Jonh Ingham - My Back Pages

Rock Shrine No. 1 - 12

2011-10-28T17:25:00.028Z

Rock Shrine No. 1 - The 2 I's [Cliff Richard and The Shadows]

The Two I’s was the birthplace in the 1950s of British rock and roll. In this coffee shop's tiny basement Cliff Richard and the Shadows were discovered. So were Tommy Steele, Joe Brown, Mickie Most and two synonymous with later styles, Paull Gadd (aka Gary Glitter) and Deep Purple's Ritchie Blackmore.

The Two I’s features in Stoned, the first volume of Andrew Loog Oldham’s wonderful memoirs, since it’s central to the film Expresso Bongo, a seminal event in young ALO’s life. It also features in the film Absolute Beginners.

These days it is an Italian restaurant.

Expresso Bongo

The 2 I’s, 57-59 Old Compton Street, London, W1D 6HP

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Rock Shrine No. 2 - Abbey Road [The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Oasis]

The most famous building on the most famous street in Britain. This is EMI Studios, Abbey Road. Converted from a Georgian house to studios in 1931, nearly every artist on EMI until the 80s recorded here. It is of course most famous as the recording home of The Beatles. The zebra crossing that appears on the cover of ‘Abbey Road’ is about 100 feet up the road to the left of the photo.

This is Studio 2, where The Beatles recorded nearly all their albums and Pink Floyd several of theirs (including Dark Side Of The Moon). This is also where Cliff Richard and the Shadows recorded ‘Move It’, the first British rock and roll single. The room is almost exactly as it was 40 years ago – the rest of the building is very different, especially Studio 3, where a lot of the last two Beatles albums were recorded.

The stairs lead up to the control room. I was once told that Paul McCartney was so used to this studio he had a photo of the room taken from the window of the control room and a fake window with the view put into his own studio so he could feel comfortable.

Paul shows Ringo and George Martin how you make a hit record…

Abbey Road Studios, Abbey Road, London NW8 9AY

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Rock Shrine No. 3 - The Saville Theatre [Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles]

In 1967 this was the Saville Theatre, where Brian Epstein promoted a series of concerts.
A young Peter Gabriel saw Otis Redding here. It’s most famous for the Jimi Hendrix Experience. ‘Sgt. Pepper’ had been released two days earlier and Jimi kicked off the  show by playing the title song while Lennon and McCartnery watched from the audience.

The Saville, 135 Shaftsebury Avenue, London WC2H 8AH

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Rock Shrine No. 4 - Friar Park [George Harrison]

Henley is a beautiful town on the River Thames where several stars and artists live. Both Dusty Springfield and George Harrison were residents, though it’s a safe guess Dusty’s house was more modest.

In the old days the main road to Oxford went past George’s gaff and it was a busy road. Now it is bypassed. From the road all you see is 1/2 a mile of wall (literally), and a couple of gate houses – extraordinary examples of rococo Arts & Crafts. What a sight to greet you on your return home!

Friar Park, Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire

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Rock Shrine No. 5 - Great Marlborough St. Magistrate Courts [Sid Vicious]

The photo is of a hotel lobby but in 1976 it was a Magistrate’s court. But not just any court. This is the location for several very famous rock star busts in the 1960s involving various Rolling Stones and Beatles. But more than that...

In 1835 Charles Dickens worked here as a court reporter. In 1895 Oscar Wilde filed libel charges against the Marquess of Queensbury, leading to the famous court case that ruined him. In 1963 Christine Keeler was in court over charges that led to the Profumo affair and the collapse of the government. That's some history.

But about those rock stars…

1969: Mick Jagger was fined £200 for drugs charges
1970: Case against John Lennon for exhibiting pictures which were too sexually explicit in the London Art Gallery dismissed.
1970: Artist Francis Bacon accused of possessing cannabis
1971: Songwriter Lionel Bart charged with possessing dangerous drugs
1973: Keith Richards was fined £205 for possession of marijuana, heroin, mandrax, a revolver and an antique shotgun.

He’s So Vicious

At the 100 Club Punk Festival Sid Vicious was arrested and the next morning appeared at this court. He sat in the dock about where the person is with the suitcase. His face was a puffy mass of bruises from where the cops had been banging his face into a table at the station the night before. He was remanded to Ashford Juvenile Prison, an experience that really scared him because those kids weren’t playing.

For him to get bail someone had to put up a surety – a backup in case he did a bunk. Because I believed him innocent and the cops arresting him had openly broken the law, I put up my house as security. The bail was set at £1,500 – the house was only worth £11,000, so a pretty hefty bail amount. A week later he was back in the same court and his face was still all blue from the bruises. Trial date was set for a few months later.

The trial happened right after the Pistols came back from Sweden. When I got to the waiting room Sid came over, beaming, and with a big smile introduced his new girlfriend. He was really, really happy. Nancy was as nice as she could be but in 30 seconds I was thinking ‘Oh boy…’ and everyone else was thinking the same. The judge ruled ‘not guilty’.

Now known as The Courthouse Hotel, it is opposite the top end of Carnaby Street, just around the corner from the London Palladium.

Courthouse Hotel, 19 – 21 Great Marlborough Street, London W1F 7HL

Hotel Web Site

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Rock Shrine No. 6 - The Roxy [The Clash, Johnny Thunders]

In 1977, this window was the entrance to The Roxy, the coolest punk club in town. (It was the only punk club in town.) Through the door you went downstairs to a functional-cool big room, with the stage at the front and the bar at the back. Don Letts spun the discs between bands and filmed everything with his 16mm camera. If you go downstairs in the shop, imagine a couple of hundred punks jamming to The Clash and Johnny Thunders. It’s at 15 Endell Street, two or three blocks from Covent Garden tube station. Opening night at The Roxy:

The Roxy, 15 Endell Street, London WC2H 9BJ

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Rock Shrine No. 7 - CBS Studios [The Clash, The Stooges]

This building used to be CBS Studios.

Hundreds of bands and artists have recorded here but today let’s talk about four. The Stooges recorded Raw Power in Studio Three. The Clash recorded their first album in the same studio. They also recorded a number of singles, including White Man In Hammersmith Palais. Mott The Hoople recorded "Roll Away The Stone" and "All The Way To Memphis". Happy Mondays recorded Gonna Step On You Again.

In the 80s it became an independent studio – Whitfield Street Studios – under the ownership of famed producer Robin Millar. Unfortunately, the last recording session was on 29 September, 2005. It is now empty.

CBS Studios, 31 Whitfield Street, London W1T 2SF

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Rock Shrine No. 8 - The Pavillion [The Beatles]

In 1964 this was the location for the premiere of The Beatles film A Hard Day’s Night. It is now a shopping mall called the Trocadero. Located on Picadilly Circus. The Pavillion, Picadilly Circus, London W1D 7DH

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Rock Shrine No. 9 - Regent Sound [The Rolling Stones, The Kinks]

Regent Sound is where The Rolling Stones recorded all their singles and albums until they moved operations to RCA in Hollywood. All the great first singles, those hot r’n’b numbers that make up the first album…This is where they were made. Many other "beat boom"groups recorded here as well. Most notably The Kinks, whose records made at this studio got the attention of Jimi Hendrix. When he first met guitarist Dave Davies he wanted to know how Dave got the sound on the solo of "You Really Got Me". Today it’s an instrument shop and very aware of its history. Inside is a wall of period clippings and photos of the Stones and other groups who used the studio.

The window is currently Beatles themed. The Rickenbacker is a 1964 model of the type used by John Lennon in that year. Yours for £1499, about $2800. Next to it is a 65 blue Fender, the same as used by John and George in 1965, the first time (the card helpfully says) they used Fender guitars. It’s £1400 or $2800.

Regent Sound, 4 Denmark Street, London WC2H 8LP

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Rock Shrine No. 10 - 6 Denmark St. [Sex Pistols]

6 Denmark Street was the home of Sex Pistols Steve Jones and Paul Cook in 1976. They lived in a pretty disgusting room on the first floor. It was also a rehearsal space in the band’s early days. The building is just a few doors down from Regent Sound. (See Rock Shrines No. 9.) The building and windows look much cleaner than they do in reality. It still looks like a disgusting space.

Rock Shrine No. 11 - St. Martins School Of Art [Sex Pistols]

On November 3, 1975, The Sex Pistols played their first gig at St. Martins College of Art and Design. It was arranged by Glen Matlock, who was studying there at the time. They were thrown off before finishing their first song.

St. Martins is on Charing Cross Road, just around the corner from Denmark St.

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Rock Shrine No. 12 - 100 Club [Sex Pistols, The Who, Kinks]

The 100 Club has a long history. It first opened its doors in 1942 as the Humphrey Lyttleton Club, a jazz club where even Louis Armstrong played.

After 22 years it changed its name to the 100 Club and started booking rock acts, including The Kinks, The Who, The Pretty Things and John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers. Blues giants like Muddy Waters, Albert King and Otis Span have played here. In the early 70s I saw Ian Dury play a number of times in his first group, Kilburn and the High Roads.

On 30th March, 1976, a new band played – The Sex Pistols. The Pistols started a Tuesday residency in May that went through the summer; they became regulars until the end of the year. There were times during the summer that I was standing 20 feet from the stage and I was at the back of the audience.

On 20th September 76, The 100 Club Punk Festival happened: The Sex Pistols, The Damned, The Clash, The Buzzcocks, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Subway Sect, The Vibrators and French band Stinky Toys. Promoter Ron Watts kept saying there would be 300 to 400 people coming and none of us believed him. When we came to the front door there was a line stretching down the street and around the corner. Those two nights were fantastic – loud, sweaty, exciting, fresh.

The 100 Club continues to present music. In 1982 Metallica did a secret gig. The Rolling Stones played there in the early 80s as well. In 2010 it looked like the club might close. Still owned by the same family they were hit with a big increase in rental fees. As part of the effort to save it Paul MacCartney played. In early 2011 Converse sponsored the club to ensure the club stayed.

Thirty years after the Pistols kicked a musical revolution into action, the club is exactly the same. When so much has been torn down, repainted, made corporate, it’s refreshing to see such sacred ground left alone.

Official web site

100 Club, 100 Oxford Street, London W1D 1LL

Map Location

The Divining Rod And The Lost Vowel. On Tour With The Patti Smith Group

2011-10-17T13:00:00.006Z

TODAY

In ritual did we seek salvation. The disc upon the turntable. The tone arm carefully placed. The chrome arm slo-mo falling and the needle touching wax. That sound, of diamond tip touching, is the sound of anticipation running towards the mystery of the first listen. There’s always mystery in the first listen. Will it be worthwhile? Will it reveal itself all at once or slowly over time? Will it reveal anything at all? Will it bring me salvation?

“Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine”. Sacrilege? Fact? Salvation? Definitely a spectacular opening statement. She strides on. For 40 minutes the needle rides the waves and troughs: spiky sounds and weird smooth noise, proudly stupid songs and sophisticated sonic vistas. It stands outside the traditional forms, and grasps for rare emotions. Then it reaches….

It starts in half-promise, looking for its purpose over tentative, improvised music. The artist doesn’t seem convinced by her poetry. She’s invoking good/bad Johnny, the angel leather jacket boy, and it’s just words. Awkward words, and unsure sounds. Then the music finds a primal pulse and the voice speaks life into Johnny and the velocity is building and
Suddenly/ and her voice mounts the music’s beat
Johnny gets a feeling/ and it becomes urgent and exciting
He’s surrounded by horses, horses, horses, horses/ and it’s entering the ecstatic place beyond chords and words
Coming in from all directions/ and in a tumbling gallop Patti Smith carries you to the biggest continent imaginable, the land of a thousand dances.

Her first album, Horses arrived in Britain in late 1975 saddled with the weight of expectation. For most people it was the first document from the new groups in New York busy deciding what modern Seventies music should sound like. These bands were little more than names that worked the imagination: Television, Talking Heads, Blondie, The Ramones. Great Britain was a Jurassic landscape in Dickensian thrall, the nation happy for the innards of Bleak House to ooze across the country like primeval tar, sucking down and drowning anything modern. The people who literally and metaphorically owned the land deemed that three TV channels and one popular music radio station (for most of the country) was enough media for modern culture, filtering it for safety through the bog of Light Entertainment, a concept dreamed up to ensure that frivolity was polite and frothy and harmless.

In spite of this the decade had started strongly with T. Rex, Bowie, Mott The Hoople, Roxy Music, Slade and Gary Glitter, but as these teen titans crested into the downside of their creative arc, or moved to Manhattan the better to concentrate on the hearts and minds of young America, nothing had grown to replace it. From Wick to Cam Towen it looked used up, worn out. Into this tar pit land came the occasional report and photos from the stirrings in New York at CBGBs. They were intriguing, but no beacons of hope. The occasional self-produced singles from some of these bands, hunted down in specialist record stalls, were not promising. But Horses came with the imprimatur of a major record label. Everyone could buy it.

Born in 1946, Patti Smith was old enough to know the world before rock and roll. The world before “teenagers”. She read and heard poetry when it was the de facto place to go for rhyme powered truth, when poets dreamed they could change the world, before it was overwhelmed by the iambic pentameters of Chuck Berry and Lieber/Stoller. She understood, in a way that anyone born after “Hound Dog” never could, the salvation offered by the passion of Little Richard, the sexual promise of The Rolling Stones, the white-heat of The Who and Hendrix, and the raw spirit of bands like Them. Her poetic tradition flowed from Blake through Byron and Rimbaud to The Beats and those with the beat: Chuck Berry, Dylan, Jagger and Richards, Tim Hardin, Lou Reed, Jim Morrison….And slowly she started searching for the horizon between them.

At first she thought of herself as a poet. Then, at an important reading she decided to bring to her poetry “the frontal attack of rock and roll”. She asked rock critic Lenny Kaye to add guitar. It worked. He stayed. They started to map a new territory, speaking opium poetry with a rock and roll mouth. Keyboards were added, another guitar, drums. It included her in the CBGB tribe, the only female group leader besides the lipgloss–and–platinum Debbie Harry, whose gossip-point was that she used to be a Playboy bunny, about as far as you could get from the skinny, androgynous, crumpled hair Smith.

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It’s only in the future that we can see what really happened in the present. In 1975 what we think we see is a woman with a Brian Jones haircut and a thumbed-up Season In Hell making an extraordinary music that barely has cult status. What we learn years later is that in bedroom sanctuaries and mental safe-houses and on imaginary guitarland stages, a revolution is starting with an act as simple as a needle on a record.

The misfits and the square pegs are hearing secret alphabets, saying, come, go with me, here are some maps, everyone is a tourist, everyone an immigrant, everyone a stranger. You will get lost, you will have your wallet stolen. Don’t drink the water. Go further! We have remedies and folk songs rearranged and games that kings forbid. Don’t waste the dawn. Progress. The world moves! You are not invisible. Princes and thieves have constructed pyramids in honour of your escaping. What names they have given them! The Frug, The Pony, The Jerk, The Watusi. The Mashed Potato. With raw iron soul they can be yours. Just answer this: Are you worthy to enter? Then gather at the marina and shove off.

In 1971 Smith had co-written Cowboy Mouth, a two part play with Sam Shepherd. Her character kidnaps the other and tries to remake him into her image of a rock and roll saviour. She fails. But life improves on art. People were gathering at the marina; Horses was making the people who dream of being somebody but won’t ever be somebody, into somebody. Michael Stipe called it Ground Zero for a new music, “the defining moment in my life". That’s nice - and there’s no underestimating how many young men put Horses into their music arsenal alongside The Sex Pistols, The Clash and The Ramones. But it was women who were most inspired to claim the music and the life as their own – to look artist-thin cool in a black leather jacket and junk store discoveries, to write songs about easy sex and free money, to make three chords soar in feedback joy – to ignore and dismiss the whole male ideal of a female musician – the floaty dresses, the big mascara eyes and the bedroom lips, the sculpted pop hairdo and the straight chanteuse hair, the songs about waiting for her man, getting her man, losing her man, standing by her man…all those…rules.

Power is never given, Smith’s art said. Be responsible for your own experience. The rules are what you make them. You can do the impossible, it’s there for the taking.

By the 1990s so many sassy female groups and musicians existed a cliché tag like Riot Grrl couldn’t corral them all. Stipe was right. Horses was Ground Zero, its influence spreading like virulent half-life radiation. First of all the punk groups: The Slits, The Raincoats and The Bush Tetras, Siouxsie And The Banshees, X-Ray Spex (oh bondage up yours! indeed), Exene and Phranc and the early Go-Gos in LA. Then Chrissie Hynde. Chrissie was a woman you saw around the city, living in a cheap room with a mattress and a guitar and writing songs. She was shy but boy did she have attitude and you never thought for a minute that she wanted to be a star like Joni Mitchell or Carly Simon; she wanted to be a star like Mick was a star or Dylan, in control and calling the shots. Which she became. And then: Courtney Love, Kim Gordon, Polly Harvey, Shirley Manson, Missy Elliott and Queen Latifah, tough-minded business people like songwriter Dianne Warren…Still they come: The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Kills, Meg White, Beth Ditto, Adele…each generation continuing to give voice, expression and confidence as the owners of their own destiny.

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In May, 1976, The Patti Smith Group came to Europe on a mad, one country per day tour, their first time on the road. England’s two punk groups The Sex Pistols and The Damned were a few months old and the converted knew every London punk by sight. I was a writer at the music weekly Sounds, living the new sensation and spreading the gospel, so a tour of duty with the group was a natural. However, after the clear-cut manifestos of Malcolm McLaren, The Patti Smith Group was not so simple.

1976

LONDON: A few minutes before The Patti Smith Group is due for a run-through on the TV music show The Old Grey Whistle Test, Lenny Kaye sits on the drum podium, fingers idly walking the unplugged fretboard of a black 1957 Fender Stratocaster guitar. Modestly famous for compiling ‘Nuggets’, an archive album of Sixties ephemera that shows the most important music often happens in the margins, Lenny has recently made the transition from rock critic to rock critic’s wet dream, a full-time musician. Even though the group will only play for eight minutes all their guitars -- the Gibson Firebird, the Les Paul Sunburst Finish, the Cherry Red – are reverently displayed with rock and roll piety. This is it kids, what 2,000 years of Christian civilisation has strived to perfect: the electric guitar.

Drummer Jay Dee Daugherty appears, immaculate in white stovepipe jeans and braces, and after checking his kit picks up a guitar. On the monitor a film clip of Paul McCartney starts crooning ‘Yesterday’. Lenny underpins him with flashy guitar fills. Then from the other side of the podium comes a stumbling run. Never taking his eye off the monitor, Jay unleashes a shaky melody of quaking, out of tune notes.

Ivan Kral and Richard “DNV” Sohl appear and they pick up guitars. It seems you just can’t start the job without being sanctified by the six-string. The band is without attitude, low-key, discussing what and how they will play. This is their second television appearance and it has taken much time to decide the two songs and one of them, ‘Land’, normally goes for 20 minutes.

Patti walks across the studio floor, quite small and incredibly thin. Fiorucci jeans hug pencil legs over boxer’s boots. An ochre coloured Indian shirt that could double as a dress might have been pulled out of Keith Richards’ laundry bag. Her shipwrecked hair obscures Bob Dylan ‘Don’t Look Back’ Wayfarer sunglasses. That is just clothing; what the eye continually falls on is a supple houndstooth cashmere Yves St Laurent jacket, a prize from her belief that when you have some money you should spend it on something very expensive that will make you feel good through the times with no money.

The Old Grey Whistle Test is British TV’s one concession to the belief that rock has become an adult art form. Master of Ceremonies ‘Whispering’ Bob Harris treats music with reverence and expects his musical guests to do the same. A few months before, he famously followed an appearance of the New York Dolls with an apology for their musical noise. Flash clothes, flash moves, flashbulb excitement -- these have no place on the Old Grey Whistle Test, so having The Patti Smith Group on the show is an unusual choice.

In the confines of a stage barely big enough for the group to stand Patti creates great theatre: whipping off her shades exactly as the pulsating intro breaks into ‘Land of a Thousand Dances’, suddenly dropping on her knees in front of Lenny as though to eat his guitar. The cameramen leap quickly but by the time they focus these TV moments have passed. When they draw to a close there is an electric, tangible atmosphere – no-one moves or speaks except for the whisper of Harris from the other side of the studio.

Between takes Harris talks to her. He seems nervous and its easy to see why; a close encounter is like a double barrel shotgun pressed to the temples. Barrel one: she wears the New Yorker’s archetypal belief that they rule the world as only non-native New Yorkers do. Barrel two: she has that confidence, that rock and roll arrogance, so rare in the modern musician, that in stars we call charisma. I mean this as a positive. She’s lively, fast, funny, and uninhibited in the way stars are. Watching a video of Jimi Hendrix laying waste to ‘Hey Joe’ and ‘Sunshine Of Your Love’, she whoops and hollers and encourages the boy to rock and roll. Later, Lenny, DNV and writer Paul Gambaccini are discussing old New York doowop hits like true music obsessives and spontaneously start singing a classic tune; suddenly she improvises a verse over it with an ecstatic smile, making it both theirs and her own.

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Because musicians naturally gravitate to clubs, we are sitting at a table in The Speakeasy, a basement Mecca that’s been cosseting rock stars since the 1960s. Cultural giants have rocked on its stage and found sustenance at its bar. Cameras are banned and journalists discouraged. Shenanigans and indiscretions, the metier of the rock star at play, are thus given license and privacy. On this Tuesday night none of these things is happening. Then a tall man enters, sees Patti and warmly says hello. It is obvious from the strut of self-confidence that he is a rock star but his acne scarred face is anonymous. After he leaves Patti reveals: it is Gene Simmons of Kiss, they of the greasepaint faces. In a rock world that values as essential qualities credibility and heartfelt truth, the clownish vaudeville turn of Kiss looks like an easily dismissed joke. It’s not as if they’ve troubled the Top Ten. In an approving tone Patti divulges that last year Gene Simmons made three million dollars. It’s hard to decide which is stranger; that she is a friend of Kiss or that he made so much money.

Being people who are constantly in proximity to wealth while having none, we marvel at Gene’s good fortune.

“I never keep money,” says Patti. “I spend a lot in one day and then scrimp for months.”

”I’d like to have enough money that I didn’t need any more,” says photographer Kate Simon.

“Honey,” comes the reply, “A woman always needs money.”

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PARIS: Two days later. The band has performed in Copenhagen the night before and their equipment is late. Finally, both coincide at the Elysee Montmartre, where the hoarding advertises ‘The Dirtiest Show In Town’. Group is separated from tools by enough crowd spilling into the streets for the police to demand the doors be opened or the concert cancelled. Unknown to the group, a second, early show has been added so without a sound check they perform their debut Paris concert.

It’s a tawdry place, originally a ballroom, with gingerbread ceiling and a minstrel gallery. From the stage Patti surveys the room and reckons this is the kind of place Nijinsky must have danced.

“It’s a strip joint,” yells someone in the audience.

“Well, Nijinsky did a lot of stripping,” she smiles.

Expectantly we watch to see what magic The Patti Smith Group is made from. About the fourth song Patti starts to improvise in verbal cut-up, the music drowning out sentences and thoughts, but others leaping clear: “Don’t you know the blackest thing in Harlem is white?” Between numbers she works hard to establish rapport, making silly jokes, encouraging the audience to make noise and be wild. The reading of Jim Morrison’s ‘American Prayer’ leads into ‘Ain’t It Strange’. It builds, Patti beginning to wail, punching fists and dancing around the stage like a dervish. “This is no avant-garde project of me/ I’m still trying to be your valentine…Everything I’ve done has been with one object in mind/ Deep in my heart I know rock and roll will be beyond poetry/ Beyond soul/ Deep in my heart of me I see a glorious future for me.”

One of their best songs: ‘Radio Ethiopia’, the station for those so over-infatuated with reggae they start speaking Rasta-ese, building from a dubular base to a soaring rock riff and then on into space. Patti chanting: “I take Rimbaud, Artaud, Verlaine/ You take Buddy Holly, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison.” Triumphant: “It’s like one big cultural exchange!” Mantra-like: “I take Artaud, you take Jim/ Now I’m back to remerge them.”

The audience is devotional, cheering, calling out, throwing books to her. It is just hot and sweaty and smoky enough and the band just good enough to convince yourself you feel part of the great beast, the vampire animal come to feed its soul with electric megawatt rock and roll input. But really, we all want to make it more special than it actually is.

Unsatisfied with her audience she berates them. “Oh come on man, this is Paris!” When the cheering and celebration dies down she yells over the music, “Paris means nothing to me, Paris is just a word,” and then they blast into ‘Land’ and ‘Gloria’.

As the audience fights its way out after the last strains of ‘My Generation’, two Americans expound to each other.

“Wow,” he says. “She was too much woman for me.”

“Yeah,” she breathes ecstatically. “It was too much, man.”

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With the benefit of a soundcheck the second set is fantastic. Lenny and Ivan work in unison, trading bass chores and often ignoring them, keeping things together with tight, slashing rhythms. Ivan remains more or less where he is while Lenny utilises a rocking sidestep to launch into guitar hero evocations. DNV maintains an almost motionless pose, keyboarding by feel with long, elegant fingers, staring intently at Patti the entire time. Jay kicks the proceedings along with an expression near weeping.

Patti bounces around the stage in her boxer boots, floating like a butterfly, punching the air with her fists, the only clues that one of her icons is Muhammad Ali. By 1976, adoring Ali is a given, but Patti’s identification seems to go deeper.

When Ali first burst into the boxing world as Cassius Clay, the Establishment didn’t respect him as a fighter. Most thought he couldn’t box – a heavyweight was meant to wade in and flatten the other guy and Clay skittered around the ring like a stone across water with his hands at his hips, dancing, dancing, leaning back just far enough when the opponent launched a punch for the glove to miss, then connecting with a flurry of hard punches before floating away out of reach. He was so fast, so pretty, he was the greatest. But as he became World Champion, adopted Islam as his religion, changed his name, Ali demonstrated that he was more than just the world’s most famous athlete – he was a black man who refused to play the white man’s game, who stood up and demanded, in a hostile world, to be regarded on his own terms as a beautiful, successful human being. And he did it, largely, by an intuitive ability to improvise, to react to situations with speed and wit, “the lead actor in his own American drama,” as biographer David Remnick put it. Patti is old enough to have watched this drama unfold as it happened and it’s tempting to think she sees parallels in her own life, not only in the fight for acceptance but also in how the improvisation within the ring matches her own performances.

During ‘Ain’t It Strange’ she starts dancing with Lenny, grabs on to the organ and arches her back, then whirls around in circles until she collapses on the floor. Staggering up to the mike she grabs it and hauls the next verse from deep within her. She begins reading ‘An American Prayer’ over the most evil guitar/bass/drums run. “We are ruled by TV…Give us one more hour to develop our art and perfect ourselves…This is Radio Ethiopia...and you’re on.” As a primal rock riff starts she picks up her guitar and watches Lenny’s left hand intently. She begins playing, stops and clues in again, gives up and repeats the process with Ivan and then spins to the microphone.

“Deep in the heart of any man is the fear. The fear of temporary loss of control!” It’s a triumphant cry, followed by the pick tearing down the neck until she finds the proper fret and scrapes the top string to oblivion. She drops to her knee by a monitor and administers more marrow scraping. The circle of photographers leans in as close as possible, clicking madly.

For the encore the band stand in a line, DNV standing blank faced with a fag hanging from his insolent lips, picking bass guitar with well-developed one finger style. They play a perfect version of ‘Time Is On My Side’, followed by the obligatory ‘My Generation’.

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Post-gig interviews are conducted in a dazed, exhausted atmosphere. Rock et Folk writer Philippe Manoeuvre disdainfully asks about all this Rimbaud shit. Patti ignores the implication of a homeboy dismissing his own poet, replying that it’s not the poetry so much anymore as the life.

Ah yes, the life. In 1976 the conceit of the Artist as a Romantic, living life for Art, life imitating Art, still appeals to those who see themselves as creatively outside the commercial mainstream but still want Top Ten success. The fascination is so strong that musicians even adopt their names -- Tom Verlaine! Phil Rambow! – and you have to admit it does look, well, romantic. Shelley drowning off the Tuscan coast and his friend Byron cremating him on the beach, brains boiling out of the broken skull into the flames; the preening opium addict Cocteau, with a library’s worth of inspirational texts, images and some of the century’s most startling and original films to steal from; a poet here, a painter there, and above all the poster boy, the teen prodigy Rimbaud, with a drug lover’s manifesto espousing a long disordering of the senses – “For he arrives at the unknown!” – abandoning art at 19, shot by his lover Verlaine, then roaming through Algeria and Ethiopia to an early death. It’s a pantheon to aspire to. Even rock bands who see an icon in Andy Warhol and instead practise the concept of artist as businessman, like the Rolling Stones, very ably disguise it behind a screen of romantic outlaw chic.

The Stones are another of Patti’s icons, especially Keith Richards. But then he’s practically everyone’s icon; as early as 1964 Fab magazine called him ‘the mainspring of rhythm and blues’ and by 1975 Sounds journalist Barbara Charone had updated it to, ‘when Keith Richards opens the door, rock and roll walks into the room’. Keith personifies the romance of excessive times, summed up in the 1972 Annie Leibowitz image of him passed out on a backstage chair, pink tinted hair a stranger to a comb, long Moroccan scarf draped around him, ruffled shirt open to the waist, silver cocaine snorter on a chain around his neck. He looked cool.

Between ’68 and ’72 the Stones produced probably the most compelling work of their career. Not just big statements with difficult questions and answers like ‘Midnight Rambler’ and ‘Sympathy For The Devil’, but also gems like ‘Bitch’, ‘You Got The Silver’ and ‘Moonlight Mile’, vivid panoramas both simple and sophisticated (sometimes in the same song) with often brilliant lyrics. If Keith was a truthful compass, the road of excess did lead to greatness.

And here was the crux of Patti’s dilemma. To achieve career sustaining success she had to be a poet in a rock and roll world. Whether the profound simplicity of Little Richard (awopbopaloobop!) or the pop complexity of Smokey Robinson (America’s greatest living poet according to Dylan) or the verbal cathedrals of Dylan himself, all those fabulous meters and cadences were wedded to a beat. Patti had to be in a band.
“I’ve always had Lenny because I needed someone to lean on,” Patti told Rock et Folk. “But what if one night we were both in trouble? So we got DNV. And if DNV was in trouble then we were both in trouble, so we needed another one. One night we were all in trouble and we said, ‘We’ve got to get a drummer to keep this thing all together’.”

In her answers to Rock et Folk and her song choices is perhaps where Patti sees the threads joining up, where it all becomes equal: Keith touring the panelled mansions and concrete arenas of America, Rimbaud touring the hash brothels of Africa, Patti touring the (what exactly?) of Europe.

Paris Arista Records Man takes the band to dinner at La Coupole, dining epicentre of the Left Bank literati. Throughout the meal Patti collapses against the seat, head back, eyes closed, exhausted. When the others decide that Arista Man can take them to the brand-new Club Sept she returns to the hotel. We don’t know it yet but she hasn’t slept since London.

Club Sept is: Very trendy! Very exclusive! Barred to us! But in a world of diminished culture France still respects a poet and eventually our motley group is allowed through the nameless door in the nondescript wall. Around a small dance floor small tables are filled with suited businessmen drinking cocktails with beautiful women checking themselves in the mirrors along each wall. The DJ is playing the music that you’re imagining. When New York rockers dream of night time in Paris, this is not the boite they carouse in.

As dawn tinges the sky Ivan and Richard walk back to the hotel. In the middle of the Champs Elysee, Richard ‘Death In Venice’ Sohl strikes a pose. “Paris at dawn!” he exclaims. “I feel like a photo in French Vogue!”. As a subscriber to “rented chic” – that is, clothes with holes in them – it’s not likely. The veteran of a classical background who didn’t discover rock until age 16, he’s not a devotee to the magic pulse in the way, say, that director Paul Schrader was transfigured on seeing his first movie at 17. Reckons the band moved into rock and roll “because we grew up. As we keep growing we’ll move out of it.”

Back on the avenue at 9am, Ivan ritually films the Arc de Triomphe with the Bolex 16mm camera that is constantly by his side. A Czech who learned to play guitar at 11 and had a smash hit record the same year, he would spend dissident time in New York trying to develop a career and going to Patti Smith gigs, wondering why they didn’t need a really good guitarist, until they asked him to join.

The band gathers in the hotel lobby. Patti arrives last, wearing yesterday’s clothes and looking even worse than the night before. Two people hold her up so she can stand. The band look shocked but no-one addresses her or her condition. In whispers we learn that she didn’t sleep last night. On the way to the airport she pukes. In the waiting lounge she collapses in her seat, Dylan shades in place, Keith scarf around her throat, Ali boots splayed out in front of her. Surrounding her is rock and roll on the road: Lenny asleep, a roadie stretched full out on the seats, people looking dishevelled and dazed. Passengers gape and gawk. It’s hard to see how this road of excess is leading anywhere, least of all greatness.

-------------------------------------

BRUSSELS: Five concerts in five countries in five days. It’s ludicrous. The band has been working solidly since Christmas, this Continental jaunt the madcap finale to no doubt necessary overwork. Arista Man says, too, that Brussels won’t be an important gig. “It’s not a major stop on the map but you have to fly over it to go from Paris to Amsterdam so you might as well drop in and play.” Right, just another honky-tonk on the roadmap of Europe.

Lying on her bed all afternoon, Patti talks at length, appearing to say the first thing that comes to mind, contradicting herself every few minutes. It’s an opaque exchange – a conversation needs the chemistry of interaction – but leaning into the bathroom mirror she starts chatting with sparky precision. Perhaps it’s from washing her hair. In those few minutes of mental and physical clarity as eye makeup is applied and lipstick glides on it’s easy to see why she’s been a muse to Robert Mapplethorpe and Sam Shepherd; she glows with a unique, luminous beauty.

Patti is mimicking Dylan at his worst in ‘Don’t Look Back’: wired, white, sunk inside her own oblivion, dancing on the perimeter with Rimbaud and Jimbo, where there are no stars, stoned immaculate. It’s ironic she bows down to Muhammad -- Ali is supremely self-disciplined whereas the rest of her gallery of gods are anything but. Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Keith Richard, all have the same life-on-the-edge-of-the-cliff quality. Creating ecstatic visions by destroying the body is a cliché of the worst order, but there’s no denying its fascination. If you’re the perfect artist (or perhaps just lucky) you can make the perfect statement: take it right to the edge, like Mr. Dylan in ‘66, then halt. I was there – I looked into the abyss and have returned, stronger, heavenly with its brilliance, one of the elite. I’m not the average artist going just far enough to say I’ve been there.

It's bullshit. It doesn't make you stronger and the amount of great, or even good art that's come from it is far outweighed by the damage it rationalises.

Or perhaps she’s just dealing with personal problems. Or coping with the road. Who’s to know? The only one with the answer isn’t saying.

-------------------------------------

The concert is in a lecture theatre at the university. The stage is six inches high. Fifteen hundred seats ring it in a tiered semi-circle. The audience fills every inch of space from the edge of the stage – sitting on the stage – to the back corners. It’s probably the most perfect viewing situation ever.

The dressing room is subdued, Lenny preparing guitars, Jay changing into a white suit. Jay is the fashion plate of the group, a taste developed in his native Santa Barbara. He’s the only member to have the conventional background of high school groups (including the deliriously named King Tut And The Space Queers), graduating to the big time with The Mumps when its leader Lance Loud was made famous by the TV show, An American Family. Relocated to New York he used to run into Ivan all the time at Patti Smith gigs, “because we both liked seeing her so much, and we’d both be wondering why they didn’t need a really good guitarist and a drummer.” Ten months ago he signed on.

As we talk he says something that will become a punk mantra over the next two years.

“The important thing to remember is that we’re our own best fans.

“There’s always an audience, though we didn’t start out to please anybody but ourselves. This band hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to be out there. We’re intent on breaking down the barriers between the two. You don’t really realise what you’re doing; you just go out and do what you have to do. Everybody has his own personal vision – rehearsals frequently turn into group therapy sessions.

“We’re just passing through rock. We’re in a constant state of flux and I’d say that now we’re beginning to leave rock. Europe has given us a big lift. The audiences are much more prepared to accept us. They’ve put life back into our old songs, given them new emphasis. After awhile, singing ‘Gloria’ loses all meaning.”

With stage time imminent Patti ropes in the band. “You guys, tonight’s your night to really push me. Like, if I loosen out on the songs, pretend it’s an instrumental. On ‘Radio Ethiopia’ really listen to the ways you can interact. And don’t forget the feeling that goes with –“ she duplicate’s the song’s great riff. “Listen. If you hear someone taking a solo, complement them. If you hear a leak or trouble, use your own initiative to make it good. But interact, that’s the important thing. Don’t go off on your own stream so much you don’t know what’s happening.”

We go to a concert hoping it will be memorable. That it will be a moment – talked about for years afterwards. Moments happen. You don't choose them. Band and audience and expectation and the sublime all concentrated into a point, a here/now when music lifts beyond chords and amps and swagger to make a connection with the gods and become a walk in heaven. A moment just happens. Tonight is a moment. Tonight is pure, ecstatic, passionate, inspiring.

The feeling of communication among the band flows strongly. Lenny has so much space he’s doing moves that surprise even him. Acting as Patti’s foil, he dances with her, plays for her. When Patti straps on her guitar she watches his hands intently, taking lessons. She cocks her head and then moves a couple of feet, resting her head on Lenny’s shoulder for a minute while he blitzes the audience. The circle of photographers leans in as close as possible, clicking madly. As she begins to improvise she shuts her eyes and gropes for the words, listens to an internal voice as a groove starts, opens her eyes and stares intently into the distance as the words tumble out, then closes her eyes and breaks into a big smile, floating and stinging.

The audience responds from the beginning. She speaks to them in halting French, beaming at Lenny when she gets it right. After ‘Free Money’ they go berserk. Patti encourages the noise, then calms them down. ‘Radio Ethiopia’ is inspired. Tonight, instead of using its normal base upon which to improvise, they kick it out of the way and just soar. At the intro to ‘Land’ the audience starts cheering. The opening riff of ‘Gloria’ brings renewed cheering and mass sing-along. Jay concludes ‘My Generation’ by kicking apart his kit and storming from the stage. No-one leaves, chanting and cheering for more. In Brussels, that minor honky-tonk on the map between Paris and Amsterdam, Patti Smith gets her first taste of outright adulation. For 10 minutes, 1,500 people go absolutely nuts.

Elated fans buzz around the dressing room door, wanting to get in. “You are a friend of Patti Smith?” asks a kid. “Do you know what sign she is?”

“Is Patti fragile?” asks another.

The band sits around a table looking shattered. Patti is triumphant. She is being interviewed by local radio.

“Rock and roll is a logical step from poetry, but do you think that all ze poets of this age should be into rock and roll?”

Patti launches. “Well, as I said on the album cover, the word ‘Art’ must be redefined. The new children are so aware, you know, the beauty, culture, sculpture, drugs, mathematics, sex, death. Children now are units of sensation long before they were…even in my youth. Kids have many, many levels. And I just think that the old definition of anything, the definition of poetry, the old definition of rock and roll is…is…le mort. It doesn’t apply anymore. Things are changing too fast. Rock and roll is getting such universal appeal, such universal alchemy, that we’re getting more power. Rock and roll is getting more powerful than anything before because it’s art that communicates to all men. It doesn’t exclude anyone, there’s no hierarchy. Nobody’s cooler than anyone else.”

Her eyes are closed, the speech somewhat blank, certain phrases coming after slight hesitation.

“It’s all…it’s like…When Jim Morrison said, ‘We want the world and we want it now,’ he was merely asking for what we’re going to be taking anyway. So whether or not we have it right now by having it handed to us doesn’t matter. Eventually we are going to get it anyway. Rip it back. Reform it. Reform having two – you know – ‘re-form’ and ‘reform’.”

Her eyes snap open and she stares into the distance with an expression that says, I said that? It’s impossible to know whether it warms her or scares her.

“Yes,” responds radio guy, “But 10 years ago the people in rock were very much younger, the Stones, the Beatles were kids…”

“Well I’m a kid,” she replies positively. “We’re all kids. You’re a kid until you stop kidding around. You’re a kid until you choose to be otherwise. America has been drenched with the myth of Peter Pan so I have this syndrome that says, ‘You won’t grow up.” She laughs.

In 15 minutes she answers four questions, rambling in an insistent monologue that is hard to interrupt. Inconsistencies slide by.

“What is ze difference between ‘star’ and ‘image’?

“Tonight the people were the stars. To them I was the star. Which is alright if you want to believe in it. I believe in constellations. They’re stars, we’re stars, everything forms when we’re all linking together, having a perfect moment. Like a big bell, you know.”

“Do you think you are a star?”

“No.” She’s very definite about that. “I’m just talking metaphorically. ‘Star’ is a Sixties word…It’s void. All these words have multi-definitions. We’re trying to break the language barrier. I’m not interested in semantics –“

Lenny cuts in. “Anytime you say something to something that makes it what it is. (Eh?) And that means you limit what it is. (Oh.) And we’re against being labelled as anything because then that just means it’s another place we can’t go. We want to go every place, to speak every language, we want to play every song. And anything that takes place outside the bearing of the group – how famous we get, how many records we sell – that has no bearing. All we want to do is do what we do and take it a step further and see how far out into space we can go.” (Glad that’s clear.)

Then radio guy’s girlfriend asks the million dollar question -- whether it’s strange that people today are so interested in self-destruction.

“Well, self-destruction is obviously negative. If you self-destruct…(her voice dies out as she thinks, then comes back forcefully)...but the way a snake self-destructs, you know, when he takes the old skin off – he destroys the old skin, but you come out with a new skin, a more developed skin, a more illuminated skin. So it’s like a double thing. It’s like a rebirth…You know…Like death and resurrection being so linked that one doesn’t become more fantastic than the other, I guess, if you experience both…(her voice now less sure)…I guess that’s what it’s all about.”

Brussels Arista Man takes the band to a restaurant for dinner, just as you know Amsterdam Arista Man will tomorrow night. To do that, they have to push through a cheering crowd around the band’s bus. For them, The Patti Smith Group are stars. Who cares what Patti thinks? As she wrote in Cowboy Mouth: “They created a god with all their belief energies…the old God is just too far away. His words don't shake through us no more…Any great motherfucker rock'n'roll song can raise me higher than all of Revelations.”

At the restaurant Lenny is cajoled into chatting up two statuesque women who clearly know who he is and want his advances, while Patti is at her most comatose, a screen registering few life readings. Afterwards, everyone returns to the hotel. They have to be up early in the morning for Amsterdam.

With photographer Kate Simon I work through the contradictions of Patti’s excess, the music it produces and the person (or lack of it) it creates. Our soundtrack is Neil Young’s recently released Tonight’s The Night, a deeply unpopular album full of its own contradictions, mixing dissonant howls about addiction with stoned celebrations of reefer and the first release that shows he is his own artist, not ours. At least one thing is certain: Regardless of what happens offstage, Patti and her band have played wonderful music of vision, passion and purpose and if that’s so, perhaps the end justifies the means.

I close the curtains about 5.30. Across the air shaft, the lights in Patti’s room are still on.

---------------------------------

POSTSCRIPT: In 1978, Patti’s journey to the glorious future seen on a Paris stage did result in success, but not in the direction the band’s members had predicted. ‘Because The Night’, from her third album, reached number 13 in the American charts and getting there required not leaving rock behind but going to the heart of the territory. Co-written with Bruce Springsteen and clothed in the sonics of commercial rock producer Jack Douglas, it’s a measured song with a chorus you can sing even if you haven’t heard it for thirty years. But it doesn’t make people want to change their lives. In deciding to employ Springsteen’s commercially astute rock ‘n’ roll romanticism and arrange it in the cadences necessary to reach the Billboard Top Twenty, Patti left the land of a thousand dances for a much smaller country.

Patti Smith photos by Kate Simon

Roxy Music: Ultra Pulp Images On The Video-Cassette Of Your Mind

2011-03-18T15:15:00.003Z

THE FIRST COSMIC rock law of the Seventies is this: "Everybody is a star". The response is: "So what?"

Roxy Music, undeniably, have formulated the best "so what?" around. I suspect that a lot of the criticism of the band is motivated by jealousy.

Their method of breaking into the music scene has been labelled the work of coldly calculating intellectuals – as if one has to bust his balls touring the M-ways of the hinterlands before one's art reaches suitably grandiose levels (as if the rock scene has no place for intellectuals). That Roxy hail from working class backgrounds (the only origins for a true rock star) makes their articulateness and intellectualism all the more frivolous and gay.

That people attack their and David Bowie's intellectual postures is cause for considerable concern, because there is an enormously large distrust among the young for intellectualism of any sort. This is not to say that you have to be capable of analysing Nietzche or the meaning of Andy Warhol's art, but, having a wider, more articulate viewpoint does give you greater understanding of and pleasure in the music.

There is also the confused idea that "intellectualism" means "dry and humourless" – like some dusty and archaic Oxford don – while the same critics insist these standards be the guidelines of rock. As if we need 4,000 more ELPs (who, if they had an sense of the absurd, would release a maxi single called ‘Extended Long Player’ or some other silliness). The recent David Bowie debacle in these pages shows just how violently people are prepared to hold on to their old patterns of interpretation. These attitudes extend to a lesser degree to Roxy Music, who are accused of being dilettantes, too computerised (Whispering Bob Harris' view), pretentious, and of all things, frivolous.

The fact is that regardless of whether you choose to elevate your consciousness or wallow in a mire of ignorance, David Bowie and Roxy Music are just the tip of an iceberg.

BRYAN FERRY studied under Richard Hamilton, the English equivalent of Warhol, gaining a good education in pop art. When he realised that even a famous artist could reach only a relatively small part of the mass audience, he turned his attention to music, bringing his art training with him and thus creating 'pop music'. Meaning: a music is full of references to other musical times and eras, as well as films and popular culture in general. This can range from the banal – the wave crashing on the shore in ‘Beauty Queen’ – to the sophisticated – the myriad of references to books, paintings, landmarks, and famous people in ‘Do The Strand’.

Ferry's music often functions on more than one level at once, as in the middle section of ‘Would You Believe’, which has about five ‘fifties trends filtered through The Move, while Andy blows pure Coasters era King Curtis. Or on ‘Editions of You’, with its "crazy music" organ solo straight out of ? and the Mysterions.

The dreaded intellectualism makes its presence known not only in the lyrics but in the manner of presentation. "Is there a heaven?" asks the jaded decadent of ‘In Every Dreamhome A Heartache’, pausing to ponder before concluding, none too conclusively. "I'd like to think so." Later, he finds the only thing to do at home is pray.

Ferry also stretches and batters words to fit the rhythm, a la Lou Reed: "Lolita and Guerneeka" did the Strand, while "Louis say he preefair laisez-faira Strund."

The lyrics of the first Roxy album tend to be too personal (the "CPF 593A" of ‘Remake/Remodel’ is a license number), but this has been pared away on the second album, leaving cutting wit and wry humour sparkling from lyrics diamond-hard and clear – with judicious use of cliches (a Bryan Ferry obsession) ranging from the obviously humorous (all of ‘Bitters End’; the title is a multilevel joke on Noel Coward) and ‘Pyjamarama’, to the startlingly brilliant: "The words we use tumble...All over your shoulder...gravel hard and loose," from ‘For Your Pleasure’.

Their supposed cynicism is as nihilistic as the early Stones; the unrequited teen of ‘Blue Turns To Grey’ is now the lovelorn lounge lizard of ‘Bitters End’, the confessor of ‘Strictly Confidential’ just a generation more desperate than ‘Satisfaction’.

The piece de resistance of cynicism and coldness, ‘In Every Dream Home ...’, is about as depressing as a Kurt Vonnegut story. Life is, after all, a joke, and I get the impression part of Bryan's reason in writing it is to remind himself of the entrapments that lurk in swish Chelsea palaces of penthouse perfection.

WHILE FERRY'S major forte and interest lies in writing and singing, the other two obvious auteurs' achievements lie in purely musical regions.

Andy McKay and Eno share largely similar musical tastes and philosophies, which is one reason the band isn't torn apart over musical ideology; and, although Eno is becoming the major visual phenomenon of '73, and Andy a "Mr. Music", they are still units within Bryan's vision. Just watch them live and notice where your attention wanders when Bryan is out of the spotlight. Their musical prowess enables them to conjure forth anything from the charging of conventional rock to Andy's hilarious pastiches of epic film themes (‘The Pride and the Pain’, which precedes their stage act) to that "avant-garde, intellectual" stuff, which they can make us love.

Is there any Stranding kid on your block who doesn't groove to ‘Bogus Man?’ Yet everyone is working entirely at odds to everyone else and, even more importantly, the music doesn't go anywhere. it belongs to the theory that "you can listen to music from point to point and let it come and go" (Andy) or "the fact of repeating something changes it" (Eno). That they can make all the discordant factors work as a song is a tremendous step – but that it also succeeds as Hammeresque creep and clunk, rather than a song trying to sound scary is a tribute to Roxy as a unified band.

The less verbal members of the entourage are what anchor Roxy into solid rock. Phil Manzanera's experience in acid and Soft Machine-rock make his screaming psychedelic solos any song's high-point, especially the cataclysmic live version of ‘Ladytron’, replete with Blue Cheer feedback.

Paul Thompson's powerhouse drumming is almost a cliche of the English style, and it's a joy to feel the thundering road he lays down– the influences, no doubt, of shipyards and construction sites.

Rather than mere songs, these elements combine to encompass entire moods – the tattered nightclub of ‘Beauty Queen’, papiermache palm trees drooping listlessly over the Engelbertish singer crooning about "swimming pool eyes" and "coconut tears", or the pulp-magazine feel of ‘Strictly Confidential’.

Far from being coldly planned, the touches that encapsulate a song are often a spur-of-the moment thought, as in the Fabianesque "mmmm" in the intro of ‘Editions of You’.

Which points up another thing about Roxy – they don't hesitate to go to the real trashpiles of rock for inspiration. I wouldn't be surprised if they cut an even more inept and quintessential version of ‘Surfing Bird’ than the original.

On the videocassette of your mind these moods conjure ultra pulp images of Humphrey "Marlowe" Bogart whisking Lauren Bacall up to his Laurel Canyon Xanadu, and of F. Scott Fitzgerald types throwing handfuls of silver dollars at the windows of the Ambassador Hotel – real Depression era visions of that "screen dream" life at the top.

This taste for trash even exhibits itself on stage, with Manzanera and Mackay leaning heavily towards 30s conceptions of space suits, and Ferry in such wonderfully bizarre contrivances as double zippered pants. Actual stage gymnastics are generally restricted to delightfully sincere imitations of moves from the bible of rockstarobatics, with kitsch elements like choreographed dance steps as icing. Periodically, Bryan will flesh out a songline with pantomimed movements, but it is interesting to note that he relates more this way to a TV camera than he does an audience.

In any case, the visuals are merely pleasant additions; those 15-year-olds didn't come to clutch at Bryan's legs because of optical elegance or because they know who Baby Jane Holzer is, or "because they call it 'Renaysance'." It's because Roxy know the secret of making a great single.

Which brings us back to that bugaboo: intellectualism and articulation. You don't have to understand Roxy's quirks and fetishes to love them, any more than you have to understand Dali's symbolism to be destroyed by his paintings. But you're missing out on half the fun. And, in these grey, supposedly serious days, anyone willing to frolic in frivolity is worth grabbing on to, especially when they can giggle simultaneously on several tracks. Who knows? You may even like the increased horizons.

NME, 28 April 1973
©John Ingham,

Roxy Music at the Rainbow Theatre, London

2011-03-18T14:36:00.002Z

KONO IS a Japanese journalist, top of his class. One week he's flaming around New York, the next week in London, hip to all the latest sights and sounds. With him are Mr. and Mrs. Kato, former folk duo, now leaders of Japan's top hard rock group, Sadistic Mika Band (Mika being Mrs. K's name). Their official business in the Hub of the Empire is to buy a Rolls Royce, but they’re also ferreting out the latest in glitz and glam. Used to be that David Bowie was their main man, but when Kari-Ann whispered the delights of Roxy to them things took a slight change. Why, they even took a trip to Putney to buy a VCS 3 synthesizer, just because ELO has one. Now they stand in the lobby of the Rainbow, a true palace of Decadence, trendily but tastefully attired in the finest raiment Kings Road and City Lights can offer. Around them swirl we should be roués and tarts of sleepy London town: make up smeared on androgynous pusses, hennaed Bowie hair, costumes ranging from F. Scott fantasy to David Bowie wet dream. (Yep, he's actually affected fashion.) Prancing and posing under the night sky ceiling and papier maché palms, eyeing each other's creations, the sense of “Event” hangs heavy in the air, and we know we won't be disappointed.

The stars in the ceiling dim and over the PA thunders 'The Pride and the Pain', Andy Mackay's madly funny pastiche of ‘El Cid’ and ‘Exodus’ film themes. Out struts Amanda, the leggy dish of the second album cover, very arousing in her black fringe and g-string, and in a husky voice that could melt Phillip Marlowe's defences in a nova flash, introduces the first true band of the Seventies, Our Boys. They run on to the traditional thunderous applause and break into 'Do The Strand' as the backdrop lifts, revealing a stunning maze of drapes and lights amidst which five girls go-go the night away.

Front and centre is Bryan Ferry, James Dean in black, Roxy's attention/attraction. Spreading out on either side are saxman Andy Mackay and guitarist Phil Manzanera, stepping out in 30's conception of the well dressed space rake; electronics whiz Eno, dainty peacock feathers framing his subtly made up vogue-like features; and the thundering rhythms of drummer Paul Thompson, late of shipyards and construction sites, and bassist John Porter, late of Little Feat. They may appear effete and glossy, given to articulation and intellectualism, but they can still put the boot in and rock, and on this night did they ever!

Although the basic feel is 50's filtered through The Move, with references to all and sundry injected throughout, there is a distinct strain, believe it or not, of good old psychedelic music, and if we can proudly accept our surf and punk pop roots, then what's wrong with a little mind expansion on the side?

Eno's love is music that repeats itself, either in the Velvet Underground manner or the more "avant" John Cage/Terry Riley style, while Andy, a musician trained in all forms, can call up honking riffs from Coasters era King Curtis to the most boring modern jazz, working from a philosophy that sees it all as just plain music (and even if you do try to dismiss them, you gotta give credit for reviving that great so-so instrument, the saxophone). Flying behind Bryan's soulish Cole Porter stylings, it gives you enough aural pie, regardless of classifications, that there ain't no way you're gonna be hungry.

Roxy are still new enough at the game that the thrill of actually controlling blows their minds, and the enthusiasm of their live show can't be beat. (And it sure is nice to see an audience jumping around with true rock fervour – no mellow folks from Marin here!) So you best see them in the next couple of years before they get famous and ultra rich and become jaded old farts like the Rolling Stones. Who wants to see Bryan Ferry dance with Mr. D?

Phonograph Record, September 1973
©John Ingham

David Bowie: Station to Station (RCA)

2011-03-16T12:26:00.003Z

IN MY PHYSICS textbook at school was an amazing photo of two galaxies colliding. Just imagine being on a planet in a system in either of those nebular spirals, watching all those heavenly bodies slide on by, because the odds were astronomically low that anything would collide. Far out!

Imagine those two galaxies to be records. More specifically, The Man Who Sold The World and Young Americans. If you were to be somewhere along the point where the two merged what you would hear is Station To Station.

This is Bowie's Christmas gift, recorded late last year on the spur of the moment. The title has several meanings, some of which are alluded to in the title song. Whether it's part of some overall concept is unclear since the cover isn't available, but if there is it's obscure.

I love this record. I love it because it rocks like a bitch, because it has stupid lines like , "It's not the side effects of her cocaine. I'm thinking that it must be love", and because Bowie has the sense of humour to not only mumble half the songs, but mix them so low down it's impossible to make out a word. When a person is confronted with a wedge like:

"Baby, you vibrate every,
 Each night I sit there thinking,
 Some mumble mumble my mumble mumble, 
She mumble mumblecher, her, 
My TVC one-five. She's mumble mumble my baby" 
('TVC 15')

he's not going to spend too much time listening to what the artiste has to say.

What makes this album such a wondrous slab of wax therefore is its sound content. The musicians 'include': Earl Slick, Carlos Alomar, Dennis Davis, George Murray, and Roy Bittan.

Producing with Bowie is Harry Maslin. Bowie arranges, and that's where the album's beauty lies. This man knows how to keep the surprises coming, and when the band is hot – and it is indeed hot – well, Jack, the result is a pure delight from ears to toes and everything in between.

Get out your copy of 'Golden Years' and listen to it. Those ceaseless, insinuating guitars, how his falsetto "Angel" dives into the canyon, the swishing cymbals through the verse and the sharp attack as it slides into the chorus, those handclaps that hook in so precisely; how everything is devoted to propelling the song along its course without a pause for the view. It's one of the finest three minutes yet put on a single.

On the album it's a minute longer, remixed to add lots of brilliance and sparkle. It sounds even better.

Preceding it is the title track. To return to the opening metaphor, The Man Who Sold The World is ably represented by Earl Slick's paranoid Ronsonesque scrapings, with more than a touch of Diamond Dogs anarchic post-Crash dementia thrown in for good measure. Coupled with the beefed-up dance rhythms of Young Americans, it makes for an uneasy but compelling coalition. Funk in the wastelands. Aladdin Sane meets Cab Calloway.

All this is laid before you in 'Station To Station'. Opening with a steam train phasing from speaker to speaker, the band soon starts strangling a doom-laden riff out of their respective axes. Slick and Alomar sound like psychopathic chickens. Bowie lays low for several minutes, as he does throughout most of the long tunes, letting the musicians build the atmosphere. "The return of the thin white duke, Throwing darts in lovers' eyes"… Halfway through the tune's 10 minutes the band switch into flat-out dance rhythm while Bowie's thought is that "It's too late to be grateful. It's too late to be hateful".

'TVC 15' is the closest to a straight rock tune. What the title means I have no idea, and it is here that he mumbles more than ever. But the soundarama is at its peak, built on a dozen different Sixties riffs, Bittan's piano being particularly extraordinary. Through each verse Bowie provides vocal under-pinning by humming like a chorus of '30s crooners – what a card! Along with 'Golden Years', it's one of Bowie's best tunes. Watch for it as the next single.

The second side's magnum opus is 'Stay', which is one of the most uncompromising slices of overdrive funk yet to be recorded. Again, Bowie stays in the background, and on this outing the musicians really let go. Supposedly, the guitar raunch is Ron Wood, with Willie Weeks and Andy Newmark holding down the other end of the rhythm machine.

What I love most about this album is that its commitment to kicking arse and being A Great Record Of Our Time relies only minimally on its verbal/literary content. Which is to say, what a great sound! Let me play that again!

Sounds, 24 January 1976
© Jonh Ingham, 1976

Thin Lizzy: Fat Cheque For Thin Men?

2011-03-16T12:14:00.003Z

British Band Crashes America On Second Tour Shock Horror Probe!

That's what we're dealing with here. The lesson we will learn is that one hit album in America and your days of penury and obscurity are over. Promoters will lay stages at your feet. Holiday Inns will present you with the key to the sledgehammer cabinet. Record company presidents will remember you exist. All from having a record doing a 100 yard dash up the charts.

This year has seen a renaissance of sorts for British bands to make a large dent in America on their first or second tour. Thin Lizzy is a case in a point. They toured as support to BTO a year ago, and this year went for what was initially meant to be six weeks, third on the bill.

By the time Phil Lynott collapsed with a virus two and a half months later in Columbus, Ohio, they had risen through the ranks to headlining. Why, they sold out two nights in Allenstown, Some State Or Other, and supposedly only three bands have done that in the venue's five or six year history.

Lynott collapsing meant having to cancel New York, Detroit, and a few other hotcha rock and roll towns, but that'll only make it that much more berserk the next time. Nothing like a little myth to get the juices flowing.

BUT WHY NOT hear it from the horse's mouth? While Phil languishes in the luxuriousness of a Manchester hospital, Brian Robertson and Scott Gorham, erstwhile Thin Lizzy guitarists, are ensconced in their publicist's elegant Victoria manse, telling it like it was.

The telly is tuned to Wimbledon, where Nastase's efforts are actively encouraged and applauded by Scott. The heat is nothing for this Glendale, California, boy; just chug another beer and dream of water-skiing.

"We've got an album to do in August," he reveals. "We're going to do that at Musicland studios in Munich, because the tax man is with us now." He laughs at the absurdity of such a thought.

"In October we'll do an English tour – 30 days – and then back to America. We're going to try and do Australia, New Zealand and Japan at the same time – the next step sort of thing." Then, in a sincere voice he adds, "I'm waiting to get over and see those Japanese ladies man, oooh! That'll be a good one."

His smile is only slightly less blinding than the twinkle in his eye.

"Living in California, it was always my main ambition to do a tour of America. Our last tour was just the East Coast, so for me that wasn't too much fun. But coming back was too much – Did you see that?!" he exclaims as Nasty executes a particularly fine volley. "Wow..." He returns to his train of thought.

"Something I'd always wanted to do, and here I was doing it. We did really well in Los Angeles. I must admit I was a little nervous at that stage. People were talking to me and it was just going in one ear and out the other because all I could do was stare at the stage. I'd been there so many times to see other bands and all of a sudden I was going to walk out there and do it myself. We played a storm...Knowing that your friends are out there..."

THE ADAGE has it that an American tour always separates the men from the boys. Certainly Lizzy came back that first time with about 20 stone of added muscle.

"That first tour made us realise that we'd have to go out there and work a hell of a lot harder or else nobody will notice you. Americans are very much into 'I paid to see you so I want to see a show'. It taught us a lot about being on stage and the effort that you have to put into it.

"It was a release – I love being on stage and that brought it out even more. Now I'm not nervous at all about going out there and doing anything I want to instead of just staring at the floor. It was a good thing to learn, a well taught lesson.

"The second tour brought home to me what a hit record can do for you. When we first got over there a lot of people were comparing us to Bruce Springsteen – "

Eh? I can see a few connections lyrically, especially since Phil introduced me to Springsteen's music, but anyone who thinks Brucie's baroque and roll and Lizzy's Celtic thunder are similar must have his ears in his tennis shoes. But continue.

"– which was a drag. I don't care what band you're in, you always want to be known as having your own sound. Then they saw us play live and that was it – no more comparisons. The reviews we were getting were phenomenal – ‘Hey, what band is this?!?’

"You're not really sure where you stand, though, until you go out there and hear kids yelling for tracks off the album and then the previous two albums. That was great. And I ran into people who knew a lot more about the band than I did. Incredible.

"Last year it was like, 'Ah, they're third on the bill, I still gotta find my seat'. This time they made sure they were in their seats. People yelling our names out – to me that's when they definitely know who they're seeing."

Attention turned to the album that was causing all this hoopla, the immensely playable Jailbreak.

"The previous ones we did in a sort of clinical way," he said with one eye on the telly. Nastase was serving brilliantly. "I'd have my two songs and Phil would have his five, Brian Robertson would have his two, and that was it. 'Let's work on Phil's,' or 'Let's work on Brian's,' but on Jailbreak we all dived in on everybody else's songs, putting parts we had for our own songs into other people's.

"John Alcock (the producer) was a great guy to work with, he's got a lot of good ideas, he's easy to work with, a good man for sussing out when you're in the mood and when you're not in the mood. He's by far the best guy we've worked with. I really respect him."

Mr. Alcock, whenever you need a reference you know who to call.

"He'll be with us in Germany...Seeing all the frauleins over there. It's a good place, Munich."

The mouth and the eyes go nova again.

"We try to walk into the studio with a lot of ideas already fixed. Rehearse for a couple of weeks first, talk all the ideas out, play them out. Just work it to death and then walk into the studio with a really good idea of what's going to happen. But we'll still change things or write a song in itself – I like that – walking into the studio and writing a brand new song nobody's heard before and seeing how it comes out. That's what happened with 'Emerald'. It's a lot of fun.

"Jailbreak is a kind of a concept but not a concept, if you know what I mean." Absolutely. "It just happened. Phil wrote the liner notes, and I wouldn't say I helped him, but he would write some and I'd look them over and say what needed improving. I'm terrible with words. I'm, 'Well I sent my baby down to the store' – worthless. If you see a song by Gorham/Lynott it'll be me doing the music and him the lyric."

Scott's publicist interrupts with a slip of paper with a girl's phone number. "Here are her details." Provocative.

AS NASTASE wins his second set Scott delineates the role he and Brian Robertson play within the band.

"We both play lead guitar." There's a subtle emphasis on the adjective. "We'll both play breaks for a song and take a Teac (tape recorder) to rehearsals and suss out who's got the better feel.

"I use a Les Paul because I like the feel and the overall sound of it. I played a Stratocaster for about a year and a half; I couldn't come to terms with it. It didn't feel right, it didn't lay right with me. It didn't give me that biting sound – the cleanness – that I wanted. I went out and bought a Les Paul, which was the best purchase I could make.

"Brian uses one because it works well, they blend with each other. He had his first while I was using a Les Paul copy. It was a good little guitar, but when I had to get up there with high volume I needed a regular Gibson. I mean, I was only making 12 quid a week when I was buying the copy!"

This is as absurd as the taxman wanting their wages. He laughs.

"We try to make them sound different, otherwise what would be the point of two guitars, but at the same time we try to work together as much as possible to make everything coagulate together. I'll come up with a lot of the original guitar lines, but Brian is the technician and works out the actual harmonies to those lines."

Gorham had a trio Stateside that didn't do anything. He came to England on the assumption that not knowing anybody or anything about the musical scene would force him to work harder. He also meant to join Supertramp but arrived several months late.

"I wanted to play someplace different, I wanted to play different music, and I wanted to play with different people. And it worked. I'd never heard of Lizzy before I joined. I'd see their name in the music papers but it never registered. They were just one of a number of bands. I'd come over too late for 'Whiskey In The Jar', thank God.

"When I went down for the audition I had no idea what they sounded like, which was good. I had no reputation I was going to listen to. I just figured I'll have a blow and if it works out, fine. What the hell, it's gotta be better than what I'm doing now, making £12 a week.

"Fortunately for me – and the band," he adds magnanimously, "It worked. I joined the same day.

"The music had so much power and energy...That's one of the days I won't forget. I think I was nervous when I went down. It was the first audition I'd ever done in my life. I didn't know what it was like to do an audition...'What am I supposed to do now?'"

Suddenly he jumps up. "That's it! Nice one, Nasty! Attaboy!"

Nasty is grinning widely, the third set safely won. With Arthur Ashe on the court Scott's attention wanders. Arthur lacks any sense of style in Scott's estimation. Arthur plays it like a businessman. Scott starts reminiscing about the American tour.

"We were doing business like you wouldn't believe. When it rains it pours. I worked in construction for three years and it was nothing on working in Lizzy." He laughs.

"I love it though. Being off the road right now is a drag because I don't really know what to do with myself. I'm trying to work out as many songs as I can but I'd rather be on the road getting on a stage and doing it, sweating my ass off. To me, that's where it's at with the band, being on stage. That's where the love of the band is."

Well then, road gourmet, where's the best Holiday Inn in America?

"San Antonio, Texas. It seemed like every room was different. It was a big circle thing overlooking a river, and right before our sound check they were having speed boat races. Big jobs with blown Chevy engines, just streaking down the river."

He waxes eloquent about 200 mph speed boats and water skiing and sports in general.

"I'm a jack-of-all trades at sport. I play all of them but none really well. I just like the competition."

Arthur Ashe safely slaughters his competition.

Sounds, 3 July 1976
© Jonh Ingham, 1976

DAVID BOWIE – FROM DAVID LIVE to STATION TO STATION

2011-03-15T06:53:00.003Z

In her three years as secretary, Corinne has watched Bowie shrewdly work up to his most difficult move yet: the switch from cultish deco rocker to a wide-appeal entertainer. "I want to be a Frank Sinatra figure," Bowie declares. "And I will succeed."

-- Cameron Crowe, Rolling Stone, February 1976

By late 1974 the script Bowie had written to play the part of a rock and roll star had reached The End. The albums, the stage show, they worked and they kept the trip going. But now he was through with rock and roll. Finished. Rocked his roll. Time to see if America liked his music Broadway-style.

The Diamond Dogs tour was rehearsed to the last perfect detail. Chris Charlesworth said in Melody Maker, “There isn't one iota of spontaneity about the whole show…The music actually appears secondary to the various effects and dance routines, and while it could be argued that Alice Cooper has taken rock theatre to its extreme level, Bowie has moved onto a totally different level. It’s more in the vein of a Liza Minnelli performance, or even a Vegas night club cabaret.”

Bowie acted out each song as the character involved. For “Panic In Detroit” he was in a ring wearing boxing gloves; he even had a minder towelling him down and fitting a fresh gum shield between verses. But his main role, the role of David Bowie, was to be a star above stars, as untouchable as the sky. He ignored the audience. He didn’t even take a bow at the end.

From this came David Live. Where the staging was extreme, the music took few chances. The band featured London’s best studio rhythm section, drummer Tony Newman and bassist Herbie Flowers, plus keyboard virtuosos Mike Garson and Michael Kamen (later a famous film composer). Kamen recommended a new guitarist called Earl Slick. For production Bowie turned to his old friend Tony Visconti.

Calling the album David… was a nice intimate touch from a guy playing the remotest star on the planet. But we weren’t yet familiar with Bowie’s chameleon poses so the ‘good chums’ pretense failed on both sides of the Atlantic. The tour hadn’t come to Britain so there was no context. In the States he was preaching to the already-converted, whereas Elton John was mesmerising everyone from Hollywood to Harlem. Bowie needed some moves to match his ambition.

Signs surfaced during the Dogs tour. Bowie had added former members of Santana and the Main Ingredient to the band, who morphed the rhythms into something black ‘n’ blues. More tellingly, David started singing 'Knock On Wood'. What had been a solid soul hit for Eddie Floyd in the 60s was filtered through Bowie’s repressed English white-boy emotion into something CREEM writer Robot A. Hull described as “an inspirational interpretive parody. It sounds like a buncha wazoos from some local pub auditioning for the community talent showcase. Madness!”

Bowie was also recording at Sigma Sound in Philadelphia. Here, producers Gamble and Huff had created the platinum successor to the Motown Sound, a silken grooved r’n’b called TSOP – The Sound Of Philadelphia. Bowie took the house band, added some white-noise shimmer with Garson and Slick, and wrapped them around a brace of songs that sounded as cool as they were opaque. For Tony Visconti it was right on target for 1975.

"He's been working on putting together an r’n’b sound for years. Every British musician has a hidden desire to be black. They all talk about 'funky rhythm sections' and their idols are all black blues guitarists. When I was in Philadelphia, I saw Soul Train for the first time, and I was so impressed by the state of black culture. Being black now is a culture rather than a revolution. By the time this album has been released more people will realize that and David's next LP will be timed just right."

Bowie was far more succinct.

“Let's be honest; my rhythm and blues are thoroughly plastic. Young Americans is the definitive plastic soul record. It's the squashed remains of ethnic music as it survives in the age of Muzak rock, written and sung by a white limey.”

At first everyone agreed. But the sophisticated mix of funky rhythm section, atmospheric washes and David’s Sinatra tendencies seeped into the ether. Slowly it made more and more sense. Then the angular hooks of “Fame” hipswayed through discos and Bowie had his first American Number One. Its chilly scream-from-the-limo lyrics were a rare moment of clarity; the rest of the album was lyrical fog with sound bites. In 1976 he told Playboy, “My actual writing doesn't make a tremendous amount of sense... frankly, I'm surprised Young Americans has done so well.”

With American fame achieved, Bowie created his next tour. A monochrome crooner strutted a black and white stage powered by a superlative mix of r’n’b rhythm section and rock guitars. Inspired by the moves, he took the band into the studio and emerged with Station To Station.

It was a perfectly judged collision of Young Americans and Ziggy Stardust: big, moon-age, modern – itchy disco rhythms pitched against triumphant guitar riffs and reigning over it Mr. Bowie, melodramatic and funny, owning the songs the way Sinatra did. The opening lyric created his next pose: “The return of the thin white duke…”

It was a great conceit: Where was the Thin White Duke returning from? Why hadn’t we noticed him before? It fit the album’s restless travelogue mood, the Cinemascope sound and the confident voice. Station… sounded contemporary in a way few records did. The big hit was “Golden Years”, a perfect concoction single-mindedly pursuing an immaculately detailed path. It cemented Bowie’s status.

Station To Station live looked like rock and roll – including a drum solo! – but it was just as choreographed as Diamond Dogs. This time, though, moves and music were in sinuous synch. For two hours everything looked and sounded like 1976. Bowie had made the wild mutation from a rock and roll star.

---- Originally published in Mojo, 2006

Bruce Johnston and The California Myth

2011-03-09T17:55:00.003Z

A version of this piece was originally published in NME, December 7, 1974
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Give Bruce Johnston credit; he isn't put off his chosen path easily.

"I was 14 when I made my first record. I had an appointment to see this man, John Dolphin, who owned a chain of black record stores about 15 miles from Hollywood, near Watts. We were in a room this size” – he gestures vaguely at the regular sized office we’re in – “and the guy that walked in with me got in a fight with the owner. I was sitting there and this guy shot Dolphin five times in front of me. Fourteen years old and I'm the witness to a murder!

"Dolphin got up and fell on a heater and turned it on, he's foaming at the mouth, and I'm sitting there thinking, 'This isn't the way business is done...Wait a minute!'

"I had to go to court and testify…and they found a knife with Dolphin's fingerprints on it, and I don't remember if he lunged towards the guy. So the guy got five years to life and he was out in five years. He was a songwriter who claimed he was owed back royalties."

His head tilts back in laughter, shaggily perfect hair brushing his Hawaiian shirt as his eyes twinkle with the amusement of distance, his skin a golden California glow, clothes immaculate, exuding the confidence that comes with success and comfortable wealth.

Nope, you should never let a minor incident deter you.

Bruce Johnston is 30. Two years on from The Beach Boys (though it’s an association which continues), he is in town to promote his new group California Music, their debut single “Don't Worry Baby”, and Equinox Records, the company he has started with Terry Melcher.

California Music was originally an even more confident name: California. Dedicated to creating the definitive Californian music, in its original incarnation it was almost a cliché of Southern California myth-music making: Bruce, Byrds producer Terry Melcher, Dean Torrence (of Jan and Dean), and a few other studio surfers. The line up today is Bruce, Gloria Grinel and Kenny Hinkle, with Melcher and Johnston as producers. Mrs. Grinel was most recently on these shores as support singer to David Cassidy.

Bruce drops the needle and “Don't Worry Baby” is eased into, a languid, slow dancer pace, bass, drums and acoustic guitar taking the rhythm, embellished at points by ultra low-key piano, flute and electric guitar. As in all good California music, the faultless vocal harmonies carry the melody and counterpoint. Releasing it as a single seems kind of pointless since it isn’t going to catch any wave up the charts, especially when the original version is one of the most perfect songs in existence. But there’s no denying the effortless way it creates mental pictures of blond surfer girls and guys cruising in open top cars under a perfect blue sky.

Okay Bruce, so why are you so into the California myth?

A puzzled expression, some amplification on the part of the interviewer, a bit of thinking. "I am the California myth. I'm an important spoke on the wheel...Jeezuz, you ask me about it...It's sitting in front of you. The California myth is probably where guys like me have come from and where we are now.”

I suggest that he and his friends, with their eulogies to surf, cars, and girls, have created a musical world that presents California as Utopia. He focuses on the surf, cars, and girls.

"But that's all ended. and I've been through all that, and I'm not going to start recutting my past."

It would be churlish to point out his new single is exactly that, so I sit in silence as he pauses.

"California isn't Utopia. It's a nice place to live. New Zealand is a better place to live, and I've seriously thought of moving down there...It's like California and England combined. That's my idea of utopia."

Johnston’s forays into the music business and recording led to an association with Terry Melcher in 1959, when they first made and produced records together. They reached a peak around 1963/4 as Bruce and Terry on CBS. Jan and Dean were across the road and The Beach Boys next door; they were soon trading ideas, songs and voices.

When Brian Wilson stopped touring in 1965 Bruce sat in for a weekend, which in turn became two, and soon he was a regular member of the group, both in the studio and on the road. While he contributed a number of beautiful songs over the years, his finest moment is undoubtedly singing the harmonies that soar and circle skyward throughout “God Only Knows”. It lasted until 1972.

Melcher, meanwhile, went on to produce The Byrds, helping to create the fabled ‘folk-rock’ sound in the process. Although he worked on a string of records with the group that will probably be with us forever, he thinks 'Chestnut Mare' the best song he's produced. In the late 60s he got involved with Charlie Manson, luckily avoiding the fate planned for him when he didn’t follow through in producing Manson’s music. Continuing to contribute to the California myth, his recent solo album name-checks Beverly Hills hangouts.

Johnston first sang with the Beach Boys on “California Girls”, and was heavily involved (with Terry) on Pet Sounds, though CBS refused permission for a credit.

"We did a really terrific version of “God Only Knows”, with Brian's wife and sister, Terry, myself, and a couple of the group. Carl sang the lead, Brian, Carl and I sang the bridge, and Brian and myself sang the end part; so it was only a trio.

"You know, I've got all these tapes up at my house. A seven minute version of “Heroes and Villains”, a lot of things from Smile. Not “Elementals” – that's better off not being heard, if you understand me. And I never play them to anybody, it never occurs to me.

"During Smile Brian was very paranoid and there were a lot of people coming on the scene saying, 'Wow, heavy Brian. Here, take this, smoke this, shoot this, do this.' Brian was just a basket case, and just kinda tuned out.

“He's done a couple of tracks for the new album…”The Battle Hymn Of The Republic” and something else. I hope they get in.

He looks a little peeved that we’re not talking about his new group. "You know, everyone this morning has been asking a lot of questions about the Beach Boys and the past. Why are you guys so interested in it?"

Perhaps, Bruce, it's that California myth. He doesn't look convinced. But maybe that's as it should be.

David Bowie: Central London Polytechnic, London 1972

2009-09-01T13:12:00.002Z

"YES, I'M DAVID BOWIE. These are the Spiders from Mars. And we're the slickest show in town."

A crash and a jump and the band is roaring, David in a mirrored jump suit, twelve string acoustic guitar slung across his pelvis, prancing about while he sings some obscured lyrics introducing the band. The Lauren Bacall hair has been sacrificed in favour of a Rod Stewartish crewcut, but he still looks gorgeous. With no introductions or thank yous the Spiders zoom through most of HUNKY DORY, with occasional oldies and new songs along the way. Even though the twelve string is plugged into an amp it's inaudible most of the time, but David uses it to good Elvis advantage, standing with legs apart, crotch forward, mimicking the lyrics with his hands before lifting his arms in an imploring Tom Jones/Andy Williams reach for the audience, the hands slowly drifting ever higher until he looks like he's being crucified. Song stops, head drops in utter exhaustion, stage plunges into darkness, audience goes wild. Yep, it sure is slick.

After awhile David actually pauses and says, "Thank you." Two stools are brought out and David and the Spiders' guitarist perch on them, playing elegantly while the lights flash blue-pink and orange-red around them. Finally he introduces a song by "a French composer, Charbrot. It was translated from French into American. Then into English. It's about Amsterdam." Applause and cheers from the freakier members of the audience – 'Ah yes, mon cheri, those nights in the Paradisio...the mentions in Suck...the hash...' – while the more obvious appearing students peer around them in confusion. Who is this weirdo singing about sailors urinating in Amsterdam, taking bows after each song, filling his verses with images of space and superior aliens who don't want to blow our minds? He even sang 'Space Oddity' – can't see how that got into the Top Ten. Tony Blackburn certainly didn't play it. And so thinking they turn either for the bar and another pint of Guinness or the door and home.

The band returns and delivers "our homage to the Sixties": 'I Feel Free'. The break comes and the guitarist does a Pete Townshend stick-the-arm-in-the-air while playing the frets for two minutes. A strobe light twitches into its alpha rhythm frenzy and the band leaps about the stage while roaring feedback and amphetamine guitar runs fill the air, almost equaling Cream in boredom. Predictably, it gets thunderous applause.

David, meanwhile, has disappeared offstage, and when he returns, yes, he has changed his outfit to a pair of bleached trousers, trendily rolled up to display his boots, and a flimsy black and white shirt open to the waist. Donning his guitar he runs through a few more numbers before announcing, "The rest of our show will be devoted to some old rock and roll songs," the first of which is 'White Light White Heat', followed by 'Hot Pants'. They've got it down to the last guitar lick, and you almost expect David to shimmy one legged across the stage, but instead he picks up his sax and honks out some beautifully boozy runs. All too soon he carefully places it on the floor (it's plastic, you know) and they're drawing to a close. The crowd goes wild for an encore, stamping and chanting, but my last bus home will be departing in a few minutes, so I leave. And all the way home I keep hearing, "Ch-ch-ch-changes," and especially, "Look out all you rock and rollers." True words.

Phonograph Record, 1 July 1972

10cc And Ready To Roar

2009-08-30T11:46:00.002Z

Hit Parader, November 1975

FIVE YEARS AGO one of the most mindless, repetitious, quintessential singles thumped up the world record charts in double-quick time. It was called 'Neanderthal Man'. The group was Hotlegs. Today, that same group is the darling of Britain. They're called 10cc.

The group's debut revolves around Strawberry Studios in Manchester. Eric Stewart had just left the Mindbenders and was building it with top songwriter Graham Gouldman ('For Your Love', 'Heart Full Of Soul', a slew of Herman's Hermits). Hanging out were local art students Lol Creme and Kevin Godley. In the course of experimenting and testing the studio they layed down a series of drum tracks, with vocals coming through on the bass drum mike – a bit of a mess all round. Dick Leahy, a singles genius, was checking out the studio, they played him the tape as a joke, and he told them they had a smash hit. That was 'Neanderthal Man'.

"After the record was Number Two we were a bit big headed," muses drummer Kevin Godley. "We thought, 'We're stars now, let's piss off to Barbados for six months.' Really mature people we were."

Upon return they made an album of what "we thought was good music" and toured. with the Moody Blues, but things didn't gell, so they retired to Strawberry where for three years they produced and played for other people. It culminated with Neil Sedaka – their manager had met him in America, played him some tapes, and Neil visited the studio initially to do some demos, but liked the sound so much he stayed on for two albums.

"By this time we were getting cheesed off putting our ideas into other people's music, so we decided to start our own production unit making our own records. We did a nice track called 'Today' which didn't do anything, then a track called 'Waterfall'. A B-side had to be written, so we wrote 'Donna', recorded it, and realized it was a damn sight more commercial. Eric had an idea at the time to approach Jonathan King, and he liked the record."

Jonathan King, a millionaire from releasing silly singles, had supposedly chanced upon the name 10cc in a dream. Rumour also has it he based the name on the supposed fact that normal sperm emission measures 9cc; i.e. 10cc was superman material. Whichever you prefer, King signed them to his UK label and 'Donna', a ridiculous pastiche of Fifties unrequited love ballads, soon zoomed into the Top Ten. The follow up was a flop, but the third, 'Rubber Bullets', lodged them as a favourite in the hearts of all those who like their rock humourous, witty, precise, pointed, and with a backbeat you can't lose. The first album merely confirmed these feelings.

"We had to do 10cc in about three weeks, so we all came into the studio and wrote our balls off; whatever came into our heads. Although, obviously, there's thought to the songs, we didn't stop to analyze it, and when it was finished we all split on holidays, came back and listened to it and it had an identity, which was something we'd never had before. Obviously, we became conscious of it after that and became very thoughtful about the songs from then on."

It was the second album that confirmed 10cc as a major talent. Sheet Music was two sides of the things that made 'Rubber Bullets' fantastic; a never ending stream of brilliance, probably due to breaking from their previous songwriting pairs of Kevin and Lol, Graham and Eric, to try new combinations.

"It was a bit scary at first; we did it to see what would happen...Writing has a lot to do with rapport, and if you've never written with anyone before it's a weird experience, but two good songs came out of it and we continued. In the future we might have two of us start a song and then pass it on to the others, like a chain.

"We've each got different musical tastes; if one of us has an idea for a special song he'll know in his own mind which of the other guys will be the one to write it with. If it's going to be a rock song, the best person to write it with is Eric, whereas if I want to do something a bit more complex I usually work with Lol. We don't really draw from experience, because we haven't really led very colourful lives. We get a lot of inspiration from films...media. Read an article in a newspaper, or a documentary on TV. We try to look for interesting subjects; we find it difficult to write personal songs because two people writing together, it's difficult to write a personal song unless they're talking about the same person."

Thus, an album about hijacks, Arab oil barons, touristas, and the old wild men of rock and roll.

Also highly notable was the introduction of the Gizmo. All four are multi-instrumentalists, and there was a desire amongst them to have an orchestra at home, to try out arrangements and so forth. The Gizmo is the result, sitting just over the bridge of a guitar, rubbing the strings when you twiddle some knobs, sounding like a cross between a string section and a mellotron.
"The Gizmo is interesting because up to that time all our other outside projects had been art projects but this is like – well, mechanics is anathema to us, but once we had something to apply it to, it was really interesting to be working in wheels and ratios.

"We were doing a session one night and we strapped Lol's Stratocaster to the wall and got an electric drill with a big rubber knob on the end and ploughed into the strings. From there we graduated to an electric toothbrush with a plectrum at somebody's party one night. Then it was elastic bands and electric motors until – *click* – that's the way to do it. We now have a prototype, which Lol has been using in concert."

At your neighbourhood music emporium soon.

It wasn't until this year, though, that 10cc, renaissance band, really hit the big time. They had reluctantly toured last year, including two tours of America, but wanted to recreate their records live before feeling comfortable in front of an audience. The Original Soundtrack was recorded, and with it came a label change, to Phonogram. When the album was released they hit the road with a vengeance, reproducing their immaculate record production exactly. It wasn't long before single and album hit the charts' stratosphere.

"'One Night In Paris' came from a desire to get away from writing about America...let's write about something else. Originally it was to take up one side of an lp, but there was a lot of padding, so we cut it down to the good parts. It was like our tribute to George Gershwin in his centenary year.

"'I'm Not In Love' has 256 voices for the backing track. It was an experiment; it would be interesting to see if it worked. It was a series of tape loops, rerecorded, dubbed, overdubbed, tracked...We played them like instruments through the board. It was quite technical and we had to get it right the first time because we had to mix them all down to two tracks to get the other stuff on the tape."

This mood of experimentation is something they would like to pursue more often, but Strawberry Studios is a thriving business, and they have to book ahead like anyone else. They are now thinking of building another studio solely for themselves.

But what of their next trip to America? That will only come, says Kevin, when they have a hit.
"It's crucial we make it in America. If you want to make it as a world group as opposed to a quite popular band in England, you have to make it in America, and I'm sure we will sooner or later. But we have a problem in that the two tours we have done, not being headliners, we had to do it in 45 minutes. Our music is so varied it's difficult to get into it in 45 minutes. So on the gig front I don't think we've got through to people yet. We'll have to break our records first and then do a tour with the lights and everything."

His eyes twitch yet again. The previous evening's end-of-tour party had featured a pie and soda siphon fight. Kevin had gone to bed at six. It was now twelve. His eyes twitched again of their own accord. The price of success.

© Jonh Ingham

Rock Shrines 41 - 46

2009-06-26T05:14:00.022Z

Rock Shrine No. 41 – The Astoria [Nirvana, etc]

Welcome to one of London’s best rock venues: sweaty, dark, a bit seedy. Converted from a warehouse into a theatre and cinema in 1926, it became a live venue in 1986. Everyone has played here, from hardcore classic rock bands (The Rolling Stones, Deep Purple) to the kind of artists (Kylie, Madonna) who appeal to the clientele attending G.A.Y. on a Saturday night. Amy Winehouse showed she can be amazing shortly before she lost control. One of So Solid Crew shot himself in the leg trying to pull a gun out of his waistband in the middle of their set. But for Important Gigs, that honour must go to the debut show by The Raconteurs in 2007 and the UK debut of Nirvana in 1989. The doors closed for the last time last week to make way for a ventilation shaft and expanded Underground station being built as part of a new subway line.

Astoria Theatre, 157 Charing Cross Road, London WC2H 0EL

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Rock Shrine No. 42 – IBC Studios [The Who]

In the 1950s International Broadcasting Company Recording Studios (IBC) was the leading independent studio in London. In the 60s it became home to a roll-call of amazing artists, including The Beatles (who pre-recorded a live TV show), The Bee Gees, The Small Faces, Status Quo, Elton John, Rod Stewart, Jimmy Page (as a session guitarist), Golden Earring, Adam Faith, and Duane Eddy. Like Abbey Road Studio 2 and Trident it was noted for a room with a very high ceiling, creating great acoustics for rock bands. None tested this more than The Who, who recorded ‘My Generation’, ‘A Quick One’, ‘The Who Sell Out’, and ‘Tommy’.

Other era-defining music created here:
1. The Kinks – You Really Got Me
2. The Yardbirds – For Your Love, Happenings Ten Years Time Ago
3. The Easybeats – Friday on My Mind
4. Cream recorded their last studio album ‘Goodbye’ and parts of ‘Wheels Of Fire’.
5. Engineer/producer Glyn Johns recorded the Rolling Stones’ first demos in 1963.

In 1965 they were back in IBC to record “As Tears Go By”, either their own Italian version or the Marianne Faithfull version. Chas Chandler mastered several Jimi Hendrix records here and in the early 70s used it to record Slade. In the 80s, he bought IBC and renamed it Barn Studios. Situated in one of the most valuable real estate areas of central London, today it houses offices.

For more information, one of the studio’s engineers has created an extensive history web site: http://www.ibcstudio.co.uk/

IBC Studios, 35 Portland Place, London W1B 1QF

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Rock Shrine No. 43 – Central St. Martins School Of Art and Design [Joe Strummer]

Joe Strummer – or John Mellor as he was then known – began studying at Central in Sept 1970, one of over 400 applicants for the 60 available places. He wanted to be a cartoonist, though he told people he wanted to be in advertising. Joe later described the school as the “last resort of malingerers and bluffers and people who don’t want to work,” but it has long been one of the most prestigious art schools in Britain.

Graduates include a very long list of famous artists, actors, film makers and designers; musicians who went there include PJ Harvey, Jarvis Cocker, M.I.A., Vivian Stanshall and Neil Innes from The Bonzo Dog Band, Sex Pistol Glen Matlock and fellow Clash member Paul Simenon. It was where Malcolm McLaren and Bernard Rhodes went when they needed talented people to help when dreaming up The Sex Pistols.

One of these was Alex McDowell, who did all the silk screening of McLaren’s t-shirts and posters. He later designed album covers then co-founded The Oil Factory to make music videos. Moving to Los Angeles, he is now a production designer whose credits include Fight Club, Minority Report, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Terminal, and Watchmen.

Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design Southampton Row, London WC1B 4AP

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Rock Shrine No. 44 – Rehearsals Rehearsals [The Clash]

On the evening of August 13, 1976, The Clash invited some music journalists and friends to Rehearsals Rehearsals to see them play. Even in the hyper-small Punk world of the time they had gone unnoticed, quietly scheming, writing and rehearsing an arsenal of songs. The lucky few walked out of the balmy evening into a brick walled room with a rock and roll backline at the rear. Behind it was a painted mural of a cityscape, all tower blocks and car dumps. The 4 x 12 speaker cabinets in front of them were painted dayglo pink.

After a suitable wait the group entered, walking purposefully in single file, Joe Strummer at the head. The bassist wore black, paint spattered Jackson Pollock style acros the fabric. One of the guitarists had wide stripes painted on his shirt. There were three guitarists. Without a word they broke into a racket best desrcibed by Sounds critic Giovanni Dadomo, who called them “a runaway train”. The music moved on rails, straight ahead and full of purpose, with short explosive solos that finished before you fully heard them. They moved to match the music; third guitarist Keith Levene was literally running up the back wall as he played. They played about 14 songs in 30 minutes, the essence of Punk: a short, sharp shock.

Just down the road from The Roundhouse, Rehearsals Rehearsals was an old Gin House at the end of of a row of Victorian stables. It sat in a near-derelict yard in a near-derelict part of town, the rail lines from Kings Cross and St. Pancras running behind it on their way to the North. Manager Bernard Rhodes had found it as a place for the band to work. The name came from someone complaining that all they did was “reharsals rehearsals”.

Upstairs were a couple of rooms covered in old film posters. The photo of them standing in front of “Untamed Youth” was taken here. It’s in these rooms that the band plotted, schemed, and painted their clothes, in the days before they had their uniforms designed for them.

Paul Simenon outside Reharsals Rehearsals. The car belonged to manager Bernard Rhodes. (Image from Rock Archive)

The band’s first album cover photo was taken here. The notorious “pigeon-shooting” incident in 1978 happened on the roof, when Paul Simenon and Topper Headon shot at passing pigeons with an air rifle, not knowing they were valuable racing pigeons.

There was always something to do at Rehearsals Rehearsals

The Clash left in 1982. Since then it has served as a retail outlet for a number of boutiques. The interior is mostly gutted and modernised. A row of apartments is being built where the stables used to be.

By the railway tracks. The Roundhouse is in the background. Apartments are being built where they stand. (Image from Rock Archive)

Rehearsals Rehearsals - The Gin House, Stables Market London, NW1 8AH

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Rock Shrine No. 45 – The Apple Store [The Beatles]

The Beatles’ accountants had bought 94 Baker Street as a financial investment for the group and it became temporary headquarters for Apple whilst 3 Savile Row was being renovated. But what to do with it after that… Pattie Harrison was familiar with a Dutch group called The Fool, who had run a boutique in Amsterdam, so in September 1967, The Beatles gave them £100,000 to design and stock a new Apple Boutique. The concept was that absolutely everything was for sale. It was ‘a beautiful place where beautiful people can buy beautiful things’.

The Fool engaged several dozen art students to paint a huge psychedelic mural across the entire front and side of the store which garnered instant complaints from local merchants. The City of Westminster had refused planning permission and the mural was only present for three weeks before the council threatened to repaint it and charge Apple for the privilege.

Invitations to the grand opening on 5 December 1967 read 'Come at 7.46. Fashion Show at 8.16.' The only drink available was apple juice. John and George were the only Beatles that attended.

The Boutique was a financial disaster and closed just 8 months later. On Tuesday morning, 30 July 1968, the staff was told to give everything away. The ‘beautiful place’ was no more. Today, somewhat ironically, the building is home to an employment agency.

Opening Invitation

Clothing Label

Apple Boutique, 94 Baker Street, London W1U 6FZ

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Rock Shrine No. 46 – The Scene (The Who)

The Scene Club in Ham Yard, Soho was thought of by many as Mod Central. It wasn't a hugely popular place filled to bursting with people, but more of an underground club where only the top mods hung out, and the whole mod style was created. The club's decor didn't match the smart cut of their clothes, being a bizarre dingy basement catacomb where the walls were padded and the floor was littered with cushions, but it was ideal for the pilled lifestyle they led, where you were buzzing into the early hours of the morning and needed a club that stayed open as late as 5am on a Sunday. The Goldhawk may have been a club for drinkers, but the Scene was definitely designed for pills.

Pete Townshend - "The Scene was really where it was at, but there were only about fifteen people down there every night. It was a focal point for the mod movement. I don't think anyone who was a mod outside Soho realised the fashions and dances all began there."

Ham Yard, London W1D 7DT

Rock Shrine No. 47 – Kensington Hypermarket [Jimi Hendrix, Queen]

One of the best shopping experiences of the 60s and 70s, Kensington Hypermarket was a multi-floor building filled with tiny stalls owned by budding clothes designers and retail wannabes. It was popular because they moved quickly with the times, with groovy psychedelic gear in the 60s, Biba and velvet rockstar knockoffs in the early 70s and punk clobber in ‘76 and ‘77.

Freddy Mercury owned one such outlet and it is here that Roger Taylor first met him.

On September 17, 1970, the last afternoon of Jimi Hendrix’s life, he went shopping with girlfriend Monika Dannemann and spent a good part of the afternoon here.

Although closed for many years it was only recently torn down and replaced with this nondescript office block.

Kensington Hypermarket, 49 – 52 Kensington High Street, London W8 6NS

Rock Shrines 31 - 40

2009-01-09T22:55:00.032Z

Rock Shrine No. 31 – Station Hotel – The Rolling Stones

Every musician has started out the same: the secret pleasure of a small fan club. Even The Rolling Stones started out as unknowns.

By 1962-63 six guys within the bunch of blues fans that floated around the suburbs of London had fused into The Rolling Stones and were getting a reputation as something you had to see. The place to see them was The Station Hotel, Richmond, a suburb on the very edge of London. One of those told to check them out was 19-year old wunderkind Andrew Loog Oldham. He was publicist for The Beatles but wanted more. In his autobiography Stoned he describes the fateful night:

“Finally, in the dark and sweaty room, the Rollin’ Stones, all six of them, took to the stage while the…hundred-odd couples seemed ready for what they were about to receive and went apeshit. So did the group – they didn’t seem to start, so much as carry on from a previous journey…The room was as one, the music and audience had one particular place to go, a place I’d never been to but was happily being drawn to.

“On that stage, when I took in the Stones’ front line, I saw rock ‘n’ roll in 3-D and Cinerama for the first time….I’d never seen anything like it.”

Oldham became their manager and bent them to his fantasies of the ultimate rock group. His gift for outrageous publicity turned them into the second most famous group in the world. Just check the liner notes of the first few albums to see his talent for exaggeration.

Today it’s a bar and the interior has been gutted. But the back entrance remains, where the fans lined up and young Oldham entered to meet his destiny.

Station Hotel, 1 Kew Rd, Richmond, Surrey, TW9 2NQ

Rock Shrine No. 32 – The Africa Centre – Soul II Soul

Around 1988 Soul II Soul started life as a sound system and collective under the leadership of Jazzie B. A shifting group of musicians, the key people were Nellee Hooper from Bristol, vocalist Caron Wheeler and Japanese session drummer Masa, whose efforts to build a career in London were somewhat hampered by the lack of a work visa. Their residency at the Africa Centre in Covent Garden got them noticed and signed to Virgin Records and their first release, Club Classics Vol. 1 became a global hit. The band lasted throughout the ‘90s though never repeated the initial success. Hooper went on to become an A-list producer, working with Bjork, Madonna, No Doubt and Gwen Stefani, and Garbage, among others. What really made Soul II Soul distinctive was the invention of a brand new drum loop, which was the work of Masa and for which he never got credit.

The Africa Centre, 38 King Street, London WC2E 8JT

Rock Shrine No. 33 – Albert Hall

It’s been immortalised in one of the greatest songs of the last 40 years. It’s one of the most desired playgrounds in an artist’s career. It started out as an entertainment palace for fights and circuses.

Strange as it may seem, the Albert Hall is the Victorian equivalent of Staples Centre, MSG and all the music sheds. Glistening anew after a serious renovation, it’s one of the best places in London to see music. The audience sit in an oval shape, with boxes ringing the perimeter and cheap seats climbing in a steep rake right up to the high ceiling. The stage is at one end, in front of a massive pipe organ (on which Frank Zappa once played “Louie Louie”), which can make for interesting sight angles. When I saw Cream play in 2005 I watched Eric Clapton, seated behind the PA stack, bouncing his young daughter on his knee while Ginger Baker drum solo’d.

This is where Britain’s version of “The Sixties” started in September 1965, when a one-day poetry event with Allen Ginsberg drew all the freaks out of the woodwork, resulting in that ‘eureka!’ moment when the packed Hall realised they weren’t the only ones. Everybody has played here, classical, jazz and popular. But…Cream famously retired here in 1968 and reformed in 2005. Deep Purple played with an orchestra before reworking their blueprint for ‘Machine Head’. The Stones played in 1966. The Jimi Hendrix Experience in 1968. Bryan Ferry’s done it. Bob Dylan famously played here - acoustically in 1965 and electrically in 1966, resulting in a famous bootleg actually recorded somewhere else. Paul Simon played ‘Graceland’ for a week. But the residency king is Eric Clapton, who held an annual engagement for many years in the ‘80s and ‘90s, playing variously a regular night, a blues night and an orchestral night. In the end, the Hall is more famous than the participants.

http://www.royalalberthall.com/

Royal Albert Hall, Kensington Gore, London SW7 2AP

Rock Shrine No. 34 – Bag O’Nails [Jimi Hendrix, Beatles]

In Swinging Sixties London, when you got fed up with the Ad-Lib (what with Lennon freaking out because people were smoking joints in there) and couldn’t be bothered to trawl all the way down Picadilly to the Scotch of St. James (about, oh…a mile away), you walked five minutes (or had the chauffer drive you) to the Bag O’Nails. Situated at 9 Kingly Street, it’s less than 100 feet from Regent Street, one of London’s busiest streets, yet so invisible it might as well be miles away.

It was one of The Beatles' favourite places in 1967-68. Beatles assistant Mal Evans said in his book, “Ended up smashed in Bag O'Nails with Paul and Neil. Quite a number of people attached themselves, oh that it would happen to me...freak out time baby for Mal”.

On 15 May, 1967, Paul McCartney met New York photographer Linda Eastman for the first time.

Jimi Hendrix joined the roster of celebrated performers who held the stage when he played his second British show here in late September 1966. It was a promotional bash for The Experience, financed by manager Chas Chandler selling five of his six guitars. “Britain is really groovy,” Jimi announced afterward, just a week into his first visit to the country.

Bag O’Nails, 9 Kingly Street, London W1B 5PH

Rock Shrine No. 35 – Savoy Hotel [Bob Dylan]

We’ve all seen the video of Bob Dylan standing behind the Savoy Hotel dropping cards to “Subterranean Homesick Blues”. In ‘Don’t Look Back’ you’ve seen him take apart Donovan while holding court in his suite at the Savoy. This is the Savoy.

Opened in 1889, it was built by impresario Richard D’Oyly Carte, producer of Gilbert and Sullivan, and has always enjoyed a reputation as one of the most prestigious hotels in London. Famous guests include The Beatles, U2, Led Zeppelin, Sarah Bernhardt, Enrico Caruso, Lillie Langtry, Charlie Chaplin, Ivor Novello, Frank Sinatra, Laurence Olivier, Vivien Leigh, Judy Garland, Elton John, Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, The Who, Richard Harris, Julie Andrews, Shirley Bassey, Jimi Hendrix, and Marilyn Monroe. It’s currently closed for a £100million refurbishment.

In the accompanying video of His Bobness in his hotel suite, the woman who stands up at 5 seconds is Anthea Joseph, who gave Dylan his first residencey in London. She ran the Troubadour in Earls Court and in her words, saw a pair of boots descending the stairs and when the rest of him came into view, thought, ‘Hmmmmmm, this looks interesting…’

Savoy Hotel, 91 The Strand, London, WC2R 0EU

Rock Shrine No. 36 – EMI House [The Beatles, Pink Floyd, The Sex Pistols]

You’ve all seen the photo of The Beatles looking down from the balcony. It happened on the first floor (second floor for Americans) of EMI House, the buildng that used to stand here. When I worked here in the 70s we used to amuse ourselves by standing where they had. From this vantage point I watched Marc Bolan get into the front seat of his chauffered white Rolls Royce limo. He always sat in the front seat. Once I turned around and saw Freddie Mercury for the first time, thinking, “Who’s that strange lookin guy?” The Beach Boys, Pink Floyd, Cockney Rebel, Cliff Richard, The Sex Pistols, Roy Harper, ELO…If your favourite band was on EMI or Capitol they visited here.

The front door.

Four smiles that changed the world.

Pink Floyd play at being pop stars in front of EMI.

Maybe if he hangs out long enough someone will sign him.

When Generation X (Billy Idol) signed to Chrysalis, we celebrated by taking a photo outside EMI. (What a punkish jape!) That’s me third from the left.

The building was pulled down a few years ago; its replacement being designed to fit in with the rest of the Square. Architecture fans will want to go next door to The Wallace Collection, which features a stunning atrium designed by Rick Mathur.

EMI, 20 Manchester Square, London W1U 3PZ

Rock Shrine No. 37 – The Jam’s First London Gig

It’s the summer of 1976 and you’re an unknown trio of Mod-loving kids living about 50 miles out of London. How do you get your first gig in London? You take your cue from the manifesto Malcolm McLaren is spinning in the weekly music papers and get your own gig. So one hot Saturday morning The Jam set up on the pavement in front of a street market, ran an extension cord from the Rock On record stall, and played to a handful of people. Most of them were curious passersby; about five of us were paying attention, including The Clash’s Mick Jones. Fifteen minutes later and it was over. Today, the market is a parking garage. The band played about where the street lamp stands.

The Jam’s first London gig – Newport Place, London W1.

Rock Shrine No. 38 – UFO [Pink Floyd]

UFO was London’s first psychedelic club, the equivalent of the Electric Circus in NYC or the Fillmore in SF. It was started by music entrepreneur Joe Boyd and John Hopkins (aka "Hoppy") in an Irish dancehall called the "Blarney Club", a basement venue under the Berkeley Cinema. This wasn’t the first time the location had been an essential nightclub; from 1919-1926 it was a jazz club where races could mix to hear predominantly black music.

UFO opened on December 23, 1966. As Joe Boyd wrote in his book ‘White Bicycles’, "freaks came out of the woodwork from all over the city”.

Joe Boyd: “The club’s first few months were idyllic. Freaks descended en masse. We made money, everyone was astonished by how many like-minded souls there were in London, the groups had a prominent platform for the first time and our beautiful silk-screen posters could be seen all over the city. Something new was happening every week and even bigger things, it seemed, were just around the corner. It is hard to convey the excitement and optimism in the air then.”

Pink Floyd were effectively the house band, though evenings combined live music and light shows, avant-garde films and slide shows, dance troupes and even "spot the fuzz" competitions as attention from plainclothes police increased. Producer Chris Thomas (Procul Harum, The Pretenders, Roxy Music, John Cale, Elton John, The Sex Pistols, etc.) remembers seeing the Floyd one night playing with all the PA equipment at the sides of the room, so that while the band were in front of you, the sound was coming from the sides. Another night they played behind hanging sheets that completely obscured the stage, with the light show projected on them. Pete Townshend was a regular, studying Pink Floyd from beside of the stage.

Pink Floyd at UFO:

How they looked if you weren’t on drugs:

When Pink Floyd grew too popular, Soft Machine became the house band. Others who played included The Incredible String Band, Arthur Brown, Tomorrow, and Procol Harum, who played there when "A Whiter Shade of Pale" was No 1 in the charts. On April 28, 1967, Jimi Hendrix turned up as part of the audience and then jammed with Tomorrow, who were headlining.

How many plainclothes policemen can you spot?:

UFO was killed by success — it was too small to accommodate the increasing crowds. In June, 1967, Hoppy was imprisoned for drug offences and further police pressure caused the landlords to revoke the lease. It moved to The Roundhouse for a few months but a high rent meant Joe usually lost money. In October it ended.

The building was torn down in 1970 as part of a huge, multi-block redevelopment. Today the location is still a cinema; the basement where Pink Floyd first wowed London is a room with a screen.

Let’s give the final word to Joe: “Like most revolutionaries, the freaks of 1967 aimed high. And like many, they failed to reach their goals. The list of disappointments is long, but one only need watch a right-wing politician or pundit talk about the era to realise how much was accomplished: the very words “the Sixties” make them spit with fury, so we must have got something right!”

UFO: 31 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1T 1BX

Rock Shrine No. 39 – MPL [Paul McCartney]

Paul McCartney moved his company McCartney Promotions Ltd (MPL) into Soho Square in early 1976. The lobby is a fascinating mix of faux-Art Deco and modern art, with an excellent Robert Rauschenburg silkscreen just inside the front window. McCartney has collected modern art for years and has the largest private collection of noted Scottish artist Eduardo Paolozzi. In return, Paolozzi designed the cover of Red Rose Speedway. (McCartney also worked with pop artist Richard Hamilton to design the White Album cover and poster.)

Pass by at night and, if the curtains are open, you can see an upper floor office with one wall completely covered in gold and platinum discs. Not many people know it, but McCartney is the largest independent song publisher in the world, owning the catalogues for Buddy Holly and several of the American Songbook standards.

M P L Communications Ltd, 1 Soho Square, LONDON, W1D 3BQ

Before he moved two blocks up the road to Soho Square, Paul McCartney had offices at this building.

Paul McCartney, 12 Greek Street, London W1D 4DL

Rock Shrine No. 40 – 23 Brook Street [Jimi Hendrix]

In 1968 and 1969 Jimi Hendrix was one of the world’s biggest rock stars. But when he wasn’t jetting to rock festivals and sold out concerts, the small flat on the very top floor is the palace he called home. He moved from here a few months before his death. In London there’s a society that puts blue plaques on buildings where famous people lived or, occasionally, famous events happened. Where the devil’s music is concerned, only one person has had that honour.

In a piece of sublime serendipity, Jimi lived next door to where another musical genius lived two centuries earlier.

The house where Handel lived and died is now a museum (Handel House Museum). The rooms where Jimi lived is now a kitchen and toilet area for their volunteer staff.

Jimi Hendrix, 23 Brook Street, London W1K 4HA

Rock Shrines 21 - 30

2008-11-06T22:31:00.028Z

Rock Shrine No. 21 – Eurythmics

Judging by his space-age bachelor pad, Dave Stewart is the coolest playboy in London. Dave is the musical mastermind of Eurythmics, one of the Travelling Wilburys, a studio owner, a solo musician, a man whose life is so perfect that in Japan one year he had his appendix removed because he couldn’t believe there wasn’t something wrong with his life. He lived in this glass penthouse during the ‘90s. An article on it in the Sunday Times showed a place filled with ultra-cool technology and hot ‘70s vintage furniture. Imagine an updated Austin Powers shag palace and you get the idea. This a la mode temple is on Seven Dials, right in the middle of Covent Garden. At the time he was living with Siobahn Fahey of Shakespear’s Sister and you could see them circulating the streets, usually arguing with each other. Historic note: in Victorian times Seven Dials was considered so dangerous at night that it was said you were lucky if you got to the other side alive.

Dave Stewart's Bachelor Pad: Seven Dials, Covent Garden, London WC2

Rock Shrine No. 22 – The Scotch of St. James

The first London rock star club was the Ad Lib but by 1966 it was passe and everyone was on to the next club – The Scotch of St. James. The area of St. James has a long history as a discreet playground for the louche, moneyed, and landed and The Scotch of St. James was the ultimate in discretion – in a small yard off a side street, reached only by an easily missed driveway.

Andrew Loog Oldham described it in 2 Stoned: “You'd knock at the door and be auditioned through a peep-hole. Once in you'd travel downstairs via the twisting staircase... The Beatles, the Stones, the Yardbirds, Eric Clapton, Long John Baldry, Keith Moon, the Searchers all starred in the main room on their nights off... Lennon and McCartney, Jagger and Richards and I and our ladies would sit back in a dark corner and smoke and gloat.”

Here’s a photo from 1965, starring The Merseybeats and Pattie Boyd (the future Mrs. Harrison/Mrs. Clapton aka “Layla”).

Forty years later it’s still a club.

The Scotch of St. James, 13 Masons Yard, London SW1 6BU

Rock Shrine No. 23 – Indica Gallery

One of the key addresses in psychedelic London. Indica Bookshop and Gallery was opened in 1965 by Barry Miles, Peter Asher and John Dunbar. Dunbar was a friend of The Beatles and married to Marianne Faithfull. Asher was the brother of Paul McCartney’s girlfriend Jane Asher, half of Peter and Gordon, and in the ‘70s the producer of James Taylor and producer/manager of Linda Ronstadt. Most cultural movements seem to be the result of serendipity and a few crucial people. English psychedelia – and The Beatles’ music - would be very different without Barry Miles. I knew him reasonably well in the early 70s, when he wrote for the NME. Considering the pivotal role he had in shaping global culture he was one of the quietest, unassuming people I’ve met. It came as a real surprise to learn of his background.

L-R: Peter Asher, Barry Miles, John Dunbar

The bookshop was one of the first places in London to sell beat poetry, Burroughs and other “alternative” literature. McCartney was a regular customer. It was here that John Lennon bought a copy of The Tibetan Book of the Dead, which partly inspired “Tomorrow Never Knows”. McCartney put money into the premises and helped build it. The wood needed for the shelves and counter was picked up by Dunbar and Miles in McCartney's Aston Martin. McCartney wielded a saw. Jane Asher donated the shop's first cash till, an old Victorian one she had played with as a young girl. McCartney helped to draw the flyers advertising the opening and also designed the wrapping paper. In 1966, the bookshop was separated from the gallery and moved to 102 Southampton Row. The Gallery promoted radical art ideas and radical artists (in its life it never exhibited paintings). One of those was Yoko Ono, who exhibited in late ’66.

On November 9, 1966 John Lennon stumbled out of his Rolls, into the gallery and up a ladder where a magnifying glass on a string let him read a tiny message on the ceiling: “Yes”. Yoko, in attendance, handed him a card which read, ‘Breathe’; thus did The Beatles’ second double-act meet. A few years ago Miles and Dunbar were interviewed about this famous meeting as part of a BBC documentary and were in fine debunking form. Interestingly, both had different memories but agreed that: Lennon was quite stoned, reacted positively to Ono’s artistic playfulness and conceptual ingenuity, and that Yoko knew very much who Lennon was and manouevred for conquest, despite her subsequent high-art assertions that she didn’t know who The Beatles were. (Miles claimed that she tried to get in the Rolls with John when it left.) Today, it’s still a gallery. Indeed, the yard seems to be made up almost entirely of art-related businesses. English place names can be quite literal and Masons Yard was just that – a place full of stone masons, with a large central area for the stone. Today it’s filled with the newest gallery, the White Cube, one of London’s leading art spaces.

John Dunbar on Indica

Photos of recreated Indica installations

Indica Gallery: 6 Masons Yard, London SW1 6BU

Rock Shrine No. 24 – Eric Burdon (and the Animals)

Ending our tour around Masons Yard, Dalmeny Court is where Eric Burdon had a flat in the mid-‘60s. Eric was lead singer in The Animals, a group who dealt a global Number One in 1964 with their first single, ‘House Of The Rising Sun’. They had original compositions as well (including the hilarious ‘Story Of Bo Diddley’) and starting in ’65 produced a string of fabulous hard hitting singles that, criminally, don’t get modern recognition. According to Eric’s memoir, Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood, “I was right above the Indica Gallery" (see Rock Shrine 23). Which also puts him right above the Scotch Of St. James, the coolest night club in town (see Rock Shrine 22). Which made getting home a cinch. And this a bachelor pad supreme.

Dalmeny Court, 8 Duke St, Westminster, London SW1Y

Rock Shrine No. 25 – Trident Studios

You’ve heard of hiding in plain sight. Trident Studio does just that. St. Annes Court is a busy pedestrian alley in Soho connecting two of it’s main streets. I’ve walked through it for decades, right past the Trident doorway, and never noticed it. Spot the studio:

Imagine these people walking towards you on their way to the studios: carrot-top spaceman David Bowie, satin ‘n’ tat T. Rex, overproductive Beatles, innocent Queen, wild-side Lou Reed. Check these in your collection: Hunky Dory, Space Oddity, Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane, Electric Warrior, Transformer, the first two Queen albums, ‘Hey Jude’, ‘Martha, My Dear’, ‘Dear Prudence’, ‘Honey Pie’. Created here.

The view from the control room: Peter Gabriel at work.

It goes on: Elton (‘Your Song’, Tumbleweed Connection, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road), Nilsson (‘Without You’), Carly Simon (‘You’re So Vain’), Billy Preston, Mary Hopkins, James Taylor, George Harrison (All Things Must Pass), Lennon (‘Cold Turkey’), Dusty Springfield, Mahavishnu Orchestra, Free (‘All Right Now’), Frank Zappa, Mott The Hoople (‘All The Young Dudes’), Yes, Genesis (with Peter Gabriel), Peter Gabriel (without Genesis), and The Jeff Beck Group. The Rolling Stones effectively auditioned Mick Taylor here, recording mostly unreleased tracks with titles like ‘Potted Shrimp’ and ‘Leather Jacket’ as well as ‘Brown Sugar’.

Three producers made it their home: Gus Dudgeon, Tony Visconti, and Richard Perry. Why? [1] It was the first studio in Britian to have eight-track recording. [2] A 100-year old Bechstein concert grand piano with resin on the hammers, renowned for its sound. [3] Engineer Ken Scott, who cut his teeth on many of the greatest Beatles records. [4] A warm sounding room and a great sounding drum area.

The studio bill and McCartney’s notes for ‘Let It Be’

The two brothers who owned the place started modifying the desk and developed a very successful business building mixing desks. They started a video company in 1973 and developed another very successful business. The piano was restrung in the mid-70s and lost its distinct sound. In 1981 the strudio was sold.

Today’s it’s used for audio post production in TV, film and multimedia. The original control room is still pretty much as it was, though the desk faces the other way. The basement studio has been broken up into more studios and overdubbing rooms.

Every Thursday at 6pm, the public can go on a “Magical History Tour” of the studio’s past. Part of the experience is hearing a selection of the hits on big monitors. Heard back to back it’s obvious that all these records came from the same room: a fantastic drum presence, beautiful percussive piano, evocative vocal sound and warm, round strings.

Stairway to the stars

Trident Studios, 17 St. Anne’s Court, London W1F 0BQ

Rock Shrine No. 26 – RCA: The Clash

The Royal College of Art is best known as a centre of British art [Hockney, Kitaj, Conran…] but on November 5, 1976 it hosted A Night Of Treason, starring The Clash. Punk was going overground and the place was full of punks, the interested and students. The stage door policy was loose and backstage was as crowded as out front. The dressing rooms and corridors were seething with talent. Siouxsie Sioux was gathering her tribe to follow up the Punk Festival appearance. Billy Idol and Tony James were about to leave Chelsea (one time on stage) and start a band called Generation X. Adrian Thrills was starting a fanzine. Mark P was working on the next issue of Sniffin’ Glue. If Punk was an attitude then Subway Sect was as Punk as it got. They didn’t look or sound like anything else on a stage [before or since]. Their complete lack of showmanship and off-centre music really made you feel you were seeing something new. Then The Jam came on, all two-tone shoes and Shepherds Bush riffs. Somehow the sharp suits and Rickenbackers were at odds with the homemade fashions and Fenders of the Pistols and the Clash and backstage they sat apart from the other bands.
The Clash were incendiary. The sound was big and loud and they climbed all over their brace of songs like kids on a building site, crashing guitars and a rabble-rousing Joe. Then a student threw a beer glass. [Depressingly, it was always students who threw glasses and bottles.] Joe threw his arms above his head and shouted ‘Under heavy manners!’ He sought out the perpetrator, who got on stage. Joe questioned him and the guy looked sheepish. Then Sid Vicious got on stage, muttering into the mic and looking well-named. A few minutes later and they got back to the wonderful racket.

People used to say their life changed the first time they saw The Clash. This was the night when that scenario began.

Royal College of Art, Kensington Gore, London SW7 2EU

Rock Shrine No. 27 – The Vortex

The summer of ’77 – hot and heaving. The Summer of Punk. The year of The Vortex. Every Tuesday night 1500 punks would cram themselves into the basement of this club to see a double bill of the best new bands. You knew when a fresh shipment of Punk’s drug of choice was in town because if you entered straight the atmosphere was unpleasantly electric. Amphetamine sulphate was a 1!2!3!4! drug for 1!2!3!4! music. It cost a measly £15 a gram and one nostril stripping snort would keep you alert and charging for ten or twelve hours. The unholy trinity of 1977 was punk, powder and price. The punk-reggae interface started here, when Generation X played with a band from Birmingham called Steel Pulse. On stage it was all Rasta patois but in the dressing room they sounded as Brummie as Ozzy Osbourne. Ex-Pistol Glen Matlock started The Rich Kids here; Mick Jones was getting tired of no drummer in his band and injected a big dose of is-he-quitting paranoia into Camp Clash by guesting with Glen. Malcolm McLaren was putting his Sex Pistols movie together and had hired titilation director Russ Meyer. As wonderfully strange as Meyer’s movies were, in punk he was a tourist in a very strange land. My favourite image of The Vortex was watching Meyer – slacks, jacket and very big cigar – wandering disturbed and confused through the sea of punkettes in dog collars, torn fishnets and bad makeup. Thirty years later it’s a disco.

The Vortex, 201 Wardour Street, London W1F 8ZH

Rock Shrine No. 28 – Ivor Court (The Who, Rolling Stones)

Variously and together, from the autumn of 1964 to 1967: Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts lived here. The Who manager Kit Lambert both lived and had an office at no. 113 as he navigated the group from guitar-smashing debt to rock-opera riches. It was Lambert, the youngest in a line of upper-class artistics, who suggested to Pete Townshend he should write an opera. The result was ‘A Quick One’, paving the way for the much more ambitious ‘Tommy’. Rolling Stones and Immediate Records visionary Andrew Loog Oldham ran his offices at 138 and 147. Oldham is rightly famous for inventing the Stones, but he also signed The Small Faces. Oldham defined his moment of arrival as the point when he could decide which telephone calls to accept.

Ivor Court, Gloucester Place, London NW1 6BJ

Rock Shrine No. 29 – The Lyceum

One of the best venues in London for live music: good acoustics, wonderful rococo design and a roof that rolls back.

The Rolling Stones were here in 1969; when they played the Chuck Berry song “Little Queenie” a spotlight was shone on the hall’s portrait of Queen Elizabeth, possibly the first post-modern moment in rock music. In the days before Ticketmaster, the ticket line for The Who was several blocks long, nearly everyone a young man. The Clash and Queen played intimate dates here. At an all-nighter in the summer of ’76 the Sex Pistols supported The Prettythings. Madness, The Selector and The Specials kicked off Two-Tone with a riotous celebration in 1980.

But the reason we really remember it is for the momentous live recording by Bob Marley and the Wailers in 1975. The two nights he played were fabulously warm and the roof was open so all the cigarette and spliff smoke disappeared. When you looked up you could see stars in the sky. The stage was low and while it was hard to see more than the band’s heads and shoulders it meant you could get close and really be part of the experience. These things I remember: the dipping and swaying of the multi-coloured I-Threes, the nimbleness of the Barrett brothers as they drove one fabulous song after another forward off the stage, and the righteous militancy of Bob as he stepped across the stage, sang with sweet conviction and shook dem locks as the weak hearts dropped.

The Lyceum, 21 Wellington St, London, WC2E 7RQ

Rock Shrine No. 30 – 57 Wimpole St. (The Beatles)

From 1963 – 1965 Paul McCartney lived in rooms on the top floor of the family home of his girlfriend Jane Asher.

Lennon and McCartney wrote “I Want To Hold Your Hand” in the basement, “one on one, eyeball to eyeball,” as Lennon put it. During the three years he lived here it’s fair to say many other famous songs were either conceived or worked on here.

When Paul wanted to dodge fans he would duck into Browning Mews, which backs on the house.

Wimpole Street is one block from Harley Street, famous for its doctors, including the Dr. Robert immortalised in The Beatles song. Architecture fans should spend some time walking around the neighbourhood, it has some of the best residential architecture in London.

57 Wimpole St., London W1G 8YW

Nico – My Part In Her Fame

2008-04-21T12:39:00.001Z

In 1974 I worked as a press officer at Island Records. It says something of the artistic license an A&R man could take in those times that he signed both John Cale and Nico almost purely on their reputation as Velvet Undergrounders. Cale was musically and philosophically close to another Island signing, Brian Eno, and it wasn’t long before they were partners in mischief. Completing the label’s artistic coven was Kevin Ayers, founding member of Soft Machine and enjoying a certain muso credibility for having discovered Mike Oldfield, then riding high with the all-conquering ‘Tubular Bells’.

But how to sell this arcane quartet to the huddled masses…. How about an old-fashioned revue, art-style?

So it came to pass on June 1, 1974 that the four played The Rainbow. With one exception it was a guitar jamboree: Kevin had Oldfield with him, the shyest guy in show business. Eno played the epic “Baby’s On Fire”. Cale seared the unsuspecting audience with his volcanic interpretation of “Heartbreak Hotel”. The exception was Nico. Alone at her harmonium she pumped out a trio of mournful odes, none more doleful than her bus drive through “The End”.

The event was recorded, packaged and released exactly three weeks later, a monumental effort in logistics. My role was to kindle and feed the excitement of the press.

Seven years on from The Velvet Underground, Nico still looked beautiful but her face had hardened. She wore gowns and a cloak, hiding who knew what state of body. Singing, conversations, publicity…each was approached the same way. Her interviews had journalists reaching for the thesaurus: funereal, sombre, gloomy, melancholy, monotone. Because she didn’t care about “career moves” and being your friend, she seemed arctic. I liked her.

I never had a natural conversation with her. I’m not sure anyone did. It was more like a series of pronouncements that you explored for hooks with which to construct replies. Even Cale, who was in the middle of making his third album with her, seemed to have the same conversational dynamic. Her voice was just like on record but maybe even slower. Every sentence sounded like a definitive statement, an effect that worked really well when we spent half a bus ride talking about how masks were used on the ancient Greek stage. (Yes, “I took a face from the ancient gallery” ran through my mind more than once.)

Underneath the surface lurked a considerable humour, expressed through sardonic jokes and an almost secret smile that would surface in the silences. Maybe she was just laughing at our attempts to reply.

She usually had a bottle of red wine in her hand, from which she regularly sipped. “It tastes much better from the bottle. In a glass it doesn’t taste as good. She confided with such certainty that I started thinking I should change the way I drank. Supplementing it was a small hash pipe. Often the two went in circular sequence.

Nico’s solo oeuvre was a very arcane taste. She was possibly alone in “rock music” to create the sounds she did – music was linear in those days. ACNE, as the quartet was called, did several gigs around the country and while her music was alien to almost everyone’s taste, her focus, concentration and otherworldliness always made me pay attention. My mind didn’t wander when she was on stage.

The last time I saw her was in the Island press office. She was sitting on a sofa by the door, half-empty wine bottle on the floor by her feet, hash pipe between her lips while we talked about upcoming interviews. The label president stepped through the door, not noticing her as he asked someone a question. Then he smelled the sweet fumes and looked down for a long ten seconds. When he looked back up you could see a shutter come down to his right and she ceased to exist in his presence.

Her album (‘The End’) came out soon after, but it was never going to sell to anyone who wasn’t already interested. The label didn’t renew her contract.

The Sex Pistols First Interview

2008-04-07T17:53:00.006Z

The Sex Pistols are four months old, so tuned in to the present that it's hard to find a place to play. Yet they already have a large, fanatical following. So their manager, who runs a rubber and leather shop called Sex, hired a strip club where the two sides could meet

By Jonh Ingham
Sounds. April 24, 1976 _______________________________________________

THE SMALL, sleazoid El Paradise Club in Soho is not one of the more obvious places for English rock to finally get to grips with the Seventies, but when you're trying to create the atmosphere of anarchy, rebellion and exclusiveness that's necessary as a breeding ground, what better place? Name one kid who will tell their parents they'll be home really late this Sunday because they're going to a strip club to see the Sex Pistols.

The shop front is the customary facade of garish, fluorescent lit plastic and enticing tit pix, gold-flocked wallpaper and a life-size gold framed lovely beckoning you within. Conditioning expects one to go down a hall or some stairs but the minute you turn the corner you're there. A small room 20 to 30 feet long, bare concrete floor, a bar at one end, three and a half rows of broken down cinema seats. The other rows seem to have been bodily ripped out. It's an unexpected, shocking sight at first, but after it gets comfortable the thought occurs that perhaps it's not sleazy enough. It needs more black paint peeling from the sweating walls, a stickier floor . . .

With luck the second gathering occurred there last Sunday (the Maltese landlords can be a little difficult to unearth). The first such gathering accumulated entirely by word of mouth, and by midnight the joint was jumping.

Flared jeans were out. Leather helped. All black was better. Folks in their late twenties, chopped and channelled teenagers, people who frequent Sex, King's Road avant leather, rubber and bondage clothing shop. People sick of nostalgia. People wanting forward motion. People wanting rock and roll that is relevant to 1976.

At the moment, that criteria is best embodied in the Sex Pistols. They fill the miniscule, mirror-backed stage, barely able to move in front of their amps. They are loud. They are fast. They are energetic. They are great.

Coming on like a Lockheed Starfighter is more important to them than virtuosity and sounding immaculate. This quartet has no time for a pretty song with a nice melody. Guitarist Steve Jones doesn't bother much with solos, preferring to just pick another chord and power on through. ("There's two reasons for that - I can't play solos and I hate them anyway." As he said that, 'I'm Mandy, Fly Me' came on the juke box and we agreed the only good thing in it was the solo.)

But imitating the roar of the Industrial Age doesn't mean they're sloppy. Although earlier reports reckoned their time keeping somewhat off, to the point of cultivating an ethic of them being so bad they were good, Glen Matlock (bass) and Paul Cook (drums) seem to have the beast on the rails and in this stripped down form the beat is where it's at. One also has to remember that the Sex Pistols has only existed professionally since Christmas and that Steve has only played guitar for five months.

With inaudible lyrics the music is very similar from song to song but a cranial trigger says, that song is great (applaud) but that one is just okay (don't applaud). Everyone else seems to think similarly. Which annoys singer John Rotten endlessly. "Clap you fuckers. Because I m wasting my time not hearing myself." He begins a slow handclap; about three people join in.

John is a man who likes to confront his audience, not to mention the rest of the band. It's this Stooges-like aura of complete unpredictability and violence that gives the Sex Pistols that extra edge. Paul reckons the broken glass attitude will only disappear when they get as old as Pete Townsend and just do it for the money.

The Pistols' roots lie with Paul and Steve who left school with a healthy desire to avoid work. The obvious alternative was rock even though neither could play an instrument. Their musical models were the Stones and the Who and the early Small Faces, which doesn't say much for Seventies rock, and was a reason for starting a band.

Out of the last six years, Steve rates the Stooges. Paul admits to being fooled by Roxy Music for three albums. Later he added Todd Rundgren. "Yeah, there's what acid does to you," retorted Steve, adding proudly, "There's no drugs in this group."

Glen joined and they staggered on for a year, learning a Who/Small Faces repertoire ("but that didn't get us anywhere"), buying their threads from Sex and bugging Malcolm, the owner, to manage them. Having already spent seven months in New York handling the New York Dolls he wasn't too interested but he helped them a bit and they kept bugging and, well, London could do with a Seventies rock band.

Malcolm decided that Steve was hopeless as a singer, got him to learn guitar and the search was on. Into Sex walks John, who couldn't sing but looked the part. They tried to audition in the conventional manner, but finally settled on standing him in front of the shop's jukebox, telling him to pretend he was on stage.

John had never even considered joining a band.

We're sitting in a tacky pub in Charing Cross Road. Until now John has been sitting politely, looking a bit bored while I talk to the others. He's wearing the ripped up red sweater he wears on stage, a safety pin dangles from a thin gold ring in his right ear lobe. So how come you're doing it John?

The intensity level immediately leaps about 300 percent. He looks manic. "I hate shit. I hate hippies and what they stand for. I hate long hair. I hate pub bands. I want to change it so there are rock bands like us."

This is delivered at full tirade, with a sneer to match the voice. He clocks my earring, the five weeks laziness straggling across my cheeks and chin and the sneer and the direct-eye blitz never stops. I'm inadvertently thinking 'Gosh, I'm not a hippie now - that was a childhood error,' and I never was one in the first place. The kid's got style. You know what end of a switchblade he would have been on in 1956. I'd love to be present when the middle-aged boogers who pass for rock critics on the national papers finally confront him.

But John's just warming up.

"I'm against people who just complain about Top Of The Pops and don't do anything. I want people to go out and start something, to see us and start something, or else I'm just wasting my time."

This last phrase is a favourite. He says it with just the right amount of studied boredom.

The Pistols found their first public by gatecrashing gigs, pulling up and posing as the support band. At the North East London Poly they succeeded in emptying the room, the same stylish feat being Shep Gordon's reason for signing up Alice Cooper. At St. Albans, where they supposedly played one of their worst gigs, they were asked back again.

In London they rapidly depleted themselves of potential venues. For a start they wouldn't play pubs.

Malcolm: "The trouble with pubs is that they're bigger than the bands. They're all full of people playing what a crowd wants rather than what they want because they can make a reasonable living from it. If you want to change things you can't play pubs. You don't have the freedom."

Paul: "The trouble with pubs is you have to please everybody If we wanted to please everybody we'd end up sounding like the Beatles."

That left the Marquee, 100 Club, and the Nashville. Eddie and the Hot Rods asked them to support at the Marquee. It was the first time they had ever used monitors and hearing themselves caused a slight o.d., John leaping into the audience and the others kicking the monitors about.

In the light of what the Pistols consider the Hot Rods' over-reaction to the incident, the group insist they did little damage to anything that wasn't theirs. They've also written a song on the matter.

I think the photos speak for the particular violence of the 100 Club gig, but the band and the Nashville seemed to enjoy each other. Allan Jones of the Melody Maker described it:

'Their dreadfully inept attempts to zero in on the kind of viciously blank intensity previously epitomised by the Stooges was rather endearing at first... The guitarist, another surrogate punk suffering from a surfeit of Sterling Morrison, played with a determined disregard for taste and intelligence.'

Taste. Intelligence.

"Who's Sterling Morrison?" asked Steve.

When last heard of he was a university professor in Santa Fe.

"Oh. That's alright then. What's 'surrogate' mean?"

They’re going to play the Nashville again, but their problem, apart from finding it impossible to find a band they're compatible with musically, is that it's still not the right environment.

Malcolm decided early on that France would understand much better and envisioned a couple of weeks in Paris. The French promoter saw the Marquee gig, and fired with visions of Gene Vincent and Vince Taylor has booked them across France and Switzerland for May. Meanwhile, El Paradise...If things work out, Malcolm will obtain the old UFO premises.

Apart from the difficulty of finding the El Paradise landlords, the police arrived about 2 a.m. the first night, what with the noise of the steel rolling door going up and down all the time as people left. And it's not really the right thing to have a minor pop band like Arrows spread-eagled against the wall being frisked as a nightcap to the evening's frivolities.

Basically, what Malcolm wants is a rumbling, anarchic, noisy energetic rock scene, the likes of which haven't been seen in this country since the mid 1960s. Any comparisons with New York rock/club scene are briskly brushed aside.

"Maybe it's because they're so close to the media, but they're all so scared by them. I used to talk to [journalist] Lisa Robinson and David Johanssen would pull me into the toilet and say, 'Don't you know who you're talking to? Don't say those things!' My God, if you worry about what you say to her...

"The trouble with the Dolls was that their hype was so much bigger than they were. They really had an opportunity to change it all around, but instead of ignoring all that bullshit about signing up with a company and a big advance, they got sucked in.

"They get dazzled by the process. Every time The Ramones have a picture of them published it lessens their mystique. There's no mystery about the New York scene. Pretty soon Richard Hell is going to leave the Heartbreakers and Sire Records will dangle a contract in front of him and he knows it won't help and won't do any good but he'll sign it because it's what's expected of him.

"The thing to do is just ignore all that. No-one came to sign up the Stones, no-one wanted to know. But when they saw a lot of bands sounding like that with a huge following they had to sign them. Create a scene and a lot of bands - because people want to hear it - and they'll have to sign them even though they don't understand it.

"The trouble with the pubs is that they’re free, and people come for that reason. If you're at a Sex Pistols gig you wanted to go, because you spent money to get in. I opened the shop because I wanted people to make a certain statement and they wore my clothes. The Sex Pistols are another extension of that."

As for what the band think of comparisons...

"The New York scene has absolutely nothing to do with us," sneers John. "It's a total waste of time. All anyone talks about is the image. No-one's ever mentioned the music."

But there's a remote connection with the aesthetic and they seem to be trying to get on with the future.

“I like that word, 'remote'” he says real blankly.

(Is he always like this? "No. He was rather polite tonight.")

Steve and Paul deliver the fatal blows.

"They're not like us. They all have long hair."

"Yeah, Anglophiles with Brian Jones mop heads."

So there they sit, waiting for a scene to build up around them, for the appearance of bands they can play with. They look rather glum at the prospect and, when you consider it, we can at least go and see the Sex Pistols.

"Yeah," sighs Steve. "I wish I could see us."

Sex Pistols/Buzzcocks - Lesser Free Trade Hall, Manchester - 31 July 1976

2008-04-04T13:47:00.002Z

ABOVE MANCHESTER'S Free Trade Hall is a little known auditorium, capable of holding some 400, cunningly named the Lesser Hall. Until the Sex Pistols discovered it for a concert last month its functional Fifties atmosphere had been sullied only by the strains of the odd jazz recital.

After that concert, which attracted some 150 rough tuff raving Mancunians, conversation led to contact with the fabulously named Slaughter and the Dogs. With the coordination of Howard Devoto the Pistols organised another bout, the Dogs supporting. In the meantime Devoto whipped his own band, the Buzzcocks, into shape, making for a triple bill of critical mass potential.

Unfortunately, the PA was more expectation than actuality, the Pistols sounds man having to patch together a mismatched jumble of amps to gain results. Under the circumstances, it's a wonder the sound was as good as it was.

It was the Buzzcocks' first gig. Devoto stands and sings a lot like Johnny Rotten, and indeed the band sounds a lot like the Pistols, perhaps because Howard hauled guitarist Pete Shelley down to a London Pistols gig so that the light could be seen and the course charted. Whatever their inspiration, they're promising.

Howard, wearing sneakers, pencil thin Levis, t-shirt and baggy blue jacket, is singing love songs, the strangest love songs you've ever heard. They have titles like (and I can't vouch for their accuracy) 'Breakout', 'You're Shit', 'Put 'Em Down', 'I Love You, You Big Dummy'. One song goes 'I’ve been smoking in the smoking room, Now I'm in the living room, I want what I came for pretty soon'.

It's the Boston Strangler singing the dance of romance, his face getting redder, eyes popping, kicking and punching the air.

At first they are rhythmic to the point of rigidity, Shelley – who is wearing tight salmon pink Levis, sleeveless 'Buzzcocks' t-shirt, shades and short hair – not even bothering with the concept of a middle-eight, let alone a solo. The top half of his red, £18.49 Audition guitar is snapped off; he got excited at rehearsal one day and threw it against the wall.

But soon he begins to open out. By the time they fire up a high rev version of the Troggs' 'I Can't Control Myself' he's pulling out all manner of interesting riffs and changes. Drummer John Maher is solid, maintaining a fast, precise rhythm with plenty of cymbal flicking. Bassist Steve Diggle, who has a fair resemblance to Johnny Ramone is equally strong.

The climax came with a wild feedback solo, Shelley throwing his axe at the amp. When he went on a little too long, Devoto came out of the wings and pulled the guitar from him. He pulled it back. Devoto grabbed all six strings and yanked ripping them asunder. Shelley propped the now screaming guitar against the speaker and left via the audience. Thus finished the set.

Apart from gigs, the only thing the Buzzcocks need is a hell of a lot more volume.

WHILE EQUIPMENT was changed the capacity audience posed. The David Bowie lookalikes all had the distinct advantage of looking like their skinny hero, perhaps the benefit of plastic surgery. There was a profusion of Neanderthals in stringy hair and leather, one of whom dug the Pistols by bellowing "Stooges!" and pounding seats to oblivion.

There was a profusion of homemade Slaughter and the Dogs badges, and one trendsetter sported a high-class homemade Sex Pistols t-shirt. Then there were the six rows of very straight looking people at the back who sat there very vacant all evening, even those who loathed it.

Depending on who you talk to, Slaughter and the Dogs have been alive between eight months and two years: the new order's ground rules are still being formed and no-one is quite sure what's cool to admit and what isn't. Their age is 15 and 16, except for vocalist Wayne Barratt, who sheepishly admits to an ancient 19. Their reason d'etre, he says, is to relate the energy of 60s Stones to the 70s. An admirable notion, but what this means is that all the fast songs sound like 'Jumping Jack Flash' and the slow ones like 'Angie'.

Anyway you slice it, it is rapidly apparent that the Dogs are well outside the boundaries being drawn by the Pistols. They open with a meandering bass/guitar interchange, the band suddenly bursting on in a blaze of light and noise. For the first tune they generate reasonable excitement, kind of like a high-energy Faces routine.

Barratt, who sports immaculately combed green tinted hair, is wearing Captain Blood style brown satin trousers tied at the cuffs, which brush red Anello and Davide shoes. The belt turns into a sash across his chest and then somehow into a scarf. A codpiece is equipped at no extra charge. The others – Brian Granford (drums), Howard Bates (bass), Mike Day (lead guitar) – look pretty normal, but rhythm guitarist Mike Rossi, who's so punky he can hardly be bothered to mumble his name, is decked out red and white striped t-shirt, black vinyl vest and white Strat; it's a wonder he hasn't dyed his Ronno hair cut that just so Mick Ronson shade. Ah yes, Slaughter on Tenth Avenue. And naturally, Diamond Dogs.

Just how the Dogs see themselves as being like the Pistols, which is how they approached the group, is an entertaining mystery. It is said that on a local radio show they defined 'punk' as being a cross between David Bowie and the Rolling Stones. But fuck definitions, Pete Shelley reckons they're an offence just to the word itself.

It is also said that a lot of interest is being expressed in them, which is easy to see. They could quite easily replace any of the current crop of Top Of The Pops groups with no drop in visual quality.

They should also learn to differentiate between genuine demand for an encore and a huge scream of relief at their exit. It would save their outnumbered fans a lot of bother.

THE NOTORIOUS Sex Pistols, the band the promoters of the French Punk Rock festival claim are going too far – "Who do they think they are? The Rolling Stones?" – were greeted with a wild ovation. John stood there and beamed. Then Steve jumped to the front of the stage and started ripping off the opening to 'I Want To Be You', legs apart, swinging his hips from side to side. He has great style.

After 'Pushing And Shoving' John takes off his red mohair sweater, the right sleeve of his shirt casually rolled up to show the cigarette burns on his forearm.

At the Lyceum, like a nonchalant robot he'd stuck out his right fist, ground his fag out on it and chucked the butt over his shoulder, all in one fluid, mechanical motion.

The best thing about the Pistols is the rapid improvement they make from gig to gig. Finally hearing John's lyrics gives it quite a push but Steve and Glen are really beginning to rein in the power, both piling on the energy through the solos. Unfortunately, Paul's drumming was practically inaudible, but some of the bass runs were real eye-openers, while Steve was rewriting the whole Guitar Hero's Stances textbook, pulling his axe up alongside his cheek (great expression of exquisite pain), firing off early Pete Townshend dive bombs, rockin’ out on the beat with precise, soaring feedback endings.

It's all summed up in 'I'm A Lazy Sod': 'Lotta noise. It's my choice. What I want to do'.

Pretty soon a guy was doing the Wilko Johnson Robot Zigzag at high speed up and down the aisle. People near the front began to jump about more. As the band blasted into 'New York' a guy came leaping down the aisle, each bound taking him about five feet into the air, his feet somewhere around his ears.

'Anarchy In The UK', a new song, was a highpoint: 'Give me the MPLA, Or is it UDA, Or is it IRA, Or is it the UK, Or just another country, Or just a council tenancy'. 'Satellite', another hot number, has yet to have the lyrics dug out of it, the only visible hook being the chorus, 'I love you'. But honey this ain't no romance, as John disdainfully clarifies. "It's a comment on suburbia, a wife. 2.4 children, a mortgage and a car in the garage."

The closest John Rotten gets to love is the soon-to-be-classic 'No Feelings': 'You better understand I'm in love with myself'.

At John's encouragement the front rapidly filled with wildly bopping people. One enthusiastic couple pushed each other back and forth in time to the express train rhythm, and God help anyone in the way. By the time 'Problems' had blasted to a close the joint was screaming.

For an encore, John tore up his shirt.

© Jonh Ingham, 1976

We Have Seen The Future Of Rock And Roll…And It’s Complicated (Part 1)

2008-02-26T15:50:00.004Z

The following 5-part article was published in The Word, January 2008. I was asked to extrapolate on how the music business looked likely to develop based on existing trends. The satisfying part is that within a week of publication, real events were overtaking predictions.

-----------------------

“I'm interested in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos, especially activity that appears to have no meaning.” When rock star rabble-rouser Jim Morrison concocted this engagingly inflammatory soundbite for a journalist in 1968 he was reflecting the civil-strife anti-war society around him. The music business that surrounded his success was an ordered world where The Doors made records and people bought them.

Fast-forward to 2008 and he could be describing the very business that made him famous. Revolt, disorder and chaos are now consuming the business and chewing through its profit sheets. As for activity that appears to have no meaning, thirty-seven years after their singer died The Doors tour with a singer that mimics Morrison. They even have a new name that’s perfect for these disordered times: Riders Of The Storm.

And what a storm. Profits are plummeting so fast that some question the continued existence of the major music labels. They respond by squeezing out the maximum cash they can extract, increasingly from outside businesses that sense huge opportunities and will keep experimenting until they find what works or their cash runs out. Driving almost everything is the concept that music is free. It just won’t go away. But someone has to pay for it, so who?

Canadian musicians think it should still be you. They propose a $5 monthly levy on every Internet and wireless account in the country to pay for music downloading, much as we pay a TV license fee or pay TV subscription. Many companies are relying on advertisers to be the new paying customer. We 7 gives away music with an ad attached, which disappears after a month. Companies such as iMeem and Last.fm try to build audiences of many millions so that advertising volume will pay the bills.

But why pay for a banner ad if you can be a patron of the arts? That’s Nokia’s approach (they invented the ringtone after all) with their new Comes With Music service. From mid-2008 certain Nokia phones will be able to download all the music the owner wants for one year without paying for it, after which he can keep the music.

Not even old-fashioned music selling is immune from new ideas. The self-release of Radiohead’s ‘In Rainbows’ album last October as both a pay-your-own-price download and an expensive boxed disc had everyone wondering if this was the new album-buying model. It looked so good a concept that Cliff Richard released his new album as a sliding price download – it gets more expensive the more people buy it.

Are these the new ways to do business? Sure, if you’re Radiohead or Nokia. But despite what the evangelists and press releases say, it’s all guessing. Nobody really knows because this is a brand new game. They only know that when even the squares on Wall Street have figured it out and publicly downgraded a music label’s share value, the problem in the industry is very serious.

The crisis is underlined by the continuing and deepening slide in CD sales – down 22% in just one year. Sales are now falling so sharply it’s assumed they’ll be almost extinct within a few years. But the same thing was said about vinyl records and they’ve refused to die; over 1 million were sold last year, in particular the 7-inch single, which has regained its cachet as a collectable objet d’art. In February, for instance, Supergrass are releasing their single “Diamond Hoo Hoo Man’ as vinyl only. While digital sales are growing, they’re failing to compensate – the 3 billion tracks sold on iTunes are mostly individual tracks, not albums. To an industry gorged on two decades of high-margin album sales it’s not enough.

Labels are good at shouting about their woes but outside of recorded music it’s a healthy business. Radio audiences are steady, iPod sales are up 31%, concerts and merchandise are up 4%. The latter is where musicians are now expected to make their money and it works well, especially at the bottom and top of the tree. The new groups use the Internet tribal drum to fill clubs, while all those legacy groups make up lost CD royalties by putting their animosities aside long enough to fill the world’s arenas.

What scuppers a lot of new ideas from becoming trends is that they ignore customer behaviour. Nokia’s Comes With Music is a significant development in the legitimisation of free music, but the music will only play on the phone or a pc, with no ability to burn it to CD or put it on another player. To somebody using Limewire or loading CDs into an iPod it’s hard to see what the value is. It ignores the entire history of music consumption, where every format development for 100 years has been driven by one factor: convenience.

From 78s to LPs to cassettes to CDs to MP3s, the reason each new format has caught on is because it’s more convenient than the previous one. The advent of stereo in the early 1950s is the only popular development based on sound quality; the benefits were so obviously better than mono that everyone wanted it. If anything, the quality of MP3 is a huge step backward from CDs and vinyl. Tough luck Mr. Audiophile, it’s become the consumer standard, the only file format that can be played on any music player or computer.

If the music labels can embrace convenience and customer behaviour, learn to capitalise on the new ways people experience music and stop being pig-headed, then the next few years could be an open frontier seldom seen since the late ‘60s. The “universal jukebox” is likely, playing whatever you want on whatever’s convenient - pc, mobile, or iPod. Payment is moving towards a monthly subscription and advertising income model. Those hated DRM software locks will disappear. A lot more musicians are going to control their own careers outside of the major label system.

Screw it up, though, and it’s possible that within two or three years the multinational owners of the major labels will break them up and parcel them off to anyone with a taste for adventure. Another year of DRM and litigation will encourage more private p2p networks and anonymous routing to them, making them untraceable. Fail to legitimise those networks and we may see the demise of paid recordings, at least by the listener.

The business of music has changed irrevocably. “I think the golden age of the record labels – the 1960s to the 1990s – will be looked at as a historic aberration,” says Bill Flanagan, Executive Vice President/Editorial Director of MTV Networks. “It was a really good aberration, though.”

So: where are we heading?

Part 2: Music Labels
Part 3: Live

Part 4: Mobile & Internet
Part 5: Radio

We Have Seen The Future Of Rock And Roll…And It’s Complicated: Music Labels (Part 2)

2008-02-26T15:47:00.005Z

Wherever artists, business, and paying for music are discussed, music labels are an easy target for the vitriol. Everyone has an opinion. The word ‘dinosaur’ gets used a lot, as in: “It’s like watching a bunch of dinosaurs asking the small, fast-moving mammals around their feet to knit them sweaters for the coming Ice Age.”

It’s easy to see why when Doug Morris, the 68-year old CEO of Universal Music complains that there’s “sympathy for the customer” who wants music like “Coca-Cola coming through the faucet in your kitchen”.

The music industry is desperately trying to maintain the high profits of the past. “Everyone is going vertical,” says American tech entrepreneur Bruce Warila. “Artists becoming labels; concert operators signing artists; labels buying venues; managers becoming labels; merchandising, ticketing and digital music going under one umbrella; management, radio, touring and TV clustered around a demographic (such as Disney), etc. It’s hard to open Billboard these days without seeing some form of vertical integration occurring.”

This is the 360 deal, as executed by Madonna, where one company gets involved in all aspects of an artist’s career. Many executives think it’s the way forward for the business, though Jessica Koravas, European Manager for AEG, owners of The O2, says, “I expect there will be some spectacular failures as some players discover that the other guy's job is harder than it looks.”

It’s not even a new model. Motown was a prime example of an independent record company aligned with Jobete publishing and organizing the Motown Revue tours. But the 360 Deal looks modern and sexy – so much so that private equity company Ingenious is directly bankrolling musicians and equity czar Guy Hands bought EMI. “Everyone is sure the other guy has a better business and wants to get into it,” says Bill Flanagan. “But I’d like to be a fly on the wall the first time that new superstar you’ve signed calls up and says, ‘I’ve been invited to go to New York to play on Saturday Night Live. I’ll need a private jet and half a million dollars to pay for hotel suites for my band and entourage.’ Better get that latte machine working overtime.”

To those not seduced by big advances and the myths in rap videos, it’s possible to conduct a career outside the music label system. For new bands there’s no denying it’s difficult, though established artists like Ryan Adams (gives away live show MP3s to promote LPs) and others show various possibilities. The key necessity is having talent.

The artist-as-business-unit tends to favour intelligent, arty “legacy bands” such as Gang of Four. Their bassist Dave Allen blogs regularly and in November published an intriguing manifesto which can be summed up as: make it cheap, make it quick, post MP3s as music gets rehearsed and recorded, enrol the most rabid fans as marketing agents, partner only with an indie label. Gang of Four’s activities invoke the experimental punk spirit that created them. They got their start on a three-song, cheaply recorded EP that made a lot of waves. Their next release is likely to be a four song digital EP. Free MP3s, downloadable artwork, posting demos on the Net.…this is conscious exploration of what a band can be in 2008.

Dave Allen is convinced that giving away MP3s promotes music sales. It’s been a running argument for the last eight years and various studies support both the death and encouragement of music buying. Look at the numbers though and it’s easy to wonder if it isn’t much ado about very little. According to a recent study by German company Ipoque of a million global Internet users, only about 20% are file sharers. The amazing thing is they account for almost 80% of Internet traffic. But just 30% of that traffic is music – the rest is much bigger film files.

In 2008, expect to see music labels be simultaneously quite pig-headed and embrace the new reality. Though the shouting will continue over the necessity of DRM it will probably disappear. How to monetise the anarchy of p2p has been an ongoing backroom exploration for most of last year and it’s highly possible that a license service will become reality this year, with music downloaders paying a monthly subscription to legalise their ongoing file sharing activities.

Part 1: Introduction

Part 3: Live Performance
Part4: Internet & Mobile
Part 5: Radio

We Have Seen The Future Of Rock And Roll…And It’s Complicated: Live Performance (Part 3)

2008-02-26T15:35:00.004Z

While Prince got the publicity for selling his album to The Mail On Sunday (who chose to give it away) the real innovation was doing a 21-night tour in one location. A fact not lost on The Spice Girls, who decided against a European tour in favour of a similar residency. Why the idea has been limited to Las Vegas until now is hard to understand. It’s too attractive an idea not to export.

The appetite to see famous bands that quit before you were born just can’t be sated. There’s so much money being offered that no-one believes these old supergroups are burying their mutual hate just for the thrill of seeing the superdomes again. CD reissue programmes have made everyone contemporary and there is no such thing as a forgotten group – even Shed Seven can reform for a tour. To keep things lively, one of the band members will dissect the tour on his blog, such as Stewart Copeland, who was refreshingly candid about The Police’s sometimes less than stellar performances.

For new bands, MySpace and email lists are vital to building audiences the old-fashioned way, one fan at a time. MySpace is essential – it replaces having their own Web site and plugs them into a global audience. It’s the artist in the middle (like Billy Bragg, REM, or Elvis Costello) with a guaranteed audience but not likely to add new fans that is least affected.

As managers learn there is money to be made from controlling their band’s online and mobile concert activities, the activity increases between fan, band and show. At the recent O2 Keane show, ticket holders were asked beforehand to sign up for band content and could then stream or download videos from the show afterwards. There were 30,000 downloads. Within minutes of the end of The Sugarbabes show at Indigo2 the performances were available to download on mobile and online (and later broadcast on TV – there’s always room for old media). The new single was promoted alongside the live videos.

The global concert business is owned by TicketMaster, AEG and Live Nation. It’s the latter that signed Madonna, enticing her with a ten year, £65 million deal that will cover records, touring, merchandising and licensing. She’s rumoured to be getting a £16 million advance for each of three albums, which reveals either the true value of music in spite of all the piracy or severe hubris. Madonna’s most recent album sold less than 100,000 in the US. Coincidentally, it was a live recording of her last tour.

You may think these companies assess the risk soberly, but they can get caught up in the excitement – we’re buying Madonna! Exactly. She’ll be 60 when this deal terminates and even a vivid imagination is hard-pressed to see her dancing and posing as she does now. Steel will and athletic discipline do not guarantee an audience’s interest.

Will AEG follow Live Nation into 360 deals? According to Anthony Ackenhoff of the music consultancy Frukt, “The increasing revenues being made by promoters means that the axis of power has shifted from recorded music to live, and they have more daily contact with large artists than labels do. I'd be surprised if it's labels (apart from possibly Universal) that get close to completing the 360 degree loop before AEG and Live Nation do.”

In 2008, it’s a certainty that other major artists will announce a residency at places like The O2. More faded glories will attempt to “do a Zep”, including, possibly, the Jackson 5 with Michael (Jermaine has already announced it). If all the greedy parts in the payment chain can agree, you will be able to buy the tickets via mobile phone. Within two years mobile phone tickets could be as common as downloading and printing your own tickets is now; the technology has been around for years. As artists finally accept that there is an unending appetite for live recordings that audience members are happy to provide, there will be a growth in “official” concert recordings. After all, do you want your live experience enshrined as a shaky mobile phone video on YouTube when you can easily provide an HD version with stereo sound?

The billion pound question is, will Zeppelin tour?

Part 1: Introduction
Part 2: Music Labels

Part 4: Live Performance
Part 5: Radio

We Have Seen The Future Of Rock And Roll…And It’s Complicated: Mobile Internet (Part 4)

2008-02-26T15:33:00.003Z

When the last proper music shop in your town closed in early 2009 you finally saw the need to buy a Google mobile phone. It’s not as design-sexy as the iPhone, but Apple’s refusal to allow other services to compete with iTunes forced your decision. The gPhone, by contrast, is like a laptop in your pocket. The Arcade Fire has finally released what has been a difficult third album and while you could go to Pirate Bay and download it via BitTorrent, because part of your monthly online fee allows it, you opt for the higher quality available at Tesco Online. As the album downloads to the phone a screen message promotes the group’s music videos on YouTube. Again, it’s a url away.

After years of promises, the Internet is finally moving to the mobile phone and that will mean big changes for music. By 2010 it’s estimated there will be 4 billion mobiles in the world, dwarfing the number of computers. With the gPhone, Google is betting their business can grow just as big. There’s no official news yet but patents are on file and designs leaked to tech blogs.

Phones like the gPhone, iPhone and some Nokias use wi-fi for Internet connection. It means music and videos can download faster than on 3G and the evangelists say that soon not just mobile music and video downloads will be common, but Internet radio, live concert TV and on-demand videos. The only downside is the cost of all that data. Mobile operators hate low charges. Although making both texts and phone calls cheap has seen their profits rise dramatically they want to be sexy, modern and leading-edge; make mobile Internet access really cheap and they become a utility like British Gas or, heaven forbid, BT. At the same time they’re trying to be your Internet gateway for mobile, pc, TV and regular phone – what Richard Branson cheekily calls “four-play”.

In their marketing to make you a customer, operators have spent years trying to become media companies. In Korea – the most wired country on the planet – the giant SK Telecom even bought a big local music company. But the obvious candidates to make deals with music and film companies are the phone manufacturers, who sell almost a billion phones a year to a global market. “When parts of EMI are put out to tender by its new owners,” predicts Ackenhoff, “It’s not crazy to think that a mobile operator or device manufacturer may well take a chunk.”

2008 is a transition year. Mobiles have been pocket computers for quite awhile but the iPhone’s functionality and originality has made a big impact. By year-end expect to see more mobiles being sold as media players that also make phone calls. Nokia will try to become your indispensable mobile assistant, storing Facebook profile, interactive contact list, photo books, maps and music in one place for easy access. Comes With Music won’t be a big success but Tesco Music might. The country’s biggest supermarket has quietly become a very successful mobile network. They dominate physical music sales, so why not move it online and onto your mobile?

Part 1: Introduction
Part 2: Music Labels
Part 3: Live Performance

Part 5: Radio

We Have Seen The Future Of Rock And Roll…And It’s Complicated: Radio (Part 5)

2008-02-26T15:30:00.003Z

If the music industry had any sense of history it would just have to look at radio to have déjà vu all over again. Eighty years ago, radio was going to kill music companies – if people could hear records on the radio, why would they buy them?

Now, as radio moves to the Internet, they see some quick bucks for the balance sheet. Australia has already doubled licensing fees and as a result effectively killed local Net radio. The US music industry is lobbying for a 38% rise, which will have the same effect because even big American stations can’t afford it. Britain has a different problem.

The government wants us to switch from the current FM to digital radio and even more stations. We don’t care. Even the biggest digital-only station has only 3% of the nation listening and the City boys bankrolling the digital radio expansion are starting to pull the plugs, with Virgin already slashing its digital-only stations. Instead, we’re listening to radio on the Net. Six of the Top Ten iTunes podcasts are regular BBC shows.

If the magic of radio is built on the serendipity of hearing good music you weren’t expecting, then sites like Deezer, Pandora and Last.fm are the new radio, not to mention the shuffle setting on iPod. But, counters Director of The Radio Academy Trevor Dann, “Playing your own records on an iPod isn’t very companionable is it? There’s no weather or travel news. The challenge for radio is to make engaging content which listeners want to enhance the experience of listening to their own collections. Also don’t underestimate the appeal of talk ABOUT music. And indeed about other things.”

A further problem is commercial radio’s seeming inability to compete or collaborate with companies building Internet broadcast empires. They’re fixated on competing with the BBC, beholden to shareholders who want them to consolidate into two or three consortiums. There’s even the launch this year of C4 radio, a public broadcast competitor to the BBC. As Dann points out, with radio available on FM, digital, Internet, Wi-Max, DTV, podcasting, and mobile, “the big issue for radio is to work out whether we’re in the content business or the delivery business. Radio on demand is attracting a new audience and we need to concentrate on reaching our audiences in the ways they want to find us, not necessarily in the ways we want to reach them.”

If radio-by-podcast continues to grow in 2008, the smart guys like Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross could start to exploit its potential to create original programming that isn’t radio patter or stand-up routines but uniquely suited to the medium, much as Will Farrell makes cheap TV especially for YouTube.

The government has a problem with moving us to digital radio. If financial backers start closing down stations and driving distribution onto the Internet it will have to seriously review the initiative.

The great thing about Internet radio is that all kinds of music can find its own audience, able to migrate everywhere. The world is, literally, at your fingertips. If the American music business manages to raise license fees and kill most of the their Internet stations, a large audience will be left wanting. Once more they’ll be the bad guys holding back the future.

Part 1: Introduction
Part 2: Music Labels
Part 3: Live Performance
Part 4: Mobile & Internet

Prince At The O2

2007-09-02T07:07:00.002Z

What is it with old people? On one side of the music machine there’s Elton John saying the internet is to blame for mediocre music – turn the Net off for five years and maybe we’ll hear great music again. On the other side there’s Warner CEO Edgar Bronfman claiming that music is too ubiquitous – strangle the supply and manufacture scarcity; that will solve the value problem. You’d think they can’t keep up with the modern world, looking back at the horizon where the past looks like a pink tinged sunset.

Then there’s Prince, 50 years old and having a grand old time. First he announces a 21-night season at The O2, the new shed created out of the old Millennium Dome. With a different set list each night. With an after-party at the club next door. Then he cuts a deal with the Mail On Sunday newspaper to give away his new album, which nets him a few hundred thousand pounds. Cue screams of outrage from the national music retailers – do they think the Minneapolis munchkin is their friend? That his disdain and scorn for the industry is just aimed at labels? What with all the discounting they do on his old catalogue, just how much in royalties do they think he’s getting? Next thing you know, Sony-BMG has terminated their one-off deal to distribute the album. (How do you spell double-crossed?) Finally, on the fateful Sunday the HMV chain carries copies of the offending newspaper, an event so…something…that the Germans sensibly created a word for it.

It’s Prince night. The stage is in the round, shaped like the squiggle from the days when he called himself TAFKAP. The band…is that Sheila E on drums? And Isaac Hayes on keys? Prince is flanked by identical twin dancers; all three look the same height but Prince is wearing higher stilettos. He’s started some shows with ‘Purple Rain’, a fine act of hubris, though I bet he’s calling it ‘Purple Reign’. But tonight is Friday and he states his intentions immediately.

Let’s not mince words. This show is in my Top Ten. A blazing ‘1999’ drops the gauntlet in a squall of guitar and funkin’ backbeat. He liquidly morphs from one funky hit to another, 30 minutes of excitement backed by Sheila E (?) muscle. Somewhere in there is ‘If Eye Was Ur Girlfriend’, which somehow manages to be both tender and funkified. As the crowd recognise the new hooks coming out of the old ones they roar with approval and start singing the songs with him. We’re here to party, he’s here to party, and pretty soon he’s building a four part vocal call and response with different parts of the audience and whaddya know, London rocks it well.

He pulls a gaggle of girls up on stage to dance, working them, working us, working the band. He’s still sliding between songs in an endless mix of backbeat and crowd-sweat and there are moments when you’ve just about pinned what the song is and damned if he hasn’t moved into something else. But then he starts jamming on a lick that sounds familiar and a tall blonde – one of the audience dancers – moves over to him and talks into his ear. She does it again and he walks off to the other side of the stage while she steps up to the mic and damn if she doesn’t start singing ‘Play That Funky Music White Boy’. It’s a genuine I’m-gonna-be-a-star-moment: out of the audience and grabbing Prince’s spotlight. She’s off tune at one point, comes in four bars early at another, and Prince is way over on the other side of the stage with not a care in the world. She’s good, hits the chorus just right and cheerleads all 16,000 of us into the familiar party chorus. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Prince declares as she takes a bow.

He teases us. “I’ve got so many hits I don’t know what to play.” Sitting at the piano he taunts us with bits of ‘Little Red Corvette’, ‘Sign O’ The Times’, ‘Raspberry Beret’…roars of excitement and singalongs to all of them. “I told you I’ve got more hits than I can remember!” Jammy bugger.

There are wonderful moments of just pure funk playing, Prince egging on Maceo Parker, who’s only too happy to push Prince further. Then a no-warning launch into a Sinead-beautiful ‘Nothing Compares To U’. We all love Prince’s partifying but I’ve always thought his real talent is writing tender love songs; he says the words that women want to hear but men are afraid to say.

A voodoo guitar lick second-lines a swampified rhythm and we all feel mystified. This ain’t a hit. Then he starts singing, “Here come old flat-top” and there’s a roar of surprised pleasure – he’s doing ‘Come Together’! It feels like he’s paying respect to London and what’s ours and we like it. He’s playing slinky, sexy, Beatlesy. He does Joni Mitchell covers better than anybody, now we know he can do Beatles just as well.

Two hours and you just don’t want it to end. “We need some 1980s in here!” he declares and they hit “Controversy”. It’s fabulous. Prince calls Maceo to do it on the one. They’re standing close to each other, trading licks, leaning closer and closer until their heads are almost touching, pushing each other to a still higher plane and when the band slam back in it’s with white-hot intensity. Prince is so excited he launches off down the runway in wild kangaroo leaps, ripping ‘Housequake’ riffs as he bounds. It’s a moment I’m going to treasure for a very long time.

He’s still playing for another couple of weeks. I’ve been debating whether to go again, because what if it’s not as good? Then, this morning I got an email from a friend who went last night. It had one sentence: When you saw him, did he play ‘Honky Tonk Women’? That’s it. I’ve bought my tickets.

3121.com has reviews of all the shows.

Elvis At 72

2007-08-17T12:01:00.001Z

Every year a bunch of new noisy kids will tell you rock and roll is a young man’s game. At 72 and still The King, Elvis Presley knows that it’s stamina you need. He’s survived medical addictions and years of indifference, the attentions of rock gods and hysteria of fans, and after fifty years he knows one thing no other can claim: I started this. This is my kingdom.

It was ex-First Lady Betty Ford who saved him. After he collapsed onstage in Las Vegas in 1976, an embarrassing, obese, shambling dinosaur of a performer, she made contact and quietly persuaded him to check into the Betty Ford Clinic. As an ex-alcoholic and prescription drug addict, she knew the road he stumbled along and if anyone could make Elvis listen it was the wife of a US President. Elvis always did respect authority.

We didn’t learn until much later that while he was drying out some of those he had inspired made pilgrimages to offer him comfort and inspiration. It was Bruce Springsteen and Don Henley who got Elvis to focus on his managerial situation. The music world had changed immensely since signing a 50-50 contract with Colonel Parker and over time and talking he saw that his place in the world could be regained and if to do that he had to jettison the man who had made him famous and rich, so be it. The expected legal battle evaporated when the Colonel realised that taking the case to court would expose his illegal immigrant status and he settled quietly.

The 1978-79 World Tour eclipsed everything any performer had achieved to that time. The pent-up expectation of a world waiting to see The King created a hysteria not seen again until Michael Jackson’s similar tour ten years later. Just watch director Martin Scorsese’s excellent documentary One Night With You to see how a planet’s adoration inspired The King, fuelling his charisma as he celebrated hit after hit from his extensive song catalogue.

The Eighties marked a turning period: What does a fifty year old rocker do? The tour with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers backing him alienated many of his older fans as much as it did Petty’s contemporary audience, and while there were rumours of a recording project with Bruce Springsteen, whatever may have happened in the studio has to this day stayed within the four walls. The so-called “jam sessions” with The Travelling Wilburys were fun, but it was plain Elvis wasn’t comfortable in a group (even this one), and in previous times George Harrison and Dylan had been enemies assaulting his status and relevance. You got the feeling Elvis doesn’t forget, or easily forgive. The albums he recorded were inconsistent, reminding too many people that over the years he had recorded some dreadful material. His moody reading of Tom Waits’ “Downtown Train” was both a surprising choice and a rare hit record. Some years it seemed Elvis was happy just to stay at Graceland and spend his time remodelling the interior.

By 1995 he had reached the nadir of rock star status: elder statesman. The subject of endlessly recycled VH-1 “specials”, he was part of the musical wallpaper. To those under 30 Presley was the name of the daughter who married Michael Jackson and then the Elvis obsessed actor Nicholas Cage. His few concerts played only to the faithful. He hadn’t made a decent record in years. Then the unimaginable happened – his record company dropped him.

Coincidentally, Rick Rubin was looking for an experienced musician to work with. His overtures were met with scepticism by those around Elvis, but shaken by his label of 40 years dumping him, Presley took the meeting. It was an unlikely partnership but each respected the other’s musical truth. The deal was sealed when Elvis asked what kind of record Rubin wanted to make and Rubin replied, “The best record we can. And we’ll keep recording until we make it.”

The album Elvis Presley consciously harkened back to Elvis’s first album of the same name. It sounded spare and naked, the focus on Elvis’s still considerable vocal skills, informed now with a lifetime of experience. What made it memorable was the choice of modern songs, decided by both Elvis and Rubin. The playful take on Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac” seemed almost too obvious, but the whispering depth of “I’m On Fire” surprised everyone. Perhaps most unexpected was the gospel passion and phrasing Elvis brought to “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”.

Rubin and Elvis unveiled the collaboration with some dates at a small Los Angeles nightclub. To Elvis’s surprise there were young people familiar with his work and respectful of his impact on history. The thrill he got from the intimacy and communication of a small room led to the inclusion of random club dates in subsequent tours, the most coveted experience a fan could have.

As their collaboration continued, Elvis’s rehabilitation grew. Blues revisited his love for the music that had set him on this long road some 45 years before and God similarly expressed his passion for church music. In the hands of Rubin they became reflections on what it meant to create a new music that held the possibility of never growing old and how you dealt with the fact that while your heart may still be 17 your body was advancing through its 60s. (Musicians, especially, paid attention since they would one day navigate these same waters.) In the eyes of the world he was once again The King.

On turning 70 Elvis decided to celebrate over 50 years of music making. Rock And Roll is an extraordinary album not just for the way he reinterprets some of his greatest hits – “Heartbreak Hotel” and “In The Ghetto” are tours de force in heartache – but the other songs he chose to highlight the rich history of the kingdom he invented. When he sings, on the title song, “It’s been a long time since I rock and rolled,” he means it in a way no-one else can.

For the subsequent world tour it must have been his sense of humour to have a band built from every decade: guitarists James Burton and Joe Perry with Jack Casady and Dave Grohl swinging the rhythm, this core group supported by strings, horns and gospel choir. But where people expected a summation, what they saw and heard was a man unconcerned about what he did in the past. It was an exploration of who he was now, how he was on stage and what that performance did to people. In 1957 he said that he had watched blues singer Arthur Crudup on stage and thought if he could achieve what Crudup did then he would be a mighty music man and half a century later he was still reaching for that place. Or as Elvis summed it up in the song that ended every show, “It’s A Long Way To The Top (If You Wanna Rock And Roll)”.

T. Rex - The Lyceum, London

2007-06-05T10:11:00.000Z

Sounds, 28 February 1976

I MET A TRUE love at a T. Rex concert, so he has a special affection. At that time he was assaulting America, expecting everybody to scream without working for it, and nobody did. Last Wednesday at the Lyceum was our first meeting since then.

The band now comprises Dino Dines (keyboards), Steve Currie (bass), Davey Lutton (drums), Gloria Jones (Fender Rhodes) and Tyrone Scott (keyboards). The latter two also provided some excellent vocalising. They play well, a pumping rhythm machine, but then T. Rex was the original Seventies rhythm machine.

They have a great slapping drum sound and a booming bass, and Marc's amalgamation of Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley and other classic early riffs fits well within it. Unfortunately, this leaves the organ to fill in most of the non-rhythm textures, and just isn't strong enough to succeed.
It took until 'Jeepster', the second song, for the bopping elf to take over and it was great. T. Rex is now down to the hardcore fans for an audience; if they are to grow again they need to attract 'serious' rock fans, which means playing by the rules of that game.

To a large extent they did this. Bolan has an undeniable charisma, and on stage expends a lot of energy; combined with the strength of the band it has the makings of quite a show.
But where T. Rex should be playing their current compositions, especially when there are 13 of them on his latest album, he devoted a large portion of the set to a trip down memory lane. Within that context though, 'Children Of The Revolution' and 'Teenage Revolution' (which should have been a huge hit) were excellent, and 'Solid Gold Easy Action' made the single sound like a demo in comparison.

All through those songs, and even today, T. Rex has never lost its innocence. While Lou Reed is busy inspecting the subway of his veins Marc is singing about girls with frogs in their hand.
And yet the person singing these fairy tales looks (and there is no other word for it) debauched, perfect fodder for any number of Dorian Gray inspired fantasies. And bopping across the stage the way Marc does...It looked great, but it didn't feel right.

What it signified I'm not sure, but while most of the business people there looked under sufferance, there were (count 'em) seven photographers angling for space at the front of the stage. Marc obliged them wonderfully.

Rock Shrines 13 - 20

2007-04-17T03:44:00.000Z

Rock Shrine No. 13 - Air Studios

When George Martin produced The Beatles he was on an EMI salary – no royalties for him. In 1969 he left the company and established Air Studios at Oxford Circus. See that row of windows above the ledge and below the roof? That was Air Studios. Probably the only recording studios on the fifth floor.

As you would expect, the best artists in the world passed through these rooms, including Kate Bush, Genesis, Procul Harum, The Pretenders, and Roxy Music, who recorded their second album ‘For Your Pleasure’ here. I was writing an article on them and abused my privilege to come back several times to watch them mix and finish the album. So I can tell you that “Bogus Man” was several minutes longer and had to be trimmed to fit on a vinyl record.

It was always very odd to look out the windows and realise you were five floors up.

In 1991 the lease ran out and Air moved to a church in Hampstead.

It’s at Oxford Circus, above Nike Town.

Rock Shrine No. 14 - The Rock Garden

The Rock Garden was the first British venue for Talking Heads. They played in a small basement room in early 1977 and Brian Eno was in the audience. It was a strange affair; the band were nervous and we were curious. But Brian saw something special, because this is where he introduced himself to the band. The start of a beautiful friendship.

It’s at 6-7 The Piazza at Covent Garden.

Map Location

Put this post code into Google Earth and go for a ride: WC2E 8HB

Rock Shrine No. 15 - Kings Cross Cinema

In June, 1972 The Stooges played their one UK concert at the Kings Cross Cinema. It was a midnight gig, which meant that first of all a lucky bunch of us drove up to Aylesbury (about 30 miles north of London) to see David Bowie being Ziggy Stardust.

It wasn’t the best show I’ve ever seen, but it was the most nervous. Iggy had a verrrrry long mic cord and wandered into the audience a lot. He sat on a girl’s lap and sang right into her eyes. He grabbed one guy by the side of his head and shook it really fast. You had no idea what he would do next and it made for a very tense atmosphere.

The band were…The Stooges! James Williamson stood in one spot in front of a double Marshall stack ripping off big riffs and noise. The Ashetons made rhythtm thunder. They played a lot of Raw Power, though we didn’t know that, mixed in with TV Eye, Dog, 1969 and others. At one point the sound screwed up and with a shout of rage Ig hurled the mic against the stage floor. It bounced about a foot into the air in three or four pieces, in a line like an illustration from a manual. While it was fixed he stood alone in the middle of the stage and started singing ‘The Shadow Of Your Smile’ in his best Frank Sinatra voice. He sang it really low so everyone shut up to hear it. It was beautiful. The back cover of Raw Power is from that show.

Today it’s a cinema and club called the Scala, at 275 Pentonville Rd., near Kings Cross station.

Map Location

Put this post code into Google Earth and go for a ride: N1 9NL

Rock Shrine No. 16 - Hammersmith Palais

“Midnight to six, man, For the first time from Jamaica
Dillinger and Leroy Smart, Delroy Wilson, your cool operator”

On June 5, 1977 Joe Strummer from The Clash went to a concert he expected to be a celebration of the roots reggae we were all listening to that year. Instead he got “Four Tops all night with encores from stage right” and poured his frustration into their best song.

The Palais opened in 1919 to host jazz bands and was a popular dance venue until the Fifties. On the back of the building a mural remains from – probably – its opening promoting the dances.

In the early to mid Seventies it was a popular venue for reggae concerts, then for bands such as PiL, The Cramps and Soft Cell, and finally for British Asian dance acts. Ten years ago Elton John held his 50th birthday here.

On 22nd January 2007, the Palais was condemned to be demolished. There will be a series of concerts over the next few days, climaxing on 31st March with former Clash-man Paul Simonon playing in his new band The Good, The Bad and The Queen.

It’s at 242 Hammersmith Road, just up the road from Hammersmith tube station.

Map location

Put this post code into Google Earth and go for a ride: W6 7NL

Rock Shrine No. 17 – Hammersmith Apollo

It’s now called the Hammersmith Apollo, but true music fans call it by its real name: The Hammersmith Odeon.

Originally a cinema, this imposing piece of post-Art Deco has been a consumate London venue for over 40 years. Almost everyone has played here, from Ray Charles and Chuck Berry through Bobby Womack to Pharell Williams. The list of legendary concerts include all The Beatles Christmas Shows, Emmylou Harris with James Burton, a week of Bob Marley and a week of Erasure. At different times both Blondie and Tom Petty made their acquaintance with the UK here. Kanye West is playing three nights next week – followed a week later by Toto. It’s an inclusive place.

Ziggy Stardust emotionally retired on this stage in 3 July, 1973. Two years later Bruce Springsteen made a disastrous UK debut, returning a few days later in triumph. Bowie came back in 2003, Bruce in 2005 and both of them made constant references to their previous visits. (A friend was singing in Bruce’s band and said he kept looking like he was seeing ghosts.)

Of the many times I’ve been in this place, the standout is Neil Young and Crazy Horse in March, 1976. We knew he was playing new songs [Hurricane] but no idea he was full of jumbo jet volume’d dissonance and feedback. This was the first time the mad Neil attack was unveiled and the place responded with a roar as loud as the ringing in our ears. After they stopped no-one left. For 45 minutes we riotously demanded an encore until the band came out. They didn’t know we were still there until they heard the noise as they came back to play for the fun of it.

The Odeon is at Queen Caroline Street Hammersmith London W6 9QH.

The Hammersmith Palais (Rock Shrine 16) is up the road a few hundred yards.

Map Location

Put this post code into Google Earth and go for a ride: W6 9QH

Rock Shrine No. 18 – The Palladium

The Palladium is one of London’s venerable institutions and the cream of the world’s entertainers have played here. The building was originally a circus and then an ice rink before becoming a theatre in the ‘20s. Everyone’s been here – Ellington, Garland, Crosby, Fitzgerald, Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., Danny Kaye, and Johnnie Ray (the Nabob of Sob) among them.

Its rock and roll fame is just as extensive. The TV show Sunday Night at the London Palladium introduced The Beatles to national TV, where Lennon famously told the rich people to “rattle your jewellry”. The Rolling Stones added to their delinquient image by refusing to ride the rotating stage that traditionally closed the show. (What innocent times!) Slade played a raucous week as part of the celebrations to mark Britain joining the EU and you could see the balcony moving from the stamping fans. Marvin Gaye recorded a live album in 1976. I saw John Denver here!

Brian Epstein’s offices were next door at 5-6 Argyle Street and is where Lennon gave the interview saying The Beatles were more famous than Jesus.

Argyle Street is just off Oxford Circus.

Map Location

Put this post code into Google Earth and go for a ride: W1F 7TF

Rock Shrine No. 19 – Ziggy Stardust

The location for a very famous album cover.

Although the brickwork has been painted and the evocative K. West sign has gone, the rest is remarkably untouched.

In 1977 Generation X knew how to make a cool reference to the past.

23 Heddon Street is off Regent Street a few hundred yards from Picadilly Circus.

Map Location

Put this post code into Google Earth and go for a ride: W1B 4RA

Rock Shrine No. 20 – Apple HQ

3 Saville Row must be one of the most famous addresses in Britain. This was Beatles HQ when they formed Apple Records, famous for the rooftop concert recorded for the film Let It Be.

When they weren’t on the roof they were in the basement studio. Here’s a photo of the mixing desk:

When George visited San Francisco and the Haight Ashbury in 1967 he somehow invited a couple of Hells Angels to visit him in London. Sure enough they showed up six months later with a retinue of friends, including the actor Peter Coyote (he was a radical hippie back then) and author Ken Kesey.

Saville Row is one part of London that’s resistent to change and therefore looks almost exactly as it did then. Next door is Gieves and Hawk, tailors to the royal household. Across the street is the back entrance of The Albany, the best address in London. Terence Stamp has lived here for more than 40 years.

Stamp shared a flat with Michael Caine before he got famous and moved here. If ‘60s Caine was movie cool then ‘60s Stamp was rock star cool. In Sean Levy’s highly readable history of Swinging London, Ready Steady Go he ends the book with an image of Stamp slipping quietly out this back door while The Beatles play on the roof.

Apple HQ, 3 Savile Row, London W1S 3PB

Map Location

Put this post code into Google Earth and go for a ride: W1S 3PB

The Flamin' Groovies: Grease; Alive Forever! (More Grease)

2007-03-12T17:50:00.000Z

NME, 15 February 1975

Some of you may remember The Flamin' Groovies.

Having estranged their US record company by entitling their third album Teenage Head – and finding no other indigenous company willing to bite – in 1972 they came to Merrie Olde and United Artists. In the nine months they were here they released two singles, both of which hit the Top ten in Switzerland, France, and perhaps a couple of less civilized enclaves of society. In gay Paree the boys were mobbed and even the ensuing twenty month silence hasn't diminished their fame.

Now, Skydog Records has obtained some tapes from Cyril Jordan, Groovies guitarist, composer and leader, and issued these two records as the company's debut releases.
Both are A-OK.

Grease is supposedly recorded "live at Mangels". Don't you believe it; in time honoured tradition the four songs were recorded as demos on a cassette in the living room. The quality isn't exactly pristine, but the energy and raw vitality is amazing.

'Let Me Rock' is a typical Groovies buzz saw attack, with echoes of 'Street Fighting Man', especially the bass, while 'Sweet Little Rock 'n Roller' was never a Groovies highlight, though Cyril's guitar is its usual razor self. 'Slow Death' is A Great Rock Song Of Our Time. It's also a great drug song, right up there with 'Acapulco Gold', and the solo is a classic, developing from a manic riff into other realms entirely.

Alive Forever has a really neat sleeve, the cover being a pencil rendering of the band a la With The Beatles, only three of the pix look like the same guy. The back features a terrific photo.

The material doesn't have quite the frenetic intensity of Grease, but it sure has power. The Groovies have always been more interested in sound and total wall of power rather than any virtuoso niceties and the solos of both 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' and 'Blues from Phyllis' wander into some pretty awesome moments, with fuzz laden notes ricocheting everywhere. The latter song is a new, more than worthy addition to their repertoire.

The quality is pretty much the same as Grease, with the quaint addition of the sound level changing about five times in the first thirty seconds of 'Jumpin' Jack Flash'.

Since it's live, there's a lot of feminine screaming tacked on each end (I'd swear they're yelling for The Beatles), or perhaps this was all captured on a portable cassette recorder at the Olympia on a night the Groovies were really wowing les jeune filles.

Wings: 'She's A Good Cook, Eamon'

2007-03-11T07:44:00.000Z

Sounds, 30 October 1976

THANK YOU, AND I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO TELL ANYONE WHO HE WAS.

The large, widely spaced, easy to read letters are to be the first words of Eammon Andrews' interview with Paul McCartney.

They march down a narrow strip of paper strapped flat to the surface of the prompting machine, disappearing into a bog roll of speech on the side. A little above them, positioned so it sits under the lens, where it's picked up and thrown onto monitors and the teleprompter, someone has written the salutary message, 'Hello Eammon, you turd'.

Eammon is interviewing Paul and Linda and the band for Thames TV's Today. He is broadcasting live.

At 4.30, Wembley is like a roadie's convention, more right-hip key rings than you've ever seen in your life. A couple of platoons work for Wings, the rest of the battalion for Showco, handling the sound and lights. Around them lounge a brace of security people. From everywhere is noise and bustle, platforms being hammered together, seats bolted to the floor, packing cases moved. There are enough packing cases to kit out half a dozen lesser bands.

Onstage, the amps are strung in a neat line, a battery of expensive guitars reclining with similar precision in front of them. The drums sit on a high riser between Paul's and Denny's amps. The keyboards complex is front right. Behind it, highest of all, is a glistening ebony Steinway. On the other side of the stage, behind Jimmy's amps, stands the brass section. The quartet are playing 'Silly Love Songs' for the benefit of the sound man. In front of them, the stage is like Piccadilly Circus at rush hour. Roadies check mikes and tape cable, TV klieg lights are erected at the front of the stage, TV cameras are trained and focussed, TV personnel move around looking busy and important.

The action abates. People wander around, bored. By the telephone booth behind the stage, one American roadie tells another how one of their compadres went out to the lobby and was asked by a Wembley security officer to remove himself, as he was lowering the tone of the place. They guffaw.

"Lower the tone of a gymnasium?!?" drawls the storyteller incredulously.

"Christ," sneers the other, "Yuh'd need two tons of cowshit to lower the tone of this place."

Suddenly there is a flurry of activity on stage. In the middle stands the star of the show. Hands in the pockets of a large navy overcoat, chewing gum, he surveys the scene. Surrounding him, like Indians around a wagon train, a five man camera crew records every nuance. Except for the eyes, his face is blank. Just the jaw, going up and down.

Joe English climbs behind his drum kit and initiates the sound check. He views the world through orange tinted specs. The bass drum is stuffed half full with carpet underlay. While he pummels away, Linda checks her keyboards for the benefit of the cameramen. The lapels of her black jacket are dotted with Wings badges. She chews gum. Then the crew homes in on Joe. This is the McCartneys’ film crew.

Jimmy McCulloch plugs in and liberates some overkill guitar. Macca is now sitting at the mixing desk halfway down the Pool, leaving the centre stage to Mike McGear, resplendent in a blue jacket with ornate french cuffs and painted wings on the lapels. McGear, with no function, just stands and watches. While Denny checks his double neck Gibson, McCartney photographer Bob Ellis snaps Linda at the Steinway. Then she descends to her ivories tower and checks the instruments.

Paul sits and watches, jaw moving incessantly. He nods his head, tries to twirl the ends of his moustache in vain, rolls a ciggie between his fingers. Occasionally he leans over to the balding, moustachioed sound man and makes a comment. They sit at a desk that wouldn't disgrace a recording studio. Next to it is a replica for the lighting. The sound issuing from the black cloth draped p.a. is just like a McCartney record.

Now it is Paul's turn. He walks to the stage, climbs up to the piano, whips off a trill, smiles, jokes. He is ON. He runs quickly through 'Lady Madonna' while Ellis and the camera crew record it for posterity. McGear is still centre stage, watching. Taking off his coat, Paul straps on a Rickenbacker. He is wearing a blue shirt buttoned at the neck, dark brown trousers and a fawn double breasted jacket – high fashion from the local charity shop. A Wings badge is pinned low on the lapel. After some brief warm up funk the band run through 'Letting Go'. Paul hams it up for the camera, holding his axe vertical, pointing to his fingering. He sings and chews simultaneously. McGear, still centre stage, is the only one to clap.

As they try a relaxed 'Band On The Run', the BBC2 news interviewer tries to think of some questions. "What do you ask someone who's been interviewed as often as he has?" he asks Ros, the publicist’s assistant. She fills him with facts: 62 concerts in 10 countries in 13 months, the re-establishment of Paul McCartney as a major force of the 70s, the Russian connection...

"The only place they haven't been is Japan," she comments.

"Oh, why is that?" asks the Beeb.

Simple, bud. The same as Mick and Keith and John and George. Cannabis conviction.

"Umm..." replies Ros. "...A legal problem. His visa wasn't right...But he did Australia," she continues brightly, successfully averting the crisis.

While they wait for Eammon, Paul sits at the Steinway and tunes an acoustic guitar.

Eammon makes his appearance. Standing between the drums and keyboards, face a make-up tan, he checks his view to the two TV cameras. Out of camera range the stage is packed with technicians and sound crew, the McCartney camera crew, the McCartney photographer, the McCartney band. Macca descends and greets Eammon. Linda is introduced and they stand next to him chewing gum. The interview is largely inaudible to anyone over five feet away. It's like watching telly with the sound down, Paulie and Eammon being jolly while Linda watches attentively. Paulie keeps calling him Eammon with over-familiarity – eee, wot, we're all chums 'ere, eh mate? He's donned his one-of-the-people mask, just another berk from the dole queue slipping into his first pint of bitter. All except the eyes, which dart everywhere, tracking and cataloguing the activity around him. Eammon asks daft questions. Paulie describes their world tour, from Amarillo to Zagreb. Eammon keeps asking daft questions. When he turns to Linda it's to ask how being in a top rock band interferes with being a housewife. Not at all opines Linda.

"She's a good cook, Eammon," confides Paulie. "You should come around for a nosh."

This is a former spokesman of his generation? A man who changed the world? And he presents his wife not as a photographer, composer or musician – an artist, say – but as a cook? And she lets him?

Eammon hands the show back to Alan Hargreaves, who has bad news about public transport. "Don't worry Alan," grins Paulie with a thumbs up to the camera.

"Ohh, the fares are going up again," brays Linda. One wonders when she last used public transport.

Round two is with two Wings fans and two bodyguards who look like they moonlight as steamrollers. Paul crouches nearby, where he can hear. As the interview finishes he rushes forward and wrestles his personal bodyguard to the ground.

"That's what's known as a karate chop," exclaims the surprised Eammon.

"No, a Za-grab. A Za-grab."

"Oh, a joke. A joke," deadpans McGear from the side of the stage.

Round three presents the band. It's still like a telly with the sound down, still largely silly, though perceptive questions do appear. After a brief run through with the other members Eammon returns to Paul. The theme is Russia; Band On The Run is the USSR's first official rock release, and gentlemen from Tass and Ruskie radio will be seeing the concert the next evening. Paul hopes for a tour next year, reminding us that the only drawback is that of course, you can't take your profits with you. Linda inserts an ignored desire to visit China.

And then it comes, the most boring, redundant question outside the Bamboo Curtain.

"Will the Beatles get together again," asks Eammon as if he'd just thought of it.

Paul gives him a once over. "The Beatles split in '69, and since then they've been doing fine." He's doing his best Muhammed Ali impersonation. "An' if that question doesn't cease, ain't no-one gonna get no peace. An' if you ask it jus' once more, I think I'll have to break your jaw."

Everyone applauds.

Hovering around the edges, the camera crew film, Bob Ellis snaps. Out in the auditorium, discreet behind his 400mm lens, Ron Gallico, papparazo to the Queen, snaps.

There's a wait for the BBC2 news team to organise. Paul sits on stage fiddling at the piano, the safest place. This interview is conducted in the dressing room. This interview is a proper interview. Except that the entire band is talking with Scottish accents.

What effect, BBC2 wonders, has a world tour had on the group?

"We're a lot tighter," replies Paul. "It's all the drink." He is holding a wine cork. For this interview he has assumed an intelligent persona, lacing the inanities and jokes with sensible answers. "And we've gotten to know each other. Of course, tonight we'll probably be terrible."

"And they'll say, 'It's the loosest group we've ever heard'," slurs Linda in her best burr.

"Yes," rejoins Paul." " 'They were tight again'."

How do you feel about being home, enquires the Beeb. Are you nervous?Paul runs on about showing nerves doesn't improve the situation, so you pretend it's hunky dory. Fifteen minutes ago Eammon asked the same question and got the same reply. This time, however, Joe adds a dry postscript.

"After 62 concerts," he says, "You're not too nervous."

WHEN WINGS walk onstage just after 8pm, it is the first time Macca has played at Wembley since Christmas, 1965. Supporting them then were the Moody Blues with Denny Laine. Ah, coincidence.

The opening is like Supersonic, all dry ice and soap bubbles, and like that show, McCartney betrays an incredibly naive appreciation of rock in the 70s. The tension mounts you score an ounce Ole! Since when could anyone even afford an ounce, let alone find anything at a concert? Temperatures rise as you see the whites of their eyes. From where I'm sitting I can't even see their eyes.

The sound is excellent. Paul's playing is a dream, ably matched by Joe, who is consistently the most exciting person on stage. Denny is a competent rhythm support, and Jimmy makes all the right noises without actually challenging Paul. This is the most annoying feature of the evening: no-one challenges Paul's supremacy, no-one pushes him (and the band) into taking risks, taking that step beyond excellent playing and recreation into innovation. As an exercise in reproducing both the sound and arrangements of Wings records the concert is an unqualified success. Paul is an excellent producer, and it's to Showco's credit they can reproduce it in a gymnasium like Wembley. It is to Wings' credit, too, that they can reproduce a complex arrangement like 'Live And Let Die' with note perfect precision. But why is Linda inaudible except when absolutely essential to the sound?

The audience is a mixture of young and middling, nearly all representatives of clean living. Although they've come to see their hero, the mood is restrained. The hall lights half-on doesn't help the atmosphere. Halfway up the bleachers, it's like watching TV with the living room lights too bright.

'Silly', the second encore, is the only unabashed excitement. Jimmy ODs on the guitar intro, Paul is screaming and hoarse. It rocks like a bitch, the only time you can't hear the words because the music is so fucking loud. Linda dances, and it's a pleasure to see that she can now dance. She leaves the stage arm in arm with Paul.

THIRTY MINUTES later it's time for the next round of interviews. The after-gig press conference/interview has become a tour tradition, 15 minutes in which about half a dozen journalists and radio men vie for some golden words. Publicist Tony Brainsby reckons Paul doesn't have to give in-depth interviews any more, but to this mind that means he can satisfy the daily/international press without awkward questions. While a trouble-maker like myself wants to ask if Macca was so concerned about the plight of Venice why didn't he just write out a handsome cheque instead of doing little beyond attracting attention, the Daily Blah Blah is more concerned with Linda's ability to cook not only on stage but in the kitchen and bed, and whether the (yawn) Beatles are going to (zzzz) reform.

We’re back in the same concrete box dressing room that housed the BBC2 interview. On one side of a wooden trestle sits Wings. On the other, John Blake (Evening News), who takes notes and asks no questions, myself (Sounds), Paul Gambaccini (Radio 1), Paul Tilsey (Radio 1 Newsbeat), and Vincent McGarry (Independent Radio News). In the background are the publicist, manager, bodyguard, and sundries.

Paul and Paul sit opposite Paul. It's a three-way conversation, non-Pauls need not apply.

Paul G. opens questioning with a request for details on the imminent live album. Paul McM relates how 800 hours of tape have been reduced to the five best takes of all 31 tracks, how it's likely to be a triple, how they're working overtime to have it ready by Christmas...

"Are you going to be in England for Christmas?," asks Paul G.

"Ummm," thinks Paul, then switches into Liverpudlian. "I don't know Paul, we'll have to see how yon cookie crumbles..."

"A lot of artists don't like live albums," opines Paul T. He obviously hasn't talked to Peter Frampton. "Are you worried about loss of quality?"

"I don't think it's a loss of quality thing. If you liked the show tonight, then you'll like the live album, because that's pretty much what it's going to be. Umm, so if the two million people who came to see the show all over the world buy a record each – " He chuckles and switches into Upper Crust " – Then we'll be okay."

Paul G. asks about re-touring America, giving Paul McM an opportunity to unveil his ability with Brash American.

Paul T. is next into the breach. His Upper Crust is not affected. "What do you think of the British audience?"

"Spiffing."

Hmmm. Yes. Revelations-a-go-go. Paul T does not let go of the reins. Questions about establishing Wings, questions about doing old Beatles numbers, questions about maintaining privacy on the world tour."Are you mad that Capitol are going to release a live 1964 Beatles album," Paul G interjects finally.

"Are they going to do that? No, if a company's going to do that and they have the right, then there's nothing you can do. For me, I wish they hadn't released all the singles in one bunch like that. I thought it would have been better to treat them all as a new single, to find something a little obscure, like 'Baby You're A Rich Man' or 'Hello Goodbye', which still fits with the mood of today. To tell you the truth, once it's over you don't really care what they do with it. You're more interested with what they do with your new stuff."

Throughout, Linda and Denny are a Greek chorus of "Ooh, ah lahk that one," "Right, Jimmy," and other assorted laughs and noises. Linda also spills some beer on Paul's jacket. "Now you'll have to wear another badge," she says. The odd positioning of the badge on his other lapel takes on new significance.

The waffle continues for some 15 minutes. There's the occasional perceptive comment. Paul shows himself to be intelligent beneath the veneer of 'jokies' and 'thingies' and Linda also, when allowed to give a coherent answer instead of ignored inane one liners scattered through her husband's answers. But mostly it's the throw-away simple sentences so beloved by Fleet Street.

With one question left before we are separated, Vincent McGarry finally beats Paul and Paul. "What do you think," he queries, "of people who ask you whether the Beatles will reform?"

"It's alright," sighs Paul. "If they have to ask it then that's alright. I'll answer any question."

"I won't take responsibility for asking it," says Tilsey. (Coward). "But when are the Beatles going to reform?"

Paul delivers his Ali poem.

As the conference disintegrates the others flock around Paul. Linda has twice mentioned China and going there. I ask her why.

"I like their peasant way of life and their farming," she replies. "They're not as materialistic as we are. I'm interested in going as a photographer, really. This was all before Mao died. Now that he's gone I don't know what's going on there. What worries me is that all the good work that Mao did with the people – that's what interests me, the way he got – I think, anyway – all those people working together."

Her interest in China's simple life coincides with earlier comments about growing vegetables and their three room cottage in Scotland.

"It's funny, but I'm not that interested in money. And everyone can say, 'Oh, you can say that, you've got it,' but I know – because I've done it – I could go up to our house in Scotland and grow vegetables and never long for the big cities, no newspapers, and be happier, I think. Really."

So what keeps her onstage?

"Him," she replies, looking over to Paul explaining his tax position to the microphones.

"He couldn't go running all over the country, and I like being with him. But money isn't everything...and this country – " She grimaces. "If people only became self sufficient, they'd be a lot happier, I think. We should all get more in tune with what God gave us, rather than the Industrial Age. There's a million ways of getting this country together. They could give people jobs tearing down all the factories, and then jobs planting the ground. They could, though."

In spite of her amazingly naive idealism, there is something very likeable about Linda.

"Okay, it's crazy – you're really going to laugh when I say this – but I think we should go back to dirt roads, walking to work or riding a horse or a bike – " Yes, Linda, it's crazy. " – saying hello to their neighbour. We're covering the world with concrete and not getting anywhere. Where are we going to go when there's no more earth?"

This kind of thinking pervades her conversation for the next five minutes. Where would Wings be, I wonder, without electricity and technology?

"Well, if we went to China we'd probably just take ourselves. Play acoustic."

Well if that's the case, when the object of the Venice gig was to make money to save the city, why –

" – Did we take 65 tons of equipment so we could crack paving stones and sink it a little further into the mud?" She smiles.

Yes.

"We had no idea. Lorries drive in there every day. Anyway, when you get there! The decadence – it's all palaces. It was all princes and feuding then, wasn't it?"

What – you think that it should be allowed to sink?

"I think it should be made into a fucking museum."

It's a tossed off answer. A minute later Tony Brainsby finally dissolves proceedings. Wings retire to their dressing rooms and supper. Thirty minutes later, Jimmy leaves with his brother and ladies in a Ford Escort. Three Rolls-Royces await the rest of the band.

MOBILE MUSIC

2007-03-07T06:19:00.000Z

MOBILE MUSIC

The WORD, March 2006

Two years ago I was standing in a crowded Underground carriage checking whom, if anyone, was wearing white earphones. At the time I was Head of Content at mobile operator O2. We were about to release a music download service but in the previous two months the iPod, already three years old, had started selling exponentially. It felt like a problem.

Near me a young businessman joked with his friends. He was the sole person wearing the white, but they weren’t quite right. Looking closer, I realised he had taken a pair of black earphones and scraped the colour off to the white underneath. That’s when I knew O2 had trouble.

O2’s music service was the first outside Asia that allowed music to be downloaded over the air to a mobile phone. We wanted the player to be cool, but it looked like something a telecoms engineer would make – grey, plastic, cheap. Next to the iPod – white, sleek, iconic – it looked mediocre. It wasn’t an iPhone.

In early 2004 Motorola announced a tie-up with Apple to produce such a device. For those mobile operators around the world developing their own services this was not good news. Rumours swirled through the industry that they told Motorola the iPhone was a no-phone – it wouldn’t be stocked or supported. Though unsubstantiated, continuing delays in production fuelled the chatter.

Last September, the “iPhone” finally appeared as the Motorola ROKR. Though its design looked average next to the iPod range it quickly sold 275,000. But in the parlance of the music business, it shipped platinum and returned gold. Its two key disappointments were that it only held 100 songs and you couldn’t download over the air. Rumour – again! – had it that Steve Jobs insisted on these limitations, since an Apple iPod-phone was surely on the way and he didn’t want competition.

Perhaps wisely, if Apple is developing a sleek white phone with loads of storage that downloads music from iTunes while on the move, it’s keeping John Cage-like silence. It will compete with manufacturers who view mobiles as fashion items, obsolete in six months, in which time they ship hundreds of millions. It will need to convince network operators to stock the device, including those who have their own music shop, are talking to Yahoo, Napster and Rhapsody about running a branded version, or license Nokia’s dual mobile-pc service. Just selling it through Carphone Warehouse or computer showrooms won’t be enough; an operator can easily degrade quality of service or block the billing of a mobile iTunes shop. Apple will find itself in a business that can treat it as irrelevant.

Music over phones isn’t a new idea. At a demonstration to Queen Victoria on the Isle of Wight in 1877, songs were sung from the other end of the connection, then they played a bugle, and from a connection to London, an organ. A few months later phone lines were laid to Paris and you could subscribe to the Opera. So almost 130 years later, we’re getting back to its original use.

In those early days no-one really knew what to do with the telephone – was it for talking or entertainment? And why would you want to talk on it, given messengers and an efficient postal service? (Three deliveries a day back then.) The press described it as “American humbug” invented by an “impostor” and “ventriloquist”.

Nothing much has changed. A recent journalist’s blog asked why you would want to download and listen to music on a mobile phone when it’s so much easier on a PC and the iPod is so much more elegant. His conclusion was that music to a mobile would never be successful.

In the short term he has a point. But like the telephone in the 1870s, it takes time to grasp why you might want it and then for it become essential. From 2000 – 2003 the iPod sold just three million. This year it’s estimated to sell 20 million. Mobile phones, however, will sell one billion. And that’s why so many people are betting that mobile music downloads will be a big market.

So what’s holding everything back? Being unique. The handful of services around the world all have proprietary systems, different music file types, different DRM, different commercial models, different content strategies. Until standards are in place, it’s likely to continue.

When pundits predict a mobile music future they look to Japan and Korea, where mobiles are used instead of computers for accessing the Internet and a standard system has made mobile music so successful that last year the huge Korean operator SK Telecom bought a major local record label. Rightly, it realised its future is in media and copyright distribution. Success came because the record labels and network operators sat together and agreed standards and pricing. In the West, anti-monopoly laws and self-interest prevent a similar environment. Record labels, buoyed by a multi-billion pound global ringtones market, assume mobile customers will pay £1.50 a track for the privilege of immediacy - ‘impulse purchase’, as marketing folk describe it. As a result they have forced through mobile music contracts designed to guarantee such a price.

Unfortunately for them, operator research shows that price is everything. And mobile music isn’t just competing with 79p at iTunes or the other 200 online music shops; it’s competing with ‘free’. If record labels are in denial about one thing in particular it’s that a lot of online under-25s just don’t want to pay. Whether it’s one person paying for a ringtone and then bluetoothing it to his friends or the millions using peer-to-peer sites, “free” is the currency of choice. Thirty-five to fifty percent of all Internet traffic is presumed to be p2p, roughly 25 billion downloads last year. At least half of it is music.

Music has become ubiquitous – in shops and supermarkets, leaking from earphones, arty punctuation to TV programmes – evolving into a continuous soundtrack to one’s life and the nearer it gets to ubiquity the more it becomes a commodity. It always starts expensive, gets cheaper, and then it’s everywhere. To use Stewart Brand’s 20 year-old phrase, information wants to be free.

This is anathema to the music industry, which intends to raise the price of online music. Labels and operators drive their content businesses on the belief that “mobile customers are used to paying and will be happy to pay”. But search long enough on an operator’s WAP portal and the open mobile Internet appears, filled with thousands of amateur sites giving away ringtones, images, porn and software. For now, it’s hardly noticed, but two Hungarians have created a copyright owner’s mobile nightmare.

“Symella” is a combination of Symbian, a mobile operating system, and the Gnutella peer-to-peer network. Yes, mobile p2p is here. Currently it only works on top-level Nokia phones, but it’s inevitable some young hackers will perceive a challenge and democratize Symella for all. From one perspective it’s the ideal solution: open system, standard MP3 files, no DRM, open to any network. Would operators, who could make billions from data charges, be too concerned? For them, music is currently a minor revenue source and if they can make a lot more money from a p2p network than an expensive, record industry controlled premium service, obeying industry threats to kill it may depend on whether the management want to rub shoulders with their musical heroes.

While making money from ‘free’ is obvious for some, what about the artist? Well, The Grateful Dead gave away music for 30 years and got rich from touring and merchandise. In the 21st century the money can also come from corporations. Advertising has been losing attention for years so there’s $600 billion a year looking for a better way to reach customers. Sponsorship isn’t new either, but the smart thinkers are proposing much more sophisticated relationships that benefit both sides. For example, Fair Trade could be a patron to Coldplay, so that mobile and online music is free while the company conveys a story more complex than having their name felt-tipped on the back of Chris Martin’s hand. For all its modernity, it’s eerily similar to a time when royalty and aristocrats supported artists.

If Apple develops an iPhone, will chief designer Jonathan Ive rethink the mobile as completely as he did the portable music player? The iPod navigation wheel seems improbable. When Britons send four billion texts a month, the standard keypad rules. Lustrous and sensuous of course, the question is whether the iPhone will be a music player that makes calls or a phone that plays music. Bring elegance and simplicity to phone navigation and mobile music interfaces; make social activities like blogging and sharing photos easy; erase the line between phone and computer. That would be radical.

SIDEBAR:

What Do They Want And Will They Get It?

MOBILE OPERATORS
What They Want:
Keep their grip on the customer while extracting more money per month for services like ringtones, music and videos.
Change public perception of their “brand qualities” through exclusive artist deals and sponsoring events and venues.

Will They Get It?
Content usage continues to rise, but only the mega-fan will change operators because of exclusive artist content.
O2’s tactic to sponsor the Millennium Dome and offer their customers ticket upgrades and other perks could pay off.

MANUFACTURERS
What They Want
Reach the customer directly with artist-branded phones and white-label music services.
Change public perception of their “brand qualities” through exclusive artist deals and sponsoring events and venues.

Will They Get It?
To date, they have been inept at understanding media requirements and customer expectations in both phone design and venue sponsorship. It will probably take corporate cultural shifts for manufacturers to benefit.

RECORD LABELS
What They Want
Ownership of mobile music and its pricing to maintain the belief that music is a valuable premium.

Will They Get It?
All trends point to music becoming cheap to free, with the money acquired elsewhere. If mobile p2p becomes popular, expect lawsuits to fly. Bands and labels with a committed following will fare best.

THE CUSTOMER
What They Want
A phone that looks cool, works, and is easy to navigate. Content that is reasonably priced.

Will They Get It?The customer is always right.

Led Zeppelin: Presence

2007-03-07T06:10:00.000Z

Led Zeppelin: Presence (Swan Song)

Sounds, 10 April 1976

AFTER THIS PLATTER had spun incessantly for an afternoon on the office phonogram I asked a non-Zep fan what he thought.

"Oh, it's okay I guess. They're just the best at what they do."

Well of course. But what they do is also the best. More than almost any other band they maintain the roughshod energy, vulgarity and spirit of rock 'n' roll that extends from Elvis' pelvis and Gene Vincent and Little Richard through the early Kinks and Yardbirds and Troggs ('Wild Thing' definitely helped pave the way). This album is a monument to that spirit.

The rumours were right: this album is unadulterated rock and roll. It's fantabulous.

The music is really basic and simple, almost every song an archetypal Zeppo riff, but while they've kept the basic framework, everything within has been stripped down, polished, and reassembled. The sound is monolithic, with a definite feel of the room they're in.

But within that hammer of sound is a lot of separation, Page building multi-guitar passages and bridges all over the place, and Plant sounding very upfront and audible until you start trying to listen to the words. With the exception of 'Achilles Last Stand' they're as buried as ever, though the understandable snippets sound intriguing.

But the real star of the show is Bonzo, who is dynamite. He's everwhere, bulldozing songs along mercilessly. Between him and Page... Whether it's due to being recorded so fast, or also because of their return to rock and roll's roots, this album is very reminiscent of the first album. The only song to break the mould is 'Achilles Last Stand', which opens the set.

If ever a song succeeds 'Stairway To Heaven' this is it. Opening with a low profile solo guitar it soon hits speed of sound stride, with all the Olympian grandeur the title implies. From the first bar Bonzo is incredible, storming and charging and generally carrying on like a madman. The pace doesn't let up for the entire ten minutes, dynamics building and falling away as Page builds up batteries of guitars, with some amazing twin leads, and Robert weaves a quite bizarre tale heavily influenced by his accident. This song is going to be a mother-fucker live.

'For Your Life' is the Zep we're basically familiar with. While Bonzo and John Paul Jones hold down a metronome rhythm Robert pouts and struts and Jimmy builds up the guitars again. Apart from subtle changes in tempo and the odd outburst from Page, the tune sticks very methodically to its riff.

'Royal Orleans' is the only song written by the group (the rest are Page-Plant), choosing this time to demonstrate their knowledge of funk. Again Bonzo is way out front, pushing things along with some very nice hi-speed hi-hat, supported by some great rhythm guitar chops. Robert gives a guided tour of sorts of New Orleans, and the band are very basic. This is a great dance tune.

Side two opens with another solo guitar excursion before hitting what might be called Zeppelin's Steamhammer Boogie Riff. Great powerhouse rock and roll and the break is just a treat, Plant screeching away on harp and Page and Bonzo ripping it all apart while J-P saws on a really groinal bass. This is the song that bedroom popstars will really be able to play along with, Robert doing lots of deep-echo 'oohs' and 'aahs' and the guitar very simple and spaced out, the drums a madman-drummer's delight.

'Candy Store Rock' is 'Lemon Song' circa 1976. Which is to say, more subtlety. That time it's Zep's Jump Blues Riff, the music very simple, Robert sounding like a cross between Ricky Nelson and Elvis with lots of heavily echoed "Baby, baby". Although the instrumentation is sparse, with very little overdubbing, the energy is terrific.

'Hots On For Nowhere' continues the energy. After 'Achilles' this is my favourite, with a great bouncing rhythm and some beautiful guitar work. Basically this tune is Jimmy's trip, building up from one guitar into an incredible flow of interweaving solos and bridges, shifting into overdrive with the most ridiculous twang. The whole time he sticks to the most basic rock and roll licks, ending with a great cliched false ending that works really well.

'Tea For One' is the eight minute blues that Page mentioned in the interview of a few weeks ago, saying he was really pleased with the way the band holds back and that his solos didn't fall into cliches. Naturally, he's right. Starting with yet another archetypal Zep mid-speeder the band suddenly slow into a relaxed, rolling blues highly reminiscent of the slow numbers on the first album. Page plays some magnificent guitar, again building up multiple guitars, and yes, the band just sit back and relax without once letting loose. I don't know if pleasant is the right word to describe a Led Zeppelin song, but that's what this song is.

As for the cover...This is probably Hipgnosis’ best in several years capturing the mysticism and uneasiness of their earlier covers (Saucerful, Elegy) while also being one of the funniest covers ever. Each of those scenes looks so incredibly weird, the situations and the intensity of the colour, and at the same looks incredibly ludicrous. Nice one.

Hmm, one thing I haven't seemed to mention is the rather awesome power that this record blasts out. In terms of urgency and aggression and an all-out attack on rock and roll, this is Zeppelin's best album yet. It sounds best really loud, with your head really close to the speakers.

Led Zeppelin: The Song Remains The Same

2007-03-07T05:34:00.000Z

Led Zeppelin: The Song Remains The Same

Sounds, 13 November 1976

SO THERE we were. We'd pushed through the crowds outside the Warner West End theatre. Run the gamut of flashbulbs. Said Hello to the McCartneys. Sat down amongst Amanda Lear, Lisa Todd, Billy Connolly and a veritable galaxy of stars. Listened to SwanSong's finest over the p.a. Now we waited.

Zeppelin walked in single file, looking slightly sheepish. Page looked skeletal. The front half of the audience – the paying members – rose in respect. Perhaps Zep looked sheepish because they had just done the same thing 30 minutes earlier a few blocks away at the Shaftesbury Avenue ABC. Yes, it was typical Zeppelin efficiency: two premieres at once. They probably had time for a Milky Way, the sweet you can eat between premieres.

Several colleagues weren't enthusiastic about this cinematic sensation. After all, the New York Daily News had given it a 0 star out of a possible five, and the transatlantic grapevine had been afire with considered opinions. Perhaps the ultimate comment of the unconvinced was that overheard at the party afterwards: "My only complaint is it was two hours too long."

The Song Remains The Same lasts two hours, 15 minutes.

I was hoping for the best. Good rock movies are few and far between, but with the legendary Zep it-has-to-right-or-not-at-all attitude, one was optimistic. And with the equally legendary fantasy sequences intersecting the concert sequences, it promised to be a possibly fascinating, revealing insight into Led Zep as people as well as rock Olympians.

But that was the trouble. Zeppelin as mere mortals, giving specific insight into their private lives and fantasies, were largely depressing. Embarrassing even.

No wonder John Paul Jones remains silent and doesn’t give interviews if his idea of himself is the amateur Halloween/Hammer pastiche presented as his fantasy. (He shows himself to be a marvellous family man, though.)

Robert Plant's notion of being King Arthur wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so simplistic. The superimposing of a rampant Excalibur in a sea of flames as Percy approaches the young damsel is one of cinema's sillier moments. (Not to mention finding a large, bright red, plastic looking mushroom under a tree.) The only thing missing was the box of Black Magic and a calling card.

Only Jimmy Page survives the pretensions of cosmickness, scaling the trials and tribulations of the mortal coil in the quest for Godhead.

John Bonham, perhaps wisely, keeps to the real World, revealing a love for dancing and very fast cars. More power to him.

Peter Grant's sequence was entirely in keeping – the ultimate manager's fantasy, loaded with abstract symbolism. Opening the film, it sets the tone: fun and games, but only because it's fuelled by business-as-usual.

But the stage sequences are something else again. Closer than you'll ever be to the group at a gig, it's great to watch Jimmy's fingering or Jones' bass work. Bonham's drum solo actually becomes interesting.

The visuals are good, but there's a limited amount of angles you can use on a stage, and by the second hour the repetition is wearing. It's just like being at a live gig but you can't walk around.

What compounded this was the sound. The cinema's speakers just weren't made for it, distorting the bass end all night because of the volume. Halfway through they began to break up. Overall it was dominated by a piercing treble. Without highs and lows it wasn't very pleasant.

The trouble with this film is it's so easy to knock it. Take the technical aspects. They're excellent, but the optical effects belong in a 1968 psychedelic film. Or the documentary aspects. Nowhere is the work that goes into a tour detailed. The boys get a telegram announcing a tour; the next day they're stepping off the plane onto the stage. Backstage scenes are shown without meaning or connection.

The sad thing about knocking it is that I basically liked it. Indulgent, yes, silly, too. But there's a liveliness in the Madison Square Garden sequences rarely seen in rock films, and some of the music – particularly 'Since I've Been Loving You' – is out of this world.

In the end you have to conclude it's exactly what it's advertised as: the world's most expensive home movie. Or as the Biz wigs told each other afterwards, 'This is to satisfy the average Zep fan and let him see the group at a time when they're not on the road'. How mercenary. How business-as-usual.