Bo Diddley Is Unwell

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.

Razors

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.

The Mary Chain Comeback

“Is everybody having a good time?…Well let’s see what we can do about that.”

These words rang out across the California desert shortly after sunset last Friday, and The Jesus And Mary Chain were back. Apart from the small matter of a warm up gig the night before, this was the first time that the brothers Reid had shared so much as a sandwich together since their last gig ended in fraternal fisticuffs, bloodshed and ignominy nine years ago. In true showbiz style, the story appears to have a happy ending. It could have gone either way – Jim and William Reid are the most unstable elements since nitro and glycerine, and few people would have been surprised by ten minutes of feedback, swearing and somebody getting whacked with a microphone stand. Instead, they stole the show, sounded better than ever, and created a seismic wave that obliterated Folkstone the next morning. As if this wasn’t enough, they capped it all by utilizing Scarlett Johannson tonsils on ‘Just Like Honey’ – utterly sublime.

As a former hitchhiker on the Mary Chain bandwagon, I can’t pretend that I’m not horribly jealous not to be involved again – I would normally affect complete disinterest, but the Mary Chain are too important for strops. Unfortunately, this newspaper was too tight to send me out there as its roving/raving Coachella correspondent, so I watched the whole thing on YouTube and, was completely enthralled. The line up is perfect. Phil King, on bass, Jim, William, Mark Crozer and Loz Colbert who hits the drums harder than anybody I’ve ever seen.

When the Mary Chain ended, things had grown tired and fractured. Everybody drank, smoked and snorted far too much. In the interim, life has recalibrated itself. There’s nothing like births, deaths, marriages and divorces to make one pick up a guitar for the simple pleasure of playing a tune.

I don’t think you can call this a reunion, when it’s chief architects sprang from the same womb; and for cynics, ‘purists’ and anoraks who might think they’ve only done it for the money – so what! – I hope they make piles of the stuff…and consider this – they might actually enjoy playing in a Rock and Roll band, flying round the world, and staring at Scarlett Johannson’s posterior while knocking out a three chord symphony – it beats being a plumber.

When great bands get back together, don’t question it – just be thankful that these giants among men have given up some of their hard earned spare time, come down from their mountaintop retreats, and are prepared once again to stare at your horrible faces.

Traitors And Betrayal

Traitors and Betrayal

I’ve been thinking about betraying my country for idealogical reasons, but I can’t think to whom, or how to go about it. As far as I’m aware, I possess no information that shared with a foreign power could benefit mankind and help to ensure world peace – I doubt the Iranians would be interested in my Cocktail recipes.
The age of betrayal is over .What little information not already passed from state to state, ally to enemy, to the hands of anybody seeking to cause a bit of trouble, is almost certainly available on the internet. The days of microfilm, writing in lemon juice and Christine Keeler are long gone.

In the days when we had a few secrets worth protecting, there were plenty of conscientious idealists willing to spill the beans. The day after the first successful atomic bomb test, Dr Klaus Fuchs of the British contingent, drove to Santa Fe to and presented his Soviet contact with the whole shebang. Like his fellow traitor/preserver of mankind Dr Allan Nunn May, he believed that the atomic secret was too great for one side to possess.

It is unlikely that there could be another 1930′s style Cambridge spy ring. Booze, buggery and Bolshevism probably wouldn’t play too well with Al Queda, and due to a slightly different fashion sense from the infidels, they’d be easier to spot. Eliza Manningham-Buller suddenly growing a beard and praying five times a day would not go unnoticed.

So unless I’ve forgotten something, there’s very little I can do to bring the country to it’s knees, which is just as well I suppose – it’s quite nice here today.

Decadence

Decadence

This Saturday, I shall be performing at the Cambridge Wordfest, as part of an event devoted to the subject of decadence. When one thinks of this word, it usually conjures images of silks and opium, absinthe and flesh – what it actually means is falling away – a decline. It’s nice that they thought of me as an example of this, especially after joining a gym.
My co- declinees for this event are Rowan Pelling – who has never declined anything, some other writers and n’er do-wells( ?), and a delightful Burlesque artiste who I will try to persuade to do interpretive dancing to one of my songs. Although my rare performances are filled with beauty, wit, pathos and eroticism, I imagine some pasties and swinging tassels might enliven things somewhat – and stop the audience…and myself from falling asleep.
Of course, decadence has always provided rich pickings for artists and writers. Its greatest period came in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century in France, and the early thirties in Germany. .
The Absinthe paintings of Manet, Lautrec and Van Gogh evoked an amoral carnal world, far more shocking to genteel sensibilities than anything that came after. Otto Dix’s paintings are still gloriously obscene, and Des Esseintes, the hero of JK Huysman’s Au Reboirs remains the greatest decadent of them all…well, until Withnail came along…
I must lie down and smoke now, and listen to birdsong, distant traffic, and the mechanical music of men fixing cars two storeys below. Good afternoon.
NB. Decadence almost always ends in a war and annihilation – so hey – let’s be careful out there.

Gym’ll Fix It

Gym’ll Fix It.

I’ve been and gone and done the unthinkable – I’ve joined a gym. In an attempt to extend that rotten little sentence that passes for a life, I’ve paid £299 for three months of swimming, steaming, treadmilling, weightlifting, and meeting a rich young widow. The lumpen lardy beer bellied Moore that some of you know but many of you have loved, will be transformed into a chiselled, solid mass of muscle, sinew and machismo – unforgiving in its manly brutality, irresistible to both sexes, revitalized mentally to start a small business that makes a good return in its first year, and looking to buy a BMW convertible and take three holidays a year. If none of these happen, I’m down three tons and will have to torch the place.
The beauty of my new regime is that the place is literally two hundred feet from my door – and much closer than the pub – which I was on my way to when inspiration struck. I got the tour on Thursday night, wearing a distressed seersucker suit and reeking of wine. When asked why I wanted to join, I put my hand on my heart and declared “ I Want to Live.”
As a lucky recipient of the old Bi-Polar disorder – which used to be called manic-depression – which used to be called melancholy – or even mental illness, my new doctor made the extraordinary suggestion ( in light of golfing holidays supplied by drugs companies) that I get a bit of exercise – Jerome bloody K Jerome here we go! He did say to avoid the river – or I’d be suffering from a lot more that our most common affliction, but you know – fair play to him – good idea. He did double the antidepressants as well, but nobody likes to find a a suicide on the heath.
Anyway, I’ve got to visit a sports shop and buy shorts and plimsolls – can you still get old fashioned non-branded PE Plimsolls with the elasticated tongue? In no time, I expect I’ll get talking to jocks in the changing room, offered a top dollar job, and be working in the city – bringing down a million pound bonus. Alternatively, I would like to invite you all to my funeral.

John’ The Body( dead)’ Moore XXX

I Want To Have Your Babies

I Want To have Your Babies

Having read Laura Barton’s excellent article on that vile Black Eyed Peas excrescence regarding ladies’ curved wobbly parts, and been forced to throw away several packets of breakfast cereal as a result, I have now been assaulted by another three minutes of nausea – morning sickness perhaps. Natasha Bedingfield wants to have my babies.

She’s a Christian, so is perhaps reluctant to get all Serge Gainsbourg about how she would like to go about acquiring them, but from the tone of her song, she means business. If necessary, she will employ thermometers, stand on her head to ensure that the little fellas swim the right way, give up fags and booze, attend NCP classes, get stretch marks, go up several bra sizes, and ‘ see em springing up like Daisies’…and Donald’s I should think.

Now I’ve nothing in particular against Miss Bedingfield, and I am sure she would make an excellent mother, but really – does one need to be reminded about the long term consequences of ‘getting it on’ in the confined space of a fizzy little pop ditty? Isn’t pop music supposed to be insubstantial, instantly gratifying, and with no lasting effects? This song makes me want to turn into a sleezy Paul Anka and grunt “ Having My Baby ?– What A Lovely Way Of Saying How Much You Love me”.

Bedingfied ( good name for this kind of thing ) talks about ‘whatever happens in Vegas staying in Vegas ‘– so perhaps she’s up the stick by Bugsy Segal or Sammy Davis Jr, and there is mention of Jackpots and Slot Machines – rather a tasteless allusion if you ask me – especially if you’ve stood at the business end of a midwife.

I Want To Have Your Babies is the carnal out-pouring of a lady whose hormones are raging – A Yummy Mummy in the making who will knock me down in her 4×4. Rather than release this record, her record company might have done better to find a competent gynaecologist to assure her that there was no need to rush in that dept.

I would like to make it clear to Miss Bedingfield, that I do not want any more babies, lovely though they are, and that I should be far more inclined to buy her music if she were to cover a certain song by
Jayne County And The Electric Chairs.

Cops And Robbers

I love American Reality Cop Shows. These late night slices of US dementia send me to bed happy in the knowledge that however bad things are here – Amurky has it worse. Or better – If you like guns, PCP, car chases down dirt roads leading from nowhere to nowhere, drugs tossed from windows, and tyres gunned down to sparking metal. The night-vision on-foot chases by crooks too fat to run and cops too fat to chase, who both eventually collapse in a loving handcuff embrace, are moments of pathos and beauty, and confirmation – should anybody still need it , that this planet is on its last legs.

British cop shows get it wrong. There’s too much self-awareness and playing it by the book for the cameras – US shows are often filmed from automatic cameras inside the cars, so it’s one cop pulling over several seriously bad eggs in the middle of nowhere and arresting the lot of them – it doesn’t always say why.
I am not a right wing maniac, or in the midst of homoerotic fantasy….well maybe…but
US cops wear non-negotiable mirror shades which reflect the endless highway and out of luck stare of the sap they’re busting, porn-star moustaches, mullet hairstyles under state trooper hats, and they set up road blocks for felons just escaped from the State Pen. They use maverick intuition, and improvise manoeuvres that end with them shooting each other with stun guns – then do interviews about taking each other down in the line of duty.
There are some properly disturbing scenes on these shows – the unarmed five foot three police woman challenging an armed-to-the teeth bank robber and refusing to let him go – until an even more armed to the teeth member of the public – casually strolling out of Dunkin Donuts came to her rescue; or the convenience store worker being shot on cctv – disturbing until the Marlboro Cowboy voiced narrator explained that the ‘crook was actually ‘saving this guy’s life – if he hadn’t been shot and rushed to hospital, they’d never have discovered the huge tumour in his stomach.’
These shows will not appeal to everyone, and must be watched with a huge dash of irony. They are however, easy on the eye, hugely entertaining, and might dissuade you from busting a six pack, , robbing a bank and breaking for the border in your pick up truck.

Magpie Etiquette

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always greeted Magpies, fearing terrible consequences if I ignored them.
“Good Morning/afternoon/evening Mr Magpie – please give my kindest regards to your wife and family”, is quite possibly the most common sentence uttered by British drivers. What the consequences are of ignoring these monochrome scavengers is not known – most people no longer have crops to fail or livestock to be blighted so it’s a hard one o put your finger on. As far as I am aware, the Highways Agency has never carried out a case study on the relationship between fatal car accidents and the national Magpie population – I think government money should be made available at once. It could result in a safety awareness advertisement, urging drivers to salute the bird.

Being a former nipper of a certain age, the Magpie safety rhyme is drilled into the very fabric of my being – along with the pre-Mike Oldfield Blue Peter Theme, Tony Hart’s Art Gallery vibes jazz and the Tomorrow People’s scary as hell Moog signature theme. As I carbon emit along the byways of the nation, it is possible that the only thing keeping me alive is the respect I show to these occult winged demons because of my child learnt poem.
One for sorrow, two for joy,
three for a girl and for for a boy
five for silver, six for gold
seven for a secret never to be told
Maa aa aa ag – Pie, Maa aa aa ag Pie.

The point of this piece – yes there is one, is that these birds are everywhere now – they’ve taken over.
My entire car journey is punctuated with complimentary address es to Hitchcockian sky-blackening swarms of these things, and calculating whether I’m to receive the pleasure of a lady, gent or a pot of gold. If on the rare occasion that it’s just a single Magpie – resulting in sorrow, its melancholic spell can be broken by observing the bird until it is out of view, which is bloody dangerous while hurtling up the M4.
Owing to the enormous increase in Magpie numbers – yet not wishing to invoke ancient dark forces, I suggest a new abbreviated greeting – respectful, all encompassing, yet not risking calamity. “Yo Magpie and all yo fly bros and hos” – or something similar. Watch as accident figures plummet. Anyone got any suggestions?

Dame Vera Lynn At 90

Get down on your knees Allen, Winehouse, Stone, Sugarbabes, Girls Aloud and any other purveyors of British female song I might have forgotten. Bow down to our greatest popular singer of all time – Vera Lynn, as she celebrates her 90th birthday. Come to terms with the fact that nothing you ever produce – give or take a few rather nasty unforeseen circumstances in the military department, will ever have the same resonance as the recordings of the Great Dame.
Now don’t be jealous – Vera Margaret Welch – as she was born in East Ham, London on March 12th, 1917 would – I am certain, would rather the Second World War had not happened. Had the Devil met her at Bethnal Green crossroads – a la Robert Johnson, and presented her with the choice of complete anonymity – or international reverence and hits which would immortalize her, she would – like the great Amy Winehouse, have said ‘No,no,no’.
As we all know, the choice wasn’t hers. Events ran their course, and Vera – more than any other entertainer, sang us through the Blitz.
The effect that music has on us today is minuscule, compared with it’s real soul stirring 1940′s hey-day. As the blues kept cotton pickers a pickin and spirits a soarin’( even though in modern enlightened times, these slave driving anthems might have been called into question) , Her magical tones helped the world defeat Nazism. Vera Lynn’s voice was vulnerable, feminine, and as sexy as hell, yet it contained another quality – essential for our national spirit during it’s darkest times. Her voice had strength – Anglicized, unformulated, yet exactly the same quality as Gloria Gaynor, Bessie Smith, and every American soul singer whose really been up against it. Had Britannia ever made it to Stax studio, this is what it would have sounded like.
I had the good sense to get my soul man ass along to Hyde Park for the VE day concert several years ago, so have witnessed the extraordinary sound and presence of Vera Lynn – even in her seventies, she was incredible, and reduced my friends and I in floods of tears – we had to be comforted by WW2 veterans, who assured us that the battle was now over.
The second world war was a fowl unfortunate thing that has not yet slipped into history. It’s still a part of everyday life for many people – you only need to be thirty years older than me to have fought in it.
As far as my Uncle Bill was concerned, Vera Lynn made Madonna look like a tuneless tramp. Should our land-forces be called into action again, my money’s on Amy Winehouse to sing us through it. In the meantime though:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAME VERA LYNN – BRITAIN”S GREATEST SOUL SINGER XXX