Well, when you think about it, Wu-Tang Clan are the Belle and Sebastian of hip-hop, and 'Bring da Ruckus' is their 'The State I Am In'. In this blog, I will ...
This is one of my favourite songs. Favourite songs in the world. Has been for over 20 years. I won't be able to do justice to it, but there we go.
I first encountered the Wu-Tang Clan on the cover of the NME in 1997 - ashamed to say I hadn't heard of them until then. This was a big interview to publicize their second album 'Wu-Tang Forever'.
The interview was a riot of late arrivals and quotability - Knowledge is knowing the ledge, Wu-Tang is just ... Wu-Tang etc. The one thing I mainly remember is the only one who seemed more down-to-earth and less self-aggrandising was the ODB, counterintuitively.
Anyhow, I didn't listen to them then, but a couple of years later, I bought their classic debut 'Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)'.
'Bring da Ruckus' is the opening track, and, like millions of others, I was instantly hooked.
I wasn't really into hip-hop growing up. I was aware of it. Other kids at school listened to it, from NWA and De La Soul to Jurassic 5 and A Tribe Called Quest - it would be on Top of the Pops, though usually in a somewhat bowdlerized form. By the time I bought 'Enter the Wu-Tang', I probably already owned a couple of Public Enemy albums, but not that much more than that.
Wu-Tang is, I think, the perfect introduction to what makes hip-hop great, for a suspicious indie kid - the pop culture references, the multiple personalities, the humour, the sense of danger, the not knowing quite whether it's genuinely dangerous or all a big joke, or a bit of both, the eclectic production - it was something that could be enjoyed on many levels.
To be honest, it was 'Bring da Ruckus' I was mainly hooked on to start with. Initially it dwarfed the rest of the album, and it was years before I investigated the rest of the discography properly. I said I was a Wu-Tang Clan fan, and I followed their story, its ups and downs, and listened to a bit of new music here and there, but it's really only recently that I've investigated the back catalogue more thoroughly.
Importantly, as any proper Wu-Tang fan knows, the small number of official Wu-Tang Clan albums are just the tip of the iceberg. There are genuinely brilliant records by solo members which are often not that far from group efforts. Two of those which are highly acclaimed and which I've been listening to a lot lately are 'Liquid Swords' by the GZA and 'Supreme Clientele' by Ghostface Killah.
The GZA, Gary Grice, is the RZA's (and the late ODB's) cousin. The RZA (Robert Diggs) is the Number 1 genius behind Wu-Tang Clan, the producer and the leader. His cinematic production style has been hugely influential, not least on Kanye West (he guests on West's 'My Beautiful ... Fantasy'. Notwithstanding all that, I actually love his rapping (it's him that snarls the refrain on 'Bring da Ruckus' - a fearsome call to arms in one sense, but somehow rendered endearing by his dropped r's).
Wu-Tang's influence is deep and wide and they've a fame which transcends their sales (the first two albums were big sellers, but there hasn't been much in the way of singles success). One such instance is their infamous 'Once Upon a Time in Shaolin' album, of which one copy was made and sold to the highest bidder, who turned out to be the loathsome pharma-bro Martin Shkreli. And, hilariously, the whole saga, somehow, was officially chronicled by someone called Cyrus Bozoghmehr, who I was at school with. Cyrus, a fearsome rugby and football player, used to shamelessly (and dreadfully) burst into song on the District Line. All part of the great lineage of art terrorism, I suppose.
So much did I love 'Bring da Ruckus', i suspect I sometimes forgot its beauty wasn't universally recognised. A feeling of genuine (not just comical) shame overcomes me when I think of a friend's black tie, parents and grandparents included, birthday party in an extremely fancy and picturesque venue being spoiled by me and a couple of friends shouting the refrain from 'Ruckus' at the top of our lungs. Likewise, I remember being in a car with my mother and putting on one of my lovingly-crafted compilation tapes, which was all going swimmingly, in particular when it got to 'Over the Rainbow', only for that to transition into 'Bring da Ruckus'. I mean, it's a great juxtaposition, but still, a bit beyond the pale, really.
Anyway, I still love the song, and, as it happens, the comparison with 'The State I Am In' stands - as the first song on their first album, it exemplifies everything great about the band - you might argue it's never been improved upon, but, in each case, that's a very high bar.
PS I remembered another thing I love about the Wu-Tang Clan; it's that, if you take their real names, it sounds like halfway down the leaderboard of a European Tour golf tournament of the late 80s - Robert Diggs, Gary Grice, Dennis Coles, Russell Jones, Clifford Smith, Jason Hunter, Corey Woods ...
Monday 30 March 2020
Saturday 28 March 2020
Song 82: Get Some Sleep
This is a song by the New Zealand singer-songwriter Bic Runga
Get Some Sleep
from the 2002 album 'Beautiful Collision' which I think I bought in 2003 but I want to talk about listening to it in 2004.
It's a rather lovely, perfectly wrought album. It doesn't really belong to a genre, it's too caustic to be easy listening though it is easy to listen to, it's not indie, it's just too clean, it's not quite pop or rock.
I listened to it a lot for a while, over the course of a couple of years, then not much for a decade or so, but it's one of the ones I've found myself listening to lately, along with the usual likes of Nick Drake, Kathryn Williams, Stevie Wonder and Carole King.
I think Carole King's 'Tapestry' might be the best point of comparison. It doesn't sound like it as such - it's guitar more than piano led, it's more reserved, and you know, less full of classic melodies which everyone knows.
But it's a wholly realised collection of songs, crisp and clear and grown-up.
'Get Some Sleep' is probably the poppiest track on the record (apart from one which I'll get to in a second). It has this lovely, simple lyric, which again, seems quite fitting in this time of distant connections - "tune into the station, make a dedication, this is going out to everyone".
Runga didn't linger in obscurity. The album was vastly successful in her native New Zealand, and a track from her debut album 'Drive', called 'Sway' was prominent on the soundtrack to 'American Pie'.
'Sway' was tacked on to the end of the UK version of 'Beautiful Collision' and I remember listening to the album and thinking "why does it feel like I've heard that song before?" ... and that way why, though it's one of those melodies which sounds like it's been done a million times before, but you still forgive it for the prettiness of the song. As I recall, 'Sway' does 'American Pie' a massive service. People like me, who wouldn't normally go and see a film like that, were sold on going to see it by reviewers saying despite its grossness, it had a sweetness, and, so it did, but I'm quite sure a lot of that sweetness is given to it by its use of a song like 'Sway' amongst the tuneful pop-punk of the time.
Anyway, 'Beautiful Collision', and 'Get Some Sleep' in particular, I associate with a brief trip to North Wales at Easter 2004, just at that very point when wintery spring was becoming summery spring.
I went with three other men, in a car, stayed deep in the heart of Snowdonia, in a, like, dormitory of a, like, outbound centre relating to the school of my friend Stephen. I think that's what it was. No signal or internet or anything. No sun right there, but in the daytime we'd go out to the castles on the coast - Caernarfon, Criccieth, Beaumaris, Conwy, Harlech, and I remember sun there.
Those castles are special. You may know them. Harlech Castle is one of the wonders of the world, simple as that (I've been a few more times since).
I remember us driving in permanent light rain and I associate Bic Runga with it, though I don't know if it was personal or shared listening, but I think maybe New Zealand and Wales are associated in my head, with wind and rain and beauty and sheep, just glistening.
Neil Finn of Crowded House is a significant sideman on the album, and there's a lovely bit on a track called 'Listening for the Weather' (assume deliberately referential?) where his backing vocals really come to the fore and the're really Kiwi - you can hear him harmonisng "never be afride of chinge" and it's just really nice.
Anyway, at the time, I was very in-between, and I remember that trip was completely free from everything else and that was very nice, free from phones and worry, and we drank beer and I remember one evening drunk cider in this old schoolhouse like teenagers - it was the weekend Brian Lara got 400*, I think I remember that.
But, yeah, I can't really describe how it is that I associate that Bic Runga album with it, its precision, its perfection, its glistening, some kind of renewal and separation from the usual.
I feel lucky this week amidst all the horror and dismay, I feel lucky to be working in the shed at the bottom of my garden, listening to old albums I've always loved, watching squirrels, cats chasing birds, a fox ambling through, seeing the blossom almost coming out and the grass starting to grow. So, perhaps, yes, separation is the right word- this album is a brief separation from the cares of the world.
Get Some Sleep
from the 2002 album 'Beautiful Collision' which I think I bought in 2003 but I want to talk about listening to it in 2004.
It's a rather lovely, perfectly wrought album. It doesn't really belong to a genre, it's too caustic to be easy listening though it is easy to listen to, it's not indie, it's just too clean, it's not quite pop or rock.
I listened to it a lot for a while, over the course of a couple of years, then not much for a decade or so, but it's one of the ones I've found myself listening to lately, along with the usual likes of Nick Drake, Kathryn Williams, Stevie Wonder and Carole King.
I think Carole King's 'Tapestry' might be the best point of comparison. It doesn't sound like it as such - it's guitar more than piano led, it's more reserved, and you know, less full of classic melodies which everyone knows.
But it's a wholly realised collection of songs, crisp and clear and grown-up.
'Get Some Sleep' is probably the poppiest track on the record (apart from one which I'll get to in a second). It has this lovely, simple lyric, which again, seems quite fitting in this time of distant connections - "tune into the station, make a dedication, this is going out to everyone".
Runga didn't linger in obscurity. The album was vastly successful in her native New Zealand, and a track from her debut album 'Drive', called 'Sway' was prominent on the soundtrack to 'American Pie'.
'Sway' was tacked on to the end of the UK version of 'Beautiful Collision' and I remember listening to the album and thinking "why does it feel like I've heard that song before?" ... and that way why, though it's one of those melodies which sounds like it's been done a million times before, but you still forgive it for the prettiness of the song. As I recall, 'Sway' does 'American Pie' a massive service. People like me, who wouldn't normally go and see a film like that, were sold on going to see it by reviewers saying despite its grossness, it had a sweetness, and, so it did, but I'm quite sure a lot of that sweetness is given to it by its use of a song like 'Sway' amongst the tuneful pop-punk of the time.
Anyway, 'Beautiful Collision', and 'Get Some Sleep' in particular, I associate with a brief trip to North Wales at Easter 2004, just at that very point when wintery spring was becoming summery spring.
I went with three other men, in a car, stayed deep in the heart of Snowdonia, in a, like, dormitory of a, like, outbound centre relating to the school of my friend Stephen. I think that's what it was. No signal or internet or anything. No sun right there, but in the daytime we'd go out to the castles on the coast - Caernarfon, Criccieth, Beaumaris, Conwy, Harlech, and I remember sun there.
Those castles are special. You may know them. Harlech Castle is one of the wonders of the world, simple as that (I've been a few more times since).
I remember us driving in permanent light rain and I associate Bic Runga with it, though I don't know if it was personal or shared listening, but I think maybe New Zealand and Wales are associated in my head, with wind and rain and beauty and sheep, just glistening.
Neil Finn of Crowded House is a significant sideman on the album, and there's a lovely bit on a track called 'Listening for the Weather' (assume deliberately referential?) where his backing vocals really come to the fore and the're really Kiwi - you can hear him harmonisng "never be afride of chinge" and it's just really nice.
Anyway, at the time, I was very in-between, and I remember that trip was completely free from everything else and that was very nice, free from phones and worry, and we drank beer and I remember one evening drunk cider in this old schoolhouse like teenagers - it was the weekend Brian Lara got 400*, I think I remember that.
But, yeah, I can't really describe how it is that I associate that Bic Runga album with it, its precision, its perfection, its glistening, some kind of renewal and separation from the usual.
I feel lucky this week amidst all the horror and dismay, I feel lucky to be working in the shed at the bottom of my garden, listening to old albums I've always loved, watching squirrels, cats chasing birds, a fox ambling through, seeing the blossom almost coming out and the grass starting to grow. So, perhaps, yes, separation is the right word- this album is a brief separation from the cares of the world.
Wednesday 25 March 2020
Song 81: Charmless Man
Ok, it's not that I've got a particular thing about the upbeat, slightly annoying, singles from 'The Great Escape'. [see Song 67]
This post isn't really about the song, or music at all, it's just an excuse to first tell what I think is a funny, or at least representative, story, and then pivot to a more general and humourless diatribe.
So, for the song, actually, I had a few options to pin the tale to, as I don't, in truth, associate it with a piece of music. I could have gone with 'I Just Dropped in to see What Condition My Condition as In' as a tribute to Kenny Rogers, I could have gone with 'Fortunate Son' by Creedence (the Dude's favourite band), which is a great song, I could have gone with 'Don't Stand So Close to Me' by the Police (which I think was the trigger, what with the, you know, news, for me writing about this) but I've plumped for 'Charmless Man', because that's really what it's about.
I mean, look, I'm sure I've been the charmless man myself. Plenty of times.
Still, probably, mostly in my life, I haven't been sociable enough to be that type of charmless man. But there was a window in my life where a) I seemed to want to talk to people and b) people seemed to want to talk to me. So I met a few such men, mostly pretty harmless really, but one stands out.
For the years after I started in my current employment, I really enjoyed talking about it to people, who were generally fascinated by it and would grill me for hours on end. It was nice for me to have something to talk about, to be at ease and confident in a social situation. And occasionally that attracted the odd coked-up advertising guy who really wanted to help me take quizzing to the next level and bored on about it with cliches a little too long, but that was all well and good really.
Only twice, actually, in those early years, did I meet people who, when I told them what I did, were completely indifferent, one because, I don't know, he was just a very dull guy, the other because he was so thoroughly, thrillingly, wrapped up in himself.
It is this chap I will describe now.
It was a friend's birthday at a pub in central London. It was early-ish 2009 - I remember this because it was one of the first times I went out into London after I broke my leg in November 2008 - I recall hobbling a little from the tube to the pub ... this will prove relevant as I imagine whatever discomfort I was feeling at standing up for a long time was exacerbated.
I was enjoying the evening, having pleasant conversations with various people including old friends.
Then I suppose I "lost my place", went to the loo or something, came back, there's the host, my friend, by the bar - introduces me to a couple of people, "Here's my friend ### and this is her boyfriend ****". OK, at this point, I vacillate over whether including the name. I've met several very pleasant people with the name so it's not a dig at the name in the slightest ... but I think it helps for you to visualize, so, you know, his name began with T, ended in Y, had four letters. So ___ or not ___, that is the question, i guess.
So, here's the thing, T had a cold, and not a casual, polite cold, but a heavy, smelly cold. But that wasn't going to stop him from employing his usual conversational strategy, which was to lean in close and tell you important things.
My friend and T's girlfriend distanced themselves quickly - it was just me and him.
Here's another thing. T, who is probably at least 5 years younger than me (I'm 30 at the time) is wearing a green tweed suit. I went to university in St Andrews, this kind of thing is not a shock to me per se, but it was a rare look for the young folk of London in those days.
T had the classic floppy hair of my public-school teens, again an unusual look by that point. We quickly moved on to talking about films, he directed it there. He spoke with tremendous and grand authority. He asked me what my favourite film was. I answered 'The Big Lebowski'. Then came the golden line "Yes, that's the answer I'd expect someone with your level of film appreciation to have". Really. And he meant it kindly.
So he explained to me everything that meant 'The Big Lebowski' was a trite and meaningless film, which was good of him. I asked "Do you work in film?" He said "No, I'm just a bit of an expert on it". We talked about film some more and safe to say his expertise was knocking me backwards ...
...well, something was knocking me backwards. It was a decent-sized upstairs room, probably about 15 metres all the way across - I first encountered him near the entrance, at one end of the bar. As he leaned in and in, failing to practice social distancing and breathing his fumes all over me, I, subconsciously at first, but then, in a way that seemed utterly blatant to me but clearly was too subtle a signal for him, took step after after step backwards, till, I do recall, he had me pinned against the far wall, a full 12 or so metres from where we started.
I recall friends gradually leaving the party and waving and feeling utterly helpless to escape and bid them a proper farewell. T was overpowering.
I was being schooled and assailed. Inevitably, a day or so later, I did get my own cold, and no one has ever known more precisely the source of their germs.
Oh, and there's a punchline, which he held back. I recall he held it back deliberately, he waited and waited to tell me the name of the film that was everything that 'The Big Lebowski' was not ... "no, really, if you want a film which is in a similar genre but just much better in every way, you want ....
... Pineapple Express" ...
and there it was, there was the elixir...
...or rather, thankfully there was the spell broken. Some combination of politeness and intrigue had held me there too long, half-wondering if somewhere within there, T did have something to offer. Only then did I have the clarity and courage to snort and say "Thanks, lovely to meet you, I've got to go".
OK, so that's the funny bit (at least I hope it was a bit funny) ...
... the serious point ... ok, this was 2009 ...
Like I said, I went to a public school, I went to University in St Andrews, I'd met Tories, I knew Tories.
And they could be really nice. But they stood out. They were obvious. And they were usually frowned upon, for better or worse, amongst people I knew. The age I was, it felt like, apart from a certain band of eccentrics, my generation had given up on conservativism. I know, it sounds ludicrous now, and other people's experience might be different, but that's what I felt. Complacent.
Well, something Tories could never be was at all cool, whatever cool is.
How does this link to the guy I've described above? I didn't find out his politics, he wasn't hiding, if he was a Tory he certainly looked like one, and he certainly wasn't cool.
It's just, I think something happened between 2004-ish and 2009-ish, something which has let all this happen. They came back, and they were a certain type.
I lived in London then, so I saw it happening in London, and London's where it started. Maybe it started in 2005 when Justin Greening won Putney, maybe it happened in the run-up to the 2008 mayoral race when loads of Londoners were so sick of Ken Livingstone they voted for Boris Johnson. But it happened. Suddenly people were openly telling me they were voting Tory (maybe they always had, but they hasn't said it before), saying Labour hadn't really done anything in their years in power, blaming Labour for the financial crash. And they weren't all the stereotypical Tories, they were people who'd talk about music and films, people who dressed ok, were at parties with cool, nice people.
The editor of GQ was a guy called Dylan Jones whose writing was always to me, a huge emptiness, in ignorance of the substance and an obsession with the style, and then he started putting his weight behind Cameron and saying how Cameron was a cool guy and it was ok for snappy cool guys to vote for Cameron. What difference did it all this stuff make? Enough ...
It was the detoxification, and it was being done by toxic, toxic people.
I never met my green-tweeded film expert again. I asked my friend about him and he just laughed. My guess is he went into politics. Blue sky thinking. Big ideas. Sell the NHS. Mad how many of those big idea youngish right-wing guys I've met in the last 10 or so years. Working for Dominic Cummings now.
Complacency.
This post isn't really about the song, or music at all, it's just an excuse to first tell what I think is a funny, or at least representative, story, and then pivot to a more general and humourless diatribe.
So, for the song, actually, I had a few options to pin the tale to, as I don't, in truth, associate it with a piece of music. I could have gone with 'I Just Dropped in to see What Condition My Condition as In' as a tribute to Kenny Rogers, I could have gone with 'Fortunate Son' by Creedence (the Dude's favourite band), which is a great song, I could have gone with 'Don't Stand So Close to Me' by the Police (which I think was the trigger, what with the, you know, news, for me writing about this) but I've plumped for 'Charmless Man', because that's really what it's about.
I mean, look, I'm sure I've been the charmless man myself. Plenty of times.
Still, probably, mostly in my life, I haven't been sociable enough to be that type of charmless man. But there was a window in my life where a) I seemed to want to talk to people and b) people seemed to want to talk to me. So I met a few such men, mostly pretty harmless really, but one stands out.
For the years after I started in my current employment, I really enjoyed talking about it to people, who were generally fascinated by it and would grill me for hours on end. It was nice for me to have something to talk about, to be at ease and confident in a social situation. And occasionally that attracted the odd coked-up advertising guy who really wanted to help me take quizzing to the next level and bored on about it with cliches a little too long, but that was all well and good really.
Only twice, actually, in those early years, did I meet people who, when I told them what I did, were completely indifferent, one because, I don't know, he was just a very dull guy, the other because he was so thoroughly, thrillingly, wrapped up in himself.
It is this chap I will describe now.
It was a friend's birthday at a pub in central London. It was early-ish 2009 - I remember this because it was one of the first times I went out into London after I broke my leg in November 2008 - I recall hobbling a little from the tube to the pub ... this will prove relevant as I imagine whatever discomfort I was feeling at standing up for a long time was exacerbated.
I was enjoying the evening, having pleasant conversations with various people including old friends.
Then I suppose I "lost my place", went to the loo or something, came back, there's the host, my friend, by the bar - introduces me to a couple of people, "Here's my friend ### and this is her boyfriend ****". OK, at this point, I vacillate over whether including the name. I've met several very pleasant people with the name so it's not a dig at the name in the slightest ... but I think it helps for you to visualize, so, you know, his name began with T, ended in Y, had four letters. So ___ or not ___, that is the question, i guess.
So, here's the thing, T had a cold, and not a casual, polite cold, but a heavy, smelly cold. But that wasn't going to stop him from employing his usual conversational strategy, which was to lean in close and tell you important things.
My friend and T's girlfriend distanced themselves quickly - it was just me and him.
Here's another thing. T, who is probably at least 5 years younger than me (I'm 30 at the time) is wearing a green tweed suit. I went to university in St Andrews, this kind of thing is not a shock to me per se, but it was a rare look for the young folk of London in those days.
T had the classic floppy hair of my public-school teens, again an unusual look by that point. We quickly moved on to talking about films, he directed it there. He spoke with tremendous and grand authority. He asked me what my favourite film was. I answered 'The Big Lebowski'. Then came the golden line "Yes, that's the answer I'd expect someone with your level of film appreciation to have". Really. And he meant it kindly.
So he explained to me everything that meant 'The Big Lebowski' was a trite and meaningless film, which was good of him. I asked "Do you work in film?" He said "No, I'm just a bit of an expert on it". We talked about film some more and safe to say his expertise was knocking me backwards ...
...well, something was knocking me backwards. It was a decent-sized upstairs room, probably about 15 metres all the way across - I first encountered him near the entrance, at one end of the bar. As he leaned in and in, failing to practice social distancing and breathing his fumes all over me, I, subconsciously at first, but then, in a way that seemed utterly blatant to me but clearly was too subtle a signal for him, took step after after step backwards, till, I do recall, he had me pinned against the far wall, a full 12 or so metres from where we started.
I recall friends gradually leaving the party and waving and feeling utterly helpless to escape and bid them a proper farewell. T was overpowering.
I was being schooled and assailed. Inevitably, a day or so later, I did get my own cold, and no one has ever known more precisely the source of their germs.
Oh, and there's a punchline, which he held back. I recall he held it back deliberately, he waited and waited to tell me the name of the film that was everything that 'The Big Lebowski' was not ... "no, really, if you want a film which is in a similar genre but just much better in every way, you want ....
... Pineapple Express" ...
and there it was, there was the elixir...
...or rather, thankfully there was the spell broken. Some combination of politeness and intrigue had held me there too long, half-wondering if somewhere within there, T did have something to offer. Only then did I have the clarity and courage to snort and say "Thanks, lovely to meet you, I've got to go".
OK, so that's the funny bit (at least I hope it was a bit funny) ...
... the serious point ... ok, this was 2009 ...
Like I said, I went to a public school, I went to University in St Andrews, I'd met Tories, I knew Tories.
And they could be really nice. But they stood out. They were obvious. And they were usually frowned upon, for better or worse, amongst people I knew. The age I was, it felt like, apart from a certain band of eccentrics, my generation had given up on conservativism. I know, it sounds ludicrous now, and other people's experience might be different, but that's what I felt. Complacent.
Well, something Tories could never be was at all cool, whatever cool is.
How does this link to the guy I've described above? I didn't find out his politics, he wasn't hiding, if he was a Tory he certainly looked like one, and he certainly wasn't cool.
It's just, I think something happened between 2004-ish and 2009-ish, something which has let all this happen. They came back, and they were a certain type.
I lived in London then, so I saw it happening in London, and London's where it started. Maybe it started in 2005 when Justin Greening won Putney, maybe it happened in the run-up to the 2008 mayoral race when loads of Londoners were so sick of Ken Livingstone they voted for Boris Johnson. But it happened. Suddenly people were openly telling me they were voting Tory (maybe they always had, but they hasn't said it before), saying Labour hadn't really done anything in their years in power, blaming Labour for the financial crash. And they weren't all the stereotypical Tories, they were people who'd talk about music and films, people who dressed ok, were at parties with cool, nice people.
The editor of GQ was a guy called Dylan Jones whose writing was always to me, a huge emptiness, in ignorance of the substance and an obsession with the style, and then he started putting his weight behind Cameron and saying how Cameron was a cool guy and it was ok for snappy cool guys to vote for Cameron. What difference did it all this stuff make? Enough ...
It was the detoxification, and it was being done by toxic, toxic people.
I never met my green-tweeded film expert again. I asked my friend about him and he just laughed. My guess is he went into politics. Blue sky thinking. Big ideas. Sell the NHS. Mad how many of those big idea youngish right-wing guys I've met in the last 10 or so years. Working for Dominic Cummings now.
Complacency.
Friday 20 March 2020
Song 80: Place to Be
Once I was walking around a supermarket, not paying much attention to my inner life, ipod on shuffle and this song, 'Place to Be', from Nick Drake's last studio album, 'Pink Moon' came on.Within a minute or two my breath and my step faltered. A shock of sorrow.
There is so much that is beautiful and desperately sad in Drake's music, but it is this relatively gentle, seemingly innocuous number that now strikes me more deeply than any others.
When Nick, still in his mid-20s (a mid-20s he'd never escape from) when he recorded this, sings
"...I was green, greener than the hill
Where flowers grow and the sun shone still
Now I'm darker than the deepest sea
Just hand me down, give me a place to be"
There is so much that is beautiful and desperately sad in Drake's music, but it is this relatively gentle, seemingly innocuous number that now strikes me more deeply than any others.
When Nick, still in his mid-20s (a mid-20s he'd never escape from) when he recorded this, sings
"...I was green, greener than the hill
Where flowers grow and the sun shone still
Now I'm darker than the deepest sea
Just hand me down, give me a place to be"
you remember this is a boy who may have felt, and been told, as he was growing up, that there was no place in the world he wouldn't be allowed to fit in and feel comfortable - a wealthy and loved English public school boy, a child of empire, with a happy family life, seen as enigmatic and handsome, sociable, sporty, intelligent ... and yet by the time he was 24, all those myriad places, those enormous possibilities had disappeared, and he was begging for just one place to be. And even that last place he ended up, his childhood bedroom, was not a place he allowed himself to be.
I still listen to Nick Drake all the time - there is no other singer whose company I feel so comfortable in. Most of his songs are not miserable at all - far from it, they're wry and magical, full of hope and wonder, but there is something so overwhelming about the clarity and honesty of his despair on some of 'Pink Moon', and in those few songs he recorded after that.
Well, in any case, I'm not going to go on for long about it, it's just listening to this song got me thinking about the saddest songs of all. Not the performatively sad, not the ecstasy of heartbreak, but songs which have the stamp of truth about them, of human loss and empathy.
These are the ones I came up with for starters: it's a bit monochrome genre-wise, I know.
Danny Callahan - Conor Oberst
Girl in Amber - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Caroline No - The Beach Boys
Fourth of July - Sufjan Stevens
Broken Wave - James Yorkston
Black Eyed Dog - Nick Drake
Floating in the Forth - Frightened Rabbit
Happy Birthday Johnny - St Vincent
Carissa - Sun Kil Moon
I Loved Being My Mother’s Son - Purple Mountains
Casimir Pulaski Day - Sufjan Stevens
Over the Rainbow - Judy Garland
Trellick Tower - Emmy the Great
How - Regina Spektor
Boulder to Birmingham - Emmylou Harris
Losing You - Randy Newman
Does Not Suffice - Joanna Newsom
The Chalet Lines - Belle and Sebastian
It’s a Motherfucker - Eels
No Surprises - Radiohead
There we go. Any suggestions welcome.
I hope everyone right now has got a good place to be and a good place to stay put.
Tuesday 17 March 2020
Song 79: Ice Hockey Hair
I've been thinking about why I love the Super Furry Animals so much.
Gruff's doing a radio show at the moment called 'Resist Phoney Encores' and clearly his idea of a phoney encore includes getting the old gang back together, as the other, still super but not quite so super FAs have lost patience with him and reconvened as Das Koolies.
Good on them - the Furries were never a one-man band. However good a Gruff Rhys solo record is, it's never quite the band in its uncontainable pomp. This is the strongest sign yet that there really isn't going to be any new music from the band as a five-piece, which is a bummer.
So, I'm taking on my favourite Furries song, and one plenty of people consider their greatest, 'Ice Hockey Hair'. ? What makes it a definitive SFA song? Why is it is so magical?
I'm thinking about the drum bit 4 minutes and 7 seconds in - that's where the secret lies. However many 100s of times I've listened to this song, that 5-second section, just when you think the song might be about to come to a close, never fails to make my heart scream with joy. What even is it? It's just an extravagant drum roll which lasts a little bit too long, it's just a rock'n'roll cliche ... and that's when you realise that it's at these moments the Super Furry Animals are at their best, when they have earnt the right to employ a rock'n'roll cliche, and even then, can't help subverting it slightly.
Gruff Rhys can't help it. 'Resist Phoney Encores' is what he lives by. I remember him saying that the one thing he can't stand in songs is poignancy, and, to be fair, he's been almost entirely true to his word. Only on the wonderful solo album 'Hotel Shampoo' does he write anything close to straightforward love songs without a twist.
Somehow his whole career can be seen as a confrontation with his extraordinary melodic gift and the great "goodness" of his worldview.
People with those talents are few and far between ... Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder, a few others ... and, no Gruff didn't have the pop voice for that level of stardom, but while those two geniuses would occasionally subvert but usually make full use of the joy and the cheesiness and let a song just be what it is, from 'Hey Jude' to 'Don't You Worry Bout a Thing', Gruff, never, never let it be ...
Think of 'Northern Lites' - their biggest hit, which doesn't get to the chorus till there've been three verses, and is about a weather system, 'Juxtapozed with You', with its unsettling vocoder and lyrics about house prices, 'For Now and Ever,' in the big, glorious outro, he starts deadpan intoning the words and you can't help laughing.
There's no poignancy. You can never stop and wallow in it.
And yet the Furries often make oddly moving music, even profound ... - who can you compare them to?
The Coen Brothers, maybe ...
or the guy in the skittles advert who makes everything he touches turn into skittles ...
'Ice Hockey Hair', a song the band almost thought was too cheesy to release, about taking advice from a woman with a mullet, it could be nothing, but they can't stop themselves turning it into something joyful and magnificent - it has 3 or 4 great tunes - they try to fuck it up, it has 3 or 4 scuzzy bits but they still sound amazing.
It's not like SFA weren't trying to be successful, they clearly were, it's just they couldn't be conventional. The nearest they came to a conventional sounding record was 'Hey Venus' in 2007, and, you know, it's got some nice tunes, but it's not quite there ...
And, you know, sometimes, compared to other artists, I guess they do sound a bit "shallow" and sometimes the evasion, the wackiness, is frustrating, but that's to be put along side the fact that they were an incredibly hardworking and innovative band - they released a lot of music, and they were ahead of the game on multimedia content, streaming, on everything really.
Gruff's "goodness" is such a big part of his writing too - it's so often political, just obliquely so, so often full of hope and anger and good causes.
I think that's all part of why those that love them love them so much.
Gruff's doing a radio show at the moment called 'Resist Phoney Encores' and clearly his idea of a phoney encore includes getting the old gang back together, as the other, still super but not quite so super FAs have lost patience with him and reconvened as Das Koolies.
Good on them - the Furries were never a one-man band. However good a Gruff Rhys solo record is, it's never quite the band in its uncontainable pomp. This is the strongest sign yet that there really isn't going to be any new music from the band as a five-piece, which is a bummer.
So, I'm taking on my favourite Furries song, and one plenty of people consider their greatest, 'Ice Hockey Hair'. ? What makes it a definitive SFA song? Why is it is so magical?
I'm thinking about the drum bit 4 minutes and 7 seconds in - that's where the secret lies. However many 100s of times I've listened to this song, that 5-second section, just when you think the song might be about to come to a close, never fails to make my heart scream with joy. What even is it? It's just an extravagant drum roll which lasts a little bit too long, it's just a rock'n'roll cliche ... and that's when you realise that it's at these moments the Super Furry Animals are at their best, when they have earnt the right to employ a rock'n'roll cliche, and even then, can't help subverting it slightly.
Gruff Rhys can't help it. 'Resist Phoney Encores' is what he lives by. I remember him saying that the one thing he can't stand in songs is poignancy, and, to be fair, he's been almost entirely true to his word. Only on the wonderful solo album 'Hotel Shampoo' does he write anything close to straightforward love songs without a twist.
Somehow his whole career can be seen as a confrontation with his extraordinary melodic gift and the great "goodness" of his worldview.
People with those talents are few and far between ... Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder, a few others ... and, no Gruff didn't have the pop voice for that level of stardom, but while those two geniuses would occasionally subvert but usually make full use of the joy and the cheesiness and let a song just be what it is, from 'Hey Jude' to 'Don't You Worry Bout a Thing', Gruff, never, never let it be ...
Think of 'Northern Lites' - their biggest hit, which doesn't get to the chorus till there've been three verses, and is about a weather system, 'Juxtapozed with You', with its unsettling vocoder and lyrics about house prices, 'For Now and Ever,' in the big, glorious outro, he starts deadpan intoning the words and you can't help laughing.
There's no poignancy. You can never stop and wallow in it.
And yet the Furries often make oddly moving music, even profound ... - who can you compare them to?
The Coen Brothers, maybe ...
or the guy in the skittles advert who makes everything he touches turn into skittles ...
'Ice Hockey Hair', a song the band almost thought was too cheesy to release, about taking advice from a woman with a mullet, it could be nothing, but they can't stop themselves turning it into something joyful and magnificent - it has 3 or 4 great tunes - they try to fuck it up, it has 3 or 4 scuzzy bits but they still sound amazing.
It's not like SFA weren't trying to be successful, they clearly were, it's just they couldn't be conventional. The nearest they came to a conventional sounding record was 'Hey Venus' in 2007, and, you know, it's got some nice tunes, but it's not quite there ...
And, you know, sometimes, compared to other artists, I guess they do sound a bit "shallow" and sometimes the evasion, the wackiness, is frustrating, but that's to be put along side the fact that they were an incredibly hardworking and innovative band - they released a lot of music, and they were ahead of the game on multimedia content, streaming, on everything really.
Gruff's "goodness" is such a big part of his writing too - it's so often political, just obliquely so, so often full of hope and anger and good causes.
I think that's all part of why those that love them love them so much.
Monday 16 March 2020
Song 78: If You're Not the One
The Bedingfield Supremacy. The Bedingfield Epoch. How to describe those in-between and retrospectively innocent early-2000s, which birthed two such smiling, gleaming pop monsters?
OK, first, I've nothing against either Bedingfield, they're pretty admirable, they both had a burst of extreme success based on pure popskillz - no talent show, no scenes and gimmicks and lurid stuff - it's very wholesome, for want of a better word, and very endearing.
I think the Bedingfield Ascendancy came to an end when the brother and sister performed 'Ain't Nobody' together at the Brits and everyone went "Well, that's a bit weird", but it was fun while it lasted. Natasha Bedingfield was also very successful in America, even after the first single on her second album was 'I Wanna Have Your Babies' and it was not good.
Here's my main Bedingfield memory though. Summer of 2003, and I'm in an Ealing Community Transport minibus on a sunny summer's day travelling the brief stretch between Portchester and Portsmouth, as I'd done so many times before, and we're listening to Ocean FM and it's Daniel Bedingfield's 'If You're Not the One', and the DJ says "If that's not the best love song of the last ten years, then what is?"* It wasn't a phone-in.
But you know, right then, I remember thinking "Fair enough, why not? Good for you. And here we are."
That was my last Portsmouth. 2003. I don't really think of Portsmouth being in the Bedingfield era. My first Portsmouth was 1995, I remember listening to Suggs' 'I'm Only Sleeping' (along with a "Sound of the Seventies" compilation which was surprisingly faultless) and boring everyone to death with my barely-formed half-arsed musical views (as haha I've been haha doing haha ever since).
What's a Portsmouth, you ask, apart from being the only UK city on an island and the most densely populated part of the UK outside of London?
It's a long old story. It's, in its way, a great story. I'm not going to tell most of it.
Portsmouth, or PHSP, or the Playschemes, or the Access Guides, or whatever we'll call it, was a thing some of us did, connected to the school Christian Union (which I wrote about here), where we'd go off and do something for two weeks - usually it was two weeks running playschemes in the North End area of Portsmouth, staying in Portchester Community School, our group made up of St Paul's people, people, originally from Hephaistos School then from a wider sphere after Hephaistos closed down, with disabilities, and various others with various connections, but sometimes we'd spend some of that surveying a city for disabled access, resulting in 'Access' guidebooks. That's really the big and important part of the story - you could read a bit about it here.
But, look, I can't do justice to that. I'm here to talk about Daniel Bedingfield, kind of. There was a lot of music on Portsmouth, there was a lot of travel on those green ECTs. In the early days, you could have an open front door and sit on the steps, maybe, on the way back from a day's playscheme, smoking a cigarette or am i imagining that for the sake of the idyll?
I first did the playscheme when I was 16/17 (it always coincided with my birthday) and kind of struggled with it the first two years and was far from my best and wouldn't have gone a third time but my gap year ended prematurely (another tale) and i don't really think i enjoyed the 3rd time all that much either but then, on the 4th time in 1998, I was a bit more grown-up and got into the swing of it and was more use, and then after that I really loved it.
My friend Alex (not the same Alex as the Dolly Parton Alex) was in charge of the whole thing in 2000 and we did loads of the preparation work together in the week before and then the two weeks was great fun too, and then I was in charge of the whole thing in 2001, and, again, it was a bit of a riot - I think it was a bit off-script of what the thing ought to have been, but it was fun.
There was a lot of stress and ludicrous arguments on Portsmouth, there were lots of pretentious conversations, there were lots of great people, there were angry and troubled people too at times, there was a lot of music and lots of arguments about music, there was a lot of drinking, of course. I did some of my best drinking there.
After the day's playscheme finished at 4, there'd be an hour or two of getting shit ready for the next day, then we'd traipse to the local pub (Ruddles £1.25 a pint) and there was a "two-pint" rule sometimes obeyed, and then there was dinner with wine in the courtyard on those warm nights and then an evening meeting where someone would say something heartfelt and other folk would chip in and god knows some of the shite that came out of my mouth then, as i was mainly very drunk, and then port and coffee and it's one of those things where you ride with the drinking and you never quite have an unworkable hangover.
I know I'm making it sound like everyone's standard youth, but it was something, really something. Friends were solidified, friends were made, good and real friends.
We had a reunion in 2018 (a party for Gordon the founder's 80th too) and I was charged with leading the celebration - I'd done a quiz 10 years before at a similar event and I didn't fancy doing another quiz, so I focused on the music ... the songs we sang and listened to ... all the kid's song and the washing up songs and the late night songs and the minibus songs (I didn't include Bedingfield, i think that memory was too too personal). I was given a list to read out of names of alumni who had died - there were a lot, often people whose lives I'd only passed though and vice versa, but some people who really had a profound effect.
You grow out of some of things you do when you're young, but that's not really because you're growing up, or getting better.
*Incidentally, on Bedingfield, I've rather enjoyed finding out that he doesn't like this song at all, he just wrote it to try and be a bit commercial like Westlife, thought it was sappy cack and didn't want to put it on his debut album.
OK, first, I've nothing against either Bedingfield, they're pretty admirable, they both had a burst of extreme success based on pure popskillz - no talent show, no scenes and gimmicks and lurid stuff - it's very wholesome, for want of a better word, and very endearing.
I think the Bedingfield Ascendancy came to an end when the brother and sister performed 'Ain't Nobody' together at the Brits and everyone went "Well, that's a bit weird", but it was fun while it lasted. Natasha Bedingfield was also very successful in America, even after the first single on her second album was 'I Wanna Have Your Babies' and it was not good.
Here's my main Bedingfield memory though. Summer of 2003, and I'm in an Ealing Community Transport minibus on a sunny summer's day travelling the brief stretch between Portchester and Portsmouth, as I'd done so many times before, and we're listening to Ocean FM and it's Daniel Bedingfield's 'If You're Not the One', and the DJ says "If that's not the best love song of the last ten years, then what is?"* It wasn't a phone-in.
But you know, right then, I remember thinking "Fair enough, why not? Good for you. And here we are."
That was my last Portsmouth. 2003. I don't really think of Portsmouth being in the Bedingfield era. My first Portsmouth was 1995, I remember listening to Suggs' 'I'm Only Sleeping' (along with a "Sound of the Seventies" compilation which was surprisingly faultless) and boring everyone to death with my barely-formed half-arsed musical views (as haha I've been haha doing haha ever since).
What's a Portsmouth, you ask, apart from being the only UK city on an island and the most densely populated part of the UK outside of London?
It's a long old story. It's, in its way, a great story. I'm not going to tell most of it.
Portsmouth, or PHSP, or the Playschemes, or the Access Guides, or whatever we'll call it, was a thing some of us did, connected to the school Christian Union (which I wrote about here), where we'd go off and do something for two weeks - usually it was two weeks running playschemes in the North End area of Portsmouth, staying in Portchester Community School, our group made up of St Paul's people, people, originally from Hephaistos School then from a wider sphere after Hephaistos closed down, with disabilities, and various others with various connections, but sometimes we'd spend some of that surveying a city for disabled access, resulting in 'Access' guidebooks. That's really the big and important part of the story - you could read a bit about it here.
But, look, I can't do justice to that. I'm here to talk about Daniel Bedingfield, kind of. There was a lot of music on Portsmouth, there was a lot of travel on those green ECTs. In the early days, you could have an open front door and sit on the steps, maybe, on the way back from a day's playscheme, smoking a cigarette or am i imagining that for the sake of the idyll?
I first did the playscheme when I was 16/17 (it always coincided with my birthday) and kind of struggled with it the first two years and was far from my best and wouldn't have gone a third time but my gap year ended prematurely (another tale) and i don't really think i enjoyed the 3rd time all that much either but then, on the 4th time in 1998, I was a bit more grown-up and got into the swing of it and was more use, and then after that I really loved it.
My friend Alex (not the same Alex as the Dolly Parton Alex) was in charge of the whole thing in 2000 and we did loads of the preparation work together in the week before and then the two weeks was great fun too, and then I was in charge of the whole thing in 2001, and, again, it was a bit of a riot - I think it was a bit off-script of what the thing ought to have been, but it was fun.
There was a lot of stress and ludicrous arguments on Portsmouth, there were lots of pretentious conversations, there were lots of great people, there were angry and troubled people too at times, there was a lot of music and lots of arguments about music, there was a lot of drinking, of course. I did some of my best drinking there.
After the day's playscheme finished at 4, there'd be an hour or two of getting shit ready for the next day, then we'd traipse to the local pub (Ruddles £1.25 a pint) and there was a "two-pint" rule sometimes obeyed, and then there was dinner with wine in the courtyard on those warm nights and then an evening meeting where someone would say something heartfelt and other folk would chip in and god knows some of the shite that came out of my mouth then, as i was mainly very drunk, and then port and coffee and it's one of those things where you ride with the drinking and you never quite have an unworkable hangover.
I know I'm making it sound like everyone's standard youth, but it was something, really something. Friends were solidified, friends were made, good and real friends.
We had a reunion in 2018 (a party for Gordon the founder's 80th too) and I was charged with leading the celebration - I'd done a quiz 10 years before at a similar event and I didn't fancy doing another quiz, so I focused on the music ... the songs we sang and listened to ... all the kid's song and the washing up songs and the late night songs and the minibus songs (I didn't include Bedingfield, i think that memory was too too personal). I was given a list to read out of names of alumni who had died - there were a lot, often people whose lives I'd only passed though and vice versa, but some people who really had a profound effect.
You grow out of some of things you do when you're young, but that's not really because you're growing up, or getting better.
*Incidentally, on Bedingfield, I've rather enjoyed finding out that he doesn't like this song at all, he just wrote it to try and be a bit commercial like Westlife, thought it was sappy cack and didn't want to put it on his debut album.
Sunday 15 March 2020
Song 77: Doo Wop (That Thing)
In the futile and ludicrous list I made in 2014 of the 1001 Greatest Songs of All Time, 'Doo Wop (That Thing)' by Lauryn Hill was respectably ranked at 66. I remember at the time wondering if that was too low.
I am coming round to the view that it is the most all-together perfect song in all of pop music. When I think of other great songs, songs I've at times considered the benchmark, like 'Over the Rainbow', 'Be My Baby', 'God Only Knows', 'Crazy in Love', 'Like a Rolling Stone', I always hit a limit. There's nothing wrong with a limit - when people go outside their limits, that's when disaster happens.
'Be My Baby' is a vocal and production tour de force, it's three minutes of pure rapture, but it's just about being excited about meeting a boy. The limit on 'Like a Rolling Stone' is the verse-chorus structure, the vocal range, the fact that's it's basically just slagging someone off.
But when I look at 'Doo Wop (That Thing)', I don't see the same limits. It's a song that has everything. For everyone.
How do you explain Lauryn Hill? 'Miseducation' was released in 1998 and the world still waits for a second studio album. How long ago is that? Destiny Child and Beyoncé have had their whole career since then. Lauryn Hill's a grandmother now.
It's not for me to second-guess the life and struggles of Lauryn Hill since, whatever people say about whether she's difficult, a perfectionist, strange, egotistical, whatever other odd tales have emerged. Barring a poorly reviewed live album in 2002, that's a long wait to follow up a debut album.
I bought 'The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill' at the time, which was unusual for me, as I was still pretty straightforwardly into rock music and hadn't particularly loved the Fugees, (though have warmed to them since). I liked it a lot, but whether because I was still holding too hard on to the dwindling returns of Britpop or because my flatmate Alex got into it a bit too much and that was off-putting (I think the latter!), I didn't over-listen to it. In recent years, I've got back into it. Wonderful as it is, nothing else is as immediate as 'Doo Wop (That Thing)'. It's not really a pop album, and none the worse for it. It achieved extraordinary acclaim to go with its sales.
Even so, to me 'Doo Wop (That Thing)' dwarfs it. It is nostalgic and futuristic, it is catchy and memorable, it is beautiful and pure, it is clever and funny, it is cutting and kind, it is lyrical and musical, it is verse and chorus, ebb and flow, male and female, personal and political, it is everything.
I found myself in my mid-30s, living in Sevenoaks of all places, listening to it over and over again, trying to learn the lyrics, saying them to myself (and to irritate others!) - "Lauryn is only human, don't think I haven't been in the same predicament", "Don't be a hard rock when you really are a gem" etc etc Utterly ludicrous, but I was completely enraptured by it.
So maybe it was as simple with Lauryn Hill as the inability to get past perfection. All the success, all the acclaim, and something completely impossible to improve upon.
To go back to Beyoncé, with whom there are pretty good comparisons, in terms of coming from a great pop group to being a great solo artist, the versatility and completeness of the talent, the mass appeal, you could say Lauryn Hill achieved everything in 3 years that's taken Beyoncé 20 years. Still, seems a shame - I think the world would rather have had 20 years of it ...
I am coming round to the view that it is the most all-together perfect song in all of pop music. When I think of other great songs, songs I've at times considered the benchmark, like 'Over the Rainbow', 'Be My Baby', 'God Only Knows', 'Crazy in Love', 'Like a Rolling Stone', I always hit a limit. There's nothing wrong with a limit - when people go outside their limits, that's when disaster happens.
'Be My Baby' is a vocal and production tour de force, it's three minutes of pure rapture, but it's just about being excited about meeting a boy. The limit on 'Like a Rolling Stone' is the verse-chorus structure, the vocal range, the fact that's it's basically just slagging someone off.
But when I look at 'Doo Wop (That Thing)', I don't see the same limits. It's a song that has everything. For everyone.
How do you explain Lauryn Hill? 'Miseducation' was released in 1998 and the world still waits for a second studio album. How long ago is that? Destiny Child and Beyoncé have had their whole career since then. Lauryn Hill's a grandmother now.
It's not for me to second-guess the life and struggles of Lauryn Hill since, whatever people say about whether she's difficult, a perfectionist, strange, egotistical, whatever other odd tales have emerged. Barring a poorly reviewed live album in 2002, that's a long wait to follow up a debut album.
I bought 'The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill' at the time, which was unusual for me, as I was still pretty straightforwardly into rock music and hadn't particularly loved the Fugees, (though have warmed to them since). I liked it a lot, but whether because I was still holding too hard on to the dwindling returns of Britpop or because my flatmate Alex got into it a bit too much and that was off-putting (I think the latter!), I didn't over-listen to it. In recent years, I've got back into it. Wonderful as it is, nothing else is as immediate as 'Doo Wop (That Thing)'. It's not really a pop album, and none the worse for it. It achieved extraordinary acclaim to go with its sales.
Even so, to me 'Doo Wop (That Thing)' dwarfs it. It is nostalgic and futuristic, it is catchy and memorable, it is beautiful and pure, it is clever and funny, it is cutting and kind, it is lyrical and musical, it is verse and chorus, ebb and flow, male and female, personal and political, it is everything.
I found myself in my mid-30s, living in Sevenoaks of all places, listening to it over and over again, trying to learn the lyrics, saying them to myself (and to irritate others!) - "Lauryn is only human, don't think I haven't been in the same predicament", "Don't be a hard rock when you really are a gem" etc etc Utterly ludicrous, but I was completely enraptured by it.
So maybe it was as simple with Lauryn Hill as the inability to get past perfection. All the success, all the acclaim, and something completely impossible to improve upon.
To go back to Beyoncé, with whom there are pretty good comparisons, in terms of coming from a great pop group to being a great solo artist, the versatility and completeness of the talent, the mass appeal, you could say Lauryn Hill achieved everything in 3 years that's taken Beyoncé 20 years. Still, seems a shame - I think the world would rather have had 20 years of it ...
Song 76: Jolene
I've mixed feelings about 'Jolene', to be honest, as I'll explain. I mean, I love it. It's a great song. I've always loved it.
Jolene
In particular, I loved it in 1999. 'Uncut' magazine still gives you a free CD with each magazine and it's still pretty decent, but, back then, they used to be fantastic, one of the highlights of each month. Not just a fairly random selection of new music, but a proper compilation tape which introduced me to so much fabulous new and old music, as well as just being a great listen all the way through.
One month, there was, along with some great new Americana, a wonderful Richard Thompson song called 'Dry My Tears And Move On', 'Sunday Girl' by Blondie, 'Ready or Not' by the Delfonics, 'The Concept' by Teenage Fanclub, Joy Division, Charlie Parker and Eddie Cochrane, De Niro and Minnelli singing 'Blue Moon' (from the 'New York, New York' soundtrack), the one-two, late on, of 'Sheena is a Punk Rocker' by the Ramones, and 'Jolene' by Dolly Parton.
Pure joy. You learn a lot about how to make compilation tapes from that kind of thing.
In 99/2000, in third year of St Andrew University, I lived with Alexander and John at 7 Baker Lane, a small, dingy flat on an idyllic paved wynd. Despite its griminess, lack of central heating, the fact me and Alexander were in bunk beds, we loved it.
We'd all sit in the front room (basically the house's only room apart from the 2 tiny bedrooms) and listen to music. I'm not sure any of us had discmen or walkmen then. Music was communal. There was a lot of B and S, SFA, lot of Dylan, all sorts, the KLF Chill-Out album, My Bloody Valentine, passing curios like Ooberman, and Alex tended to cotton on to a particular female singer-songwriter and listen to them over and over - I remember there was Lauryn Hill, Macy Gray, Nina Simone, Shelby Lynne, and we listened to Jolene a lot.
One afternoon, we'll have been listening to Jolene loudly, blasting it out. I can't remember exactly what time of year it was, but I've a feeling it was a sunny day, so my guess is around March 2000, as the long cold Scottish winter was coming to its end, so there were more and more reasons to feel joyous, to open your windows to the world and blast out the happiest music imaginable (yes, I know they lyrics to Jolene are not joyful, but, you know ...)
Well, maybe on that same day, or maybe the next, I'd already gone to bed, I think John had too, I can't remember if he was there or still out, it was probably 12.30/1ish, closing time, I think I'd already drifted off to sleep (it was the one year of my life I had pretty dreadful imsonnia, not surprisingly, so sleep was prized).
Alexander was still downstairs. I am hazy on the details of what happened next & what I was aware of. Loud male mocking voices singing "Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene". Some kind of disturbance, a door being kicked. Our door. Voices ... raised. Door shuts. Then Alex telling/showing me [and John] he's been attacked.
He tells us the details, the singing of 'Jolene', the door being kicked, him opening it to stop it being kicked in, to ask them to move on, one of them punches him, another one approaches him to apologise, to shake his hand, punches him some more times.
I feel sick. For various reasons, which I'll get to, but one of the reasons I feel sick is because I know the routine. It's happened to me. The same horrible routine. The previous year.
Alex and I were living with 3 others (in a pretty plush flat) on Argyle Street, the other end of South Street, one of St Andrews' main three thoroughfares. We'd been out, I'd got bored as I tended to, and wandered home at about 10.30. Then, in an unprecedented and not to be repeated move, I thought to myself "maybe I've missed something, maybe the night gets better".
Now bear in mind how ridiculous a move this was in that neither I nor my friends had mobile phones at this point (probably a few folk did, but not Alex, John or me, and I didn't know anyone's number).
I realised as soon I headed out that I didn't know where anyone would be ... I thought I'd try the Student Union, but without much hope. The important fact here is that I was wandering around without purpose.
I am a very firm believer that (I can only speak for men here, I know the risk is usually different and more multi-faceted for women) you are more likely in danger if you are somewhere you shouldn't be and somewhere you don't look like you belong.
[Another time, in 2007, I was in New York (first time I'd been there), agreed to go to a gig in Brooklyn with some friends, they told me to meet at one of their apartment at the bottom of Manhattan, down under one of the bridges. I remember him saying to me "just, it's fine, but it can be a bit dicey so keep your wits about you". But because a) so far i'd found New York completely threatless and b) I'd noticed that Americans often had a pretty idealised and naive view of what London was like, as if there were no inner cities or poor people, unless they were lovable chimney sweeps, I was pretty careless. I walked past where he'd told me his apartment was, realised I'd gone too far, turned around and, a bit nonplussed and clueless, starting faltering back the way. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy crossing my path with his hand inside his jacket and a look on his face. As he crossed me, he drew the hand quickly out, said threateningly "Not now, bitch!" and shot his finger at me. Hilarious. I guess, a lucky escape, but I know it was my loss of direction which made me most vulnerable].
Well, back to St Andrews. I'm shambling along, I remember seeing the guys, four of them, they didn't particularly put me on edge, they looked like rugby players, they were big, but I don't suppose they fitted my stereotype, whatever it was, of who would commit random acts of violence in the middle of a busy town.
One stood in front of me. "What are you looking at?" ... oh come one ... a couple of punches ... then the other one, bigger "Sorry, pal, sorry about my mate, let me shake your hand." Takes it. Three precise blows to the cheek. What I remember is he knew what he was doing, was making sure he didn't damage his fist, didn't feel like he wanted to destroy me, I didn't feel in danger, like this was some free-for-all that would never end. After the third punch (five in total, all to my right cheek), I said "Right, that's enough" .... and walked on.
In the coming days, I think I dined out on it rather. A solid shiner. My diffident response, I think, amused people. Easy to sweep under the carpet.
Then, a few days later, in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror, I suddenly felt scared, violated, changed. I cried. The feeling passed, but I remember the feeling. That's what violence, however brief and meaningless, will do to people.
Well, these lads (I'm sure it was the same lads) clearly got their kicks out of punching students. Who knows how many they punched, how many they got away with because they never did it badly enough for victims or the police to give enough of a fuck.
So they did it to Alexander a year later. We assumed they'd heard us blasting out 'Jolene' that day or so earlier, that had set off some masculine avenging fire in them, they'd made a note to come back later, half-cut and ready for violence.
How I felt after that was complicated. I felt upset for Alex, and I felt guilty. I'd been upstairs in bed while he'd been getting punched. I'd heard it, hadn't I? I still don't know how it transpired. I think most likely is that when the door was being kicked, I assumed no one would open the door, and by the time he'd opened it, it was too late. But in the aftermath, I wished I was a guy that immediately sprung to action to defend his friend even if he didn't know his friend needed defending, whatever the circumstances.
You don't really know how you're going to respond to threat, nor what the right response. I haven't been around it all that much, but a few times, and on a few occasions, I've kind of frozen, which is the sort of response which makes you feel a bit guilty, but may actually be the best response quite often.
Then there have been a few other times, when angry men have been in my face (in sport, on railway platforms, buses, at parties, streets) where I've felt strangely invincible, and talked back to them fearlessly and facetiously. Most of the precursors to violence are pure ridiculous - ridiculous posturing and cliched words, and on a few occasions, I've felt perfectly at ease pointing out that ridiculousness. It's probably complete luck that hasn't gone badly for me so far, or maybe I was able to gauge that these people were all talk. Who knows?
Above all, though, if there's ever a time where instinct and judgement need to work as one and I need to leap to defend myself or someone I love from a serious threat, I dread freezing then, letting it happen before I've gathered myself. I'm not one for all the male stereotypes, but equally, there's a time to fight, isn't there? Who knows?
Weirdly, when I was young, I used to imagine getting in fights quite a lot, fancied (as a lot of idiots do) that if it came to it I might handle myself fairly well. Thankfully, when, at the age of 28, I had to start taking blood thinners and was told to stop playing contact sports, that flight of imagination disappeared. Getting hit, in any way, is not a great idea for me.
Anyway, so those pricks ruined Jolene for us a bit, to be honest. It's quite Tarantino-esque, isn't it? Mindless violence to a beautiful country music soundtrack ...
Jolene
In particular, I loved it in 1999. 'Uncut' magazine still gives you a free CD with each magazine and it's still pretty decent, but, back then, they used to be fantastic, one of the highlights of each month. Not just a fairly random selection of new music, but a proper compilation tape which introduced me to so much fabulous new and old music, as well as just being a great listen all the way through.
One month, there was, along with some great new Americana, a wonderful Richard Thompson song called 'Dry My Tears And Move On', 'Sunday Girl' by Blondie, 'Ready or Not' by the Delfonics, 'The Concept' by Teenage Fanclub, Joy Division, Charlie Parker and Eddie Cochrane, De Niro and Minnelli singing 'Blue Moon' (from the 'New York, New York' soundtrack), the one-two, late on, of 'Sheena is a Punk Rocker' by the Ramones, and 'Jolene' by Dolly Parton.
Pure joy. You learn a lot about how to make compilation tapes from that kind of thing.
In 99/2000, in third year of St Andrew University, I lived with Alexander and John at 7 Baker Lane, a small, dingy flat on an idyllic paved wynd. Despite its griminess, lack of central heating, the fact me and Alexander were in bunk beds, we loved it.
We'd all sit in the front room (basically the house's only room apart from the 2 tiny bedrooms) and listen to music. I'm not sure any of us had discmen or walkmen then. Music was communal. There was a lot of B and S, SFA, lot of Dylan, all sorts, the KLF Chill-Out album, My Bloody Valentine, passing curios like Ooberman, and Alex tended to cotton on to a particular female singer-songwriter and listen to them over and over - I remember there was Lauryn Hill, Macy Gray, Nina Simone, Shelby Lynne, and we listened to Jolene a lot.
One afternoon, we'll have been listening to Jolene loudly, blasting it out. I can't remember exactly what time of year it was, but I've a feeling it was a sunny day, so my guess is around March 2000, as the long cold Scottish winter was coming to its end, so there were more and more reasons to feel joyous, to open your windows to the world and blast out the happiest music imaginable (yes, I know they lyrics to Jolene are not joyful, but, you know ...)
Well, maybe on that same day, or maybe the next, I'd already gone to bed, I think John had too, I can't remember if he was there or still out, it was probably 12.30/1ish, closing time, I think I'd already drifted off to sleep (it was the one year of my life I had pretty dreadful imsonnia, not surprisingly, so sleep was prized).
Alexander was still downstairs. I am hazy on the details of what happened next & what I was aware of. Loud male mocking voices singing "Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene". Some kind of disturbance, a door being kicked. Our door. Voices ... raised. Door shuts. Then Alex telling/showing me [and John] he's been attacked.
He tells us the details, the singing of 'Jolene', the door being kicked, him opening it to stop it being kicked in, to ask them to move on, one of them punches him, another one approaches him to apologise, to shake his hand, punches him some more times.
I feel sick. For various reasons, which I'll get to, but one of the reasons I feel sick is because I know the routine. It's happened to me. The same horrible routine. The previous year.
Alex and I were living with 3 others (in a pretty plush flat) on Argyle Street, the other end of South Street, one of St Andrews' main three thoroughfares. We'd been out, I'd got bored as I tended to, and wandered home at about 10.30. Then, in an unprecedented and not to be repeated move, I thought to myself "maybe I've missed something, maybe the night gets better".
Now bear in mind how ridiculous a move this was in that neither I nor my friends had mobile phones at this point (probably a few folk did, but not Alex, John or me, and I didn't know anyone's number).
I realised as soon I headed out that I didn't know where anyone would be ... I thought I'd try the Student Union, but without much hope. The important fact here is that I was wandering around without purpose.
I am a very firm believer that (I can only speak for men here, I know the risk is usually different and more multi-faceted for women) you are more likely in danger if you are somewhere you shouldn't be and somewhere you don't look like you belong.
[Another time, in 2007, I was in New York (first time I'd been there), agreed to go to a gig in Brooklyn with some friends, they told me to meet at one of their apartment at the bottom of Manhattan, down under one of the bridges. I remember him saying to me "just, it's fine, but it can be a bit dicey so keep your wits about you". But because a) so far i'd found New York completely threatless and b) I'd noticed that Americans often had a pretty idealised and naive view of what London was like, as if there were no inner cities or poor people, unless they were lovable chimney sweeps, I was pretty careless. I walked past where he'd told me his apartment was, realised I'd gone too far, turned around and, a bit nonplussed and clueless, starting faltering back the way. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy crossing my path with his hand inside his jacket and a look on his face. As he crossed me, he drew the hand quickly out, said threateningly "Not now, bitch!" and shot his finger at me. Hilarious. I guess, a lucky escape, but I know it was my loss of direction which made me most vulnerable].
Well, back to St Andrews. I'm shambling along, I remember seeing the guys, four of them, they didn't particularly put me on edge, they looked like rugby players, they were big, but I don't suppose they fitted my stereotype, whatever it was, of who would commit random acts of violence in the middle of a busy town.
One stood in front of me. "What are you looking at?" ... oh come one ... a couple of punches ... then the other one, bigger "Sorry, pal, sorry about my mate, let me shake your hand." Takes it. Three precise blows to the cheek. What I remember is he knew what he was doing, was making sure he didn't damage his fist, didn't feel like he wanted to destroy me, I didn't feel in danger, like this was some free-for-all that would never end. After the third punch (five in total, all to my right cheek), I said "Right, that's enough" .... and walked on.
In the coming days, I think I dined out on it rather. A solid shiner. My diffident response, I think, amused people. Easy to sweep under the carpet.
Then, a few days later, in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror, I suddenly felt scared, violated, changed. I cried. The feeling passed, but I remember the feeling. That's what violence, however brief and meaningless, will do to people.
Well, these lads (I'm sure it was the same lads) clearly got their kicks out of punching students. Who knows how many they punched, how many they got away with because they never did it badly enough for victims or the police to give enough of a fuck.
So they did it to Alexander a year later. We assumed they'd heard us blasting out 'Jolene' that day or so earlier, that had set off some masculine avenging fire in them, they'd made a note to come back later, half-cut and ready for violence.
How I felt after that was complicated. I felt upset for Alex, and I felt guilty. I'd been upstairs in bed while he'd been getting punched. I'd heard it, hadn't I? I still don't know how it transpired. I think most likely is that when the door was being kicked, I assumed no one would open the door, and by the time he'd opened it, it was too late. But in the aftermath, I wished I was a guy that immediately sprung to action to defend his friend even if he didn't know his friend needed defending, whatever the circumstances.
You don't really know how you're going to respond to threat, nor what the right response. I haven't been around it all that much, but a few times, and on a few occasions, I've kind of frozen, which is the sort of response which makes you feel a bit guilty, but may actually be the best response quite often.
Then there have been a few other times, when angry men have been in my face (in sport, on railway platforms, buses, at parties, streets) where I've felt strangely invincible, and talked back to them fearlessly and facetiously. Most of the precursors to violence are pure ridiculous - ridiculous posturing and cliched words, and on a few occasions, I've felt perfectly at ease pointing out that ridiculousness. It's probably complete luck that hasn't gone badly for me so far, or maybe I was able to gauge that these people were all talk. Who knows?
Above all, though, if there's ever a time where instinct and judgement need to work as one and I need to leap to defend myself or someone I love from a serious threat, I dread freezing then, letting it happen before I've gathered myself. I'm not one for all the male stereotypes, but equally, there's a time to fight, isn't there? Who knows?
Weirdly, when I was young, I used to imagine getting in fights quite a lot, fancied (as a lot of idiots do) that if it came to it I might handle myself fairly well. Thankfully, when, at the age of 28, I had to start taking blood thinners and was told to stop playing contact sports, that flight of imagination disappeared. Getting hit, in any way, is not a great idea for me.
Anyway, so those pricks ruined Jolene for us a bit, to be honest. It's quite Tarantino-esque, isn't it? Mindless violence to a beautiful country music soundtrack ...
Saturday 14 March 2020
Song 75: Go!
I wouldn't say I hate Eurovision. It's not that. I know it gives a lot of people a great deal of pleasure and I understand why.
But somewhere in the mid to late 90s, I lost touch with it and have never really found it again. It got bloated, it got unfair, and it got kind of not silly, not bad enough.
And I myself, of course, became joyless and musically snobbish around the same time. Funny that.
A couple of times in the intervening two decades, rather than look down my nose on it, I've committed to the evening like we did when we were children, and kind of enjoyed it again (albeit with different drinks than as children). Not massively, not with thrill and abandonment, but a bit.
When we were kids, of course, it was everything. It was looked forward to for weeks, it was a long evening in front of TV with the siblings and the cats and the notepads to keep score and the joy and the jokes and it was, what? 2 1/2 hours, maybe 3. Within bounds. Not 4, that's for sure.
Of course, it wasn't just one evening - well not always. The first "Song for Europe" I remember was in 1988, and it was won by 'Go!' by F***** Scott Fitzgerald (not sure that works on any level). A tear-jerking power ballad of the era by a man of the era.
With the preliminary round, the preamble and the actual contest, the song drilled its way into my head and my heart. Those were, of course, the good old days, when a moderate British power ballad didn't totter miserably to 11 points and 28th place, but strode its way to 135 points, only to be denied victory by 1 damn point - by Switzerland, by 'Ne partez pas sans moi' by a little someone you might have heard of called Celine Dion.
Hi Scott, what did you do? I lost by one point to Celine Dion and history changed forever, how about you?
Anyway, the thing is, I probably heard the song about 5 times in total, if that, all in, with the 'Song for Europe', the celebratory reprise, and the big show. It didn't crack the charts or anything. But we (well mainly me) used to sing its chorus in the back of the car for years to come - it had this Don't Worry Babyish persistence and rise and fall - "Go before you break my heart again you know that's what you've come here for, go before you say I love you like you did the day before you walked away from me" ... on and on it went. Probably, in my head, it's been a song that's been in everybody else's head for decades too.
So, I didn't listen to the song after that, just sang it, to be annoying, and then, had in my head. It never left. Never. It played in my head all the time for three decades. Pure background.
Then, suddenly, at the end of last year, I thought, with a flash of genius - The world has moved on. I could listen to that song, it needn't be trapped in some unreachable past. I can release it from my head and be free. It exists, it doesn't have to haunt me any more.
So I did. And had it been transformed by time into a thing of greater or lesser beauty? No, it was exactly as I remembered it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F09DJR9iiHY
It was this.
I'm not sure anything else has lived in my memory so complete and so whole for quite so long - most other songs/films/goals/stories have had some kind of real-world top-up along the way, or faded away, or perhaps reared up once in a decade or so. But somehow, for 30 years, I'd kept Scott's big hair, big lungs, big chorus pristine ever-present and untainted.
I'm sure Eurovision is, in real terms, much better now, I'm sure it was much better in the 70s too, but this is all it is for me.
But somewhere in the mid to late 90s, I lost touch with it and have never really found it again. It got bloated, it got unfair, and it got kind of not silly, not bad enough.
And I myself, of course, became joyless and musically snobbish around the same time. Funny that.
A couple of times in the intervening two decades, rather than look down my nose on it, I've committed to the evening like we did when we were children, and kind of enjoyed it again (albeit with different drinks than as children). Not massively, not with thrill and abandonment, but a bit.
When we were kids, of course, it was everything. It was looked forward to for weeks, it was a long evening in front of TV with the siblings and the cats and the notepads to keep score and the joy and the jokes and it was, what? 2 1/2 hours, maybe 3. Within bounds. Not 4, that's for sure.
Of course, it wasn't just one evening - well not always. The first "Song for Europe" I remember was in 1988, and it was won by 'Go!' by F***** Scott Fitzgerald (not sure that works on any level). A tear-jerking power ballad of the era by a man of the era.
With the preliminary round, the preamble and the actual contest, the song drilled its way into my head and my heart. Those were, of course, the good old days, when a moderate British power ballad didn't totter miserably to 11 points and 28th place, but strode its way to 135 points, only to be denied victory by 1 damn point - by Switzerland, by 'Ne partez pas sans moi' by a little someone you might have heard of called Celine Dion.
Hi Scott, what did you do? I lost by one point to Celine Dion and history changed forever, how about you?
Anyway, the thing is, I probably heard the song about 5 times in total, if that, all in, with the 'Song for Europe', the celebratory reprise, and the big show. It didn't crack the charts or anything. But we (well mainly me) used to sing its chorus in the back of the car for years to come - it had this Don't Worry Babyish persistence and rise and fall - "Go before you break my heart again you know that's what you've come here for, go before you say I love you like you did the day before you walked away from me" ... on and on it went. Probably, in my head, it's been a song that's been in everybody else's head for decades too.
So, I didn't listen to the song after that, just sang it, to be annoying, and then, had in my head. It never left. Never. It played in my head all the time for three decades. Pure background.
Then, suddenly, at the end of last year, I thought, with a flash of genius - The world has moved on. I could listen to that song, it needn't be trapped in some unreachable past. I can release it from my head and be free. It exists, it doesn't have to haunt me any more.
So I did. And had it been transformed by time into a thing of greater or lesser beauty? No, it was exactly as I remembered it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F09DJR9iiHY
It was this.
I'm not sure anything else has lived in my memory so complete and so whole for quite so long - most other songs/films/goals/stories have had some kind of real-world top-up along the way, or faded away, or perhaps reared up once in a decade or so. But somehow, for 30 years, I'd kept Scott's big hair, big lungs, big chorus pristine ever-present and untainted.
I'm sure Eurovision is, in real terms, much better now, I'm sure it was much better in the 70s too, but this is all it is for me.
Friday 13 March 2020
Song 74: Lithuania
I reckon this will be the most obscure song I write about, the last track on a 2002 EP by a liitle-known American songwriter, it's represented by one video on youtube which has 1.4 thousand views and one comment.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JVwV3IM3HHk
It's, in its way, a wonderful song though.
I'll tell you a bit about Dan Bern, as much as I know. He's a working American small time songwriter, he's released a bit of this and that, he's written songs especially for films here and there, he's in the classic topical/comical/satirical folk singer mould. He sounds a lot like Bob Dylan, undeniably.
Talking of Dylan, here is the time he penetrated Dylan's consciousness - it's truly hilarious. If you don't read the rest of this piece, click on this link and read this. https://ultimateclassicrock.com/bob-dylan-angry-letter/
Basically (if you've disobeyed me and not clicked), Bern used to write a satirical column for an American magazine, once he wrote something (light-hearted) about Dylan's mother, Dylan found out about it and wrote a gloriously furious letter, which he never sent, and was auctioned two decades later, when Bern found out about it.
Bern has another loverly song called 'New American Language' where he sings "I have a dream of a new American language, one with a little bit more Spanish" which never fails to move me.
But, anyway, Lithuania, was the last track (i think) on an EP wherein Bern courted controversy, called 'The Swastika EP'. Bern (Jewish), wrote an ok little song called 'My Little Swastika' about reclaiming the ancient symbol from Nazis. There's also a song on the EP called 'Talkin' Al Kida Blues' about an American guy called Al Kida who got hate mail. Again, so topical, so solid.
This is what I remember, though. I'll have bought the EP in the days in 2002 when I wasn't up to much - working part time, not in a 5 and dime, not for Mr McGee. I remember it was in the few months when I was still in my mum's house in Ealing but had moved to my long-moved out sister's room (of which I was envious as we were growing up). Being part time and young, there'd be the odd bit of afternoon drinking, and I'd clearly gone into London for a couple of drinks, bought some music, gone home and listened to it.
Because I remember I listened to the Swastika and Al Kida songs still awake and then the EP went on and I was in a half-awake state.
'Lithuania' is a long song. 11 minutes.So I remember that on-and-on-ness as I slipped in and out of paying attention. And I remember that sudden stab into my dopey state that I was hearing something beautiful and moving.
There's some talking, some talking about being American and then it's about his ancestors who were killed in Lithuania, and there's a lot about being Jewish and a litany of Jewish heroes, and then there's some singing and the refrain where he sings "Hey hey the fog has gone" is somehow utterly stunning.
It manages to be a history and a satire and a cry of identity and a love song and an anthem and a travel song and an ode to the poached egg and for a while I couldn't get enough of it (apart from the poached egg).
Anyway, what's it here for?
It's here because even if, like me, you've spent most of your life looking for songs, you want to hear every great song there is, you don't actually know a small fraction of the good songs. I, for whom this song and this genre is right in my zone, could most definitely have never have heard or paid attention to this song. The tiniest fragment of people have heard this song, and yet it moved my little soul beyond measure.
There are/have been 100s, 1000s of Dan Berns out there who really knew/know how to put together a song with words, and some of them got more than a few write ups in the serious music mags and some of them didn't.
Hey hey.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JVwV3IM3HHk
It's, in its way, a wonderful song though.
I'll tell you a bit about Dan Bern, as much as I know. He's a working American small time songwriter, he's released a bit of this and that, he's written songs especially for films here and there, he's in the classic topical/comical/satirical folk singer mould. He sounds a lot like Bob Dylan, undeniably.
Talking of Dylan, here is the time he penetrated Dylan's consciousness - it's truly hilarious. If you don't read the rest of this piece, click on this link and read this. https://ultimateclassicrock.com/bob-dylan-angry-letter/
Basically (if you've disobeyed me and not clicked), Bern used to write a satirical column for an American magazine, once he wrote something (light-hearted) about Dylan's mother, Dylan found out about it and wrote a gloriously furious letter, which he never sent, and was auctioned two decades later, when Bern found out about it.
Bern has another loverly song called 'New American Language' where he sings "I have a dream of a new American language, one with a little bit more Spanish" which never fails to move me.
But, anyway, Lithuania, was the last track (i think) on an EP wherein Bern courted controversy, called 'The Swastika EP'. Bern (Jewish), wrote an ok little song called 'My Little Swastika' about reclaiming the ancient symbol from Nazis. There's also a song on the EP called 'Talkin' Al Kida Blues' about an American guy called Al Kida who got hate mail. Again, so topical, so solid.
This is what I remember, though. I'll have bought the EP in the days in 2002 when I wasn't up to much - working part time, not in a 5 and dime, not for Mr McGee. I remember it was in the few months when I was still in my mum's house in Ealing but had moved to my long-moved out sister's room (of which I was envious as we were growing up). Being part time and young, there'd be the odd bit of afternoon drinking, and I'd clearly gone into London for a couple of drinks, bought some music, gone home and listened to it.
Because I remember I listened to the Swastika and Al Kida songs still awake and then the EP went on and I was in a half-awake state.
'Lithuania' is a long song. 11 minutes.So I remember that on-and-on-ness as I slipped in and out of paying attention. And I remember that sudden stab into my dopey state that I was hearing something beautiful and moving.
There's some talking, some talking about being American and then it's about his ancestors who were killed in Lithuania, and there's a lot about being Jewish and a litany of Jewish heroes, and then there's some singing and the refrain where he sings "Hey hey the fog has gone" is somehow utterly stunning.
It manages to be a history and a satire and a cry of identity and a love song and an anthem and a travel song and an ode to the poached egg and for a while I couldn't get enough of it (apart from the poached egg).
Anyway, what's it here for?
It's here because even if, like me, you've spent most of your life looking for songs, you want to hear every great song there is, you don't actually know a small fraction of the good songs. I, for whom this song and this genre is right in my zone, could most definitely have never have heard or paid attention to this song. The tiniest fragment of people have heard this song, and yet it moved my little soul beyond measure.
There are/have been 100s, 1000s of Dan Berns out there who really knew/know how to put together a song with words, and some of them got more than a few write ups in the serious music mags and some of them didn't.
Hey hey.
Wednesday 11 March 2020
Song 73: You've Got a Friend
I liked 'Tapestry' a lot but 'You've Got a Friend' was not my favourite by any means. Probably I first heard it on TOTP2 in the mid-90s and I just thought it was a bit ... basic.
Nice, solid fare.
The history of it is very pleasing, that it was written in response to the line in James Taylor's 'Fire and Rain' "I''ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend", that both Taylor and King recorded it and both are synonymous with it. Something pretty cool is that 'Tapestry' and 'Blue' were recorded simultaneously in the same studio (Mitchell guested on King's album, with James Taylor connecting the two).
But you know how it is with 'Tapestry'. Gradually it all seeps in to you. It's such an entirely lovely album that even the songs you initially find a bit boring you end up knowing inside out.
And every song will have its time eventually if you give it long enough.
'You've Got A Friend' had its time and I will love it forever. It may be that I have sung it more than any other song. It felt like a lifetime but it was actually only a year or so. A year or so when I learnt a new skill which was the most important and subtle skill I had. A rocking good skill. Rocking.
'You've Got a Friend' became my rocking tune. That and 'Row Row Row Your Boat'. I tried loads of others, nursery rhymes and pop songs, I sang everything from 'Into Your Arms' and 'Blowin' in the Wind' to 'Ten in the Bed' and 'Old MacDonald'. But overwhelmingly, night after night, the ones I would turn to once, twice, however many times, were 'Row Your Boat' and 'You've Got a Friend'.
Whether it was the sound, the pitch, the tempo, it worked for her and it worked for me. Walking up and down the corridor, not allowed to sit down, singing and hoping, hoping it stuck.
Now she goes to sleep without needing to be rocked. It's still not always a walk in the park, it still needs music, but my days of singing 'You've Got a Friend' night after night are gone. Did I get sick of it? No, I did not. Did I get sick of 'Row Row Row Your Boat'. Maybe a little.
Nice, solid fare.
The history of it is very pleasing, that it was written in response to the line in James Taylor's 'Fire and Rain' "I''ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend", that both Taylor and King recorded it and both are synonymous with it. Something pretty cool is that 'Tapestry' and 'Blue' were recorded simultaneously in the same studio (Mitchell guested on King's album, with James Taylor connecting the two).
But you know how it is with 'Tapestry'. Gradually it all seeps in to you. It's such an entirely lovely album that even the songs you initially find a bit boring you end up knowing inside out.
And every song will have its time eventually if you give it long enough.
'You've Got A Friend' had its time and I will love it forever. It may be that I have sung it more than any other song. It felt like a lifetime but it was actually only a year or so. A year or so when I learnt a new skill which was the most important and subtle skill I had. A rocking good skill. Rocking.
'You've Got a Friend' became my rocking tune. That and 'Row Row Row Your Boat'. I tried loads of others, nursery rhymes and pop songs, I sang everything from 'Into Your Arms' and 'Blowin' in the Wind' to 'Ten in the Bed' and 'Old MacDonald'. But overwhelmingly, night after night, the ones I would turn to once, twice, however many times, were 'Row Your Boat' and 'You've Got a Friend'.
Whether it was the sound, the pitch, the tempo, it worked for her and it worked for me. Walking up and down the corridor, not allowed to sit down, singing and hoping, hoping it stuck.
Now she goes to sleep without needing to be rocked. It's still not always a walk in the park, it still needs music, but my days of singing 'You've Got a Friend' night after night are gone. Did I get sick of it? No, I did not. Did I get sick of 'Row Row Row Your Boat'. Maybe a little.
Monday 9 March 2020
Song 72 : Punka
There was a horribly spiteful interview with Lauren Laverne a month or two ago by a journalist called Decca Aitkenhead saying how bland and uninteresting Laverne was, and I thought to myself "Kenickie should get back together and repackage their magnificently spiteful song 'Punka' (P-U-N-K-A) as 'Decca' (D-E-C-C-A), that would be an apposite response about blandness," but of course they didn't.
I happen to think Lauren Laverne on 'Desert Islands Discs' is great - I've listened the show more in the last year than ever before, and several of the interviews have been moving and memorable. But Laverne is definitely, as a default, extremely nice now, and if an interviewer takes that for blandness, so be it. They can't be Kenickie fans.
I've listened to Kenickie's debut album 'At the Club' quite a few times lately. It may be one of the best British albums of the 90s (their second album is also very good, though a bit uneven).
It really deserves reconsideration, though you can tell that Laverne has happily given up on the music for good (and her Kenickie bandmates all seem to have built excellent other careers, according to wikipedia).
I always saw (and still see) Kenickie as counterparts to Ash. Of the bands of the era, these were the two that were my age, that were still doing their A-Levels when they hit the big time, that were a pop-punk three (then later four) piece from "not london" with memorable tunes and great lyrics. Both Tim Wheeler and Laverne's vocals are lightish considering the genre - I never saw Kenickie live but I wonder if they ever got swallowed up a bit in that setting, where they worked really well on record. (both bands also took their name from one of the biggest films of the 70s too)
Kenickie were funnier than Ash, much funnier, but I guess Ash really hit on something with the angels/stars/nostalgia thing. Kenickie's songs were really of the now. 'Punka' is my favourite of their songs, though 'Come Out 2Nite' is also a classic. They really should and could have been massive, if they'd caught the right wave but where Girl from Mars got Ash close to the Top 10, Kenickie never quite got into the Top 20.
Punka should have done it - it's as exhilaratingly dismissive, joyful and knowing now as it was then, a takedown of scenesters and their little concerns. Really, there's a precocity to the quality of their songs that wouldn't be heard again in British music til Arctic Monkeys.
Anyway, that's all. If you've forgotten about Kenickie, give them another listen.
I happen to think Lauren Laverne on 'Desert Islands Discs' is great - I've listened the show more in the last year than ever before, and several of the interviews have been moving and memorable. But Laverne is definitely, as a default, extremely nice now, and if an interviewer takes that for blandness, so be it. They can't be Kenickie fans.
I've listened to Kenickie's debut album 'At the Club' quite a few times lately. It may be one of the best British albums of the 90s (their second album is also very good, though a bit uneven).
It really deserves reconsideration, though you can tell that Laverne has happily given up on the music for good (and her Kenickie bandmates all seem to have built excellent other careers, according to wikipedia).
I always saw (and still see) Kenickie as counterparts to Ash. Of the bands of the era, these were the two that were my age, that were still doing their A-Levels when they hit the big time, that were a pop-punk three (then later four) piece from "not london" with memorable tunes and great lyrics. Both Tim Wheeler and Laverne's vocals are lightish considering the genre - I never saw Kenickie live but I wonder if they ever got swallowed up a bit in that setting, where they worked really well on record. (both bands also took their name from one of the biggest films of the 70s too)
Kenickie were funnier than Ash, much funnier, but I guess Ash really hit on something with the angels/stars/nostalgia thing. Kenickie's songs were really of the now. 'Punka' is my favourite of their songs, though 'Come Out 2Nite' is also a classic. They really should and could have been massive, if they'd caught the right wave but where Girl from Mars got Ash close to the Top 10, Kenickie never quite got into the Top 20.
Punka should have done it - it's as exhilaratingly dismissive, joyful and knowing now as it was then, a takedown of scenesters and their little concerns. Really, there's a precocity to the quality of their songs that wouldn't be heard again in British music til Arctic Monkeys.
Anyway, that's all. If you've forgotten about Kenickie, give them another listen.
Thursday 5 March 2020
Song 71: Take It With Me
aka Time waits for Tom Waits.
aka Tom Waits for Norman; Norman is in Ireland.
So, eventually, there's Tom Waits.
You think there won't be, but there is, eventually.
There's a Rod Stewart cover when you're young, then there's Short Cuts where you don't really know who he is, but he's perfect, then there's hearing Mule Variations in the summer of 99 at Ed's house and even though it's tough going, you remember Hold On, that there's something to hold on to, in the car home when Bring it All Back beats Beautiful Stranger to Number 1, then there's Blackwell's, where, for that staff of rock star/writer/poets manqués Tom Waits and Tindersticks are like Dylan/Madonna/Michael Jackson and all the old hands are making you compilation tapes with knowing looks and you still don't get it and you're just too young but you think, yes, maybe, when when I'm older, maybe when I'm on a desert island, and Ed Harcourt you like and he doesn't stop talking about Tom Waits but you think that his good stuff is Buckley and it must be his tricky stuff is Tom Waits, and then you do Somewhere a la Tom Waits at karaoke one time when you've got a cold, and it's pretty fucking good but you make the mistake of trying to repeat the trick when you haven't got a cold, and then, of course, you listen to Martha and Ol'55 and all the obvious ones, and you think, of course, this is great, if he'd only stayed obvious, but all the hard work ones are still hard work, but you're getting there, you know you're getting there, and then you look up a few online lists of the best Tom Waits songs, and amidst the obvious ones you know, there's this one at Number 1 in one of the list, Take It With Me, and you realise, with Ed Harcourt, it wasn't Tom Waits just for the tricky ones, it was for all of it, and that lovely career-starting Ed Harcourt song Whistle of a Distant Train from 2000 is just completely a sucker for this, from Mule Variations, from 99.
Take It With Me
You watch the Coen Brothers film and the thing is Tom Waits isn't a singer slash actor, he's just an actor, and then sometimes he's a singer, of sorts.
And Take It With Me is just a beautiful song. This is his voice without affectation. Even a lot of the pop/rock songs have affectation, but this one, there's no affectation. It's as lovely, straight a song as you'll hear.
There's a Tom Waits covers album in 2019 called Come on up to the House, and it's all by women, and some of the best singers, really the best, and it's beautiful and you realise how many beautiful Tom Waits songs there are, how warm and empathetic they are, and these versions sit perfectly alongside his own versions.
And now I'm all in. All the Tom Waits. All the time.
aka Tom Waits for Norman; Norman is in Ireland.
So, eventually, there's Tom Waits.
You think there won't be, but there is, eventually.
There's a Rod Stewart cover when you're young, then there's Short Cuts where you don't really know who he is, but he's perfect, then there's hearing Mule Variations in the summer of 99 at Ed's house and even though it's tough going, you remember Hold On, that there's something to hold on to, in the car home when Bring it All Back beats Beautiful Stranger to Number 1, then there's Blackwell's, where, for that staff of rock star/writer/poets manqués Tom Waits and Tindersticks are like Dylan/Madonna/Michael Jackson and all the old hands are making you compilation tapes with knowing looks and you still don't get it and you're just too young but you think, yes, maybe, when when I'm older, maybe when I'm on a desert island, and Ed Harcourt you like and he doesn't stop talking about Tom Waits but you think that his good stuff is Buckley and it must be his tricky stuff is Tom Waits, and then you do Somewhere a la Tom Waits at karaoke one time when you've got a cold, and it's pretty fucking good but you make the mistake of trying to repeat the trick when you haven't got a cold, and then, of course, you listen to Martha and Ol'55 and all the obvious ones, and you think, of course, this is great, if he'd only stayed obvious, but all the hard work ones are still hard work, but you're getting there, you know you're getting there, and then you look up a few online lists of the best Tom Waits songs, and amidst the obvious ones you know, there's this one at Number 1 in one of the list, Take It With Me, and you realise, with Ed Harcourt, it wasn't Tom Waits just for the tricky ones, it was for all of it, and that lovely career-starting Ed Harcourt song Whistle of a Distant Train from 2000 is just completely a sucker for this, from Mule Variations, from 99.
Take It With Me
You watch the Coen Brothers film and the thing is Tom Waits isn't a singer slash actor, he's just an actor, and then sometimes he's a singer, of sorts.
And Take It With Me is just a beautiful song. This is his voice without affectation. Even a lot of the pop/rock songs have affectation, but this one, there's no affectation. It's as lovely, straight a song as you'll hear.
There's a Tom Waits covers album in 2019 called Come on up to the House, and it's all by women, and some of the best singers, really the best, and it's beautiful and you realise how many beautiful Tom Waits songs there are, how warm and empathetic they are, and these versions sit perfectly alongside his own versions.
And now I'm all in. All the Tom Waits. All the time.
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