John: The Ballad of John and Yoko

10 days back, in my haste to get a new theme out, I neglected to search the SMM archives: In fact, back in 2008, SMM did a "Johns" theme. That said, there are plenty of Johns that weren't then covered and still haven't been covered this time around. Before clicking "Publish" this time around, I did check back into the SMM history, and while John Lennon has naturally been covered more than once here, I could not find another link to "The Ballad".

Recorded and issued in 1969, the autobiographical lyrics relate some of the events surrounding John Lennon and Yoko Ono's honeymoon - their selection of Gibraltar for the marriage itself, their bed-in for peace, their Vienna show called Bagism.

Although the song was released as a Beatles song, the only two band members recording the song were Lennon and McCartney: it was a single session where they overdubbed multiple tracks without either George or Ringo's input. Credited to Lennon/McCartney, it is primarily a "John" song.

Bits of the lyrics upset various folks, in retrospect, the controversy likely adding to the song's place in history. "Christ, you know it ain't easy .... They're going to crucify me..." For critics who recalled a Lennon comment years earlier about how the Beatles were more famous than Jesus, these words opened up old wounds. For the Spanish dictator Franco, the words "Gibraltar, near Spain" brought about a ban of the song in Spain. And of course, there were the many others who weren't at all inclined to graciously accept Yoko's position.

After all is said and done, the song ended up at #1 in the UK for 3 weeks. Rightly so.

JOHN: WARDLE

If you have an hour to spare, this says it way better than I can

Buy this early marvel

John Wardle. You've never heard of him, have you? However you may well be forgiven for that, as I suspect there are few, apart from his mother and various aunties, who still call him that, as he has spent most of the last 30 plus years with the somewhat more grandiose name of Jah Wobble. I appreciate that, stateside, that may still be a name less well known, but he oughtn't to be, as he is that rarity, a true enthusiast who has steadfastly ploughed his own furrow, exploring the wider frontiers of dubby bass motifs across any number of genres, and been allowed to. The only remotely similar reference would be Bill Laswell, who has been doing the same with his bass guitar across a similar time period. (Perhaps unsurprisingly they have worked together, of which more later.)

A schoolboy contemporary of both Johns, Lydon (nee Rotten) and Ritchie (aka Sid Vicious), he was an early consideration for replacing Glen Matlock in the Sex Pistols, before that particular job went to Ritchie, but he did hook up with Lydon eventually, in the first incarnation of Public Image Limited. Having been bowled over by the playing of Aston "Family Man" Barrett of Bob Marley's Wailers, reggae, and in particular, dub, was always a hefty part of his style. Indeed, he was one of the audience, apparently, at Marley's legendary Live at the Lyceum recording of 1975, along with the other hundreds of thousands who claim to have been in this small dance hall, capacity 2,100, that night.

After a clash of the usual musical differences, fuelled by substantive substance abuse issues, Wobble left P.I.L. in 1980 to start his body of solo material, coming into contact with various ex-members of Can along the way, collaborating therewith, picking up much of their freestyle experimental vibe. His first successful venture was as the bandleader of the Invaders of the Heart, which plunged the evanescent world music genre into a melting pot with dub and mystical overtones. With a central core of Wobble, Can metronome Jaki Liebeszeit on drums and current Robert Plant sidesman Justin Adams on guitar, live and studio performances were augmented by whomsoever had a broad enough palette to be involved, from pedal steel maestro B.J. Cole to the singers Sinead O'Connor, Natacha Atlas and Dolores O'Riordan. Further scuffles with drink and drugs necessitated a period away from and disillusionment with music, spending some years as a station announcer for the London Underground, where his deadpan vocal fitted the part perfectly.

1986 saw sobriety beckon and a return to music, now with a dedication encroaching on obsession, bringing his basso profundo into all and any genre previously untouched, from folk to free jazz, Chinese Chamber Music to dance/electronica. Collaborations with Bill Laswell were, unsurprisingly very, very heavy on the lower registers.

I first saw the Invaders of the Heart at Glastonbury in, I think, 1994, astonished at the prescient pulse of the band, a good decade ahead of the now routine meshing and melding of almost counter-intuitive musical paradoxities. Since then I have picked up a number of his recordings, and his discography is immense, never being disappointed if sometimes a little bemused. Somehow he has also managed to study and attain a degree in Humanities, at Birkbeck College in London, as well as write book reviews, poetry and a volume of autobiography.

Bringing him right up to date, he has recently revisited his P.I.L era work, as a duo with his erstwhile colleague therein, guitarist Keith Levene, not necessarily to Mr Lydons pleasure, he also out on the road with a similar project. And only this month he has brought out "Jah Wobble presents PJ Higgins", a vehicle to promote the eponymous Dub Colossus vocalist. I bought it last week and it is typically marvellous.

John: My Dog & Me (John Hiatt)

John Hiatt & The Goners: My Dog & Me
[purchase]

That handsome guy pictured above was named Strummer, after the great Joe, who died in December, 2002, about a year before his canine namesake was born. And, on Sunday, our Strummer passed away quietly, in his home, with people he loved.

I didn’t want to get him, and I didn’t want to have him, and certainly more than my wife and children, I resisted his considerable charms. For years, I took a predictably passive aggressive position about getting a dog. They talked about getting one, and I nodded and did nothing to advance the project. This strategy was remarkably successful for years, but one day, to my surprise, on a February day in 2004, I found myself in a minivan on the way to the North Shore Animal League. We looked at a bunch of dogs, none of which satisfied the selection committee (while I stood in the back, trying to remain detached). But when Adam found this little black Lab mix, with white markings, he was smitten, and his enthusiasm swayed his sister and mother. I was pretty much indifferent, although I had to admit that he was a nice looking puppy.

On the ride home, the little guy was scared, he sat on Adam’s lap, and even baptized him with piss. We got home, and were dog owners. Of course, in the traditional manner of all kids who promise to do all of the work relating to a dog, in reality, most of it fell on my wife, and to a lesser extent on me. At the time, I was working full time in New York, and my wife was home more, and cared more, so she did most of the heavy lifting.

Strummer was a good dog. He was, as could be expected from what we believe was a Lab/Pit Bull mix, very territorial. As I said on Sunday, he retired undefeated in preventing the mailman, the UPS guy and the FedEx guy from getting in the house, because he barked like crazy when they approached. In fact, he barked at pretty much anyone, or any dog who walked by the house. He especially seemed to hate these two greyhounds that lived in the neighborhood, and I used to joke that they had, as Woody Allen once said, “passed a remark” about him. But once we let you into the house, he was an affectionate and friendly guy, even though he grew to be about 100 pounds and could look pretty imposing. He loved my family unconditionally, and when my kids came home from college, he gave them an excited greeting that was something to see.

I have to admit that I kind of resented having to deal with him at times, like when it was freezing and he needed to go out, or when we needed to pay to have him taken care of so that we could go away for a day or longer. And as my kids got older and became more independent, I was not pleased about still having to worry about him. To be clear—it wasn’t the dog that bothered me, it was having a dog at all, which is a different thing, at least to me.

In March, 2013 I left my job in the city and started working from home. All of a sudden, I was Strummer’s main caretaker, which was quite a change for me. And we bonded a bit. I found myself talking to him in the quiet house, which for some reason seems somewhat less crazy than talking to no one. And at times, it wasn’t bad to come downstairs from my office to his wagging tail and hopeful eyes. Of course, sometimes he insisted on barking while I was on the phone with clients, or demanded to go outside when I wanted to do something else. And it was still a pain in the butt having to deal with taking him out during the winter, or when I was working. But we also started taking regular walks, and having Strummer gave me an excuse to explore local trails that I would never have chosen to walk alone.

Unfortunately, a few months back, Strummer hurt his leg, and the vet diagnosed him with a torn or strained ACL in his back right leg. Considering the cost of operating, the difficult rehab and his age, she advised only to give him pain meds and have him take it easy. So, the long walks stopped, and he became a bit more sedentary. He was still alert and seemed happy, if a bit hobbled, which I could sympathize with.

Suddenly, last Tuesday morning, he had trouble walking, and his “good” back leg was swollen. The vet hoped that it was just an infection, but suspected something worse. On Thursday, we got the diagnosis of lymphoma, and a bad prognosis. His condition deteriorated quickly, and a few family friends and relatives came to say goodbye. By Sunday, he couldn’t walk at all. We knew it was time to let him go, and had the vet scheduled to come to the house that afternoon to put him down. But, before that, and sitting with Adam as he did that day he joined the family, Strummer completed the circuit of life and died on his own terms. We buried him on the perimeter of the territory he guarded so jealously, with Adam, his girlfriend Robin, my wife and my parents standing by, and with my daughter watching on Skype, sadly only 6 days before she would be returning from a year abroad.

We aren’t religious people, so we don’t think that Strummer is off in some big dog park in heaven running with Max and Maggie, or his friends from day care, but I’m glad that he is no longer in pain. I know that all of us—even me—were enriched by his life and his years as part of our family. You’ll be missed, big fella.

Clearly, John Hiatt had a dog that he loved, because the lyrics to “My Dog & Me” could only have been written by someone who did. I mean, Hiatt is a great songwriter, and all, but this song has the ring of truth.

John: Uncle John’s Band

[purchase the Dick’s Picks version]
[purchase the original Workingman’s Dead version]

The Grateful Dead are an incredibly polarizing band. On the one hand, you have the haters, people who dislike the jamming, the psychedelic weirdness, the oblique lyrics, the often weak studio albums and the sometimes questionable harmonies. And then there are the legendary Deadheads, for whom the band was more than just a group of musicians, who followed them around the world, obsessed over their setlists and, to this day, nearly 20 years after the death of Jerry Garcia, still follow various remnants and splinter groups.

And then, there is me (and, I suspect I am not alone). I like the Grateful Dead. I like them a lot. I think that some of their music is remarkably good, particularly their more Americana-sounding stuff, but I’m not by any means a Deadhead. Although I recognize that they were much better live than on most of their studio albums, I saw them exactly once, in 1979 (more on that later), and I have never seen The Dead, The Other Ones, Furthur, Phil Lesh and Friends, RatDog, the Rhythm Devils, or any other of the post-Dead ensembles (although I kind of regret missing Phil Lesh and his sons playing at Princeton reunions a few years ago, with Stanley Jordan sitting in, but I was having fun with my classmates at the time. You can’t do everything).

I have two strong memories that relate to the Grateful Dead. The first was from 1974, when I was a 13 year old junior counselor at Gate Hill Day Camp. During lunch, they often blasted The Dead on the stereo, usually the recently released From the Mars Hotel album, which I really liked, especially the song “U.S. Blues.” That was the summer that the Watergate scandal was coming to a head, and as a politically aware kid, I understood how Nixon had subverted the law. Later that summer, we had a resignation party, which was great. But I also appreciated the dissonance (although I wouldn’t have used that word) of the hippie, druggie, anti-Establishment Grateful Dead writing a fun, almost positive song about America, waving the flag “wide and high!”

Jump ahead 5 years, and now, I’m a college freshman. I’m roadtripping to Lafayette College to see the Grateful Dead for the first (and, as it turned out, only) time with my high school friend Chris, who was at Lafayette (and some friends from Princeton, although I really can’t remember who). Things were going well as we waited outside the fieldhouse. It was a few days before my 18th birthday, and there were things to drink and smoke, none of which were legal for me to partake in, but, hey, it was still the Seventies, man. I even saw my cousin Billy there—he was more of a Deadhead than me, and came over from Muhlenberg, as usual with a beautiful girl in tow.

It was a general admission concert, and when they opened the door, it was a mad rush to get in. People were getting jostled, knocked over, pushed. When I got close to the door, I saw my cousin standing over his girlfriend, protecting her from the crowd, and I jumped in, pressing my hands against the wall of the fieldhouse to create a safe space for his girlfriend, until we went in. You can read more about the “’tidal wave’ of overzealous fans . . . who pushed through three doors . . . “ which was like “’the sinking of the Titanic and the mad rush to get to the lifeboats’” and the other security issues that resulted from the inexplicable decision to only open three doors from The Lafayette, here (as well as the fact that the band was surprisingly punctual, clean and easy to get along with). It was hot in the fieldhouse, the acoustics were not great, and I was completely freaked out by, you know, almost getting trampled. Only a few months later, at a Who concert in Cincinnati, 11 people were killed getting into a show. My memory was that for the first set, I was unimpressed, but the second set came alive. I’ve listened to recordings of the show, and read some comments about it, and it seems that my memory in that regard was accurate. Until I heard the recording, though, I had no recollection whatsoever of what they played. And I can attribute that to lots of different things, but you can speculate all you want.

Which, in a roundabout way, brings us to “Uncle John’s Band,” a song I chose because it fits the theme, but it is really just an excuse for me to tell my two Dead stories. Although it was not performed that day at Lafayette College, it is one of their most popular, and was often played by the band and on the radio. It’s accessible melody and Crosby, Stills and Nash inspired harmonies make it one of the Dead songs that even many non-Dead fans appreciate. Although like most lyrics by Robert Hunter, it is hard to figure out exactly what he means, it appears that the song is at its core a reference to “Uncle John” Cohen of the New Lost City Ramblers, an old-time string band that also included Mike Seeger, Pete’s half-brother, and a distinguished and influential musician in his own right. Cohen, a musician, photographer, filmmaker and musicologist. married Mike Seeger’s younger sister Penny. For much, much more about the song, its lyrics and what it all may mean, take the time to read this.

The obsessive nature of Deadheads, the band’s permissive policy on taping, the fact that every show is different, and the vast network of traders (even before the Internet facilitated such things) have resulted in spirited debates over the “best” version of their songs. For “Uncle John’s Band” there are a few contenders, but one of the most popular choices is the version in the video above, from a show at the Oakland Arena on December 26, 1979 (only a few months after I saw them). The show was a benefit for the Seva Foundation, a health care charity which focuses on vision care in poor countries and Native American communities. Bob Weir is an Honorary Lifetime Board Member of the foundation.

Ultimately, the entire show was released by the band as part of the Dick’s Picks series.  I lack the breadth of Grateful Dead knowledge to have any way of knowing if it is, in fact, the best version (if such a thing can even be determined). But I have to say that there is something really nice about the feel of it, the quality of the guitar solos and the harmonies, that make it special. And the band must have liked it, too, because they decided to reprise the song at the end of their last encore.

JOHN : BARLEYCORN (reprise)

John, eh? Big bad? B Goode? (Or even be good, Johnny*.) 99? Or should it be the still warm Winter, J, R.I.P, hoping it will be for someone. Cash, Paycheck, Copeland, and the Hurricanes? Cale, Mayall, Elton or the Dr himself? Too much choice, too much choice. So what could I think of? Why, only the same bloody thing as Darius, esteemed senior fellow SMM scriber, came up with a mere 5 years ago. D'oh! Too bad, but since when did that ever stop me? If imitation is flattery, surely plagiarism is more so? You judge.

Luckily I love a cover version, indeed collect them, so I'm not going to play this one , however brilliant it is. And it is. I might play this one, though , given its altogether simple revisiting, Winwood's voice having mellowed and matured in the decades between.

So what's my take on the song? Simples. It is no more and less a love song to beer, or more specifically, to ale, that curiously warm brown liquid we prefer on this island. Or used to. Ironically, as the never ending spew of yellow fizz seems to be slowing down elsewhere, given the surge of craft  beers in the US and Australia, so the more brits are selling their palates to cheap froth, "brewed under licence". I can admire a good lager on it's home territory, but stealing/borrowing the name, and brewing a flaccid fauxsimile in a factory near Leeds is not quite the same thing. (Our american readers should not worry unduly here, Bud seems to be shit wherever it's made.) And anyway, a cold yellow beer needs something equivalently yellow, but hot, in the sky to cut it. I have been in Turkey for a week and the Efes brand hit the spot wonderfully there, but this is the United Kingdom. It has been thunderstorming since I returned. So as I type I have a trusty bottle of Old Hooky to my side from the world famous, well, in the Cotswolds anyway, Hook Norton brewery. And jolly wonderful it is too. Neither too strong or too weak. Just the thing for getting together in the country, and I am sure that Messrs Winwood, Wood and Capaldi were not unfamiliar with the fruits of this village, Hook Norton being also the name of its home.

But I ramble. Beer can do this. Lager makes you burble, but beer is a sturdier pilot. I am mentioning Traffic when I said I wouldn't, so with no further ado, I'll bet you didn't know Black Francis had turned his attention and interest to this song. Who'da thought it, with his sylph like, but nonetheless, it's true. To be honest, I was never a big fan of the Pixies in the day, but I remember when this LP came out in 2006, a little later than SMM usually prefers, and was intrigued 2 ways, firstly by the fact he was covering, OK, revamping near entirely, this song, but also that he was backed and produced by the legendary and exemplary Stax/Muscle Shoals team, producing one classy piece of work. Also includes a fab version of Ewan, father of Kirsty, MacColl's Dirty Old Town. And the, um, intriguingly entitled Kiss My Ring. It's called Fast Man, Raider Man, and is widely felt to be a follow up to the similarly eclectic Honeycomb of a year before.I highly endorse it. Clearly sold diddly, as he is back a-Pixillating as we speak.

*Why the asterisk? Just a memo to whomsoever covers Johnny B Goode to remember this antipodean oddity