tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75220172072394909122024-03-18T21:15:52.284+00:00Unthought of, though, somehowThe Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.comBlogger1247125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-27020970224262439052024-03-15T07:00:00.001+00:002024-03-15T07:00:00.136+00:00Friday Photo #60<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTKT4DU8LMbN9QmUMVEEaX5nn9v0otHJ4ZkfTpq582ZMYOLe5LrLoai1O4b-m1LiH-uB5ewf_6DchByuNnXucsvzddRIkJvo7TWY0F7BaDg9rPb24wKKV1fAeRaAtFH-7LFqpEcvtuC_iD14Vv23Xh-RDdK3Fy7u_5vu9HnfcCC_Iq_tGWq06ihM7/s1499/IMG_20230912_0012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1499" data-original-width="925" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTKT4DU8LMbN9QmUMVEEaX5nn9v0otHJ4ZkfTpq582ZMYOLe5LrLoai1O4b-m1LiH-uB5ewf_6DchByuNnXucsvzddRIkJvo7TWY0F7BaDg9rPb24wKKV1fAeRaAtFH-7LFqpEcvtuC_iD14Vv23Xh-RDdK3Fy7u_5vu9HnfcCC_Iq_tGWq06ihM7/w246-h400/IMG_20230912_0012.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br /><div>Maud, my Maternal Grandmother (Nan), was born in Stratford in the East End of London on January 19th 1893, 131 years ago. She passed away two days before my 16th birthday in 1976. Here Nan is pictured standing between two of her sisters in the early 1920s. On the left of the photo is Beatrice, known to me over 40 years later as emphysema ridden Aunt Beat, who was born in 1897 and died in 1974. To the right is Caroline, Aunt Carrie to me, who enjoyed the longest life of the three sisters, born in 1892 and passing away in 1979. There appear to have been at least a further three siblings in the family, including another sister lost in infancy and a brother Sidney, killed in France during the First World War at just 22 years of age.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdf13iep_A2ZxxZsTam0SDUCKzW8YadTpHF7UXBzY0ftkuztoK9zKB0FkRO2QkTcjNaTgC_8utM_5v4sD6k5I-Nkwn6fYIvfkxqcBeTSRqOmSTKbRzKcJq-JelGOCT6p4oEN9LQYA7NWAktKeWJZnk0bn86deKDu7YhsZUbmfD03BZ80s0mFdKYt-l/s899/IMG_20230912_0013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="838" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdf13iep_A2ZxxZsTam0SDUCKzW8YadTpHF7UXBzY0ftkuztoK9zKB0FkRO2QkTcjNaTgC_8utM_5v4sD6k5I-Nkwn6fYIvfkxqcBeTSRqOmSTKbRzKcJq-JelGOCT6p4oEN9LQYA7NWAktKeWJZnk0bn86deKDu7YhsZUbmfD03BZ80s0mFdKYt-l/s320/IMG_20230912_0013.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div>This second photo, from the late 1960s, shows (left to right) Beatrice, Carrie and Nan as I knew them.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://app.box.com/s/9oq176k4pfzwqvz95cwkuswxvq0mx5bd" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">This Mortal Coil - You and Your Sister</span></b></a></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-78993876536057238722024-02-09T07:00:00.013+00:002024-02-09T07:00:00.136+00:00Friday Photo #59<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAI_m9LCwFJ8lcKDMeZ6jkj4cfQF01hoeSwBgEoaTS2wsnizo_fg9ONKqr2rppV3U1hSwpMkrM7jqtZoU_GbUrkIj0xUY5-yn6ll4lBZc5PhbWN5b5ptJn_lLoz7DATKP47T7qwwa3htiFFrdIkxpntCsbabchAhFSex3Z5D4vCS14QqRMkUnrQ-Z/s914/Ian,%20Uncle%20Ted%201965.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="914" data-original-width="911" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAI_m9LCwFJ8lcKDMeZ6jkj4cfQF01hoeSwBgEoaTS2wsnizo_fg9ONKqr2rppV3U1hSwpMkrM7jqtZoU_GbUrkIj0xUY5-yn6ll4lBZc5PhbWN5b5ptJn_lLoz7DATKP47T7qwwa3htiFFrdIkxpntCsbabchAhFSex3Z5D4vCS14QqRMkUnrQ-Z/s320/Ian,%20Uncle%20Ted%201965.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><br /><div>My maternal grandmother remarried late in life and thus Uncle Ted became the only male grandparent figure I'd ever have. He worked at the Leyton Orient football ground (in those days known simply as Orient) in the 1960s and frequently took me with him to home matches. Uncle Ted served in both wars, though, like so many, never discussed the horrors he undoubtedly witnessed - a fuller picture only emerging after his death with the discovery of his photos, papers and medals. Sadly he suffered a debilitating stroke in 1970 and passed away in 1972. Here we are in 1965.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://app.box.com/s/graesf4qfsu2y1ma2cat4w7fz2dvgxcu" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">The Sensational Alex Harvey Band - Hammer Song</span></b></a></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-86073387404182628352024-02-02T07:00:00.001+00:002024-02-02T07:00:00.267+00:00Friday Photo #58<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_4yoHsjD4aSW4gvyvUZ-uXBiW4I27TjQDptLyFcjWLA_Ib4_Zg5BkbRA2JeO6Zb9AHSx9MArCJo_a_pf1AQ19wipRnvZrgvDvg-FlJIBPlky_paQdmT22iwe3wfGLsRTBHbF7IUwveB6BMj_tG2-TKgGsaq_hgx_CkGqcd4q9iVkiOEk3zgSOClE/s1274/ian19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1274" data-original-width="814" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_4yoHsjD4aSW4gvyvUZ-uXBiW4I27TjQDptLyFcjWLA_Ib4_Zg5BkbRA2JeO6Zb9AHSx9MArCJo_a_pf1AQ19wipRnvZrgvDvg-FlJIBPlky_paQdmT22iwe3wfGLsRTBHbF7IUwveB6BMj_tG2-TKgGsaq_hgx_CkGqcd4q9iVkiOEk3zgSOClE/w255-h400/ian19.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Half-time in the back garden, circa 1969</b></span></div><div><br /></div><div>As I've mentioned a number of times on these pages, my cousin and I grew up as virtual brother and sister throughout the 1960s and early 1970s - me with my Mum and Dad downstairs, she with her parents upstairs. These days she lives in New York, but we'll be catching up this weekend when she makes a flying visit to see her Mum in London. We're probably a bit too long in the tooth for a kickabout though. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://app.box.com/s/4aptdpalt8t5c3hcha50dxhi2aj3yuy4" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Parquet Courts - Total Football</span></b></a></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-58774944530476106632024-01-26T07:00:00.001+00:002024-01-26T07:00:00.148+00:00Friday Photo #57<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbxS-1TNREpabzwn6bufyJ4HWLdnhkULKpv49gwAZo_xKy1oZCtV4AE7DL-mfFIsBRlLS0ooCj-uIpUkZsC24ZHImxD7MmMgGJPOLN9G5DSpqDWqVObavDIoJqk44oKFFgItmlOQOQGBmQ54fTZqLOuvdu0EB_DX8u6AVouyMH0ChiDhktiMNFbn1/s924/IMG_20230912_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="654" data-original-width="924" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbxS-1TNREpabzwn6bufyJ4HWLdnhkULKpv49gwAZo_xKy1oZCtV4AE7DL-mfFIsBRlLS0ooCj-uIpUkZsC24ZHImxD7MmMgGJPOLN9G5DSpqDWqVObavDIoJqk44oKFFgItmlOQOQGBmQ54fTZqLOuvdu0EB_DX8u6AVouyMH0ChiDhktiMNFbn1/w400-h283/IMG_20230912_0006.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Burgoyne Burbidges & Co chemical works in East Ham looms large in my family's history. The company began trading in the Hackney area in 1714, before moving to the East Ham location in 1892. Several aunts and uncles, not to mention both my parents, worked there at one time or other before it closed for good in 1952. The land has been completely redeveloped over the ensuing 70 years, though the original entrance facade on High Street South still remains and I nod to it every time I pass by. Here's Dad aged 22 (looking straight at the camera in the open neck shirt) with some of his colleagues at Burgoynes, shortly before the company closed down. The chap with the tie and Harry Hill collar to Dad's right looks a bit of a character. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://app.box.com/s/l6hnlroox1c3qvd1jig9qq5tlkq5sos7" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Lee Dorsey - Work Work Work</span></b></a></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-8631735078610612382024-01-12T08:00:00.001+00:002024-01-12T08:00:00.135+00:00Friday Photo #56<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlDjrGeHilevsfU7J1ueqniMmp6X_vi487GvUOLJM1ZWiMG5vH9agLvpsHEfdlgZlRw3PJ3O6wSENLSN8_8ZRQGa6qrjh2cwnTFooblCKd4Ko0PK-679HQYCywZ0Qg4p-_JLMqPlMTII88dJyf7pNZ-ognWSMfUICDnz7rkZoNoP8d6GG_px-WKC_N/s1442/IMG_20230912_0021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1442" data-original-width="904" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlDjrGeHilevsfU7J1ueqniMmp6X_vi487GvUOLJM1ZWiMG5vH9agLvpsHEfdlgZlRw3PJ3O6wSENLSN8_8ZRQGa6qrjh2cwnTFooblCKd4Ko0PK-679HQYCywZ0Qg4p-_JLMqPlMTII88dJyf7pNZ-ognWSMfUICDnz7rkZoNoP8d6GG_px-WKC_N/w251-h400/IMG_20230912_0021.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><p></p>Butlins holiday camp in the mid 1940s. Mum in her teens is second from left at the back. To her right is a family friend, to her left is her cousin Emily with future husband Matt. To Matt's left is Emily's brother Cyril with my maternal grandfather at the end. My maternal grandmother and her sister Carrie (Emily and Cyril's mother) sit smiling broadly at the front of the group. My grandfather and the family friend are the only two people in the photo that I didn't eventually get to know.<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://app.box.com/s/50bjnh9ow397a2wbrxfe0au3ou8k6hos" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Jason Falkner - Holiday</span></b></a></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-61306365337988626782024-01-05T07:00:00.001+00:002024-01-05T07:00:00.135+00:00Friday Photo #55<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_gTY3GvXmkG4mil6mxB04Uj-wHoBQXNSPbNE9eTreU5xZZYG_6Ka49Sxd7NWF8QRdn1hlwsg09PzK_8ZEv-XrKrC0DOD4zAfdBpqXdJY5syRhIVfAxe2wX5EN4c0npGV4YEKOQN21P31ph7Tah_OIr-g7Ps3YE7tqyQ-sLpyOASKuytwCcGZuelGK/s1003/IMG_20231025_0024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="948" data-original-width="1003" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_gTY3GvXmkG4mil6mxB04Uj-wHoBQXNSPbNE9eTreU5xZZYG_6Ka49Sxd7NWF8QRdn1hlwsg09PzK_8ZEv-XrKrC0DOD4zAfdBpqXdJY5syRhIVfAxe2wX5EN4c0npGV4YEKOQN21P31ph7Tah_OIr-g7Ps3YE7tqyQ-sLpyOASKuytwCcGZuelGK/w400-h378/IMG_20231025_0024.jpg" width="400" /></a></p>Skiers Street, West Ham, circa 1909. The young boy is my maternal grandfather, Sid (Sydney, 1896-1956). In the doorway stands his mother Elizabeth (1866-1946) with her eldest daughter Ada (born 1886). Next to Sid is his younger sister Marie (1902-1971), who I would come to know as Aunt Marie over 50 years later. I'm lucky enough to have a number of family photos taken early in the 20th century, though the majority are stiff studio poses. I don't know the circumstances behind this informal outdoor shot, but it's a real treasure - the framing and detail are remarkable. Skiers Street still exists in the Borough of Newham, though it would be unrecognisable to these ancient relatives, having sustained heavy damage in the Second World War and subsequently been completely rebuilt. <div><br /></div><div><a href="https://app.box.com/s/ccyb7ihrelqbu6rjhjic93lxan91zubz" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Brigid Mae Power - Looking at You in a Photo</span></b></a></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-51258556145221131162023-12-22T07:00:00.007+00:002023-12-22T07:00:00.143+00:00Compliments of the Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xPKZrV3fRRr2KiQW0qg-QdsWkLUduE-0I7YdLqKVpzTda0KMoCZIjBPAR8eU82Rh9Fp2VjIOzppNzW8euhNisXMDZFw910jgWB3q4qMlU7ALl6036STsqq2C8PdD2ppeJ9Z24984Ias7PCz8ttuxbkjVjm-a52whFGW-jRBot7CnZpjNWbuENI4X/s4608/Bridge%20Street%20Bungay.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xPKZrV3fRRr2KiQW0qg-QdsWkLUduE-0I7YdLqKVpzTda0KMoCZIjBPAR8eU82Rh9Fp2VjIOzppNzW8euhNisXMDZFw910jgWB3q4qMlU7ALl6036STsqq2C8PdD2ppeJ9Z24984Ias7PCz8ttuxbkjVjm-a52whFGW-jRBot7CnZpjNWbuENI4X/s320/Bridge%20Street%20Bungay.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Apologies for my prolonged absence round these parts. I've missed you all and will try to be more visible next year. Wishing you health and happiness in 2024. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://app.box.com/s/z6e399lfrf2q26c6xdvz1yxagwxjrm1f" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Ernest Tubb - Merry Texas Christmas, You All!</span></b></a></div><p><span><br /></span></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-24598627489359211952023-10-27T07:00:00.001+01:002023-10-27T07:00:00.139+01:00Friday Photo #54<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Ix7kTOBoGwY6eh1SPcyFFHjy_pgyB165yjykO4b_WAHPVh4ggGcGdPPLZx_dovD7ZeHeigjDeLVSgOrI-p6DT2PdDkZoaQ4q4-XCKkVBL2rDfbAuFEY8DyH1WYpu1m-rH8VsAdDfCdXQl08IdjFMh_ByELO-0x1clL0Gd68eXN94nVW5vTo1lIwW/s701/IMG_20231025_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="542" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Ix7kTOBoGwY6eh1SPcyFFHjy_pgyB165yjykO4b_WAHPVh4ggGcGdPPLZx_dovD7ZeHeigjDeLVSgOrI-p6DT2PdDkZoaQ4q4-XCKkVBL2rDfbAuFEY8DyH1WYpu1m-rH8VsAdDfCdXQl08IdjFMh_ByELO-0x1clL0Gd68eXN94nVW5vTo1lIwW/s320/IMG_20231025_0002.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><p></p>With Mum's side of the family, I'm fortunate to have a well documented photographic trail to follow back through time, as far as the early years of the 20th century - Dad's much less so. Dad was one of seven children, but there are no photos of any of them in the family archive prior to their respective marriages in the 1950s. In my whole life I've only ever seen one photo of my paternal Grandfather, a man who was born in 1889 and passed away three months after I was born in 1960. From what I can gather he didn't attend the wedding ceremonies of any of his offspring, or if he did, he excused himself from the group photos, most of which I have copies of. There are precious few surviving images of my paternal Grandmother, Alice (1890-1967) and all of those were taken by my Dad in her later years. This is Alice in 1964. I have faint memories of her formidable presence at family gatherings, which was in stark contrast to the frailty of my maternal Grandmother.<div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://app.box.com/s/d79ms96om5qmsh12475ebfiro6furc4z" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Green on Red - Alice</span></b></a></div></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-59037493650157479652023-10-20T07:00:00.004+01:002023-10-20T07:00:00.161+01:00Friday Photo(s) #53<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Y4jvGQsKhD4_1mnruNmrRyXM_OYOI62biFaZIsnbQNMkAlY9n_3tqmSpjcZw2iWCUTgXXQ0w6TUorrG-5xhFhu6NguO37iKRewqO9AIrc-WHtpNYMmq2X_F65bjvU6kwZM1aIUqGYAYqCt2Si-WIpxipv8qH2svfwmOzY9CQpMYyF5kZSAqcABYI/s1551/bean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1551" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Y4jvGQsKhD4_1mnruNmrRyXM_OYOI62biFaZIsnbQNMkAlY9n_3tqmSpjcZw2iWCUTgXXQ0w6TUorrG-5xhFhu6NguO37iKRewqO9AIrc-WHtpNYMmq2X_F65bjvU6kwZM1aIUqGYAYqCt2Si-WIpxipv8qH2svfwmOzY9CQpMYyF5kZSAqcABYI/w298-h320/bean.jpg" width="298" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIVRRNEpsOcB2txQfkMTW6qJBYEWdehsRp1o-CreKhKATuMhazCTIHUCsGDaaJKoey9mJKS_EfhAoQkBpI-pMSiIBMmCDedJSTyKPTzl1il5JdMBuwy8dPbGgQ9GzC3a0I0l9iQOXTqAaZQKNYWo4aqHrFLQ3rXxp2HMLqNSt6fdE5ZU27gr2EP7D/s1800/IMG_20230303_110544_409.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIVRRNEpsOcB2txQfkMTW6qJBYEWdehsRp1o-CreKhKATuMhazCTIHUCsGDaaJKoey9mJKS_EfhAoQkBpI-pMSiIBMmCDedJSTyKPTzl1il5JdMBuwy8dPbGgQ9GzC3a0I0l9iQOXTqAaZQKNYWo4aqHrFLQ3rXxp2HMLqNSt6fdE5ZU27gr2EP7D/w256-h320/IMG_20230303_110544_409.webp" width="256" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>You may be familiar with Anish Kapoor's 2006 sculpture Cloud Gate, situated in Millennium Park, Chicago. Due to its shape, the huge reflective piece quickly became referred to as The Bean. In February, mere weeks before I touched down in New York, Kapoor's 15 years in-the-making Big Apple version of The Bean was finally unveiled, located just a few hundred yards from my cousin's apartment. Where Cloud Gate stands unencumbered on prominent display, its Tribeca counterpart gives the impression of having been forcibly squished beneath a canopy in the entrance of a large residential building, spilling out across the sidewalk. I was keen to take a good look at the sculpture, but the area was very busy during my initial visit so I only managed to snatch a quick side angle shot from Leonard Street. On the Sunday morning, while on an an extended wander in search of coffee, I found Church Street practically deserted, allowing me to capture The Bean head-on. The imposing structure is 58ft long, 19ft high and cost an estimated $8-10 million dollars to create. </p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/u940r06c0vuxnz1p60nuojmgqgpge6c4" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Spoon - Me and the Bean </span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-22997635112097977702023-10-13T07:00:00.031+01:002023-10-19T15:22:13.168+01:00Friday Photo(s) #52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_HcoSkwWN0dABDT3t056eB5mlw8-2jG8Y5JfD0sWf61XSJTLok2yapvUnVXi3GAdpNEH0RNrFnsEs-v0p5qoFpfaIHrF17BFgWAx7m1538D2xyGb1t2KcADXO9OaqsrHRf-hWmuJ32JtYZxwe2vBu3iXoopMwxlpARVuLihegXnfaiHR9NozeOBI/s2644/hopper%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2165" data-original-width="2644" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_HcoSkwWN0dABDT3t056eB5mlw8-2jG8Y5JfD0sWf61XSJTLok2yapvUnVXi3GAdpNEH0RNrFnsEs-v0p5qoFpfaIHrF17BFgWAx7m1538D2xyGb1t2KcADXO9OaqsrHRf-hWmuJ32JtYZxwe2vBu3iXoopMwxlpARVuLihegXnfaiHR9NozeOBI/w200-h164/hopper%203.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqkL3QyuSAEAHdoHiSfmPzEUnN4v1SNSt0kvOkV-j6YyddO6Q3ycY_LOdZvpfJeeTwyEiqs2z6UGwsYzWZRIP38zEnKupLi5O3KMdUGuWxuCynflU9M3HhiFM_vSci2S7RdqZMn4Fz2aYh-ZSmBjo0XxiclgYDgyyMU5kHmst4k16iyBnqrwhIC1J/s2761/hopper%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2275" data-original-width="2761" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqkL3QyuSAEAHdoHiSfmPzEUnN4v1SNSt0kvOkV-j6YyddO6Q3ycY_LOdZvpfJeeTwyEiqs2z6UGwsYzWZRIP38zEnKupLi5O3KMdUGuWxuCynflU9M3HhiFM_vSci2S7RdqZMn4Fz2aYh-ZSmBjo0XxiclgYDgyyMU5kHmst4k16iyBnqrwhIC1J/w200-h165/hopper%202.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_wttso4ywJ7CVGubuzrGnXUabPUQrNcNHMoKYRspw7d5LN3Y9inNxBRX_LuDuzWNsW8g13V-Mx5hyphenhyphenlpPdA5uJ1c17WCklNnZK0TVYGXbnUM4XUdmzDXkS4FItP9bbv-ojp9dnPcj5FSo6_6H4KTPWY79ktcjpnzQARy0ziHOyr-eCPfrlTwY3-9F/s4000/hopper%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_wttso4ywJ7CVGubuzrGnXUabPUQrNcNHMoKYRspw7d5LN3Y9inNxBRX_LuDuzWNsW8g13V-Mx5hyphenhyphenlpPdA5uJ1c17WCklNnZK0TVYGXbnUM4XUdmzDXkS4FItP9bbv-ojp9dnPcj5FSo6_6H4KTPWY79ktcjpnzQARy0ziHOyr-eCPfrlTwY3-9F/s320/hopper%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div>While there was a conspicuous lack of interesting gigs during my visit to New York in March, I did have a few cultural bits and bobs set in stone long before I boarded my flight. One of those was a trip over to the Meatpacking District to catch 'Edward Hopper's New York' at The Whitney a couple of days before the show closed. Given that it was so late in the retrospective's five month run, together with the necessity to pre-book not just a ticket, but also a specific timeslot, I more or less assumed that the gallery space would be easy and comfortable to negotiate. How wrong I was. It was absolutely rammed, ridiculously oversold. I'm guessing that The Whitney had decided to ring every last drop out of the popular exhibit before it packed up and shipped out. The Hopper art on display was almost exclusively modest in size, which meant needing to get as close as possible to each piece while continuously jostling with the crowds for a couple of hours. It was like being in an ongoing series of scrums, moving slowly through the gallery. The work itself was of course fantastic. I was particularly interested by the many magazine illustrations on view, an area of his life I knew little about. Then there were the sketchbooks. The creative process in any artform is a thing of mystery and fascination to me and it was riveting to see as he edged, over successive pages, ever closer towards a finished masterpiece we know so well.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://app.box.com/s/qjainhvyt35cl4q6qrk1dxdigetygst8" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Paul Weller - Hopper (White Label Remix)</span></b></a></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-35953833706143202622023-10-09T07:00:00.005+01:002023-10-09T07:00:00.145+01:00Move Out of My Way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqOBkyFe_2l3QQLrKy4EnSgoUZpa4QFfrV5ereljfD2r2E1H6-uTApnMFwz-SUvudYdvIogRDA2YYSIQmSIJkq0uJaelSsDO_jsbku_9xD01vw644XNMyQC5AWHhRi0Bgp7DUHCgMXRImPi4WTi0hyXAB7lP0eDWvMY0cyHVTYjVU7GFj6933nKHx/s712/Bunny%20Rugs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="712" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqOBkyFe_2l3QQLrKy4EnSgoUZpa4QFfrV5ereljfD2r2E1H6-uTApnMFwz-SUvudYdvIogRDA2YYSIQmSIJkq0uJaelSsDO_jsbku_9xD01vw644XNMyQC5AWHhRi0Bgp7DUHCgMXRImPi4WTi0hyXAB7lP0eDWvMY0cyHVTYjVU7GFj6933nKHx/s320/Bunny%20Rugs.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><p>From slap bang in the middle of the 1970s comes Bunny Clarke, aka Bunny Rugs, soon to become lead vocalist with Third World, but here in a solo stylee with the follow up to his cover of 'To Love Somebody', which, confusingly, he recorded as Bunny Scott.....I hope you're taking notes, there'll be a test later. The tune in question is 'Move Out of My Way', a militant Lee 'Scratch' Perry produced groover that didn't trouble the chart compilers of the day to any great extent. What it did do, however, was spawn a number of dubs and versions, including this oddly disturbing example, released under the title 'Kojak', by Perry himself on the 'Revolution Dub' LP later the same year. With the titular lollypop-sucking cop playing on the TV in the background as he works, Scratch retains just enough of Clarke's vocal to inject disorientating stabs into an eerily stripped back rhythm track, which I've always found a little unsettling, but perhaps that's just me. Who loves ya baby?</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/18qk5huwftrzkro4jq2h29on02k903di" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Bunny Rugs & the Upsetters - Move Out of My Way</span></b></a></p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/3vcv05i329ra4mq22sgc5xqv53gpuxrl" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Lee Perry - Kojak</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-28119421097508176692023-10-06T07:00:00.001+01:002023-10-06T07:00:00.162+01:00Friday Photo #51<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTXVQUPbPdduzSR9R_FFNvWaNBnaJUbY-eF-q9zWZVBrUDhu_1vNwaS7UAJVirdCEXO_Oh0WYsEFs66UeGcf8pXQLuh1JC_p8rRX2qHGrp7WMaOl2Bhr9iHE3--r0I5CDKHXj5dCK24L22YOoVhqSs4fn6_H4jR_tHXSkQFU_nn3CpseoD3yZRlLy/s642/Dad,%20Ian%201961.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="592" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTXVQUPbPdduzSR9R_FFNvWaNBnaJUbY-eF-q9zWZVBrUDhu_1vNwaS7UAJVirdCEXO_Oh0WYsEFs66UeGcf8pXQLuh1JC_p8rRX2qHGrp7WMaOl2Bhr9iHE3--r0I5CDKHXj5dCK24L22YOoVhqSs4fn6_H4jR_tHXSkQFU_nn3CpseoD3yZRlLy/s320/Dad,%20Ian%201961.jpg" width="295" /></a></div><p>There's a weekly feature over on Instagram that's been going on for a very long time, whereby old family photos are dug out and shared every Thursday, using the hashtag #throwbackthursday. It's an interesting way to catch glimpses of a world long gone, via anonymous vintage snapshots and memories. I've contributed to #throwbackthursday most weeks for at least 4 years now and a number of those shots have also graced these pages at one time or another. As a consequence I've plundered dad's boxes of slides and negatives multiple times, yet every now and then I still unearth one I've missed, today's being a prime example. I don't ever remember seeing this photo before a few weeks ago and I have to say that the ancient, over-exposed image caught me emotionally off-guard when I stumbled upon it.</p><p>It was taken in 1961. Dad is holding me on the pillar of the wall in the front garden. He's looking up, smiling. And me? I'm clearly loving the thrill of being up there, at just about the height I'd one day reach. These are roughly the respective perspectives Dad and I would have of each other for most of my adult life, after I'd shot past his 5' 10" at around the age of 15 or 16. It's always nice to see a photo of Dad & I together. There aren't that many in the archives, as he was the family photographer, with Mum & I as the frequent subjects. A quick squint on Google Street View shows me that, remarkably, the front garden wall is still standing, albeit in a refurbished state, 62 years later.</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/65re0d7ggqh7mx067qi4ml1rujqf147j" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Human League - Empire State Human</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-10720648172222098612023-10-02T07:00:00.001+01:002023-10-02T07:00:00.150+01:00Monday Long Song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DDgfRvLyt38ZI2L6DT14cP4mzu_dx8KdF3iC1q-vYPGWwa244RrsPaDCAM-zDUFfWXGU1zVi599a45IrsdJcCVbTJnfCmx_Al2U3Kbuep6_Po4bYRf3RzLIia_bqdORIYS-FDC9rBIB12HPtzQ-NAfpwdtHBHcaKKhdN7VxMSVmT3uxyR6-xzu4W/s500/big_audio_dynamite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="500" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DDgfRvLyt38ZI2L6DT14cP4mzu_dx8KdF3iC1q-vYPGWwa244RrsPaDCAM-zDUFfWXGU1zVi599a45IrsdJcCVbTJnfCmx_Al2U3Kbuep6_Po4bYRf3RzLIia_bqdORIYS-FDC9rBIB12HPtzQ-NAfpwdtHBHcaKKhdN7VxMSVmT3uxyR6-xzu4W/s320/big_audio_dynamite.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>'Free', recorded in 1989 and issued on the soundtrack of the awful 1990 film 'Flashback', was the parting shot from the classic line-up of Big Audio Dynamite. Later in 1990 a new recording of the song, rechristened 'Kickin' In', appeared on 'Kool Aid', the first LP by Mick Jones' raw recruits now trading as Big Audio Dynamite II. In 1991 the same song surfaced once again on their live 'Ally Pally Paradiso' album, though by this time, somewhat confusingly, it had reverted to its original moniker, 'Free'.</p><p>Here's that 1989 swansong from the original BAD.</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/lga6yc7d1ych8qqqgy43tx22sr432u6u" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Big Audio Dynamite - Free</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-15740947700328092342023-09-04T07:00:00.007+01:002023-09-04T07:00:00.139+01:00Zéro, Mille, Deux Mille, Ha Ha!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtALostherMF4fiY4wHYgGe9yYXZ_VYB5kS3sFmVVfe3W-CaO1zS9oamJWAGrPNbqZ7N8VwK0HbDKuH1O58k_d9KZIpsaFlbctBTbctuRqFlxZLmkXYZMzBSXvphP5MkPD-BxcknOnk_Poxv7kSeonE27fXEO7hf41T5UjcTWT5A1Jr6xOUXicXV-C/s395/metal-urbain.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="161" data-original-width="395" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtALostherMF4fiY4wHYgGe9yYXZ_VYB5kS3sFmVVfe3W-CaO1zS9oamJWAGrPNbqZ7N8VwK0HbDKuH1O58k_d9KZIpsaFlbctBTbctuRqFlxZLmkXYZMzBSXvphP5MkPD-BxcknOnk_Poxv7kSeonE27fXEO7hf41T5UjcTWT5A1Jr6xOUXicXV-C/w400-h163/metal-urbain.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>A couple of weeks ago our mutual blogging chum Charity Chic shared a handful of blistering punk tunes taken from a themed Mojo sampler (<a href="https://charitychicmusic.blogspot.com/2023/08/punk-nuggets.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">here</span></b></a>), among them was the marvellous 'Paris Maquis' by French four piece Metal Urbain. The band formed in 1976, inspired by the burgeoning punk scene on this side of the English Channel and were gone by 1980, leaving three virtually perfect singles and a compilation LP of sessions, demos and b-sides behind them. They were notable at the time for using a rudimentary drum machine and sundry experimental electronic noises to embellish their gloriously primitive racket. </p><p>Here are those three brilliant singles, all of which I bought back then and still have. 'Panik' on the French indie label Cobra, 'Paris Maquis', RT 001, the first ever release on Rough Trade and 'Hystérie Connective', issued in 1979 on Radar Records, early home to Elvis Costello & the Attractions, Nick Lowe, The Pop Group and, lest it be forgotten, The Soft Boys.</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/6xivyfyqrwmylo1zenajdyporrdu2o3b" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Panik</span></b></a></p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/c44usrzwk4siz46axidqf133m1bqhnfw" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Paris Maquis</span></b></a></p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/4gduth2uacqkrd0i9er2j9p7puszp7al" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Hystérie Connective</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-24719284477067998902023-08-30T07:00:00.001+01:002023-08-30T07:00:00.145+01:00Ten Go-to Albums <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzRcIib_DFlNbuM5oxrQwEMYroZXliYgKVqHfl1LMfRDvQBUbJgtujNT2xZZqPg70XyCIoImvpQlWU1MqH-lpcVviJotm37jSTiLCzYnMtKajqrqPCpyIynI7mAGYvNtWvF5mvpjSt7Qi-QhG7KRyZ7zD49OrfEKQLj-opqgQS6bmKobqq5YWBRCf/s672/record%20collection.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="672" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzRcIib_DFlNbuM5oxrQwEMYroZXliYgKVqHfl1LMfRDvQBUbJgtujNT2xZZqPg70XyCIoImvpQlWU1MqH-lpcVviJotm37jSTiLCzYnMtKajqrqPCpyIynI7mAGYvNtWvF5mvpjSt7Qi-QhG7KRyZ7zD49OrfEKQLj-opqgQS6bmKobqq5YWBRCf/w400-h225/record%20collection.webp" width="400" /></a></div><p>There's a thread doing the rounds of the YouTube vinyl community that's been difficult to avoid in recent weeks, concerning the ten albums you go-to most. Not necessarily your all-time favourite albums (though of course some of those might be included), but ten records that you might instinctively reach for as you gaze, otherwise uninspired, at your racks, boxes or digital folders, in search of something to play. Musical comfort blankets if you will. The thread got me thinking and I quickly jotted down a couple of dozen of my own go-to albums off the top of my head. Here, in no particular order, are ten of them. </p><p>(<i>For the purposes of this exercise I've deliberately avoided choosing any records from my personal big hitters - Bob Dylan, Marc Bolan, Robyn Hitchcock, Bowie, The Clash, Miles Davis, Alasdair Roberts et al ('...all the cats..' to quote Marc, '...you know who they are...'), as they would quickly come to dominate a list such as this</i>).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGN-66rqZsTcCO14ygD7oQdXuBz9-eith-LvwlqQ5uXkbDFXacSF5c0ujiQvvjPaFpuWKuTLtJo6iJrTReySqSRO8n8T4js7RVcW7Ig9VE43VpXtrnAQqUFm_sv_BJuKKGn2rLFgQRUOFkoeVIQWeG7_ZmXx_0YCE0Q9epD7kISpx8uNyo7FszREnX/s301/Sunday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="301" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGN-66rqZsTcCO14ygD7oQdXuBz9-eith-LvwlqQ5uXkbDFXacSF5c0ujiQvvjPaFpuWKuTLtJo6iJrTReySqSRO8n8T4js7RVcW7Ig9VE43VpXtrnAQqUFm_sv_BJuKKGn2rLFgQRUOFkoeVIQWeG7_ZmXx_0YCE0Q9epD7kISpx8uNyo7FszREnX/w200-h199/Sunday.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><u><b>The Sundays - Reading Writing and Arithmetic</b></u></p><p>You'll often find me piping up about this one whenever discussion turns to defining the perfect album. I've always felt a bit sorry for 'Blind' and 'Static & Silence', either one of which would surely have been regarded as a formidable first outing in an alternative universe, but instead they languish in the immense shadow cast by the band's actual, impeccable debut. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtiRhgvaSVw-OHH9EFuITAjYSxY8xKJmm09dNubtWzYWlggals9zNMeV1Va_rKVT1rlQpmKVyQFdlVloxq0VcdHImBZJdi0FneZp6sBo7ZeC8HocWacjXH0_svVvWO9Ta1tR9ftd3EfOY4uW1dI6iwtCmYUSNYS1COAxP44qUPeNWkBOWwIKdulNQx/s600/joe%20henry%20trampoline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="600" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtiRhgvaSVw-OHH9EFuITAjYSxY8xKJmm09dNubtWzYWlggals9zNMeV1Va_rKVT1rlQpmKVyQFdlVloxq0VcdHImBZJdi0FneZp6sBo7ZeC8HocWacjXH0_svVvWO9Ta1tR9ftd3EfOY4uW1dI6iwtCmYUSNYS1COAxP44qUPeNWkBOWwIKdulNQx/w200-h195/joe%20henry%20trampoline.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><u><b>Joe Henry - Trampoline</b></u></p><p>At the dawn of the 1990s I was deep in the pocket of The Jayhawks and followed them over to Joe Henry's 1992 album 'Short Man's Room', where they functioned as the house band. It was Joe's 4th album and his 5th, 'Kindness of the World', also included sundry Jayhawks within it's cast. Then, following a three year gap, came 'Trampoline', an album unlike those that came before, a huge progression. Fine as those early albums were, for me, this is where Joe truly found his voice. Sometime last year in one of those online polls, I nominated 'Trampoline' as the album I'd most like to see gain a vinyl (re)issue. To my amazement, Joe got wind of my comment and reached out to thank me for it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd_7yGCPdZn4PNIcH4w2bfMB-zAGhJ38lCiWc-szNlhF66fGDp3oZwwvGRh7vf4Bn2b4xic2IikH1CplYR2aLFOd9jLIPImE_MgfTHFpm-pXaphmc8lqpGLfqWHUFusuYiMG3BJnt0IsbE21OiRmRlg72nPZfd_HrvyfXM7T-71rXsdsOjtjospNHL/s282/Nancy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="279" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd_7yGCPdZn4PNIcH4w2bfMB-zAGhJ38lCiWc-szNlhF66fGDp3oZwwvGRh7vf4Bn2b4xic2IikH1CplYR2aLFOd9jLIPImE_MgfTHFpm-pXaphmc8lqpGLfqWHUFusuYiMG3BJnt0IsbE21OiRmRlg72nPZfd_HrvyfXM7T-71rXsdsOjtjospNHL/w198-h200/Nancy.png" width="198" /></a></div><p><u><b>Nancy Wallace - Old Stories</b></u></p><p>Nancy is a serial collaborator who has contributed to the likes of The Memory Band and The Owl Service over the years, with 2008's 'Old Stories' remaining her sole solo full length release. It's a fragile, timeless delight of an album, recommended heartily to one and all, even though it doesn't actually contain my all-time favourite song of hers (<a href="https://unthoughtofthoughsomehow.blogspot.com/2014/04/nancy-wallace.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">this one</span></b></a>).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aFM5sj4i3mlH52ejKzKeDe5Pj91xlmhM9FDpw64YZm6pMhpzbyXNj1hUxkvx4E87kfrmJXQ8iOHPDrJ8SflONqJF1Y0iw6AAPS5JDfVq-VgYkHn18bev9hMcYtB-uBb2_E7TsZqbH7R_lh4vqByg6PNxeKljILflF1o5ENR_VOSkc984EWnLIdLy/s894/maria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="894" data-original-width="894" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aFM5sj4i3mlH52ejKzKeDe5Pj91xlmhM9FDpw64YZm6pMhpzbyXNj1hUxkvx4E87kfrmJXQ8iOHPDrJ8SflONqJF1Y0iw6AAPS5JDfVq-VgYkHn18bev9hMcYtB-uBb2_E7TsZqbH7R_lh4vqByg6PNxeKljILflF1o5ENR_VOSkc984EWnLIdLy/w200-h200/maria.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><u><b>Maria McKee - Life is Sweet</b></u></p><p>1993's 'You Gotta Sin to Get Saved' is a raucous gospel influenced affair, but it's the follow-up from three years later that is my go to. 'Life is Sweet' is a harrowing, over the top opus that baffled record label, critics and fans alike at the time, though for some reason completely connected with me. I have no idea what was going on in McKee's life back then, but in places on this album she sounds as if she's not far from the very end of her tether. Unhinged and utterly gripping music.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCymB-CRZKPswqqQ42PDIH0FsoNZZZKMIk3Of4V8fqm4Rn9vqRdWKDT-7JiqugOCXAzIGgYi9OS14HAS7up9UNke0vODqYD-O8IY9sMIezMgJj-xpnQTOko2GWhVnyP5eott5p4OfEV75VNGrgqZMHjjfpn7WACBebQbVVpS4vxcwXqwJri8H76tU-/s600/mikey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="600" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCymB-CRZKPswqqQ42PDIH0FsoNZZZKMIk3Of4V8fqm4Rn9vqRdWKDT-7JiqugOCXAzIGgYi9OS14HAS7up9UNke0vODqYD-O8IY9sMIezMgJj-xpnQTOko2GWhVnyP5eott5p4OfEV75VNGrgqZMHjjfpn7WACBebQbVVpS4vxcwXqwJri8H76tU-/w200-h198/mikey.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><u><b>Mikey Dread - African Anthem</b></u></p><p>A joyful aural snapshot of Mikey's late 1970's JBC radio show, featuring dubs and instrumental backing tracks overlaid with mad jingles and eccentric sound effects. I'm not claiming that African Anthem is the greatest reggae album ever made, nor even my favourite of that genre, but if push comes to shove it's the one I still dig out most often. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIW1KaN0CyiIYcnzGmxTyRmC5xX21XsZS2r2NwdHNiEV4mUsedV7dNsaux7B7F0UVnyCxfe7ArWe0fVgScVV_d_C7Ajn89xKY9aKcC5hXCp-xgOo8c6RGH4-g1THsD3CsIsz6ltPXUIb_Xglde4mRvXxFOTrhLbxuvf3MkP1SnYuywZ_YINBbQXRGJ/s894/ed%20kuepper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="894" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIW1KaN0CyiIYcnzGmxTyRmC5xX21XsZS2r2NwdHNiEV4mUsedV7dNsaux7B7F0UVnyCxfe7ArWe0fVgScVV_d_C7Ajn89xKY9aKcC5hXCp-xgOo8c6RGH4-g1THsD3CsIsz6ltPXUIb_Xglde4mRvXxFOTrhLbxuvf3MkP1SnYuywZ_YINBbQXRGJ/w200-h198/ed%20kuepper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p><u><b>Ed Kuepper - I Was a Mail Order Bridegroom</b></u></p><p>Ed Kuepper put out great albums at a prolific rate through the 1990s, though it's this 1995 limited mail-order release that I've pulled from the racks most over the years. Recorded during rehearsals for a solo acoustic European tour, it's a career overview reaching back to The Saints' 'Messin' With the Kid' and also featuring a fine cover of The Who's 'The Seeker'.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzS5FQNXxiMajuUefRcxERTkamIOvCYez0VJukuGrIjxP5shyPRuIvUP3R-XhILI5BZeKoVRZBjiEdLWmlUUkxcuNH3AkL-nPUe9FpKmptUqVFOwuK_0WEcLQw_Fhq882tJrv4AewvoStQyzLdW35SEfLDmR0mYQ9oEdEmQql7soLZHPclau8siyvZ/s392/ELP%20Trilogy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="392" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzS5FQNXxiMajuUefRcxERTkamIOvCYez0VJukuGrIjxP5shyPRuIvUP3R-XhILI5BZeKoVRZBjiEdLWmlUUkxcuNH3AkL-nPUe9FpKmptUqVFOwuK_0WEcLQw_Fhq882tJrv4AewvoStQyzLdW35SEfLDmR0mYQ9oEdEmQql7soLZHPclau8siyvZ/w200-h199/ELP%20Trilogy.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><u><b>Emerson Lake & Palmer - Trilogy</b></u></div><p>'Trilogy' was one of my earliest musical forays away from the hitherto Glam-only diet of T.Rex, Bowie, Sweet, Slade etc. I was 12 years old when I first heard this record that combines classical subtleties, progressive explorations, honky tonk hoedowns, bawdy rockers & tender ballads and I still play it regularly 50 years later. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nOF5UZSoiYPJJCaWUOeiXPkp0GnZM5w_ELbKoR4lkyB32hfCR4oTqWAiRjuRRjaE9ZwdMTsexdFZ63yqdvRa7govXjiqCcdh8nHVzB7wToRNYjxnHhM2xfFK2XpB0PJ6akEykJ6EkB7fJYZ84rJ-3gAJBn_3nGshBpjLY8-MU2T81Ee2lJLJYuJr/s1200/chook%20race.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nOF5UZSoiYPJJCaWUOeiXPkp0GnZM5w_ELbKoR4lkyB32hfCR4oTqWAiRjuRRjaE9ZwdMTsexdFZ63yqdvRa7govXjiqCcdh8nHVzB7wToRNYjxnHhM2xfFK2XpB0PJ6akEykJ6EkB7fJYZ84rJ-3gAJBn_3nGshBpjLY8-MU2T81Ee2lJLJYuJr/w200-h200/chook%20race.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><u><b>Chook Race - Around the House</b></u></p><p>If you, like me, enjoy guitars that jangle, choruses that chime and have an fondness for the early sound of the Flying Nun label, this one's for you. Effortlessly charming and instantly catchy. The band's second and still most recent LP from 2016. Are you still out there guys? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHcLbRVqrQkBV-jBIVBPbhyNhlUfIfo5_sSdrrEPCznK1NWSTNVgB1YoMvO1mu5gAuIJK1heXXSSgXHJlxDKxAV8_fvQSWR4BCN4S09WzchGAb3P7Uy1-I50PrIJM1gDDfSN47eTpWyAqrAUuzjPH4hsQKOKtLz5H_F7diP8jg1joju5qBiMBg1wY/s479/rozi%20-%20friend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="473" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHcLbRVqrQkBV-jBIVBPbhyNhlUfIfo5_sSdrrEPCznK1NWSTNVgB1YoMvO1mu5gAuIJK1heXXSSgXHJlxDKxAV8_fvQSWR4BCN4S09WzchGAb3P7Uy1-I50PrIJM1gDDfSN47eTpWyAqrAUuzjPH4hsQKOKtLz5H_F7diP8jg1joju5qBiMBg1wY/w198-h200/rozi%20-%20friend.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><p><u><b>Rozi Plain - Friend</b></u></p><p>'It will be reported to be, a difficult year, a tumultuous year...' So begins Rozi's third LP, a break-up album, yet suffused with optimism as well as regret. It's the aural equivalent of a comforting arm around the shoulder. She hasn't put a foot wrong across her five full length releases, but if you're a newcomer, start here.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3MY8U1V0OxeLHf0A3tMwJozbd2KV_jUi0ltOCaXcl5ukJqHE3r2uNYwxmLd5oJ0WFkqnoYJviNr8MjdPu0o1G3iw5QOYqYCSjfLwhC793JG1810gwrVgYwu1U2Wdq9Tsv8LJFKBRVNbKHZSxfQWjdptzQSRLjI3HSFsFjkCoDkNwKQGAS2TbBXXa5/s600/grant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="600" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3MY8U1V0OxeLHf0A3tMwJozbd2KV_jUi0ltOCaXcl5ukJqHE3r2uNYwxmLd5oJ0WFkqnoYJviNr8MjdPu0o1G3iw5QOYqYCSjfLwhC793JG1810gwrVgYwu1U2Wdq9Tsv8LJFKBRVNbKHZSxfQWjdptzQSRLjI3HSFsFjkCoDkNwKQGAS2TbBXXa5/w200-h198/grant.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><u><b>Grant McLennan - Horsebreaker Star</b></u></p><p>It was Grant's 'Cattle and Cane' that originally drew me into the orbit of The Go-Betweens back in 1983. 11 years later, during the band's decade long hiatus, he released his third solo album, the magnificent double CD 'Horsebreaker Star'. I'm on record as professing my extreme admiration for Robert Forster's current run of 'The Evangelist', 'Songs to Play', 'Inferno' and 'The Candle and the Flame', four outstanding albums, but it's Grant's 'Horsebreaker Star' that I return to time and again. For me it's his very best work and yet another of my favourites never to have gained a vinyl release. What chance a 30th anniversary reissue next year?</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>-----------------------------</b></p><p>Rather than overwhelm by posting a selection from each of the ten albums, here's just one from Joe Henry. The slowed to a crawl take on the 'Sympathy For the Devil' riff permeates 'Ohio Air Show Plane Crash', growing steadily in stature and volume throughout, drawing the listener ever deeper into the tale of the unnamed stranger standing at the bridge. The song runs for 6½ minutes, but I'd gladly take another half an hour of it.</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/tpfllrs6d1y97mehgq5gn64oa3apx3fn" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Joe Henry - Ohio Air Show Plane Crash </span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-7891582795115247412023-08-04T07:00:00.001+01:002023-08-04T07:00:00.134+01:00Friday Photo #50<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yPvkkc1CLaAWcyiMJrqPzCQbTgup0AQbcwFaK8SMlPCElWgxXYwvgCNAOseJx-3t6eKgpK5mTVlySF549a8hbZn1jZvWfEb1wegtv4ZOZSgCde2Sg49ExyKMhxkfjXupxCO_N-kdyzjUqehY7IOMSve-4zY5WxRsRIVeAXnbcK_5PNnWf50KjxXY/s2790/slides030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2790" data-original-width="1352" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yPvkkc1CLaAWcyiMJrqPzCQbTgup0AQbcwFaK8SMlPCElWgxXYwvgCNAOseJx-3t6eKgpK5mTVlySF549a8hbZn1jZvWfEb1wegtv4ZOZSgCde2Sg49ExyKMhxkfjXupxCO_N-kdyzjUqehY7IOMSve-4zY5WxRsRIVeAXnbcK_5PNnWf50KjxXY/w194-h400/slides030.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>My aunt, who turned 94 yesterday, has lived alone in East London since my uncle died in 1978 and is the last surviving family member to have known me since birth. She's still cooks all her own meals, does her own housework and washing, all the while keeping her mind active by knitting for England and completing endless wordsearch puzzles. In fact I sent her another half a dozen wordsearch books as a birthday gift, which should hopefully keep her ticking along for a few months. As I've mentioned previously, my aunt, uncle and cousin shared our house in Walthamstow for the first dozen or so years of my life, so I've long considered her as an extra parent and I know that my cousin regarded my own mum in the same way.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Today's photo was taken in the back garden in the early summer of 1963, just prior to my cousin's arrival. My aunt at the back, doing her best to hide her baby bump beneath a baggy pinny, mum in the middle knitting something pink for the forthcoming addition to the family and me in my best bib and tucker at the front. I can only imagine that I must've been bribed to look so angelic!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">--------------------</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Lieutenant Pigeon were an interesting combo. They had a short run of hit singles in the 1970s that your nan would've happily nodded along to, while at the same time some of their b-sides and album fillers displayed a wacky, low budget sense of experimentalism. Here's the quite odd closing track from Mouldy Old Music, their debut LP, released in 1973.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://app.box.com/s/0fzxue7sy2d8yajtu85rcw3tfy23d82g" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Lieutenant Pigeon - Auntie May</span></b></a></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-71467423718636975922023-07-21T07:00:00.010+01:002023-08-03T15:24:21.315+01:00Friday Photo(s) #49<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovI16n1UovjLmpIG9YEx8DkaUjmX0Y6MRRdv2Ae8ldl6u_nxafzB92Q_d4Jcl2SZS6DNlOVC4V7f_nyUjDLwxv-DxOzi37joUo9PU9DuUx72B-GagH4OdabDuOPFUMUWgEhE-Ggg7EuxdLz5vUO9u75H0Wif4pToNZjJ5-TNdnvC4jT4cdIQQGJEK/s1800/IMG_20230309_164211_953.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovI16n1UovjLmpIG9YEx8DkaUjmX0Y6MRRdv2Ae8ldl6u_nxafzB92Q_d4Jcl2SZS6DNlOVC4V7f_nyUjDLwxv-DxOzi37joUo9PU9DuUx72B-GagH4OdabDuOPFUMUWgEhE-Ggg7EuxdLz5vUO9u75H0Wif4pToNZjJ5-TNdnvC4jT4cdIQQGJEK/s1800/IMG_20230309_164211_953.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovI16n1UovjLmpIG9YEx8DkaUjmX0Y6MRRdv2Ae8ldl6u_nxafzB92Q_d4Jcl2SZS6DNlOVC4V7f_nyUjDLwxv-DxOzi37joUo9PU9DuUx72B-GagH4OdabDuOPFUMUWgEhE-Ggg7EuxdLz5vUO9u75H0Wif4pToNZjJ5-TNdnvC4jT4cdIQQGJEK/s320/IMG_20230309_164211_953.webp" width="256" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS3j0jnlNqM518gYuD_Wc8mymt2SwSJ_OgGU5kYU-m2i0MTsLiYF_qdtJVS7-Ju5_Jp69qS9HyT1jxYEpv9l_rfdRteaTKDY-nILxLjF4QpQmDqRo5eKCzs-QPv5qa2n6fTjAbv9NTFf5_Jyesx1OSDUb8whgQcfVlQJShvgSDH7TiEniaOHPsoraj/s1800/IMG_20230309_164212_037.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS3j0jnlNqM518gYuD_Wc8mymt2SwSJ_OgGU5kYU-m2i0MTsLiYF_qdtJVS7-Ju5_Jp69qS9HyT1jxYEpv9l_rfdRteaTKDY-nILxLjF4QpQmDqRo5eKCzs-QPv5qa2n6fTjAbv9NTFf5_Jyesx1OSDUb8whgQcfVlQJShvgSDH7TiEniaOHPsoraj/s320/IMG_20230309_164212_037.webp" width="256" /></a></div></div><p>Dad would've loved to have visited New York. He had a life long fascination with the city and would no doubt have spent hours walking its alleys, streets and neighbourhoods, but by the time my cousin relocated to the Big Apple in the 1980s and invited him over, it was already too late. The mobility issues that dogged his later life were beginning to take hold and he knew in his heart that he wouldn't have been physically capable of doing the things he really wanted to do, which would have frustrated him enormously. So he never made it there, but enjoyed hearing about my exploits whenever I returned from a stay with my cousin and I got into the habit of buying him a book about some aspect of New York each time. I got him one on the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge and another about the growth of the subway system, but his favourite was the one I picked up about the history of the Staten Island Ferry. If Dad could have been magically transported to New York and allowed to do just one thing, I think it would have been to have taken that iconic orange ferry, gazing back across the harbour as Manhattan disappeared into the distance. He simply couldn't believe that I'd never done it. This year, on a bright, chilly March morning, I put that right.</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/nlowalpa7n4rtwedk1hpbnntagi617f9" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">The Upsetters - Ferry Boat</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-28949362950805482032023-07-14T07:00:00.001+01:002023-07-14T07:00:00.139+01:00Friday Photo #48<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM46osrDU6XsuAQlMFUzvYijOd-6rBZKJdkuiIim1yMHyyjnHDd6zVZYOMfhKiCPlEepMh78LIf-SFMr2MsfJa_zCYchWotbIqvEFN8DnDgM3llGvdWpeCvBaXqaaEEJcNbnSEXrsSnaw_cdS0XqEVyZawB0ZDiSElw_R5yy2Y57Ak_7HbUuixD1aQ/s4000/IMG20230306153637%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM46osrDU6XsuAQlMFUzvYijOd-6rBZKJdkuiIim1yMHyyjnHDd6zVZYOMfhKiCPlEepMh78LIf-SFMr2MsfJa_zCYchWotbIqvEFN8DnDgM3llGvdWpeCvBaXqaaEEJcNbnSEXrsSnaw_cdS0XqEVyZawB0ZDiSElw_R5yy2Y57Ak_7HbUuixD1aQ/w300-h400/IMG20230306153637%20(2).jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div>In early 1996, a few weeks before I was due to visit her in New York, my cousin managed to reserve me a ticket for a recording of Conan O'Brien's Late Night TV show on Thursday April 4th. I believe she had filled a blanket application for all four of Conan's shows that week to ensure I got into at least one of them. If I'd had a ticket for Tuesday 2nd I would've seen O'Brien chatting with William Shatner and on Friday 5th Nathan Lane and Martin Amis were on the sofa. On my night the guests were Mary Tyler Moore and Ahmet & Dweezil Zappa. As luck would have it Conan's April 4th show also included a musical turn, Son Volt. Now I'd been lucky enough to have seen Uncle Tupelo in concert three years earlier in London and also caught a handful of Wilco's early UK shows, but Son Volt's performance of Drown that night remains the one and only song I've ever seen the band play.</div><div><br /></div><div>These days TV talk show reservations are applied for online, which is exactly what I did prior to my return to New York a couple of months ago. The tickets are still free, but it's also still a complete lottery, so I filled blanket applications for both The Late Show with Stephen Colbert and Late Night with Seth Meyers, hoping I wouldn't get tickets for both shows on the same day. As it transpired I struck lucky with a Colbert recording on the Tuesday and Meyers the following day. There were no musical guests on either show this time around, though <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJv-Angc-QQ" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Jim Himes</span></b></a>, a bee-keeping Democratic House Intelligence Committee member, gave me a glint of optimism for the future of American politics and author <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dR1A7Wqp4DU" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Margaret Atwood</span></b></a> was a charming and funny interviewee. (I've linked both interviews if you're interested). Meanwhile, back in 1996.....</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ongmqrbT8OU" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-81797717838939763342023-06-30T07:00:00.011+01:002023-06-30T07:00:00.141+01:00Friday Photo #47<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhpohfd4Rj_JlgEI9-YGAf1k-8ziP4d19VYH8MW7-7i_84CZ7FLF3MHLo5ABEUUkVIdsUwPCDaeOO1FlLB-28P-n48tW3k-9WIQErHTQPNTzXA9O5T8YpfmPEbHIJl69XTY4L8DqIywDG5lWP4qqQTl5Up2IbuljRtUULPLfGmYF6y3o94aEixzxA/s4000/peterborough.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhpohfd4Rj_JlgEI9-YGAf1k-8ziP4d19VYH8MW7-7i_84CZ7FLF3MHLo5ABEUUkVIdsUwPCDaeOO1FlLB-28P-n48tW3k-9WIQErHTQPNTzXA9O5T8YpfmPEbHIJl69XTY4L8DqIywDG5lWP4qqQTl5Up2IbuljRtUULPLfGmYF6y3o94aEixzxA/w300-h400/peterborough.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p>Last Monday, a year on from our first get together in Edinburgh, a handful of bloggers descended on the fine city of York for 48 hours of food, conversation and laughter. And what a complete joy it was. <b><u><a href="https://jukeboxtimemachine.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Alyson</span></a></u></b>, <a href="http://sundriedsparrows.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">C</span></b></a>, <a href="https://charitychicmusic.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Charity Chic</span></b></a> (+ Mrs CC), <a href="http://www.johnmedd.com/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">John Medd</span></b></a> (+ Mrs M) and I were all present and correct once again, while <b><a href="https://newamusements.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Martin</span></a></b>, who was unable to attend this time round, was sorely missed. Recollections to follow, I've no doubt.</p><p>Aside from shots of the participants, I took virtually no photos in York, so here's one I submitted to the BlogCon'23 WhatsApp group while en route to our rendezvous, taken while standing on Peterborough railway station, with a ticket for my destination.</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/hksd93pbvqek2jvbclgdz16oes7t7qp7" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Be Bop Deluxe - Adventures in a Yorkshire Landscape</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-18060204154142819752023-06-23T07:00:00.010+01:002023-06-23T07:00:00.144+01:00Friday Photo #46<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0y30BwDKkLkj7TJ13RaIkqYKz0CNqdaOFkxpiMUXO5sISCDtJtvhVuXZaeXU37kl5bOtRBuiywsk3P2ND4ZdPHR-7VYRibicLY4spYiFkYnwj7JaDnh_JMNHlMaZ2M5OWuo-RB0L9HfWgYbQiAI5hRbTHlffBN4nbkjiXO2C213Jr0UKH02IdpGMl/s1800/Brooklyn%20Bridge.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0y30BwDKkLkj7TJ13RaIkqYKz0CNqdaOFkxpiMUXO5sISCDtJtvhVuXZaeXU37kl5bOtRBuiywsk3P2ND4ZdPHR-7VYRibicLY4spYiFkYnwj7JaDnh_JMNHlMaZ2M5OWuo-RB0L9HfWgYbQiAI5hRbTHlffBN4nbkjiXO2C213Jr0UKH02IdpGMl/w320-h400/Brooklyn%20Bridge.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p>A few weeks ago (<a href="https://unthoughtofthoughsomehow.blogspot.com/2023/04/friday-photo-39.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">here</span></b></a>) I shared a photo taken beneath the Queensboro Bridge on Roosevelt Island. My cousin had bagged that particular day off work and joined me on my travels up and over the Roosevelt Island Tramway and later for a bracing (read, bloody freezing!) ride on the East River Ferry, under the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn Navy Yard. After a revitalizing coffee and outrageously good doughnut in the Brooklyn Roasting Company on Flushing Avenue, we wandered up to Fort Greene, then back to the river via the iconic Dumbo neighbourhood. The plan was to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge and back to the apartment, but when we got to the bridge we found it closed because of a potential jumper in the middle. Multiple choppers hovered directly overhead, police boats patrolled the waters below, ambulances stood ready at each end and the crowd of people waiting to cross quickly became a huge goggling throng. Rather than just standing there, we ambled off through Brooklyn Bridge Park and on to Brooklyn Heights, before looking back some time later to see traffic and people moving across the bridge once again. The potential suicide had thankfully been successfully talked down. Darkness had fallen by the time we eventually walked across the bridge ourselves, the myriad lights of Lower Manhattan's skyscrapers guiding us home. </p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/p1joyceue8f0nppm8eaee43tc603ufsq" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Big Audio Dynamite - City Lights </span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-67357346571372106492023-06-16T07:00:00.001+01:002023-06-16T07:00:00.143+01:00Friday Photo #45<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCEsVvzYsANlImF9qMOXG0Huj86Or5TfsW8E3Sz90OWHTN76cW6FLzunRZOqVT1bL-tB9dmJgNfml16aJH1Tb4_p4SAuUoVxyfyEWMDLrqphq9c-faF0lS4VoysIKsMeUzQu65X2946_EEYf5d4H-6kghtfH8fzTZ2n4ykbD5D6j72MUbB_G3DWA/s2551/Mum,%20Ian.%201961.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1933" data-original-width="2551" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCEsVvzYsANlImF9qMOXG0Huj86Or5TfsW8E3Sz90OWHTN76cW6FLzunRZOqVT1bL-tB9dmJgNfml16aJH1Tb4_p4SAuUoVxyfyEWMDLrqphq9c-faF0lS4VoysIKsMeUzQu65X2946_EEYf5d4H-6kghtfH8fzTZ2n4ykbD5D6j72MUbB_G3DWA/w400-h303/Mum,%20Ian.%201961.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>It strikes me that I haven't posted any old family photos in this series for a while. To compensate, here's a real favourite of mine from 1961. There's absolutely nothing that I don't like about this shot. The swan stretching in anticipation, Mum delicately proffering a piece of bread and me craning forward to get a better look at the situation. The whole scene is brilliantly captured by Dad. I'm not certain of the location, but I'd put money on it being somewhere in the vicinity of Wanstead Flats.</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/ihc2ip8g0xyigkpmyy5f0bs6n17f1trv" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Can - Sing Swan Song</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-80366551765292389272023-06-09T07:00:00.008+01:002023-06-09T07:00:00.138+01:00Friday Photo #44<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOMHlow4-FV-GFH3mN8URF0rxoSkcyAHsm__626leFFG0GP5hDW-J0ubXjzw62M7ZnV2kMAruxlkknzoKLm05EKsxITNaSGtyz5Eb5R84uELky5BYwPS7Q3neTygtUYS22a8zH6TY4ZOUAtcJCLPKvo8fldIJTA2YzPcMg7l_j5mAga2MLr8UFA/s1800/Mash.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOMHlow4-FV-GFH3mN8URF0rxoSkcyAHsm__626leFFG0GP5hDW-J0ubXjzw62M7ZnV2kMAruxlkknzoKLm05EKsxITNaSGtyz5Eb5R84uELky5BYwPS7Q3neTygtUYS22a8zH6TY4ZOUAtcJCLPKvo8fldIJTA2YzPcMg7l_j5mAga2MLr8UFA/w320-h400/Mash.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p>Almost exactly a year ago, I was the first of our merry band to roll into Edinburgh for BlogCon '22, allowing me almost a full day to explore the city before festivities formally commenced. I spent the time wandering both hither and thither in an enjoyably aimless fashion, climbing endless steps, stumbling over tricky cobbles and generally gawping at the sheer majesty of the place. Following an enjoyable dustcutter (™ John Medd) at The World's End on the corner of St Mary's Street, I veered off the Royal Mile and found myself outside a restaurant called <a href="https://makarsmash.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/menu_makars_mound.pdf" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Makars Gourmet Mash Company</span></b></a>. I was intrigued enough to suggest it as a lunch destination to my comrades-in-blog the following day, but alas it was fully booked.</p><p>Finding myself back in Edinburgh on Springsteen business last week, I resolved to have another bash at getting into Makars for lunch and this time I was successful. The Makars premise is very straightforward. Choose from one of nine varieties of mashed potato (chilli, smoky, cheesy, horseradish etc), then one of ten toppings (wild boar, chicken, haggis, lamb etc) four of which are vegetarian or vegan, throw in the obligatory neeps, douse in lashings of delicious gravy and presto. How can a meal so apparently simple be so bloody tasty? I don't know, but believe me it was. I had the veggie haggis by the way, but my mate had the real thing and concurred completely with my thumbs-up assessment of the sumptuous repast.</p><p>A little later, while consulting my friend Mr Google, I was briefly elated to discover that there was a branch of Makars considerably closer to my own neck of the woods, on Shaftsbury Avenue in London. My joy was short-lived however, as further research revealed that in spite of wall to wall outstanding reviews, the London branch closed down earlier this year. </p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/d5xxif7131q2ims5d73d3dvu6eey170e" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Cornell Campbell - Mash You Down</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-23449991370466587452023-06-02T07:00:00.004+01:002023-06-02T07:00:00.143+01:00Friday Photo #43<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4p17U2yUBglZuj4A9OTXJ4dowV0CywANsKkiqdxLjrQ_vlYZja_2gc91hYK64IUvWHPzBi9cBP2y1Z0UCrBi_Gk2PPORXtSsbqk4T-TxQSTuW_bSseh1czdAX3lIwhagzXH-NwwbSDANex0VUm6bAnbi6My-bte6Ux2n0OVuO3xPJmWjOf4mDg/s1800/Amsterdam.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4p17U2yUBglZuj4A9OTXJ4dowV0CywANsKkiqdxLjrQ_vlYZja_2gc91hYK64IUvWHPzBi9cBP2y1Z0UCrBi_Gk2PPORXtSsbqk4T-TxQSTuW_bSseh1czdAX3lIwhagzXH-NwwbSDANex0VUm6bAnbi6My-bte6Ux2n0OVuO3xPJmWjOf4mDg/w320-h400/Amsterdam.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p>It's a trip that's been in the books since last September, but a succession of irritating health hiccups in recent weeks had me thinking that perhaps I was destined not to make it back to E Street this time around. In the event, however, I managed to make it to both the Amsterdam and Edinburgh Springsteen shows as planned, largely thanks to a good pal who organised flights, accommodation and concert tickets <i><b>and</b></i> got me to the airport on time, in spite of my befuddled head. As I'd been so distracted of late, I wasn't sure if the usual emotional trigger points of a Springsteen concert would effect me in quite the same way, but in the event tears were already rolling down my cheeks at 7.30 as he walked onto the stage to greet the Amsterdam crowd and I remained moist of eye for much of the remainder of the gig. I'm aware that there isn't necessarily a huge Bruce fanbase around these parts, so I won't go into chapter and verse, but it was a show structured around love, loss and the passing of time, universal themes one and all. To paraphrase the great man '...when you're young it's all tomorrows and hellos, but as the years go by there are more yesterdays and goodbyes....' If that makes the concert sound a sombre experience, it wasn't. There were plenty of lighter moments too, not least when Bruce missed his step and face-planted the stage three songs in, before scrambling to his feet, grinning from ear to ear and offering an embarrassed '...goodnight everybody...'. </p><p>I've flown through Amsterdam several times over the years, but this was the first time I'd ever left the airport. What an beautiful, welcoming city it is. I hope I get back there someday.</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/zbtpx5tmdi6d3h4b8r8oobjf5ov0yldj" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">American Music Club - Hello Amsterdam</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-28006258767178016932023-05-22T07:00:00.008+01:002023-05-22T07:00:00.137+01:00Monday Long Song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioaa7V28kA4Wae_1QhtrRRDmfxgjTg09bjJzQyAV7RT1bZsOKu198h5dZmJ5D4ouDbnE1vjg0rpMP_BE1u9oD_vjA6_o1dP7J5dSb6QYIVcWtvn4JrykNS0DdvBncu5rV61xxv3JXImNMR-eZVP3BB06XEpFHTvjMvrBXpY-ujzwXqknZP4zJqxQ/s1800/brown_spirits.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1800" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioaa7V28kA4Wae_1QhtrRRDmfxgjTg09bjJzQyAV7RT1bZsOKu198h5dZmJ5D4ouDbnE1vjg0rpMP_BE1u9oD_vjA6_o1dP7J5dSb6QYIVcWtvn4JrykNS0DdvBncu5rV61xxv3JXImNMR-eZVP3BB06XEpFHTvjMvrBXpY-ujzwXqknZP4zJqxQ/w400-h134/brown_spirits.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Shout out to our mutual blogging pal Walter at <a href="http://afewgoodtimesinmylife.blogspot.com/2023/05/space-race.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">A Few Good Times in My Life</span></b></a> for pointing me in the direction of Australian psych trio Brown Spirits. He featured a tune from the band's new LP 'Solitary Transmissions' a couple of weeks back, that had me scurrying over to their <a href="https://brownspirits.bandcamp.com/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Bandcamp</span></b></a> page to find out more. It turns out that 'Solitary Transmissions' is Brown Spirits' 4th album, though the first through a major imprint, the first three evidentially being self released. </p><p>Brown Spirits embellish their cosmic wig-outs with a dash of funk and a soupçon of motorik, serving up the whole dish with a welcome lightness of touch, intricate yet accessible. 'Optokinetic Response', which closes 2017's ingeniously titled 'Vol 1', has taken up more or less permanent lodgings in my brain for the past few days.</p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/fwk13vjvg5149hw6xt6che0wc77tp5gl" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Brown Spirits - Optokinetic Response</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7522017207239490912.post-2732407632047949662023-05-19T07:00:00.049+01:002023-05-19T07:00:00.136+01:00Friday Photo #42<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJ4QgIojKEj59tdT93qlOkxR7pr2tjAMuyio0jPEO215t5lWIZrP6UWlGCMNP8mKmGbBQelDMrTmZtdczV0nT1A_IcFSo_QWPWGzBNw5rxMJMyh8v6kUensyZEm5Hscg2WTJ2S2REHiNMSdIOvWhPfHbWymB0RCg5p8EKNytSRMj0p8371n0V0g/s4000/Outney%20Common%2015-2-23.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJ4QgIojKEj59tdT93qlOkxR7pr2tjAMuyio0jPEO215t5lWIZrP6UWlGCMNP8mKmGbBQelDMrTmZtdczV0nT1A_IcFSo_QWPWGzBNw5rxMJMyh8v6kUensyZEm5Hscg2WTJ2S2REHiNMSdIOvWhPfHbWymB0RCg5p8EKNytSRMj0p8371n0V0g/w300-h400/Outney%20Common%2015-2-23.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p>I finished an eight day stretch of shifts on Wednesday and it was such a gloriously sunny afternoon that, even though my weary bones were heavy, I headed down to the common for a pre-dinner wander. The common is a vast open expanse that offers a selection of possible routes of varying lengths, though on this occasion I planned to simply amble out into the middle for a bit of solitude and a breath of fresh air, rather than walk the 5 miles all the way round it. Above is the view I was expecting to welcome me, as seen on a bright, chilly day back in February, but, thanks to the recent copious amounts of rainfall round these parts, much of the route was ankle deep in water when I arrived, as well as being occupied by a particularly inquisitive herd of cows. I took the hint and, after pausing to watch a hobby make several breathtaking passes in its hunt for damselflies, I turned to head back the way I came, coming face to face with a male muntjac walking towards me. He didn't seem at all phased by my presence and simply branched off the footpath, disappearing into the undergrowth. </p><p>The older I get, the more each interaction with nature sustains me, making up for all the wasted years when I didn't appreciate such things. As I type these words a lone greenfinch sits silently in the tree outside my window while a scream of 6 or 7 swifts make patterns in the sky overhead. Earlier, over at the weir, one of the local pair of grey wagtails was shouting the odds for anyone within a hundred yard radius who cared to listen, while a little further along the river, a swan sat on its massive nest, waiting patiently for the next generation to hatch. Last year there were at least six cygnets, though ultimately only two survived predation.</p><p>Today's choice of tune, a marvellously funky South African single from 1973, is inspired by the wide open spaces out in the middle of the common, even if I was unable to experience them a couple of days ago. </p><p><a href="https://app.box.com/s/oo4admfxf8m4pialtm4z3o7puim1qen2" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Cool Cats - Wilderness</span></b></a></p>The Swedehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13237251779370596904noreply@blogger.com6