From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads, Part 2 of 2

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.'

From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads, Part 1 of 2

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.

Allen Ginsberg, New York, 1994

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.

Sign Here Please - Ian Dury

My family's move to Ipswich in 1975 afforded me regular access to live music for the first time, as local venue, The Gaumont, was a stop on the national circuit and only a short distance from home. After a concert, my pals and I invariably headed straight round to the back of the building, in the hope of getting our programmes autographed as the band headed from the stage door to the tour bus - as a result I amassed quite a collection after a few years. Reality started to bite in the early 1980s, however, when I found myself in charge of a record shop in Essex and discovered that managing my personal finances was trickier than managing staff and stock levels. Consequently, I sold the majority of my autographed programmes for a pittance (along with large swathes of my record collection and anything else that wasn't absolutely essential at the time) to help make ends meet. Just a precious few souvenirs have survived from those evenings at the Gaumont.


In July 1979, a week before the release of 'Reasons to be Cheerful, Part 3', Ian Dury & the Blockheads came to town for a two night stand. Perhaps it was because it was the first of those two shows and he was in no hurry to go anywhere, or maybe it was what he always did, but my pals and I were saved a wait round at the back door, when, 10 minutes after the concert ended and the majority of the audience had dispersed, Ian ambled back into view from the wings, sat himself down on the lip of the stage and began chatting with whoever was still around. Typically, on the one occasion where I had all the time in the world to grab an autograph, I found myself with nothing for him to sign. There either weren't any programmes available or I chose not to buy one that evening, I can't remember which. Half a dozen of us chewed the fat with Ian for ten minutes while I patted my pockets, trying to find a scrap of paper for him to squiggle on. I opened my wallet and there it was - a pound note. I handed it over and asked Ian if he'd mind signing it. He gave a big, wheezy laugh, lent over the note and wrote 'Ian X' and went to pass it back, then changed his mind. 'Hang on a minute' he said, before adding more writing beneath his autograph. 'What's that say?' I asked. 'I'm Mr 10%' he said with a grin.

Ian Dury would've been 72 today. Here he is in 1983 with 'Really Glad You Came', a post-Blockheads single, perhaps sonically a little of its time, but a neglected gem nonetheless. The TV show is Pebble Mill at One and Ian looks less than thrilled to be there. Check out that stare at the end of the song!