversely, if the post is to do with building it’ll never be a builder; if the post is to do with the railways it’ll never be a railway worker; if the post is to do with prisons it’ll never be an ex-con. It’ll be a Lord or a Sir or a Lady who will sit in the seat of authority, and it matters not a jot whether they have experience in the field or not, they’re not there for that, they’re there to ensure the continuation of the status quo…and that’s why meaningful change never occurs.

So it should come as no surprise that, on this day in 1963, headmaster Mr. J. Weightman came up with this gem;

At Surrey Grammar School we are banning boys from wearing the popular Beatle-cu, the so called mop-top as this ridiculous style brings out the worst in boys physically. It makes them look like morons.

You need to read that carefully a couple of times and you’ll find that it encapsulates all that’s wrong with our full-on, class divided society and, what’s worse, even 50 years later, still is.

Jewel - Priceless?

November 16^th – I guess I’m as guilty as the next person. Trouble is it’s really easy to fall into the stereotype-trap that’s baited for us incessantly in every branch of the media if you don’t pay attention; and as those who know me will tell you, suddenly not paying attention is a given with me, and damned infuriating to boot, I shouldn’t wonder. If television advertising is to be believed then 95% of women only really care about four things; men who still think three-day stubble is a good look, how many chocolates they can scoff,  does putting a ready-meal into the oven count as a home-cooked-dinner and how shiny their hair is. I wait to be politely corrected…or hung from the nearest lamppost by my testicles.

As featured before on FB, I’m not a lover of TV talent shows (oxymoron number 1 right there methinks) and any form of reality entertainment show (oxymoron number 2). I think they denigrate the meaning of talent, entertainment and ability, reducing everything to the power of the dollar or give already overexposed has-beens more airtime thereby denigrating the meaning of worth. In both cases they are just cheap TV which, in the first case, people do for nothing and in the second come at a budget-rate. It’s like a really tame form of the Gladiators in the Coliseum…hang on…wait a minute. Do you think we could combine the two and make talent shows exciting? Howsabout we incarcerate all the wannabes into one aircraft hanger where they can entertain the shit out of each other incessantly until, one-by-one we get to vote them off the show and then, as the losers walk out the layered-in-smoke central door, they’re shot by specially trained members of the public dressed as clowns who have also been through a competition in order to get to pull the trigger? Worth a pitch to the commissioning editor of PICK TV d’you reckon?

Deserving of extra-special dislike for me, however, are the judges and continuity people of these, the basest form of TV. That’s because of the way they’re portrayed in countless editorials, Red-Top front pages, sleb-style magazines and rolling news bulletins. The unpleasantness, the back-biting, the intolerance and the ill-mannered behaviour frequently overshadow the, albeit, empty vessel of the programme. Now, I know that a lot of this is generated to boost ratings by publicists and other members of the lowest form of life, but it has to be said that they’re not doing anyone any favours; least of all their client. Repeat this behaviour often enough and stridently enough and we start to believe the hype and begin to brand similar, probably perfectly nice people who inhabit the same cage; we call it bulk-stereotyping, the these folk are all the same mentality that can pollute once clear streams of thinking and damn whole groups of people…similar to overt racism really. Take Jewel f’rinstance.

Ms. Jewel Kilcher is a singer-poet-songwriter but as co-host of a songwriting reality TV show, Platinum Hit and a judge on the talent show, The Sing-Off (there’s so much wrong with that title it makes my head spin) she hasn’t figured much in my lexicon of pop/rock performers…it was when I read a quote by her that I blushed slightly and decided to slap myself and pay a little more attention. This was the quote:

I don’t think I started off young as a feminist. I read a lot of books in Alaska, I was pretty isolated where I grew up, and I think that I never thought I was any different than a man; I was raised in a place where pioneer women were very strong still. They’d shoe horses and build their own homes and were very self-sufficient. It wasn’t really until I’ve gotten older that I really became a fan of women, and a fan of what women are capable of balancing and achieving, by just being them.

Alaska? You grew up in Alaska? Where there’s bears and shit…? Need to find out more. So I did a bit of background reading and it turns out that, far from a Hollywood upbringing, Ms. Kilcher, throughout her childhood, roughed it for years in a log cabin with no indoor plumbing and to keep food on the table sang in bars with her father for money and my guess is this experience was a major factoring forming her character.

With the help of her mother, Ms. Kircher founded (and they still run) the Clearwater Project of Higher Ground for Humanity (HGH) in back in 1999; a NfPO which is dedicated to bringing safe and clean water to remote areas of the world…you know, the direct opposite to that other caring organisation, Nestle who only want to charge people for water because;

…water isn’t a right it’s a commodity just like gold and timber and people should be expected to pay a fair price for it…

bless.

On this day in 2000 she streamed one of her concerts and all the monies accrued went to the fund, and she regularly performs (often with others) benefit concerts for her project funds. She is a passionate advocate for the homeless and has been a staunch supporter of breast cancer awareness and has been at the forefront of a campaign to put a stop to what are known in the US as drive-through mastectomies where breast cancer patients are discharged only hours after undergoing surgery. Hat’s-off gal.

So, there we are, my huge slice of humble-pie has been consumed…I just hope I don't sick it back up when I see the next report about Mr. Cowell or Ms. Campbell…