Desert Island Discs – Part 2

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Little Richard – Rip it up

For most people it is Elvis Presley who epitomises that Rock ‘n’ Roll rebellion but for me it’s Little Richard. Elvis was a imitator and interpreter of the R&B scene. People like Little Richard, Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley were the real innovators. They created something out of nothing.

Little Richard’s incredible Gospel edged voice and raucous style was the visceral rebellion of the fifties. It rocked the establishment, mobilised the kids and got things moving.

Little Richard was energy unleashed.

 

Phil Ochs – Cops of the World

 

Nothing changes. When Phil wrote this song about the ‘Cops of the World’ he was singing about the American invasion of other countries, the rape and abuse and arrogance of it. That was back in the sixties during Vietnam. We’d yet to see the delights of Afghanistan, Iraq and Libya.

Phil was a reporter and chronicler, an idealist and commentator. He wrote some delightful, insightful songs.

Cops of the World is one of them.

 

Billy Bragg – World Turned Upside Down

 

Billy was another of my social/political bards. When he broke onto the scene with his portable sound system and ragged, shrill guitar, he was like a breath of fresh air. His spikey songs, like Between the Wars, were thought-provoking and perceptive. His rough voice was just right and his passion was real.

He sang about what he believed in and spoke his mind. Not only that – but he could write a song or two. For me he followed in the footsteps of Woody, Bob, Phil and Roy.

I like my music with a cerebral/social content. Billy had the heart for it.

 

Linton Kwesi Johnson – Sonny’s Lettah (Anti Sus Poem)

 

Linton put poems to reggae music and became the bard of Brixton. His words illustrated the Brixton riots and put into patois the feelings of the beleaguered black community. He was eloquent and his rich voice painted pictures. They were pictures of anger and resistance, pictures of unleashed fury and they told the story of discrimination and disadvantage, of persecution and distrust and an establishment that was the enemy.

Linton, like Michael Smith, had an ability to speak in the language of the black minority and articulate their feelings in passionate music that was brilliant in its own right.

Sonny’s Lettah is superb.

 

Bob Marley – Redemption Song

 

Reggae was a minority music beloved by Mods before Bob Marley turned it into a global phenomenon. The great thing is that he managed to do that without pandering to the lowest common denominator and watering down his music or message. He has Chris Blackwell to thank for melding it to a harder Rock beat that gave it more balls but it was just as uncompromising.

Bob was one of those geniuses who could write a song that stuck in your head that also had content and meaning. He expressed complicated thoughts in easy to grasp language.

Redemption song is a master’s song. It looks at slavery and then towards an optimistic future without racism, where black people will reach their potential.

I think he will be proved right.

 

Buffy St Marie – My Country ‘Tis of Thy People You’re Dying.

 

Buffy was a full-blooded Native American Indian who was rightly proud of her heritage and wrote a series of excellent songs about it. These included Soldier Blue, Now That the Buffalos Gone and Universal Soldier. They are all good but pale before this incendiary epic about the lies and genocide perpetuated on the Plains Indians by the United States Government.

I discovered that Buffy was the only female I had in my top twenty songs. That made me think. I don’t think it’s sexism. I do like Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, Patti Smith, Glace Slick and many others but I admit to having a tendency to prefer male voices.

So Buffy has to represent all women and she does it admirably. This is a really strong song. They don’t come any stronger.

 

The Clash – London Calling

 

The Sex Pistols were brilliant but the Clash were better. They were all the intelligent Punks but that demeans the lyrical genius of many of the Punk outfits. Johnny Rotten was no slouch with words. He could be pithy.

The Clash were criticized at the time for moving away from the Punk ethos and developing the music into more complex styles. Who cares? This is brilliant music. Why categorise it?

It was a great shame that they split up and fell apart with all that animosity. They were a great band and London Calling, with its imagery of a post-holocaust world is brilliant.

 

The Doors – Unknown Soldier

 

One of the best bands to come out of America. Consistently brilliant. They melded Jim Morrison’s poems to an incredible music and were all masters of their instruments.

If Jim Morrison had not been so self-destructive with his drinking they would have gone on to do a lot more. I think his alcohol consumption sapped his creative spirit and fed his disillusionment. By the end he was fed up with the hype and falseness of the industry and despised the whole pantomime. He even despised his audience and doubted their motives.

I chose Unknown Soldier because the image of the theatrical mock execution is cemented into my brain from their Roundhouse performance. I love the antiwar stance and that song was superb musically as well.

 

The Mothers of Invention – Help I’m a Rock

 

At one point in time they were another best band in the world. Nobody comes close to the satire and creativity of Zappa. He refused to be labelled or put in a pigeon-hole. Frank was Frank.

He also had a superb sense of humour.

Help I’m a Rock illustrates that. It was an early Dada masterpiece that brought me to tears of laughter. Brilliant.

We’re Only In It For the Money was a later genius of an album.

 

The Kinks – I’m Not Like Everybody Else

 

This was the B-side of Sunny Afternoon I believe. I used to put this on in my bedroom, on my Dansette with the arm raised, and play it endlessly when I was fifteen. It seemed to sum up exactly how I felt about the world. All the angst, disillusionment and rebellion would pour out in that strident vitriolic diatribe.

 

The Beatles – Come Together

 

We seem to be in an age when it’s cool not to like the Beatles; to align with the Stones. But it’s not an either or. I love them both.

What nobody can argue with is the impact of their music on Britain and the world. Rock music was dead and Britain was a backwater before the Beatles came along. They blew the doors down and kick-started the corpse.

Not only that but they developed and progressed so that they were always at the cutting edge of what was happening. They led the way. The West Coast bands looked to them.

It is also now convenient to focus on the more Pop and twee element of their repertoire – like Yesterday. I prefer their more complex, harder edged material – Revolution, Tomorrow Never Knows, Glass Onion and Strawberry Fields. I prefer my acerbic Lennon to the sweet McCartney.

Come Together was Lennon at his most inventive. No nonsense.

The Beatles were rightly the greatest Rock Band to have ever lived for a large number of reasons. The major one being that they were unremittingly brilliant.

 

That concludes my paltry list. I’ve had to leave out so much!

If you enjoy my poems or anecdotes why not purchase a paperback of anecdotes for £7.25 or a kindle version for free.

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Or a book of poetry and comment:

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PAUL SIMONON – The Clash – Happy 60 !..

Happy birthday – One of the best Rock Bands in the world. Paul – you were brill!

Jackson D at the Adelphi Hull – review and photos

The great Jackson D (with drummer) performed an immaculate set of his idiosyncratic songs. His raw punky guitar contrasted well with his soulful fifties style ballads. The result was original and dynamic. A great performance.

Here’s a few photos:

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Anecdote – A Boring old Fart still Rockin’

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A Boring old Fart still Rockin’

I was in my second year of teaching. A bunch of year 11 kids came to see me to ask if I would sit in with them at lunch-time so they could play some music. I was intrigued. I had become a little estranged from the Rock Scene over the course of the last few years. After the collapse of the sixties the energy and idealism had dropped out of it. I’d kept up with my Floyd and Harper but was largely disillusioned. I thought it would be interesting to hear what the young kids were listening too.

I was surprised. They were bringing in albums by the Doors and Velvet Underground.

‘Where’s your stuff?’ I asked.

‘There’s nothing much happening,’ they informed me.

So I started taking in my albums and playing them some Roy Harper and Captain Beefheart which they enjoyed. I began explaining to them why the music was so important, a bit about the bands, the times and the philosophy. They lapped it up.

Then in late 1976 there was a knock on my door one evening. I opened it to find a group of my Rock Club kids there all looking frisky.

‘Right you boring old fart,’ one of them chimed up,’ ‘we’ve come to play you some real music.’

I waved them in and they began to unpack their albums. Liz got some drinks together while I was regaled with the Clash, Stranglers, Sex Pistols, Damned, and Ramones.

Overnight the hair had been cut and spiked, the flares discarded, shoes painted silver, and jeans and shirts ripped and held together with safety pins. My rebels had transformed into Punks. Everything was ‘Boring’. It was a new philosophy.

They had their own music, their own rebellion and their own style.

I was an honorary Punk.

Blues Muse – extract – Rolling Stones in Southern France

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Here’s a little extract from later on that is hot off the press and unedited.

Nellcote – South of France

That was when Mick contacted me. They were splitting. Things were not at all good. I listened as he rambled on. He seemed very down and disturbed. They were still reeling from the fallout from Altamont. The bad press had pointed the finger at the Stones, accusing them of decadence, arrogance and stupidity; as if they were to blame for Meredith’s death and the end of the sixties counterculture dream. It hurt. Marianne Faithful had nearly died from an overdose and, though they were estranged, it had affected Mick a lot. Then there was the constant harrying by the establishment in Britain and the obnoxious sniping British press. It looked like they were targets. The Redlands bust was still at the front of his mind. He thought it was brewing again. They were out to nail the Stones. It was a matter of time. On top of that they had managed to break away from Allen Klein and all his empire of devious deals but it had cost them and there were still ongoing disputes about the rights to their music. It was going to rumble on. The upshot was that they had no money, they were sick of the hassle; they thought everyone was against them so it was the Stones against the world and – FUCK YOU. They were going.

Keith had a big old mansion that he’d rented in Nellcote, outside Ville Franche in the South of France. They were going to be tax exiles for a year or two. It was going to solve all the financial problems. They’d be free of tax and they were going to record an album there. It was a huge mansion – idyllic and ideal for this project

Did I want to come along and help set it up?

I didn’t need asking twice.

I arrived at the Villa Nellcote and stood in wonder of it – a big rambling place sat like a palace, all windows, patios, trailing plants and beauty. It looked like the ideal place to me.

Outside the mobile recording studio was already parked up.

Inside it was like I’d walked in on a party. Music was blaring out at full volume, scantily clad girls, wandered around, there was cocaine in a bowl on the table, joints doing the rounds and a big bottle of brandy. Keith was sitting on the balcony with an acoustic, guitar and cigarette in his mouth playing to himself and totally focussed. Though how he could hear anything over the noise was beyond me. Charlie had a big tumbler in his hand and seemed content to be knocking it back. Anita Pallenberg was sitting in an armchair looking totally spaced out.

Nobody seemed to pay the slightest attention to me. It was open house. People walked in and out. Anything went.

I found Mick with Jimmy Miller down in the basement. It was hot, dank and claustrophobic down there but that was where they had decided to set up and record. It was cavernous but divided into lots of sparse, dingy rooms, some with swastikas daubed on them from when the Nazis had occupied it in the war.

Mick Jagger was trying to supervise the organisation for integrating it all. Bill was morosely setting up his bass in one of the rooms. There was a drum kit in another and wires, microphones and guitars all over the place. The coordination looked to be a nightmare. I could see why he’d wanted me on board.

I set to work helping organise and set up.

Downstairs in that basement was like a different world. It was overpowering, stark, sweaty and basic. Upstairs it was light airy and one continuous party that went on without pause month after month.

It all centred round Keith. Much as Mick tried to instil some organisation it was Keith whose free and easy approach set the tone. He was impervious to Mick’s cajoling. He and Anita would spend days in a heroin haze. Then he got some songs together, absorbed himself in producing a riff or two and we were away. Charlie Watts put the bottle aside, Bill Wyman, who seemed to spend a lot of the time bemoaning the fact that he couldn’t get his Bird’s custard, Branston pickle or piccalilli, and that his PG Tips did not produce drinkable tea because of the bloody French milk, took up his bass, Mick Taylor drifted in from wherever he’d secreted himself, and they were away.

The continuity wasn’t helped by what was going on all around. It may have been Rock ‘n’ Roll heaven but it wasn’t exactly conducive to recording an album. After a few weeks Mick decided to marry Bianca in nearby St Tropez and bring the entourage back for a honeymoon in the mansion, Gram Parsons turned up with Gretchen and hangers on and immediately resumed as heroin buddies with Keith. I could see Mick boiling with frustration and the tensions mounting.

Dubious Mafiosi from Marseille would wander in with their attendant heavies with various deliveries of heroin, cocaine and hash to keep the supplies topped up. Various musicians, friends and free-loaders would wander through. The party rumbled on. At one point seven guitars walked out – probably as a result of an unpaid drug bill to the Marseille underworld.

In the midst of this chaos the recording proceeded in fits and starts. It was free and easy, ragged and raw, lowdown and dirty. Somehow it was bearing fruit and sounding brilliant. I’d not heart them play so raunchy in a while. Mick Taylor certainly added some creative rawness and brought the best out of the others. His excellence made them respond.

It had to come to an end and it did. There was only so much that the authorities could turn a blind eye to. Ville Franche resonated to the roar of their non-stop Rock, night and day.

Eventually the bohemian dream was brought crashing to an abrupt end and they were busted.

The Blues Muse – Possible change of name – The Blues Chameleon – What do you think?

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My good lady, who is reading through my first draft and doing some brilliant editing, does not think that Blues Muse accurately describes the nature of the book. She believes the character through which the story is told is much more of a witness than a muse.

He moves through the story and changes as he moves from era to era. This morphing is more like that of a chameleon.

Her view is that the title should reflect this. It should be called Blues Chameleon.

Now I know this may not have quite the same alliterating ring but it is more accurate.

What do you think?

I need some help – My new book on Rock music lacks a title.

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I am now a few days away from completing the first draft of a new book on Rock Music. This one is very different. I have written it as a novel. The trouble is that I still cannot decide on a title that adequately reflects the nature of the book.

That is where I would appreciate your assistance.

Here is the blurb:

This is the real story of Blues and Rock told through the eyes of the man with no name, the muse, the witness. It’s more real than it was when it happened. You’ll be there with Charley Patton in Mississippi, when Son House was teaching Robert Johnson to play, at the crossroads, with Elvis recording in Sun Studio, Little Richard battling it out with Jerry Lee Lewis, Muddy Waters, Elmore James and Howlin’ Wolf in Chicago, Bob Dylan in Greenwich Village, the Beatles in the Cavern and a thousand more.

This paints all the main events in full colour with background and social context, not as a set of dry facts but as a novel through a series of self-contained vignettes. Liberties have been taken but the spirit is true.

And here are the possible titles I have come up with:

Vignettes of the Blues Rock On Forever – Through The Winds of Time.

 

The Winds of Blues Rock on forever.

 

I am Blues – I am Rock.

 

Times Blows the Blues to Rock.

 

Living the Blues.

 

Blues Muse

Any other suggestions?  Do you like any of these as possible titles?

Thanks in advance – Best wishes Opher

Some of the Rock Acts I could have seen but missed out on!

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Back in the sixties I felt that the whole thing was going to go on forever. Every day there were great bands on somewhere. I usually went to one or two Roy Harper gigs a week and then a couple of others. I went to all the free concerts and most of the big festivals. I got to see most people. I had a brilliant time and loved it. I’m still gigging and to be found right at the front at most good gigs.

However – there are all those people who for one reason or another got away!

Back in the sixties I didn’t see them because they’d be on again next week.

When I was working I missed some because I was too knackered or they were too far away.

These are the ones that really rankle:

  1. Bob Marley – I had a ticket to see him in Santa Barbara but something came up and we went to Joshua Park instead!
  2. Howlin’ Wolf – played London a number of times and I never got to see him. There was always someone else on. He had the most outrageous act too – clawing up curtains, crawling around – and that voice!
  3. The Beatles – I was just too young when they were touring. It never occurred to me that I could go. But I could’ve!
  4. Lightnin’ Hopkins – He played London and he was the first Blues guy I got into but I didn’t go.
  5. Sex Pistols – It meant travelling quite a way.
  6. Ramones – They never played near enough
  7. Clash – the best Rock band around at the time and I missed them!
  8. AC/DC – They were brilliant live!!
  9. Bob Dylan circa 1965 – I loved that electric period but didn’t get to see him until later.
  10. Yardbirds – I saw them recently but it was a travesty. I met Keith Relf when he was in Renaissance but I would have loved to have see the early Yardbirds
  11. Eels – Again I had tickets and was too knackered to go!!
  12. Pink Floyd in the stadium era – having seen them in small clubs for as little as 25p I was damned if I was going to see them in a huge stadium and pay huge sums for the privilege – I was wrong!
  13. John Lennon – played London a few times and I never got it together.
  14. Ritchie Havens – cancelled the gig I was going to. He’s OD’ed.

I kick myself now!!! I’d have loved to have seen all those!!

The warmth of Vinyl. Is it merely nostalgia?

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The warmth of Vinyl. Is it merely nostalgia?

There is a big ongoing debate concerning the benefits of the attributes of vinyl compared to digital.

Is it merely nostalgia or is there a noticeable difference?

Well I started collecting vinyl singles in 1960 when I was eleven. My older friend Clive sold on his Buddy Holly and Adam Faith singles to me and I played them endlessly on my old Dansette. Then I started on the albums. I’ve still got all my old Beatles, Stones and Roy Harper albums in my collection. I’ve got four thousand albums so you could say I’m a vinyl junkie.

I used to have eleven thousand vinyl albums. But I sold a lot back in the eighties. I still regret that.

However I also have ten thousand CDs and a huge wadge of MP3s.

I like music!

I am happy to sing along at the top of my voice to an old Rock classic on the radio, played with limited range through tinny speakers in the car. I like listening to old bootlegs and Blues recordings from the 1930s that were created on very dubious equipment. Quality of sound is not the foremost attribute of the music to me; it is the quality of the music that comes first.

There is the factor of ears to take into account. My ears are so worn, due to the pounding they’ve taken from a thousand loud gigs, a million loud albums and the odd other loud extraneous noise, which I doubt I can still discern too much either way.

So, being a scientist, I decided to do an experiment. I took a number of my favourite albums and compared CD, vinyl and MP3. This is what I found:

I like all three formats.

The CD has great clarity on acoustic numbers and separation.

The MP3s have far less separation of instruments.

The vinyl has more ‘warmth’ and genuine vibe – though a number of crackles. I don’t mind the crackles; they add to the ambience.

Of the three I did prefer the sound of the vinyl.

 

You can check out my journey through Rock Music in my classic book – ‘In Search of Captain Beefheart’. It is a memoir of my journey and search for the holy chords.

John Cooper Clarke – Twat – an hilarious poem put to music.

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John Cooper Clarke is hilarious. He’s more of a stand up comic than a poet – though his words are special.

This poem is probably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard put to music. His delivery is perfect.

Johnny started up at the same time as Punk and his sensibilities fitted straight in. His repartee is infamous – put down to a heckler – ‘Sorry mate, I can’t hear what you’re saying – Your mouth’s too full of shit.’

I can think of a few people I’d like to play this to.

TWAT

      Like a Night Club in the morning, you’re the bitter end.

 

      Like a recently disinfected shit-house, you’re clean round the bend.

 

      You give me the horrors

 

      too bad to be true

 

      All of my tomorrow’s

 

      are lousy coz of you.

You put the Shat in Shatter
Put the Pain in Spain
Your germs are splattered about
Your face is just a stain

You’re certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag.
Do us all a favour, here… wear this polythene bag.

You’re like a dose of scabies,
I’ve got you under my skin.
You make life a fairy tale… Grimm!

People mention murder, the moment you arrive.
I’d consider killing you if I thought you were alive.
You’ve got this slippery quality,
it makes me think of phlegm,
and a dual personality
I hate both of them.

Your bad breath, vamps disease, destruction, and decay.
Please, please, please, please, take yourself away.
Like a death a birthday party,
you ruin all the fun.
Like a sucked and spat our smartie,
you’re no use to anyone.
Like the shadow of the guillotine
on a dead consumptive’s face.
Speaking as an outsider,
what do you think of the human race

You went to a progressive psychiatrist.
He recommended suicide…
before scratching your bad name off his list,
and pointing the way outside.

You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart.
You’re heading for a breakdown,
better pull yourself apart.

Your dirty name gets passed about when something goes amiss.
Your attitudes are platitudes,
just make me wanna piss.

What kind of creature bore you
Was is some kind of bat
They can’t find a good word for you,
but I can…
TWAT.