ROCK HALL SNUBS: UK MUSIC HALL OF FAME

Always a bit baffled by the annual shebang of the Rock Hall of Fame, not least as it cuts so little ice over this side of the pond. Or maybe it's sour grapes cos we don't have the equivalent. It isn't really the style, especially in the arts, or, more to the point, the standard style of UK arts critique; we don't like success very much, with most British music journalism based on cutting tall poppies down to size. Whilst things are slowly changing, many, like me, are of a vintage where were we lapped up the vitriol of the inky music papers, bigging up new bands and new sounds, ahead of then slashing them to the ground with a sneer of derision. Even now, if a band or musician I like is on a run or roll of success and adulation, there comes the stage where I refuse to buy, or even listen to, their latest, for fear they get cocky and feel they can just rely on my patronage. Ha, say I, that'll learn you, with all your gold discs and sellout tours.Something that must cause them no end of tears and lost sleep, I'm (not so) sure!

There is also a hefty slab of the Groucho Marx in my personal frame of reference, vis à vis "I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member". Possibly why my address book is so slim, but it is an aphorism I sort of adhere to.

But then I read that we actually had had a UK Music Hall of Fame! It was set up in 2004, to celebrate the lifetime contribution any particular musician had made, regardless of their own country of origin, to music in the UK. Rather than being a bricks and mortar building or, even, a bona fide institution, it was actually a TV show. With the idea being that (pop) music began in the 1950s, electoral colleges were split into the then completed decades, 50s to the 90s. The first five founding members were enrolled automatically, presumably by the show's producers, with further membership up to the public, who would vote from a shortlist, again prepared by the show. The 50's shoo-in was Elvis Presley, the public offered Cliff Richard. For the 60's it was the Beatles by default and the Stones by virtue, with the perhaps brave decision to appoint Bob Marley for the 70's, the public vote going to Queen. Madonna and Michael Jackson got the 80's, Michael Jackson, perhaps surprisingly, the voted rather than the de facto, with U2 and Robbie Williams rounding off the selection, again in appointed and awarded order. I would argue less with the earlier years than the later, which is perhaps why, at the time, I gave it a miss and can't even remember it.

Queen with Paul Rodgers in 2004

2005 changed the format. This time a panel of sixty industry pundits were responsible. Looking to see who made the grade for this panel prove challenging, but the list of memberships awarded is an intriguing mix of the expected, with a few odd randoms chucked in for good measure. Aretha, Hendrix, Dylan, sure, who's quibbling, with the Who and Pink Floyd not any great surprise. Eurythmics, even, huge in their day, but solo Ozzy Osborne? Of course, there was a bumper awards ceremony, aping the US model, with initiates inducted by a gushing sponsor, and some musical interludes either involving inductees or lavish tributes thereto. Interestingly, the show was sold to and shown on US TV that year, with the award, induction and performance by New Order cut from the schedule. Presumably they cut too little traction with the US audience, but, taking the award for both Joy Division and New Order, I think them worthy contenders for the honour. I admire the courage of inducting them as much the cowardice of pretending otherwise.

Joy Division/New Order in 2005

2006 was altogether a glitzier one still, even if the nominees were still stuck mainly on the side of predictable. So Rod Stewart, Led Zeppelin, James Brown, Brian Wilson, Prince. And Bon Jovi. (I have no issues with the band, but mind this is ahead of individuals like Bruce Springsteen, Paul Simon, and Neil Young. Surely, even they were pretty darn big stars in the firmament of fifteen years ago.) That years curveball went to Dusty Springfield, another pleasing surprise.

A possibly refreshed Rod Stewart in 2006

For no particular or obvious reason, there were no awards and no show in 2007, and, in the following year, Channel 4, who had been responsible, quietly dropped it. So the snub, for the purposes of the theme, was to the Hall of Fame itself, and never more has it been heard of again.

(In similar circumstances and, in the same sort of vein, the UK also had a museum of pop and rock, the National Centre for Popular Music, a big and glitzy purpose built project, located in Sheffield. It opened, with much fanfare, on 1st March 1999, closing down, in some ignominy, a mere fourteen months later. I think the failure of each of these ventures represents not a failure of a vibrant music culture on these shore, far from it, but maybe just a combination of snootily not taking such populist culture seriously, and the aforementioned hatred of any of those darn tall poppies..........)

Random link.

Cutlery that cuts: The First Cut is the deepest

purchase [ P.P. Arnold's The First Cut]


Well ... actually, no intent on the part of the moderator to incite or encourage violence. On the other hand, in my note to SMM bloggers, I pointed out that most of the initial round of posts were focused on spoons - as opposed to the alternative forks and knives. (Neglected to mention sporks!) So ... either forks (possibly as ... in the road ... ) or, of course, cutlery of the cutting kind.

There are a couple of note-worthy versions of <The First Cut is the Deepest>, but the first that caught my attention was from Cat Stevens. Actually, it was Tea for the Tillerman that turned me on to Cat Stevens (later Yusuf Islam) and it was only after the hits from Tea for the Tillerman that I went backwards and forwards to catch some of his other work - including, belatedly, The First Cut.
Although his version pre-dates most of the equally well-known renditions by Rod Stewart and Sheryl Crowe, it isn't particularly well-known that the first released version is from P.P. Arnold (released just before Stevens' own version).


Looking at the Cat Stevens official version, I find myself considering the roads he has been down. I trust he still likes dogs.

The song carries a poignant story line: you never forget your first love-loss. Probably true, and even shrinks of today with all their research and methods can't say for sure if it's true or not, right?
Not much here in the way of blood and gore of the type perpetrated by knives and similar blades. Sorry. 

In the end, the most famous version of the song appears to be the Rod Stewart version, included on his 1976 "Definitive Rod Stewart" and later releases.

 

 

TRAIN: DOWNTOWN TRAIN/ROD STEWART

WhaaaaatTF? Surely a serious muso (sic) site like this wouldn't mess up so big time as the above heading? Rod bloody Stewart, fer chrissake... But hang on, hold that thought for a moment. And of course I know it isn't the original, but, whisper, it's better, an unpopular viewpoint, but still mine. Plus  it came at a time when there was still, just, a smidgeon of credibility in the Stewart cache. I think it initially appeared as a new song on the 'Greatest Hits' compilation of 1989, one of the first CDs I ever bought. A massive worldwide hit as a single, it probably introduced the name of its writer, Tom Waits, to many and certainly then to me. Like many, I then sourced the original, finding Waits' voice a step too far for my sensibilities, a situation that remains to this day, no matter how hard I have tried. But Stewart glides his rasp effortlessly through the sweeping chorus, deservedly winning the Grammy for best male vocalist that year, the richly layered backing pepped by Stewart's one-time boss, in his eponymous group, Jeff Beck on slide guitar.

So what is it with Stewart, a man whose music I had earlier loved, both with the Faces and alone? If 'Greatest Hits' was one of my first CD purchases, 'Sing It Again, Rod' had been one of my first on vinyl. My generation had been endeared of his boozy and shambolic persona, with the uncanny knack of both having a way with his own words and music, and being able to pick plum covers. The rot had seemed to set in with his transatlantic crossing, SWIDT, to be with Britt Ekland. As ever is the way, the fickle british uber-fans took umbrage with his fame and fortune and left him to their wives and girlfriends to enjoy, whose patronage lingers to this day, as my elder sister can testify. The odd gem could still be cherry-picked from his catalogue: the boy could still know a good song when he heard one, although that tolerance became ever more strained by his discovery of the great american songbook. Was he the first rocker to plough this lucrative furrow? Though I doubt we would have been spared Mr Dylans's forays into similar territory, I can think of many who might not have had that thought had Stewart, or his bank-manager, not had that thought first. ( I lie awake in dread of the forthcoming Seal tux'n'tapdancing travesty 'Standards.')

So, too, what is it with Waits, a supremely talented songwriter, whose songs, when covered by other voices, I adore? Am I alone in finding his corncrake throat-clearing anaethema? I sometimes think I must be, my friends and peers all seemingly in awe of him and his deranged Charlie Chaplin meets Charles Bukowski image, with his musical arrangements more of the foundry than the footlights. Or do I troll? (No, which is why I also include, for balance, or proof as I call it, his version of 'Downtown Train' below, with a couple more to take away the taste.)

Everything But The Girl

and Mary Chapin Carpenter

Get some versions here.

Me? I'm heading back under my bridge.

leftovers: another STE*

purchase [ I'm Losing You]

JDavid's latest post got me thinking: the STE* posts were mostly (Steve***) based. So... what about the  *** STE variation. As in Rod STE****.

Being of a certain age, I confess that I wore out the (vinyl) grooves on my legally-purchased copy (there really weren't (m)any other options back then) of  the "Every Picture Tells A Story" album - Stewart's best ever?  Methinks that '70, '71 and '72 were likely  Rod's best years. Every Picture (in the very middle of these years) is likely the best: it includes the songs you know: Maggie May,  Reason to Believe and Mandolin Wind.

Stewart's eclectic/convoluted past includes stints in The Jeff Beck Group, followed by the Small Faces, followed by the Faces. In fact, at the time of Every Picture, Stewart was still maintaining a connection to The Faces, and they appear on <I'm Losing You> - one of the better of several solid tracks on the album. It's not the tightest production - pieces of the timing are slightly off, but what matters much, much more is the feeling put into the work: one of their best IMHO: Ronnie Lane & Ronnie Wood! And there's Kenny Jones (later of Who fame) on the drums here as well. Whew! if you make it to the end of the clip - out of breath!

COLO(U)RS OF THE RAINBOW: HOMOPHOBIA

Sorry, but I find myself some way distant from all-out celebration.

Same-sex marriage, please don't get me wrong, I am all for the equality of opportunity so arising, and the equivalence of status, in law, if not the sanctity of the religious ceremony, for those who seek it, but. There remains a but, primarily a fear, the fear, that the bigots and the blind will use this as ever more rationale to champion their bluster, to bludgeon and bash, to blame the gay for queering their pitch. So the songs I propose remain those of the oppressed. And I hope to a pink garbed God that I am wrong. And that she will forgive me.

My love for erstwhile agit-p(r)op anarcho-punks Chumbawamba is no secret, their support for societal underdogs high on their many and varied agendas. This song, from 1994's 'Anarchy' spells it out starkly, in the style and format of an old English folk song. OK, so the scene described is arguably less common an occurrence these days, the weapons being now much more subtle and refined. But still vital listening, and it still makes me weep. Here's a different arrangement, with the powerful video made by the band:

Perhaps it is no surprise, but, here in the U.K., where same-sex marriage has been mostly* legal for shortly over a year, this has lead to similar "reminders", or rose-tinted warnings from the past, the most direct being the film 'Pride', commemorating the role of Mark Ashton, who formed the LGSM: Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners, during the bitterly divisive class warfare of the Miners Strike of 1984/5. (The same Mark Ashton to later die of A.I.D.S., commemorated here by his friend Jimmy Somerville of the Communards.) It's a good film, go see it.

(My asterisk* above denotes that the province of Northern Island, hotbed still of a fermented and fermenting religious hypocrisy, has differed from Scotland and from England & Wales by still disallowing the ceremony, allowing only civil partnerships, and with no plans to change.)

The lyrics of Rod Stewart's 1976 hit, 'The Killing of Georgie' might seem a little clunky nearly 40 years on. But, even with all our modern and civilised ways, especially with all our modern and civilised ways, I wonder. I guess it's up to us. And our children.

Buy Chumbawamba version 1 and version 2
Buy Communards
Buy Rod Stewart
And buy Pride, the film.

FOOTBALL/SOCCER : ROD STEWART

I bloody hate football, me. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself, as a brit, but, there, I've said it now.

The beautiful game is a waste of energy to me, and all the fuss and hyperbole leaves me cold. Furthermore, like the Charles Addams cartoon above, am I the only person over here enjoying the ignominy of the english early bath after 3 lack-lustre games? (Or so I heard, as I was certainly not going to waste our current glorious weather in front of a TV. And it is wonderful to walk and drive through the deserted streets of this country whilst the games are on.) In truth I was going to give this theme a miss, but I have belatedly been stung into prose by newcomer JJ's reminder of the horror referred to below, when my glorious Lindisfarne sullied their name and reputation with the travesty unwound in his piece. So how can I take away that flavour, yet stick within a theme with no resonance for me? And then it came to me: Roderick David Stewart, football trialist (failed) for Brentford F.C.

Now, in fairness, I am not that keen on Rod Stewart either, at least not these days. But there was a time when he could do no wrong. Ignore his ghastly gargles through the Great American Songbook and, more recently, Motown. Forget even the Britt Ekland  silk and satin years and beyond. (Do you think I'm sexy?No.Not one iota.) I refer to the gravel voiced guttersnipe, busking his way around Europe, before blagging his way into Steampacket, a multi-voiced venture with Long John Baldry, featuring also the then husband and wife, Julie Driscoll and Brian Auger. From CND sympathising folkie, Rod was now morphing into "Rod the Mod". A spell in the Jeff Beck Group led him into contact with longterm partner in mischief, Ron Wood. Upon the dissolution of the Small Faces, Ron Wood stopped their ship from sinking, as replacement for Steve Marriott, drafting in his old mucker on vocals. The rest is, as they say, history, with Stewart having dual success with the (no longer Small)Faces and with his own solo career. I loved those first 4 or 5 Faces LPs and his contemporaneous solo work, feeling his mojo became lost as he left the former to concentrate on the latter. One was tempted to ask him, as he became a megastar, where, Rod, did it all go so wrong? (On a football related note, this was often the question asked of George Best, legendary 60s soccer player, as he cavorted in baths of champagne with various Miss Worlds)

So why is Rod Stewart my theme, even if he once bid to play the game professionally? Why, so I have an excuse to play this wonderful clip from, as ever, my beloved Top of the Pops. Maggie May was arguably his breakthrough moment, and despite being credited to his solo career, it is with the Faces that he appears here, joined by famous underground DJ, John Peel, "busking" on mandolin, before the scene descends into a kickabout. Both Rod Stewart and John Peel were big afficionados of football, Rod, I think, famously being the most conscientious supporter of his Scotland side, themselves absent from many a world cup these last few years. I still hate football but I do love that clip.

Buy the song here!

Memories: Sailing

Rod Stewart: Sailing

[purchase]

In August 1977, when I was 11, my brothers and I went on a church camp. Unlike the other two I went on, this one was quite brilliant. The group, about 40 kids from 9-15, was great, and the vibe was fantastic, in part because the youth leaders (themselves just kids aged 17-19 years, but they seemed so much older to me) were very cool.

Most importantly, for the first time in my life, I was in love. Her name was Antje, a girl with brown hair and little freckles on her nose. It was a one-sided affair; I was much too shy to do much about it, other than carving her name on my bed’s headboard (and anywhere else I found suitable), and she was very shy too.

A night or two before our departure we had a disco evening. I dressed in my tight white jeans (to what purpose did my mom pack tight white jeans for a fortnight in a church camp?) and navy t-shirt. I was pretty hot stuff, but a terrible dancer. Still, I was intent on asking Antje for a slow dance, as some way to seal my (oh, perhaps our) love. To be sure that I’d know what to do should my scheme come to fruition, I asked one of the youth leaders, the ample-bossomed Doris, to practice with me. She kindly did, to Ralph McTell’s Streets Of London. The next ballad would be my cue.

After a never-ending string of Sweet and T Rex songs, played by my DJing older brother, the opening acoustic guitar notes of Rod Stewart’s Sailing sounded. Memory might deceive me when think that my brother might have tipped me off with a gesture of the hand; I like to remember that he did, rooting for his little brother as he tried to become a little man. So, in my tight white jeans and navy T-shirt, I arose and made a beeline across the dancefloor for the lovely Antje.

Halfway down, approaching from the right flank, came a chap called Roland. He was an affable fellow, but I sensed that he and I were aiming for the same target. I don’t remember whether I actually knew that he too had taken a fancy to the lovely Antje, or whether I saw it in the menacing glint of his evil eyes. He might have had his sights set on any number of girls cliqued together in the lovely Antje’s vicinity. Still, whether by intelligence or intuition, I knew his intended target right at that moment was my Antje. Roland. My nemesis.

It was like High Noon; tumbleweed blowing as nervous eyes darted hither and tither. Little me and big Roland, both going after the same girl as we strutted across the empty dancefloor with the entire crowd watching from the sidelines. Our paths met.

Instinctively, I shoulder-charged my taller rival out of the way. As he bounced off my shoulder and ignominiously tumbled away, I arrived in front of the lovely Antje, stood before her and asked with a boldness that belied my natural shyness whether she would dance with me, to Rod Stewart’s Sailing. She looked inquiringly at her best friend for approval. Her friend nodded consent, with a faint but assuring smile, hopefully impressed by my heroic determination to present her best friend with my love.

So Antje and I had our awkward first – and, alas, last – dance, as all my pals gave me the thumbs up, and the hapless Roland licked his wounded pride by plotting a revenge which he loudly announced but which never came (and if it had come, I still won).

I would love to tell you that for the last day or so of the camp we were inseparable and discovered inner yearnings and feelings of the kind which the adult Kevin Arnold would recount in his narrative in The Wonder Years. Alas, we could barely look at one another, perhaps sensing the hopelessness of our nascent romance, what with her living a long 45 minute bus ride away from me (or maybe we were just very shy).

I never saw Antje again. But not a year goes by nor a broadcast of Rod Stewart’s Sailing when I don’t think of her, of the feeling of my hands on the back of her slightly clammy T-shirt and her soft breath brushing against my neck. I wonder if she remembers me…