tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85186494311295259582024-03-14T01:19:05.171-07:00PismotalityRummaging through the Record Shop of Memory ...Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.comBlogger611125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-4838980328302097572024-03-05T14:32:00.000-08:002024-03-05T14:32:37.774-08:00New Peter Skellern CD on kickstarter - pledge by March 8th <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNZUCArl5HyCdfrLnGcqWmF7bmX3oQCK8z4hxMV8rKCT4CowgcdQaOQ24zu6Kb0ASjYEAu4Jq3mTLF495OZSxmCD2r99qRMSZ9ILHwdOdjrV8yNzvlqQoAU5JOnkVuECNARW3NdQkdMk_xQui2A1HNFttdAQcErqyA4mZMDS7UFmDdwrJLUkj81LBvic/s599/skellern%20happy%20endings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="597" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNZUCArl5HyCdfrLnGcqWmF7bmX3oQCK8z4hxMV8rKCT4CowgcdQaOQ24zu6Kb0ASjYEAu4Jq3mTLF495OZSxmCD2r99qRMSZ9ILHwdOdjrV8yNzvlqQoAU5JOnkVuECNARW3NdQkdMk_xQui2A1HNFttdAQcErqyA4mZMDS7UFmDdwrJLUkj81LBvic/s320/skellern%20happy%20endings.jpg" width="319" /></a></div> <p></p><p>For those who might be interested, Richard Moore, who has already put together two comprehensive collections of Peter Skellern's recordings, thus rescuing Skellernites or Skellernatics like me from the frustration of earlier random collections, is doing it once more for Happy Endings, the album of the TV series for which Skellern wrote the songs and in which he appeared. </p><p>The songs were issued on LP at the time - that's the image which adorns the top of this post - but the forthcoming CD expands that compilation - and judging by Mr Moore's earlier CD releases it is likely to be in top-notch sound, and comes, moreover, with the approval of the Skellern family. There are only a few days left so hurry, if you're interested. It's great that someone has taken the time to put together the kind of release which major companies obviously don't think will be cost-effective. </p><p></p><p>I must admit I'm not that familiar with Happy Endings, having only
sampled it briefly on youtube but it's surely worth taking a punt if you
like Peter Skellern's work, as the chance to get such a CD might not
come round again. Prices begin at £13 for a CD with UK postage, though it's more if you want a credit on the disc (why?) or if you want a copy of one of Mr Moore's earlier Skellern collections thrown in (makes more sense to me). You can find fuller details about the different pledging options and see a short video of extracts from the TV series on the kickstarter website <a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/mint-audio/peter-skellern-happy-endings-expanded-cd-edition?fbclid=IwAR39evxh8GZI6mcPpP8kogTRmmK2eMeymMLifI932UWlAvwcxCM5naT0S8Y">here</a>:<br /></p><p><b>Other posts about Peter Skellern:</b><br /></p><p></p><p>If - and the thing is, I suppose, remotely possible - you are new to this blog I've written two posts about Peter Skellern, one forever unfinished piece devoted to his music in general entitled <a href="https://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2011/04/not-without-fan-peter-skellern.html">Not Without a Fan</a>: <br /></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogIQPG9gW5awjEFhribrYcIyaYDiN4hBrESfVEXv8bTIjrxFL9JzOK772rSnRnFTgVvxinds2p1QC14Vdgv1KuOx_7IwnkRf7wd_6caXz6RGTt3kxuvPJkxKeePoo4QIZ4TtNNeK18mgqY6DKhX7cfwTar0wzbfsVY0omp0wAabYAlN8R_0jtZ6rAQZQ/s500/SKELLERN%20JUDY.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="500" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogIQPG9gW5awjEFhribrYcIyaYDiN4hBrESfVEXv8bTIjrxFL9JzOK772rSnRnFTgVvxinds2p1QC14Vdgv1KuOx_7IwnkRf7wd_6caXz6RGTt3kxuvPJkxKeePoo4QIZ4TtNNeK18mgqY6DKhX7cfwTar0wzbfsVY0omp0wAabYAlN8R_0jtZ6rAQZQ/w400-h255/SKELLERN%20JUDY.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /> And the other specifically about the wall-to-wall frolicking of the Decca album Holding My Own, entitled <a href="https://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2019/04/music-for-pleasure-in-praise-of-peter.html">Music for Pleasure:</a><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MGyUPfN9mUQgiysY8h1a3XZ9fHPn4sQja7e8QQt6DJX0lEpd2jvl92bu4p-nQyOWcHPyuwgLXTFKbxZflk4GRJxXSo7pA-1vNP6fXZRolCo4tuiijuLWwK1JEEpRytIKbP-pVlG6IHz7Mps4bOuD7aGYL_BXKWHfmiilRdgnBwGAVSkgN_L-usOE8y8/s400/Peter-Skellern%20Holding%20My%20Own.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="384" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MGyUPfN9mUQgiysY8h1a3XZ9fHPn4sQja7e8QQt6DJX0lEpd2jvl92bu4p-nQyOWcHPyuwgLXTFKbxZflk4GRJxXSo7pA-1vNP6fXZRolCo4tuiijuLWwK1JEEpRytIKbP-pVlG6IHz7Mps4bOuD7aGYL_BXKWHfmiilRdgnBwGAVSkgN_L-usOE8y8/w384-h400/Peter-Skellern%20Holding%20My%20Own.jpg" width="384" /></a></div><br /> <br /><br /><br /><p></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-36755024228649434072024-02-15T07:11:00.000-08:002024-02-15T07:59:58.999-08:00Outrageous: new book by Kliph Nesteroff<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIf75zgqrN5jnVuhlrUJb0QQoH0NY3644q1cqREjs2-WsA6BWxc4dKtD-Puwyt2JgjZROZhyLUeiupH2smCacVPXghMc_-B4qgKMX6Iw-hngaVmHe9aMAYw7XBIh4g9MQcUHW1x4qqZuLNcPi_g8WEKeHiSPDkVAhJwtb75gA1rHdl34eSZCKPJMkeQYs/s500/nester.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIf75zgqrN5jnVuhlrUJb0QQoH0NY3644q1cqREjs2-WsA6BWxc4dKtD-Puwyt2JgjZROZhyLUeiupH2smCacVPXghMc_-B4qgKMX6Iw-hngaVmHe9aMAYw7XBIh4g9MQcUHW1x4qqZuLNcPi_g8WEKeHiSPDkVAhJwtb75gA1rHdl34eSZCKPJMkeQYs/s320/nester.jpg" width="211" /></a></div> <p></p><p>Kliph Nesteroff is the author of the book The Comedians, a gossipy, scandalous, irresistibly written history of the underside of
the development of American stand-up comedy. But although you get all sorts of
juicy details along the way (the Mafia figure prominently) it does also
provide an excellent overview of how the form evolved in America and is
hugely enjoyable.. </p><p>His new book, Outrageous, overlaps to some extent, as comedians feature prominently, but its focus is on the culture wars in the US - far from a recent phenomenon, as Mr Nesteroff reveals. He starts in the 1800s with a discussion about blackface, and the many protests by successive immigrant groups - Irish, Jewish, Italian, among others - to stereotypical depictions by comics. The long-running Amos 'n' Andy radio show had two white performers playing black characters whose personae had been stolen from two black performers, who were never remibursed; when, much later, it moved to TV there were black actors surrounding the two stars, and despite protests from the NAACP those actors defended the show on the grounds that without such programmes, demeaning as they were, there'd be no work for them at all. </p><p>It's not all about racism, however, as quite often the target is a perceived decline in standards of moral behaviour, though frequently the two issues are interlinked. What becomes clear as the tale progresses is that companies sponsoring of TV and radio programmes are all too ready to capitulate to protests, never wanting to rock the boat or run the slightest risk of their products being boycotted: money, not morality.<br /></p><p>There is an amusing tale which illustrates this sense of priorities. Desi Arnaz, Lucille Ball's husband who also played her spouse in the long-running TV sitcom I Love Lucy, which the couple also produced, found that the show's sponsor, tobacco giant Philip Morris, had given in to protests that Ball's real-life pregnancy should not be depicted in the show, and it was strictly no go. Rather than wasting more words on the company's intransigent American representatives Arnaz got directly in touch with the head of Philip Morris, based in Britain, reminding him that I Love Lucy had made a great deal of money for the tobacco giant and it would be a pity to put such a fruitful relationship in danger. Whereupon the head honcho blasted off a curt memo to his Stateside underlings: "Don't f--- with the Cuban". </p><p>There is - though it's no reflection on Mr Nesteroff's writing - a certain grim sameiness about proceedings, in that members of the ultra-right-wing, anti-communist John Birch Society, once that group becomes subject to general ridicule, have a habit of cropping up again in a series of differently named organisations who are essentially doing the same sort of thing, or searching for new targets to justify their bile.
It's also depressing to see that over the years there is almost a consistent house style for the language employed by a wide range of protest groups or journalists, mainly involving exaggeration and repetition, possibly echoing the oratory of the pulpit. </p><p>There are, however, optimistic moments dotted throughout the narrative when the majority of Americans quietly decide, by their refusal to desert a favourite sitcom, that some former source of moral controversy is really no longer a big deal and protests quietly die away; as mentioned earlier, the sponsors' main concern is to maintain the successful promotion of their products. And the cumulative effect of all the events over the centuries and decades is to make it very clear that the present day is far more liberal than one might have supposed; it's simply that today's social media gives a skewed sense of popular opinion.<br /></p><p>The story has been assembled from a wide range of sources, all indicated in the notes. It's such a vast topic that it cannot quite have the coherence of the earlier book with its narrower focus, but it's a compelling and lively read nevertheless. Music, from rock'n'roll to rap, and beyond, is also covered, with the suggestion that attacking the supposed corrupting influence of various musical genres is a front for the racism which dare not speak its name anymore. Anyway, this is well worth reading.</p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-90185863342732145112024-01-09T13:44:00.000-08:002024-01-28T05:33:27.457-08:00Waterloo Sunset excerpt<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TJdUeDmZYzI/AAAAAAAACA8/7WaTYSOZ2IQ/s1600/waterloo+easel2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="381" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TJdUeDmZYzI/AAAAAAAACA8/7WaTYSOZ2IQ/s400/waterloo+easel2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I must have been eight years old when I first heard Waterloo Sunset, in
the year of its release, and - like just about everyone else in the
world - realised it was something special.<br />
<br />Perhaps for a child the fact that it wasn't, strictly speaking, a love
song had something to do with it, even though lovers figure in it. But for someone growing up in Scotland the song's setting was
enough in itself to suggest something magical, even if the Engerland in my head
may not have swung like a pendulum do. My childish notions of the
country and its capital came largely from Ealing films on the telly, all
decency and community spirit, tempered by odd glimpses in police series
of a modern day city seemingly awash with criminals, spies and
pyromaniacs like George Cole (<i>below</i>) in Gideon's Way.<br />
<br />
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Whatever the reason, the song stayed in my imagination. A few years
later, when a family holiday finally necessitated an overnight stay in
London, I eagerly craned out of my room's tiny window to take in the
stretch of water in the reddening dusk: it <i>was</i> Waterloo Sunset.<br />
<br />
We were in Camberwell at the time.<br />
<br />
You can find a great deal about the song on the net, and I'm not going
to try to provide a digest of others' comments here. Instead, I'm going
to pick up on a few points which have stuck with me over many years of
thinking and reading about the song.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TJZtvdVTKYI/AAAAAAAAB9M/g3lWaE_zoYs/s1600/tezzjools.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TJZtvdVTKYI/AAAAAAAAB9M/g3lWaE_zoYs/s320/tezzjools.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
To start with the identity of the lovers: my only contribution to the
Terence Stamp/Julie Christie question is that I'm prepared to swear that
on one early occasion when the Kinks were performing the song on TV
(possibly Top of the Pops, possibly not), I distinctly heard Ray sing
the words: "Terence meets Julia."<br />
<br />
A playful reference to one half, at least, of cinema's golden couple
(they starred in Far From The Madding Crowd that year) or an equally
playful booting of the song's original pair a rung or two up the social
ladder?<br />
<br />
I think I prefer the latter explanation. And even if the revision was a
momentary whim to amuse his bandmates it still suggests the inclusivity
of the song: no matter how much of an allowance your daddy gives you,
the healing balm of that view is yours for the gazing. (And <i>I</i> didn't even need to be there.)<br />
<br />
In the act of listening, of course, the song makes perfect sense.
Scanning the lyrics cold on the page, however - without the benefit of
additional information about family members who may have inspired it -
you can't help wondering about the character of the speaker and his
relation to this couple. For a kickoff, he seems to have been watching
them regularly enough to note that<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
Terry meets Julie, Waterloo Station<br />
Every Friday night</blockquote>
<br />
But there's no clear indication he actually knows them. He appears to be a recluse, claiming in his defence:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
I don't need no friends<br />
<br />
[...]<br />
<br />
I am so lazy, don't want to wander<br />
I stay at home at night </blockquote>
<br />
But two details suggest that he has somehow absorbed the couple, <i>is</i> them as well as himself: an artist, in other words, identifying with his subject.<br />
<br />
He is an omniscient narrator, swooping down on them as though via a
crane shot, picking out the young lovers from the "Millions of people
swarming like flies." And he even knows that they, like him, "don't need
no friends" - that the city itself, the beauty of the scene, is enough
to sustain the watcher and the watched.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Waterloo Sunset has already been compared by others to Wordsworth's
famous sonnet about Westminister Bridge. But a small detail from his
book-length poem <a href="http://xtf.lib.virginia.edu/xtf/view?docId=chadwyck_ep/uvaGenText/tei/chep_3.1449.xml;chunk.id=0;toc.depth=1;toc.id=d96;brand=default">The Prelude</a>
may illuminate the song further. Subtitled "Growth of a Poet's Mind",
the poem might be crudely summarised as "boy meets Lakes - boy loses
Lakes - boy gets spirit of Lakes back again." (Other synopses are
available.)<br />
<br />
One section deals with his sense of alienation in London until he too is
able to zoom into the swarm to pick out tiny details of humanity:<br />
<blockquote>.... In the tender scenes<br />
Chiefly was my delight, and one of these<br />
Never will be forgotten. 'Twas a Man,<br />
Whom I saw sitting in an open Square<br />
Close to an iron paling that fenced in<br />
The spacious Grass-plot; on the corner stone<br />
Of the low wall in which the pales were fix'd<br />
Sate this One Man, and with a sickly babe<br />
Upon his knee, whom he had thither brought<br />
For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher air.<br />
Of those who pass'd, and me who look'd at him,<br />
He took no note; but in his brawny Arms<br />
(The Artificer was to the elbow bare,<br />
And from his work this moment had been stolen)<br />
He held the Child, and, bending over it,<br />
As if he were afraid both of the sun<br />
And of the air which he had come to seek,<br />
He eyed it with unutterable love.</blockquote>
Suggs (how's that for a cultural leap?) was talking in a TV series about
the impact of first hearing Lola . He said something to the effect that
although he didn't get the details, he knew enough to understood it was
describing an adult world, and set in a place - Soho - associated with
adult pursuits.<br />
<br />
He went on to say, however, that he had found the song reassuring: the
message he took was that whatever the obscure challenges to come later
in life, they could somehow be coped with, that ultimately he'd be
alright, just as the speaker seemed to be.<br />
<br />
The subject matter isn't quite the same, but Waterloo Sunset had, I
think, a similar effect on my younger self. The speaker may be a
reclusive adult - is it merely being "lazy" which keeps him indoors? -
or he may be an artist. But it could equally easily be a child's eyes
which are timidly peeping out at life from that window, at the big city
with its "millions of people", and those as yet unknowable adult
challenges.<br />
<br />
That, at any rate, was how I think I took it - and the London I knew
then only from TV seemed more remote and dangerous, closer to my notion
of "The City", than nearby, familiar Glasgow.<br />
<br />
Taken like this, Terry and Julie could be seen as imaginary figures,
brought into being by the child-artist in an effort to make sense of
that frightening mass of people and bring them down to a manageable
scale: two people who at least know each other.<br />
<br />
Their names are friendly, reassuring, perhaps absorbed from film or TV
(which might bring Terence Stamp and Julie Christie back into the
equation); they presumably have found proper grown-up jobs in the big
city as they meet at the end of a working week; maybe, too, the fact
they have discovered each other in all this crowd offers hope for that
peeper-out at the window that he might someday be redeemed from his
isolation.<br />
<br />
As would be consistent with a child's-eye view, however, the speaker
doesn't enter into details of their lives beyond the suggestion that
they have in some unspecified way completed each other ("they don't need
no friends") and feel "safe and sound" - a phrase perhaps more
associated with children than adults - once they have crossed the river.<br />
<br />
And instantly I see in my head the image used to sell Start-Rite shoes
in the sixties and well beyond: two small children hand in hand, a boy
and a girl, walking along a road which stretches to infinity with the
dark unknown safely fenced off:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TJZB8iMYFBI/AAAAAAAAB88/Hh3mF84rRpw/s1600/startrite.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TJZB8iMYFBI/AAAAAAAAB88/Hh3mF84rRpw/s320/startrite.jpg" /></a></div><p> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Read the full post <a href="https://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/09/gnome-thoughts-8-waterloo-sunset.html">here</a>.</b><br /></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-46456822043947694442023-11-30T09:46:00.000-08:002023-11-30T10:42:40.810-08:00New play about Thomas Hardy on in London until Saturday 2nd December<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS0ePEyqWfDyVb_nTybF2mTx1mewJTI7ZkhTfhoGR4LYKtSq8bdsjI5SeN4LZKhIf1oB4MprI1sKQHUbou1WcRf5UKZrN11lu3o1PCiQ-ASd6UKf0LzbECs6E-vfqAnaUI7Ujiy6C0rSCmnhOgfVx-Bf6lz6dpqcDpmcEeacP7bNZ6Xf19lryGkBD3NhA/s2048/emma%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS0ePEyqWfDyVb_nTybF2mTx1mewJTI7ZkhTfhoGR4LYKtSq8bdsjI5SeN4LZKhIf1oB4MprI1sKQHUbou1WcRf5UKZrN11lu3o1PCiQ-ASd6UKf0LzbECs6E-vfqAnaUI7Ujiy6C0rSCmnhOgfVx-Bf6lz6dpqcDpmcEeacP7bNZ6Xf19lryGkBD3NhA/w640-h426/emma%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />My recommendation comes rather late, but if you are based in London and interested in the relationship between Thomas Hardy and his wives I can recommend the play <i>What I Think of My Husband</i> by David Pinner, running at the Grey Goose Theatre in Camberwell until Saturday, 2nd December. <p></p><p>You can find fuller details at the theatre's website (link at end), but for those who are unfamiliar with the story the essential facts are that the writer Thomas Hardy's marriage to his first wife Emma soured over time, with the couple eventually living largely separate lives under the same roof, but an outpouring of grief and guilt after Emma's death led to a sequence entitled <i>Poems of 1912-13</i>, generally agreed to be his best work in that form. </p><p> The play contrasts the interactions of the elderly couple with fleeting glimpses of the young lovers they once were and also details the progress of Hardy's attraction to the younger Florence Dugdale, who is installed in Max Gate, the Hardys' home, as his secretary then becomes his second wife after Emma's death ... only to find that the bargain she has struck isn't all that she imagined. <br /></p><p>During the first act the play unfolds in fragmentary scenes which show us, among other things, how wilfully awkward Emma could be in social situations (though Edmund [Gosse?] seems to take matters in his stride) and how ill-matched she and Hardy have become over the years, for all that early passion. </p><p>But considerable sympathy is shown for her plight too, trapped as she is in a situation so far removed from her early expectations. As played by Laura Fitzpatrick Emma is alternately exasperating and beguiling, which is, I think, as it should be. As I wrote in an earlier review of a radio play about Hardy and his second wife, there is an element of sitcom about this relationship, and just as Harold Steptoe's sense of being trapped with his father gives him license to be verbally abusive to his captor so the equally impotent Emma's jibes make perfect sense: she can mock and attack the character of the women he flirts with as viciously as she likes precisely because she is fully aware that she is incapable of effecting any change his behaviour. </p><p>But sitcoms depend on the cycle never being broken, and equilibrium safely restored at the end of the episode. Florence is no mere flirtation and is soon installed in Max Gate as Hardy's secretary - even seen by the unwitting Emma as an ally in the scene shown at the top of this piece in which she uses Florence's position to gain access to the writer's sanctum sanctorum while he is out and gleefully chucks all his papers in the air while the new employee frantically struggles to put them back in order.<br /></p><p>The above happens in the second act, which takes things up a notch: having set out the situation through the snapshots of the first half the painful reality of Emma's lot and the sheer sadness that this form of prison represents for both sides of the partnership gradually become more poignant as we move towards the inevitable end. We see Emma becoming increasingly frail and then dying, followed by Florence's agreement to become Hardy's second wife, only to be followed in turn by an ironic coda. </p><p>Despite the second Mrs Hardy redecorating the gloomy Max Gate - neatly suggested in the minimal set by the simple placing of a tablecloth - there is no escaping the spectral presence of the first Mrs Hardy as "T.H." becomes increasingly immersed in thoughts of Emma as she once was, processing his grief via a series of poems. (It's not quoted in the play, but in Hardy's biography, credited to Florence though largely written by Hardy himself, we are told that Hardy was "in flower" when he wrote those tributes to Emma's memory. His phrase or hers, I wonder?)<br /></p><p>Playwright David Pinner weaves extracts, sometimes only a few lines, from <i>Poems of 1912-13 </i>and other works, such as "I look into my glass", into the play, both at the end and earlier in the action; this made me hungry to hear some of the originals again in full but it was probably the right decision: a complete poem is a story in itself, and what we're watching is what led to the poetry. </p><p>It also seems a wise decision to have the young lovers figuring only intermittently: flashes of memory which only become substantial as Hardy revisits their relationship - literally, through journeys to the places they knew, as well as through his compulsive writing of poems - after her death. Aliya Silverstone and Andrew Crouch, the actors playing the younger version of the couple, double efficiently as servants at Max Gate, the Hardys' home, and anyone else required, which accords with the pleasing minimalism of the set and props: in addition to the single tablecloth mentioned earlier we see, for example, empty picture frames for our imagination to populate - and in this play, to paraphrase the familiar warning at this time of year, a wreath is not just for Christmas. </p><p>Edmund Dehn, who plays Hardy, has something of the hangdog expression familiar from photographs and paintings of the writer in his later years, and conveys the convincingly the air of a long-suffering spouse - even if he is the one who has contributed to that suffering. And that patience is enough to suggest the love which once burnt more brightly. There is even a touching moment when the pair frankly admit to each other that the love, or the fiery excitement and happiness associated with it, has gone - and whether or not that derives directly from Hardy's or others' writings (I don't know) that mutual acknowledgement feels right.<br /></p><p>But nothing gets in the way of his writing, as Florence (Isabella Inchbald) discovers at the play's end, her enthusiasm about becoming the woman behind a great man replaced by something more like resigned acceptance: she had once inspired his poetry but now her predecessor is his sole subject.<br /></p><p>I can add an anecdote, not from the play, which encapsulates the fate of the second Mrs Hardy. It comes from R.C. Sherriff's highly entertaining autobiography <i>No Leading Lady</i>. When the play Journey's End brought Sherriff acclaim in the late 1920s he got to meet some of the great literary figures of his day, including J.M. Barrie (a hilarious, absurd encounter which you will have to read for yourself) and Hardy and Wife.<br /></p><p>I don't have the book to hand but remember the gist of a remark Florence made to Sherriff when they were alone, or at least not within hearing distance of her husband. She complained to him that the day before she had been obliged to wait patiently in the cold and gloom as her husband stood for an hour (or however long) in a muddy field, all because it had some sort of distant association with Emma - a typical outing for the couple, one suspects.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTvEnQGf4YaHIzG7NdohDOhZNCJem0cjchV6H93JxCTHqID5Y01Zb8SYvGQjzhayX-bMfNwcEHsqocT-jAFI-8nsIVLDP22jSigDZ0tNRji-9t5iTRByJlndxCDJ5biOmrcC1NXBBfCMA_Q59gfx-9EFJGRuOxeCduBOnmrm5pBV4Op-VVR7sVZ3KIHFs/s599/whatireallythink.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="427" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTvEnQGf4YaHIzG7NdohDOhZNCJem0cjchV6H93JxCTHqID5Y01Zb8SYvGQjzhayX-bMfNwcEHsqocT-jAFI-8nsIVLDP22jSigDZ0tNRji-9t5iTRByJlndxCDJ5biOmrcC1NXBBfCMA_Q59gfx-9EFJGRuOxeCduBOnmrm5pBV4Op-VVR7sVZ3KIHFs/w285-h400/whatireallythink.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><i>What I Really Think of My Husband</i> (the title is taken from a piece of writing by Emma Hardy) is running at the Golden Goose Theatre at 7.30pm until Saturday December 2nd. It's a short walk from Oval tube and around a ten minute bus ride from Vauxhall (in one direction) or Peckham (in the other) on the 36 or 436. </p><p>The Golden Goose website, with full details of how to book, can be found <a href="https://www.goldengoosetheatre.co.uk/whatson/what-i-really-think-of-my-husband">here</a>.<br /></p><p>Grimful Glee Club, my review of a radio play about Hardy and his second wife, is <a href="https://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2020/03/muslin-fluff-vanishing-act-ulltimately.html">here.</a></p><p>The play has inspired me to look at the best of those poems again, which
I'll do in a later post rather than delay the posting of this
time-sensitive - take that how you will - piece. <br /></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-49882075463439445412023-10-26T06:08:00.020-07:002023-11-17T13:10:50.140-08:00Merely Players? 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width="200" /> </p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p> </p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There is, or so I've been given to understand, One who has numbered all my days.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Despite the occasional pointer in the form of various aches and pains, however, no clear indication of the date of my last go-round has been vouchsafed to me as yet. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Which is a bit annoying, though not because I'm desperate to husband such energies as remain in order to produce one final creative flourish before gasping my last or anything like that.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I listen to music via an mp3 player, a model which is no longer manufactured. Its inbuilt battery has a finite life and cannot be removed or replaced unless you know about things like soldering and the match last night. So I regularly find myself on a well-known auction website in search of backup devices. <br /><br />Most of the replacements I've bought - only ever this favoured model - are secondhand, and I can't tell how long they will continue to operate. I've had reasonable luck with purchases so far, even though the average playing time between charges for a pre-loved one is a little less than that of a pristine device. But a day inevitably comes when its power reading starts falling from 100% and I know that I must steel myself once again for the sadness ahead.<span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thing is, I don't relish having to get to grips with a new brand of player, facing that slow and frustrating process of acclimatisation, and have no intention of going through all that again if I can avoid it. Adjusting to any new technology is difficult for me - I don't have, or ever want, a smartphone in my life - which basically means I have no other viable means of hearing music while on the move. (Minidisc? Get with the program, Daddio. This ain't the noughties. Walkman-induced hernia? Frankie say NO.)<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Long familiarity with my ideal player means I can locate, and play, whatever track I want without having to stop and think about which buttons to press, and I am determined to stay faithful, cleaving it unto me as my sound carrier of choice until ... well, until I no longer hear any sound and am, like Lucy (Wordsworth's, not Schulz's):</span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,<br />With rocks, and stones, and trees.</span></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the meantime, however, one question torments me: how many of these backup players must I buy in order to eliminate the risk of running out of musical diversion before my body gives up? To be safely thus, as someone or other once said ... </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I live in perpetual dread of being caught short - though almost equally fearful of splurging out on too many before one day staggering forward, clutching my chest as I collapse on top of a pile of those delight-giving gadgets still in their boxes (the new ones) or jiffybags (not -so-new but eager to be pressed into service). If those mini-marvels still have love to give then I ought to be the recipient - a thought which nags at me on the verge of (non-big) sleep.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh alright, other people could, I suppose, make use of the leftovers - there's probably some embargo, anyway, on being cremated with your pockets bulging with products of that sort - but, well, it's not quite the same as passing on an heirloom, is it? And anyone I name in my will probably uses streaming services, so it'd simply be one more thing to clutter up their kitchen cabinet or drawer, like a Forgeham Grill (that ill-advised Crossroads spin-off) or an AM radio.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">For the moment, however, barring some new medical development, my bidding for fresh supplies continues. An act of hope, I'd like to think, rather than compulsion: with each "Buy It Now" I click I'm reaffirming my belief that I will be around long enough to get through all of these devices in turn, filling up each black-plasticked one in turn with doo wop songs and radio dramas until that drear day when it, too, has to be returned to its box (or jiffybag), a good and faithful servant granted eternal rest. (Before you ask, I would never, as some do, subject one of those much-loved friends to the final indignity of being resold on that well-known auction website, its availability trumpeted by the heartless caveat: "Spares Only".)<br /><br />Some of these players - the functioning ones, I mean - are offered on that site for ludicrously high amounts. By and large, however, provided you take the gamble that a secondhand model will keep its charge for a reasonable amount of time, it's possible to pick one up at a price that won't break the bank. <br /><br />But this very affordability leads to another problem. When scanning the auction site for other items I can't resist checking whether any more players might have been added recently - and if they turn out to be cheapish, or might remain so if there aren't any other bidders before the auction ends ... well, it'd be foolish not to take a punt. Though the fear of a last-second bid by some anonymous rival does make it hard not to increase your highest offer ... that's been happening a lot to me lately, actually.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I've lost count of how many I currently possess - the figure keeps on going up anyway, so it'll probably be out of date by the time you read this. Some haven't been taken out of their packaging, or have experienced only the briefest of outings in order to determine whether they were still operational. Others ... well, I know they're on my desk or somewhere nearby; I just can't put my finger on them at present. They will be there when I have most need of them; I have no doubt of that.<br /><br />In fairness to me, they are so small that they can easily get lost. A few years ago one player mysteriously vanished during the course of a bus journey; I still recall that chill feeling, patting all my pockets as we pulled into the terminus. I enquired about it later, of course, but nothing had been handed in; instantly secreted in another passenger's pocket, no doubt. The sting of that loss probably contributed to this relentless desire to mak siccar.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My only consolation is that maybe the unexpected find in the dust of the upper deck started the same sickness in the snapper-up. Could it be that he is the phantom sniper bent on snatching victory from me in recent auctions? If so, perhaps that infection I transmitted, that terror of running out of fresh musical matchboxes before the final curtain is punishment enough for the opportunistic thief. (And if you're reading this, HAH!)<br /><br />Which is more or less all I wish to say on the matter. The more observant among you will be aware that I have failed to specify the make of player or indeed to provide a picture clearly identifying my joybringer of choice in this piece: I don't want to encourage further rivals -well, not for the moment, anyway. Once I've collected enough replacements to loosen this perpetual knot in my stomach then I can turn my attention to more important tasks and produce great plays and biographies and everything.<br /><br />Though I do occasionally worry about a possible consequence of all this inconspicuous consumption. I've bought so many of these devices over the last few years, and they don't have an inbuilt speaker, meaning that listening is only possible via earphones. Which is obviously A Good Thing, noise-pollutionwise, and Well Done Me. But that's not my point. Having vrtually drained the market of such devices, could it be that I have unwittingly encouraged that despicable practice of playing music aloud on public transport on smartphones? True, those devices possess an earphone socket but, as any long-suffering phoneless passenger can testify, the active use of same is a practice more honoured in the breach.<br /><br />There is a lesson to be learnt from the above, though I'm not quite sure what it is. And maybe it's too late, anyway. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh well, Happy Bidding. </span><br /></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-17506025942693763752023-10-19T11:21:00.003-07:002023-11-17T13:11:44.919-08:00Pennies From Heaven Revisited<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecni_35QfQLxTWrcrWP0RN5grr94mRVZpcd0tsiGDe40WZ7pRTbj44RI-Q696ZFMcxtGczurqjenx-i3iApd0x8UIy9IEp8onrCPa33PwaB8JPhW95XbamWi36g14z-1glXL4FAjuBG9WORCn19eBou-U2Per6noSKuSsNcVGo3xad48r3rTosA96mFU/s460/sunnyside%20lane.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecni_35QfQLxTWrcrWP0RN5grr94mRVZpcd0tsiGDe40WZ7pRTbj44RI-Q696ZFMcxtGczurqjenx-i3iApd0x8UIy9IEp8onrCPa33PwaB8JPhW95XbamWi36g14z-1glXL4FAjuBG9WORCn19eBou-U2Per6noSKuSsNcVGo3xad48r3rTosA96mFU/s16000/sunnyside%20lane.JPG" /></a></p><br /><p></p><p> Someone mentioned on social media recently that Dennis Potter's
Pennies From Heaven has not been broadcast or made available via
streaming services for quite a few years. To be clear, that's the
original 1978 TV series about a naive and optimistic songsheet salesman
(Bob Hoskins), using 30s and 40s recordings to which actors mime, not the
US film adaptation. In the book Potter on Potter the writer told Graham
Fuller his thoughts about the latter:</p><blockquote>... they failed
to understand that it was supposed to be a home-made musical ... I was
shown the schoolroom set ... a simulation of a genuine rural Illinois
schoolroom of the thirties - and I thought it was great. Then they said,
"Now we'll show you the fantasy schoolroom," which was this much
bigger, all-white duplication of it. That was the moment I realised
they were never going to make it work, but there was no way that could
be conveyed. The whole thing was running, the cake was baked, and it was
eating itself.<span><a name='more'></a></span> </blockquote><p></p><p>I watched the BBC series on DVD shortly before it was last broadcast on the Beeb. I hadn't seen
it for around fourteen years, and jotted down some notes - not a
full-blown review nor an episode guide, just some thoughts on the experience of revisiting it after such a sizeable gap
of time.</p><p>What struck me first was that in one sense it's a museum
piece, or at least it could strike younger viewers like that. Unlike The Singing Detective it was largely made on video - but
Piers Haggard, the director, and Potter's longtime ally Kenith Trodd,
the producer, say on the commentary track that the benefit of that
method was that perfomances were the result of a prolonged rehearsal period (21
days per programme followed by a three day studio shoot would yield, with
the filmed inserts, a complete episode) and the focus was firmly on the
acting and the writing. </p><p>Editing was largely live, cutting between
five cameras, and compromises had to be made (they had to get out the
studio by 10pm) with the result that some shots are less than perfect,
but watching it again I didn't really notice that and was more keenly aware of its strong theatrical
feel: performances are given time to develop, and feel organic in a way
that the stop-start method of film does not allow: it's much closer to
watching a live theatre piece. Not that this is peculiar to Pennies From Heaven; it was the way things were at the time, and if you watch an episode of The Forsyte Saga you'll be aware of the same effect. There is, however, a technical difference in the Potter series: filters were put on
the video cameras so that film and video, even if they don't quite
merge seamlessly, sit together more comfortably than in Forsyte or other dramas of the time. </p><p>And there's something really charming about the small scale
staging of the musical numbers, that "home-made" feeling which Potter missed in the Hollywood reimagining: Haggard and Trodd mention that Bob Hoskins was not the
most natural dancer (though oh how that boy could cartwheel!) and had to
slog to achieve what he did, but Gemma Craven, from a musical
background, is mesmeric, and Peter Bowles as the prosecuting counsel has
a wonderfully camp turn in the final episode. </p><p>The choreography
seems generally far more imaginative than in Lipstick on Your Collar. The
producer and director point out that they were constantly ringing the
changes in how they staged the numbers and made the transitions back to reallity.
One of the most effective moments, depicted at the top of this piece (and possibly not unknown to the maker of
Magnolia) has Hoskins lying flat in bed in the dark after another
rejection from his wife, singing Down Sunnyside Lane then stopping
although we continue to hear the vintage recording to which he had been miming.<br /></p><p>Does it all work? Watching when the unfolding of the tale is no longer a surprise be you might become aware, as I was, that some
numbers move the action on, or comment upon it, more effectively than
others, and I think perhaps a few could have been cut. Treated as a whole, however, it remains a remarkable achievement. Piers Haggard (I think) makes
the point that his later work is more directly about Potter himself,
and that Pennies from Heaven, and in particular the character of Eileen,
an innocent who comes to town, is more effective for the sense of
distance from Potter the individual, while undoubtedly reflecting his
obsessions. </p><p>Which reminds me of the gist of one review I recall reading at the time of the first transmission. Oh, it's all Dennis Potter's usual concerns yet again, the crtiic began ... but no need to brace yourself because he or she admitted that such concerns once again made for riveting television.<br /></p><p>As far as I can see there are only a couple of
episodes currently up on youtube so it might be that the DVD is the only
way to see it at present. I'd also recommend the book Potter on Potter,
as it contains his thoughts about all his work up until the time of
publication in 1993, handily grouped into chapters.</p><p>Earlier, you will remember, Potter used the image of a self-eating cake to describe the moment he realised that the film-maker's vision for Pennies From Heaven, though not his, had become unstoppable. In the TV series, however, you could say we have our cake and eat it, enjoying something of the glamour of those songs with the alienation effect of the characters miming to those ancient recordings meaning that we never lose sight of the drama.<br /></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-54441133323834641542023-10-13T03:33:00.003-07:002023-11-17T13:12:52.295-08:00The G-Clefs as seen by a backing musician<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yE5lST7QBDM/XSHL9eSo_RI/AAAAAAAAKOM/Sm9d3wDuT_ML9wooGIoNA6YUT5uBxVr3gCLcBGAs/s1600/ggclef.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yE5lST7QBDM/XSHL9eSo_RI/AAAAAAAAKOM/Sm9d3wDuT_ML9wooGIoNA6YUT5uBxVr3gCLcBGAs/s400/ggclef.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><p><i>Before I review another book about the experience of being a backing musician for a doo wop group I thought I'd repost this assessment of Michael G. Devlin's account of working with the G-Clefs of I Understand and Ka-Ding-Dong fame. I've corrected a few of my own typos - so much for my criticism of <b>his</b> style - but otherwise left the piece much as it was.</i></p><p><i> </i><br />It has to be said at the outset that this is not, in the technical sense, a well written book: there are grammatical errors or infelicities which mean you occasionally have to rewrite a sentence in your head to make sense of it - and don't get me started on the apostrophes. Was there really no one to cast an incisive eye over musician Mike Devlin's MS before it was shared with the world?</p><p>
That said, this is still a compelling tale: stick with it and you will learn to filter out the blemishes, like tuning out the bacon sizzle on a 78 once the music grabs hold. And it is liberally illustrated with photographs of the group in action and posters and flyers for gigs.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
The story begins some time before Devlin's fateful meeting with the group who would involve and expasperate him over a ten year period. Playing guitar as a young man to supplement his meagre wages as a computer operator he is approached, somewhat to his surprise, to join several bands led by showmen of varying abilities. He learns his craft from these and others along the way before a performance at a birthday bash leads to the momentous meeting with the G-Clefs and an invitation to perform regularly with the group, famous for such hits as I Understand (a favourite of Clarke Davis's) and Ka-Ding-Dong.<p></p>
The story is then set out more or less gig by gig, spaced out over those ten years. This is the point at which some biographies can become a bit repetitive, but not so here. Provided you have gotten over those surface errors you will find yourself drawn into what is undoubtedly a warts-and-all account: individual members of the G-Clefs make stupid, seemingly irrational, decisions, passing up rare chances to advance their careers, or fall out, get drunk and collapse in a pool of blood while the rest of the group do their best to carry on.<br />
<br />
The way he tells it, the eventual sundering between Mike and the G-Clefs doesn't seem to have been handled with particular grace by the group, especially after such a long working relationship, but you don't get the sense that this narrative is about settling scores. Some years later he is invited to a surprise seventieth birthday party of one of the group members, which he accepts. His summing up of the experience is enough to provide a taste of his writing style - you know what he means, more or less, though it's not quite what he's actually saying:<br />
<p></p><blockquote class="tr_bq">
There was none of that reminiscing about our time together, but that was okay with me. Besides, I didn't think we would get through any part of our previous journey as we struggled to become one in unison with a shared common goal; to make the best music we could.</blockquote>
It wouldn't matter so much, I suppose, zipping by in conversation, but it shows up on the printed page. Unless that's just me.<br />
<br />
The hard copy of this book also contains a "Special Added Feature" entitled "Doo-Wop and The G-Clefs: In Their Own Words". I haven't read this yet, but from a cursory glance it looks as though someone has actually subedited this: there don't seem to be the errors found in the main text (though both pieces are credited to Devlin). As I say, however, the eye and the mind adjust, and I would still recommend the book overall, but - a bit like those chances the group allow to pass them by - it's hard to understand why those extra steps weren't taken to make the text that bit more accessible.<br />
<br />
These two tales - the bandleader's and the vocal group's - can be bought as separate ebooks but it feels right that they are between the same covers in the book proper. I don't yet know whether "In Their Own Words" will contain any startling revelations absent from the other side's account but there is a definite sense in the latter that however close Devlin may get to the G-Clefs through rehearsing and playing these many gigs they remain forever, in some essential way, closed off to him. When, for example, he is told that someone has been excluded from the group for a year, or that they have turned down a potential Vegas gig, it is not presented as something up for negotiation: they have spoken, and they share a past whose significance no outsider can hope to understand.<br />
<br />
Seeing that demarcation line is fascinating. It takes me back to that remark of Ben E King's quoted in Gerri Hershey's Nowhere to Run. Trying to explain the supreme importance of his streetcorner singing days King says: "Those guys knew when you were gonna <i>breathe</i>." How can a newcomer compete with three decades or more of that kind of closeness?<br />
<br />
Yet there is contradictory behaviour. At one point Devlin is deeply hurt when a member of his band tells him that one of the singers commented that two of his musicians (Devlin himself seems to have been excluded) couldn't play the music properly because they were white. When, at the next formal meeting between group and musicians, Devlin directly asks the group member whether he has any issues with any members of the band he says, head down, "No, I don't", and that is the end of that. During the same meeting, however, Devlin learns that the G-Clefs have turned down two potentially lucrative gigs in London (could this have been one of the Capitol Gold rock'n'roll shows?) and Philadelphia because the promoters only wanted them, not the band - which suggests loyalty and respect for their regular musicians' contribution (unless it was simply fear of the unknown).<br />
<br />
During that surprise birthday party referred to earlier for the first time someone in the G-Clefs' camp admits to Mike that the group treated him badly but he is able to be magnanimous:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I reminded myself that it's not what they did to me; it's what they did to themselves.</blockquote>
There are several clips on youtube of the G-Clefs performing live during the timeframe of this book. Like the book they sure ain't smooth (unlike some of their earlier studio recordings) but it's easy to see that they must have been thrilling to watch live, whatever the ragged edges. They weren't gigging every night - Devlin makes the point that together they only did 42 shows over ten years - so was the group's decision to turn down Vegas about fears of the discipline involved? Was it simply that over long years they knew their limitations?<br />
<br />
Anyway, here is their version of Can't Do Sixty No More.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="274" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/O7QugNzfY1k" width="365"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
DOO-WOP! and THE G-CLEFS: The saga of America's last original Doo-Wop group from the 1950s still performing by Michael G Devlin can be bought at amazon, Barnes and Noble, and possibly elsewhere. There does not seem to be a dedicated website.Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-46258928710066083802023-10-12T05:35:00.006-07:002023-11-17T13:13:19.944-08:00The Iceman Writeth <div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="400" 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width="266" /> </p></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If you're reading this blog then you will probably know that Jerry Butler was a member of the Impressions, a doo wop/soul group which also featured his childhood friend Curtis Mayfield. For Your Precious Love, which Butler cowrote and sang lead on, was a meld of doo wop and gospel which sounded as though it had been recorded in a cathedral; it was a big hit on Vee-Jay Records in 1958 and is now regarded as a doo wop classic. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Butler was unexpectedly given top billing on that release, which created some bad feeling within the group and </span><span style="font-size: medium;">eventually led to his decision to go solo. Apparently the distinction had been made on the record because the company reasoned that having two acts on their books would be better than one, having already made what they considered a mistake by not giving Pookie Hudson top billing with the Spaniels. <span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Only the Strong Survive describes in detail his initial struggle to establish himself as a separate act. Singing For Your Precious Love onstage by himself did not produce the whoops of ecstacy he'd become used to when performing with the group, and matters weren't helped when Curtis Mayfield refused the gig as his accompanist. </span><span style="font-size: medium;">As Butler tells it Mayfield wanted a contract before agreeing, which took him aback, given their friendship, but it seems Vee-Jay weren't keen on the proposal either. </span><span style="font-size: medium;">They did, however, work together later on some of Butler's most affecting Vee-Jay solo releases such as He Will Break Your Heart and Find Another Girl.After having such an inspired collaborator Butler was also lucky, after he left Vee-Jay in 1966 (the book contains a capsule account of the company's downfall), to work with Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff at Mercury Records and found they made a good songwriting team, with Huff on the piano and Butler and Gamble working on the lyrics: "Huff and Kenny would come up with some concepts and play some chords, and I started singing. That's how we came up with Never Gonna Give You Up." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When Gamble and Huff left Mercury in 1969 Butler was still contractually tied there. But he responded to this potential setback by becoming became more proactive about finding new material for himself and others, setting up The Jerry Butler Songwriters Workshop and hiring fledgling writers via the music publishers Chappell, who were connected to Mercury. A space to work was found although the set-up seems to have been fairly free and easy, with writers coming in or working from home, as they pleased: "It wasn't a military thing at all ... What was important was that every two or three months there would be a demo session, and the writers would either perform their own tunes or have other artists perform them." The workshop lasted for around six years and brought out the talents of writers like Terry Callier, resulting in songs for the Dells and others. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One striking aspect of this book is how careful Butler is to give credit to, and often provide potted histories of, those he has worked with or been inspired by over the years: in additiion to </span><span style="font-size: medium;">the writers he helped to nurture</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> there are mini-portraits of a range of artists along the way. There's no false modesty in these pages about his own achievements but equally he has no illusions about his luck in encountering so many people who taught him so much. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Early on, for example, he doesn't think a great deal of Johnny Mathis until pressed to see him perform live - and the experience proves a revelation: </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">It wasn't just singing; it was something else ... believability - the ability to deliver a song with such intimacy, such emotion, that the people in the audience forget that they are in a nightclub, forget about going to work in the morning ... and become Maria - or in my case the guy who romances Maria ... Years later, when I played the Copa, I remembered the lesson of that night: Don't ever cheat your audience. Do everything with conviction, with style. And most of all, make it believable. </span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There are many such moments of epiphany along the way. But the book is also, as Ebony magazine puts it, "a glimpse at the political and social climate of the times which shaped the life of one man." This is elaborated upon in the introduction, in which cowriter Earl Smith advises that the book is not a tell-all about Butler's personal life but "tak[es] into account the political, social and personal forces impacting his life as well as the world around him." While planning the book he and Butler came to realise that </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">What we were really up to was writing a book about our generation ... African Americans experienced altogether different awakenings and crises than their white counterparts ... black teenagers were awakening to the realization that the music they had invented was no longer theirs, and, importantly, they could not profit from it [though white artists could] ... we did not set out to write a book about race relations in America [but] As with most things in America, race seems to color everything. It definitely is unavoidable when discussing or writing about America's musical heritage.</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Even a chapter about Vietnam and the perceived racial bias of the draft has a musical aspect: the records which formed the soundtrack of the war were rock for white troops, and soul (including Butler's Only the Strong Survive) for black troops: "like most things American, the airways and clubs in Vietnam were segregated." </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Butler is also frank about his declining fortunes as a recording artist, describing his disappointments when he moved to Motown, then no longer in Detroit but Hollywood. He opted to stay in Chicago, only going to Tinseltown to record, which might have contributed to the modest impact he made on that label, but he also writes of his growing realisation that by 1972, when Berry Gordy was becoming more and more involved in film-making, Motown might have had "The same name and some of the same people, but not the same spirit." <br /></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">His songs might not have been as directly political as some of those by Curtis Mayfield but - once again in proactive mode - in the 1980s Butler made the decision to enter politics in middle age, winning a seat on the Cook County Board of Commissioners in 1985 in an effort to lessen discrimination for African Americans in Chicago, fearing that the then Chairman intended to fill the seats with his cronies. He had no qualms about utilising his celebrity during his campaign but it certainly wasn't a publicity stunt: he served until 2018, almost two decades after the publication of this book. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Buying music memoirs sight unseen is always, as Groucho might have quipped, a gamble and a huff, but however duties were divided between Butler and coauthor Earl Smith Only the Strong Survive is very well written and considered. Some online reviewers have objected to the amount of space taken up by those sections in which the spotlight isn't on Butler himself, but the introduction quoted earlier makes the book's approach quite clear. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I don't know whether Only the Strong Survive is still in print but at the time of writing there are a fair number of inexpensive secondhand copies available from online booksellers. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">I don't normally advise about the content of future posts but next time I'll probably be reviewing another book, this one written by someone who has worked as a backing musician and MD for the Cadillacs and others. Based on what I've read so far, it's a good 'un, so watch this space. </span><span style="font-size: medium;">It makes for an interesting comparison with a book about the G-Clefs by their guitarist, which I wrote about earlier, <a href="https://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2019/07/g-clefs-biography.html">here</a>.<br /></span></i></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-84643641545698706542023-09-21T05:23:00.013-07:002023-11-17T13:14:07.844-08:00 B̶e̶a̶c̶h̶ B̶o̶y̶s̶ Cheapo Cheapo: Very Complete <div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="The Beach Boys Very Complete: Wilson, Brian: Amazon.com: Books" aria-hidden="false" class="r48jcc pT0Scc iPVvYb" height="510" src="https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/41+t1tQY3lL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="height: 572px; margin: 0px; max-width: 761px; width: 435px;" width="388" /></span></p></div><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">In 2018 I wrote a piece for this blog entitled "Cheapo Cheapo Records - The Complete Story". It was a reworking of several earlier posts about coming to terms with the closure of the Soho record shop which I'd been frequenting for 24 years. <br /></span><p><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="font-size: medium;">Those original posts were more discursive, and a fair amount of pruning and reworking went into the rewrite, which can be read <a href="https://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2018/01/cheapo-cheapo-records-complete-story.html">here</a>. </span></p><p><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="font-size: medium;">That'd be the sensible choice. But if you're an idler who fancies the scenic route consider me your enabler, as I've assembled the unedited posts together below.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="font-size: medium;">Oh, and the title? Blame the Beach Boys - or the publishers of the 1976 collection depicted above. The group released an album that year which included a cover of Chuck Berry's Rock'n'Roll Music. But the sheet music for that ditty seems to have been inserted into the songbook as an afterthought, as it's not actually mentioned in the contents. Which makes, I suppose, for a Wilsonian sort of logic in the naming of the book. </span></p><p><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="font-size: medium;">Now it only remains to be seen whether those who happen upon this blog while idling on the internet will be drawn more strongly to the promise of a complete tale or the ungrammatical alternative now proffered below, should you choose to click to continue. </span></p><p><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name"><span style="font-size: medium;">13th January 2010: A Wreath for Cheapo </span></h3><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">"Wandering
around Soho, it's quite possible you may stumble into the aptly named
Cheapo Cheapo Records. A belter of a tiny shop found located on Rupert
St that has cheesy vinyl and oddball stuff hidden amongst its dusty
shelves. An assortment of second hand vinyl, Cheapo Cheapo might
resemble a jumble sale inside but you can lose yourself for hours."
(Londonnet / pic: Laura Appleyard)</span></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1jFBREYXPI/AAAAAAAAAh4/v6mrzBpsoZo/s1600-h/CHEAPO+LARGE+AS+POSS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" ps="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1jFBREYXPI/AAAAAAAAAh4/v6mrzBpsoZo/s320/CHEAPO+LARGE+AS+POSS.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was really sorry to learn of the demise of Soho's Cheapo Cheapo
Records last year. If you don't live in London, it probably won't mean
anything to you, and maybe other people's favourite record shops are
intrinsically uninteresting to the rest of the world - a bit like other
people's babies - but I felt a sense of loss that I'm going to try to
explore.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
And just as people with children are interested, sort of, in other
people's children - if only to make withering comparisons - record
collectors may find something to interest them in the following.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
First off, and ridiculous as it sounds, I feel I have gone through a
kind of mini-grief process. There was certainly that casebook sense of
initial disbelief, partly because I'd been to the shop a few days before
when a sign on the door had simply indicated closed for stocktaking.
Then a week or two later a new sign simply said CLOSED. No, lose the
block caps, I'm not ready: Closed. That's better.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I'm not sure whether, at that point, the stock was still enticingly
present - enticing, that is, if like me you enjoy the incidental journey
through a certain amount of old tat - nor am I sure whether I
altogether believed - or quite understood or even wanted to understand -
that new sign at first glance. Closed as in "closed-closed", as Whoopi
Goldberg might have put it? Not a shop which had been around, endlessly
generating new (in the sense of newly acquired) stock at least since I
first came to London in 1985.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1jGLuabe2I/AAAAAAAAAiA/OFO8Qr22x-4/s1600-h/ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZCHEAPO+larg+cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1jGLuabe2I/AAAAAAAAAiA/OFO8Qr22x-4/s400/ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZCHEAPO+larg+cropped.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I dreamt about it, about being inside once again, a few nights later.
The pain, really, is in not having one final chance - not to plunder, a
la the ill-fated Apple boutique, but to pay my last respects, and maybe
finally buy some of those fairly pointless and inessential
jazz/nostalgia CDs which hovered on the margins of possibility on each
visit. And to do that not so much for the music as to perform a kind of
final, altruistic - I might as well saying loving - act: to show that
someone finally cared even for those unlovely parts of the shop.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I had developed severe lumbar pain towards the end of 2006 which kept me
off work for several months and ever afterwards had been much more
cautious about the amount I would carry from Cheapo in one go; even the
necessary actions of standing still in one place or bending slightly as I
went through the racks would lead to the onset of warning pains, so
although I didn't stay away from Cheapo once staggering (in the time
allocation sense) back to work, my body no longer allowed for the
absolute immersion over extended periods which had once been the
hallmark of those visits. And after all, I must have told myself, it
didn't really matter if I didn't take absolutely everything my heart had
desired and my eyes devoured on any one visit: this small and cluttered
record shop would always be there, with its infinitely extendable stock
...<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1jG4VYmmsI/AAAAAAAAAiI/6IjwWwDFH8E/s1600-h/cheapo-cheapo-records-london-%28by-vasco-rodrigues%29.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1jG4VYmmsI/AAAAAAAAAiI/6IjwWwDFH8E/s400/cheapo-cheapo-records-london-%28by-vasco-rodrigues%29.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Stock such as a rarely explored (given that they remained there for
years) supply of the many World Records (an EMI nostalgia offshoot) LPs,
most of whose contents are probably on CD in one form or another, but I
don't feel happy in now being obliged trust to luck. The vinyl
remastering of those ancient (20s/30s) recordings was excellent, as I
know from an LP I had of Vivian Ellis's Bless the Bride.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1Q5iva40pI/AAAAAAAAAdg/ncV1VuyJwSI/s1600-h/donovan_fairyfbiggest+availabe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1Q5iva40pI/AAAAAAAAAdg/ncV1VuyJwSI/s320/donovan_fairyfbiggest+availabe.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Downstairs I once saw the budget label Marble Arch reissue of Donovan's
LP Fairytale, the very first record I ever bought, and it seemed that
everything I had ever listened to and discarded could be found in some
part of the shop. There was even the That'll Be The Day soundtrack
double album which I had never actually owned, despite its importance in
my musical history. I didn't buy either but always assumed they'd be
there waiting for me. Or another copy later.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1Q7UR3im7I/AAAAAAAAAdo/d8pijY23Jm4/s1600-h/donovan-fairytaleORIG.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1Q7UR3im7I/AAAAAAAAAdo/d8pijY23Jm4/s200/donovan-fairytaleORIG.jpg" /></a>I
did buy a CD of Fairytale there later, in an approximation of its
original, full-price, cover, but that was hardly the same thing; the
psychedelicised image of Donovan - in effect passing off Try For the Sun
as Sunshine Superman to attract pocket money purchasers, if you know
your Mr Leitch - on the front cover of the Marble Arch album was my
memory. And it was substantial, heavy vinyl. Even if they knocked a
couple of tracks off the original issue.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S03pkas0UUI/AAAAAAAAAXE/zBvbjrktRvs/s1600-h/luisrs19931512138710.jpg" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426249937903178050" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S03pkas0UUI/AAAAAAAAAXE/zBvbjrktRvs/s200/luisrs19931512138710.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">In
its sheer range of items, Cheapo suited me very well. In addition to
the growing love for rock'n'roll and especially doo wop noted elsewhere
in this blog, my musical tastes had been partly shaped by what was
available in my local library. No pop to speak of; lots of classical
music, which didn't interest me, but a fair amount of folk and jazz -
especially early jazz. By good chance I stumbled across individuals
whose work I still love: Luis Russell, the orchestra leader who later
became part of the Louis Armstrong backdrop but whose band around
1929/30 formed a link between the freedom of early jazz and the
riff-based attack of swing.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1NH1jB6GoI/AAAAAAAAAcw/ZQQHIN8A-rU/s1600-h/Davy+Graham.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1NH1jB6GoI/AAAAAAAAAcw/ZQQHIN8A-rU/s320/Davy+Graham.jpg" /></a>Clarence
Williams, on an album later described when I bought it at another shop
in London (a jazz specialist, closed down long before) as being "rare as
hen's teeth," featuring my (and the world's) first unwitting exposure
to Louis Jordan's singing ...I liked some of the folk-related stuff,
such as Davy Graham, but jazz: Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller, Clarence
Williams - essentially everything up to Charlie Christian - was my main
enthusiasm, running alongside the love of pop shared with my brothers. I
seem to remember doing a lot of borrowing on Thursday evenings then
walking the three minutes home to catch TOTP.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1NK-9MrJiI/AAAAAAAAAc4/AvdLkvuL2Kw/s1600-h/PMC7136.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1NK-9MrJiI/AAAAAAAAAc4/AvdLkvuL2Kw/s320/PMC7136.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1Rz2YwD2PI/AAAAAAAAAdw/9FRMnePVL9c/s1600-h/betterlarkin.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1Rz2YwD2PI/AAAAAAAAAdw/9FRMnePVL9c/s200/betterlarkin.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The
library must have softened its policy at some point, as I can recall
borrowing, at the same time the recently issued double album of Kingsize
Taylor's Beatles Hamburg tapes and an EMI Louis Armstrong <a href="http://www.gramophone.net/Issue/Page/December%201971/150/737464/">memorial album</a>
which featured the performance of St Louis Blues backed by the Russell
orchestra which Philip Larkin once called "The hottest record ever made"
(though he may have recanted as I couldn't find the review reproduced
in the paperback edition of his collection of reviews entitled All What
Jazz).</span></div></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
But - just as I might have done when in Cheapo, and settled in for an
hour or two - I digress. The warning signs about the shop's possible
demise were certainly there, and had been for some time. As one
assistant there put it, when someone comes in with no conception of
overheads, quotes the Amazon price for an album and expects you to match
it, the writing is on the wall. Maybe the wonder is it had endured so
long. I overheard another worker (possibly the boss; I don't know)
evidently at the end of his wick one Saturday night, complaining about
the number of tourists who came in demanding directions, alternating
with junkies. (Both went, literally, with the territory.)<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My
relationship with Cheapo changed when I began buying CDs and DVDs for
work. They never gave out receipts so I was obliged to explain that my
employers needed some evidence of legitimate purchase so could some form
of ... after that, they would give me a business card with the amount
handwritten on the back. As this explanation needed to be reiterated to
different assistants, and as it became pretty obvious I was buying quite
a lot on each visit, I began to chat regularly to one of the assistants
when I came in and learnt in more detail of the shop's difficulties. He
bemoaned charity shops who would mark up poor condition albums because a
certain price was mentioned in the Record Collector guide and said the
shop was only surviving on its weekend business. </span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1MdpnCXdMI/AAAAAAAAAco/BMiJz92XK3Q/s1600-h/cdchd738_0.gif" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1MdpnCXdMI/AAAAAAAAAco/BMiJz92XK3Q/s320/cdchd738_0.gif" /></a>At
times I was given the rare privilege of a look-see at new aquisitions
on bakery-type wooden trays including, on one memorable occasion, a
whole lot of Ace CDs which I bought for around £4 apiece. Whether or not
my place of work was in dire need of a comprehensive collection of the
recordings of <a href="http://www.acerecords.co.uk/content.php?page_id=59&release=694">Rosie and the Originals</a>
was not, I have to confess, uppermost in my mind at that moment of shy,
manly pride at thus being ushered to the inner sanctum. (But in my
defence I have always gone for the bargainy side of things - and
besides, the shade of the late John Lennon, he say an unquestioning <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x96uqs_john-lennon-and-rosie-hamlin-angel_music">yes</a>.)</span></div></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
There was something slightly odd in this change of relations, however.
I'd been patronising the shop for over fifteen years before becoming a
professional punter, as it were, and during that time there had been no
need for greetings or pleasantries. This wasn't about rudeness (although
elsewhere on the net you can find reference to the dourness of one
worker there) but a recognition of what we, shopkeeper and customer,
were there for: it wasn't HMV or Tower Records; the surroundings were
far from spacious, and when it was crowded at weekends there'd be a fair
amount of squeezing past people, but the point was this: the stock was
the thing, and the stock spoke for itself. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I once took a female friend to this almost exclusively male domain;
buying an LP, she felt obliged to say to the assistant, by way of
explanation: "Reliving my lost youth." I ought to be ashamed of my glee
as I pounced ("Wrong!") on this solecism as soon as we left the shop;
sadly I'm not. It was my world and she had made a dreadful - if, let us
be fair, understandable, what with being a woman and all - error. We
were all there for our lost youth. It didn't need pointing out. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Over time, the available areas of Cheapo shrank a little (yes, you're
right, I'm softening you up for the death, but let me tell it anyway; I,
for one, need to hear it at the appropriate pace). An upstairs area was
no longer in use, although I don't know whether that means that large
chunks of stock had been successfully sold off or not. I think some of
the upstairs vinyl was the nostalgia-based stuff which then found a home
on the ground floor at the back. There was a basement which
concentrated on soul and jazz; many cassettes in those long-lost
cassette-playing days were bought there, including those of <a href="http://www.nme.com/video/id/y8OAilfa9l0/search/Leslie">Leslie "Hutch" Hutchinson</a>,
a Grenadan cabaret singer whose music was the soundtrack for an
important relationship; I commemorate both the singer and the other
listener with the image below: <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1NN89cDyxI/AAAAAAAAAdA/nf9ckWyRkPU/s1600-h/_wsb_317x324_Leslie%2BHutchinson.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1NN89cDyxI/AAAAAAAAAdA/nf9ckWyRkPU/s320/_wsb_317x324_Leslie%2BHutchinson.jpg" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Once the darling of Mayfair (and Edwina Mountbatten in particular; see
the biography by Charlotte Breese), Hutch was buried in Highgate
Cemetery at a poorly attended funeral, although messages still appear in
The Stage on the anniversary of his death.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I could go on with lists of records and artists but I think it should be
clear by now that the main point about Cheapo is that it is bound up
with so many of my memories. There is probably even, on some level, an
association with the annual visits to Glasgow in December when very
young, my little legs aching with the vast distances covered, to see
Santa in one or other of the posher old-style shops - Copeland's,
Pettigrews and some others - later to be swept away by cheaper
alternatives. It was in one of those, or possibly in the Dalziel
Cooperative in Motherwell, who also put a lot of effort into their
Father Christmases, that one year there was a kind of tunnel you had to
go through to reach Santa; years later, when I walked through a basement
room of the art school's Blytheswood Square building, all of whose
surfaces had been entirely covered in newspaper (by a fellow art
student, <a href="http://www.jonesieboy.co.uk/blog/2008/04/">Sheila Calder</a>),
I had a tantalising, elusive sensation of deja vu which I knew was
associated with those Christmas visits without being able to summon up a
precise image. And even though Cheapo was about interests developed in
adolescence, the cramped and cluttered areas, the tiny staircase, now
seem interwoven with both of those memories: more burrow or lair than
cavernous emporium of the sort found just down the road at Picadilly
Circus, it was the kind of record shop that Kenneth Grahame's Badger
might have felt at home in. It was a place where you could lose
yourself, or rather find once again that truer self, that non-coporeal
identity, a thing of undefined hopes and dreams: a record collector,
exactly as you were at sixteen. So I have to admit my cruelly maligned
friend's "Reliving my lost youth" was precisely right, although I still
say the utterance of that intention was wrong or, at best, superfluous -
rather like, if you have the appropriate faith, saying to a priest
mid-Mass "You do realise that this ceremony is quite important on a
spiritual level?" Babe: they already understand. That is why they are
record shop assistants. Or so I'd like to think. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I wish the former workers and owner well in whatever they undertake.
They were, as I think Andrew Loog Oldham said of Immediate Records, part
of the industry of human happiness. The last conversation I had with
the Cheapo assistant whom I'd come to know a bit was, I fear, slightly
cut short by me, as I had other stuff to buy, and it was getting late; I
wish now that I had stayed longer. Ah well. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S03t3joRtfI/AAAAAAAAAXU/uldexErPfQs/s1600-h/3014959471_ca68a6c195_oBIG.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426254664764077554" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S03t3joRtfI/AAAAAAAAAXU/uldexErPfQs/s400/3014959471_ca68a6c195_oBIG.jpg" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
I don't want to make this piece just a list of records but I do want to
mention one more which can stand for so many others. The area around the
entrance had been largely taken over by DVDs but towards the back of
the ground level area of the shop there was still a lot of vinyl which
compelled you (or me, anyway) to linger.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S03s8wYzHBI/AAAAAAAAAXM/iPQ_faSHizs/s1600-h/3014959605_mediumsize.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426253654576536594" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S03s8wYzHBI/AAAAAAAAAXM/iPQ_faSHizs/s400/3014959605_mediumsize.jpg" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a>The
image found on the net, above, is not quite right, but at least you can
glimpse beyond the DVDs to the very back where (trust me) waist height
shelves were stocked with jazz and nostalgia CDs. Vinyl was just to the
left. So many albums I'd seen on record shop shelves in Glasgow in the
seventies, there they were again, and I'm not just talking about artists
of the day: most of those budget rock'n'roll reissues of the seventies
which I've talked about in other entries were there too. <br />
And I suppose it's partly that which makes the loss of the shop so
poignant: here was a magical second chance to acquire or reacquire those
albums and I didn't take it. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1HUK5x1rZI/AAAAAAAAAbY/4L5Yh43nBk4/s1600-h/ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZjerry+lee+two.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427352309731798418" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1HUK5x1rZI/AAAAAAAAAbY/4L5Yh43nBk4/s400/ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZjerry+lee+two.JPG" style="display: block; height: 368px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
One which I particularly regret was a double Jerry Lee album in a
gatefold sleeve with a tinted archetypal picture of the young,
blonde-locked Killer. I'd totally forgotten about this album, issued on
Phonogram before the advent of Charly, which had been played at an art
school dance, possibly on Halloween 1975, and I have a vague but
pleasing memory of connecting with the older student whose record it
presumably was, so that it has come to represent a token of that
promise-laden time: <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers<br />
Pluck'd in a far off land. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S03kc27HVRI/AAAAAAAAAWc/cVOjtuFXYxE/s1600-h/3953386271_5b96a92023.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426244310482244882" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S03kc27HVRI/AAAAAAAAAWc/cVOjtuFXYxE/s400/3953386271_5b96a92023.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1GsCZZG03I/AAAAAAAAAag/lnJ15gQbVgU/s1600-h/ZZZZZZZZCopy+of+CHEAPO+VERY+LARGE.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427308183134065522" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1GsCZZG03I/AAAAAAAAAag/lnJ15gQbVgU/s400/ZZZZZZZZCopy+of+CHEAPO+VERY+LARGE.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S0-rYVWcVcI/AAAAAAAAAZA/A0CkZfwol1E/s1600-h/CLOSED+Copy+of+CHEAPO+LARGEST+AGAIN.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426744510541223362" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S0-rYVWcVcI/AAAAAAAAAZA/A0CkZfwol1E/s400/CLOSED+Copy+of+CHEAPO+LARGEST+AGAIN.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a> </span></p><h2 class="date-header"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span></span></h2><h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>19th January 2010: </span>Cheapo Revisited</span>
</h3><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My Cheapo gaffe friend (see earlier post) has a young nephew also given
to superfluous utterance. His grandmother once told him that her mummy
was up in heaven. To which that mite replied : "She's dead - face it." <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
But perhaps today was the right time in my own grieving process
to seek a final pointless-but-necessary confirmation of my own loss by
making a pilgrimage to Rupert Street to see - well, whatever there was
to see where once Cheapo stood. Subjecting my battered psyche to this
ordeal, I reasoned this morning, could only strengthen it - and besides,
I had to go into town for work-related purchases, anyway. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Aware both of the ridiculousness and the necessity of adding Rupert
Street to my itinerary, I proceeded to make the journey precisely as I
would have done in those long-ago days before my love for the place
became devalued, or at any rate changed, when I moved into professional
purchasing mode. I left the Argyle Street exit of Oxford Circus tube,
walking past Carnaby Street (that "heaven on earth," as I believe the
New Vaudeville Band once termed it) and what had been, until 1997,
Marshall Street Pool, where I used to swim regularly. The site of the
building was covered in scaffolding and padding, but there was an
entrance through which I caught a glimpse of the whitened shell of the
pool. It would have been easy to walk quickly in, take a few snaps
before anyone thought to question me, and go. For a moment, I was
tempted, but (in what I fear is fast becoming this blog's catchphrase) I
didn't. Not simply for fear of being chased by "the man", but at
least partly because I think I already knew, the instant the thought
formed, that a few snaps of a now dilapidated pool would be unilikely to
bring either pleasure or succour. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
The same might be said for going back to Cheapo, but the difference is
that, quite apart from the the twelve and a half years I've had to get
my head around the closure of Marshall Street, there was a very neat
cut-off point. The Guardian newspaper has a column entitled <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/notesandqueries/">Notes and Queries</a>,
a mind-boggling mix of the trivial and the serious. One of the
questions put to readers was: "What would have been the lead story on
the day Princess Diana died, had she not popped it?" This was my
response: <br /></span>
</p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Not, perhaps, headline-grabbing on a global scale, but the
imminent closure of the Marshall Street swimming pool, just off Oxford
Circus, was uppermost in at least one mind that day. Going for one last
swim before it shut its doors for good that afternoon, I attributed the
long faces to employees losing their jobs. I did not see a newspaper
with an alternative explanation until about 1pm.</span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">That
diversion over, let's zigzag down from Marshall Street to Rupert Street
and "face it." I have my camera ready for whatever awaits, and here it
is:<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1YwUqVCftI/AAAAAAAAAe4/kt3xW2Twf3U/s1600-h/P1010033+shrunk.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1YwUqVCftI/AAAAAAAAAe4/kt3xW2Twf3U/s400/P1010033+shrunk.JPG" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
The grey is an apt touch. Harsh and metallic where once there was the
green of growth.Click on the next image if you want to torture/heal
yourself by getting even closer:<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1YwY0l-UjI/AAAAAAAAAfA/MBav0xhRhbY/s1600-h/P1010033shrunktoathird.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1YwY0l-UjI/AAAAAAAAAfA/MBav0xhRhbY/s400/P1010033shrunktoathird.JPG" /></a></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And finally ...</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1Y2-aoaoaI/AAAAAAAAAfI/H9tqh6V8qvw/s1600-h/P1010033KROPPEDRESIZED.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S1Y2-aoaoaI/AAAAAAAAAfI/H9tqh6V8qvw/s400/P1010033KROPPEDRESIZED.JPG" /></a></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now there's no doubt about it anywhere, is there? as a Noel Coward character might say. No, no doubt anywhere. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
As I type this, it occurs to me that, having taken the photographs from
the opposite side of the road, I didn't then cross and peer inside. Had
I done so, I'd have been looking for what, exactly? A binbag full of
forgotten CDs? Unlikely: the repainting and the darkness of the
interior suggest nothing has been left to chance. No; as with Marshall
Street, I think I immediately grasped that any further
investigation would not bring comfort.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There
isn't much else to say. All images in the earlier post were taken from
the net: the picture Lennonised then adapted for my blog heading is by
Laura Appleyard, whose flickr photostream, and the image in its original
form, can be found <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/vanessaberry/1386715530/">here</a>;
other flickr images were by abkeating200, Tschechoslowakische
Ausschussware, renaissancechambara and TheNotQuiteFool, who has his own,
slightly briefer, lament for Cheapo <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thenotquitefool/3953386271/">here</a>.
The above mementoes were taken by me today, January 19th 2010. If
others want to use them as a staging post in their own half-real grief,
feel free. I took some more, hoping to capture someone in the act of
walking past in the manner of Ms. Appleby's image, but I'm new to the
world of digital photography and kept being half a second late for the
decisive moment. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In
any case, the empty street captured above feels more true to my
subjective experience - although I was moved by the small kindness of
one individual who waited until I was done (unusual in Central London)
before walking past; perhaps he, too, had lingered overlong in Cheapo on
occasion.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>19th May 2010: </span>Cheapo Cheapo Closure Closure</span>
</h3>
<div class="post-header">
</div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hmm ... not quite as I would have wished in every particular, but those
who have read the earlier posts lamenting the loss of Soho's Cheapo
Cheapo Records may be gratified to learn that I have unexpectedly
achieved what amounts to a kind of closure today. And it all came about
from a conversation at a party (ooh, get me) on Sunday.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I was talking about records to a former bouncer and mod, who bought a
lot of Northern Soul in Cheapo, which led to my googling for recentish
comments about the shop and finding the Gumtree advertisement mentioned
in the previous entry. I emailed enquiring about CDs (the ad only
mentions the large stock of vinyl) and today phoned to arrange a time to
come and view whatever there was. I said to my colleague, only
half-joking, "This feels like happiness," comparable to a wonderful
moment during my dominie incarnation when I was given a week off normal
duties (still paid, mind you) to take part in a sitcom summer school.
Ohhh yessss. And the knowledge that my colleagues received no comparable
dispensation made it, I have to admit, all the sweeter. (The eventual
fate of a sitcom I wrote a few years later kind of balances things out,
but no more o'that.)<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Anyway, off I trot to a warehouse near Hanger Lane. The actual process
of reaching it is unnecessarily arduous, largely because the directions
at a bus stop are, in effect, upside down, causing me to stride away
from my goal until I can figure the matter out. Not to worry, I say to
myself: it's a kind of a quest, Christopher Vogler-like. Riches and
fulfilment await once the obstacle of my essential stupidity in
practical matters such as these is overcome. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Alas, not quite. The fulfilment, I mean. Or the riches. But I'm
certainly glad I went. There is a great deal of catalogued vinyl which
hasn't yet been sold, so if you are reading this and are interested,
please look at the previous entry, which has a link to the original
gumtree ad with contact details. Or simply click <a href="http://www.gumtree.com/london/83/57586483.html">here</a>.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
For work purposes, I could only really be interested in the CDs, and
there were only about four or five trays of these left. The person in
charge said that a shop or chain of shops in, I think, Birmingham, had
come and gone through everything and creamed off most of it. So there
wasn't a huge amount on the jazz/nostalgia or 50s/60s pop front. And I
can't really say I found some unexpected gems - some of the most
enticing didn't have discs inside. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
But on I went, in the end choosing about forty CDs, although some of
them had warnings on the front about scratches, and quite a few were
classical ones about which I'm not in a position to make a judgement
about. I took a few cassettes as well, including a Beatles bootleg -
unusual fare for Cheapo.And one from EMI's Golden Age of series, because
of the association with the Hutch cassette in the same series.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
The whole thing, from entering the warehouse to leaving, took about two
to two-and-a-half hours, a good average for a browse in the actual shop.
I had taken a great deal of cash in the event of some mammoth haul;
let's just say there is a lot of change to hand back to our accounts
person. And despite having back problems, the amount I was carrying
didn't even justify a taxi. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
At the station I texted my colleague that what I had got was "mostly tat
but very cheap tat." A lot of it will prove useful, even so, at one
point or another, at work, just as some obscurities found in the shop
itself and bought on spec have done: a CD of American parlour songs has
filled recording gaps in more than one songbook, for example. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
My dream scenario would have been to pass the shop by just before (or
after) it closed for the final time, and been tipped the wink to come in
and lingeringly take my fill before - well, just <i>before</i>. Then,
oh, then would I have rushed to the jazz/nostalgia section as to a long
lost lover, ensuring that never again would there be any gap in any
forties songbook, and every Gershwin or Rodgers'n'Hart toon would have
around fifteen or twenty versions for comparison ... mostly from the
mid-forties, but you can't have everything.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
And all those 50s/60s pop compilations which I'd held off buying as we
probably had about ninety per cent of the songs ... it really does come
down to what I said in my original entry (A Wreath for Cheapo), about
wanting to show the shop, as though it were a person, that someone loved
even those seemingly unlovely parts. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
No, my experience today didn't quite live up to all that. Quite apart
from the fact that most of the best stock was already gone (even the
jazz/nostalgia items which I didn't imagine many others would want), not
being in the original environment changed matters, lessned the pleasure
of searching: I had to stoop over the trays (sort of like baker's
trays) so it wasn't that comfortable, although the person showing me
over the stock did what he could to ease things. And there was no sense
of hurry but, in truth, there wasn't really much to linger over.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
This wasn't the lesiurely leavetaking I was once privileged to have with
a dear friend: more like the "Challenge Anneka"-type experience I once
had when obliged to go through the belongings of someone who had lived
in a housing association flat in the knowledge that everything not
chosen and taken was going in a skip a few days later. Well, no, even
that wasn't the same, actually, as no hordes of Birmingham record store
people had descended on the flat earlier. And there was a pleasing
pay-off there, as the bereaved family were grateful that some, at least,
of his many books were going to enrich the lives of others. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
In the case of my friend, the length of his illness and his
foreknowledge of its inevitable outcome allowed him enough time to sort
out and sell on batches of his books, and even now I can be stopped
short when a seemingly innocent copy of one of them is proffered to me
with the magical signature inside. After his death, his widow asked me
to sort through what was left; it didn't seem right to let the heavily
annotated poetry books and playscripts go out into the world, even
though I know (or I earnestly hope) I shall never have cause to use them
in any kind of a professional way again, and so they sit in a box which
I shall probably never open and never look at but never throw out.
(Hey, it's a guy thing. Don't worry about it. You can't deal with sport.
We can't deal with grief. Though actually, I'm not that good at sport
either. Aaaanyway ...)<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I also got a bit of information about why the shop closed when chatting
as I went through the CDs in the warehouse. The owner, who had had the
shop at a fairly cheap rent, had died, and there was really no one to
carry on, especially as his filing methods had apparently been highly
idiosyncratic. When in Cheapo, I talked mostly to a younger assistant,
but I think the owner was the fairly taciturn bearded man mentioned in
some online forums. As I said in that earlier entry, I don't think his
manner counted as rudeness, simply an awareness that the stock sold
itself, and you came to Cheapo in order to find things you couldn't find
anywhere else - which you certainly did, time after time.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
And now it - and he - is no more, and now there can be no tantalising
illusion that all the stock, just as it was when I last went in, is just
waiting somewhere for me to go through it. Today's browse was, I
suppose, equivalent to chucking soil on a coffin: not that great to do,
but comforting in a ritualistic sort of way. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
And in a public service sort of way, let me repeat the message of the previous entry: <b>at the time of writing, Cheapo's vinyl stock is still for sale</b>
- click on previous entry for contact details. If you email the address
in the ad you will be sent a fuller list of what is on offer. There
isn't now much left in the way of CDs or DVDs although there are a lot
of music videos, mostly classical and operatic, including many unopened
ones.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I hope the LPs, in particular, find a home. Presumably they were,
individually, loved once. (Yes, yes, apart from the review copies,
obviously, but don't spoil the mood, eh?) The familiar covers which
seemed to have been in the shop since I started visiting Cheapo were a
unbroken link to the libraries and record shops of the past which
nurtured my love of music and ultimately led to this blog. By
coincidence, there is a current Radio 2 series about the demise of the
record shop to which I was listening as I went on my expedition to
Hanger Lane: blame was squarely put on the supermarkets, rather than the
web, able to command large discounts and not interested in anything not
in the charts. The guy I was talking to on Sunday had talked with a
kind of reverence about the knowledge of either an assistant in Cheapo
or maybe the ownere himself, and the surprise when there was a soul
record which he couldn't immediately call to mind - or to hand. And not
with any kind of showman-type flourish, just: here it is. That one.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Revising this piece a couple of days later, I'm also struck by the
oddness of the leavetaking ceremony: although there was someone to bear
witness - or to stop me pocketing the stock - it was essentially a
solitary act. In a way, that's as it should be, as record collecting is
essentially a solitary pursuit (I never invited my Cheapo Gaffe Friend
back to the shop for seconds), but I'd like to think there was some kind
of reluctant cameraderie, as well as rivalry, among most of those who
haunted the shop, all pursuing an ultimately futile quest for the
perfect record, the magic all-solving discovery - which rather recalls
another concluding passage, now ten years old:<br /></span>
<blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, I'll keep hoping, as doubtless we all are, to
catch the echo of those all-solving, all-healing sweet words of
pismotality from that ideal doowop record which nestles somewhere in the
track listing on the next CD compilation I buy.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Or the one after that ...</span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">So I'm sorry that they couldn't
have shared in the opportunity I had, and hope that they will find some
way of working out their own impacted grief. Guys (cause it is guys), I
have laid me down - or at any crouched me - over those remaining crates
of CDs for you. Sort of. Like some kind of a bridge over a river of
wistful sighs emanating from those who suddenly come across the news
that Cheapo is no more, or who pass by then find they can no longer just
pop in. I got the knees of my trousers all dirty too. For you. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
It is, of course, also about time passing: almost twenty five years of
my life going to Cheapo, and this year the amount of time I have lived
in London shall be equal to my time in Scotland. There may, I suppose,
be other record shops in my life - and I suppose I have to hold on to
that.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
But there won't be another Cheapo. <br /></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;">
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<h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>21 May 2010: </span>Cheapo - a musical tribute by Alastair Dougall</span><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></h3>
<div class="post-header">
</div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I stayed on for an hour at work to add more to the previous blog entry.
Getting home, I googled "Cheapo Cheapo closed" and found this musical
tribute by Alastair Dougall, which suggests there's plenty of grief to
go round. I haven't picked out all the words yet but it sounds
beautiful. And who needs words when you have music? Although I caught
bits and pieces like "Phil's still frowning in the grave." And the song
is also a lament for the dispossessed of the record industry, and the
artefacts they produced: Cheapo is the place "where old albums go to
die." <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8nokqY6z5-s&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><embed allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8nokqY6z5-s&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425"></embed></object><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Update: Alastair has kindly forwarded the lyrics and given me permission to quote them here:</i><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>CHEAPO CHEAPO RECORDS by Alastair Dougall</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br />
</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>An open door, past the pushers and pimps and whores, that was Cheapo Cheapo Records, three full-to-bursting floors.</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Phil the owner, perpetual frown, keep you head down when he's around...</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>If you want to piss him off, just ask him what's in the shop.</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br />
</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Goodby, goodbye, Cheapo Cheapo Records, Rupert Street won't be the same...</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Closing time, Cheapo Cheapo Records, green paint peeling in the Soho rain...</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>It's a shame no one will look through your racks again.</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br />
</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The famous, the failed, deleted and the super-rare, second-hand and never played, the has-beens and the never-were...</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Priced up the same, best check on the condition, don't ask Phil for your money back, there's no receipts or compensation...</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br />
</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Good bye, goodbye Cheapo Cheapo Records, where old albums come to die</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Closing time, Cheapo Cheapo Records, you could pick out a classic for a song...</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>But it's a shame the way those Cheapo days have gone.</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br />
</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>...Rock and roll and jazzy noises, funk and country m/f voices, soundtracks, classical, spoken word,</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>And piles of promos no one's ever heard....</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br />
</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Goodbye, goodbye, Cheapo Cheapo Records, Phil's still frowning in the grave...</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Closing time Cheapo Cheapo Records, you surely lived up to your name...</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>But it's a shame no one will look through your racks again.</b><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Alastair Dougall's myspace page with more songs and info about him is <a href="http://www.myspace.com/alastairdougallmusic">here</a>. </i></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><b><span>28 May 2010: </span>Cheapo 2008</b></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></h3></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Found this on flickr, dated February 2008, credited to <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/federella/">Federella</a>.
Think you can glimpse some CDs bottom left, but it's mostly DVDs, which
began to crowd out CDs in the front of the shop. The figure is looking
towards the back, wherein a range of viny and jazz/nostaligia, classical
etc CDs lurk. It certainly gives a sense of how cosily cramped the
premises were; I'm proud to think I may have contributed to the wearing
out of the floor. Click for a larger image.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S__Uq1vcupI/AAAAAAAABdU/snCo7Lb_8E0/s1600/cheapo2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S__Uq1vcupI/AAAAAAAABdU/snCo7Lb_8E0/s320/cheapo2.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">13 June 2010: </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Cheapo - slight return</span>
</h3><span style="font-size: medium;"> Some days or weeks after my visit to Cheapo's old premises on <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/01/cheapo-revisited.html">January 19th</a>
I went back - and this time actually crossed the road and pressed my
camera against the window pane. Not much was visible on the day itself
and I didn't bother uploading the photograph here, as one pile of debris
looks pretty much like another, but that worn floor in the image taken
from flickr in the prevous post now makes the following foggy image more
readable, so here it is: Click to make it larger.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TBUrjpNi8lI/AAAAAAAABd8/swUKwOekCb0/s1600/goodbye+old+friend.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TBUrjpNi8lI/AAAAAAAABd8/swUKwOekCb0/s400/goodbye+old+friend.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Sad, isn't it? When people talk about the guts being
ripped out of a building, this must be what they mean. Even with the two
images side by side, however, the more recent photograph is still hard
to read with certainty, though presumably the dark rectangle through
which the ladder cuts is the back half of the shop which once stocked my
beloved jazz/nostalgia CDs. Confusing because what may be packing
crates in front appear to join up with the darker shape to make a
separate object.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Note, too, the red tiling on the right of the frame: presumably this
shiop had other stories before the late Phil's. The more I look at this
image, the more it seems sort of attractive, reminiscent of Vuillard or
someone like that:: all these different patterns together. And the
emptiness tells its own story for those who knew Cheapo. I haven't
cropped the picture, by the way: that's just as it came out when I
pressed my camera agains the glass and hoped for the best.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Mother of mercy, is this the end of Cheapo? (In this blog, I mean.)
Perhaps. Though I'll probably go back periodically and look at what's
there. There is also the small matter of a piece of writing which never
got written - it was one of several treatments for a series of short
radio plays about the area. Don't know if I want to do it now, but I'll
see if I can find the sheet and copy it here. Done, as far as I
remember, in the slightly annoying and mannered style of an Edinburgh
writer whose name I've forgotten, but involving an exchange between the
male regulars of a shop very much like Cheapo and a would-be female
customer.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
But what I remember most strongly is something which didn't make it in
to the synopsis and doesn't really make all that much sense: an idea of
the narrator or protagonist of the piece going downstairs to the
basement and having - and this is what I can't quite describe - some
kind of a protective cage or protective barrier in some way connected
with musical knowledge, or maybe it was about absorbing, from all the
rich and varied stock, some kind of superstrength, I don't quite know.
But I certainly know that Cheapo, from my earliest days of acquaintance
with the shop, which more or less align with my earliest days in London,
was a place of fascination and a place of comfort, a refuge, I suppose,
inspiring the same sort of emotions in me as my first local libraries
(which lent vinyl, as I've described in earlier entries). So on the one
hand it was a place to avoid all that London had to offer, and to
retreat to nostalgia for the buildings which had sustained me for so
long in Scotland - but I'd prefer to say it was a place which allowed me
to look beyond London and my social limitations to that international
brotherhood to be found in those locations, now enshrined in
legend, where twentieth century popular music blossomed: Memphis,
Chicago, New York. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Although I would say that, wouldn't I? <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
As I review those words I recalled a fragment of lyric heard on an LP
which my eldest brother (I think) was playing around the early
seventies:<br /></span>
<blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Seeing through the universe -<br />
Thinking is the best way to travel</span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">As he had LPs by such
groups as the Deviants I thought for many years that what I had heard
was from the same sort of underground bag; it was only relatively
recently, filling one of the many idle moments for which the net was
made, that I found out it was the Moody Blues. Which also makes me think
that the instrumental runoff, if that's the correct technical term, for
the Ben E King recording of I Who Have Nothing contains a few bars
which may have "inspired" (if <i>that's</i> the correct term) part of
Nights in White Satin, a song whose fatuousness was unrivalled until the
appearance of Bo Rhap. [Note to a colleague: just my opinion. I may be
wrong. <i>Aside:</i> I'm not.]</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
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<h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">18 June 2010: </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Cheapo Cheapo's Vinyl stock still for sale - updated link*</span>
</h3><span style="font-size: medium;"> If anyone reading this is interested in buying or enquiring about Cheapo
Cheapo's vinyl stock, here* is an updated link. (If you're new to this
blog, find more information about Cheapo by scrolling down the last few
posts.) Presumably the Gumtree site only allows ads for a certain amount
of time; this was reposted on 7 June. 13,000 records are available for
£2000. A small sample is given in the ad but if you email the seller you
will be sent a much larger list. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
If the ad has disappeared again you can check if the stock is still for
sale by going to gumtree, here*, or if that doesn't work, enter the
following categories (click on screengrab below to enlarge)<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TBtXDGJe_lI/AAAAAAAABek/zZiH99hokLw/s1600/gumtree.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="92" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TBtXDGJe_lI/AAAAAAAABek/zZiH99hokLw/s400/gumtree.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I do hope the stock gets sold and not melted down or whatever. Perhaps
the Museum of London could recreate the shop. Is there a record
collector who could love all the styles represented?<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>*</i></b> Sadly, the links are no longer relevant.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
</h3><h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">2 February 2011: </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Cheapo Cheapo Records update</span></h3><h2 class="date-header"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TUvT4CC8qsI/AAAAAAAADFQ/gJ0BCYWAlvo/s1600/cheapoad.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="321" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/TUvT4CC8qsI/AAAAAAAADFQ/gJ0BCYWAlvo/s400/cheapoad.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></h2><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm delighted to report that Alastair Dougall <i>(above)</i>, the Brighton-based singer songwriter who composed the lament for Cheapo Cheapo Records which you can find in the post <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/05/cheapo-musical-tribute.html">here</a>, has now recorded a new version which you can check out on his myspace playlist <a href="http://www.myspace.com/alastairdougallmusic/music/playlists/my-playlist-53582">here</a>, along with an album's worth of other tracks.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
It's a new performance with better audio than the youtube clip, with
production values and everything: a discreetly employed harmonica and a
hint of harmonising now reinforce the elegaic tone. I noted one tweak of
the lyric: now Phil is "spinning" rather than "frowning" in his grave,
which fits in rather neatly with his occupation - though it also
conjures, for me at least, the idea of Phil as a DJ in some parallel
universe where Peel didn't make it back from America. Anyway, I intend
to investigate the playlist further, but for the moment I can strongly
recommend the song about Cheapo for those who have wandered through its
doors, or record shop nuts in general: it captures the essence of that
vanished emporium of tat and treasure - and its inimitable proprietor. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Coincidentally, a comment has just been added to my initial post about
Cheapo closing, saying that Phil Cording died on the 29th of January,
2009, and the shop was closed exactly two months later.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Already two years ago.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Even now, although I did eventually have the opportunity for closure of a sort, as reported <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/05/cheapo-closure.html">here</a>,
I think of the back of the shop where the jazz and nostalgia CDs
eventually landed up and wish I could just have a couple of hours of
immersion, especially as for work purposes I've recently been buying a
lot of twenties and thirties music.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
This has required endless poring over online tracklistings and
discographies, but the light click on an item from a well known shopping
or auction website cannot compare with the experience of handing the
things themselves in Cheapo, instantly being able to tell from the look
of the CD whether or not it was a contender, and the excitement of a
sudden, unexpected discovery.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I suppose the pleasure was a largely, though perhaps not exclusively,
male thing, or at least one more suited to those individuals who find
diversion and comfort in the solving of puzzles. I'm not keen on them
myself, but I suppose it was a kind of crossword type satisfaction:
faced with nine CDs of roughly corresponding Peggy Lee material, how do
you make a decision about which disc to buy? Factors such as earlier
experience of the audio quality of a public domain label, the author of
sleevenotes (if any), the professionalism of the graphics on the cover,
all come into play but there are no easy answers - of that you may be
sure.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I was in town to see a film at the Curzon Soho yesterday, so couldn't
resist walking up Rupert Street to see whether there had been any change
from the "To Let" signs. The inside of the shop had been spruced up,
and there were various packages lying around, suggesting new fittings or
stock for whatever the site of Cheapo is about to become.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Didn't have my camera, but it doesn't really matter now, does it? Don't
think it'll be a record shop. And so goes almost twenty five years of my
life.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name"><span style="font-size: medium;">
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<h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">25 February 2011: </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Cheapo gone MADD </span></h3><h2 class="date-header"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LA6kj3SRE44/TWgpieP9NaI/AAAAAAAADGc/oQqvD8pO7n4/s1600/MADDone.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LA6kj3SRE44/TWgpieP9NaI/AAAAAAAADGc/oQqvD8pO7n4/s400/MADDone.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></h2><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Saw this for myself tonight, already knowing it was inevitable, as I had
seen, a few days after the last entry, signs of some kind of counter
being put up in the Cheapo Cheapo Records space, but above is final
proof. It has happened. The shop I loved, the place which sustained me
through amateur and professional associations (oh, read the relevant
entries, if you can be bothered to find them) is now ... "London's first
mango-based dessert and coffee lounge."<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Don't get me wrong: I endorse the consumption of fruit - at least in
theory. And it's a bold move to have an eaterie in the heart of
London's West End. Who could have seen that coming? But will the
customers be nourished as I was?<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
It has been open since 20th February - last Sunday, in fact. Maybe I'll
visit it, walk inside, torture or reassure myself - or both - with
thoughts of what once was. I wish the new establishment success - no,
actually, I don't much care either way. The years will devour them too -
which reminds me, if I may jump from Lear (King) to Belloc, of the
lines:<br /></span>
<blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">When they married and gave in marriage<br />
They danced at the County Ball<br />
And some of them kept a carriage<br />
And the flood destroyed them all.</span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Not quite sure how that
translates to those who have elected to run a mango-based dessert and
coffee lounge but trust me, it does. Or it will.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
And before you ask, I have no idea of the appropriate punctuation for
the above because, although the lines have resonated with me since
childhood, I pasted the lines from a website.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I've had a look at the menu but don't particularly feel like advertising
the website. You will be able to find it for yourself if you want. All
I'm saying ...<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
... All I'm saying boils down to this. There are some of us, still, for
whom "Berry Crunch" means a particularly poor specimen on the Pye
International label.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
And <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/chuck-berry-collapses-onstage-in-chicago-20110103">he</a>
seems to be, at least temporarily, too pooped to pop - indeed, the
song, wretched as it is, now seems prophetic - but good on him for
persisting, almost to the point of mania.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
What you might call a Casey jones.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Alright, I'll stop now. <br /></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-color: currentcolor; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-style: none; border-top: medium none; border-width: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">26 February 2011: </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Madditional </span></h3><h2 class="date-header"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-5_3BxEq3jOc/TXt5pLFsvpI/AAAAAAAADJI/9uIEDR0yBdQ/s1600/MADDhouse.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-5_3BxEq3jOc/TXt5pLFsvpI/AAAAAAAADJI/9uIEDR0yBdQ/s400/MADDhouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></h2><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
More details about the translated Cheapo, taken from the blog of "specialist branding agency" Underscore. <br /></span>
</p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">The owners appointed underscore to devise the name and
create a fresh and funky brand to take their exciting concept to the
market. The name itself is a mix of the words Mango and Addict, as most
choices on their truly unique menu contain the superfruit Mango in some
shape of form ...Our communications needed to be playful, versatile and
bold to establish a new brand in such a busy location as Soho – which is
why MADD is the perfect name for this destination restaurant.</span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">So now you know the Rest of the Story. An "exciting concept" indeed.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Oh, and if you have any allergies, please let them know before ordering. Thank you.
</span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="post-header">
</div><h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">22 March 2011: </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Non-cheapo mango</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></h3><h2 class="date-header"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-yHRg_k5SZYY/TYjmVxf1WaI/AAAAAAAADNk/RPpqOTXTK3I/s1600/mangopud.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-yHRg_k5SZYY/TYjmVxf1WaI/AAAAAAAADNk/RPpqOTXTK3I/s640/mangopud.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></h2><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Normally around this time of year I attend a work-related lunchtime
event in the West End then beetle off to root around in Cheapo Cheapo
Records. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Today, the event over, I thought now would be the time to brave MADD,
the mango-based dessert cafe which has sprung up in the spot where once
Cheapo stood. <br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Don't know what it's like at night, or at the weekend, but today (a
Tuesday), at around half past one, it was empty. You buy and pay for
your order at the counter and they bring it to you. Takeaways are
notably cheaper: the mango pudding I settled for (shades of the Two
Ronnies' rook restaurant) was about three pounds takeaway and about six
pounds to eat in. Anyway, I paid for it, asked for a tea with lemon. No
lemon; should have asked for mango, obviously.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
And then I went to sit at the back to await my pudding. I went right up
to the back, where once the nostalgia CDs lingered. All gone. But you
knew that.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tXUqkgcFhG4/TahJLdJSuCI/AAAAAAAADPk/E1SrYdaMR-4/s1600/maddcustomers.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tXUqkgcFhG4/TahJLdJSuCI/AAAAAAAADPk/E1SrYdaMR-4/s320/maddcustomers.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Anyway, what I noticed was that <i>(as per the image of riotously happy people, above, from the underscore blog) </i>the
seating - low white plastic stools or red plastic benches - was vaguely
trendy but clearly not designed to encourage lingering overlong: a kind
of upmarket McDonald's, only with non-tokenistic fruit. Oh, and there
was muisc, my goodness me yes: Magic Radio. And the song playing? Phil
Collins' Another Day in Paradise.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I looked around to see that the area where the vinyl ended up had been
partitioned off, and that there were barriers in front of the steps
downstairs to where the soul music was (although by way of compensation
the next Magic track was Rescue Me, Chess Records' attempt to do a
Motown). So the seating area was fairly limited which suggests, along
with the pricing, that they are focusing more on the takeaway side of
things.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
At some point my mango pudding and cup of tea - sans limon - arrived
(unless that's French for "lime"; I can't remember). The tea was in a
cardboard cup, even though I was a sit-in customer, and didn't look all
that appealing. The pudding was fine, well laid out, but pretty small,
and vanished almost immediately. Having further tasks to complete, I
didn't hang around; luckily the assistant was on her mobile so no need
to say anything of any kind. On each table there was a card with a blank
space on which you are invited to doodle or write whatever you wish to
share with "our community" - but what sort of community is that,
exactly? The card addressed customers as Maddam or Maddman, and I
wondered what the late Phil would have made of it all. Fuirther down the
road, or possibly in Wardour Street, whither I was headed, there was a
hummus cafe with two slogans: "Give peas a chance" and "Hummus where the
heart is."<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Doesn't even make sense.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
So I'll go no more a-roving to Rupert Street to eat expensive and
non-filling mango-based desseerts. I spent a fair amount of time in HMV
Oxford Circus, but everything seemed expensive and there weren't the
rewards and sudden excitements of Cheapo.<br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gq2N5GOVwUg/TahJ828tLnI/AAAAAAAADPo/Al_y_zKkZAA/s1600/maddcustomers2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gq2N5GOVwUg/TahJ828tLnI/AAAAAAAADPo/Al_y_zKkZAA/s400/maddcustomers2.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Oh, and I did see what appeared to be a carrot cake in the counter
display at MADD, but I didn't try it. Probably mango-based, anyway. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>To conclude, below is a more recent post, written after "The Complete Story" had been assembled:</i><br /></span><h2 class="date-header"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></h2><h3 class="date-header" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">14 February 2021: </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Return to Cheapo or Is That All There Is, Sonically Speaking?</span><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></h3>
<div class="post-header">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_I2zrd7j9k8/YCmTZ2Cp2gI/AAAAAAAAKsI/h-rQutoqZEMWh-DwTXmJbkwPzAC0Kl6HACLcBGAsYHQ/s300/Very_Best_Of_Peggy_Lee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="322" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_I2zrd7j9k8/YCmTZ2Cp2gI/AAAAAAAAKsI/h-rQutoqZEMWh-DwTXmJbkwPzAC0Kl6HACLcBGAsYHQ/w322-h322/Very_Best_Of_Peggy_Lee.jpg" width="322" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> Whenever
I start to recreate a visit to Cheapo Cheapo Records in my head I
always find myself striding purposefully towards the very back of the
shop, ignoring the lure of those goodies nearer the entrance.</span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Which is odd, because this wasn't something I ever actually did. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My
main interest was in CDs, and even though DVDs multiplied and become
more prominently displayed during Cheapo's final years a substantial
amount of shelf space was still given over to the humble compact disc as
you walked in, and it was my invariable practice to start with a look
through these before gradually working my way towards the inner depths. <br /><br />That
harder-to-get-at stock did become more appealing over time because at
some point - possibly in the shop's last two or three years - all the
nostalgia CDs were torn from their hipper companions and relegated to
shelving along the back wall, hence the destination in my reverie. By
"nostalgia" I mean mostly thirties and forties recordings and a few
discs from the early fifties which didn't fall into the rock'n'roll
category - the Great American Songbook, in other words, whether crooned
by British or American artists, or essayed by a smattering of jazzers:
Peggy Lee, Bing Crosby, Perry Como, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong,
Frank Sinatra and others were heavily represented.<br /><br />Rock'n'roll
(and more recent pop) was there to stay in pride of place, greeting any
prospective customers who popped their heads round the door, but I'm
guessing that such Radio 2 Sunday fare as Peggy Lee - or what used to be
Radio 2 Sunday fare until recently - hadn't attracted quite the same
number of impulse purchases, hence its demotion to the comparative
inaccessibility of the back room. And it wasn't just the extra few yards
which made it hard to get to, as some readers will remember: you could
have quite a job squeezing past should any other punters be clogging the
shop's narrow thoroughfare - an image now doubly distanced, alas, at
the time of writing. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So why weren't Miss Lee and her cohorts
seeing much action? I suppose because the nostalgia brigade tended to be
older than the typical Cheapo customer, more likely to be well-heeled
enough to prefer splurging their money in the bright, wide-aisled
comfort of Tower Records in Picadilly Circus or HMV's flagship store in
Oxford Street, where a vast nostalgia/easy listening section always
seemed to include an endless supply of British dance band releases on
the Vocalion label. So why struggle through the confines of Cheapo when
you didn't even know what, if anything, you might find of some favourite
artist? <br /><br />But I loved the mystery, the uncertain rewards - and it
didn't hurt that during the last seven years of Cheapo's existence I
was often buying records on behalf of an employer, building up a
comprehensive library of popular music, so every visit to Soho's record
shops was also a paid day out - though I'd have gone for myself anyway,
and frequently did so at the weekends. In those final years, for work
and play, I spent many happy hours going through all those nostalgia CDs
at the back - which I suppose is why, with the condensing effect of
memory, this now seems to have become the sole purpose of all my visits.<br /> <br />In
truth, you wouldn't necessarily find the best or most interesting
purchases on those furthest shelves, but the process of making a
selection from those particular rows of CDs was undoubtedly the most
fascinating part of any expedition. <br /><br />It was a little like
engaging with Radio 4's Round Britain Quiz, a show to which I have
become addicted in recent years. The appeal of quizzes - for me, at any
rate - is the fleeting and illusory reassurance they offer that all the
information unthinkingly amassed over the decades, all those trivial and
pointless details taking up so much valuable headroom, might prove to
be of some practical worth, after all, and so for that blessed half hour
of brain-barbecuing, if no other, there is a feeling of wholeness ...
and I don't mean Bob of that ilk.<br /><br />Actually, maybe browsing in
Cheapo is more accurately described as a mirror image of that famed
radio quiz: whatever they may know about other stuff, with very few
exceptions its contestants are sorely lacking when it comes to basics of
popular music - the exact opposite of what's needed when approaching
that back wall, hands outstretched in readiness, trying to summon up
every last jot and tittle absorbed from mounds of books, sleevenotes,
radio programmes and music papers in unwitting preparation for this
decisive moment ... <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And so it begins again, in yet
another waking dream, and I feel afresh that question-solver's
satisfaction and immersion while flipping through the rows of CDs,
absorbing an array of visual and verbal clues on each front cover,
deciding in a millisecond whether or not an examination of the back
sleeve, or maybe even an investigation of such prophecies as might be
contained within the innards, is merited.<br /><br />The packaging on those
CDs of older music contained the hardest codes to crack. At that time
rock'n'roll was only just coming into the public domain, so choices were
comparatively limited, but there were any number of discs of earlier
music to choose from, on a bewildering variety of labels, and my mission
was to select the right one for a particular artist: the disc most
likely to contain good quality transfers of the original recordings -
definitely not rerecordings or airshots, thank you very much - and which
seemed to include a representative sample of their best known work. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Certain
labels offered a reasonable guarantee of good sound, and the
annotations to be found in the sleevenotes of such lovingly curated
discs might contain enough information to allow the hunt to stop there
and then, but it was rarely that simple. Many CDs, tantalisingly cheap,
provided no obvious signposts: if the artwork looked amateurish, or the
picture of the artist was clearly not from the period of recording, I
would know to be cautious before adding it to the pile; if a title like
"The Best of" or "Greatest Hits" was applied to someone whose career,
like that of Duke Ellington or Louis Armstrong, spanned many decades, I
knew it would be wise to scan the back sleeve for more information;
often, however, the blandness of certain covers, or their deliberate
aping of more reliable releases, could deceive.<br /><br />Artists like
Donovan or the Kinks may have felt - and for all I know, continue to
feel - aggrieved that budget rereleases of their material on Pye's
offshoot Marble Arch in the late sixties devalued their brand, but
unless memory is playing tricks there were only a limited number of
those reissue labels around in those days; by the late 2000s, however,
any record stall in any Saturday or Sunday market would be thronged with
different labels, different repackagings of an artist's material from
who knew what stage of their rise or fall in the public's estimation.
Cheapo differed in that it certainly had much of the bargain basement
stuff but a fair number of worthwhile compilations were mixed in -
provided you knew what to look for.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Which is not to say that
spotting the gems among the dross was always straightforward, even for
the seasoned obsessive. Which is why - and here I come, at long last, to
the burden of my song - a website devoted to one of the artists whose
discs were frequently to be found against the back wall caught my eye a
few years ago - too late, alas, to inform my purchasing in Cheapo but
still well worth the attention of anyone still looking out for CDs of
that sort. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I reckon that what every major artist needs is a
website along the lines of The Peggy Lee Bio-Discography And Videography
... which may be a bit of a mouthful, but it's something which merits
leisurely investigation if any of the foregoing has found an answering
chime in you. It's an ongoing labour of love, maintained and updated by
Ivan Santiago-Mercardo. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">You may recall that when a character
in The Importance of Being Earnest finally discovers the military
directories which will confirm his name he exclaims: "These delightful
records should have been my constant study!" I don't know when Mr
Santiago-Mercardo set up his site but had I been armed with a printout
of his findings in the late 2000s I would have saved many man-hours in
Cheapo ... not, of course, that I regret a minute of that immersion. <br /><br />For
Peggy Lee fans, the Lee-curious, or even readers who are simply
interested in the phenomenon of public domain, or otherwise dubious, CDs
- this site really is a must. Although I didn't come across it until
2018, long after Cheapo had been repurposed for the consumption of
mango-based desserts, I immediately seized upon its information to buy
yet more Peggy Lee CDs, even though clicking on a keyboard to purchase
an item within that larger emporium of tat and marvels, ebay, is a poor
substitute for the glow experienced while carrying a tottering pile of
prizes to the counter at Cheapo's.<br /><br />The Peggy Lee Bio-Discography
And Videography will afford the reader many happy hours - or it probably
will, if you've read with interest so far. Its author has taken it upon
himself to annotate all the public domain releases out there, to point
fingers where necessary (the needledrops of Hallmark), to indicate who
has stolen other companies' material, and so on. He singles out, for
example, a Spanish company who not only ripped off the bulk of a Mosaic
release - a company renowned for its meticulous work in locating and
remastering material - but didn't even have the grace to wait a few
months until Mosaic might have got a decent return on their investment
of time and money, thus discouraging such companies from future projects
and, in this case, affecting Mosaic's relationship with EMI and having a
knock-on effect on the possibility of subsequent releases by Capitol.<br /><br />But
the real, mind-boggling, work has to be Mr Santiago-Mercardo's
valiantly sifting through all the vast multitude of similar-looking
releases, assessing sound quality, contents, noting the amount of
duplication to be found in other compilations and so forth, thereby
making it possible for boss-eyed palookas like me to obtain more bang
for their master's buck. Peggy Lee recorded between 1941 and 1995 -
think about that for a moment - and the site takes you through all the
different periods, all the studio recordings for Capitol, Decca and many
others, all the transcriptions and film, TV and radio appearances.
There are also some exceptionally detailed but very clear and
well-written essays about key songs including Fever - making clear just
who owed what to whom - and Is That All There Is?.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The image
gracing the top of this piece of a notional "Very Best of Peggy Lee" has
been taken from his site. He observes of its contents:</span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Combines
18 Columbia big band studio recordings from the Benny Goodman years
(early 1940s) with 2 performances from Lee's radio show (early 1950s)
and 1 World radio transcription (also from the early 1950s). Obviously,
the title of this cheap and inconsequential disc is outrageously off the
mark.</span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Guided and warned by the information on this website
I've able to buy a considerable number of additional Peggy Lee CDs
covering periods of her career not already represented by purchases from
Cheapo, and there has been an additional pleasure in calculating which
combination of budget purchases might match some more expensive and
luxurious release which it would be harder to justify buying on my
employer's behalf. </span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A set of transcriptions (studio recordings
meant for radio play only) were released complete on Jazzology's
Audiophile label, for example, but Mr Santiago-Mercardo handily points
out two lower-priced compilations which contain the bulk of the
recordings. He advises that the Audiophile release is the best option
but criticises its "middling" sound quality, stating that "all 49
numbers exist in far better quality", though not as yet commercially
released. He then goes on to discuss another issue which includes a few
of the World transcriptions: "No, it is not excellent sound quality.
But it does eradicate the dullness or opacity which characterizes many
another release." If those words mean nothing to you then you are
unlikely to gain much from this site. But if, like me, you have bought
many a CD of older material and been stung, then this is precisely the
kind of thing you will lap up.<br /><br />The homepage for The Peggy Lee Bio-Discography And Videography can be found <a href="https://peggyleediscography.com/index.php">here</a>. Those intimidated by the sheer range of what's on offer may be better advised to go to the FAQ page <a href="https://peggyleediscography.com/p/Questions.php">here</a>, which includes notes on a selection of recommended introductory CDs, including advice about which editions to avoid. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But if you want to plunge straight away into the world of dubious discs with innumerable variants, the heavily illustrated page <a href="http://www.peggyleediscography.com/p/PhotosCompPD.php">here</a>
is where you want to go - its full title is: "A Gallery Of Public
Domain, Budget And Bootleg Compilations". And if you have hung around in
Cheapo, or any market stall, you will feel instantly at home.<br /><br />There
is, of course, a case to be made for asking: why bother with any of
this? Won't the music come through anyway, even if the sound isn't alway
top-notch? Well, maybe ... if you're lucky ... but it's one of the
ironies of the digital age that a sound carrier intended to provide
greater fidelity than vinyl can often sound a whose lot worse in the
hands of companies out to make a quick buck - and if these artists of
former times are to find favour with a new generation surely they need
to be heard at their best?<br /><br />I was lucky enough to have a brief
email correspondence with sound restorer John R.T. Davies, shortly
before his death in 2004; as some readers will know he left a legacy of
remastered jazz recordings on the JSP and Hep labels and elsewhere, and
understood better than most in the game how to preserve the original
sound: too many CDs - and not only public domain issues - have the life
drained out of them in an effort to obliterate the scratches, destroying
what Davies called the "air" in a recording. (It's still going on if
you frequent streaming websites: just compare a few different sonic
treatments of the same jazz classic.)<br /><br />I had emailed Mr Davies to
say how much I'd appreciated his CD remastering of sides by Luis
Russell, who had been one of my first happy jazz discoveries on vinyl in
the early seventies, and got a charming reply almost immediately. A
great man who devoted his life to preserving great music for everybody,
he even arranged for his Marshal Cavendish Jazz Greats CD of Billie
Holiday (part of a CD + magazine series) to be sent to my place of work
free, gratis and for nothing, knowing that it was about passing on this
music. A link earlier on this blog to an interview in which he talked
about his rationale for remastering is no longer operational, but I
think his key point was that he was aware that the transfer he made
might eventually prove to be the only source material remaining, and
thus he felt a sense of duty not to interfere too much with the original
sound. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">At some point in the future I may try to list my
purchases from Cheapo on this blog; secreted in some hard drive
somewhere there ought to be text files listing those items bought for my
employer over the years. The little business cards which Phil signed as
proof of purchase were stapled to expense forms and handed to the
accountant at my workplace; I have no idea whether these still exist - I
suspect not, as the most recent must be about twelve years old now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I
suppose CDs themselves are old hat now that so much music is streamed,
and there's no doubt they are less attractive than LPs; it's difficult
to imagine a similar revival. But when someone recently posted a picture
of a CD with the distinctive Cheapo price label affixed to it on social
media it pierced my heart, evoking memories of that wonderful,
ridiculous Aladdin's Cave, filling me once again with that hopeless
yearning described in an earlier piece about Cheapo closing:</span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">I
dreamt about it, about being inside once again, a few nights later. The
pain, really, is in not having one final chance - not to plunder, a la
the ill-fated Apple boutique, but to pay my last respects, and maybe
finally buy some of those fairly pointless and inessential
jazz/nostalgia CDs which hovered on the margins of possibility on each
visit. And to do that not so much for the music as to perform a kind of
final, altruistic - I might as well saying loving - act: to show that
someone finally cared even for those unlovely parts of the shop.</span></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p>
</p><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></h3><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-66531290658409894292023-08-07T09:53:00.006-07:002023-11-17T13:14:38.699-08:00Novel by Angela Milne republished<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlM3EsR5m7QSm-7zLdrcaw2TarJ50hztYfqnYjOcWwIhC6UGDVD1hHsZa1sMi5QBruZJ81mp6WAYeZw1eKu983mDVaLspvD_RXAduyCy_KpZoFiTYUl1KcS2Wrornkfps6p2qyx9-OvdDdELLVxp_LBLRn0C71LWofdLcB_ZnRoM5yfVqY46XhSX_rxZI/s499/angela%20milne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="342" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlM3EsR5m7QSm-7zLdrcaw2TarJ50hztYfqnYjOcWwIhC6UGDVD1hHsZa1sMi5QBruZJ81mp6WAYeZw1eKu983mDVaLspvD_RXAduyCy_KpZoFiTYUl1KcS2Wrornkfps6p2qyx9-OvdDdELLVxp_LBLRn0C71LWofdLcB_ZnRoM5yfVqY46XhSX_rxZI/w137-h200/angela%20milne.jpg" width="137" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: medium;">Every so often over the years, more in hope than expectation, I've trawled the internet in search of a copy of One Year's Time, a rare novel by Angela Milne, niece of A.A. Milne. I first came across it in the National Library of Scotland in the mid-eighties when researching the plays of her uncle; like him, she had worked for Punch and had a light and appealing prose style. <br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I contacted her directly around then and complimented her on the book; I received a charming reply in which she shared some of her memories of her famous relative. Sadly, my filing system means it may take a few aeons to locate that reply - though I recall its spidery writing and think I'm representing her correctly in saying that he was keen on Dickens, particularly David Copperfield, but that his plays were "a little fluffy", at least when she looked back on them nowadays. <span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This happened to be an opinion shared by my university tutor, who had expressed his reservations about my choosing Milne as a subject, and although I wasn't forced into it - gently nudged, perhaps, with a few playful references to the many similarities between Milne's various plays, with their frequently disappearing spouses - I eventually changed the topic of my dissertation. No, not to Frederick Lonsdale or J.M. Barrie but ... Tennessee Williams. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Which was a bit of a leap, by anyone's standards. I'm still not sure whether or not that was for the better, especially as it meant that several months' work was now of no practical use.
But Milne (A.A.) stayed with me, and some years later I tried to write a play around the fact that his house in Sussex was bought in the sixties by former Rolling Stone Brian Jones, an early exponent of the "getting-it-together-in-the-country" syndrome. Which might sound a wacky and wonderful idea in theory but I was never able to find a satisfactory structure to accommodate these two stories, though I persisted in this folly for a couple of years. When a theatre's literary manager said that the two main characters seemed linked only by "an accident of geography" he probably had a point.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And what of Angela Milne? The reason for this post is that today, idly searching her name yet again, I was delighted to see that her one and only novel has just been republished in a cheap edition by the British Library. I can't pretend to recall it vividly enough to venture a synopsis here, other than saying it centres around a relationship, but what I can say is that despite similarities in style - most notably in characters' jokey exchanges - the subject matter of her book is darker than is customary in her uncle's work. Even though most of her other writing seems to have been on the lighter side: there is a collection of her pieces for Punch entitled "Jam and Genius" which often crops on secondhand book sites.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> I'm looking forward to revisiting the novel after so long. It's tempting to speculate about why this might have been her only novel. Presumably it wasn't a big seller at the time but could being a witness of her uncle's decline in popularity have been a factor? I don't have it to hand but in Ann Thwaite's excellent biography of A.A. Milne there is a rather sad detail: Milne signs a book for a relative or friend and imagines that it will be found on the untouched bookshelf of a guest house along with other boring titles which nobody reads anymore. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway, Angela Milne persisted in her writing. A blog devoted to New Statesman competitions includes the following details about her career: </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">... born in 1909 .... Angela Milne was one of the most highly regarded Punch contributors (she turns up repeatedly in Pick of Punch from the forties onwards, and she also wrote as ‘Ande’. She was a regular contributor to London-based magazines until the 1980s), and she was also valued as a reviewer (she reviewed for The Observer). She was still publishing humorous books in her seventies. </span></blockquote><p></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-14263241973030295672023-07-31T04:20:00.000-07:002023-07-31T04:20:15.761-07:00Jeffrey Holland as Stan Laurel back at the Edinburgh Fringe (2023)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<i>For readers who might be visiting the Edinburgh Fringe this year, Jeffrey
Holland is currently appearing again in Gail Louw's play ... And This Is My
Friend Mr Laurel at the Pleasance Courtyard Upstairs at 11.20am, most days from 2nd August onwards. Tickets can be bought from the Fringe website <a href="https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/and-this-is-my-friend-mr-laurel">here</a>.<br /></i></p><p><i>Here are my
notes about the show from its 2016 London run:</i><br />
</p><a name='more'></a><br />
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<br />
I have just seen Jeffrey Holland in ... And This Is My Friend Mr Laurel,
a one man show about Stan Laurel at the Jermyn Street Theatre until
Saturday. It's an ideal venue for what is an intimate experience,
starkly staged, with a chair and the frame of a bed as the only props
(plus, of course, the inevitable hat).<br />
<br />
As with Neil Brand's radio play Stan (subsequently adapted for
television) this has the elderly Laurel talking to an unresponsive
Hardy, felled by a stroke. I don't feel inclined to compare the two
plays, however, because this undoubtedly has its own power. Holland,
when shifting into Stan's comic persona, summoning up some of the pair's
famously stupid exchanges (he does Hardy as well), really does convey a
sense of him , but it's to playwright Gail Louw's credit that this hour
is not a Greatest Hits with a flimsy storyline connecting the gags. It
is, in fact, an essentially melancholy spectacle: a man being prompted
(by the illness of his partner) to look back on the failures and
dissatisfactions in his life, puzzled or saddened by some of them, angry
at others, but above all brimming with obvious affection for the man
who has shared his professional life for so long. <br />
<br />
As with some other shows, like <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.co.uk/2011/01/eric-ernie-by-victoria-wood.html">the TV dramatisation of Morecambe and Wise's early days</a>,
I'm slightly hampered in assessing this by knowing too much. There was a
Q&A in the second half and I was astonished to discover that just
about everything in Laurel and Hardy's offstage, or off-camera, story
seemed to come as news to everyone else - with the honorable exception
of Roy Hudd (of course), who happened to be in last night's audience. I
mean, it's not as if those two main John McCabe books have just come
out, is it, let alone the many other tomes which followed. (Read Charles
Barr if you're in a hurry.)<br />
<br />
And Roy Hudd prompted Jeffrey Holland to recount the wonderful story
about Hardy clambering up that stairs to Ray Alan's dressing room at the
end of a UK tour to get the vent's autograph (a tale which happens to
be included in <a href="http://funnybonesthebook.blogspot.co.uk/p/buy-funny-bones.html">this book</a>)
... though the payoff, not mentioned last night though almost certainly
known to Messers Hudd and Holland, is that the face of Alan's most
famous dummy, Lord Charles, was subsequently based on that of Stan
Laurel.<br />
<br />
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<br />
If you are coming to the show without a huge amount of knowledge about
the pair's private lives, then, there will be an additional dimension of
surprise, but for me it was more than enough to have such a vivid
evocation of Laurel in later life, facing the possibility that
everything, good and bad, is now behind him. The ending is
uncompromising, which felt right. So if you are in London or within
reach, I recommend that you try to catch Jeffrey Holland's show. <br />
<br />
Other blog posts about Laurel and Hardy can be found <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/new-radio-play-about-stan-laurel.html">here </a>and <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/hard-boiled-eggs-and-nuts-review-of.html">here</a>.</p><p></p><p>Tickets for the 2023 Edinburgh Fringe show can be be bought from the Fringe website <a href="https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/and-this-is-my-friend-mr-laurel">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Postcript: </i><br />
<br />
Rereading the above, I see I haven't quite conveyed the particular power
of this conjuring of Stan Laurel. It's that he - as would seem to be
the case from the letters Laurel wrote to so many correspondents in his
later years - strives to be sunny side up, so that the sadness and
occasional outburst of anger or pain seem to be torn from him when he is
caught up in his thoughts, momentarily unaware of Hardy, and then just
as quickly brushed off, just as one imagines the real life Laurel would
not solicit pity.<br />
<br />
There is a bit of "But why am I telling <i>you</i> all this?" when
recounting the pair's history, but there's no doubt that Laurel speaking
to Hardy, as opposed to an interviewer, is a far more powerful choice.
And the plain, unadorned bed frame works too: we only need an indication
of Stan sees and our imagination - thanks to Gail Louw's script and
Jeffrey Holland's performance - does the rest. <br />
<br />
In one of the other blog posts linked to above, I mention that a former
colleague disliked the TV adaptation of Neil Brand's radio play Stan. It
was, she said, because our actually seeing the bedridden Hardy changed
and coarsened the play. This may not be the same piece but I think I get
her point now.</p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-66592909678128776562023-07-01T03:29:00.001-07:002023-07-02T03:52:44.166-07:00New book by Jimmy Merchant of the Teenagers (review to follow)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKHkOKqh2qDFjaJ-bAwLO_CEgeTAPROIZ-5PpFUQEaQ2ypetE80kDVLCLzaLZu2PCXByA3MryvhXEmy_mxMRiCUnbEmqufxcA9fuL3zHoJfMKcdJ3QoiRDaXWN29WgrZvTchXet2ywymurlocv9Eowme-V1UlHOi-cNamTCS1OU7vw8L-soRYqwdx_rM/s552/jimmy%20merchant%20book.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="552" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKHkOKqh2qDFjaJ-bAwLO_CEgeTAPROIZ-5PpFUQEaQ2ypetE80kDVLCLzaLZu2PCXByA3MryvhXEmy_mxMRiCUnbEmqufxcA9fuL3zHoJfMKcdJ3QoiRDaXWN29WgrZvTchXet2ywymurlocv9Eowme-V1UlHOi-cNamTCS1OU7vw8L-soRYqwdx_rM/w400-h375/jimmy%20merchant%20book.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Jimmy Merchant of the Teenagers has just published the first part of a two-volume autobiography. As the first memoir written by a member of this pioneering group, this is a significant publication; I will add a review here shortly. You can buy an autographed copy direct from Pearly Gates Publishing <a href="https://pearlygatespublishing.com/jimmy-merchant">here</a>, although the cheaper option in the UK seems to be to buy from a certain well-known online shop. On its facebook page the company states that "Pearly Gates publishes and promotes Christian literature by authors who empower, inspire, and educate".<br /><br />In the meantime, you can read or listen to an interview which Merchant recorded at Fordham University in 2006 for the Bronx African American History Project. The book idea was already being discussed by then, and potential mainstream publishers seemingly come and gone, though it's not clear how much writing had been done: he says at one point that "the difficult part about writing the book isn’t so much putting it into a form, but reliving it". <br /><br />Like Lymon, Merchant had longterm problems with addiction after his time in the Teenagers, and also had a long and frustrating struggle, along with fellow Teenager Herman Santiago, to claim his share of the songwriting credits for Why Do Fools Fall in Love. The situation as he describes it in the interview, which I presume hasn't changed since 2006, is that even though his co-authorship was acknowledged in court Morris Levy's son was ultimately able to reclaim the rights to the song after a period when Merchant had finally been receiving royalties. Merchant and Santiago then took it to the Supreme Court, only to meet ultimate defeat:<br /><blockquote>And they gave us their final statement, which said something like – we do know that Jimmy Merchant and [fellow Teenager] Herman Santiago are the legitimate writers, co-writers, of this song Why Do Fools Fall In Love? because they brought it into the office when they auditioned [for George Goldner of Gee Records], and everyone else before that said they saw them singing Why Do Fools Fall In Love? in the neighborhood, in Washington Heights. But because they can’t come up with a reason why the law of the Statue of Limitations need to be rewritten or changed, we have to continue to allow the Levy estate to have the rights to the songs – the very persons that they claim have ripped them off all these years. That’s the law .... the comfort is this, and only this: I had my day in court. </blockquote><p><br /><a href="https://research.library.fordham.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1243&context=baahp_oralhist">Here</a>'s a link to the page on Fordham University's website which has an abstract of the interview, and you can also download an mp3 from there. <br /><br /><a href="https://research.library.fordham.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1243&context=baahp_oralhist">This</a> is the direct link to the transcribed interview.<br /><br />I'd recommend going for the latter because the audio version is intermittently punctuated by loud buzzing sounds which become rather wearing. That form is also easier to navigate if you are only interested in the doo wop stuff; it's quite some time, for example, before the subject of Why Do Fools Fall in Love comes around for discussion. But there is also considerable interest in being taken into the fine detail of someone's life, discovering how Merchant slips almost accidentally into singing and is delighted by the discovery, so it's worth reading the whole thing.</p><p> I'll report on the book itself soon. <br /></p><p> <br /></p><p></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-87146662383878359772023-06-11T02:56:00.002-07:002023-06-11T07:46:11.237-07:00Sound It Out (BBC 4 record shop documentary) <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</p><p></p><p><i>I've just learnt that Tom Bouchart, owner of the Stockton record shop Sound It Out, has died, so I'm reposting this 2012 review of Jeanie Finlay's documentary about the store.</i></p><p><br />
I commend unto you Sound It Out, a documentary about an independent
record shop in Teesside. It was broadcast on BBC 4 yesterday, and will
be repeated on Monday, and available on BBC iplayer <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b01nwfxx/Sound_It_Out/">here</a>
for the next six days. Nothing earth-shattering about it, really, just a
warm and sympathetic look at the owner, the assistants, and a handful
of the customers, but that's a plenty for me - and, it seems, many
others.<br />
</p>
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<br />
It was a film made up of great moments, so kudos to editor <span class="st">Barbara Zosel</span>
as well as film maker Jeanie Finlay. The bit that really hit home with
me, for reasons which I needn't go into here, was the slight hint of
tension between the owner and one of the assistants, formerly employed
by the defunct Zavvi. He was creating order outfront and you could tell
the owner wasn't entirely sure this was an unmixed blessing, much as he
might have needed the help.<br />
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<br />
There were also appearances by a couple in their sixties, of a type
familiar to me from two years of working weekends in an off license in
the Parkhead area of Glasgow, who gave a pleasing and tender performance
- by which I mean they were enjoying the camera's attention, and why
not? A sample exchange:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She: Is it forty six year?<br />
He: Thereabouts.<br />
She: I could've done a life sentence and been free. </blockquote>
But he treated her to three Meat Loaf albums anyway. If that isn't love
... And there was also a hint of black humour as he talked of buying a
burial plot and preparing for his Endless Sleep, which balanced his
flirtatious banter with the off-camera Ms Finlay. <br />
<br />
Otherwise it was males in their twenties or thirties, I would guess, all
finding escape - as was spelt out at the end - both through the
experience of being in the record shop, browsing and being guided by the
advice of the trustworthy and knowledgeable owner, and in going home
and listening to the goodies they had bought.<br />
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At one point the owner was referred to as a guide, and then as a pusher -
but you were left in no doubt that this sort of obsessive, addictive
occupation was at least less harmful than some other routes to oblivion.
One younger interviewee said that everyone around the poverty-ridden
area - charity shops and pound shops abound - drank, and it was easy to
get into trouble. At one time, the owner told us, it used to be boasted
that the area had the widest high street in Europe "but they don't play
on that anymore."<br />
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<br />
When we saw selected punters at home, singing along to their music, it
would have been easy to present those moments with a dash of mockery,
but by that time you had been taken into their lives deeply enough to
understand: the heavy metal fan for whom music really was a lifeline;
the Quo fan with various medical conditions quietly singing along to
Caroline - and, in both cases, the unconscious air guitar, not held
aloft but played, it seemed, for themselves, the externalisation of
their pleasure in listening and reliving memories.<br />
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<br />
There were some vaguely arty shots which justified their presence: an
image of wires emanating from a telegraph pole gave way to a shot of the
grooves on a LP as it rotated, which was enough to make the point that
music reaches out and touches, and indirectly connects, individuals<span class="st">.</span><br />
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<br />
The focus was as much on the punters as the owner, but there is no doubt
that the latter was, quietly, the star: again and again the customers
praised his knowledge and the atmosphere of the shop. There was
something paternal in his attitude to the customers: when the oldster
left the shop after some new witticism or another bout of flirtation
with the film maker - "Love ya, Baby," he said at one point, blowing a
kiss then shutting the door with immense care, rather undoing the
playboy image - there may have been a hint of amusement, but it seemed
fond.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CA0gl8pMOgw/UKf3C09aiTI/AAAAAAAAFgY/rI_-jBhUtps/s1600/untitledshop9.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CA0gl8pMOgw/UKf3C09aiTI/AAAAAAAAFgY/rI_-jBhUtps/s400/untitledshop9.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
And when, on Record Store Day, they had bands in the tiny space and one
lead singer, in lieu of a cherrypicker, stomped up and down on the
counter, the owner's reaction remained good-humoured: whatever he felt
about the quality of the music assailing his ears at that moment, he
must have known he was observing a right and fitting way for an aspiring
rock star to behave.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uc78fHqWg5I/UKf2wRw8fxI/AAAAAAAAFfo/ud8OpuV1o7Q/s1600/untitledshop3.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uc78fHqWg5I/UKf2wRw8fxI/AAAAAAAAFfo/ud8OpuV1o7Q/s400/untitledshop3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I just hope the owner manages to keep that assistant with the zeal for
tidiness in check: when the latter's efforts spread behind the counter,
it throws the owner's self-confessedly idiosyncratic ordering system
into confusion. But as far as I'm concerned he has his priorities right:
for me the key detail in the film was the owner's saying that he had
listened to everything in his shop at least once,in order to provide the
customers with the service they so clearly valued: the Quo fan said he
"would literally, physically cry" if the shop were to go the way of so
many other record shops, a point reinforced when another punter (below)
talked wistfully of the days when there were five places you could buy
records in the area. Now only this documentary's subject remains. And
remark towards the end of the documentary suggests the owner is fully
aware of the significance of maintaining this oasis: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I think the shop's an escape for a lot of people. It's somewhere for
them to go and escape their lives for an hour. And that's important. You
put on your record and you're totally taken away for however long the
record lasts. And I think there's always going to be a market for that.</blockquote>
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<br />
But maybe the last word should go to two of the customers - the heavy
metal fans. One of them describes the shop as "a safe home for everyone
really," the other elaborating: "It's just everyone kind of swallows
their differences once they get inside. The last bastion of
sensibleness."<br />
<br />
"In the world?" his friend asks.<br />
<br />
"No - in Stockton, certainly."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Related posts and links:</i></b><br />
<br />
<i><i><i>A series of posts about the closing of Soho's Cheapo Cheapo Records <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.co.uk/p/cheapo-cheapo-records.html">here</a>. </i></i></i><br />
<i><i><i><br /></i></i></i>
<i><i><i>A review of Graham Jones' book Last Shop Standing <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.co.uk/2010/06/billy-j-dont-be-eeeeeuuurgh.html">here</a>. </i></i></i><br />
<i><i><i> </i></i> </i><br />
<i><i>M</i>ore about the documentary, including a link for buying the full version on DVD, </i><i><a href="http://www.sounditoutdoc.com/">here</a>.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Interview with film maker Jeannie Finlay <a href="http://www.ameliasmagazine.com/music/sound-it-out-an-interview-with-jeanie-finlay/2011/10/04/">here</a>. </i><br />
<br />
<i><i>If you're not based in Teesside t</i>he shop has its own website <a href="http://www.sounditoutrecords.co.uk/">here</a>. </i><br />
<br />
<i></i>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z4FnOyoukq4/UKpABgjTFxI/AAAAAAAAFm0/cKjv6JASPQQ/s1600/cheapo-cheapo-records.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z4FnOyoukq4/UKpABgjTFxI/AAAAAAAAFm0/cKjv6JASPQQ/s320/cheapo-cheapo-records.jpg" width="320" /></a><i></i></blockquote>
<br /><br />Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-66064595727788240762023-02-27T12:54:00.001-08:002023-05-10T01:09:46.419-07:00That'll Be the Day - fifty years on<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /> <p></p><p>Incredible though it sounds, it is now the fiftieth anniversary of the film That'll Be The Day. I have never owned a copy of the soundtrack album, although its songs had a profound effect on my musical tastes, igniting my love of doo wop and rock'n'roll.<br />
<br />I was about fifteen when I saw the film, and at the same time
the songs featured were being played on the radio: I still can the
remember the moment I became aware of the beauty and the yearning in
Frankie Lymon's voice when he hit a certain note during Why Do Fools
Fall in Love? Around the same time there was a Chuck Berry concert on
TV; I bought a Little Richard album a few days later, no Berry being in stock, and I've been
listening to that kind of thing, or developments thereof, ever since. </p><p>
Ray Connolly, who wrote the screenplay, has written a piece in today's Daily Mail which provides some interesting background about
the film and its sequel, Stardust, which can be read <a href="https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-11796039/RAY-CONNOLLY-wrote-smash-hit-film-Thatll-Day-shoestring.html">here</a>, saying that "to be honest, of the two, I've always preferred the simple realism
of That'll Be The Day, which was about ordinary people in ordinary
situations."</p><p>That'll
Be The Day, if you're not familiar with it, is a modest but very satisfying British rites-of-passage movie with
70s pop star David Essex (who'd already scored in the stage musical
Godspell) playing a 1950s teenager with a string of conquests but no
sense of direction until music starts to give his life a purpose.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>He
is careless of the feelings of others, so this is not a simple pop
cash-in for the singer, and there are good actors around him (the
exasperation and affection of mother Rosemary Leach is especially
notable) and a well-structured screenplay by Connolly,
where even small scenes - the action of a kindly policeman, for example,
when Essex is drunk and lonely on his birthday - contribute to a
coherent whole.</p><p>Ringo Starr must have been taken with
the script, too, as he plays Essex's buddy/mentor when they are both
working at Butlin's. And a young Robert Lindsay is his schoolfriend,
watching in horror as Essex chucks all his books into the river prior to
an exam. Lindsay later reappears in a truly fifties moment when he and
his university chums are all listening to trad jazz, and the visiting
Essex is made to feel left out; shades of the early Beatles having to
pretend they were a jazz band to get gigs in Liverpool.</p><p>The
aimless Essex, for so long indifferent to his mother's concern,
eventually makes a stab at being the dutiful son but it does not last
long: he cannot resist sleeping with Lindsay's girlfriend (the last in
his long line of conquests) immediately before he is due to marry his
friend's sister, nor is he able to sustain the marriage for long.</p><p>But
his struggle throughout the film to make some kind of sense of his
life, and the way in which the answer - music - eventually comes into focus
with an insistence which cannot be denied, keeps the character
sympathetic, or at least understandable - greatly aided, as Connolly notes in the Daily Mail piece, by David Essex's charm.<br /></p><p>And in case anyone misses the
point, the film is bookended with the idea that he takes after his
philandering father, unable to settle down to domesticity after the war.
And the greyness (or, to judge from the decor of the family sitting
room, the dark, suffocating browns) of a life of late fifties/early
sixties conformity is well painted; taking over the family shop, or
becoming like the smug Lindsay ("There's always night school," says his
mother hopefully), convinces you that whatever is needed to feel fully
alive cannot to be found in either of those options. There's a tiny
scene using Bobby Darin's Dream Lover, for example, where the
combination of the shot and the music really makes us feel his yearning
for something else.</p><p>The sequel, however, which follows
"Jim McLaine" into stardom, is, for me, far less appealing, and Ringo
jumped ship (what was effectively his role was taken by Adam Faith). The
trouble with this film is that a rites-of-passage story has a universal
appeal; following a troubled star's decline when he's surrounded by
material wealth (especially when his music is pretentious and high-blown
tosh about the role of Woman and Mother) doesn't stir quite the same sense of
general recognition.</p><p>Additionally, the focus is on the
relationship between Essex and his manager so that the group, the Stray
Cats (whio seem to be all actors apart from muso Dave Edmunds) are not
called upon to do that much, and Jim's wife reappears too briefly to make
much of an impact. (Come to think of it, the one criticism which could
perhaps be levelled at the first film is that we glimpse an underused
band there, led by Billy Fury, but in that instance I could understand
if they were largely edited out because they don't contribute
significantly to Jim's journey.)</p><p>So don't expect too much from the sequel. Although I admit that
maybe that's partly because for me, personally, the earlier film is a
very important one because of that introduction to rock'n'roll and doowop; the soundtrack is liberally spattered with
classics of the day, greatly enhanced by the fact that many of them are
playing in the perfect setting of a fairground.</p><p>A
footnote: as for the title of that first film, from a vague memory of
reading Melody Maker when the film was just an idea, there had been an
attempt to do a Buddy Holly biopic which was quashed for some reason -
possibly I'm misremembering but they certainly didn't use, or weren't
permitted to use, actual Holly recordings so the version of That'll Be
The Day which plays over the closing credits is the Bobby Vee cover
(with, I think, the Crickets backing him), and there is a scene where,
reunited with his precious record player, Essex brandishes a Buddy Holly
LP, saying "I've been waiting weeks to hear this," only for us to be
treated to the strains of ... Richie Valens' Donna. But whether or not a
biopic of Holly was originally intended, what emerged is a thoroughly
worthwhile film which captures the sense of rootlessness which found an
answer for many fifties teenagers in rock'n'roll. </p>
I later wrote some notes about Nowhere Boy, about the young John
Lennon's early days, and was surprised to learn from a review by the
Observer's Philip French that That'll Be the Day had been based, in
part, on Lennon. Surprised, that is, in the sense that I hadn't known
about it before - not that surprised otherwise. Neil Aspinall and Ringo
were involved in the film, and Rosemary Leach is definitely of the Aunt
Mimi type, even though she's the hero's mother. The post is readable <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.co.uk/2010/05/nowhere-boy.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Another post, mainly about the novel Paperback Writer, includes a
shameful detail about arranging to see Nowhere Boy with a friend. You can
read it in full <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.co.uk/2010/01/paperback-writer-mark-shipper.html">here</a>, but this is the relevant passage: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I was late, and wasn't allowed to enter the cinema as I was just over the
thiry minute limit. I wanted to scream: It's not fair! I'm going to
appreciate it more than her, what with my extra knowledge about the
Beatles, having read all the biographies including the "spurious" one -
I've even got a complete book about the "Paul is dead" theory - I mean, <i>c'mon.</i><br />
<br />
But (of course) I didn't. I walked away and mooched around in bookshops
for an hour.<br />
There was, however, a reward of sorts later, when she emerged from the
cinema and spoke these words: "I'd forgotten she was run over." <br />
<br />
But the feeling I had at that moment - an unlovely male sense of
superiority about being in possession of more Beatle fax'n'info,
basically - vanished in the act of writing this down. </blockquote>
Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-67649158220408386932023-02-19T05:06:00.003-08:002023-05-10T01:10:09.989-07:00I Say a Little Prayer<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSt2f3bT2qqYYepV-X0VG-5nAP7RCMFVdi8QvC5eVKEvFy6LWlrXEnCIc8vH4693MKYqmoBTi2Swwlywf8jtYy8ZiMPONEMRCBGrwM_2av9vaY437sre8g2YKuHzHmn0t2uWlvznXxavCpiAHozD_Ywoq6C4PQOwvDZgFhRCpVdhkFM7FgFv5R9Bv/s640/bachdavid.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSt2f3bT2qqYYepV-X0VG-5nAP7RCMFVdi8QvC5eVKEvFy6LWlrXEnCIc8vH4693MKYqmoBTi2Swwlywf8jtYy8ZiMPONEMRCBGrwM_2av9vaY437sre8g2YKuHzHmn0t2uWlvznXxavCpiAHozD_Ywoq6C4PQOwvDZgFhRCpVdhkFM7FgFv5R9Bv/w482-h640/bachdavid.jpg" width="482" /></a></div><p></p><p> </p><p>Like many other people, the recent news of Burt Bacharach's death sent me to youtube to remind myself of his achievements. And the thing which particularly caught my eye was a clip of a studio rehearsal before Dionne Warwick's original recording of I Say a Little Prayer. </p><p>I don't know whether this particular bit of footage is already well known - it seems to have come from a documentary - but either way it makes for fascinating watching and listening. An enthused, immersed Bacharach (at the piano) and Hal David are present, along with a trio of backing vocalists, and even though the performance isn't quite fixed yet, it's essentially already there. This tantalising glimpse into the creative process is followed by what appears to have been the very first time the song got a public airing in live performance, before the record was released.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><br /><p></p><p>I didn't hear Dionne Warwick's recording at the time; it was "a total bomb in the UK", according to a Bacharach forum, which would explain it. And when I eventually came across it after long exposure to the Franklin reworking it seemed a tad ... well, polite in comparison: the tempo seemed brisk, and when she sang along wordlessly to the melody, as though absent-mindedly, that brought it uneasily close to the kind of anonymous easy listening numbers which used to clog up nighttime programming on Radio 2. </p><p>That was my initial reaction, anyway. Now I incline more to the idea that the performance fits: despite thoughts of her lover it makes sense that the song's dominant rhythm should that of the no-nonsense working day, with those other ruminations fitted into such downtime as she can find: the commute, the coffeee break. And once you accept that reading then the point at which she hums along with the tune is easily accepted accepted as one of those moments. She's not succumbing to a frenzy of passion so much as having the occasional warming thought which makes the rest of the day tolerable.<br /></p><p>And I'm assuming something approximating to such an interpretation makes sense for a lot of people as I've seen on a music forum comparing the two performances that many people do prefer Dionne Warwick's original, even though it's the Franklinised version which tends to crop up on compilations.<br /></p><p>The world is big enough for both, of course. But the reason I wanted to bring this piece of film to the attention of anyone who might have missed it is that, whichever way you incline with regard to the rival versions, to hear Dionne Warwick singing it in the clip, accompanied only by Bacharach's piano, may be something of a revelation: despite the
stops and starts it sounds more soulful to my ears than the final recording. And if
Aretha Franklin happened to catch that documentary, assuming it was broadcast, then the blueprint for her
interpretation was already there.</p><p>Warwick's first attempt at singing the song live, in a Boston nightclub, which follows the studio footage, is not quite so thrilling as her initial stabs at it. If the final studio recording could be described as brisk then what's initially presented to an audience is almost - well, not sluggish, exactly, but maybe a little too leisurely, too staid.</p><p>Anyway, see what you think:</p><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iBUDjZxC4co?controls=0" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p><p> </p><p>I also came rather late to the knowledge that Dionne Warwick recorded the original demo of (There's) Always Something There to Remind Me. I can still remember first hearing Lou Johnson's recording in the early seventies, having only been acquainted before then with Sandie Shaw's UK hit version. Presumably both Johnson and Shaw benefitted from Warwick's groundwork, if the close interaction between writers and performer in the clip above is any guide, but I didn't know anything about that at the time. What surprised me then was that the restrained passion of Johnson's
performance made the number much more affecting and revealed it as a soul song, not a pop song. </p><p>Shaw's is not a bad performance but it is certrainly brighter, brasher; whatever he may owe to Dionne Warwick' s example Johnson's take feels real. The arrangement
is largely the same on both records but in Johnson's case there's an
additional hint of foreboding suggested by the strings' plunge downward
at the end, suggesting a loss which might just spiral into obsession. It's a coda which is not to be found on Sandie Shaw's version - nor, for that matter, on the recording eventually released by Dionne Warwick. </p><p>Was it on the latter's demo, I wonder, or was it something adlibbed when Johnson was rehearsing the number which Bacharach subsequently deemed good enough to keep and rework the arrangment around? Could it have been the composer's invention in the first place? Whatever, it gives a unique flavour to this release. And because Johnson is more restrained in his delivery than, say, Chuck Jackson might have been then the announcement of his vow never to forget his former lover is all the more unexpected and disturbing.<br /></p><p>
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/JoUi41ZktaY?rel=0" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
There is marvellous use made of Sandie Shaw's recording in
Peter Moffat's play Iona Rain. During a reunion of schoolfriends two men share the memory of the school's Sandie Shaw Appreciation
Society which meant that whenever you heard the song, inconveniently
floating into the classroom from a workman's radio or whatever, you were duty-bound
to stand to attention (not sure about removing the footwear).<br />
<br />
At the end of the play one of them finds release in playing the record and
standing to attention; I won't spoil the story but let's just say that in the context of the play it's a moment of
emotional breakthrough. </p><p><br />
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S75QaboWORI/AAAAAAAABTM/et-kLdYuMpY/s1600/nabglov.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Io5Xt43sEUI/S75QaboWORI/AAAAAAAABTM/et-kLdYuMpY/s400/nabglov.jpg" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><p>
<br />
That is a wholly inadequate summary of an excellent play, which can be
found in an
edition <i>(above)</i> with Moffat's later Nabokov's Gloves, which also
features grown men talking in a very adolescent but amusing way about
pop music - the old bonding-without-intimacy thing which some males seem
to be so good at. So I've heard. </p><p>In the case of the latter play Nick tells his friend Joe that he likes to put his favourite recordings to "the walking test": how far across Waterloo Bridge he is able to process while listening to each one on a Walkman (it was written in the nineties). Comparing Betty Everett's and Cher's versions of It's in His Kiss presents no problems:</p><p></p><blockquote>The Cher version is two minutes and forty seconds long. Betty's is ten seconds shorter. Eight lamp-posts with Cher ... five only with Betty. Quicker walk with Cher ... it's the better version. It's a good test. It's applied mathematics.</blockquote><p></p><p>Another record, however, defeats such measurements:</p><p><b></b></p><blockquote><p><b>Nick:</b> Walk On By. I saved it for the last because it was the easiest.</p><p><b>Joe:</b> Very Easy.</p><p><b>Nick: </b>Very. It's a long song. Three and a half minutes. But with Dionne ... listening to Dionne ...</p><p><b>Joe:</b> Yes?</p><p><b>Nick:</b> It's very weird. When the song ended ... When I stopped walking and came back to the world ...</p><p><b>Joe:</b> What?</p><p><b>Nick:</b> I was at Elephant and Castle.</p><p><b>Joe:</b> In three and a half minutes.</p><p><b>Nick:</b> I know. I think I flew.<br /><br /></p></blockquote><p></p><p>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/DbAvqWuPsyE?controls=0" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe> </p><p> </p><p>Hmm ... Mr Moffat seems to have added on half a minute, unless there is some album version of which I know not, but let us not quibble. </p><p> Going back to I Say a Little Prayer, I wonder whether I'm alone in feeling a little cheated by the Aretha Franklin version. I always expect one more "Forever, forever" eruption at the end but instead she subsides into a reprise of the "Answer my prayer" segment. This is not a problem with the Dionne Warwick recording for the reasons outlined above: it's more about the odd snatched moment of daydreaming than fiery passion. </p><p> And before I ever heard the earlier release I can remember wondering, when Aretha Franklin came on the radio, "Hang on - oh, they've edited this down." But they hadn't. Or not as far as I know, anyway. There's no doubt it's a great performance but is it a perfect marriage of performance and song?</p><p> Not that it's really necessary to come to any firm conclusion. And let's gently prise the song away from those two great artists in order to end on a lighter note. I am not a particular fan of romcoms, but having seen the clip below on youtube I felt impelled to buy a copy of the film. If you are unfamiliar with the storyline then you may be puzzled by the meaningful looks which pass between two of the characters, which I shall explain in a moment. The main point is that it's entirely plausible that this song should be immediately familiar to a large crowd of people of different ages, a testament to the strength of the Bacharach-David partnership.</p><p>Sometime ago I wrote about my one and only experience of singing at a karaoke night, and how certain songs lent themselves better than others to such occasions. Anthemic songs did well, and more pretentious numbers were cruelly exposed. I Say a Little Prayer isn't an obvious anthem, yet it doesn't seem wrong as the choice in the film. It's about something in one way small and trivial - a woman at work daydreams about her boyfriend - and yet universal: we all need someone to make our daily routine bearable, to offer hope of something better, to - well, answer our prayer.</p><p>Here is the clip from said romcom, My Best Friend's Wedding, and here's what I wrote about it in an earlier post about Hal David (link below).</p><p>The details of the plot don't matter too
much for the purposes of this post. The person seated opposite Julia
Roberts' character is her former lover, about to marry someone else
(Cameron Diaz), hence the looks which pass between them as the song
progresses. Rupert Everett is masquerading as Roberts' boyfriend, and
the impromptu song is part of this deception, intended to fool Diaz's
family, gathered together at this pre-wedding, getting-to-know-you meal.</p><div style="text-align: left;">
But that's solely the business of those three, really, because what is
happening more generally in the room, swiftly spreading beyond members
of the family to include all the diners and staff, is a joyful
recognition of the power of this song, taken up by young and old alike;
by the time a restaurant employee sits down at a piano and nods to
continue it seems like the most natural thing in the world. It's a scene
which transcends the plot and tells a wider truth about the importance
of this this quasi-hymn: of course the guests know it, young and old
alike, and the other diners. Who doesn't?<br />
<br />
It is based on Aretha Franklin's version of the song with its
gospel-style call and response, despite Rupert Everett's character
invoking Dionne Warwick because he launches into it, but as Warwick had
already done most of the heavy lifting in her original recording that
seems entirely appropriate.<br />
<br />
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</div><p><br /></p><p><i><b>Links</b>: </i></p><p><i><a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2012/09/hal-david.html">Hal David</a></i>
</p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-60572034813942732992023-02-02T07:48:00.009-08:002023-05-10T01:10:29.362-07:00Nolly (review of new drama about Noele Gordon)<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgii34BIfq_8prdES4FdSzFfyCkrIX_WrNdJAspB5u70gq0elx4Wa6NJWdT3cvDhLKgJYC3IEHdHMlR1B4Ro83xDhxe_zK2GzVGJdQ_juCoH7wJUwSq-7zV4iw8rrrcg0ZiSxznIq8ocimlwGsmyg--q71eEi4DbI7FZymdupamXujRRLBW_rYH_dLP/s717/nolly2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="717" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgii34BIfq_8prdES4FdSzFfyCkrIX_WrNdJAspB5u70gq0elx4Wa6NJWdT3cvDhLKgJYC3IEHdHMlR1B4Ro83xDhxe_zK2GzVGJdQ_juCoH7wJUwSq-7zV4iw8rrrcg0ZiSxznIq8ocimlwGsmyg--q71eEi4DbI7FZymdupamXujRRLBW_rYH_dLP/w640-h324/nolly2.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I have just finished watching Nolly, the new three-part ITV drama about Noele Gordon's sacking from the longrunning soap opera Crossroads, and was pleasantly surprised: the series seems very well judged, executed with a lightness of touch yet never dismissive of its subject, unlike - or so it seemed to me - the recent ITV drama about absconding politician John Stonehouse. <br /></p><p>Nolly acknowledges the limitations of the longrunning soap in which Noele Gordon spent the greater part of her career but also makes abundantly clear what it meant to its viewers: small wonder that Dorothy Hobson, writer of an excellent book about Crossroads, appeared to give it her approval in a piece in the Daily Telegraph today.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><br /><br />The story of the actress's being axed from the show in which she had starred is so well known - in outline, anyway - that no spoiler alerts are necessary for anyone likely to be taking the time to read this post. I have seen recently on social media some concern about whether the person now believed to have been the true culprit behind the sacking - producer Jack Barton, rather than the higher-up Charles Denton, who took the flak at the time - would be fingered ... and he was. <p></p><p>There was even what is technically termed "the necessary scene", a final confrontation between hero (or heroine, in this case) and villain. Having discovered the truth of the matter in somewhat unlikely circumstances, Gordon lays the allegations out before the producer in a meeting and he eventually admits that yes, he had passed on his complaints of her on-set behaviour to Denton, ultimately labelling her (if I remember rightly) as "a difficult asset", so even if he hadn't pulled the trigger, his prints were all over the gun. <br /></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-lT6EXX4FyhPmUBJZiLT99Yzi_hrqP3yimmZjLiu0rPuM0cB_HIfJWfPug_7DNNfZRMyn_Lhmz1m7G-cwdBfkGucv4szADi0RWzGHAsKNXzNqpQv_9L1yh0Lyo29zPY8Yl3aDMbJ70-OGRM44PnFFDhrSOCffdyW9QvQrodBl22-BFmmRsRgv8IXi/s620/Necessary%20scene.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="620" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-lT6EXX4FyhPmUBJZiLT99Yzi_hrqP3yimmZjLiu0rPuM0cB_HIfJWfPug_7DNNfZRMyn_Lhmz1m7G-cwdBfkGucv4szADi0RWzGHAsKNXzNqpQv_9L1yh0Lyo29zPY8Yl3aDMbJ70-OGRM44PnFFDhrSOCffdyW9QvQrodBl22-BFmmRsRgv8IXi/w400-h266/Necessary%20scene.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>This scene comes very near the end of the action in the third and final episode, but Nolly is no hagiography: at the very start of the series we had been shown how very difficult she could indeed be, questioning lines, querying the actors' positions and generally undermining director and crew: not for nothing was she known as "The Queen of Crossroads", and her long association with ATV gave her a power and boldness beyond the rest of the cast. </p><p>And in that confrontation between actress and producer, after Barton's initial discomfort and denials he is emboldened to point what a nightmare she was - before asking her to make a return appearance on Crossroads, the shooting of which becomes this drama's final scene, and very movingly done.<br /><br />Exasperating she could be, then, but also endearing: loved and supported by fellow Crossroads actor Tony Adams (Adam Chance), who even runs out of a rehearsal in Birmingham to jump into his yacht and sail to Southampton to see Gordon off on the QE2 after she has filmed the scenes of Meg's farewell to Jill, and - in Davies's telling of the story, anyway - it's Adams' arrival on said yacht which encourages Gordon to give a memorable two-armed Nixonesque wave goodbye.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNK2UFAsm_W39QLQQrxvDVMfQw6CfEW71aBpAHqng5GC20cGbb_S_VJr-tH8R05nAg-NktkdrgTUHQrUG-uf1Q5ZeDBxbFEItM_t7pdQ1HXUG1ARkAtmR5C_49nj2YA7vWES9UtNGalEGMW9DniByzEFzIJ2aWWqzU2iaUrWpGZrAu3nbp7jIk4qs1/s227/GOODBYE.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="114" data-original-width="227" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNK2UFAsm_W39QLQQrxvDVMfQw6CfEW71aBpAHqng5GC20cGbb_S_VJr-tH8R05nAg-NktkdrgTUHQrUG-uf1Q5ZeDBxbFEItM_t7pdQ1HXUG1ARkAtmR5C_49nj2YA7vWES9UtNGalEGMW9DniByzEFzIJ2aWWqzU2iaUrWpGZrAu3nbp7jIk4qs1/w400-h201/GOODBYE.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>The flamboyant farewell may be real enough, as shown by the above newspaper photo of Noele Gordon herself awave, but otherwise did things really happen that way? I don't know, but the close bond with Adams is certainly borne out by the real-life actor's appearance on at least one documentary about Noele Gordon ("The Unforgettable ...") and both Tony Adams and Susan Hanson (Diane) make a brief appearance as themselves at the end, applauding the memory of their colleague - and, by implication, giving their blessing to this telling of the story. </p><p>The confrontation with Barton was certainly an invention, as Davies admitted at the show's launch, as there was no evidence she ever found out that he was the one who was really responsible for her leaving the show. But it is very satisfying dramatically, and you believe in the sincerity of his applause when the shooting of her last ever scene in the show - on location in Venice - is completed: the tale has been rounded off perfectly.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3be1pb7G-shW9_0BXsL_Ell9vDYOT---T7SZd2YBk3yGlSB3d7AwpWn5RtT3yq5mzeMaPC591EZ2YZ3rhYTn4U_PWA7w1O4ZXkM8IaMJXIVItg9krmrLadUex_57iXnaKVJqJ_JrA10Rpl6pCDqKCuB2_KBkUvwhLIvaCxM9ibRYCuIQXBBktNVC_/s699/nolly-cast-0c74e12.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="699" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3be1pb7G-shW9_0BXsL_Ell9vDYOT---T7SZd2YBk3yGlSB3d7AwpWn5RtT3yq5mzeMaPC591EZ2YZ3rhYTn4U_PWA7w1O4ZXkM8IaMJXIVItg9krmrLadUex_57iXnaKVJqJ_JrA10Rpl6pCDqKCuB2_KBkUvwhLIvaCxM9ibRYCuIQXBBktNVC_/w400-h266/nolly-cast-0c74e12.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Too good to be true? Well, Morecambe and Wise biographer Graham McCann once wrote of Peter Bowker's drama Eric and Ernie, an evocation of their early career, that if "taken as a fondly nostalgic 'once upon a time' tribute it works rather well ... Simplified and romanticised, the story slips down smoothly like a festive sweet sherry." I suppose Nolly is somewhere on the spectrum but I would say it's more ambitious than that. There are some genuinely touching moments, as when Nolly (the person) confides her feelings of vulnerability to her longtime pal Larry Grayson, and when - as in Dorothy Hobson's book - we get to hear the voices of the viewers of the soap. </p><p>This occurs during a scene on a bus in which Davies borrows some of the real-life actress's bafflement when interviewed by Russell Harty about her sacking ("I don't know ... I'm quiet-living" etc). This is in response to the inevitable "Why?" from the predominantly female group of fellow passengers, who tell her how much the programme means to them, and the sole dissenting voice (a middle-aged male) is very satisfyingly put in his place by Gordon herself. Maybe such a journey never took place but the feelings expressed by her fellow travellers reflect those of the viewers quoted by Hobson.</p><p>And for anyone with an intimate knowledge of the story who might question the lines given to Noele Gordon when first meeting the press after her sacking it seems the jammy Mr Davies has a free pass. In a clip of that meeting with the press which can be found on various documentaries her words are rather more restrained but the writer was told that the orignal footage was heavily edited before broadcast on the evening news and that in reality she had been much more intemperate, thus allowing him to invent whatever seemed right for his drama. <br /><br />I recall in one interview of the time Noele Gordon made a show of waving away her years on Crossroads as "a lovely velvet rut", the implication being it had been time to go. She returned to the theatre, appearing in Gypsy (which we see in rehearsals) and, later, Call Me Madam. I didn't realise, or had forgotten until reminded by Davies's drama, that she had also been in The Boy Friend, touring dinner theatres in the Middle East before she eventually had to leave the show in Plymouth because of the illness which later claimed her life. </p><p>It seems a fitting production to go out on as The Boy Friend, like Crossroads, is at once beguiling and ridiculous. And, like the soap, it's not a send-up, which is where Ken Russell's film version of the musical went so spectacularly wrong: Sandy Wilson has real affection for the songs and the era he is recreating; there is no contempt about it. And I recall Jack Barton (the real one) saying something to the effect that the team behind Crossroads <span>the team strove their utmost to bring "happiness and entertainment" to the audience.</span><br /><br />So I salute Nolly (the series) as an affectionate evocation of Nolly (the actress/phenomenon) which makes clear how important Crossroads was to so many people and - who knows? - maybe it'll even put a temporary halt to those customary criticisms of the soap's production values, though that may be asking much too much. </p><p> And from a structural point of view the unfurling of the story, the releasing of information, in Nolly seems masterly. There are, for example, some oblique references to her relationship with Val Parnell early on, but she only tells the full story when obliged to assert herself with her colleagues during rehearsals for Gypsy: "exposition as ammunition", as my former writing tutor Tim Fountain used to say. </p><p>Is the woman-succeeding-in-man's-world bit laboured too much, a 21st century emphasis added to an old tale? I don't know; but as it serves to soften that initial impression of Gordon hijacking Crossroads rehearsals in the first episode it makes sense. And overall, as I stated at the beginning, the tone feels right: a story told with affection but not blind to its heroine's faults.<br /><br />Yesterday I picked up my copy of the recent DVD box set containing, on a whopping ninety-odd discs, all the extant episodes of Crossroads featuring Noele Gordon. Already possessing a copy of the 45th Annniversary box set you could say that my recent purchase was unnecessary: essentially I'm shelling out for the two years of episodes not already included in the earlier set. </p><p>But I couldn't not do it. <br /><br />I have written in an earlier post of the experience of watching Crossroads with my mother and of how, in the late sixties, the programme suddenly moved from being background noise on my return from school and became a shared adventure which we avidly followed together from day to day. </p><p>There was, however, a period of about two years when I was around to watch with her but chose to opt out, something I now regret. With what may seem an unlikely neatness, that more or less coincides with those final two years of the new box set. It will be odd watching them alone, without the intermittent running commentary which was an integral part of the experience for us, and - as Hobson's book records - many other viewers of the soap. </p><p>I won't repeat here what I've said earlier about Crossroads - a link is provided below if you wish to read it - but my deep affection for the show, intimately bound up with those memories of my mother, makes me especially grateful to Russell T. Davies for telling this tale so well. True, some of those playing the Crossroads cast are, it has to be said, more looky-likey than others, and the drama's star, Helena Bonham-Carter, doesn't particularly resemble Noele Gordon in appearance or build, but it's a measure of both the acting and the writing that such considerations quickly fade into the background. </p><p>So if you have loved Crossroads, see it if you can. You won't be disappointed. You will have to sign in to itvx, as it's now called, and endure adverts, just as in those pre-VHS days. (Suddenly I hear the echo of a regular maternal complaint: "That was a short end of part one.")</p><p></p><p>There is one detail about Noele Gordon not mentioned in Dorothy Hobson's book: a card from the actress which came after publication, as recounted in today's Telegraph article. It seems a fitting note on which to close:<br /></p><p></p><p></p><blockquote>When my book, Crossroads: The Drama of a Soap Opera, was published the following summer, I sent a copy to Noele and within a week received a card. Her words were kind. "I know you have been very fair, and appreciative of all the efforts we put into Crossroads over the years … I think you have made a lot of people think twice about their opinions of the art of soap opera. I hope you can come to the Rep at Xmas to see Call Me Madam. Love and thanks, Noele." I treasured the card and the fact that, despite the way that she had been treated, she still wanted Crossroads to be recognised and valued. <br /></blockquote><p><b><i> </i></b></p><p><b><i>Links:</i></b></p><p><b><i>The aforementioned post about my personal memories of the show can be found <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2018/05/crossroads-in-my-life.html">here</a>. </i></b></p><p><b><i>There is also a piece about Emmerdale, <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2022/10/emmerdale.html">here</a>.<br /></i></b></p><p></p><p><b><i>Matthew Sweet and others, including Nolly's writer Russell T. Davies, discuss Crossroads, Nolly and soaps in general in an illuminating programme on Radio 3, available on BBC Sounds <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p0f0j90z">here</a>. It is also available as a podcast. </i></b></p><p><br /><br /><br /></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-84688440795855180842022-12-08T05:07:00.003-08:002023-05-10T01:12:46.880-07:00John Lennon<p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPzjDDn_NakkqBWPFAjFiTyQlWmZjnko7h2suwhKhOMl1E7BTydsJB63HyAXM-kxj-YnLAtJwf4EZcgobH16HRftQbBPTf4XhdzgafxVc26-l5BnVAPjzPuaFo9rHn0pvj9c2G7-OY-AWza8F4ktwMPTTYyCsSk-6qT9AUZ8cZ1QLfp3gLTMYlo9Da/s760/lennon%20by%20astrid.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="751" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPzjDDn_NakkqBWPFAjFiTyQlWmZjnko7h2suwhKhOMl1E7BTydsJB63HyAXM-kxj-YnLAtJwf4EZcgobH16HRftQbBPTf4XhdzgafxVc26-l5BnVAPjzPuaFo9rHn0pvj9c2G7-OY-AWza8F4ktwMPTTYyCsSk-6qT9AUZ8cZ1QLfp3gLTMYlo9Da/w395-h400/lennon%20by%20astrid.jpg" width="395" /></a></div><p></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i>To mark the 42nd anniversary of John Lennon's death, extracts from two earlier posts, both written in 2010. Links to the full versions can be found at the end.</i><br /> </p><p>One incident remembered from childhood bears out the "semi-religious" tag being applied to pop music for myself and my brothers. My father was advising a priest who was staying overnight, and we, the children, had a lot of opportunity to talk to him. I think (and this sounds like a lousy joke but isn't) he may have needed time off to reflect on his calling, as a later article in the Daily Express - evidently a class act even then - dignified his dark night of the soul with the heading:<br /><br />VOCATION? NO - VACATION!<br /><br />Anyway, the wide-ranging conversation came round to the subject of pop music, and this man of God shocked us by claiming that the Beatles regularly laughed themselves silly at the "cripples and hunchbacks" who would be waiting to greet them at airports; it was all there in the biography, he said, if we didn't believe it.<br /><br />I can barely remember the incident, let alone the timescale; all I recall is at some point later my eldest brother proclaiming: "It doesn't matter - JL still is King."<span></span></p>Whether that meant he did or didn't believe it, I'm not sure; but I think on some level he'd worked out that that the priest's words were a salvo in a religious war, firing from the same side as our father. Our collective faith did not waiver - and later, reading Hunter Davies' biography, I could see that the claim was , at best, a mischievously distorted one. <span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>*</b></span><br /></p><p><br />Having arranged to see Nowhere Boy yesterday with my Cheapo Gaffe Friend, I was late and wasn't allowed to enter the cinema as I was just over the thirty minute limit. I wanted to scream: It's not fair! I'm going to appreciate it more than her, what with my extra knowledge about the Beatles, having read all the biographies including the "spurious" one - I've even got a complete book about the "Paul is dead" theory - I mean, <i>c'mon</i>.<br /><br />But (of course) I didn't. I walked away and mooched around in bookshops for an hour. Ironically, had Cheapo [Records] still been open I'd have gone there instead, as this was the Prince Charles Cinema, only a couple of minutes' walk away.<br /><br />There was, however, a reward of sorts later, when she emerged from the cinema and spoke these words: "I'd forgotten she was run over."<br /><br />But the feeling I had at that moment - an unlovely male sense of superiority about being in possession of more Beatle fax'n'info, basically - vanished in the act of writing this down.<br /><br />Who knows what Lennon's life would have been like if that accident hadn't taken place? Would there still have been the same anger-fuelled hunger to create? That part of [Mark] Shipper's book [Paperback Writer] feels real enough. In the song Dear John, when Lennon sings:<br /><br /> Put the TV on, have a snack<br /> Wash your mother's back<br /><br />it may be a reference to Yoko, whom he called "Mother", but if it's more than that (just as the White Album's Julia is about both his mother and Yoko) then there's something very moving, likewise, about that line in the later song, even if it was intended as a throwaway: the same wish for intimate contact with someone who can never now be reached, except fitfully and imperfectly ("meaning less") through music - the half-formed nature of the demo is somehow appropriate - and in the light of the more serious point at the end of Shipper's book the song also serves to reassure us that Dakota John and Beatle John are one and the same, creating out of the same deep need.<br /><br />... You can tell yourself you're chatting to John at the John Lennon Artificial Intelligence Project here. The results are variable, although today he greeted me with:<br /><br /> You are what you are Anthony . Get out there and get peace, think peace, and live peace and breathe peace, and you'll get it as soon as you like. <br /><br />Happy Christmas in advance, John - wherever you are.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/11/gnome-thoughts-31.html">The Man from Mendips</a></p><p><a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/01/doo-wop-dialogue-68.html">Doo Wop Dialog[ue]: 68</a><br /></p><p><br /></p><span><!--more--></span>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-45098662413934560832022-10-28T11:12:00.003-07:002022-10-28T11:13:38.596-07:00Jerry Lee Lewis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rptXPwNlciU/VaTHPiYl-QI/AAAAAAAAIwE/Kg7-rXZVcZc/s1600/RRA2C.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rptXPwNlciU/VaTHPiYl-QI/AAAAAAAAIwE/Kg7-rXZVcZc/s400/RRA2C.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p> </p><p><i>It has now been confirmed that Jerry Lee Lewis has died. </i></p><p><i>There can't be any doubt that he was the last of the true greats from the golden age of rock'n'roll; I can still recall the excitement of first hearing Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On, different from the frenzy of Little Richard's recordings but every bit as potent. In The Sound of the City Charlie Gillett had especial praise for his ability to sing, as it were, in inverted commas, never wholly
abandoned like Richard but "almost always" with "an edge of
detachment or even cynical derision", as though not quite buying into this
"love" business:</i></p><i></i><blockquote><i>
This detachment enabled Lewis to pace his records, and
control his audiences at live performances, with a finesse few
rock'n'roll singers showed. He would have needed only Chuck Berry's
flair for writing songs to be a comparably important figure.<span><a name='more'></a></span></i></blockquote><p><i>He was a big part of my discovery of rock'n'roll; I have written elsewhere of a double album of Sun sides, predating the Charly reissues, being played at an art school dance, and around the same time I used go to rock'n'roll nights at Tiffany's in Glasgow (a Monday, if I remember) where Rollin' Joe, a Jerry Lee disciple, had a residency, recreating the likes of High School Confidential.</i></p><p><i>My most recent sighting was seven years ago, in the BBC 4 three-part documentary series Rock'n'Roll America. He only appeared very briefly in Episode 1, but so uncharacteristically placid and avuncular that it came as a bit of a shock. He seemed a long way indeed from the showman I remembered from Tony Palmer's seventies documentary series All You Need is Love or the happily raving figure, sealed in
his own little world, in the hypnotic raw footage of
Taylor Hackford's 1987 study of Chuck Berry, Hail! Hail! Rock 'n'
Roll.</i></p><p><i>I don't have a pre-prepared encomium but here is an abridged version of what I wrote at the time about the second episode of Rock'n'Roll America, in which he figured prominently:</i><br /></p><p><br />Episode Two of Rock 'n' Roll America follows the pattern of the first programme: well-chosen clips, interviews with surviving key players and sidemen, the whole a canny mix of the story's essentials and some illuminating extra details along the way for those who already know the basics.
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The focus in this episode is on the major stars once rock'n'roll was established as a force: Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Everly Brothers and Buddy Holly. The Elvis Presley material, and the business of his singing Hound Dog to an actual canine on the Steve Allen Show, will already be familiar to most readers, although it does mean something to hear directly from drummer DJ Fontana that Elvis really didn't want to do it and as a result "didn't like Steve till the day he died."<br />
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The Steve Allen Show appearance is represented only by a few photographs - I'd guess to avoid detracting from the performance of Hound Dog which we do see (on Milton Berle's show), as this is not a series which appears to skimp on licensing the best quality clips.<br />
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Afterwards I searched out the Allen appearance on youtube, and on the surface Elvis appears game: he doesn't ignore the canine once the joke has been established or go into moody rocker mode on the other side of the studio. In fact he even seems to kiss it at one point: if it's a joke which has been foisted upon him then it's one he seems, almost literally, to embrace. <br />
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Perhaps because there have been fewer documentaries about him, but undoubtedly aided by the bonus that he is still around to testify (what other word can you use?), the episode's section on Jerry Lee Lewis seemed more compelling. Not that the Elvis and Jerry Lee parts of the programme were wholly discreet entities: talking about Presley, the writer Robert Gordon had made the point that Elvis's movements would have come from the churches he and his mother might have attended, and Jerry Lee talks with some satisfaction of goading him in the early days:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
First time I met Elvis he was walking out the front door, and I said "Just a minute, Elvis, there's one thing I want to ask you before you leave: if you died, do you think you'd go to Heaven or Hell? [chuckles] Bluntly put it like that, you know, and he said: "Jerry Lee, don't ever say that to me again!" I said: "Okay." [chuckles] I think it shook him up pretty good.</blockquote>
The theme which runs through the Million Dollar Quartet tapes is of the young Jerry Lee trying, not always subtly, to prove he is the equal of the RCA star, which may suggest a context for the above exchange. But the question is about his own fears as much as mischief-making or jealousy. Jerry Lee admits that the thought of his own ultimate destination "worried me to death" as a young man, and now he has every reason to have death at the forefront of his mind, which gives a new slant to the studio argument between him and Sam Phillips when recording Great Balls of Fire. <br />
<br />
This is where the series is at its best, I think: taking something which is familiar but making it vivid through the testimony of those who were there. First, the original drummer on Whole Lotta Shaking, JM Van Eaton, describes Jerry Lee jumping on his bed while on tour to tell him he was going to hell. <br />
<br />
We then hear a bit of that famous discussion between Sam Phillips and Jerry Lee, then we cut to Sam Phillips's son, who says:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I think my dad had to wrangle that notion out of him in order for him to feel alright about recording and I'm not sure that he ever completely convinced himself that he wasn't playing the Devil's music. </blockquote>
Then we cut to the Killer as he is now, saying simply: "There was no convincing Sam there was a heaven and a hell; there was no convincing him of that," and admitting, as mentioned earlier, that he worried himself to death about whether he was going to heaven or hell.<br />
<br />
And if you want a critical gloss there's Robert Gordon to tell us that "A lot of the early rock 'n' rollers believed in a fire and brimstone hell," reinforced by Van Eaton adding matter-of-factly that Jerry Lee's dilemma was shared by all the other Southern rockers. Van Eaton himself talks of "feeling the spirit" when playing but being uneasy about its source. Was it from the devil?<br />
<br />
If you haven't heard it, here is a longer version of that discussion between Phillips and Jerry Lee:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/N-wsEcmwJK0" width="420"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
On the subject of the famed Lewis ego, Sam Phillips' son tells us that: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Jerry Lee Lewis was one of the only ones who came in here full of confidence who knew he was great. </blockquote>
But it's the drummer's laconic pronouncement which sticks in the mind:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Jerry was a guy who real quick became very fond of himself.</blockquote>
But when you see him on the Steve Allen Show (<i>top</i>) - not forced to sing to a plate of jelly or some such prop - you can forgive him anything. That irresistible verve transmitted itself to the nation's youth and any unease about the lyrics of Whole Lotta Shaking ("Wiggle it around ..." ) was forgotten. As Jerry himself says:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Steve Allen kind gave his stamp of approval ... Next thing I knew we was rollin' in money.</blockquote><p>
And to give appropriate credit to Steve Allen, Jerry Lee explicitly says that Allen told him he wanted Jerry on the show doing Whole Lotta Shaking "word for word" as he, Allen, had heard it.<br />
<br />
I don't have much to say about the Everly Brothers or Buddy Holly segments, although I note someone's comment that onstage Don and Phil "seemed to know more than they were saying." I think the suggestion was that for all the coiffeuring they were not showbiz: there was something more substantial which shone through - unlike some of the teen idols who will, presumably be part of the third and final episode of this captivating series.<br />
<br />
Looking through the show again, credit must also be paid to the imagination and intelligence behind the various montages: the movements of a black preacher intercut with Elvis doing Hound Dog, for example, and the various photographs and clips of Jerry Lee. There are so many perfectly adequate documentaries which rehash the basics that it took a second viewing to appreciate just how artfully this series has been assembled - which is entirely fitting for what may prove to be the final showcase for some of its participants. I look forward to see how the changes in rock'n'roll are handled in the final episode. </p><p><i> </i></p><p><i>Jerry Lee also appeared in the final episode, which started with a discussion of the impact of Buddy Holly's death. Jerry Allison and Don Everly paid tribute to the man they knew - Don Everly at pains to stress how rare it was
to have a genuine friend in the industry. The most devastating comment,
however, came from Jerry Lee - not because the thought was new, but -
uttered as it was by one who was there - it felt fresh and raw:<br /></i>
</p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>
Any time you lose a talent like that everything suffers. </i></blockquote>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-2150631399557751922022-10-19T04:39:00.012-07:002022-10-28T11:13:06.804-07:00These I Have Loved (and Learnt off of)<p></p><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDKIFqImKAKqSuMql1CfP84w_Ew2neD1L_LR_N8UP8v5ccrVhwp0jEIY3N8EastQRRjeTfSyuVVkhc3wkBVvt2cVcQJzwAeasUFaFn-vCEZNk1XjSkTqNJS-p51iTcwifzCVAYHa8zMJ3dYfUTHUOcAW4zAeDatutubjkNLHLnssF9ADlDaszQEtg/s984/hg2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="984" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDKIFqImKAKqSuMql1CfP84w_Ew2neD1L_LR_N8UP8v5ccrVhwp0jEIY3N8EastQRRjeTfSyuVVkhc3wkBVvt2cVcQJzwAeasUFaFn-vCEZNk1XjSkTqNJS-p51iTcwifzCVAYHa8zMJ3dYfUTHUOcAW4zAeDatutubjkNLHLnssF9ADlDaszQEtg/w400-h283/hg2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>A few years ago I wrote a series of pieces about the radio broadcasters who had contributed the most to my musical education over the years. Not all of these figures were attached to the BBC, but most were; and to celebrate that institution's 100th anniversary I've condensed those memories into one handy single post - no strenuous clicking required. </p><p>"Broadcaster" seems more a appropriate term than DJ in this context, as I'm not including representatives of Radio 1 in this happy band, even though the station was regular listening for me in the early seventies. This is because John Peel and others were, in effect, building on enthusiasms already learnt from my brothers or through music papers or watching Top of the Pops or The Old Grey Whistle Test. My siblings were immune, however, to the delights of doo wop and rock'n'roll, which were largely my own discoveries, made by a process of trial and error whenever a likely-looking LP in a record shop or newsagent's seemed cheap enough to take a chance on. </p><p>In the late seventies and early eighties, however, I became keenly aware that alternatives were available, that another style of music was available and had, in fact, been around for quite a while.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>My first two guides were Hubert Gregg and Benny Green. I may have come across Gregg's Thanks for the Memory and Benny Green's Sunday afternoon show, both on Radio 2, sometime in the late seventies, but I remember them most fondly for providing the soundtrack to my reincarnation as a university student in the early 1980s. What they had to offer felt like the logical next stage in the sort-of serious, sort-of systematic musical study I'd fallen into around ten years earlier in my local library. <br /></p><p>Hubert Gregg's presentation was mannered, the programmes audibly scripted, but in an age of prattle, that careful preparation felt like a courtesy, not a barrier: you learnt to accept phrases which would have sounded horrendously artificial coming out of any other presenter's mouth, like "No more for a se'enight," when the half hour had sped by yet again, and even grew to relish the inevitability of the pause you could have driven a stretch limo through during the middle of his sign-off: "And <i>au revoir</i> ... to you." <br /></p><div style="border: medium none;">Just as it's said that Hutch (a Gregg favourite) had the power to make the audience in a vast variety hall feel as though they were enjoying a recitation in an elegant drawing room, so these and other Greggorian turns of phrase had the effect of drawing listeners together, a happy band of fellow conspirators who refused to acknowledge the end of a golden age of English and American music which stretched from the twenties to, I suppose, the late forties.<br /><br /></div><div style="border: medium none;">In Greggland Elvis Presley had yet to be invented, and it's even possible - although I'm less sure about this - that 1948's Hurricane Oklahoma had not yet swept through London town, whirling the musicals of Vivian Ellis, with their surreally silly books by A.P. Herbert, into dizzy oblivion; you were given the impression, at any rate, that Gregg prized the wordplay of Lorenz Hart far above the work of Rodgers' later collaborator, always pronouncing "Hammerstein" with what seemed like a mocking Teutonic "sch" - although, in fairness, this may have been an old-fashioned desire for strict accuracy, as with the distinction he made between nightingale-loud Square and choreographer. </div><br /><div style="border: medium none;">In Gregg's domain Vivian Ellis stayed forever in fashion and the tempo for Have You Met Miss Jones?, with Hart's uncynically romantic lyric, was the subject of a preservation order, keeping it from degeneration into Sinatra's swingathon. When CDs, those dangerous portents of the digital age, became the norm for nostalgiac reissues, even they were assimilated into this gentler world, rendered harmless and homely once rechristened as "shaving mirrors".<br /></div><p>
And you were happy to feel part of this gang, this enchanted place, because Hubert Gregg - songwriter, singer, actor and general man of the theatre - knew whereof he spake; if you ever doubted that, a regularly aired excerpt from a broadcast in which Jack Buchanan contrived to meet Gregg by chance then proceeded to sing his song London in the Rain was proof that the pensionable Radio 2 presenter had indeed moved among giants of a bygone era. </p><p>Benny Green was a writer as well as a broadcaster, which showed in his scripts, though they were more direct in style than Gregg's. In both cases, however, you felt in intimate contact with someone keen to share what he loved. Green had also been in the music business - he can be glimpsed in photographs of the members of Lord Rockingham's XI, hiding his shame at the mercenary gig behind dark glasses - and his Sunday lunchtime programme on Radio 2 was another important influence in my life. My strongest memory is of the regular blasts of brass which punctuated Sinatra's singing on so many numbers chosen, although one of Green's favourite performances was the more restrained One For My Baby ("The singing is so good, it's silly," he told one interviewer). <br /></p><p>
His tastes were perhaps wider than those of Hubert Gregg, so the two programmes complemented each other. Some numbers regularly featured in the programme could be called brash - like Johnny Mercer's own rendition of his novelty number Pineapple Pete, which I never found a ribtickler. But Peggy Lee's wistful performance of The Folks Who Live On the Hill was also a favourite - as, indeed, was another Mercer number sung by the composer: The Days of Wine and Roses, taken from a live performance.
And as a man who'd written a book about PG Wodehouse, Green was keen on Wodehouse's gently humorous musical collaborations, and particularly alive to the lyrical content of what he played. <br />
<br />The critc Robert Cushman had several series on Radio 3 in the eighties entitled, Book, Music and Lyrics, a history of musicals, which he presented with intelligence and charm; these also made a big impact on me. I suspect that I first heard In the Morning, No from Cole Porter's Du Barry Was a Lady there, as this was certainly the musical he seemed to rhapsodise about above all others, but it might well have been courtesy of Gregg or Green. All three gradually and painlessly filled me with knowledge which was ultimately to prove professionally useful as well as a source of pleasure and metaphorical enrichment. </p><p>I never met Robert Cushman to say thank you in person, although I did have a close encounter, of sorts, with him - two, in fact. He had a show at the Edinburgh Fringe, probably around 1983 or thereabouts. It was remarkable, because he wasn't any kind of a singer, I think it would be fair to say, but he understood how singing worked: he knew about phrasing even though his personal equipment was cruelly lacking. What he did was, in effect, to hypnotise us: he gave us an impression of how a truly gifted singer - as it might be, Mabel Mercer - might tackle De-Lovely - and it worked. When we applauded, I think it was for what he had conjured up, as though he hadn't sung at all but somehow described, with extraordinary vividness and intelligence, someone else, some gifted other, singing. </p><p>A few years later I was very briefly - as in a couple of days - an agency kitchen porter at Broadcasting House when I first arrived in London. I worked pretty hard on the first day but on the second an old hand showed me the dodges, which involved spending a lot of time in the canteen, giving the impression of being busy. I noticed Mr Cushman in conversation at one of the tables but something - my awareness of my current status? simple politeness? - kept me from going over and heaping praise upon him for Book, Music and Lyrics. <br />
<br />
Had it been Benny Green or Hubert Gregg, would I have held back? Was it about a perceived coolness in Cushman's presenting style or simply the far greater and more regular exposure to the other two broadcasters? I don't know. Possibly there was a more of an educational air in Cushman's programme - there was certainly a specific agenda, where the other two were freer to range more widely, even though their tastes must have dictated what was played. Yet that's unfair, because his programmes did exactly what he describes in this Independent appreciation of Jonathan James-Moore, who produced the series:<br />
</p><blockquote>
We proved, I think, that it was possible to treat popular music on radio and to be entertaining without compromising anyone's intelligence: our subjects', our listeners' or our own.</blockquote><p>
Maybe it was the memory of his "singing."
And yet ... that Edinburgh performance has stuck in my mind for almost forty years, especially the pause he relished at the line about the new stork-bought arrival - "He's apalling" - before getting all animated like a loose-limbed marionette for the home stretch. And Hubert Gregg would surely have understood: conviction is all. (So what am I saying, then - that it was a <i>good</i> performance? I don't know; maybe the hypnosis still hasn't worn off.)</p><p>More short-lived, and indeed shorter in its running time, was Dilly Barlow's Friday Treat. This was a fifteen minute programme devoted primarily to
jazz classics of the era favoured by the purchaser of vinyl
for Motherwell Library - roughly late twenties to mid forties - so I was
particularly receptive to the show, broadcast in the early eighties, which offered guidance about jazz
greats I didn't get in the library itself - not, to be fair, that I was
ever bold enough to ask for any. It became yet another strand in
my remote musical education, an opportunity to hear some of the very
best of that era as selected by Ms Barlow, things I might have
unwittingly passed over in my awkward and selfconscious flipping through
the racks in the library, and which hadn't been played by Gregg or Green.<br /></p><p>
Friday Treat's irresistibly upbeat theme music came from a late
twenties/early thirties Ellington recording which I can no longer
identify (though it can be found among the selection on the Living Era
CD Jazz Cocktail), suggesting that when it came to choosing music Ms
Barlow, like Philip Larkin, posed herself the query coined by Zelig-like
musician Eddie Condon: "As it enters the ear, does it come in like
broken glass or does it come in like honey?"<br />
<br />
That said, I can't actually recall much of the music played on the
programme, which ran itermittently between August 1980 and August 1983. Looking at the Radio Times listings the music is
initially described simply as "up tempo" then later as "jazz, blues and
gospel" - which has reminded me that she did play Aretha Franklin's
version of I Say a Little Prayer for You, pointing out the borrowing of
gospel-style call-and-response in the vocal arrangement. There may have
been gospel and blues songs I heard there for the first time and sought
out on vinyl or tape; alas, I can't recall.
</p><p>But there is at least one other recording retained from the many playlists. In my memory, I always seem to be in the bath when listening to Friday
Treat. It's possible I may have taken especial care to arrange my
ablutions to coincide with the programme, though that would suggest a
degree of - well, I don't really know what. But that doesn't matter
because it's more likely that the experience of hearing the show has
become irremovably fixed in that damp locale because that was
certainly where I first heard Dilly Barlow play Billie Holiday's 1948
recording of I Loves You, Porgy, accompanied only by piano and bass and
drums. <br />
<br />
I still recall the sense of being stunned and an awareness of the
bathwater cooling; years later, in dominie mode, I played it to a class
and almost immediately felt the temperature in the room drop in a
similar way. Not just me, then - nor, indeed, Ms Barlow. The directness
of that emotional plea is breathtaking and has never, to my knowledge,
been bettered; Nina Simone's attempt seems rococco by comparison.<br />
<br />
I can't say, at this distance, whether that was the first time I ever
heard Billie Holiday, but no recording I'd heard had felt as naked and
open. Hubert Gregg, like Billie's biographer John Chilton, would have
certainly favoured her thirties recordings; I seem to remember Chilton
using the word "springtime" in connection with them and his ambivalence
about her later, croak-voiced performances. <br />
<br />
I suppose part of the power of Porgy is that her voice is still strong -
not that that seems the right word to use of her style. Around the same
time, perhaps as a result of the programme, I borrowed a tape of Songs
for Distingue Lovers, recorded nine years later; some of the more upbeat
numbers made for uneasy listening as she strained for a note but the resignation of Lorenz Hart's
lyric for I Didn't Know What Time It Was seemed to suit that battered
instrument; I can still place where I was on a late night walk when that
song sank into me, particularly the enunciation of the words: "I was
naive."<br />
<br />
It reminds me of another radio guide a little later, around 1987, on Radio 3: Mel Hill, who had
various radio series about jazz singing and playing. Comparing an
Armstrong solo with one by Bix Beiderbecke he surmised that the latter's
seemed consciously worked out - the suggestion was that of the
trumpeter Max Kaminsky - whereas Armstrong seemed to be more instinctive
in his approach, "like some Bisto Kid of genius." <br />
<br />
With this wonderful phrase rattling around in my head, I wrote to Mr
Hill, thinking about a 1960 Louis and Ella duet, Autumn in New York:
Ella Fitzgerald sings the first part of the song, and it is beautifully
done, but for my money when Louis Armstrong starts singing it is
something else entirely, linked to that Holiday performance of Porgy: it
seems wholly unguarded, open, unafraid to reveal evidence of the
passing of time. Armstrong, no longer the tiger of his youth (I think
the recording dates from 1960) was still indivisibly Armstrong, which
reminded me of a line in King Lear which seemed linked to that "Bisto
Kid" image: "There I found em, there I smelt 'em out."<br />
<br />
I'm not quite sure now what I meant precisely, but I suppose I was
saying that Armstrong had, as it were, smelt himself out, knew his own
essence, so the lessening of power and range in his voice was a mere
detail: he was still, after all, Louis Armstrong.<br />
<br />
Which reminds me, in turn, of Humphrey Lyttelton or George Melly quoting
the gnomic utterance of a girl who apparently met Armstrong during a
visit to the UK: "You cannot get away from what you have got." Indeed
not. Years later, just after I had shuffled off my dominie shackles
(does one shuffle shackles?) I was being painted by an artist friend and
tried to keep that performance of Armstrong's in mind, as though that
openness could somehow transmit itself through my being - not sure
whether it did, but it's a good painting all the same. <br />
<br />
Anyway, Dilly Barlow, Mel Hill and
others provided additional stepping stones on my journey, bringing
me closer to an understanding and appreciation of this wonderful music. Each new
discovery, each piece of the jigsaw, remains valued even if I can no
longer identify the donor.<br />
<br />
And it occurs to me that these memories call to mind a time, only a few
short decades ago, which now seems aeons away, when the would-be musical
explorer was entirely dependent on a small group of people on the radio or the
purchasing whim of the local librarian (if you lived in an enlightened
borough which lent out records): no vast snowdrifts of youtube or
spotify to lose yourself in. </p><p>Not that the change has necessarily all been for the better: rationed it may have been, but the music was, in the main, doled out by people who cared about it and knew something about it, and possessed the ability to communicate their enthusiasm to the listener. I am not a DJ nor was meant to be but I have, in my own way, followed their lead, their inspiration, in that my job allows me pretty much of a free hand in buying CDs and sheet music for the enlightenment of others, and I take great pleasure and pride in writing the accompanying catalogue notes - though whether or not others choose to read them is another matter.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p>
There is one more broadcaster whom I'd like to salute - a relatively late addition to the fold. Russell Davies took over Benny Green's Sunday programme slot and proved a worthy successor, following Green's lead in building the choice of tracks for each programme around anniversaries - well, notionally, anyway. In 2010 I made brief notes of the rationale Mr Davies provided for each song in an edition broadcast on the second of May:</p><p></p><blockquote><b>Mel Tormé — One Morning In May</b><br />
<i>Because it's May.</i> <br />
<br />
<b>Billie Holiday — That Old Devil Called Love</b><br />
<i>Because 2nd May is birthdate of lyricist Doris Fisher.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Spike Jones and His City Slickers — You Always Hurt The One You Love</b><br />
<i>Because this is another Doris Fisher lyric and Spike Jones died on the 1st of May.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Matt Dennis — Mountain Greenery</b><br />
<i>Because 2nd May is the birthdate of Lorenz Hart and anyway 1st May is mentioned in the lyric.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Ella Fitzgerald & Chick Webb — A Tisket A Tasket</b><br />
<i>Because 2nd May is the birthday of Van Alexnder, a white bandleader now in his nineties who sold arrangements to Chick Webb including the above, which was recorded on Alexander's 23rd birthday.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Dean Martin — At Sundown</b><br />
<i>Because this is an example of a later Van Alexander arrangement as an antidote to "Ella's juvenilia" (No additional May connection proffered on this occasion).</i><br />
<br />
<b>Matt Monro — Try To Remember</b><br />
<i>Because 2nd May 1960 was the night before the opening of The Fantasticks.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Harry Belafonte & Odetta — The Hole In The Bucket</b><br />
<i>Because it's from a 2nd May 1960 Harry Belafonte concert at Carnegie Hall.</i><br />
<br />
<b>The Spirits of Rhythm — Nobody’s Sweetheart</b><br />
<i>Because scat singer Leo Watson died on May 2nd 1950.</i> <i>Thereafter we're told "So much for May 2nd, which if nothing else has been a good excuse for staving off thoughts of May the sixth and the ballot box" - ie a then imminent UK general election.</i></blockquote><blockquote><b>Li’l Abner Original Cast — The Country’s In The Very Best Of Hands</b><br />
<i>Because despite appropriation by various political parties "songs go better in fantasy elections in Broadway musicals." And because lyricist Johnny Mercer's biographer Gene Lees died recently (actually in April).</i><br />
<br />
<b>Perry Como — One More Vote</b><br />
<i>Because this film song is "a stylised form of a hustings speech of the mid-forties." Thereafter we're assured us we won't return to this topic.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Frank Sinatra — Let’s Get Away From It All</b><br />
<i>Because this provides an opportunity to hear a lyric by Matt Dennis who sang Mountain Greenery earlier. Oh, and, er, the orchestra leader is Billy ... May.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Tina May — When In Rome</b><br />
<i>Because - in Mr Davies' final, impudent flourish - "Let's stay May-minded to the very last."</i></blockquote><p>To lay bare the rationale for inclusion like this, shorn of almost all of the presenter's comments, is, of course, grossly unfair: as with the other broadcasters, his linking comments displayed a breadth of reference and an ability to make associative leaps which extend far beyond the chronological coincidences cited above, which are merely an amusing extra. <br />
<br />
His links showed a gift for succinct, accessible phrasemaking, different from Hubert Gregg's conscious stylisation, more like ordinary speech - but in a more compact, vivid form than the unscripted alternative, just as a TV advert for some kind of wonder yoghurt (or some such) used to boast of its invigorating effects with the slogan: "You - but on a really good day." <br />
<br />
On that programme, for example, Lorenz Hart was summed up as "Pint-sized genius of the lyric and tragical boozer" and we were that told Spike Jones is "well known for taking the sweetest rose and crushing it till the petals fall - with a thunderous crash." <br />
<br />
These brief quotes don't, however, quite do justice to his links, where four or five interconnected ideas often whizzed by in the transition from one record to another. In the preamble to You Always Hurt the One Love, on that broadcast, after That Old Devil Called Love finishes playing, we were told, among other things, that Alison Moyet's pop revival was now twenty five years old; that Mr Davies had been reading The Tin Pan Alley Song Encyclopedia, "one of those books that are there to be disagreed with," which apparently omitted that particular Doris Fisher number but included You Always Hurt ..., described in the book as a "fatalistic ballad" recorded by the Mills Brothers and others including Brenda Lee, Al Martino and Ringo Starr - "which, " he added, "suggests a certain breadth of interest in this song." That, I think, is the authentic Davies note: waspish understatement in a slightly raised voice, inviting you into the joke. Leading into the Spike Jones remark already quoted, he then went on to point out that there is no built-in protection for compositions against "uprincipled rogues" - such as Jones. And Davies's delivery of his own words could be regarded as musical in itself: he fairly rattled along, a raised eyebrow here, the ghost of a wink there, the whole radiating his trademark measured zest.<br />
<br />
Sadly, although Russell Davies is still around the BBC in quizmaster mode, in 2013 they jettisoned his Radio 2 show after shunting it from afternoon to evening, and it's difficult not to feel that something precious has been lost as a result. It marks the end of regular broadcasting - of a music-based programme, anyway - of the last of those presenters who educated me in pre-rock'n'roll music.
The suggestion was made at the time by Mr Davies himself, among others, that it had been dropped as part of the plan to make Radio 2 into "Radio one-and-a-half", catching those who have grown out of Radio 1. <br />
<br />
I can only say that it's a great pity that there is less room now on BBC radio for the popular music which preceded the rock explosion. Did somebody make the pragmatic decsion that Radio 2 cannot go on infinitely expanding its capacity and so the earliest decades - the thirties and forties - must perforce be jettisoned?
It sort of makes sense, I suppose ... provided, that is, you don't believe that any of the subsequent songwriters benefited from the example of those who came before. (Wonder what Macca would have to say about that? Or Lennon, come to that, who was taught Scatterbrain, a song I first heard on a Hubert Gregg show, by his mother.) </p><p>It's significant, I think, that the majority of the broadcasters I have mentioned were working from a script - in other words what they were giving us was something polished, not just chatter to fill the moments in between recordings. In all of these cases you were getting something which hadn't been thrown together, and there was an implied respect for the audience. More than that: you had the sense that they were sharing something which was precious to them, but their knowledge was worn lightly. You never felt you were being lectured. No longer, alas, will I be introduced to songs, and odd pairings and coincidences, by someone who had taken the time to shape his thoughts and open his listeners' ears to the richness of the catalogue of music before Chuck Berry.</p><p></p><p>Hmm ... rather less of an upbeat conclusion than I intended, but I must thank the BBC for the decades in which they provided this service unstintingly via Green, Gregg et al. </p><p>And in fairness, it should be noted that at the time of writing Barry
Humphries has just finished presenting a series of nostalgic programmes
on the station, so it may be that all is not completely lost. But even with Humphries'
celebrity in other areas - a factor in his continuing employment by the station, much as celeb
authors' work is filling bookshops? - the show haven't exactly been gifted
with what might be described as a popular timeslot (midnight). </p><p>Still, I've
greatly enjoyed Humphries' earlier series, mixing memoir and music, so
that's better than nothing, I suppose. Will there be more from Mr Humphries? Will it indeed be "Au revoir" to him rather than Peter Cook's rejoinder in that famous Beyond the Fringe sketch?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-45566698449502503352022-10-15T03:50:00.003-07:002022-10-15T07:48:00.131-07:00Emmerdale<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvxw_ktfas_iaZDJm7uJFKpdHsDc6FlRCR1KTC4liJRReDz-58tMcL1Nd9L9HaFolDFG4vdrD6P3uJ4hp5y7gXKAYODQOQqVUMLNo0qlqosN9IDcF-F1sCSh-NtuRzMRteXk96fxfosx-3SumORTVP4LuWOjLDi4jhhXvyZwTyyYXQSL1UTyDY4eym/s499/amos1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="317" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvxw_ktfas_iaZDJm7uJFKpdHsDc6FlRCR1KTC4liJRReDz-58tMcL1Nd9L9HaFolDFG4vdrD6P3uJ4hp5y7gXKAYODQOQqVUMLNo0qlqosN9IDcF-F1sCSh-NtuRzMRteXk96fxfosx-3SumORTVP4LuWOjLDi4jhhXvyZwTyyYXQSL1UTyDY4eym/w254-h400/amos1.JPG" width="254" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> "Amos is a character." </p><p>That was my <i>entree</i>.<br /></p><p></p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p>Those four words were spoken by my mother one autumn afternoon in 1976, four years after Emmerdale Farm (as it still was then) had started. It was a time when - for reasons too painful to resurrect in the present narrative - I was in between bouts of full-time education, languishing at home most days. The statement may have been by way of a preemptive strike on my mothers' part - an excuse or rationale for her watching the programme in order to forestall some mocking comment from me - although it's equally likely that her assessment of the publican was intended as an oblique invitation to escape into that rural make-believe world with her, much as she had slyly enticed me with chicken soup when, some eight years earlier, I first began to take an active interest in Crossroads. <br /><br />I can't recall now how often I shared those afternoon visits to Beckindale (as the village was then known). The repeats which started on ITV3 recently are no help, as they began not with Episode One but with the first example of the programme's rejigged name, coinciding with the arrival in the village of the Tates, and all the attendant intrigue and duplicity. </p><p>But Emmerdale, or Emmerdale Farm, became a bond between mother and child which extended well into Kim Tate's reign. And when illness eventually necessitated a relinquishing of the soaps which had sustained or diverted my mother over the years it was Emmerdale which was the very last to go. I recall once, rather ambitiously, trying to provide a voiceover in the manner of Mrs Cherry (the gossip whose knitting hands used to be seen before each episode of Crossroads) on a VHS tape of several missed episodes I had taped for her. I took the video to my place of work, somehow managing to justify the time and effort as part of something or other, and ... well, I can't remember just how far I got with it but it was never completed or sent, and I really ought to have posted off the unadorned tape. </p><p>But I didn't.<br /></p><p>At some point, whether I was still at home or had moved down South, Emmerdale (as I'll now refer to it) did become appointment viewing for me. This was certainly the case by 1989 and that adoption of a sleeker title: it became an escape from the pressures of my job and a continuing link with my mother. </p><p>Amos, that well-known "character" who had first lured me into the village, was still prominent then, as was confirmed when watching early repeats on ITV3. Although Les Dawson famously derided the programme as "Dallas with dung" the balance didn't immediately shift in favour of the former when Kim Tate first appeared: the Sugdens remained prominent for quite a while, although I did have the sense, in one repeat in which Annie bade goodbye to Matt Skilbeck with a restrained but undoubtedly emotional and heartfelt "God bless you", that I was witnessing a remnant of an earlier era of the programme. The soap's creator, Kevin Laffan, was not pleased about the shift in tone, or so I've read, but I don't know what stage of its evolution proved the tipping point for him.<br /><br />The plane crash was certainly a stunt too far for some viewers and critics. Not me, though: I recall how carefully and sensitively it was done. Someone involved with the programme talked later about the need to get rid of "dead wood", and I believe at least one actor was driven into a long depression after years of secure employment and soap stardom. I enjoyed that actor's performance and missed him, but it's an odd thing: viewers are remarkably resilient - or maybe just heartless. Rewatching the days of Amos and Henry's affectionate bickering it felt to me as though that was the best incarnation of Emmerdale, but now that the ITV3 repeats have whizzed through several years (ten episodes are repeated each week) I've adjusted to each new set of characters, learnt to relish what they have to offer, and Amos (whisper it) is but a distant dream. Besides, the wily gamekeeper-turned-poacher Seth remains, a seemingly permanent fixture, the spirit of the village, though I know his death will eventually come on ITV3 as it did on the terrestrial channel.<br /><br />I suppose this is partly because newer actors are fulfilling, at least in part, the functions of the departed: Edna Birch may be possessed of more punitive zeal than Amos but she shares his predilection with the past, and on many occasions during recent repeats she and Betty can be heard providing, <i>sotto voce</i>, a choric commentary on the follies of others.<br /><br />Advances in technology also mean that there is more opportunity for today's viewer to savour details of individual performances. I usually record the repeats and, when watching, frequently have cause to rewind a few seconds in order to relish the way Dominic Brunt (Paddy) or others have spoken a line or, indeed, played a whole scene. Watching soap episodes out of sequence and catching up with an episode when you're already familiar with the outcome is generally a far less satisfying experience than adhering to strict chronology: soaps tend to be heavily narrative-driven, and once the surprise is gone there isn't always much left. But revisiting the early 2000s of Emmerdale, as I'm currently doing, retaining a broad sense of how the various plotlines turn out, I'm freer simply to enjoy the actors and the choices they make from moment to moment. Brunt is forever fascinating for the fresh spin he will put on some seemingly workaday line or add some small bit of business, and Marlon's (Mark Charnock's) perennial amusement at his own laboured sarcasm and the variety of ways in which Eric Pollard (Christopher Chittell) meets with humiliation never stale. Nor can the gunslinging hands of Bob Hope (Tony Audenshaw) go unmentioned. And Alan Turner (Richard Thorp), no longer the proprietor of the Woolpack, is currently doing sterling work as amused observer of the idiocies of others.<br /><br />A former colleague who is a respected Shakespearean actor was briefly in Emmerdale Farm in its earliest days and occasionally at work we discussed the soap. He didn't admire every actor's performance but still watched the show from time to time and said that certain scenes were as good as anything in theatre. <br /><br />Which is precisely how I feel. And the quality of the writers on the show, most notably Karin Young - still writing for the current incarnation of Emmerdale - means that the actors often have good material to tackle. She, more than anyone - though there have been many good writers along the way, such as John Chambers - seems to have the knack of humanising the Dingles, the ne'er-do-well family who still figure prominently in today's village. In the days when the writers' credit appeared at the end of the show I used to try to guess which episode might have been her handiwork, and enough time has passed since the original transmissions to make this a challenge once again. I'm not always right, but often enough to make me wish that there might exist a bookmaker so crazed as to offer odds on it ... <br /></p><p>Long experience tells me that there is no point in trying to extol the virtues of soaps to non-believers - or even the worth of a particular soap to someone inexplicably in thrall to another example of the genre - but there is something special about Emmerdale.<br /><br />I've written earlier about watching Crossroads with my mother. By the time of my regular Emmerdale viewing we'd be watching separately, though we would have chatted about the show over the phone or on my visits home. I have occasionally wondered why Emmerdale was the last to go, and why it continued to command her attention when Coronation Street palled. The argument which could be made about Emmerdale's blend of comedy and drama could also be made about the more established programme. In one scene after the death of Marlon's wife Tricia she revisits him as a ghost, something which it might have been correct to say had never happened in Coronation Street ... only then it did, with Jack and Vera. I can only say that such a scene feels more fitting, more natural, in Emmerdale.<br /><br />Perhaps it's partly down to the enclosed nature of the rural soap: it's a village, and although a town and city aren't far away it's cosier, more dreamlike, for viewers stuck in towns and cities than Weatherfield. The pace is, perhaps, gentler. Finally, however, I think it comes down to the acting and the writing: those variegated individuals who have given so much over the years to create this appealing and comforting dreamworld. I thank them all.<br /><br />At a certain point during the decades-old repeats I suddenly become aware that I was now, in effect, watching on my own rather than revisiting the experience of being connected to my mother. There are plotlines, whole rafts of characters, unknown to her ... and as Emmerdale is about to celebrate its fiftieth birthday with no sign of grinding to a halt it may well be that it will outlive me too. </p><p>A melancholy thought, but perhaps soaps will be to some future poet what trees were to Thomas Hardy, reminders of time passing: <br /></p><p></p><blockquote>Yet, Dear, though one may sigh,<br />Raking up leaves,<br />New leaves will dance on high -<br />Earth never grieves! -<br />Will not, when missed am I<br />Raking up leaves.</blockquote><p> </p><p><i> <b>Links:</b></i></p><p><i><a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2018/05/crossroads-in-my-life.html">Come to the Sabbat or Crossroads in My Life</a> </i><br /></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-66783977802809777512022-08-13T08:11:00.011-07:002022-10-15T04:18:11.078-07:00Jake Thackray biography Beware of the Bull now available<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28Tw4Snzkdqt6lCTEF3ocM_Vr6KdhWs-WuUBS7Bcf5XynOxv-_Z5R4Y5klePP7ISXzAm1SOlQDbuUUR_ZjvwrHAXV9voud9HvDsCsN2IKanqeHp9nj1phRWWP3hQ2lmirAKWN9yqylO2X1Wzc288UMqo5QAm6EI6OUWDRitTWZldFz8QrvDL0s50O/s648/el%20thack.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="472" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28Tw4Snzkdqt6lCTEF3ocM_Vr6KdhWs-WuUBS7Bcf5XynOxv-_Z5R4Y5klePP7ISXzAm1SOlQDbuUUR_ZjvwrHAXV9voud9HvDsCsN2IKanqeHp9nj1phRWWP3hQ2lmirAKWN9yqylO2X1Wzc288UMqo5QAm6EI6OUWDRitTWZldFz8QrvDL0s50O/w291-h400/el%20thack.jpg" width="291" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>The Jake Thackray biography having arrived, I couldn't resist devouring it immediately, even though it's the kind of work which ought to be savoured at leisure. What follows is more by way of a few initial thoughts than a comprehensive review, but based on my frantic run at the thing the good news is that the book is all that might have been hoped for and can be recommended without reservation to thoroughgoing Thackrayites and the Jake-curious alike. <span></span></p><a name='more'></a><br />Written with the cooperation of family and friends from all stages of his life and career, there is almost no section of the story which doesn't benefit from several viewpoints, to say nothing of extracts from Jake's own public and private writings. There is even an appendix with lyrics of a large number of unrecorded songs (although, sad to report, a song I remembered fondly from Tickertape survives only as a title). <br /><br />If fans already familiar with the outline of Jake's career have concerns about the portrayal of his final years they can be reassured that this period is sensitively handled. For those not already acquainted with the basics, Jake Thackray was raised a Catholic and became a teacher, writing songs for his pupils to sing, before those songs came to the attention of radio and television producers, leading to national fame through his regular appearances on Braden's Week and elsewhere. Over the years, however, an increasing dissatisfaction with performing, exacerbated by his alcoholism, led to his withdrawing from the spotlight altogether. <p></p><p>The account, in the book's closing chapters, of his decline seems perfectly pitched: it's not sensational but does include the odd telling comment from friends about evidence of some further deterioration. It all makes for saddening reading, of course, but the pace of those revelations feels exactly right - there is no sense of the reader being hurried along to the inevitable ending. It's also heartening to learn that for quite a while, when the wind is in the right direction and Jake feels thoroughly comfortable, he can still do a good gig - provided he has no sense of the weight of the audience's expectations beforehand.<br /><br />You could, I suppose, view this story as a cautionary tale about the corrosive effects of fame - even though fame wasn't something which Thackray actively pursued. Once on the performing treadmill, however, it seems to have been difficult for him to get off. His dislike of larger venues, preferring the intimate connection with audiences in clubs and universities, forced him into doing more gigs, cutting into time once available for reflecting and songwriting. Yet there are contradictions here: he may have disliked TV's weekly deadlines, feeling he was producing substandard work as a result, but later he came to regret the absence of the discipline which such commisions had once imposed.</p><p>This fable-type aspect of his rise and fall may mean that the book's appeal could extend beyond the devotees who pre-ordered their copies and attract a more general readership for whom Jake might be a distant, if fond, telly memory, or perhaps a name cited as an influence by some artist they admire. Here's hoping it will prompt them to explore beyond his best-known comic numbers. </p><p>For those, like myself, already broadly acquainted with the story, the pleasure will be in having so many gaps filled by this admirable book, which it's difficult to imagine being surpassed. Quite apart from anything else, it represents a technical triumph in its marshalling of so much information: despite having hordes of voices to sort out and arrange, the narrative always remains clear, the chapter endings compelling the reader onwards. The writers' style isn't showy, but there's no doubt that this is a book by people who know and understand their subject - hardly surprising, as both are intimately acquainted with his work in practice: John Watterson performs as tribute act "Fake Thackray", and Paul Thompson has also sung his fair share of Jake's compositions. </p><p>Which may explain why the many capsule accounts of songs in the book are so satisfying, whetting the appetite by conveying a sense of Thackray's intentions without falling into the trap of quoting from the lyrics at length and spoiling the pleasurable surprise of the recordings exploding in the listener's ears for the first time.</p><p><i><b>Question</b></i>: As a result of reading it is this complex man now, to use Arthur Miller's phrase, "wholly known"?</p><p><b><i>Answer:</i></b> Despite
the multiplicity of voices, no; but maybe we are now as close as it's
possible to get. </p><p>This really is a consderable achievement and a great service to all those who have wanted to know more about this beguiling artist.</p><p></p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p><i><b>Paul Thompson has asked on social media that people buy a book directly from the publisher, Scratching Shed, rather than a certain
well-known online retailer. You can do so <a href="https://www.scratchingshedpublishing.com/products-page/biography/beware-of-the-bull-the-enigmatic-genius-of-jake-thackray/">here</a>. I can certainly vouch for the fact that Scratching Shed dispatch their
books promptly: I ordered a copy for a friend which arrived two days
after placing it.</b></i></p><p><i><b> </b></i></p><p><i><b>Two Jake Thackray-related posts on this blog: </b></i></p><p><i><b></b></i></p><p><b><i> <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/01/on-again-on-again-jake-thackray.html">On Again! On Again! or Strangers on a Train</a> <br /><br /><a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/02/ralph-william-and-jake-and-davy.html">Ralph, William and Jake (and Davey) or Act As Known</a> <br /><br /></i></b><br /></p><p> </p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-54458228159699787992022-06-25T06:58:00.002-07:002022-07-20T12:26:23.590-07:0025 Glorious Years of Pizza<p>Today marks 25 years since a play of mine about a pizza delivery man and his determinedly awkward customer was first performed. It was part of a writers' showcase based around food - the theatre producing it had recently moved to new premises in an area associated with eateries. The building's transformation from its previous use had not yet been completed, however, and perhaps because this event took place before the official opening there is little mention of it online. Which seems a pity to me - and I daresay five others might feel the same, though they will have to tell their own stories in their own doo wop-related blogs.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><br /><br />I remember my play with great fondness and pride, as it was a breakthrough of sorts. On and off, over the last two years, I'd been labouring over something much longer and had made the fatal mistake of directing most of my efforts into polishing and repolishing the dialogue before I really had a clear idea of the overall shape, of what it was about. A writing tutor summed up my plight with painful directness: "The trouble with your play," he said, "is it should be like this" - he drew an arrow on a paper napkin - "but it's like this" - I looked down at the oval he'd drawn. A literary manager felt the same: he initially used the tactful term "writerly" - but later, when I'd been redeemed by my fast food fantasia, the word "turgid" slipped out.<br /><br />The pizza play was different - not just the resulting work but my approach to writing it. I had submitted a couple of ideas for consideration for the showcase, the other of which was in a similar mode to the earlier piece: would-be witty dialogue without any clear sense of characters' intentions. <br /><br />Luckily the theatre chose the other submission, one which seemed so simple that I knew I could do it in my sleep. I knew the endings for each of the three scenes, and I think I had also sketched out the characters' wants and needs. <br /><br />The result of having this solid grasp character and structure was that writing the dialogue came easily: I didn't have to strive to be clever or funny and the lines came without too much effort. They seemed right and the play felt all of a piece. (With the "turgid" opus the literary manager had asked at one point: "Which of these six plays do you want to write?")<br /><br />I also benefitted from having the safety net of a close friend and writing buddy, whose opinions I trusted, and from being in a small writers' group with him at the time. One piece of advice I got from one of the group's sessions was useful: at one point one of the characters had left the room, and it was suggested to me that that would lessen the tension. The idea of their being trapped together made immediate sense and I went with it.<p></p><p></p><p>I also felt that perfect balance between involvement and distance which is the mark of the true artist: I knew that I wasn't the person depicted but it was very easy and natural and pleasurable to consider what verbal or other weapons I might deploy if I were in that situation.</p><p>I'm not sure whether it was a conscious decision but I wrote one scene per day, first thing in the morning. Earlier I had tried to begin at my place of work but immediately knew it was far too important to attempt with the ever-present threat of distraction in my lunch hour. Maybe, when I finally sat down to do the deed, I felt a mild tension over whether I could pull it off or maybe not; all I can say is that memory insists that the act of sitting down and writing on those three mornings made my toes tingle.<br /><br />I wasn't allowed to be part of the rehearsal process other than speaking to the director over the phone in the evenings. I recall that at one point he expressed his surprise that I knew the details of the play so intimately; that surprised me. Didn't he realise that it was, well, rather important to me?<br /><br />Anyway, it was duly put on and from the beginning worked very well, helped by having Dino's That's Amore ("When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie ...") as the introductory music to lull the audience into a sense of pleasurable anticipation. An accident of casting also helped: I had intended the pizza man to be Italian or Greek but the actor selected to play him didn't really look convincing as either, so I agreed with the suggestion that he should be Eastern European. Which added another layer: it suggested a reason for his standing and passively accepting the customer's mockery in a way that someone more secure about his position in the country wouldn't have tolerated - or not for long, anyway. <br /></p><p>Having only had one piece on before, and only for a single performance, it was interesting to see how things changed from night to night. In each performance the dominoes would start to fall in a slightly different way, dictating the rest of the decisions the actors made. Sometimes the audience found matters immediately funny; on other occasions the mood was considerably darker right from the off. </p><p>The play was so well received that I had the momentary illusion that I was now standing on an "up" escalator and that henceforward success could not but attend my endeavours. It didn't, of course, and there have been any number of misfires or might-have-beens in the intervening years. Don't worry, I won't go into them in detail - you will doubtless have your own woes - but one of the reasons which may be worth mentioning here is that you can hold a one-act play in your hand, as it were, but a full-length piece involves more conscious deployment of craft, more consistent application, over a longer period of time ... and every step forward is also an opportunity for self-doubt, especially when a play is a considerable way down the line: has a decision altered the play for the worse in some way not immediately apparent?</p><p>But none of that was on my mind when I read the first review a day or two after that first performance. I'd missed it in that day's paper, but was handed a copy at the box office before I went in to see the play again. (I couldn't imagine being anywhere else during the run.) Having already been toiling at the craft for some years by then it felt like a vindication.<br /><br /></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-53494767523813255162022-06-09T02:49:00.002-07:002022-06-09T08:21:50.592-07:00Jake Thackray biography<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXkK2J0DC01LCUASiPmkCKnt8LdeR_UXFKZp0unn2NNYxFX9X5MTOdn75w6qLBQuUgCSjVslNPhZ7hWEzaTWJfXv2kl7h1D0q9DnUYWadno-4b36fbe6DNf0KId3EINA5_wgJoY1M1m4_brWYFEfHeSr3kDhtW85ESzPRLXsbFxbyI0jsftA5l4_u/s689/jakebiog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="502" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXkK2J0DC01LCUASiPmkCKnt8LdeR_UXFKZp0unn2NNYxFX9X5MTOdn75w6qLBQuUgCSjVslNPhZ7hWEzaTWJfXv2kl7h1D0q9DnUYWadno-4b36fbe6DNf0KId3EINA5_wgJoY1M1m4_brWYFEfHeSr3kDhtW85ESzPRLXsbFxbyI0jsftA5l4_u/s320/jakebiog.jpg" width="233" /></a></div> <p></p><p>A biography of Jake
Thackray, written with the cooperation of friends and family, is
due to be published by Leeds-based company Scratching Shed this August. I don't think anyone will be disappointed.<br /></p><p>Paul
Thompson, cowriter with John "Fake Thackray" Watterson, recently posted
the above image of its cover design on social media advance orders are already being taken - the Scratching Shed website is <a href="https://www.scratchingshedpublishing.com/products-page/biography/beware-of-the-bull-the-enigmatic-genius-of-jake-thackray/">here</a>. Publication date is August 11th. The hardback book, running to 464 pages, is £20 and post-free in the UK, which sounds like a pretty good deal to me. I read a short sample in draft form and can't wait for the whole thing.<br /></p><p>Here's part of the description on the Scratching Shed website: <br /></p><p></p><blockquote>The book reveals a life as extraordinary his writing: the hard childhood in the terraces of Leeds, remarkable Catholic education and formative years in France and war-torn Algeria; the first career as an inspirational, unorthodox, highly creative teacher; the meteoric development as a writer and performer, and discovery by the BBC; the Abbey Road recordings and impact on The Beatles; the fame and fortune brought by a remarkable television career... and Jake’s rejection of it all. It is the story of a charismatic, complex, self-effacing man who remained an enigma even to his friends. <br /></blockquote><p> </p><p> <i><b>Other posts about Jake Thackray</b></i>:</p><p></p><p><b> <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/01/on-again-on-again-jake-thackray.html">On Again! On Again! or Strangers on a Train</a></b></p><p><b><a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2010/02/ralph-william-and-jake-and-davy.html"> Ralph, William and Jake (and Davey) or Act As Known</a></b></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p><p></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-50847915096337988692022-05-08T10:56:00.003-07:002022-05-08T11:03:07.611-07:0014 Karat Soul's first TV appearance<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTn6I2BhUqdAucY9qugdY-3ehX5nQczNBHavQnjBq8FQC0cn9QbgVtiwlle7LCwS6fYSfYHsgMIBsknAvS5GkCRJiCvlrGRWcWW5E047seeN3Kbph17GSNwXcEjwsU4bpAHOHT1AsV-IoR6Ap_ZDWQ1pFXktU3SoUcIKDlxzbgDONbitNIe7rQhwI/s970/14ks%20snl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="746" data-original-width="970" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTn6I2BhUqdAucY9qugdY-3ehX5nQczNBHavQnjBq8FQC0cn9QbgVtiwlle7LCwS6fYSfYHsgMIBsknAvS5GkCRJiCvlrGRWcWW5E047seeN3Kbph17GSNwXcEjwsU4bpAHOHT1AsV-IoR6Ap_ZDWQ1pFXktU3SoUcIKDlxzbgDONbitNIe7rQhwI/w400-h308/14ks%20snl.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>I had despaired of ever seeing it but 14 Karat Soul's first ever TV appearance, on Saturday Night Live on January 24th, 1981, can now be viewed online at the Internet Archive website, which is cause for celebration if you care for this sort of thing. <br /></p><p>I saw this line-up around a year or two later in the UK, and for me this will forever be <i>the</i> group. They appeared in the original modest workshop-type production of The Gospel at Colonus and Sister Suzie Cinema at the Edinburgh Fringe, and I saw their normal stage act quite a few times over the next few years in Scotland and England. </p><p>I've written about this experience several times, so I won't rehash it - links below if you care to explore - but the most important point, which I never tire of repeating, is that their subsequent studio recordings were but a pale shadow of the excitement of seeing the group, propelled by the bass voice of Reginald "Briz" Bisbon, performing in theatres. Even now I can't find the words to describe adequately how I felt over the nights of seeing them during a week's residency at the Mitchell Theatre in Glasgow in the early eighties: there was a moment of what I can only term rough magic during their opening number, Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, when the blending of their voices produced ... well, I don't know what. Their acapella single of that song doesn't have the studio effects of later recordings, so ought to be close to that experience, but isn't, at least according to my memory.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a> The visual and audio quality of the SNL appearance is adequate rather than good, at least in the form in which it can be accessed online, but along with a UK appearance on Channel Four around that period it probably represents the closest we will get to a record of the group live then.
The numbers on SNL are I Wish That We Were Married (with founder Glenny T on lead, though I'm pretty sure I heard another group member sing it on a later occasion) and That's My Baby, also with Glenny T. <p></p><p>No, not the "Yes Sir ..." song but a ditty written by Walter Spriggs and recorded by the Flamingos during their final session for Parrot Records before they signed with Chess. The performance didn't see the light of day until 1976, even though the Parrot masters ended up with Chess in late 1956. Unlike Golden Teardrops the Flamingos' version of the song wasn't a glorified acapella recording - a band is an integral part of the overall effect - but even so it still sounds pretty good as done sans instruments by the younger group. It was kept for near the end of the act at the Mitchell Theatre, as I remember.</p><p>I can't embed it here, unfortunately, but the SNL appearance can be found in the Internet Archive website <a href="https://ia903204.us.archive.org/5/items/saturday-night-live-s-06-e-08-robert-hays-joe-king-carrasco-and-the-crowns-14-karat-soul/Saturday%20Night%20Live%20S06E08%20-%20Robert%20Hays%2C%20Joe%20%27king%27%20Carrasco%20and%20the%20Crowns%2C%2014%20Karat%20Soul.mp4">here</a>. It starts 50'25" in; That's My Baby can be heard around 53'30", following a prolonged bout of applause for I Wish That We Were Married. It reminds of what I've written earlier, namely that they were so well received that it's hard to understand why they weren't bigger, though maybe you had to be there, marvelling at the effects achieved without any studio trickery.</p><p> Below is a round-up of earlier posts about this remarkable group:</p><p>A clip from a 1983 appearance on the Channel Four programme Switch can be found <a href="https://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2016/09/14-karat-soul-live-on-switch-channel-4.html">here</a>; they sing Crazy Little Mama and Take Me Back Baby. Again, quality is okay rather than great but it gives a suggestion of what it felt like to be there.<br /></p><p><a href="https://youtu.be/g_rXxW3bodc">Here</a> is a session they did for the BBC station Radio One around the same time. (I've linked direct to youtube as the clip doesn't seem to be opening in my post, which is <a href="https://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2013/05/14-karat-soul-as-they-should-be-heard.html">here</a>.)</p><p><a href="https://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2009/12/14-karat-soul.html">Here</a> is the first post I wrote about them.</p><p> And <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2017/08/flamingos-17-get-with-it-i-found-new.html">here</a> is a post about the Flamingos' original recording of I Found a New Baby. <br /></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8518649431129525958.post-53493923024561241172022-04-16T05:58:00.006-07:002022-05-01T04:02:21.741-07:00Repeat of Juke in the Back show about the Flamingos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fgcALfMoQPk/TiYCQrvVDuI/AAAAAAAADgk/IwsOitaGGRM/s1600/FlamingosChance.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fgcALfMoQPk/TiYCQrvVDuI/AAAAAAAADgk/IwsOitaGGRM/s320/FlamingosChance.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><p>
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For anyone who doesn't know, Matt the Cat's shows about the Flamingos in his Juke in the Back series are currently being</span></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> repeated via his website and can be recommended: he plays most of their records </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>and provides a potted version of their story along the way.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> At present it's Episode One, which covers the group's time on Art Sheridan's Chance Records, their first label (1953-1954); <span></span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the next part will feature sides from their next two Chicago labels, Al Benson's Parrot Records and Chess Records, then the final part will cover their unsuccessful period recording for Decca, followed by the long-hoped-for breakthrough with End Records and the huge success of I Only Have Eyes For You.</span></span><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At the time of this posting you can find the first episode <a href="http://www.jukeintheback.org/">here</a>; it will only remain downloadable for a few weeks so don't hang about.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you are already familiar with this blog you will know that I favour the earlier, more R&B-flavoured version of the Flamingos, especially during their time on Chance and Parrot Records; by the time of End Records it's more pop, albeit pop of a highly sophisticated sort. Which is not to say that they were above recording pop songs during that earlier time, but </span><span style="font-size: medium;">the results often came with a jazzy or bluesy accompaniment which added another dimension for the listener - in those days the idea of what constituted a rock'n'roll backing hadn't yet been been set in stone, and musicians got to add solos.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">While nothing matches the sublime Golden Teardrops, which you'll hear in that first episode, there are plentiful delights among the other sides for Chance, with lots of subtle musical details which repay repeated listening. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And in addition to the Flamingos' Chance releases you will also hear their version of September Song, which didn't come out till later. If you haven't heard the group beyond I Only Have Eyes For You, before, this programme may come as a revelation.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As Matt says during the show, for more about the Flamingos then Marv Goldberg's site, <a href="http://www.uncamarvy.com/Flamingos/flamingos.html">here</a>, is highly recommended. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you want to know about my own thoughts on the Flamingos - well, I'm glad you asked, as I've written a song-by-song guide, <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/p/blog-page_15.html">here</a>, to their output on their first two labels, Art Sheridan's Chance Records and DJ Al Benson's Parrot Records, before they took the brief trip to Chess Records. I'm delighted - and proud - to say that Marv Goldberg has called this "a wonderful analysis".</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There is now a full-length biography of the group available, written by Todd Baptista - you can read my review of it <a href="http://sweetwordsofpismotality.blogspot.com/2020/01/the-flamingos-complete-history-of-doo.html">here</a>.<br /></span></span></p>Pismotalityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326025086367299858noreply@blogger.com0