David Crosby - RIP

(Apologies - this has sat in draft, unfinished for months)

There was a time, different place, different era, when I played The Byrds obsessively. The twinkling 12 string Rickenbacker, the three part harmonies, Gene Clark’s brooding magnificence, McGuinn’s granny glasses and Crosby’s cheeky grin, cape and high harmony.

I think my induction to the Byrds proper was the Original Singles Album (1965/67) which featured their first eight singles both A and B sides. Amongst the obvious Clark originals and Dylan covers - Mr Tambourine Man, Feel A Whole Lot Better for example, I discerned another quite different voice creeping in on the later cuts, all B sides. David Crosby.

On that album he is featured solo on three self penned classics - Why, What’s Happening?!?! and Everybody’s Been Burned. Within these three you have the quintessential Crosby vibe - laid back, melodic, whilst employing an almost conversational approach to lyrics.

Interestingly enough, it wasn’t until the third album, after Clark left, that Crosby starting putting forward his own songs. He had written previously - The Airport Song from Preflyte, the years later collection of early Bryds demos, is one of my favourites - but for the next couple of years until he was kicked out, Crosby was the Byrds main man.

Classics from this time - the groove of I See You, the sexual freedom of Triad - and the unreleased madness of Psychodrama City. The standout song though was released as a single in 1967; Lady Friend. It’s pretty obscure as the single failed and didn’t even make it onto an album. But it’s a classic - rollicking, brass led, great harmonies, usual Crosby sideways lyrics. A lost masterpiece in plain sight.

And then he was booted out of the Byrds and formed Crosby, Stills and Nash and went onto write other classics of which Genevieve is the most outstanding and up with anything he wrote for the Byrds. Haunting, beautiful lyrics with some great guitar from the man himself. See video below. Deja Vu is also a decent song. There are occasional gems both in this configuration and on his solo album but I have to say, I prefer my Crosby in the Byrds period.

Crosby. A one off. RIP.

Martin Amis - A Personal Recollection

There was a time in the 90’s, pre-Oasis, when, unencumbered by an Epiphone guitar nor deafened by a Marshall valvestate amp, my cultural dalliances were more literary than musical. It was that brief period when I felt being a failed writer was way cooler than being an unsuccessful rock star.

Stepping into this long-lost world where Kerouac played John the Baptist, a wordy messiah inspired my creative bursts. Martin Amis.

As I was then (the unpaid) editor of the in-house Amex magazine, a bibliophilic colleague thought I’d appreciate a book he’d just finished – Amis’ bedazzling Money. How very right this perspicacious telephone customer service rep was! A fresh and exciting world opened out to me like a welcoming but insatiable lover; time became meaningless if denied the tap, tap, tap of fingers on keyboard, without the blissful agony of creation. Suddenly – briefly but oh so vividly – my writings switched abruptly from vengeful fictions of my own life – full of dead prose, funereal plots – to sharply drawn vignettes of urban life; violent, acutely observed, colourfully rendered into long phrases heavy with pretentiousness.

I’d become an Amis clone.

This feverish phase lasted probably no more than three years and two girlfriends – perhaps just the time between Nirvana and Oasis’ Reading Festival appearances and no more than that. But, as with all youthful experiences, what is now merely a glancing blow, then cut oh so deep.

My conceit was flattered early, I won a literary competition with the first creation under my new guise, an arrogant would-be masterpiece, a short story set in Brighton. Reading it now, I can observe clearly the heavy Amis influence. But I was pleased to see my name in print, that my florid musings had been published to the wider world, and perhaps even more so – that in those broke post student times – I’d received a £500 cheque for my efforts. I was a paid writer!

Gradually though, my Amis imitation quietly exited stage left from my life. Long sentences full of masterful phrases were just that, all dislocated show with little overarching plot. I grew weary of my own pretensions, of etiolated constructions and moved my creative energies to a guitar led sub-Oasis wall of sound to bored South Coast pub audiences.

And my writings shifted promiscuously over to Irving Welsh homages (or at least that’s what discouraging editors would accuse me of in terse, to-the-point, three-line rejection slips).

 I haven’t read an Amis book for over twenty years.

---

So, when he died recently, my initial thoughts were somewhat neutral; yeah, I knew Amis’ work, liked it once, but not for me now. And then, on walks, in the bath, cooking meals, on reflection, the memories came back about how deeply he’d affected my youthful life. Like a lover, forgot but achingly remembered years later through the passing scent of a stranger’s perfume, I began to reminisce, more felt than forced. Where I was when I read his books, who I was with, the stories I then wrote.

Let me say this simply; Martin Amis was an immensely talented writer. One of the best. He could turn a phrase like nobody else and certainly better than his pale copyists (step forward Will Self and, way, way down, Tim Robson). His masterpieces – London Fields, Money, The Rachel Papers, The Information, Time’s Arrow – defined an era in both the Anglosphere’s high literature & popular circles, but also in my own development. I now realise we respect the paths that lead nowhere because, certainly when young, they ultimately lead somewhere and not necessarily where we planned to be.

 Thank you, Martin, for those short years of fevered writings when I ached to create, to be a better writer, to aspire to be an Amis. That time has long gone but the debt remains. And way more than five hundred quid’s worth of plagiarised success!

RIP Martin Amis.

“She reached me now. I stuck my foot out and tripped the bitch up. Boy you should have seen her fall! She was running so fast that when I nicked her ankle she sprawled and stumbled almost twenty yards before finally succumbing to that knee-to-pavement feeling in a bone crunching kerfuffle of angry pedestrians, despoiled prams and outraged grannies. I grinned and walked on.”

— Tim Robson - Grainy Images 1994

 ** BTW. I’m too lazy to sift through his books pulling out quotes to demonstrate my point. If you’re curious, read them yourself - start, as I did, with Money.

Meat Loaf, Tony Mills, Shy, Brian Greenhoff. Rochdale Memories.

Some Rambling Thoughts on the Death of Meatloaf, Tony Mills of Shy and Brian Greenhoff of Manchester Utd

Late 1981 - Driving in the car with my parents and sister listening to Noel Edmonds on Radio 1. Edmonds played Dead Ringer For Love. This was the first time I’d heard it as the single had just been released to the world. Wow! A real swinging rock tune - the drama, the back and forth between him and Cher, the doo-wop coda. Remember; this was the time of synthesisers and New Romantics and so an unabashed rock ‘n’ roll wall of sound of guitars and brass - just blew us all away. It so was good, Noel Edmonds played it again which was practically unheard of on Radio 1.

Mid 80’s - Sixth form. Two LPs dominated the music we played in breaks and lunchtimes - Queen Greatest Hits (there was no volume 1 or 2 in those days, only the original LP up to, but not including, Under Pressure) and Bat Out of Hell. We knew all the words of both albums through ceaseless repetition.

Bat Out of Hell bears repeated plays. Occasionally I remember it and play the familiar tracks for a couple of days and fondly reminisce. Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad, Paradise by the Dashboard Light, You Took the Words Right Out of my Mouth. The title track, of course. I don’t need to tell you how good the LP is. Play it.

Feb 1987 - I saw Meat Loaf at the Brighton Centre as part of his 20/20 World Tour. Great concert, lots of familiar songs, high camp on stage. He was big, he was sweating, his band kicked ass. Meat Loaf was as much an actor as a singer - he always threw himself into performances and Brighton was no different.

He was supported at the Brighton gig by British big haired metallers Shy. Not bad songs but kind of ignored whilst waiting for the main act to come on.

Back at home in Rochdale, I tended bar in the Norden Chimney restaurant bar (called The Highwayman). Not many people would come in - just me, my mates, other members of staff, a karaoke singer at the weekend for entertainment and, bizarrely, ex Man Utd and England footballer Brian Greenhoff. Nights of lager and Limes. Silks Cuts. I played the Yardbirds or REO Speedwagon on the stereo. And into this scene one day walked an exotic Brummie - Tony Mills - lead singer of Shy. He’d moved in with his girlfriend and her parents two doors down to my parents and was looking for a local.

How can I describe Tony? Platinum spiked big hair as was common with rockers in the 80’s. Tight jeans, embroided jacket. Tall, but his hair made him seem bigger. It was as if an ambassador from Planet Rock had just walked in. “Pint of Lowenbrow, Tim” he’d say and have a quiet drink, sometimes with his girlfriend, sometimes not. I recognised him immediately and would prompt him for stories about the rock world and Meat Loaf in particular. Apparently Loaf used to keep an oxygen mask off stage in case he took a turn for the worse out on stage. Tony also said he’d be invited up on the stage to sing Johnny B Goode in the rock n roll medley Meat Loaf finished his set with. Problem was, Tony didn’t know the words!

Tony was in between tours and resting up (in Rochdale of all places). The album they were promoting when supporting Meat Loaf - Excess all Areas (featuring Break Down the Walls and, my favourite, Young Heart) was probably the peak of Shy’s fame. It was a good time.

Into this cosy scene let me introduce Andy, the karaoke ‘singer’ who would, on Friday and Saturday nights, be perched on a bar stool the opposite end of the bar to Greenhoff and entertain the punters with his renditions of Lionel Richie or Diana Ross. He could hold a tune but not much more. He wore a double breasted flecked suit that was, as per the time, somewhat shiny. A few drinks to the worse he’d bemoan his fate: “Rick Astley; talentless fucker! I taught him all he fucking knows. Which isn’t much!” Apparently they were contemporaries on the Northern working men’s circuit. One had a huge hit and the other drank huge Bicardi’s and Cokes from the other side of my bar.

Some good natured banter used to fly around after a few drinks between Andy and Tony. Andy, mike in hand, would challenge the heavy rocker - who apparently was a fucking ‘singer’ - to a sing off. Tony would always demur and stick quietly to his Lowenbrow. He didn’t need to show off.

Not one night though…

I don’t know what it was but Andy’s barbs finally got through to Tony and it was decided that they’d do a karaoke challenge to Lionel Richie’s ballad ‘Hello’ which - in terms of Shy’s output - was pretty incongruous if you come to think about it. I always had a sense of humour! Andy started it off:

“I’ve been alone with you in my mind,” he began “And in my dreams I’ve kissed your lips a thousand times.” He sang the next line and, self satisfied, passed the mike to Tony confident he’d raised the bar too high for this girlie man to compete.

“HELLO, IS IT ME YOU”RE LOOKING FOR?” belted out Tony in full concert voice taking the song and the room to a new level. With just those few words, we were in a presence of rock n roll royalty. I knew it. The room knew it. Greenhoff knew it. Andy knew it. A different class. As the backing track continued, Andy got up off his stool and went and sat at a table among the punters. Rick Astley this wasn’t. He had the humility to realise the difference between an amateur and professional. This being Rochdale, this being the 1980s and this being my story, they made up later and duetted together on some MOR classic.

I’ve seen class up close only a few times but two of them were in Rochdale. Lisa Stansfield in my school musical. And Tony Mills, blowing all away in the late 80’s.

Happy Days.

R.I.P Meat Loaf

R.I.P. Brian Greenhoff

And, sadly, too young, R.I.P. Tony Mills - slayer of mediocre singers, drinker of Lowenbrow and unlikely Lionel Richie interpreter.

Charlie's Good Tonight

“Charlie’s good tonight,” announced Mick Jagger on Get Yer Ya Yas Out live album documenting the Stones 1969 US tour.

And he was. Every night.

Not a flashy drummer, he kept the time and the groove, followed cues from Keith Richard’s backside and provided the skins work for some of the best rock music ever. The Stones aren’t the place to find elongated drum solos. And quite right too. Charlie was the rock steady heartbeat that propelled the Stones from Crawdaddy residences in Richmond pubs to mega tours around the world. From timid Chuck Berry covers to those classics we all know.

From what I’ve seen, and from what I’ve read, Charlie was a shy and modest man, contented with his wife and his passions. Not a diva at all or a hotel wrecker. To him music was its own reward.

Charlie follows Brian Jones (and Ian Stewart if you want to be a completist) of dead Stones. 80 is not a bad innings though.

So, I’ve selected one of my favourite live cuts to be his requiem. The 69 Hyde Park concert was an out of tune mess. New boy Taylor wasn’t fully up to speed yet and the sound was atrocious. But the version of Jumpin’ Jack Flash is a classic. Listen - and watch - how Watts propels the Stones through the song. He was rarely animated but here, well let’s say he leads the band with an almighty energy. Rock on Charlie.

Charlie Watts. RIP.

More Stones appreciation here

Little Richard

(An appreciation of Little Richard)

Back in the 70’s, my parents owned five records.* Two Beatles albums - “before they got weird” - With The Beatles and Rubber Soul. The Carpenters greatest hits 1970-74, Abba’s Greatest Hits (72-76 - yeah, before the really good ones!) and K-Tel’s Rockin’ Rollin’ Greats. I played them all but mainly the latter record. It’s what convinced my parents to buy me firstly Jerry Lee Lewis’ Greatest Hits and then, The King himself, Elvis’ 40 Greatest Hits.

So, my first exposure to rock n’ roll was that K-Tel compilation. Twenty years after rock n roll burst on the scene. They were mostly all there : Bill Haley. Gene Vincent. Carl Perkins. The Everlys. Johnny Kidd and the Pirates and Tommy Roe (bizarrely). Oh and Roy Orbison and his sublime, snare drum and riff led, Oh Pretty Woman.

And of course, Little Richard.

K-Tel being the skinflints they were, the two Little Richard cuts (Long Tall Sally and Lucille) were live performances culled from a later 1967 live album. Ordinarily, that would be a problem. Not Richard. He was, as we all know, damn good live and both songs rocked out of the speakers.

This isn’t going to be a long obit. Richard Penniman’s career itself, as a top selling artist, wasn’t long. His career as an icon, an inspirer and live performer though lasted much longer than his initial two / three years of seminal hits.

You know when a little Richard song comes on. The brash piano intro, the brass, the riff, the instinctive three chords and some cleaned up bawdy lyrics. And that voice. A howl. A scream. A falsetto. There is no one like him. He just makes you smile, tap your feet and, if you want to get people going at a function, just slap on ‘Tutti Frutti’ and watch them park their drinks and head to the dance-floor. I know, I’ve done it. Yes, I used to DJ.

So if Elvis combined country hill billy with rhythm and blues, Richard was pure rhythm and blues tinged with gospel. He had the element of a charismatic preacher about him. As we know his personal journey took him to God - he was an ordained priest - and you see within him the struggles he faced. One of the best rock books I’ve ever read is his biography - in which he fully collaborated - which is candid about his sexuality, his drug use, his predilections, but also his warmth as a human being. It is well worth a read and damn funny.

He’s immortalised in the rock movie The Girl Can’t Help It singing the title track (plus Ready Teddy and She’s Got It). Immaculately coiffured, standing astride his long suffering piano, he steals the show from the other musical acts (though I do have a soft spot for Julie London’s Cry Me A River).

And man, did he look good! Hair piled up, snaking moustache and increasingly flamboyant outfits, you can see where former bandmate Jimi Hendrix (who he fired), Otis Redding, James Brown and later Prince, got their inspiration from. He toured with the Beatles and the Stones early in their career, passing on the torch and teaching Paul the nuances of the Little Richard style. As we know, the Fab Four always ended their concerts with their tribute to Richard, a raucous version of Long Tall Sally.

RIP Richard, one of the great ones.

(And yes, Little Richard was included in my permitted obits as listed four years ago.)

Footnote * - Of course they didn’t own just five records. But there was only five I was interested in (at that time). My Mum listened to classical. My Dad listened to swing. The radio played Terry Wogan on Radio 2. We watched Top of the Pops on Thursday nights.

Tom Petty and the death of Gene Clark

Consulting this website's Future Book of The Dead I notice I didn’t put Tom Petty on my list of possible celebrity obituaries. And rightly so. I didn’t really dig him that much. Sure, I had his greatest hits on my iTunes (or at least the ones I liked – about 10). Some of them are okay. I play them sometimes. But it’s not urgent, if you know what I mean.

Basically, one for our American cousins. Nothing wrong with Americana - love it - but not everything travels the Atlantic.

But since he’s dead - and I think my readership is not ready for another one of my 4th Century Roman Empire jerk offs - let’s talk Tom. But only tangentially.

(A note to readers, Mick Taylor will not feature in this article. Read it anyway, guys. Broaden your perspective a little.)

I first came across Tom Petty in 1988/89 when the Travelling Wilburys came out. The others – Dylan, Orbison, Harrison, Lynne were well known to a UK audience. Tom Petty though? Who the fuck was he? And to be honest, although I had both Travelling Wilbury albums at some point, I still didn’t know who Tom Petty was. I still slept good.

The second-time Tom Petty came into my consciousness was through Gene Clark - the magnificent but doomed Byrds singer / songwriter. As is well known, Clark was often an alcoholic, often a junkie. By the late 80’s though, he was semi-clean because his records weren’t selling and he was broke.

Enter Tom Petty.

Petty seemed to have wanted to have been in the Byrds (listen to Here Comes My Girl, for instance). So, on his Full Moon Fever Album, he chose to cover the Clark/Byrds classic – I’ll Feel A Whole Lot Better. A pretty faithful if uninspired cover, frankly. However, as the album was a best seller and stayed in the US charts for ever, Clark, as the unwitting songwriter of one tenth of the album, suddenly got a ton of cash. Clark did what Clark did and got off his tits with every drug he could find.

Yes, Tom Petty killed Gene Clark.

Not knowingly, of course. But the money from Petty fuelled Clark’s habits. And then he died.

So, not really a Tom Petty eulogy. More a couple of random facts about music. About my life. Anyway, listen to this from Tom - its not bad and probably a good way to remember him.

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Rhinestone Cowboy

I came to the Glen Campbell story a little late. In 1975 he had his last burst of chart activity with what was to become his theme song - Rhinestone Cowboy. It was big back then. I remember it and loved it.

Rhinestone Cowboy is an interesting song in that it deals with an urban loser who dreams of becoming one of those rodeo riders, all decked out in a glittering cowboy outfit with fake gems and big smile for the crowds.

In a way - obvious connection never eschewed - that was how Glen Campbell was; a synthetic cowboy hiding some real grief and a more complex oeuvre than the good ole country boy image he got pigeon holed with. He was so much more than country music.

He was a session guitarist in LA playing with the ubiquitous Wrecking Crew of musicians employed by the studios to provide the backing to thousands of hits. I knew he played on The Righteous Brothers songs and lots of surf music but did you know he also played the guitar on Sinatra's Strangers in The Night?

He also had a high voice. This voice got him a stint in the Beach Boys in the mid 60's when Brian Wilson was cooling his toes off in the sand and the touring group needed another harmony. Indeed, it was Brian who gave Campbell his first solo single, the Beach Boysesque - Guess I'm Dumb. This would have slotted nicely into Pet Sounds. It was a failure.

It was another songwriter however that Campbell will forever be associated with - Jimmy Webb. This is where the career defining hits came in - Galveston, By the Time I get to Phoenix and the ever brilliant, never bettered, written in 20 minutes, Wichita Lineman.

For those that follow my videos on YouTube (er, that's probably just me) well you'd know that Wichita Lineman is one of those songs I like to whip out when a guitar and the occasion merits it. This major / minor key song is classy, and Campbell's yearning voice, never fails to send shivers down the spine when he sings:

“And I need you more than want you
And I want you for all time.”

Simple and yet beautiful - the first line cueing up effortlessly the second. Songwriting gold, my friends.

Other favourites from my Glen Campbell list - some well known, others not - are Where's The Playground Susie, If This Is Love, Time, Dreams of the Everyday Housewife, London. If you want to hear how Campbell interprets a song, how his easy style masks virtuosity, listen to his version of Only Make Believe.

From what I've read and from interviews I've watched, Campbell comes across as a nice guy with a prodigious talent. I'm proud to say I was a fan.

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Oh, and I like this one from Glen Campbell's TV show 1970. HIs guest is Neil Diamond. They do a rocking version of Thank The Lord for The Nighttime.

And yes I realise that Glen Campbell wasn't on my list of obituaries... What can I say, some flexibility in my subject matter is important...

Chuck Berry

Who started rock n' roll? How did rock start?

Well, it goes back to Fats Domino, Muddy Waters, Bill Haley perhaps. But who are the archetypes? 

Elvis. Of course. Little Richard. Awopbomoloola! Jerry Lee Lewis. Great Balls of Fire...But if you're a guitarist, it was Chuck Berry who died yesterday.

Like many, I came to Chuck Berry second hand. As is well known, The Beatles and the Stones sprinkled Berry songs all over their early albums. The Stones continued to blast out a couple of Berry songs live late into their career. So, I'd be listening to Get Yer Ya Yas Out for example, and you'd hear amongst the well known Stones songs - Little Queenie, Carol.

It's safe to say, that not a day goes by without me hearing a Chuck Berry song (as I tend to have the Stones live on my iPhone and so, Let It Rock etc are always there). Interestingly enough, the latest song I downloaded last week was a Chuck Berry song by the Stones - Bye Bye Johnny.

His career is well known. His brushes with the law. His partnership with Johnny Johnson. His combination of upbeat R&B, electric guitar riffs, clever lyrics about school, cars, girls. His trouble with the law. His miserliness. His take the money and run attitude to live performances... Yeah, he wasn't a perfect individual. But I guess he didn't have to be. He was an original.

And me. My group used to play Johnny B Goode. And that is all I will say it. We killed Chuck long before yesterday. He deserved better!

It's funny but the scene in Back to the Future where Marty plays Johnny B Goode to the 1950's kids provides one of the best obituaries. Rock n roll was an alien force that quickly took over the world. Chuck Berry led the way with his twin string lead attack.

BTW I don't apologise for showing the Stones below playing Chuck Berry in 1969. My experience of Berry was second hand. He created the platform which elevated others - masterfully demonstrated by Keef and the boys here.

Oh, and if you go back to April 26th 2016 on this blog, Chuck Berry is one of those I said I would write about if they died. One of the greats.RIP Chuck. You had a good innings.

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The Cult of The Dead

In the Mash Tun pub in Brighton, they used to run a sweepstakes on who would be the next celebrity to die. I seem to remember Shane McGowan being odds on favourite most of the time. He's still alive, yeah? Pretty sick but also funny in a dark kind of way.

Anyway, it seems that there's a celeb plague out there this year bumping off revered artists and TV also-rans. In some macabre version of virtue-signalling, one feels almost honour bound to write some appreciation, essay a critical appraisal of the recently deceased star. Well, no more. I have a plan.

I will construct a list and if the dead celebrity is not on the list, then no obit on this site. Harsh but fair. I have other issues to write about, important matters to discuss. I can't keep being blown off course by the cut strings of an arbitrary fate. Blah Blah, RIP and all that. Sad for the families.

Music (for it was, as the song says, my first love)

Beatles - Paul McCartney and RIngo Star, of course

The Stones - Mick, Keith, Charlie, Bill, Mick Taylor and, yeah, Ronnie Wood

The Who - Pete or Roger (The Ox and Mooney having already bought the farm).

Led Zep - Percy or Page. John Paul-Jones

Byrds - McGuinn, Crosby, Hillman

Randoms....

Ray Davies, Morrissey or Marr, Ian Brown, John Squire, Mani or Reni, Madonna, Johnny Rotten, Simon or Garfunkel, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Rod Stewart, Elton John, Trevor Horn (leave space so I can insert later the name of someone really obvious who I've forgotten).

One mustn't always discount the possibility of some random dying who's time is most certainly not due (Prince, for example). 

And that's it. 

Cheers, ears

Tim

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