Top Mick Taylor Studio Tracks

“Ye shall know them by their fruits”

— Matthew 7:16 (KJV)

We all know that in the Mick Taylor Years (1969 / 74) the Rolling Stones were at their live peak. He added a real lead guitar muscle to complement their riff heavy catalogue. They went from being great to being the best. Watching the Stones in this period ranks - with me anyway - alongside watching Elvis 1969-72.  Yeah, two great acts at their peak at the same time. Saw neither. Thank goodness for YouTube.

Apparently Keith Richards once told Mick Taylor he was great live but shit in the studio. There's a ring of truth to this - even if it was overstated. Taylor certainly was less dominant in the Stones albums he played on. Maybe he knew he was being shafted for song writing credits. Maybe Mick and Keef overshadowed MT when it came to controlling who did what and when. They certainly bossed the mixing desk. Playing live they didn't have the same control.

But dig (not too deep) and you have some classic Mick Taylor performances committed to vinyl. 

I've tried to filter out songs where he was just 'one of the band' and purposefully pick songs where it's absolutely all about Mick Taylor. Agree? Disagree? Tell me in the comments.

Mick Taylor appeared on Stones albums between 1969 and 1973*. They are Let It Bleed (just a little) and then Sticky Fingers, Exile on Main Street, Goat's Head Soup and It's Only Rock n Roll plus the live album Get Yer Ya Ya's Out. 

To me, I'd probably rank them Sticky Fingers, Goat's Head Soup, Exile on Main Street, It's Only Rock n Roll. Which is strange as my favourite MT tracks appear on It's Only Rock n Roll. 

Sway - Sticky Fingers (1971)

Keith was absent and so the two Micks fooled around in the studio together, coming up with this gem. A real guitar-heavy rocker, taken at a stately pace, it's one of those Stone tracks that should be better known but it's cult like obscurity makes me feel good I'm in the know. As does my possession of an original Andy Warhol designed jeans zip cover (framed and on my wall next to 8/9 others of similar vintage). This was, for a while, my fav Stones track. Jagger sings exceptionally on this - as demonstrated by his later, pitiful, attempt on the 2013 tour. MT's guitars are hard, the solos fluid - slide and then full on rock solo as the track ends. One to look up if you don't know it.

Winter - Goats Head Soup (1973)

Winter is one of those epic ballads the Stones seemed to just knock off in their sleep in the mid 70's (Angie, Memory Motel, Fool to Cry, Coming Down Again). Just like Sway, it features no Keith Richards. What separates this from the others is the Mick Taylor guitar solo which is both powerful and incendiary. Taylor had a way of complementing Jagger's vocal lines, adding fillers and runs throughout the song. Like he would do when the Stones played live. Many people rate this his best solo. I enjoy it but, no, it would be bettered the following year.

 Can't you Hear Me Knocking - Sticky Fingers (1971)

It starts with a Keef riff and then, according to MT, when everyone was putting their instruments down at the end of the song, the groove just continued - first Bobby Keyes on sax and then, the Master Mick, the God of guitar (virtuosity be his name) started soloing. One take. Not rehearsed. As live as you can get and this is the result. The Stones should have employed this method on their recordings 69-73; just turn Mick Taylor loose. What you get is a classic and a classic because he turns the songs around and pushes it into new directions. That's one of Taylor's strength - his ability to effortlessly improvise.

All Down the Line - Exile on Main Street (1972)

Rock and rolling Stones kicking it back in the South of France, noses in bags of narcotics, dodging tax and playing some of their best music ever! Exile on Main Street was a groove, a feel, the sound of  - to steal a phrase from Sir Paul - a Band on The Run. Mick Taylor adds some sharp, rocking slide guitar, taking the solo. To see how hard MT worked on this track - watch the video below.

Til the Next Goodbye - It's Only Rock n Roll (1974)

Another acoustic ballad, another slide solo. Beautiful song and for some reason completely overlooked. Why?

Honky Tonk Women - Let it Bleed (1969) / Brown Sugar - Sticky Fingers (1971)

Two songs from 1969 (Though Brown Sugar lay in the vaults over a year). Mick Taylor's introduction to the band. Honky Tonk Women - apparently MT made a small but telling contribution. He rocked up the song from the country ballad (Country Honk) to the rock classic we know now. Brown Sugar, is another group ensemble song where MT adds to mix but doesn't stand out. Recording on the sly in 1969 in Muscles Shoals, it was Mick Taylor's suggestion that they play this unreleased song at Altamont when all was falling on the Stones' heads/ Didn't make the film Gimme Shelter but the audio of this first ever version is the Stones against the wall, punching back.

Time Waits for No Man - It's Only Rock n Roll (1974)

The boss. The winner. The best track Mick Taylor and the Stones studio track. So beautiful. So wistful. And that solo at the end! A fucking artist at the top of his game in a band at throwing in a good performance. In the late 80's I wrote a shot song called 'It's Raining Again' and the only good thing about it was that I grafted a sausage fingered version of this MT's solo in the middle. The song is perfect in every way -Jagger's lyrics, Keef's spine tingling riff, Wyman, Watts, Nicky Hopkins and Ray Cooper all adding to the mix. And then Mick Taylor solos like a bastard for two / three full minutes of magic. he employs Latin influenced runs up and down the fretboard. Wow! This is what the Stones could have been. This is the Stones, timeless, standing out of time, looking at us and beckoning mere mortals forward. 

I'm done.

To read my other Mick Taylor pieces, click here...

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* Yeah - Waiting on A Friend was reused in the 80's.

Oasis Maine Road 1996 Flyer

A good gig. Watch it on YouTube! 

Oasis gigs Tim never went to, part 2.

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Oasis Knebworth Flyer

Digging around my scrapbooks - a real Sunday thing to do - found this flyer for Oasis' massive Knebworth gig in 1996. Don't know why I kept it, didn't go, but it's quite historical. 

More 90's memories to follow.

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Misogynist Rant : Dating Profiles

What's wrong with women? Specifically, what's wrong with women's profiles on online dating sites? So very much. I’m offended whenever I dip my toe into this crocodile infested swamp. I know men are worse; that as long as a picture has a pair of tits, they don’t bother with the nuances of grammar or the finer points of the pictures. But still, just because we know this doesn’t mean the bar has to be lowered to the ground.

Rant away Tim!

- A profile that begins with "I don't know what to say..." Yawn. Delete.

- A picture that's been doctored so that it now includes cartoon ears and a dog's nose. Or has cartoon birds or love hearts spinning around their gurning face. Delete

- "a profile that rambles with no attempt at punctuation I like dogs and going out dancing no time for players weirdos not into hook ups and love my family important message me if you wanna know more" Seriously, the ability to form a coherent sentence, to express oneself with precision, seems to be lost. Do we blame the teachers? Probably. Absent fathers? The internet? Mobile phones? Donald Trump?

- Short women who only date tall guys. What's that about?

- Women who end sentences with lol. Any sentence, lol. Lol is the new full stop. Lol. No-one can punctuate anymore. But sentences abhor a vacuum and so 'lol' has been co-opted to fulfil the task. If I see a lol I pass by. Delete. Gone.

- Women sticking their tongues out. Why? So many post pictures of them doing so I must be missing something, some comedic or sexual reference that's beyond me. Maybe. But it's tacky and childish and seems to scream, "I"m mad, me!" Avoid. Delete.

- Negativity. So many women seem to think that an online dating profile is a very good place to opine about the short-comings of males, how we're all arseholes and deviants and after just one thing, that thing our online princesses won't give up easily. Lol. Some ladies also think their headline should be along the lines of "Don't contact me if you're after a one night stand". I'm not but who likes bad energy? Delete.

- Women who want to be taken seriously, who want someone to make them laugh, who can use punctuation, who won't treat them badly, who are solvent, educated and liberal. Not met one.

Should I just copy paste this article onto my profile? Bizarrely, the law of unintended consequences, of not giving a fuck being attractive, might apply. Okay then, bollocks to it!

COPY

PASTE

Hello ladies! lol !!!!

- 

Brighton to Manchester Train

I didn't own a car until 1997. Before that time I either walked, rode my bike or, for longer journeys, hired a car but, most probably, took the train. It seemed a better, fitter existence, though maybe I was just younger and leaner and reaping the benefits of living in a city.

In those days (roughly 1986 to 1997) in order to get between Brighton and Rochdale, I used to take a marvellous direct train that snaked slowly but surely between Brighton and Manchester Piccadilly. I checked National Rail Enquiries this morning, this route doesn't exist any more and one is encouraged to take the commuter train to London, hop on the underground to Euston and then speed up to Manchester from there. It's a quicker journey end-to-end no doubt, but more bitty, and less leisurely.

I remember the Brighton to Manchester journey (and its reverse) being around eight hours but time may be playing tricks on me. Perhaps it only felt that long! There were plenty of stops, from memory - a selection - Gatwick, Kensington Olympia, Banbury, Birmingham New Street, Birmingham International, Stoke, Crewe, Wythenshaw etc etc. Back in those days there were smoking cars and non smoking cars. I sat in either depending on whether I was smoking at the time. Buffet cars existed of course. I actually liked and looked forward to my British Rail cheese and tomato sandwich on white bread. In those days I typically didn't drink alcohol on trains. I was corrupted by a friend one time who brought a four pack with him for the journey. After that...

The interesting thing about the train was that - with so many stops - people were forever getting on and off and the landscape of interaction constantly changed. You might strike up a conversation with someone between say Coventry and Stoke, flirt with a girl between Gatwick and Milton Keynes. Sometimes it was busy, sometimes empty, and this changed depending on the day and the station.

In those pre mobile phone days, what did one do for all these hours? Well, one read, of course. Books and broadsheet newspapers. One could write letters. Yes, people used to write letters to each other! As my journeying was usually prefaced by a leaving - either an end of term or the start of term, letters were what we did. I remember one time writing a letter to a friend on this very journey and stopping in Kensington Olympia, and briefly looking up to see Princess Diana strolling by my window. She was walking along the platform and passed right by me. She got on our train - I believe in a special carriage - though I may be wrong about this - and hitched a ride somewhere (not Brighton, I think). There was no phone to take a snap of her and so I only have my memory of her being so close, separated from me by just a pane of glass.

I do remember the eagerness one got, impatience even, as the last hour of the journey approached. For me, arriving in Manchester Piccadilly, if my parents weren't picking me up, was the start of another journey: a cross town bus to Manchester Victoria, slow train to Rochdale, and parents or taxi for the last leg. 

I wish I'd have taken more pictures of these journeys. I look at the stock photos on the internet and they seem so old, so quaint, that one mixes memories with fiction, imagining white linen clad restaurant cars and Belgian detectives, efficiently run trains and brass buttoned ticket collectors with stamps and strange hats. Like all memories one edits - either consciously or though age and declining brain cells - what is recalled. Probably there was lateness, smoky carriages, boredom, inconsiderate passengers but then also there were no inappropriate phone calls either and although many had Walkmans (if the batteries lasted!) not everyone had white trailing ear phones attached to phones. So people did talk to each other and, given the era, there was more of a sense of homogeneity about the passengers - a shared story, culture, prejudices. Gone now. But so has BR, the route itself, my hair, the careless use of time, being out of contact for long periods of time. Yes, the past is a very different place, how strange it seems sometimes.

Train to London: Nov 1994. The jumper years.

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The idea for this blogpost came from Peter Hitchens and his - far superior - memories of trains in Europe both now and then.from his Sunday Express column 21/01/18.

Top 10 Britpop Songs

MId 90’s Britain - Cool Britannia, Blur v Oasis, 60’s revival, mad for it!

Firstly, let me narrow down exactly which period I’m talking about as things could get muddled and – as someone who used to alphabetise his vinyl collection and order his CDs across two 180cm Ikea Billy cabinets -  structure and order in music are important to me.

The beginning of Britpop was in 1992 when Blur launched their non-album single Popscene onto an uncaring world. Popscene wasn’t ‘baggy’ or ‘Madchester’ or ‘grunge’ or even 'Shoe-Gazing'; it was something noticeably different. Blur spelt this out further the next year pushing the single ‘For Tomorrow’ from their album ‘Modern Life is Rubbish’. They were all about Doc Martens, dog racing and Kink’s style whimsy. Britpop was born.* So 1993 is our start.

And the end? Well, it would be a neat book end to close Britpop down with Blur’s 1997 back to basics Blur album. By that time, Tony Blair and New Labour were in power and Cool Britannia was already a jaded concept. It had run its course and was now just embarrassing.

Probably though the actual end came the summer before when Oasis played their two huge Knebworth gigs. Britpop couldn’t get any bigger. There was nowhere else to go.** It seemed a celebration but also a fin de siècle party for a lost age. A final round of drinks before time was called.

So 1993 – 1996 it is then (or 93-97 if I find a good track and need to bend my own rules).

The Charlatans – Just Lookin’

The Charlatans by the mid 90's had a groove. I saw them a couple of times in the 90's. Great gigs. I love this song for the guitar sound, the guitar solo and the fact that it ROCKS.

Teenage Fanclub – Neil Jung

Saw the Fannies a lot in 1990's. Although they came out of the grunge scene, they produced probably the best Britpop Album in 1995 - Grand Prix. I loved this song and the lyrics always seemed a little personal to me. I did have a girlfriend. She was a lot younger than me.

Ride – From Time to Time

I only saw Ride only once - on The Leave Them All Behind Tour 1992. This one comes from 1994 from Carnival of Light. From Time To Time is one of my favourite Britpop songs but also, one of my favourites anytime, anywhere. Magical, hypnotic, great harmonies. 

Radiohead – Street Spirit (Fade Out)

I remember someone telling me in 1993 that they liked Radiohead. I bought Pablo Honey and thought it shit and so avoided them for the next year. I probably caught the last part of their set at Reading 1993 waiting for Blur. And then - whilst browsing in the Virgin Store in Brighton - they were playing The Bends in 1994. Those last three tracks! Wow! Stunning. And this one, magical and so perfect. They were never this good again.

The Blue Tones – Slight Return

Yeah, I stretch the envelope to 1997 with this one. It takes me back to the Amex Sports and Social Club which had a juke box. I used to play this all the time. Jingle-jangle perfection. 

Oasis -  Rock n Roll Star

There's not much to say that hasn't been said. The mighty Oasis coming out of the blocks with Track 1 of their debut album. They didn't mean this ironically they fooking meant it, man. I never saw Oasis. Or did I? Maybe at The Boardwalk in 1992 before they were famous. But I was pissed and there was a girl.

Morrissey – Spring Heeled Jim

Morrissey, Prince of the Losers in the 80's, was still big in the 90's. I love this track and the authentic scally-wag voices in the background "And they caught 'im, and they said he was mental!"

The Boo Radleys – Wake up Boo

Every morning in the mid 90's you would wake up listening to Chris Evans. His theme song was a bastardised version of this ditty "Wake up! Chris Evans on the Radio...". Cheerful, infectious - a classic. (Though I do prefer their earlier shoe-gazing incarnation).

Blur – Girls and Boys

This is the song that really kicked off Britpop. Blur's 1993 album 'Modern Life is Rubbish' didn't produce any hit singles. I was a big Blur fan and saw them loads of times in the 90's. And then I turned on Top of The Pops in March 1994 and there's my favourite band bouncing around in tracky tops and trainers to this weird song that combines 80's beats with thrashy guitar and amazingly catchy chorus. I remember this as the soundtrack to Tim in Budapest in April 1994.

Sleeper – What Do I Do Now

I saw Sleeper once definitely in Brighton circa 1995 or 1996 as they toured The It Girl. They were shit to be honest. I may have seen them earlier as they supported Blur in either 1993 or 1994 but can't remember. Anyway, although the singer was attractive she was pretty talentless but occasionally (this song, Sale of the Century) Sleeper came out with a bloody good song. You can't ask for more, can you?

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*Some might argue Suede had something to do with it as well but as I thought then – as I think now – they’re just derivative Bowie wannabes, they don’t count. And they’re shite. End of.

** As evidenced by Oasis supporting U2 on their Pop Mart tour in the States. From playing to hundreds of thousands to being the support act to half empty stadiums. It kind of rams it home.

Carfax Tower Oxford - then and now

Can anyone spot the difference between these two images taken 32 years apart on top of Carfax Tower, Oxford?

2017

1985

Tim Robson - Top Posts 2017

(In which Tim babbles about his year in blogs, talks website statistics and - like some jaded good-time girl - tries to understand your preferences)

- What is it with South East Asia and porn?

- What was my theory about Tom Petty’s culpability in the death of Gene Clark?

- What has Wandsworth Council been doing in 2017 to piss away taxpayers’ money?

- What got Tim so upset with Sky in April that the blog literally fell off the rails under the weight of forced anal rape metaphors?

- Why did I post a video of American Trilogy on 21st January?

- And who the fuck lives in Didcot Oxfordshire whose idea of a guilty pleasure is night in with a whisky, some rabbit fur and a long, luxurious  read of this blog?

And who knows when and how to get out of the ever convenient but ever bereft list format style of writing?

Questions. Questions.

So, 2017, almost over, probably not lamented, certainly not celebrated, a prophet without honour even within its own fading span. Blog-wise, where did we go? Did we progress? Did we solve any conundrums, right any wrongs, add one iota to the sum of human knowledge?

To answer this, let me remind you of an old story. Do you remember the one where – unseen – a mouse is fucking an elephant in the arse when the elephant inadvertently stands on a thorn and lets out a great howl of pain and the mouse – still pumping away - shouts, “Yeah, take it bitch!”

I’m not exactly sure what the point of that story was. Am I the mouse? Are you the elephant? Who knows? Sometimes my ways are unknowable, my motives inscrutable, my metaphors a jammed rifle that backfires like some madcap 1940’s cartoon.

Anyway – let me attempt lucidity… I’ve been analysing the traffic stats of this site, and on every measurable scale, 2017 was the year this blog entered the big time, broke all records and had more readers than ever. Thank you all for coming here, even if you only read one article.

As I’ve grumbled here once or twice, my average demographic is probably some middle-aged guy, in his mum’s basement in Lubbock Texas, turning to fat, drinking some bourbon, listening to golden era Stones and, in between accessing niche interest porn, reading my articles about Mick Taylor.

Mick Taylor. Mick Fucking Taylor. I guess I’m gonna have to continually be ‘The Mick Taylor Guy’. By far most of the traffic that comes to this site is directed at the two Mick Taylor articles I've written. If only I could think of a way to monetarise your interest, I’d be rich. If I charged a mere $1 for a sneak-peak at my Mick Taylor articles, I’d have amassed, I dunno, a few hundred bucks by now.

Anyway, here is my list of my favourite blog posts in 2017. It's a good way to ease yourself into my muse.

Covetousness

Tom Petty and the Death of Gene Clark

Inevitable Unions

Mick Taylor Street Fighting Guitarist

Whispers and Echoes

How to Troll

Things I know longer give a fuck about – dancing

Lavender Hill

A Solipsism Too Far

Battle Hymn of the Republic

Next, I'll go through my favourite moments of 2017 and my favourite songs. But for now, let me leave you with:-

---

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Corelli's Christmas Concerto

This year, I've been playing my Christmas music, as usual. I only listen to Christmas music - both religious and profane - in the actual month of December. Which is probably why shops who slap on their 'Now that's what I call Xmas' in September annoy me so much. There's something trivial, easy and unthinking about this practise. Does no-one in these stores have any sense or decorum?

They could, of course, adopt the musical policy of Clapham Common tube station who play classical music in their foyer; usually beautiful, restful and uplifting Vivaldi. Because this year I've discovered Arcangelo Corelli's Christmas Concerto. Now, this I could tolerate in September though - like a chastened monk, I'd never play it at home before 1st December.

Yes, a baroque concerto about Christmas. Why have I never found this piece of music before, me who loves to baroque and roll so very much? It's serious, moving, beautiful even. It reminds me that Christmas isn't just about discos when you were 16, or first kisses, or friends who were important at the time but are now a wistful footnote. There's something contemplative about this 12-15 minutes (different groups play it faster or slower at will). For me - since you ask - I like to reflect, remember previous Christmases and, like Marcus Aurelius, come to grips with how very insignificant is my role in the scheme of things.

So, I'm pleased that I've discovered this piece of music. I hope you like it too.

Merry Christmas

Tim

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Tim Robson's New Novel

“A writer wrote a word a day
Carefully selected.
Until he had marvellous novel
Everybody rejected.”

— Annoymous

It's been three years since Franco's Fiesta stormed the lower reaches of Amazon's best selling charts. Some days it manfully sold its way to the top 100,000 paperback sales in the world (or UK, or Brighton or my road or something). I think I've given out those 10 copies now to friends and family. Did you get one? 

A question I'm (never) asked is, when are you going to write another. Well, what with the writing, editing, promotion, the hotels, the literary festivals, the groupies, who has time? And some authors should stick at just one book (looking at you Harper Lee). Well, I feel I've got at least another book in me. I didn't achieve all I wanted with Franco's Fiesta (fame, money, groupies, lead part in the film of the book, soundtrack, album, er, yeah. Wanker.)

So, lately, quietly but methodically I've been planning my next novel. Ha! Yeah - planning. As if I didn't just pen some crap and then edit it and think, is this a short story or does it deserve another chapter? Well, this latest one, deserves another chapter. And probably several more after that.

So, what's it about? In answer to this, let me quote myself using some bullshit I penned for a small publisher who took one of my short stories:-

“I’m lucky to walk along Lavender Hill every day on my way to work. And every day I observe hundreds of interesting characters who cross my path. Who are they and what are they doing and why are they here?

Teeming with ideas I get to my office ready to start writing a new piece. And then, I think - “fuck it” and just write about myself. Again.

I am my own God.”

— Tim Robson - The Rejected Manuscripts interview.

Amusing, eh? But not so true this time - just as it wasn't for Franco's Fiesta. I can use that thing - what's it called? - oh yeah! imagination. I make stuff up. That doesn't mean I don't steal people or events or places from real life, because I do. I put them all in a black velvet bag, shake the pieces and draw from it randomly. And write.

But I'm more conscious of posterity, more aware of precedents, less convinced of my uniqueness. I'm also getting to like longer sentences, longer sentences with sub clauses, errant thoughts, asides, funky punctuation and literary allusions. Fuck short sentences. Precision can be reached by either the front door or via a circuitous route through the back door. 

I will say this. I've been quite influenced by some of the books I've read recently. Breakfast at Tiffany's was great but then so was The Go-Between. And others. But I think I'm pitching for that capturing the zeitgeist stardust. 

Anyway, two chapters down. Slow progress but it will speed up, I know.

Place your advance orders now!!

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Amex Sponsors Christmas

It's pretty well known that I used to work for American Express. I think the phrase used in these situations is "Amex is a good company, with a good product, but I've moved on now. Got good memories though." Party line. 

Yeah.

Anyway, Amex does do one good thing which is its annual shop small where, in many small shops and pubs that take Amex, if you spend £10 you get £5 back. Obviously Amex want to prove to merchants the value they bring despite taking a market topping discount rate. Whatever the motive, if you have an Amex card, then these two weeks in early December are a good time to do a pub crawl with Amex coughing up £5 in every £10 (once per location).

So, in a very real way, Amex is sponsoring my Christmas. I have the hangover to prove it.

For my previous thoughts on Xmas click here. 

Enjoy the video and let's push it to 50 views. 

Cheers

Tim

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Mick Taylor and Tim Robson

Occasionally I look through the analytics of my website. I've also recently signed up to Hotjar which provides free analytics for small scale sites like this. And what do I conclude?

More people are coming to this site month on month. I'm breaking internally records frequently. It's gratifying to know that my work (my huge body of work) is being read by more and more people. And people from all over the world (I'm big in Indonesia - who knew?).

BUT YOU'RE ALL READING ONE FUCKING ARTICLE !!! Mick Taylor and that guitar solo.

It's like Chuck Berry writing the genre defining rock songs but having his largest hit with 'My Ding-A-Ling'. 

Come on people, I'm better than this! I write about stuff, you know.

- Rock music

- Roman History

- Modern Dating

- Architecture

- Me. 

- And yeah - Mick Taylor in the Stones a couple of times.

I get that Mick Taylor's great. He is. Why else would I write about him? But FFS! I'm more than the sum of my Mick Taylor articles.

Yeah. Chasing my audience away with a shitty stick. I'm an artist, dammit.

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How to Take A Compliment

“You look good. The beard suits you,” she said giving me a one up, one down look. She turned to her flatmate. “Men always get better looking as they get older!”

Now receiving a compliment from a beautiful French woman – albeit patently untrue – is an ego boost whether you're 20 and square jawed or in your forties and bald. But how to react?

I probably blushed and mumbled something inconsequential. I’m not used to receiving, let alone taking, a compliment. When something is unusual, out of the ordinary, I tend to burble  a forgettable response. I might have said something complimentary back. Sincere and merited - no doubt - but all the same, knicker-not-dropping banal. 

So, in retrospect, here's what I should have said:-

1) "I know." Short, classy, the blonde in a Little Black Dress of receiving compliments.

2) "Get your coat you've pulled." or it's cockier twin, "Get your coat, I've pulled."

3) "Give me a fiver and I'll let you lick my beard." Yeah, sounds a bit 'out there', no? Slightly perverse? But, I knew a girl once who liked to suck my beard. Yeah, I said beard. Weird and yet shockingly erotic. (Forgot that until just now. Muse. Muse. Muse.)

4) What about - "You look great too! Get on your dancing shoes and we'll head to an age appropriate club that plays songs from yesteryear and we can pretend we're young." Usual Friday night then. Tim rides the sofa solus (again).

5) "The secret is regular sex. I need to do it four times a day. Oh look! I think I'm due a session now." Tacky. Tacky. Tim. You didn't say this did you? Er, probably. Later. Slurred perhaps. Women love that.

6) "Thank you, I don't believe you but I'm happy you said that. You however always look great!" This is probably the best response. Acknowledge. Deflect. Give back. Must learn this one.

Anyway, next time I get a compliment I'll post it on this website. They don't come often. Not as often as I'd like. There was one in 1988. I have the letter. 

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Signs of Christmas on Lavender Hill

It's getting to that time of year again.

The Ascension of the Lord's garden is fenced off in preparation for selling Christmas trees. Fine. Fine. But who the hell buys cut Christmas trees in early November? Fools. That's who.

Bar Social has Christmas lights in October (see picture). Ocean going stupidity - like Christmas carols playing in a garden centre during September. Like scraping into a car in Tesco carpark and doing a runner without leaving a note. Just crass.

The fashion this year is for the ladies to don a wooly hat with a pom pom. Today I was falling over fashionable Clapham women in these accrutiments sashaying past me and into memory. Which reminds me, I think I need to upgrade my head gear - had a business meeting today with a client in a flat cap.

Tim switches from white wine to red wine in honour of the festive season. Let us not forget the religious nature of Saturnalia. Er, Christmas.

Below we have Oasis going toe to toe with Beatles around Xmas 1994. They are the only group who could (briefly) take on The Fab Four and not get their ass handed to them. Enjoy.

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Covetousness

“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s.”

— Exodus 20:17 (KJV)

“Are these seats free?”

I looked up scowling. Although I’d expected this request - given how busy the theatre bar was - I was still annoyed. I gave a shrug of the shoulders and an imperceptible nod of the head. She sat down.

Pretending to look at my laptop, I surreptitiously checked her out. Yeah, not bad. Made the effort, black crochet cardigan over some sort of cami top. Hint of cleavage. Obviously here to see the performance. And what else?

Yeah, it was packed at Battersea Arts Centre.

And then he came over. For some reason, I hadn’t expected this obvious doubling up. He was tall with a weak chin carrying a pint and a red wine. He sat down next to me and opposite her. I returned to trolling the comments section of a left-wing newspaper.

“…I teach seven year olds. A real handful – you come home sometimes really tired out.”

“I bet.”

“But I love teaching.”
“How long have you done it?”

Wow!  They were on a first date! Match? Tinder? No. Probably Guardian Soulmates.

She surrendered the spotlight quickly and with grace. Clearly out to impress. She smiled and her eyes signalled -'impress me'. Men love to talk about themselves.

And then he started on what he did. Something scientific. Probably through his training in scientific method – but not in the art of conversation – he started at the beginning and slowly, so slowly, worked forward. We heard about his degree, his Masters and how he got his doctorate and what his dissertation was about. Fuck! And then his job at some light engineering firm on the M4 corridor. All related with zero wit, empathy or concern for his audience.

It’s five minutes she and I can never get back. I could hear her fake laugh as she struggled to follow his torturous story – giving it a social acceptance that was both unnecessary and - frankly - underserved.

She was ready to suspend judgement, make this a success and work with whatever she was presented with. It's hard to meet a good man these days, isn't it?

He just ploughed on not caring, not aware, not trying. God created self-abuse specifically with this guy in mind.

And then the bell rang for the performance to start and this interruption cut through the fog of ennui swirling around the table.

“We should…?” he suggested.

“Yes,” she replied - gratefully gulping her wine.

My fingers flew over the keyboard writing some biting words about this mismatch, about this travesty.

But as they walked away through the crowd, he reached out his hand out to guide her and her fingers enfolded his. Briefly, his eyes met hers and a timid but welcoming smile mirrored on both faces. They left the bar – and my life – tenderly, together.

Adrift, I returned to my laptop. But my arrogant words no longer read so well, my humour now seemed ill judged and bitter. 

I had coveted my neighbour's ass. Well his companion's ass.

And that's two commandments broken this evening.

LP Hartley, Graham Greene, de Maupassant & Ammianus go into a bar

“Libraries gave us power...”

— A Design for Life, Manic Street Preachers

So, LP Hartley, Graham Greene, Guy de Maupassant and Ammianus Marcellinus go into a pub one night to discuss which Tim Robson article, short story, or er, novel, they like best.

LPH: I like his early stuff. It's different - almost a different country.

GG:  Bollocks mates, I love all of it. As a writer, I measure my love by the extent of my jealousy. And I'm really jealous of Tim. 

GdM: J'aime ses articles francais.

GG:   In English mate.

GdM: I love it when he swears a lot and talks about getting pissed and failing with girls.

AM:    Rather reminds me of a young Julian.

LPH:   No Spear of Destiny in this one I'm afraid.

GG:     What? The shite 80's band?

AM:     No. Anyway, I like his stuff about the 4th Century Roman Empire.

GdM:   Talking your own book again?

---

Etc etc. Yes, I used to write like this once. When I edited the school magazine. Well, sans les filles, something had to amuse me.

So this rather long preamble is my annoying way to mention that I've started to read again. As a literary autodidact I range freely within self imposed barriers. I'm not really a fan of the latest literature - maybe because I want to read what history has determined is worth reading rather follow the latest trend. Classics, in fact. And yes, I also distrust gatekeepers (in life, in knowledge) but I'll let this pass. The judgement of history - over time - tends to be validated.

So, recently I've been reading:-

- LP Hartley - The Go-Between

- Graham Greene - The End of the Affair

- Guy de Maupassant - Bel Ami

- Ammianus - Roman History

Three fiction and one non fiction which is a pretty good balance, I think. For too long I've been reading history, history, history so it's nice to refresh my love of literature. I devour these books with the eye of a writer; hoarding phrases, constructions, unusual words for later adaption and use myself. Yeah, I borrow from the best. If I'm struck by a phrase, I'll write it down and try to adapt it for my needs. The Bible's good for this too! I'm not proud. 

And where do I get this treasure trove of endless literature?

Battersea Library, Lavender Hill. Yeah, unfashionable and dusty, the good old library. Like a good bookshop, I go in with no preconceptions and end up borrowing something I didn't intend. That's the beauty of it - challenging myself to read new authors, new books and push beyond quotidian Hardy, Austin, Balzac, Wilde, Zola (fuck, I'm well read! In the 19th century.). 

Libraries. Another great 19th Century invention along with the Rochdale co-operative movement. Self help. Knowledge. Confronting the world as it is not as it should be. One hundred and fifty years ago I would have been a Radical Liberal or a Socialist. 

I don't preach. But a house with books is better than a house with a large TV. I stick with this prejudice though often it hurts. Rousseau beats Hobbes every time. Eventually.

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What'll you be having?

(Part 2 of the Self Indulgence series)

Although I don't often drink, I think an article on my drinking habits is well overdue. The world tugs at my sleeve and begs to know.  Afterall, I know you all want to buy me a drink, right?  So let's take a look

Pre-University - The Rochdale years

Ah - The Brown Cow, The Grapes, The Elephant and Castle, The Madison, Yates Wine Bar. Yes, young Tim cut a dash in Rochdale. What would you buy him? Well, frankly anything, but if pushed snakebite and black (do you wanna cherry with that?), or Bacardi and Coke.

Student Days

I remember one sunny day in May 1987 sat in a field drinking a 1979 Portuguese red, eating Stilton and reading Wuthering Heights. That would be the high point naturally. However, awful, gut rotting cocktails, Kronenberg 1666 for 70p, cans of pale ale and pints of lager and lime, these were the real drinks that powered my intellectual assault on the left wing fantasy that was Sussex University in the 80's.

Girls, Amex and nightclubs

Amex used have a Sports and Social club where the drinks were cheap and where younger members of staff got pissed and then got off with each other. In and out of love, young Tim used to be double parked with large whiskies and lager. Apparently doubles - downed in one - and in a manly fashion, allowed my 'funny' personality to take a walk.

The docility

One thing that annoys me is smug couples in their late 20's, early 30's playing at being mature and living their domestic existence. Earnest dinner parties are held, polite conversation dominates, babies are born and careers pursued. Received wisdom and cosy consensus are very much welcome. Craft beer is drunk sparingly and The Sunday Times Wine Club's box of mixed eagerly anticipated. Yes, I was that person. Once. My smugness has gone. Gone. 

Unexpectedly Single

Cigarettes and alcohol. Sambuca, whiskey, wine at home, beer when out out.

And now (late 30's)

Wine. Mainly Cava. Large glasses of red. Interestingly enough, I was out with four girls a couple of weeks ago in Hove. Yeah, me and 4 girls. Sounds like the cue to a joke, right? Anyway, like a girl, I had a glass of wine. They all drank pints of lager. I'm going to have to road-test this new sophistication, try it on for size and see what it brings.

Anyway, I thought you might like to know.

(BTW I like my indulgences somewhat of the selfish variety).

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Tim Robson says "Sorry"

(Self Indulgence Alert)

I have some dark moments from my past that play on my mind. Where I feel an apology is owed to those that I hurt.

Awful relationships? Cruel jibes? Insensitivity? Missed birthdays? Can I get an amen from all those who know me. But let's get specific and name where a sense of atonement is most needed. 

I am truly sorry to those who suffered in the 90's listening to my various bands in the 90’s. Jesus! there were some bad gigs.

So - who gets the apology? Sadly few as my band didn't play Wembley that often. Well, not at all. We had a gig in Finchley once. Awful.

Tempting Alice, The Hare and Hounds, Brighton 1992

Tempting Alice was an indie, baggie type of band with decent musicians. I was the singer. At our penultimate gig, following my normal warm up of a few doubles, I decided to swing the mike around like Roger Daltery.  Inevitably a fumble occurred resulting in some painful microphone to singer’s head action.  End of Set 1 with singer on the floor. Set 2 opened with me now demanding I play guitar on one of my own songs. A sensitive folk ballad went down in flames in a hail of overwrought feedback as I pushed it all the way to 11. Overdoing Pete Townsend this time, my energetic wind-milling ending with the amp and myself falling off the stage. No one rushed to help.

Tempting Alice - let's not be shy about it; I was the heart-throb as well as the singer in this band.

The Pinter Boys, Amex Sports and Social Club, 1994

Two years later, I was leading a power trio. For this gig, I enlisted a Bez like tambourine player and my then girlfriend to sing harmonies. The Tambourine player had no rhythm and my girlfriend couldn’t sing. The bassist muttered darkly about Yoko Ono. Using a borrowed guitar that went out of tune on the first chord, I bludgeoned the audience by playing as loud as possible. The audience disappeared. The band played on. However, as I also edited the staff magazine, I gave the gig a glowing review.

Shambolic at the Norfolk, Brighton 1995

After some ‘musical’ disagreements, The Pinter Boys became Shambolic. Shambolic were my band and I was the lead singer and lead guitarist and Der Fuhrer. We deserved the – at first – disinterest of the sparse audience and then – after I broke not one, but two strings – their derision and boos. A real low in the history of live music. A truly shite gig. Captured on tape to my mortification.

Shambolic - battling the apathy of the crowd, fighting the growing drunkenness (on stage!).

Shambolic at Sussex University Free Festival, 1995

“Get off you wankers!” – an anonymous audience member.

How was this allowed to happen? How did those students so self-hate that they booked my band to play at their festival? Drinking my rider like a thirsty 70’s rock band, I took to the stage in what might be termed ‘high spirits’. At once abusing and pleading with the audience, I occasionally broke off my ranting to play a few songs. Mistake. Soloing on my knees at one point I managed to pull my guitar lead out to the biggest cheer of the set. The low light was an out of tune rock version of Kim Wilde’s Kids in America. The rape scene in Deliverance had more sensitivity.

 Shambolic, New Cross, London 1995

Backing up a band of 17-year-old wannabes, this New Cross audience wasn’t really in the mood to listen to a band seemingly made up of Status Quo roadies. I managed six songs before breaking a string prompting the venue manager, with enthusiastic cheers from a partisan audience, to tell us to get off (he may have used another word). London's never been a great town for my band. Tough audience.

 Shambolic at the Freebutt, Brighton 1995

Awful, shameful and embarrassing. Friends came, friends laughed, friends left. The highlight of the gig was someone from the audience standing behind me with a large sign saying ‘This Man Has No Penis’ as I soloed on oblivious. Briefly I thought I was bringing musical joy to the world. No, they’re just laughing at you Tim.

Shambolic at The Road House, Crawley, 1995

My, this was a lousy gig. In one sense, it was a success as we got out without being hit. I decided to play sober to up the musical quotient. And then I realised it wasn’t the drink that held me back; it was me. No one who was there – band, punters, staff – will ever look back on this night with pride. You should visit the Road House now to view the plaque put up after the gig which reads ‘Shambolic died here, on stage, 1995. Good’.

Road House. Shambolic died that night. Again.

Shambolic at The Hare and Hounds, Brighton 1996

For the last ever Shambolic gig, I somehow got us booked to the scene of my downfall 4 years earlier. This time I made sure I was well and truly pissed before I plugged my Marshall in - provoking the inevitable ‘Can you turn it down mate’ from the barman. Off my tits, I missed out whole sections out of songs, fluffed every solo, sang out of tune, forgot the words and decided I was now more a ‘comic’ than a frontman. The gig ended with a ragged ‘Sweet Transvestite’ from the Rocky Horror Show before I sacked the other two members of the group live on stage. They didn’t look too upset.

---

My career in a rock band was now officially over. For those that saw these gigs, who suffered through that cacophony of dissonance and feedback I called music, I heartily apologise. They were shockers – drunken fiascos, self-indulgent and artistically redundant.

Sorry or not though, I miss those days.

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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Conquering the Web

Occasionally I break habits, turn things around and walk a different path. In these moments I have cider instead of wine, the pesto chicken instead of the steak, wear Oxblood shoes instead of my usual two tone brogues. But sometimes more than that; impulsively joining a gym, or booking a weekend away, quitting coffee (yes, I did the latter last week).

On Monday, I'm starting a night class in Richmond. Web Design.

Huh? How's that work Tim? You're writing this on a goddamn website already.

True, I am, but - like my chatting up skills - I can always get better. So after 10 weeks, expect new things, great things on this website! What? Who knows? All I do know is :-

1) It was a total bitch setting up this website with me falling down more blind alleys than a drunken gimp running wildly through a nighttime Souk.

2) There's loads of stuff I could be doing here that is just too much of a faff to work out myself. Most of the controls on this website I've no idea how to use. Who knows, the text could be dancing across the screen backwards in multi coloured letters as I charm and amuse. Or maybe I can work out how to link this website to Social Media. 

3) Monetise my fanbase. Well obvs kids. Wait for timrobson.eu sponsored by Tom Ford or Waitrose Bavette Steaks or, indeed, Battersea Arts Centre. How much, I mean, how much, have I plugged this place in the last year? A shit load. I mean, getting 10% off my drinks - though my membership expired in April - doesn't nearly cover all the free advertising they get from this site. Nowhere near, at market rates.

4) The chicks. Computer classes are well known as pick up joints. We all know that. A smile, a sly wink followed with "You coming out for a cheeky drink, love?". We all know where it leads. As you were.

5) There is no five (Oh grow up Tim).

So what I'm saying is - quite literally - watch this space!

Tim Robson (Making Britain Great Again)

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