I find myself pre-disposed to prefer the Ry Cooder version of this because that's where I first heard it (and the version I, myself, play in open-D tuning). And because I have posted again and again and again and ... songs by Ry Cooder. My first SMM guest post as a possible SMM writer included a reference to Ry.
Ry Cooder fully credits Bobby Miller (of course he would) on his '74 album Paradise and Lunch, but I never dug deeper into the story of the song. Now that I have, I see that there was much that I missed. I knew that Ry regularly focuses on music that is at the roots of contemporary pop/rock. But without that exploration, I have been missing some great music.
Miller, known as a producer and songwriter, doesn't appear to have left a recording of himself performing the song. Me, I find it hard to imagine that a songwriter didn't also play the song in some version himself, but we'll have to rely on the version he first produced for/with Little Milton back in the '60s. I assume it was what he himself might have played - if in fact he played an instrument. I can also see what might have attracted Ry Cooder to come up with his own rendition. "It's the same old song .." but with a different beat. The original Little Milton version was released on the Checker label, a subsidiary of Chess records.
The notion behind the lyrics is certainly not new. What goes on behind closed doors that the walls could tell us about if only they could speak is a theme as old as ... well... the hills that could also tell a lot of stories. There's a peepin' tom side to it as well as an element of eternal truth about the human condition.
Geraint Watkins and the Dominators have a version
as does Koko Taylor
Here's a version by Dr Feelgood
And another from Duke Robillard that harkens back kind of to the original by Little Milton (at least in the strumming intro)
And another footle into the corridors of my consciousness, this probably little known name leaving a big gap in my vault of sounds and scenes. Possibly best known as one of the three frontline vocalists in 1970s soul-funksters Kokomo, she was a hell of a lot more than just that.
Flashback to the early mid 70s. Still at school, if towards the later stages, my musical tastes were broadening. As a boarder at a UK private school on the south coast of England, we were effectively imprisoned for weeks on end, albeit with some scant day release visiting rights into the surrounding community. An enlightened housemaster was keen to make our education rounder than just the slog toward university entrance grades, and arranged for occasional school trips to cultural events. This had included Steeleye Span the year before. I was keen to expand this idea, and had persuaded him of the virtue of Procol Harum, necessitating him listening to a record, and he signed my pass out. Astonishingly, he then, without even the presumed mandatory check, allowed me out to visit the Eastbourne Winter Gardens, where the Naughty Rhythms Tour was dropping by. Naughty Rhythms? This was three bands touring together, taking turns to top and bottom the bill, the bands being the chalk, cheese and chowder of Dr Feelgood, Chilli Willi and the Red Hot Peppers and Kokomo. I was a huge Chilli Willi fan, quite liked the cut and thrust of the Feelgoods, but was then unfamiliar with Kokomo. A bit like the Average White band, said friends, but with better singers.
It was a terrific show. I may have discussed it before. The Willi's were great, as expected, Dr Feelgood solid dynamo's, but Kokomo had me completely flummoxed. Loads of 'em, crammed on to the stage, with a hefty waft of Motown/Stax chops that was outwith my then comfort zone by a mile. Yet I was entranced. Sure, I knew of some of the members, the second guitar and bassist, Neal Hubbard and Alan Spenner, both ex-Greaseband and the man on saxes and flutes on nearly every then current record needing a parp, from Clannad to Bad Company, King Crimson to the Stones, the mighty Mel Collins, that being sufficient to defuse any innate prejudice against the style of music. But it was the vocals that stood out, four singers, three at the front, rounded out by those of the fella on keys. The three at the front were Paddy McHugh, Frank Collins and the person I am writing mainly about, Dyan Birch. Taking turns at lead and backing, each had a distinct personality and, collectively, a stunning ensemble hit.
But it wasn't the first I had heard of them. A dimly recalled hit single of a few years before betrayed a similar sound. That song, Friends, had been a favourite of mine, by short lived band, Arrival, the self-same trio, along with Tony O'Malley, who had also joined Kokomo, as the aforementioned fourth singer and piano player. Having enjoyed that song, with Birch singing the lead, McHugh and Collins alongside a then additional female singer, I was ready to enjoy their new direction.
Birch was born in Liverpool in 1949, it being realised early on that she, McHugh and Collins had something. After Arrival had left the building, the trio and O'Malley expanded the concept, in London, and, in truth, had greater expected of them than was ultimately delivered. Hot on the heels of the AWB blazing a UK blue eyed soul strain, with a stellar range of musicians backing, including also Jim Mullen as lead guitarist, later a bigger name in jazz, they never quite staked their claim. True, it was a time of change, with the long hairs of prog rock gradually being sidelined by the more adventurous turks of pub rock, ahead of then being totally, if temporarily, blown out of the water by punk. For a ten piece band playing melodic, soul-infused rock, this had them somewhat out of time. A slightly diffident first release, Kokomo, in 1975, was followed by the more confident Rise and Shine, three years later. By now I was in London, and caught them a number of times, in pubs and clubs, as well as seeming to be the perpetual support act for as number of lesser bands. Mullen had left, his jazzier noodling actually a distraction, and the band seemed more focussed. But it couldn't and didn't last. Even the kudos of the band having been absorbed into Bob Dylan's Desire recordings couldn't sustain them.
Thereafter came a number of rests and reunions, lasting until the death of Alan Spenner in 1991, he and Birch having been partners. The years that followed kept she and the rest of the 'girls', as O'Malley affectionately called the trio, busy, on the sessions circuit, working with and for Bryan Ferry, Terence Trent D'Arby, Alison Moyet and many more, a delight being to spot them, unexpectedly, on Top of the Pops, sashaying around behind any number of other performers.
Kokomo again rose from the ashes in 2008, but Birch's health was failing and her voice beginning to go. She retired from the band in 2014, a victim to the COPD that eventually finished her off, this year. Kokomo continue sporadic performances, now down to Collins, McHugh and O'Malley, fleshed out by a roster of exemplary sidesmen and women, if, when possible, often also featuring a returned Jim Mullen, Alan Hubbard, Mel Collins and percussion superwoman, Jody Linscott, herself an original. At no performance does a mention of Dyan Birch go unmade, with tributes to her part in the story and legacy of the band. Truly, the voice of an angel, singing, below, Aretha's song of the same name:
As an afterword, here's and interesting piece I dug out, relating the the period between Arrival and the establishment of Kokomo. Likewise a set of great video interviews with Frank Collins, that go into some depth his shared history with Birch.
Sting was famously a teacher, something the lyrics, and video, of the Police hit Don't Stand So Close make no small reference to, although surely in fantasy, it seeming hard to imagine any teenage girl being enraptured by the gormless looking Gordon. But this is not about him, this is the other side of the coin. This song is the world of crushes and besottedness, and relates more to the phenomenon of the spotty teenage oik, gazing in slack-jawed awe at the woman of his dreams. Add in the scenario of an all boy school, maybe a boarding school, and you can see how it happens, that teach being, perhaps alongside Matron, the only female form for mile, age and comeliness no hurdle for the bubbling surges of testosterone. And it's actually quite a bit creepier than Sting and co.
At least Danny Adler, onetime guitar jockey for pub-rock stalwarts Roogalator, made no bones about it. An unheralded talent who went largely unlauded then or later, he started off a guitar for hire in Cincinnati, getting gigs with some of the local blues scene talent, folk like Bootsy Collins and Slim Harpo. He later moved to San Francisco, hooking up with further bigger blues names, such as John Lee Hooker and T-Bone Walker. Another packed suitcase had him later being part of Frank Zappa and (later) John Lennon acolytes, Elephant's Memory, in New York. So quite how he came to be in London come 1971 is anyone's guess, other than the wanderlust that had led him to study jazz guitar in Paris.
Roogalator were a classic right band in the wrong time, and they shoulda and coulda, were it not for that timing. Part of the fizzing pub rock scene, where any style of music, whether derived from blues, from country, or from soul could make a name and a living of sorts, provided the sounds were held in sway by a tight rhythm section and the songs were short(ish) and catchy. The stirrings of an antidote to prog, more accomplished and more innovative than the later dawn of punk which, in turn, kicked pub rock off the stage and into the footnotes. And, yes, it's true, many of the denizens of that early 70s movement revived and reinvented themselves as new wave dawned, becoming elder statesmen feted to this day, your Nick Lowes, your Elvis Costellos, Graham Parker even. Not quite so was the lot of Adler, although he was, for a time, part of the studio band set up by Dave Edmunds and Nick Lowe, under the names, variously, of the Disco Brothers and the Tartan Horde. Nothing of any great repute came therefrom, but it is interesting to consider what if made the the cut for the band Rockpile, instead than Billy Bremner.
No relation to the similarly London locked harmonica king Larry, or at least I think not, he then retreated to his roots in blues and boogie boogie, next popping up as part of the often Charlie Watts and Jack Bruce helmed collective, Rocket 88. In truth it was probably more the baby of Ian 'Stu' Stewart, the perennial 6th (Rolling) Stone, whose barnstorming piano play was a permanent fixture in their early career, even if his lantern jaw and short hair had him officially sidelined as their roadie. Lured in by the prospect of Watts and Bruce, neither of whom showed, I caught a memorable show by this two pianos and lashings of brass throwback to the 1940s, at Dingwalls Dance Hall, the fabled venue at Camden Lock, London. The nerdy looking guitarist with an astonishing tone was Adler.
After the demise of that project, itself probably accelerated by Stewart's death, Adler became an integral part of another collection of UK jazz and blues veterans, the De Luxe Blues Band, many of whom were seasoned session men from the 60s british blues boom, as indeed was Dick Heckstall-Smith, the ex-Colosseum reedsman, who later joined. Eventually his itchy feet again caught up with him and he returned to the USA. Since that time, the early 1990s, he has been continuing to plough his own idiosyncratic furrow, as well as buffing up his Roogalator and other back catalogues. The featured song for this piece comes from a collection, Hub-cap Heaven, about which I can find little, other than the purchase link below. The song is from 1986, seemingly the album part of a trilogy about early postwar England and America. Maybe. His personal website is intriguingly incomplete, his material, new and archive, seemingly best sourced through Bandcamp, with information via Facebook, as well as sporadic new offerings. Any guess as to whether or how this supplies a living is open to conjecture, but, if it works for him, all power to that.
This is becoming topical, as the thoughts of our leaders turn to whether we, the great unwashed, albeit with very clean hands, can or should be crushed by the restarting wheels of industry. Which is more important, survival of the species or of the economy? With, as ever, the failure to appreciate the fairly solid link between the two. Maybe by both sides, but I am simply a medic, not a businessman. As I start writing, the Observer Sunday newspaper over here, the U.K., has published an opinion poll, stating a 4/5 majority wanting to err on the side of caution and to maintain the lockdown. However, many of the politicians are in the smaller subset, it seems and feels, with Boris uncharacteristically unforthcoming, with perhaps his throw of the dice having given him an unwelcome perspective, absent ahead of his hospitalisation. Anyway, one of the ideas out of lockdown is a concept of family 'bubbles', a named small list of family/friends with whom you may consort. So, who do you love? Enough?
The song is by Bo Diddley, the owlish rocker with glasses, often a bowler hat, funny shaped guitars and an unshakeable self-belief. Always looking for ways to aggrandise himself against his peers, the idea came to him as he witnessed a group of kids trying to outbrag each other. Full of arcane images to conjure up dread and a sense of mystery: rattlesnakes, skulls and graveyards, by showing he is the biggest baddest Daddy of all, he begs the question of his lover: Who do you love? With but one expected answer. Covered so many times over the years, I am sure we all think we know it, so the original may come as some surprise:
Bo Diddley
It doesn't even carry much of the trademark Diddley shuffle. That would come later. And it wasn't even a hit, at least for Bo. It took Ronnie Hawkins, the journeyman Canadian rocker, to get it charting, admittedly in his home country. The vocal is all swagger, dipping into a manic frenzy at each verse/chorus end. Not bad for 1963. Name mean anything? Ronnie Hawkins. And the Hawks. Yup, I can see that glimmer of recognition. Those Hawks, later the Band, with incendiary guitar from Robbie Robertson.This they reprised, with Hawkins, at their own zenith, for The Last Waltz.
Ronnie Hawkins & the Hawks
Fast forward another five years, and we are in San Francisco. Local hipsters the Quicksilver Messenger Service were so taken with the song it became the entire second side of their second album, extends and interpreted into six separate "suites, blending live performance with studio work-outs. Indeed, so keen were the band on Diddley, they included another of his songs, Mona, on the flip. With twin lead guitars and access to all sorts of stimulants, this was a heady and ambitious project. Arguably no small amount of pretension but, hey, it was 1968.
Quicksilver Messenger Service
I confess I knew none of these versions as they dropped, my first exposure being via short-lived UK rockers, Juicy Lucy. I was 12 and found their 1969 rendition, as ever on Top of the Pops, sinister and exciting. This group were unusual for this country in that they included pedal steel guitar, via one Glenn Campbell, not that one and no relation. Sadly it has dated badly, and my rifle back into their catalogue prove disappointing likewise.
Juicy Lucy
Now I am all grown up, my tastes have broadened and I especially love covers. So, rather than penning words, here's some of my favourites, not all from expected sources.
Townes Van Zandt
Tom Rush
Carlos Santana (with the Fabulous Thunderbirds)
Dr. Feelgood
Dion DiMucci
So, decision time, who do I love? Who's going to be in my bubble? And how do make it happen?
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