North Norfolk. Vast empty beaches, big skies
and....hills? Yup, North Norfolk has its fair
share of leg-burners, we know, we walked a few of 'em. They may not stack up to much in comparison to those in
Singing Bear's gloriously mountainous neck of the woods,
but the long inclines certainly take it out of you
after a few hours on the go.
Luckily, there was always a cold beer on the
porch of our cabin to look forward to at the
end of each day, before we rested up and hit
the road for more of the same the following morning.
When having a bit of a rummage for a clutch of CD's to accompany our brief trip to the North Norfolk coast, my hand happened to fall on a couple of Tunng albums, including the 2005 debut, 'Mother's Daughter and Other Songs'. It's on this LP that you'll find the gorgeous and appropriate 'Song of the Sea'.
By the time you read this, Mrs S and I should, all
being well, be in the middle of a short stay
on the North Norfolk coast. Our destination
is only an hour and a bit away from Swede
Towers, but rather than coming and going, we
thought we'd snag a B&B for a couple of
nights and make a break of it. The plan, as
always, is for a bit of walking, a bit of
eating and, who knows, maybe even a bit of
drinking, though these days anything more
than a couple of glasses of wine at one
sitting sends us quickly on our way to
snoozeville - lightweights!
My CD collection is still (still!) stored
away in the spare room following our move in
2011, but whenever we travel I always have a
fish about in the boxes and grab a few albums
for the road. For this trip I've also lovingly hand-crafted a
couple of brand new CDr compilations, the first in absolutely years. Here's a great live version
of a tune that made the tracklist of one of
those compilations, 'Hinterland' by Lonelady,
a firm favourite round these parts since its
release in March.
One evening after school in 1971, a pal played me 'Get It On' by T.Rex. I was
11 years old at the time and when I listened
to the record it was as if a black and white
curtain had been pulled aside, to reveal a vivid
technicolour world beyond. It was a personal
musical revelation. A life-changing moment.
So I've had roughly 44 years to consider what
I might say, should I one day be lucky enough
to meet Tony Visconti, the producer of 'Get
It On' and of many subsequent records that
ended up in my collection. I had a close call
once, on a bitingly cold Winter afternoon in
mid-1990's New York, when we passed each
other on the street. We were both wrapped up
against the fierce sub-zero winds so that our
faces were only partially visible, but I
recognised him instantly and also instantly
decided that I wasn't going to disturb him in
those hostile circumstances. I've quietly
regretted that decision ever since.
On Wednesday evening (after this show) I
found myself in a queue, edging ever closer
to Tony Visconti, who was seated signing
autographs a few feet away. I had just a
couple of minutes of those 44 years left to
decide what words I could possibly use to, A) adequately summarise what a profound effect
the music he's produced has had on my life,
and B) not sound like a gushing buffoon.
As I drew level with him, Tony looked up,
smiled and said 'Hello'. This was my moment.
'Do you mind if I shake your hand?' I said.
His smile broadened as he gripped my hand
firmly. Quite suddenly I knew exactly what I
should say. I didn't need a to make a grand
statement or sweeping gesture to encapsulate
the years of pleasure this man's work had
given me. The solution was far simpler and
more obvious than that.
'Thank you', I said, shaking his hand warmly
and blinking back the stinging in my eyes. 'Thank you.'
To begin an LP with a song as ambitious in scale as 'The Width of a Circle' is, at the very least, a bold statement of intent. For an ad-hoc band to attempt to cover said LP 45 years later and thus open their set with 'The Width of a Circle' must surely take nerves of steel. At the Norwich Arts Centre on Wednesday, the song was nailed to perfection. It was the first of many. The evening was billed, snappily, as 'Tony Visconti & Woody Woodmansey with Glenn Gregory (Heaven 17) perform David Bowie's The Man Who Sold the World album and another set of classic Bowie songs from 1969-73', and did pretty much what it said on the tin.
The big draws were obviously Woodmansey and Visconti, although the 10 piece band each played their part in impeccably recreating every nuance of the original arrangements of the songs, all of which were welcomed like much loved old friends by the packed audience. To his immense credit, Glenn Gregory did not, at any point, attempt to 'do a Bowie', instead interpreting each song faithfully in his own voice and manner. And some of those songs are hard! Many of us could probably mumble our way through a passable 'Man Who Sold the World', but next time you're in the shower have a go at 'The Supermen' or 'Saviour Machine' or 'She Shook Me Cold'. Gregory did a faultless job on the whole lot.
The second half of the set featured 'Time', 'Changes', 'Life on Mars' and no less than 7 selections from 'Ziggy Stardust', including a blistering reading of 'Moonage Daydream', a real highlight of the evening. I briefly met Woody after the show and he was pleased with my observation that the pure joy of playing those wonderful songs was evident to everyone and literally poured from the stage. The show lasted two hours, it felt like 10 minutes. A great night.
One evening, when I was 12, I persuaded
Mum to put my long, thick, straight hair in curlers.
I've always hated my shapeless hair and, for
a couple of hours at least, it was fun to see
it tumbling in Bolanesque corkscrews. The
following morning, of course, it had dropped back to boring, straight normality. It's hard to believe that
Dad didn't grab his camera and record the
event.
Much as I disliked my boring Barnet, having
it cut was the worst. Dad first took me to
the local barber's shop when I was four. I was
plonked on a plank resting across the arms of
the chair and told to sit dead still while
the barber clipped and buzzed around my
bonce. It was easier said than done. I
twitched and I squirmed, particularly when he
got anywhere my right ear, which for some
reason set off a convulsion down my spine,
leading to stern looks from the barber and a
stern word from Dad. My left ear was fine,
but that right ear always seemed ultra-sensitive to the slightest noise and it was
only years later that I learned to control my
involuntary reaction.
When the family relocated to Ipswich in 1975,
I cast around my new classmates for a
recommended local barber. 'Go and see Kenny,'
someone suggested, 'Kenny Cuff the dancing
barber'. It sounded unlikely, but was
actually true. Instead of ambling around the chair while he snipped and trimmed,
like your average barber does, Kenny
performed a continuous soft shoe shuffle as
he worked and was something of a local
legend. His salon was a meeting place for a
handful of old retired Suffolk gents, who rarely
seemed to get their hair cut, but treated the
place as a hang-out, smoking cigarettes and drinking endless cups of tea all day. They all thought my
London accent was a hoot and good-naturedly
sent me up something rotten throughout every
visit, especially whenever I twitched as Kenny
clicked his scissors close to my right ear.
------------------------------------------------
Here's the late great Mikey Dread with what's
probably his best known tune, 1977's 'Barber
Saloon'. The uploader has also kindly included the
dub version, 'Lagga the Barber', featuring
King Tubby at the controls.
Retiree's sound shares certain sonic
similarities with the late great Arthur
Russell and I'll admit that it was this that
originally caught my ear. On closer inspection however, it becomes evident that the Australian four piece plough a particular, subterranean, avant-funk furrow
all of its own. The terrific 'Gundagai' is taken from
their forthcoming EP 'This Place', which follows up 2013's 'Together'. I've listened
to little else all weekend.
Following yesterday's humidity-fest and
little of the predicted overnight rain to cool things down, this morning dawned thick, mild and muggy. We had a coffee crisis looming in the house. We were almost out of paper filters and would never have made it through the weekend, so I dashed off across the marsh to pick up fresh supplies from town. It took me a little under an hour to walk there and back and I returned soaked in sweat, looking like the proverbial drowned rat, but after a refreshing shower and with a brew in hand, I'm ready to face the day.
Here are Sonny & Debby from 1978 with 'Sweat
Suit', which, depending on your point of
view, is either a parody of, or an homage to
the contemporary hit 'Uptown Top Ranking'. A
particular tip of the hat to the uploader of
this one, for creating a custom discomix of
the tune by segueing into Scratch's echo-laden dub version.
Some time ago, I penned a long and pointless
stream of negativity entitled 'Who Do You
Loathe?', in which I examined a number of
much loved and respected bands that, for
various reasons, I just don't get. In the end
I decided not to publish the piece, as, by
and large, I prefer to promote positivity.
Ultimately, even if a particular band or
artist is not to my personal taste, I can
usually appreciate the qualities in what they
do and understand their popularity.
Having said all that, Muse......what's that all about? I listened with interest to their
recent hour-long chat with Steve Lamacq on
6Music, in support of their new LP, 'Drones'. They are without question a
pleasant, funny, engaging, interesting,
eloquent and thoroughly decent bunch of
chaps, who I wish no ill towards whatsoever.
It's just that when it comes to their music, I
struggle to find a single solitary redeeming
feature.
On a more positve note, here's a band who
are currently pushing all the right buttons
here at Swede Towers. Young Knives played a
Marc Riley session last week, which I'm very glad I caught, as I was unaware of their recent 'Something Awful EP' up until that point. The title song from the EP deals in part with the death of singer Henry Dartnall's Grandfather from Alzheimer's disease in 2010 and the dark
accompanying clip is '..an imagining of a
deteriorating mind, like an old VHS tape
that's been recorded on too many times'.
In May 1994, I spent 10 days visiting the
American based contingent of the family in New
York. At that time, before they had any kids,
it was just my Cousin and her Husband, living
in a small apartment on 24th Street. It was
the pre-internet era, so I diligently scoured
the Village Voice for upcoming gigs and
events of interest to fill any spare evenings during
my stay, which is how I discovered that Allen
Ginsberg was performing at a small
independent bookstore in Soho, two days before
I was due to leave for home.
Ginsberg sang and recited poetry for a little
over an hour at the back of the tiny store. His set commenced with a
selection of better known pieces from his
catalogue (including 'Father Death Blues'),
moving onto readings from his then current
book, 'Cosmopolitan Greetings', before
finishing with a brace of unpublished works.
It was an informal event and at the end there
was an unruly scramble to have books and
other memorabilia signed. The place was packed to the rafters and it was all moving
very slowly. I had a ticket for a gig
later that evening, so I had to leave.
The following evening Ginsberg carried out a
very much more formal book-signing session at
the gigantic Barnes & Noble Bookstore on the
corner of 22nd & 6th, a couple of blocks from my
cousin's apartment. There was no performance this time, just a very long queue that
snaked around the shop floor. As we neared
the desk where he sat, head down, signing endless copies of
'Cosmopolitan Greetings', I was asked my name by a member
of staff, who scribbled it down on a scrap of
paper and tucked it into the front of my
copy. As I edged nearer, a burly security
guard stepped forward to address this portion
of the queue. He told us in no uncertain
terms that Mr Ginsberg would sign our copies
of 'Cosmopolitan Greetings' ONLY and nothing
else. Furthermore we were not to attempt to
speak to Mr Ginsberg or distract him in any
way and to move on immediately our book was
signed. The piece of paper with my name written on it was so that Ginsberg could write a dedication above his signature without becoming embroiled in unnecessary conversation and thus holding up proceedings. The whole event was something of a
military operation, the exact opposite of the
previous evening.
Finally, I reached the desk and silently placed the
book in front of Allen Ginsberg, open to the
title page as instructed. He squinted at the
scrap of paper on which the staff member had
written my name, but clearly couldn't
decipher the scribble. I hesitantly spoke
my name to help him out. He looked up.
'You're not from New York', he said. I felt
the eyes of security, staff and waiting
punters burning into the back of my neck.
'......err, no..' I replied, 'I'm from the UK, visiting
relatives in the city.' Pause. 'I enjoyed your
performance in Soho yesterday'. To my
amazement and everyone else's annoyance he
continued chatting as he signed and dated my
book plus a postcard of him I'd picked up earlier, before handing them back and saying, '...enjoy the
rest of your stay.' I told him that I was
actually going home the following day,
absent mindedly adding that I was bloody
terrified of flying. Ginsberg reached out and
asked me to give him the book back, he opened
it and added a couple of extra marks to the
title page, on either side of his signature. I asked him what he'd drawn.
'Wings,' he said, 'for a safe flight home.'
In 1996 Allen Ginsberg released a great
single, 'Ballad of the Skeletons', featuring
musical accompaniment by Lenny Kaye, Marc Ribot, Philip Glass and
Paul McCartney. Not a bad band. Here's the full studio take (there's a
little swearing in this one, just so's you
know) plus a clip of a Beat and a Beatle performing an early stripped down version of the song live at The Royal Albert Hall in 1995.
