16 November 2007
I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe….and the smell of cabbage.
I’ve just endured a smokeless evening in the Smoke and have to report that it was rather lacking in atmosphere – unless you count the newly pre-eminent fug of boiled potatoes, old cabbage, body odour and smugness, which clung to the air as tenaciously as anything our dear departed nicotine could have wafted across. These are the default stenches that bided their time – waiting their turn to assault our olfactory senses, held at bay by the unifying blanket of curling, swirling tobacco smoke. Not that dissimilar to Iraq perhaps? A bad situation held in check by a tyrant, swept away by outside forces in the belief that it would improve things…An unforgivably trivializing metaphor of course – I’m good at those, but, how is boozers smelling of cabbage, onions and Eternity by Calvin Clein a liberation? Didn’t they send inspectors in to assess what pongs might rise up once the old guard was toppled?
It feels very unnatural to walk past a pub – I could stop this sentence here – to see in through the windows, a crystal clear high definition picture of germfree adolescents quaffing sports lager by the teaspoon full, while outside, middle ages roue’s and life’s other charming detritus fight for pavements space with baby buggies, ninety-four geared mountain bikes and defecating dogs.
Mind you, the shiny happy people might eventually be bred out of existence due to losing the best chat-up line in existence. Never for them, the flirtatious possibilities ignited by the sentence ‘Excuse me, may I trouble you for a light my dear?’ I suppose, if the spark of attraction is already there, then ‘ Doesn’t the cabbage smell wonderful?’ could conceivably work.
Anyway, I realize that I’m ranting now – I am trying to stop smoking, but less enthusiastically than before July 1st. I’d imagined that the ban would make it easier, but it’s had the opposite effect. The cabbage-slop fag-ash odour replacement has made me angry. Now I want to stand outside pubs, chain-smoking with the other poor souls, making rude faces at those inside, while leafing through undertakers’ catalogues.
16 November 2007
John Moore’s Guide To Good Parenting.
Is it wrong to frighten one’s children into obedience by creating a world of monsters, freaks and ghouls who’ll seek them out if they don’t play ball? How wrong exactly, and what if any, are the humane alternatives?
My ‘these days’ quite sceptical daughter firmly believes that if she goes to sleep too late, she might incur the displeasure of a giant called Bad-Tempered Bob whose job it is to put out all the lights in the world at night. Physically, he is somewhere between Bluto from Popeye and Giant Haystacks, about fifty feet tall, never in the best of moods - because he wants to knock off early, and if he hears a naughty child still awake after bedtime hours, will put his bristly old face against the window and give them a piece of his mind. He shares a cottage in the forest with his brother Angry Harold – a ginger headed ogre, whose job it is to sweep up the world at night – once the kids are asleep. Interestingly, Angry Harold doesn’t like children to wake up until his work is finished – which takes especially long at weekends. Of course the brothers aren’t all bad, and once a year they bake cakes and biscuits for the children to apologize for being bad-tempered.
I was similarly alarmed as a child by The Pins and Needles Lady, who my father warned might come to the house to prick us all with pins ( He’d probably been reading Kraft-Ebbing’s Psychopathia Sexualis ), and we were to hide in the bathroom and not make a sound if anybody knocked at the door. In later years, he admitted that during the 1970 general election, as the local Liberal Party agent, he’d made some rather rude comments about his Conservative counterpart in the paper, and was terrified she’d come round and confront him – Dads eh?
I know that I am not the only parent to indulge in this form of phantasmagorical manipulation. I have a friend who tells her son that if he doesn’t put his toys away, Daddy will be kidnapped by the scarecrows from Dr Who.
So, when they won’t go to bed / at least help to clear up their horrible messes, or threaten to use scatological words in front of granny, what demons do you conjure up?
16 November 2007
Sod this weather, sod this wretched country and sod Cornwall.
I’ve just come back from a week in a house on a cliff by a bay at the far South Western corner of this land – and I’m still shivering.
This is the person who was boasting less than a month ago, of an erotic vacance beneath the scorching sun of Provence, surrounded by nature, naked ladies and drowned in Rose (Accent acute methinks).
Some people will have little sympathy for a man who appears to spend an inordinate amount of his waking hours on holiday, but consider this – I am engaged in the business of writing, I take my laptop wherever I go, and can be just as unproductive beside the seaside beside the sea, as cooped up in my squalid London garret – In fact, the cost of living is a darn site cheaper on holiday than in my honeyed little corner of the capital. Whatever temptations there are to alleviate the boredom – such as a round of crab sandwiches and pint of scrumpy at the pub, or a two-hour trip aboard a Mackerel Trawler, cannot begin to compare to even the cheapest diversion London has to offer.
I was holed up near the Eden Project and the Secret Gardens of Helligan – neither of which I bothered with because it was too fxxkin’ cold. I walked down to the beach once, and kept myself warm by collecting plastic bottles in a washed up bucket, which I took away for recycling. Apparently, this was designated as a nudist beach, although anybody fool hardy enough to disrobe might just as well have tossed their frozen off extremities into my bucket as well.
A bracing walk along the cliff path, took me past beautiful scenery, and a monastery that Robbie Williams had apparently tried to buy, and finally led me to a village filled with trinket shops.
I have read that parts of Cornwall have been taken over by the monied classes, but to find displayed in a shop window – for the Princely sum of three hundred and fifty smackers – a framed poster of the Enola Gay – to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima – signed by all the crew, was rather surprising. Imagine being on your holidays, perhaps looking for a box of fudge to take home, then coming across this? It’d be just the thing wouldn’t it?
“ Maud, have you seen this – it’s original…that’d be great hanging in the conservatory wouldn’t it?”
“ Hang on Chuck – I thought we were lookin’ for a watercolour of the bay?”
Anyway, I haven’t got any more holidays planned – unless you count the Port Eliot Literary Festival- I don’t - because playing in the Idler Ukelele Orchestra - to me – is hard work. I’ve got an inkling that I might go to Mumbai, maybe even Kabul, but I won’t reveal details at present in case you want to kidnap me – or rob my flat when I’m not in.
16 November 2007
I’ve just had a heart-stopping moment – a real panic. This afternoon, my soon-to-be six-year-old daughter Ava, brought her best friend over to her Old Man’s pad for what I believe is called a Play-Date. I spent the morning cleaning, scrubbing and removing articles likely to cause nightmares in the young – and generally restoring the premises to some recognized standard of decency - although the taxidermy remained due to forgetfulness. Other artefacts were stowed away, certain books put in cupboards, washing up done, bathroom cleansed, vacuum cleaner utilized for the first time in months; in fact, the old place scrubbed up quite well in the end.
It was a magical afternoon, spent dressing up, drawing monsters, watching thunder storms and taking mad photos on my computer – the iPhoto booth facility on new Macs that enables fairground Hall Of Mirror effects is – I think you’ll agree, the perfect realization of technology, and overshadows everything else that Steve Jobs and Bill Gates have ever done.
Being what is loosely termed – a musician, I have a lot of goodies here for making that legendary ground breaking record….it has eluded me thus far, but there is still a smidgeon of hope.
Any way, back to the scare. I let the girls record themselves singing and chatting on my Logic 7 home studio programme, then added a few effects such as reverb and compression, then burnt it all off onto a CD which I gave to Emily to take home, play to her parents, and keep forever as a treasured document of childhood bliss.
Having driven the girls home and told Emily’s dad how much I’d enjoyed the afternoon’s hi-jinks, I decided to re-listen to the recording over a wistful glass of wine or two. Imagine my surprise then, when straight after their rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Dudley Moore’s filthy belching tones invaded the room, complaining that “ I Love You So Much I Can’t Shit.” Had I really given Emily a CD to play for her mum and dad that ended with Derek and Clive?
My first reaction was to get on the phone at once and try to explain. Her parents are lovely artistic people who would probably find it all very amusing – but what if they didn’t? Kramer vs Kramer was on TV a couple of weeks ago, and I am still deeply troubled by it. John Moore played Derek and Clive to children at a play date? Wouldn’t read too well would it?
Thankfully, having investigated thoroughly, it seems it’s just an iTunes issue, where my playlist shuffles at random. The CD remains unimpeachably sweet – at least I hope so.
16 November 2007
For those of you who read ‘MY FIRST GUARDIAN ARTICLE MADE FROM ACTUAL INK AND TREES’, about The Jesus And Mary Chain’s grand return in Monday’s G2 Arts Section, I have further news from The Shaldon Barber Shop.
As I explained, Jim Reid -of late having been - somewhat inactive in the noise, chaos and pop music world, had drawn several winces of scepticism from his local barber while polite small talking his upcoming adventures. Coachella, David Letterman?…even in a town whose population are mostly well advanced in years, this seemed a bridge too far in the Alzheimer’s stakes. Claiming to be Winston Churchill is one thing, but this?
And so it is with great pleasure that I can reveal that Mr Reid has once again presented himself for a trim at Cynical Sid’s Snip Shop in preparation for another forthcoming ‘fantastic’ event. Mr Benn eat your heart out.
“ Something for the weekend Jim?”
“No thanks – I’ll be in London – I’m playing a gig.”
A palpable drop in pressure causes involuntary shivers among the elderly folk, patiently lined up awaiting the chop. They cling together for warmth and comradeship, sensing – just as they did in 1941 - occult forces at work. A bottle of hair tonic begins to rattle on the shelf, and the Derek Doogan Hairstyle Calendar 1975 inexplicably falls from the wall.
“ Oh are you – Anywhere nice is it?”
“Er – yeah – The Royal Festival Hall actually.” Coughs slightly.
“ Been broadcast is it?”
The electric clippers move dangerously close to Jim’s aorta as the barber grimaces and spins a finger to his temple in a gesture of insanity. The haircut draws to a satisfactory close.
Having seen the back and sides in the mirror, received a light neck brushing and a complimentary Handy Andy Mansize, Jim prepares to leave. The barber takes his money and considers asking him to….perhaps try somewhere else for a while, or perhaps – grow your hair really long –“ it’d suit you.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot, I’ve got something for you.” says Jim.
He hands the barber today’s G2 – open at the relevant page, then vamooses into the Devon sunshine.
I think a free shampoo and set might be in the offing – don’t you?
16 November 2007
I have done that most bourgeois of things – taken a summer holiday. I will tell you about it – although it hardly constitutes an opinion piece, and is unlikely to inspire debate – unless it’s on the best way to string me up from the nearest lamp post.
Out of the blue, I was invited to spend a ‘free’ week in Provence – a writers’ retreat, with my dear friend and occasional employer – Rowan Pelling – former Editrice of The Erotic Review – for whom I sometimes made up smutty stories, and four of her closest female friends. Sounds promising don’t it?
She had been lent a house by a wicked rich uncle – a real uncle I should state, whose name was not Monty, and who certainly didn’t turn up in the middle of the night expecting to have his way with me - although as the place was so incredible, I’d have probably let him, and I reckon he’s got one in the bank. Think David Hockney swimming pools, sun scorched plaster, cool interiors and vast open fireplaces; surrounded by the Luberon mountains, mediaeval villages, and more naked flesh than you could shake a stick at.
It felt very grown up, especially as I took my laptop and wrote my inaugural Guardian feature about The Jesus And Mary Chain from a sun lounger by the pool. I don’t know if all Guardian journalism happens this way, but I should think it should.
Of course I will not descend into the nitty-gritty of what did or didn’t occur - I’ll save it for me erotic novel - suffice to say, billeted with five ladies in paradise and not making a slight nuisance of myself might have caused offence.
I did make myself useful in practical ways though - in the Scorpion, lizards, big ol’ spiders and snake removing dept.
I was excused further driving responsibilities owing to poor road positioning, hitting the kerb at thirty and puncturing two tyres – which rather fortuitously meant that I could drink whenever the fancy took me – which was often – especially as my Witches of Eastwick style fantasies were somewhat dampened by the ladies discussing ladies’ things with one another – as I know know ladies are wont to do. Although a father of one myself, I now know more about the mechanics of childbirth than any man alive – with the possible exception of Sir Robert Winston.
One thing the Gallicly bound should be aware of this summer, is that ciggies are now harder to come by than snowballs in hell. Having begun to wind down my nicotine intake about six weeks ago, I relapsed in the belief that abstinence in France was futile – that every Frenchman was Serge Gainsbourg blowing Gitane fumes into mon visage. Wrong. A generation of O level French speakers are now obsolete. ‘Le Bureau Tabac est ferme’ – avec un accent acute je pense. The opportunities pour dire – ‘Bonjour Monsieur de Tabac, Je voudrais achete deux cent Gauloiuses Bleu s’il vous plait ‘ are few and far between - This smoking ban might actually work damnit! And, it hasn’t escaped me that half the New Labour health and efficiency brigade vacance in this neck of the woods, so they’ve seen it with their own eux.
One last piece of information to impart – the airport authorities really are serious about this ban on creams, lotions and bottles larger than 100cl. Somewhere near Stanstead, is a carboot sale, knocking out the very latest cosmetic, hygiene and sun products at a most competitive rate.
l
16 November 2007
The Jesus And Mary Chain Are Back
Prisoners Of East Kilbride
Jim Reid’s barber suspects him of being a fantasist. During the small talk at his last two trims, he has claimed to be off to Palm Springs for the purpose of playing a rock festival, and to be heading to New York to record an episode of the David Letterman show. The barber in this South Devon village -who has had the pleasure of knowing his head for several uneventful years now – prior to this insanity, is taking it with a pinch of salt. “ Made any records have you?” he asks sceptically. “ One or two” Jim replies
Sholdon does not have rock stars – It’s sleepy streets - only disturbed by the battery powered thrum of motorized granny carts, driven responsibly by the affluently retired, do not cater for leather clad, wild men– there’s not even a McDonald’s. But it is in this slumbering seaside community, that Jim Reid – hell raiser, drinker, swearer, beater over the head of people with microphone stands , instigator of riots, causer of strikes at pressing plants, and possessor of one of THE greatest voices in pop music, has chosen to hide out..
Like a master criminal living incognito, he spends his days changing nappies ( not his own ), tending the garden, walking the cliff paths, and pottering about in the shed. His wife Julie has banned him from playing guitar inside the house, because it wakes Candice – their two month old second daughter. They already have a three year old, Simone, who has informed her nursery teacher that ‘Daddy is a singer and dancer.’
Although an incongruous base for a man whose departure from Kentish Town led to profit warnings for several off licence chains, it suits him well. He hasn’t had a drink for two years, or taken any stimulant stronger than caffeine. Geographically, it fits the bill as well, being a mere five thousand miles from brother William.
Having lain dormant for eight years – following fifteen of incendiary brilliance, madness, violence, and enough fraternal conflict to makes the Gallagher brothers seem like the royal princes, Reid and Reid are back business. For how long is anybody’s guess, but initial signs are good.
From the final blood spattered on-stage fight at LA’s notorious House Of Blues – Phil Spector’s pick-up joint of choice, to the show piece of the Festival of Britain – The Royal Festival Hall where they headline the Meltdown festival this Friday, The Jesus And Mary Chain have had a good long rest, and returned as…Elder Statesmen of Rock.
Against all odds, their come back at the Coachella Festival in California, was as near perfect as it’s possible to get. Having already stolen the show, they brought out Scarlett Johansson to sing backing vocals on ‘Just Like Honey’, and in true Mary Chain style, didn’t even bother to introduce her.
Asking me to interview pop’s answer to the Kray twins was a risky choice by the Guardian. I was once one of their henchmen you see , and know where the bodies are buried. The dangers of a Hello Magazine style love-in between old lags are manifest, but I shall try to retain some objectivity. I visited Jim at his delightful spacious home, furnished in tasteful pastel shades, and strolled his rolling lawns accompanied by Simone – resplendent in a pink diving mask and flippers…then spoke to William over the phone at his Rock and Roll dive off Sunset Strip.
That the band fell apart so acrimoniously is not at all unusual in music. As Jim says, “It’s like being locked in a cupboard with somebody for fifteen years. If it wasn’t your brother, you could kick them out.” He also makes the point that were it not for the fact that they sprang from the same womb, the band would have collapsed far sooner.
William takes a similar line, talking about how unnatural it is for brothers to work together in a band.
“ Imagine trying to pick up girls in front of your little brother?” He says that he is only just getting over the trauma of walking into his Jim’s hotel room in Copenhagen during the early days of the band, to discover him sprawled out, naked, asleep with a girl. He recounts this story with relish – rather pleased that it will find it’s way into print. Both Reids have a great sense of humour when not trying to murder each other. William told Jim that the time for a comeback had to be now, as he worried that Jim might not keep his hair for much longer.
With new blood - Loz Colbert and Mark Crozier aboard, The Mary Chain are reinvigorated .
‘No Offence John, but this is the best line-up we’ve ever had” says Jim, before attempting to punch me in the stomach. It’s obvious that he is really enjoying himself, and that living a continent apart from William seems to be working.
The reasons for the reformation are complicated. Although not short of money, and having turned down many previous requests, Jim says that the Coachella Festival made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Personally, I think it’s rather more complicated than this. I always thought they would get back together – despite all of Jim’s denials, and I firmly believe that for most of their hiatus, both wanted to. However, as incredibly stubborn Glaswegian males, neither could make the first move.
Both are clearly delighted to be back together, as is their mother June and sister Linda who have been flown out to see the gigs. Their dad died last year, an event which triggered some serious thinking. The family have always been extremely close, and the realization that their mother might need them to pull even closer together to help with the grief helped put things in perspective.
The lure of a big pay day – attractive though it was, gave them the perfect excuse to resume relations while saving face. Both could claim the pragmatism of a cheque with many zeros, while still maintaining a facade of mutual loathing should it prove necessary.
The whole enterprise almost came unstuck within seconds at the first rehearsal, as Jim ( never quite as innocent as he makes out ) said something which William misconstrued, and blows were a whisker away. Phil King - the long-standing bass player, witness to a thousand previous Reid/Reid explosions, and present at the final House of Blues brawl, could be forgiven at that moment for wishing Hadrians Wall had been properly maintained over the years.
However, with the inevitable border skirmish out of the way, the band began to rediscover themselves. The songs sounded good, they enjoyed playing them, and as relations thawed, the reconciliation – which is still very much a work in progress began to look possible after all. If they have not quite managed to wash all their dirty laundry – as evidenced by the state of Jim’s shirt at Coachella, they have at least given it a good rinse.
After the split, William headed west to LA to live like a rock star in the place where rock stars are not treated like delusional elderly gentlemen. Jim boozed in Kentish Town for years – quite often with me, before sobering up and heading a little less further west. Both had children and got married. William got divorced. Both are doting fathers and would rather like their children to see them doing what they do best.
When asked he misses the UK, William doesn’t recite some dewy eyed paean to warm beer and cream teas. He tells me about something called a Slingbox – a device – linked to his mother’s TV set in East Kilbride, which enables him to watch all the British shows, and best of all – change her channels from LA, which infuriates her, but also reminds her that she is not watching alone. As far as he’s concerned, he is still in the UK – albeit with better weather and 24/7 home deliveries of Whisky - which he wishes could be diet whisky – Unlike Jim, he has not yet taken the pledge. He is a little heavier these days, but in his nicely tailored jacket, looks good – rather like Pedro Almodovar.
That The Jesus And Mary Chain have chosen Meltdown to return to active service in the UK is very appropriate. They share a week of concerts with Motorhead and The Stooges. Ears are going to bleed, trouble will be had, and just maybe…
Asked if ‘They Predict A Riot’ William says how lovely it would be if there were – because he missed the North London Poly Riot – due to ‘being upstairs with a lady’, and Jim delights in the image of false teeth and walking sticks being thrown.
As I prepared to leave Jim’s sunnily aspected slice of God’s own Devon, he presented me with a gift. Eight cans of Stella, which had remained untouched in the freezer since sobriety took hold - their best before date was June 2007. Although no longer a drinker, he insisted that they must be consumed. Anything else would be unthinkable.
“ It would break my heart to see good beers going to waste.”.
It had been my intention to save these collector’s items, or send them to the first people to write in. I still have some of the cans, but to make postage cheaper, I’ve drunk the lot.
16 November 2007
Whose got a daughter? Aged about five? Into Fairies? Yep, I have. Ave the Rave has bought into the Rainbow Fairies big time. Talk about kiddie crack, the Rainbow Fairies have got her jonesing for the next fix. “ Daddy – it’s Waterstones day!” she told me last Friday. We’re up to three books a week – albeit, for the price of two.
I tried to reason with her, that she still had several chapters from last week’s purchases to read.
“ Come over here daddy – let’s have a little chat. You’re missing the point.”
Fantastically articulate for a five year old , although she can already use the word ‘Ironic’ in the correct context, as in ‘Nanny, you’re just being ironic.” when threatened with a deprivation of ice lollies forever, until she could pick up the Baby-Belles wax wrappers from the floor and put them in the bin, she demands – and gets these dreadful books week in week out…I am a divorced father, so have to do what I’m told by my child. Also, however bad they are – and they’re not that bad, they are inspiring a little girl to read voraciously…her school work is excellent apparently, and I am sure that the Rainbow Fairies must be playing a part.
What I object to – apart from sheer professional jealousy, is the fact that their author – Daisy Meadows is actually a team of writers keeping the franchise going. First it was fairies the colours of the rainbow, then fun flag fairies, then pet keeper fairies….The heroines are two little girls called Rachel Walker and Kirsty Tate, who continually rescue the fairies from Jack Frost and his Goblins.
Great Childrens’ fiction does not require a constant rehash. The Rainbow Fairies is the same story told over and over again.
Of course Ava loves it, and – completely against the spirit of the books’ commercialism, makes her own fairies out of paper and sellotape – and the pigeon feathers she picks up on the street when I’m not looking; and places them - like the Cottingley Fairies, all over the garden: but they all bear the names of Meadows menagerie. Georgia the Guinea Pig Fairy, Izzy the Indigo Fairy and Penny the Pony Fairy.
The lovely lady in Waterstones has accused Ava of eating her books, since she buys them so often, and – fabulous for a retailer in this greedy age – suggested that she read something a bit more challenging.
The only Fairy Book I really took umbrage with, was the one where Rachel and Kirsty became fashion models and their costumes were stolen by the goblins, only to be replaced by fairy magic, followed by a disco.
Today, I brought Stig Of The Dump – which I hope she’ll take to, but I have Emil and The Detectives, The Narnia Chronicles ( sod the religious sub-text) and Phillip Pullman to read to her. Before these wretched Rainbow Fairies came along, she’d already devoured most of Roald Dahl, and my greatest moment to date, was when ( from James and The Giant Peach) she called me a ‘Blithering Incompetent Pigeon.
I love the fact that Ava is reading for pleasure, but I wish the Rainbow Fairies would quit when they’re ahead.
16 November 2007
Bo Diddley
Bo Diddley is unwell – he’s had a stroke. Doctors are ‘cautiously optimistic’ about his chances of recovery, but at seventy-eight years of age, he might have to consider knocking the touring on the head for a bit.
It seems incredible to me that Bo Diddley – up until last week, was still working. Not the occasional date here and there to keep his hand in, but full-on round the world stuff. His website – Bo Diddley – the Originator, lists his forthcoming US shows, but he was also due to play in London again soon, which presumably means the major European cities as well. Having played here last summer, he toured Australia, Europe and all over the US and Canada again, gigging in small clubs, theatres, casinos…pretty much anywhere. I was extremely to tempted to see him play Las Vegas last October with Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis and the Late Great Godfather of Soul. Unfortunately the gig was only open to members of the American Footwear Association – mind you, I bet Al Bundy would have loved it.
If there was any justice in the world, Bo Diddley could have retired years ago, with enough of everything to keep him in the lap of luxury for the rest of his days, making occasional appearances for the world to pay homage to him. Of course, he probably still loves playing, and doesn’t want to stop, but really – the man IS A GOD. His concerts should be huge events, that put young pretenders like the Rolling Stones in their place.
The last few times I saw him, weren’t completely happy experiences. He looked tired and I felt sorry that he was still having to perform for idiots like me – but, without me there, there would have been one less door receipt for his fee, and one less person to cheer and go crazy when he did hit his stride; but it felt rather voyeuristic. If I was rich enough, I’d far rather set up a monthly standing order for him. On the first song, he broke a string on his legendary square guitar - a tech ( they don’t like being called roadies any more ) changed it while he was still playing the other five. The fact that he didn’t seem to have brought a spare guitar made me sad….I’m so sensitive ain’t I ?
I was lucky enough to see him three times in 1979. Although past his prime, he was magnificent, frightening and powerful. I had just returned from a Freddy Laker Fly/Drive holiday from New York to New Orleans ( my mother was and still is extremely cool). We travelled through the South, visiting the birth places of my Blues and Rock’n'Roll heroes, taking in McComb Mississippi, Magnolia, Knoxville, Memphis and The Big Easy. The above picture was taken in the back room of the Putney Half Moon, shortly after asking for an autograph – and I had blurted out that I’d been to McComb. He told me to come to see him at Reading Hexagon two nights later – as his guest, and to get there early. Before the show, he let me play his guitar and showed me the chords he used - he plays in open E, so it wasn’t straightforward. He showed me pictures of his kids, and his wife gave me their address in case I was ever in Florida. - he was the town sheriff. He also told me to quit smoking and never get into drugs…
His backing band on that tour was a bunch of New Yorkers called the BMTs, who looked and played like the Heartbreakers – it was a marriage made in heaven. No wonder punks loved him.
When I was introduced to Joe Strummer ( apologies for the name dropping, but this site does seem to be an outpost of Strummerville ) shortly before he died, I steered clear of Clash back-slapping, realizing that he’d get bored in half a minute. We talked about Bo Diddley all night – the Gretsch Big Bo Reissue – which he said he was definitely going to buy, and when the Colony closed, he insisted I accompany him to another club for more Whiskey and Bo Diddley talk.
Apart from being one of the greatest musical innovators of all time, Bo Diddley is a lovely man. ..if you’re on the right side of him. Get on his website and wish him well. He is a world treasure. There will NEVER be another.
16 November 2007
I’ve discovered the ‘Greatest Band Of All Time’ - what a stroke of luck. Without wishing to come across like a certain fiery headed Scotsman of my acquaintance who often makes similar proclamations on this site , I think the Razors just might have it.
I discovered their hand made flyer pinned to a tree as I made my way to Primrose Hill for a spot of sunbathing. It looked so perfect, so enthusiastic and so young - listing the names of the band members, its instrumentation, and the name of their single – with no information about how to acquire it.
Death To The Monkeys confused me at first – how could anybody so young want to kill Mickey Dolenz, Davy Jones et al? The Throbbing Gristle lightning flashes suggested they were an industrial noise unit keen on simian experimentation – but then I remembered. Isn’t there a band called Arctic Monkeys who are quite popular these days?
So the Razors must be very young indeed to regard Arctic Monkeys as music for the man – to be mistrusted and destroyed. I loved the fact that they proclaim themselves the greatest band of all time. In the NME, this would read as a tiresome boast by the usual dim chancers who have read a bit of Bill Drummond, studied Oasis and hope that nobody will notice how bad they are – But Pinned to a tree in Primrose Hill, it was delightful – and I would like to think – true.
Of course I may well be the victim of some elaborately plotted PR scam, where the evilest marketing minds have come up with this flyer to flog us some corporate tat, but I think not. The Razors do not appear to have a MySpace – there are plenty of bands from America called Pissing Razors, Razors Edge and the like, but not Razors.
I remember seeing a picture of a teenage Iggy Pop, playing with the Asheton brothers in their garden, behind a white picket fence – a typical American Idyll – until you noticed the size of the amplifiers they’d hauled into the garden to entertain the neighbourhood. I really hope that Razors are like this. Something about their flyer, its innocence and bravado appealed to me. For my sins, I love Mm Bop by Hanson, and I’m hoping these little tykes will be a much heavier nastier version.
For the record, I state – I do not know them, have no artistic, financial or any other connection with them. …YET. In this age of beer, hair product and mobile phone sponsorship , I detected something pure here, that might be worth a look. Of course, if they live in Primrose Hill, they’re probably the children of rock millionaires, but they still might be the greatest band of all time.
