Any Major Dude With Half A Heart

In 1977 I started to build a record collection; in 1978, the year I turned 12, I began to be really serious about music, buying singles by the Sex Pistols and Jethro Tull alike. And I became a Blondie fan before anyone else I knew was even aware of them. In early 1978 I had my first kiss (which also was the last for a while), went to my first rock concert (ditto), and made a friend whom I recently met again for the first time in 29 years (but more of that at a later stage). The first part of my 1978 nostalgia trip – on which songs are chosen only if they have the power to transport me back to the time – covers the first three months or so of the year.

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Blondie – X-Offender.mp3
What a difference a couple of months make when you’re 11. In the autumn I had bought a single by teen herbert Leif Garrett; in winter I bought a single by NYC punk scene regulars Blondie. Or, better put, my not yet impressive penis bought it. I saw the cover of the re-released X-Offender single (it had originally been issued in 1976), and fell for Debbie Harry. Like a week or so before with the Runaways record, I tingled with excitement at the thought of hearing Debbie Harry sing. The very sexy spoken intro followed by the rapid drums and that guitar which sounded unlike anything I had heard before instantly broadened my musical horizon. I am still impressed with my nascent trendspotting talents: Blondie’s breakthrough with Denis was still a couple months off, but I already was a fan, even if I knew only X-Offender and the rather good b-side, Man Overboard.

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Long Tall Ernie & the Shakers – Do You Remember.mp3
A few years before Stars on 45 afflicted us, fellow Dutch nostalgia merchants Long Tall Ernie and the Shakers visited their Sha Na Na stylings upon us in medley format. Actually, it isn’t at all bad, as these things go. In the song lead singer Arnie Treffers introduces the notion of nostalgia and memories of Buddy Holly, and then the rest of the band lets go with songs like Little Richard’s Lucille, the New Beats’ Bread And Butter and the Everly Brother’s excellent Bird Dog (one of my constant earworms), occasionally enquiring of us whether we can remember. Obviously I couldn’t, having been not even nearly alive in the 1950s. In fact, those early days of rock & roll seemed very distant to me in 1978, so that the song was something of a history lesson for me. Considering that the songs in the medley were all about 20 years old at the time, today’s corollary medley might include songs by Tracy Chapman, U2, Kylie Minogue, DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince, Crowded House and Babyface.

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Uriah Heep – Lady In Black.mp3
Uriah Heep – Free Me.mp3
Originally from 1971, Lady In Black was re-released in Germany in 1977, and became a Top 20 hit. This and Free Me, which I bought in March or thereabouts, are the only Heep records I have ever acquired. But Lady In Black is important for a very good reason: it reminds me of my first kiss. I would like to say that it was a beautiful moment, like Kevin and Winnie’s first kiss in The Wonder Years. Alas, it was more the product of a bet. My friend, who was just half a year older than me but much more advanced, dared me and my “girlfriend” to French kiss. So we accepted the dare, rather unsure about what to do with our tongues once our open mouths met. Our tongues touched lightly before we both withdrew them in mild disgust, yet excited by the sensation. It was dark and it was winter. I felt her warm breath exhaling on my face, which was probably more sensual than the meeting of lips. And, er, her long hair was blowing in the mid-winter wind…

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Tom Robinson Band – 2-4-6-8 Motorway.mp3
Around the time I bought this, Tom Robinson was causing a bit of a furore with his song Glad To Be Gay, sentiments that were not often publicly expressed. At a time when punk was finally seeping into the German consciousness, Robinson’s proclamation was so counter-cultural as to include him in the movement. Of course, like many others who were included under the punk banner, Robinson was more of a pub rocker. Or pop rocker. Still, his lyrics were militant for their time (Motorway itself has a gay subtext, of course), and I think I can credit Robinson for making an important contribution to my unconditional rejection of homophobia.

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Bonnie Tyler – It’s A Heartache.mp3
In February 1978 I saw my first live concert, a multiple bill organised by Bravo magazine, headed by Slade. It was not in our city, so my friends Jens and Andreas and I took a train to the town where the gig was held, about 250km away. Jens, the leader was 12, Andreas and I were 11 (and some fraction which I’m sure we were willing to state as an indication that we were, in fact, closer to being 12 than 11). Times have changed, I think. I have no memory of how we found our way from the station to the arena, but we got there. The bill included a British teen outfit called The Busters (whose identifying gimmick consisted of having black hair and wearing identical denim jackets), Schlager singer Bernhard Brink (who had a white man’s ’fro) and Bonnie Tyler, who was just then having a big hit with It’s A Heartache. A year previously – hell, two months previously – I would have liked the song. Now I had tasted Blondie, and Jens and I were into punk. Tyler was for the housewives. We enjoyed Slade though. Dave Hill, he of the stupid haircut, no longer had a stupid haircut: he was now completely bold, at a time when shaved heads were very unusual. I cannot say whether it was a good gig, but I remember emerging from the hall into the cold winter’s evening air soaked in sweat.

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Sweet – Love Is Like Oxygen.mp3
My affection for Sweet was such that I bought the Level Headed LP when they made their comeback on the Polydor label, a big financial outlay which requireed much sacrifice (that is, at least that of three singles). By now, Andy Scott was wearing a middle-aged men’s beard, as though he was going to join the Beach Boys; Steve Priests looked sober and serious, and Mick Tucker and Brian Connolly were about to shear their locks. The music now was much more prog than pop rock. The lads obviously wanted to be taken seriously. Well, they might have been, had they not produced an album that was even more boring than one by Barclay James Harvest, and less deprived of the Zeitgeist than Emerson Lake Palmer. The lead single, however, was pretty good, like a song by the Electric Light Orchestra.

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Darts – Come Back My Love.mp3
The inclusion of Long Tall Ernie may have tipped off the reader that I rather enjoyed the odd bit of retro-rock & roll, even if I fancied myself at the time as a bit punk (though I didn’t dress punk, or act  punk, or hated society any more than my non-punk mates). Among the revivalists, The Darts were the greatest. I remember buying the Darts LP, alongside The Tubes’ What Do You Want from Live, on a trip to Stockholm. I still have the Darts album; the Tubes LP was lost long ago. Daddy Cool/The Girl Can’t Help It was the bigger hit, and it was that song which turned me on to Darts. But soon I preferred the cover of the Wrens 1954 song, which featured in The Originals Vol. 3 (as did the original of Daddy Cool by The Rays).

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Sex Pistols – No One Is Innocent.mp3
Sex Pistols – My Way.mp3
At the time it seemed the height of impertinence: Sid Vicious – we didn’t know yet just how undeserving of adulation that miscreant junkie was – first warbling and then quite amusingly violating My Way, by way of telling Sinatra: “Oi, old geezer, your song is shit!” We had no idea at the time that Sinatra himself hated the song and, if he had cared to acquaint himself with Mr Vicious’ interpretation, he probably applauded its defilement, in the principle of it, if not in execution. My Way just is too easy and obvious a target to be subversive, really. Roping in Great Train Robber Ronnie Biggs for what was initially presumed to be the a-side was a touch more seditious. Musically, the song was, well, not very good. Biggs deserved to be locked up just for singing in public.

Of course, at the time I also had The Sex Pistols’ Never Mind The Bollocks LP. It is fair to say that my brother, two years younger than I, did not like their music much. So one day he scribbled on the vinyl with a ballpoint pen, apparently in retaliation to my alleged act of iconoclasm involving his poster of Winnetou, the noble Native American friend of Old Shatterhand dreamt up by the 19^th century German author Karl May (who had never been to the USA, never mind the Wild West, but whose stories are still hugely popular in Germany). As far as disproportionate responses go, my brother belonged in the camp of those who sought to exterminate and subjugate Winnetou and his people…

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The Stranglers – Nice ’n Sleazy.mp3
My friend Jens had a fine collection of punk albums, which I tried to match with punk singles. Of course, time would show that most of the stuff we called punk wasn’t punk at all. Still, Jens had albums by the Damned, Boomtown Rats, Ultravoxx and so on. I had Holiday In The Sun and later No One Is Innocent/My Way. And I had this single, a fine track with expert sneering featuring one of my favourite rock riffs ever, though I had no idea what sleazy was (till I looked it up and found the answer richly satisfying). The pun, of course, passed me by, seeing as I was still learning English. Same day I bought a single by an outfit called The Killers (not to be confused with the currently successful band). That single — it had a German shepherd on the cover – was utterly horrible.

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Brian & Michael – Matchstalk Men & Matchstalk Cats & Dogs.mp3
One of the great discoveries in 1978 was the weekly radio broadcast of the latest UK charts – it might have been the Top 10 or Top 20 – by which I got to know all the latest tunes (like Brian & Michael’s number) before they would finally make it in West-Germany. So I would sit with my grandmother’s cassette-radio portable and recorded most songs. The recorder very usefully had a fade-out button, so the shock of the inevitable cut forced by jabbering DJs was not as brutal as it otherwise might have been. At the time, I might have bought records by the Sex Pistols and the Stranglers, and by Gerry Rafferty and Kate Bush and the Rolling Stones – but I was still 12. Of course I liked Matchstick Men & Matchstick Cats & Dogs, even if I didn’t buy the record, because that certainly would not have been at all cool. And how could a song featuring a children’s choir be cool? Here it was the St Winifred’s School Choir, who would later torment Britain with songs about their collective grandma. On Matchstalk Men, they are singing the children’s song The Big Ship Sails On The Alley-Alley-O. Matchstalk Men, incidentally, was a tribute to the northern English artist LS Lowry, who died in 1976 and is mentioned in the song.

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Wings – With A Little Luck.mp3
I admit it: I liked Mull Of Kintyre, which I bought the week it came out in 1977. By the time With A Little Luck was released, Kintyre was still a massive hit in Germany, and I was beginning to get sick of it. In fact, I liked With A Little Luck better; so much so that I bought the London Town album (or it might have been on the Greatest Hits album, which I think came out before that, and which I also bought. Anyone know which came first?). It’s a charming little tune, with a synth that actually sounded warm. I liked the “with a-little-luck-a-little-luck-a-little-luck” bit, and the double “we can do it”, which sounds like it was a production mistake. Now, do I have an unnecessarily dirty mind when I detect a sexual meaning in this line: “With a little love, we could shake it up, don’t you feel the comet exploding”?

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More Stepping Back

Today marks the 25^th anniversary of Live Aid, a sentence that makes me feel old. I wrote what I think is my definitive take on the day two years ago. I have nothing new to add, except for a few minor edits. But it’s the 25^th anniversary of a big event I actually attended, so I will recycle that post and re-upload my Live Aid mix, ripped from DVD.To see what else happened that day and what awful music populated the US charts, check out the always enjoyable The Hits Just Keep Coming blog.

The music was mostly terrible, the artists tended to be self-serving and smug, we had shit seats right at the back of Wembley Stadium, and the legacy of the event is questioned by many. And still, Live Aid ranks among the best days of my life, at least in as far as concerts are concerned.

Indisputably, there were long stretches of tedium, watching wasters like Sting and Phil Collins being bumptious, Spandau Ballet demonstrating why they were a rubbish live act, Adam Ant destroying his already skidding career with one song, and the creations of mad hairstylists immortalising the decade of my youth as one bereft of sense and elegance.

But these dull stretches were enlivened by some high point. Everybody is right, Queen were indeed, well, majestic. Fred had sex with the whole of Wembley stadium, and left us panting for more. Queen’s set provided my abiding memory: the crowds doing that arms-aloft-clap-clap-arms-aloft-clap-clap thing from the video of Radio Gaga – what a sight that was from where I was sitting overlooking the masses on the pitch  – followed by Mercury leading the 80,000 people (or whatever) in vocal exercises. And I’m not even a Queen fan, certainly wasn’t in 1985.

Other highlights included getting to watch The Who play live, playing my favourite song of their catalogue, Won’t Get Fooled Again; and U2 playing my favourite of their repertoire, Bad, with the mulleted Bono (then not yet conclusively the pompous ponce we know him as today) grabbing that girl from the crowd. It was not a spontaneous act, though; he performed that shtick, probably stolen from Springsteen’s Dancing In The Dark video, during every concert at the time (I saw him do it three times in three countries that summer). At the time I thought his sampling of other people’s songs (here Lou Reed and the Rolling Stones), was cool; now not so much. And George Michael, coming out as a bearded man for the first time, was magnificent when he sang Elton John’s Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me. When he got around to recording it almost a decade later, it had lost its magic.

In Philadelphia, Hall & Oates stole the show. In a pretty soul-free line-up, the blue-eyed soulmen hooked up with bona fide soul legends, singing soul music. Otherwise there were the Four Tops, and, at some point when nobody was watching, Ashford & Simpson with Teddy Pendergrass (R.I.P.), the latter appearing on stage for the first time since his accident which left him paraplegic. Oh, and Pati LaBelle, whose acute histrionics were entirely distressing. And, I must say, Madonna (wearing entirely regrettable floral trousers) was energetic. Her line, “I’m not gonna take shit off tonight” in reference to just released nude photos of her in Penthouse was a welcome glimpse of humour.

Embarrassing moments prevailed, however. Sumon Le Bon, never a good singer, totally missed a note in A View To A Kill.  Bob Dylan and the two craggies from the Stones (who looked 60 then, but were only in their early 40s) contrived to perform an amusing cacophony, which the performers believably blamed on not being able to hear each other. Frankly, I thought Keef was high, Ronny pissed and Dylan no different from usual.

But the cringe moment of the day belonged to the man who made Live Aid possible, Bob Geldof (Midge fucking who?). Of course, credit to Bob for doing something; indeed, more than most of us have done. It was commendable and all that. When it was their turn, the Boomtown Rats gave a particularly feckless rendition of I Don’t Like Mondays, with the sidekicks not even bothering to sing the backing vocals in tune. Then at the line “and the lesson today is how to die”, in a song about a schoolground shooting, Geldof stopped, raised his fist and let the crowd lap up his status as Temporary Messiah while they reflected on the supposed symbolic magnitude of the line. You see, Ethiopians are dying, and the lesson today is how to die. Which is deep man. Especially if you consider how many Ethiopians are running around with silicon chips inside their heads getting switched to overload.

Likewise, the use of the Cars’ song Drive to soundtrack that utterly devastating video of starving people was embarrassing. One misapplied line in a love song is not suitable as a device for the manipulation of those who viewed the video. It was not just mawkish; it was ill-judged, trivialising the famine, as though it can be explained by a random pop number. It symbolised the cocaine-fuelled rock triumphalism of the day. Perhaps Midge Ure captured the true spirit of Live Aid’s star-roster when he crooned that line from Vienna: “This means nothing to me.”

Doubtless many acts on the bill felt deeply about feeding the world and reminding the starving Ethiopians that they were doing their best to ensure that there will be snow in Africa next Christmastime, regardless of the inopportune consequences of such radical climate change. But many of those who took part were in truth opportunists, wanting in on the cash-in. Some, such as Queen (who might have been sincere or opportunistic or both), revived their flagging careers on the back of Live Aid. All but one act recorded increased sales after the event, the exception being the hapless Adam Ant. Live Aid was at least as much about corporate profiteering as it was about social engagement. Did much of the profits from increased post-Live Aid sales go to famine relief? Didn’t think so.

Paradoxically, Live Aid was also a bit of a racist event, and the 4-DVD set aggravates that defect. No African artists other than the Nigerian-born but otherwise decidedly western Sade appeared in London or Philadelphia; an oddity when the event was supposed to raise awareness about Africa. As noted above, black artists were very thin on the bill. The DVD set even manages to exclude the Four Tops’ 5-song set, as well as those of Billy Ocean and Run-DMC (featured in the extras). The only other excised acts are Santana and, commendably, Power Station.

I don’t buy into the fairly popular idea that Live Aid was in itself malign. Pragmatically, it raised money which saved some lives, and helped build clinics and water purification schemes. That is admirable. It did raise awareness on a range of issues concerning famine, albeit imperfectly, and promoted some sense of social responsibility. In the callous, self-centred 1980s, Live Aid made charity cool. But it also proposed a notion that charity is not selfless, that for your charity you must get something in return — at the very least the option to congratulate yourself. Consumerist charity, one might call it.

Live Aid did not see itself as a solution but as a contribution to a problem. Its contribution was effective in addressing an immediate crisis. The music, however, was mostly shit. To celebrate the music that wasn’t, or to observe the performances which were poor but stand as novelties we may marvel at, here is a compilation of my highlights of Live Aid (plus the chaos of Bob, Keef and Ron).

TRACKLISTING:

1. Status Quo – Rockin’ All Over The World
2. Boomtown Rats – I Don’t Like Mondays
3. Elvis Costello – All You Need Is Love
4. U2 – Bad
5. Beach Boys – Good Vibrations
6. Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody
7. Queen - Radio Gaga
8. David Bowie – Heroes
9. The Who – Won’t Get Fooled Again
10. George Michael – Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me
11. Paul McCartney – Let It Be
12. Crosby, Stills & Nash – Teach Your Children
13. Neil Young – Nothing Is Perfect (In God’s Perfect Plan)
14. Hall & Oates with Eddie Kendricks - Get Ready
15. Hall & Oates with Eddie Kendricks & David Ruffin – Ain’t Too Proud To Beg
16. Hall & Oates with Eddie Kendricks & David Ruffin – My Girl
17. Bob Dylan, Keith Richards & Ron Wood – Blowing In The Wind

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More mixes

In our alternate Beatles universe it is 1981. The final Beatles album had been recorded in November and early December 1980 at the Abbey Road studios in London, forcing John to leave his beloved NYC apartment in the Dakota, to which he returned on December 9. The album is released in February 1981.

It had been five years since the release of the previous Beatles album, Alone Again, because John had “retired” for a few years to be a stay-at-home Dad. He talked about his hiatus on the album’s opener, Watching The Wheels. In the meantime, Paul had established his initially stuttering solo career, scoring a million-seller with Mull Of Kintyre. Indeed, the members’ musical styles had diverged so much that the Fab Four knew it would be their final album together.

Paul even held back all his best songs, preferring not to share such universally acclaimed gems as Temporary Secretary and Goodnight Tonight with his bandmates. As a result, Paul’s input into Finally was at odds with the prominence his ego would have demanded normally. Perhaps appropriately, it was perennial third banana George who dominated on that last LP, and it was George who wrote the epitaph to the Beatles’ career, All Those Years Ago.

As always, the mix should fit on to a standard CD-R.

Side 1
1. Watching The Wheels (John Lennon)
2. Crackerbox Palace (George Harrison)
3. Let ‘Em In (Paul McCartney)
4. Blow Away (George Harrison)
5. Girls’ School (Paul McCartney)

Side 2
6. Lady Gaye (Ringo Starr)
7. Beautiful Girl (George Harrison)
8. Nobody Told Me (John Lennon)
9. Silly Love Songs (Paul McCartney)
10. (Just Like) Starting Over (John Lennon)

Side 3
11. With A Little Luck (Paul McCartney)
12. This Song (George Harrison)
13. I’m Losing You (John Lennon)
14. Here Comes The Moon (George Harrison)
15. Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy) (John Lennon)

Side 4
16. Move Over Ms. L. (John Lennon)
17. Woman Don’t You Cry For Me (George Harrison)
18. Coming Up (Paul McCartney)
19. Real Love (John Lennon)
20. All Those Years Ago (George Harrison)

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Continuing our journey in the alternate universe in which the Beatles did not break up, we reach the year 1975. As three years earlier, the four members brought their songs together for another double album. Of course, our four friends had grown musically; solo projects and collaborations with other big names had amplified each member’s distinctive style – except, perhaps, for Ringo. But even he chipped in with a number he had co-written (with Vini Poncia), All By Myself (in real life, Lennon played the guitar on this track from Goodbye Vienna). Ringo’s other two contributions, I’m The Greatest and Photograph, were written by John and George respectively.

The most prolific writer had been Paul. Alas, some of what he brought into the studio was so bad, he would record it under the pseudonym Wings, the better to avoid soiling his good reputation (Ringo almost left the group because of Paul’s insistence to record Listen To What The Man Said. Happily). What remained, however, was some of his finest work. Let Me Roll It especially is outstanding. As Beatles tradition demanded it, this album had to include one drippy number which all the serious fans would hate but which their girlfriends would love. Hence the inclusion of My Love (which I rather like myself, being a big girl’s blouse).

John was in a dark mood: Nobody Loves You When You’re Down And Out is Lennon mired in self pity, gloriously so. But Mind Games is utterly gorgeous – almost a soul song — and rarely did Lennon write something as wistfully sweet as #9 Dream.

George may be under-represented here, but his tracks here are very good. With poetic justice, the often under-appreciated Harrison would boss the final Beatles album, released after John’s death, which I will post next week. As always, this mix should fit on a standard CD-R

Side 1
1. Band On The Run (Paul McCartney)
2. What You Got (John Lennon)
3. I’m The Greatest (Ringo Starr)
4. Mind Games (John Lennon)
5. Let Me Roll It (Paul McCartney)

Side 2
6. Give Me Love (George Harrison)
7. #9 Dream (John Lennon)
8. You (George Harrison)
9. Photograph (Ringo Starr)
10.Jet (Paul McCartney)

Side 3
11. Little Lamb Dragonfly (Paul McCartney)
12. Nobody Loves You When You’re Down (John Lennon)
13. One Day At A Time (John Lennon)
14. My Love (Paul McCartney)

Side 4
15. Letting Go (Paul McCartney)
16. Dark Horse (George Harrison)
17. All By Myself (Ringo Starr)
18. Junior’s Farm (Paul McCartney)
19. Whatever Gets You Thru’ The Night (John Lennon)

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Suspend your disbelief. Imagine, if you will, that the harmonious recording of the Abbey Road album had served to reignite the amity between the four Beatles. Linda and Yoko became firm friends; George was finally accepted as an equal; Ringo was delighted with all of this and decided that being a Beatle was better than being famous for having been one. Apple Inc. was running well, and a manager in shining armour appeared on the scene.

For the purpose of this scenario, we acknowledge that the various members had solo aspirations (George and John had already issued solo albums before the release of Let It Be in 1970, Paul released one a week after announcing the Beatles’ disbandment). To accommodate these, the four decided that the band would take off two years, and in 1972 re-assembled to record an album together. By now, John had given peace a chance and from the backseat of his chauffeur-driven white Rolls imagined all the people having no possessions, Macca had given Ireland back to the Irish, and George had recycled the music of early ‘60s girlbands. Even Ringo had recorded an album of standards, presaging the strategy of young-and-upcoming Rod Stewart by three decades. Paul was especially touched by John’s thoughtful song wishing for a resolution to his old friend’s insomnia problems. And so the Fab Four brought into the studio the songs they had accumulated for their 13th album. They would release two more albums, in 1976 and shortly after John’s death in 1980.

So here is the first of three mixes which suppose how Beatles albums released in the 1970s might have sounded; this compilation pseudo-dated December 1972. One of these songs might in fact have become a real Beatles track: Lennon’s Jealous Guy had been written for the White Album, but with different lyrics. Originally called Child Of Nature, Lennon continued to play it during the sessions which resulted in the Let It Be album (known as the Get Back sessions). Eventually he dumped the flower-child lyrics, wrote the self-flagellating ode which we know today, and released it on Imagine in 1971.

Of course, not all tracks sound like Beatles songs as we know them. Hi Hi Hi, which opens this compilation but was the last to be released before the cut-off date, certainly has the Wings sound. As we reunite the Beatles in our imagination, we must allow for musical growth and changing sounds. It’s easy to forget that only two years passed between With The Beatles and Rubber Soul, and also just two years between Help and Sgt Pepper’s. And yet, it’s easy to conceive of Lennon’s Crippled Inside, Harrison’s What Is Life or McCartney’s excellent Maybe I’m Amazed appearing on, say, the White Album.

As always, this mix is timed to fit on a standard CD-R. The next two mixes will; go up over the coming couple of weeks.

TRACKLISTING:
1. Hi Hi Hi (Paul McCartney)
2. Instant Karma (John Lennon)
3. Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey (Paul McCartney)
4. What Is Life (George Harrison)
5. Jealous Guy (John Lennon)
6. Another Day (Paul McCartney)
7. Love (John Lennon)
8. It Don’t Come Easy (Ringo Starr)
9. Maybe I’m Amazed (Paul McCartney)
10. Ballad Of Sir Frankie Crisp (George Harrison)
11. Working Class Hero ((John Lennon)
12. Mother (John Lennon)
13. If Not For You (George Harrison)
14. The Back Seat Of My Car (Paul McCartney)
15. Crippled Inside (John Lennon)
16. Oh My Love (John Lennon)
17. Isn’t It A Pity (George Harrison)
18. Gimme Some Truth (John Lennon)
19. Wild Life (Paul McCartney)
20. Back Off Bugaloo (Ringo Starr)

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