My Pop Life #105 : Come Rain Or Come Shine – Ray Charles

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Come Rain Or Come Shine   –   Ray Charles

…days may be cloudy or sunny….

….we’re in or we’re out of the money…

I first heard this song on my wedding day, 23 years ago July 25th 1992.   Dear Ken Cranham (who has graced these pages before) made Jenny and I a ‘wedding tape’ which we played at home after the church ceremony in Holy Joe’s, Highgate Hill (St Joseph’s) and reception afterwards in Lauderdale House, Waterlow Park (next door).   I actually carried Jenny over the threshhold of 153 Archway Road N6  like you’re supposed to, much to the amusement of the two ladies opposite who ran the sweet shop who waved at us, beaming.   I smiled.   I didn’t have a free hand as I recall.    Jenny waved – she was still in her golden frou-frou wedding dress and we were both drunk on champagne and love and words and Chopin and wedding cake and delirious happiness abounded.  There was a huge reception in the evening at the Diorama, and dear gorgeous departed friend Neil Cooper was sorting that side of things, so we had a few hours to change and feed the cats etc.   Ken’s cassette (of course) had a wonderful selection of wedding songs and love songs which will be forever associated with the day, and I’ve done similar tributes on CD, paying that moment forward to other couples about to get hitched.  Nothing more glorious than a wedding playlist, and no better party than a wedding party.  Please, whoever is reading this, invite Jenny and I to your wedding !

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Ray Charles was always there somehow.  I must have heard Hit The Road Jack on the radio in 1961 when I was 4 yrs old, living in Portsmouth, & the Hoagy Carmichael evergreen Georgia seems to be made of earth and stone it feels like it has been around forever.   The other big hit from the early 1960s was I Can’t Stop Loving You off the LP Modern Sounds In Country and Western Music, syrupy choir singing backing vocals, smooth like chocolate sauce, it’s almost too sweet.  But not quite.   But it was lounge music to me as I became sentient.   I would have to grow up a bit and grow some ears before I understood the genius of Ray Charles.

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Like Frank Sinatra or Elvis, he is a giant of music and in particular of interpretation and arranging of other people’s songs.   Not to say he didn’t write music – he did – unlike Elvis or Frank,  Ray Charles wrote plenty of music including some stone-cold red-hot classics :  I Got A Woman, Hallelujah I Love Her So, A Fool For You and the monster What’d I Say, which may or may not have been improvised live (as the film Ray would have it).   It’s difficult to encapsulate the full breadth of his work in one blog, so I won’t even try.  But if a martian were to land in my room today and say “One artist will represent pop music” it would have to be Ray Charles.  He’s played every kind of music from blues and jazz to soul (which he invented some say) gospel and country, big band and ballad to funk and pop.  It’s the phrasing in the end which is so astonishing – the phrasing and the arrangements are impeccable rhythmically, melodically, all delivered with taste, groove and soul.  Plenty of imitators, but only one Ray Charles.

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When I was going through my soul education period in 1978-9 (see My Pop Life #98 for example) I bought a large box set called Atlantic Rhythm & Blues 1947-1974.  It remains “the answers” for anyone seeking to understand American music of the 20th century.   I guess it’s a CD box set now – I have five double LPs squished into a box.  It sounds like a lot – but it’s actually a surface skim of a huge period of artists and tunes, from race-music and blues 78s through R&B, soul, Stax/Volt right up to Roberta Flack.

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Ray turns up on Side Two and Three and Four with classics including I Got A Woman, the mighty Mess Around and the searing genius of Drown In My Own Tears which so many great artists have covered.  I had hit a golden seam of fantastic music and next I bought a triple LP box called The Birth Of Soul  now available on CD :

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which covered the same period as Sides 2,3 & 4 of the Atlantic collection but also had all the other songs they missed out – so many favourites but I’ll briefly mention What Kind Of Man Are You? which features one of the Rae-Lettes miss Mary-Ann Fisher on lead vocals, and which was a highlight of  the film Ray.  The story about the Rae-lettes is that they all had to Let Ray or they’d be out of the band.  The line-up changed frequently.

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 left to right : Gwen Berry, Merry Clayton, Clydie King, Alex Brown

Next I purchased Modern Sounds In Country & Western Music from 1964 – the smooth silky sound which includes the heartbreaker You Don’t Know Me, one of my all-time favourite songs,  Ken then turned me onto Ray Charles & Betty Carter (1961) which is a completely fantastic LP –

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Betty Carter is a wonderful jazz vocalist with sensational phrasing too and together they did the ultimate versions of quite a few songs including Baby It’s Cold Outside and Alone Together.    Then there was What’d I Say (1959) – pure R&B grooves, and Genius + Soul = Jazz (1961 again!) an instrumental big band jazz LP.  And then I probably sat down and patted myself on the back for buying loads of Ray Charles albums whom by now I completely adored.  But you see the thing with Ray is, he keeps on coming.  He was clearly prolific, just looking at what came out of 1961 for example it’s almost impolite how much music was produced.

Featured imageSo then came the wedding tape in 1992 and there was Come Rain Or Come Shine.   What a beautiful song.  The muted trumpets at the beginning are so romantic and late-night New York nightclub.   Lyrically it reminds me loosely of the wedding vows themselves which I guess is why it works as a wedding song.  And then there’s that middle eight :

I guess, when you met me
It was just one of those things
But don’t ever bet me
‘Cause I’m gonna be true, girl if you let me…

Pictured : composer Harold Arlen

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Johnny Mercer, lyricist extraordinaire

Written by the wonderful Johnny Mercer with music by ‘Over The Rainbow‘ composer Harold Arlen in 1946, it became a jazz standard almost immediately and has been covered by many artists both vocal and instrumental including Billie Holiday, Judy Garland, James Brown, Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald.   I can’t imagine any of them being better than this version though.   Although I can be wrong tha’ knows.Featured image

Come Rain or Come Shine appeared on an LP from 1959 called The Genius Of Ray Charles where he takes a stroll through the Great American Songbook and sings Sammy Kahn, Irving Berlin, Hank Snow (!) and others, stretching out from his R&B and gospel roots.  He would continue to stretch until he passed away.  There is still so much to discover – I recently heard his take on The Beach Boys’ Sail On Sailor and it was – like his Eleanor Rigby – a revelation.  Yes he was a musical genius.   Once you’ve heard him sing a song, his phrasing feels like The Way to Sing It.   Elvis and Frank also have this gift, yes it’s true.   As do others.  Ray Charles always felt to me like one of those bedrock people in music, you know when people talk about standing on the shoulders of giants, he is one of those giants. He may be the giantest giant.

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One of the Brighton Beach Boys felt the same way as me about Ray – notably Rory Cameron, now moved away from Brighton (as have I) – he would enthuse regularly on his timing and impeccable choices.

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I chose this song today because last night I was sitting alone in the local pub here in Prague, The James Joyce, nursing my third vodka and tonic, and thinking about my wedding anniversary, which was yesterday, and all the lovely Facebook family and others who took time to send Jenny and I love on our day of love.  And then this song came on.

My Pop Life #44 : Autumn Almanac – The Kinks

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Autumn Almanac   –   The Kinks

From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar
When the dawn begins to crack, it’s all part of my autumn almanac…

This is one of those quintessentially English songs which represents, along with a handful of other tunes, the peak of the 45rpm single format.   Ray Davies, the songwriter, formed The Kinks with his brother Dave Davies, Mick Avory and Pete Quaife in Muswell Hill, North London in 1963 and went on to grace the radio airwaves and the pop charts with stunning regularity throughout the 1960s.   I always think of my childhood which spanned that decade as being breast-fed by The Beatles (although in reality that would have been Elvis and Chuck Berry) and weaned on The Kinks and The Rolling Stones.   There were others of course, Tamla Motown, The Beach Boys and The Who, but The Kinks occupy a special position in my museum of recollections for their mini-dramas of life as it was lived in 1960s Britain.  Ray Davies’ unerring eye for detail and the times gave him a palette of realism which, laced with a few poetic grace notes, makes the run of singles from You Really Got Me through to Lola pretty much unequalled in British songwriting.

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Autumn Almanac is a pinnacle of songwriting for me partly because of the lyrics – “I like my football on a Saturday, roast beef on Sunday – all right” and partly because of the actual structure of the song :   verse, chorus, verse, chorus, middle eight, wordless verse, chorus, wordless verse, chorus, further middle eight, and then yet another (unprecendented) middle eight, final chorus and finale.  I can’t think of another song that does this – even A Day In The Life which is two songs stitched cleverly together, or even the great Paul Simon compositions (My Little Town) from the early 70s still don’t get anywhere near this kind of boldness.

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As our narrator sweeps leaves into the sack he ruminates on his life : football, roast beef, toasted buttered currant buns, which “help to compensate for lack of sun, cos the sun has all gone”, with Ray singing the last word in Cockney as “gawn” which pokes fun at and yet celebrates the music hall roots of his genius.   As he talks about football and roast beef, and Blackpool holidays and sitting in the sunlight Ray’s voice becomes like a character, a trick he would use on a regular basis (Dedicated Follower Of Fashion, Apeman) but just when you think he’s taking the mickey, wham,  here comes his real voice and a brass band, getting properly wistful as we reach the third middle eight which evokes the glory of community, of the simple connected life we all desire :

…this is my street, and I’m never gonna leave it 

and I’m always gonna stay, if I live to be ninety nine

cos all the people I meet,

seem to come from my street 

and I can’t get away,

because it’s calling me

“come on home”…

The French horns return to both lament and fanfare this moment which is then somewhat undercut by the last raucous chorus which comes across almost as a drunken pub song, and the Beach Boys-esque outro bap-bap-bap ooh has Ray speaking ‘Yes‘ in a confident affirmation as it fades.   It is a major achievement in popular song, inspired apparently by a hunchbacked old gardener Ray had seen in a local churchyard.   Romantic with a capital R – yes, file alongside Penny Lane and Lazy Sunday as slices of pop life in Britain in the late 60s, beautifully realised.

Autumn Almanac was released in October 1967 on the Pye label and reached Number 5 on the charts.   I was ten years old, in my final year at Selmeston Village School and living with my Mum and two brothers Paul and Andrew.  Dad had left the previous year.  There had been a divorce.   This felt somewhat shameful, but we saw him every weekend, and we were kids – you know, we just got on with it.   The television had been moved into the main living room.  We’d bought another corgi (Bessie) after Raq, the previous corgi, had bitten Andrew when he was 18 months old.   Raq had been given away.  Then, when it was too late, I found a long white dog whisker in the corner where the bite had taken place !  Andrew had pulled Raq’s whisker out and got a bite for his trouble.  This shocking revelation inspired the purchase of Bessie who was a very sweet dog.   We watched Top Of The Pops religiously, waiting for our favourites, patiently sitting through Engelbert Humperdinck  – or maybe not  –  no indeed, at ten years old I wouldn’t have had favourites particularly, or people (like Cliff Richard) whom I didn’t like.  They would all have been fine.   I’m projecting back from the mid-70s when I was a “discerning teenager” with plenty of attitude and only three bands I liked.  No at ten I would sit and enjoy all music.  All TV.  Crackerjack.  Star Trek.  Thunderbirds.  Do Not Adjust Your Set.   The Magic Roundabout.  Tin-Tin.   Vision On.  Johnny Morris.

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And conkers.  There was a large horse-chestnut tree near the village churchyard and another one further up the road.  We harvested bags of conkers and selected the biggest, the best to skewer, string up and take to school.  Deadly serious competitions would ensue – one hit each – knuckles would get banged, a winner would splatter the weak conker into pieces leaving a pathetic piece of string dangling, and your winner would become a One-er.  One of my conkers got up to be a fourteen-er before the effects of constant combat weakened its sinews and it was shattered – the victorious conker would of course inherit all 14 wins – plus one.   Did some kids vinegar their conkers?  Other tactics were discussed for hardening, and techniques for the hit, from the side, from the top…

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Sometimes these competitions would end in a fight.  David Bristow liked to fight.  So did I.  We fought a lot, David and I.   David got nosebleeds easily, and fight would normally end with knees straddling upper arms, pinning down your opponent and calling for submission.   David’s trick, after I punched him in the nose and caused it to bleed, would be to pin me down on the grass, kneel on my arms, and drip blood into my face.   There would always be a gang of boys watching, the usual suspects.   And sometimes a teacher would intervene – but not often.   There were only two teachers at the school, Miss Cox for the young ‘uns and Miss Lamb for the older ones.  So break times were football and fights, or Graham Sutton would somehow have enough money for a bag of crisps and he would stand there nonchalantly eating them, one at a time, until you were forced to beg  “Can I have a crisp please Sut?”  His shoes were polished and his jumper was green and knitted.   “People who ask don’t get” he said, lifting another crisp into his mouth.    He was popular at primary school.   The football pitch had a sand pit in the middle of it – a perfect square.   We just played round it.   One day we thought we saw The Beatles walking past the school fence, in the field, with Jane Asher, not all of them, just Paul and John and Jane and someone else.   Excitement shuddered through the school.   I’ve often thought about that moment.   It can’t have been them though.

But it was.

My Pop Life #43 : Finlandia – Jean Sibelius

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Finlandia   –   Jean Sibelius

1964.   We are in our new house.   Perched above the village road behind a thick privet hedge, but we can see the farm opposite, the farmhouse, the barns, the fields beyond.   We can smell the farm opposite.   There’s a sloping narrow path up from the road to our gate.   A large garden.   Two trees.  A large vegetable garden which my dad dug and dug, and where we buried Caesar the large tabby cat I’d owned since I was 1 year old.  He was wrapped in a pillowcase.   My dad dug his grave too.    A back lawn, with another privet hedge, and a gate leading out onto an endless sheep field.  Beyond that, the Manor House.   Sherrington Manor.  They owned our house.    They owned most of the village.   Selmeston.   East Sussex.   The Lewes-Eastbourne A27 at one end, the Lewes-Eastbourne train level-crossing at the other.  One mile long.  About 200 people I calculated one day, including the vicar, the farmer, the Catchloves, the Whitakers, the Criddles, the Bristows, the Colemans, Miss Lamb at the village schoolhouse, Gilda who looked after Paul when things went wrong, Geraldine next door who was Italian and mentioned shopping in “Marks Expensive”, the Spillers at the top of the road on the other side of the A27 and whose daughter Valerie Spiller was my first crush aged about nine.  They were brown-coloured maybe Indian but nobody ever mentioned it.  I hugged my pillow imagining it was her.  Funny feeling in my tummy.  At least I thought it was my tummy.

I would walk to school every day – the village school up near the main road, the pub the Barley Mow, the only shop, the mini-petrol station.   Across the road from the school was the cricket pitch, an acre they said, so you could see what an acre looked like.  It was big.   Sometimes we’d have our breaktime in the cricket field and Midge Millward whose mum was the school cook would tell dirty jokes to us younger ones.  Probably Rastus & Liza.  “I’m fucking dis custard” etc.   I laughed dutifully because of the word “fuck”without knowing what was going on.  Steve ‘Eggy’ Burton and his younger brother Chrissy Burton, Stephen Criddle, David Bristow, Graham Sutton the postman’s son, Mick Spiller and me and my brother Paul.  There were 30 kids in the village school, aged between 5 and 11.   Some of them came from Berwick, or Firle, Chalvington or Alciston.

At home we had a black and white TV which my dad didn’t really approve of, but the kids (Paul and I) were growing and presumably becoming a handful.   Andrew arrived in May after a long labour and a fight with the nurse over gas and air.   Mum would later claim that she had too much.    I remember fights over the TV between Mum and Dad.   I remember him coming into ‘the front room’ where the TV was put (so that it wasn’t in the family room ?!), and switching it off, and Paul, Mum and I skulking out in disgruntlement.   But he never switched off the record player.   Or should I say “the gramaphone”.

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We had a wind-up turntable on a box with a speaker which would fold up and down inside the lid, a corner compartment for needles – about 1/2 inch long – big buggers.   It was my first experience with handling music – or possibly my second because I cannot discount picking up a recorder at the village school and being taught the simple fingering, following the dots on ‘Men Of Harlech’.   But there is a huge difference between playing music and being a disc jockey as any fule kno.   The records were in the lid, which I think means that it was a portable gramaphone, but I may have misremembered that.   They were heavy shellac 78rpm discs and there were three of them.   Three.   One was Chicken Licken.  One I cannot remember.  And one was Finlandia.

I always connect Finlandia with my father.  I’m sure it was his record.  I don’t know where he bought it, or how long he’d had it, or whether it came with the gramaphone, or phonograph.  Maybe there were other 78s in the house, but I don’t remember them.  I remember three.   The unknown one may come back via my dad or my brothers or my mother, all still happily alive and one day perhaps to read this account.   But for now we’ll focus on Finlandia.  Oh – but first, of course, Chicken Licken.

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The story is of a chicken who has an acorn fall on his head.  He thinks the sky is falling in and runs through the village yelling at everyone that the sky is falling.   Henny Penny ?  Is that a character?  I can’t remember the rest but we played this story – on a 78rpm record – over and over again, winding the turntable, changing the needle for no good reason because we could and had learned how to do it, playing it fast in squeaky voices, playing it slow in underwater voices.

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Finlandia was a different matter altogether.  It was a short classical tone poem, though aged six, seven it was just noise to me, music, horns, violins.  No words.  It was written in 1899 by Jean Sibelius and was part of the Finnish nationalist resistance surge against Russia during that period.  The opening is very energised and expressive with full horn stabs and sudden silences.  Then the timpanis start to thunder and roll.  It is hugely dramatic, then the violins start to swirl and sweep and we get another surge of excitement and a part of a melody.  Again all is excitement and energy, passion and pride.   After about 4 minutes there’s a moment of pause and we are hearing a different tempo, a different hopeful moment, this is how the piece resolves, known as the Finlandia Hymn.  It’s not quite the Finnish National Anthem, but it’s their main tune.   I guess it is their Jerusalem.  It will always remind me of my father, whom I have to acknowledge as a profound influence on my life, both musical and otherwise.   When I think of him now in 1964 I see him as a young man with glasses and a receding hairline, fresh from Cambridge and moving his young family from Portsmouth, where he grew up, to East Sussex, where I grew up.   He was the only boy in a family of five, all sisters older than him.  His dad was a batman in the Royal Navy, the lowest rank, and they lived in a small terraced house in Fratton quite near the football ground.  My dad – John – was bright and passed the eleven plus, winning a scholarship to Portsmouth Grammar.  Again, although a working-class kid, he took the Cambridge entrance exam and passed, becoming one of the tiny intake of worker’s kids in Downing College 1955.   I understand that he hated his first year, or maybe just missed my mum, whom he’d started walking out with as a teenager (after briefly dating her sister Valerie).   At any rate that summer he was married to Heather my mum and they went back to Cambridge together for his 2nd year.   I think my Mum hated it there even more than he ever could.  My dad and his friends talked of D.H. Lawrence and T.S. Eliot and didn’t really include her in the conversation.  I was born in Cambridge in June 1957.

When I think of my parents now I think of them as young people and marvel.   I don’t judge them, I just see them in their lives, making decisions, trying to do the best they can.  I’ve spent so much of my lifetime in recrimination, trying to understand what went wrong, why my family was dysfunctional, who, in particular, was to blame, to unload all the pain onto.  Well it turns out that every family is dysfunctional, and some far far more so than mine.   I’ve put down my cross, the one I carried all those years, Lay Down Burden.   Now I’m just trying to remember everything and write it down before it’s my turn to lay down.    Not to say that there hasn’t been pain, upset, wrenching sadness and loneliness.   But just to say that I’m just another human being in the end.

This is a wonderful recording of Finlandia conducted by Leonard Bernstein appropriately enough in 1965.

My Pop Life #35 : Right Said Fred – Bernard Cribbins

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Right Said Fred   –   Bernard Cribbins

…Charlie had a think and he thought we ought to take off all the ‘andles, and the things what held the candles;  but it did no good, well I never thought it would…

All right said Fred, have to take the door off, need more space to shift the so-and-so.  Took the wall down, even with it all down we was getting nowhere and

so

we

had a cuppa tea

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The song is genius.  I must have first heard it sometime in 1962, when it came out, and then every year after that.  It was played on the radio a lot, and particularly on the Children’s Favourites Radio 1 Saturday morning show which was DJ’d by Ed “Stewpot” Stuart from 1968 to 1980.   I think it was called Junior Choice and it played pretty much the same selection of songs every week – at least that’s my not-to-be-trusted memory.  They were mostly comedy gold, like this song, which concerns 3 gentlemen trying to remove a large piano (although it’s never acknowledged as a piano) from an upstairs room in a small house.   They do not succeed, but drink a lot of tea.   It has a marvellous selection of sound effects as the piano and the house are slowly demolished, and a particularly enjoyable spring sound, like a kind of musical punchline punctuation.  Not used enough in music that spring.  Written by Ted Dicks and Myles Rudge, and performed with gentle comedic charm and wit by the great Bernard Cribbins, it is my very favourite ‘novelty song’.   Saturday morning we heard them all – ‘My Brother’, ‘Three Wheels On My Wagon’, ‘Nellie The Elephant’, ‘The Runaway Train’, ‘Puff The Magic Dragon’, ‘The Ugly Bug Ball’.    Charlie Drake, The New Christy Minstrels, Mandy Miller, Mike Holiday, Peter, Paul & Mary, Burl Ives.   What a treasury!   Tommy Steele – Little White Bull, and of course Rolf Harris who was molesting children for most of his career as it was revealed in a childhood-shattering court case last year.  Now filed alongside Saville and Glitter – those who abused their fame and their access to fans for decades.  Featured image

But Rolf can’t tarnish my Children’s Favourites LP.  I bought it when I was in my late 30s, nostalgic for those clever songs whose lyrics I knew off by heart even after all these years.  Later in the 1970s came The Wombles, brilliantly narrated by Bernard Cribbins with musical accompaniment by Mike Batt, in between were TV favourites The Magic Roundabout, Crackerjack, Hergé’s Adventures Of TinTin, Thunderbirds, Star Trek, an embarrassment of riches :  one day I’ll write something about Do Not Adjust Your Set which had the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band playing every week.

Thank you for indulging a Junior’s Choice.  Makes me smile every time.   Time for a cuppa tea.

My Pop Life #28 : Too Far Gone – Bobby Bland

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Too Far Gone   –   Bobby Bland

…my friends, they console me, they say go out and find someone new…

It’s 1981.   I’m all but recovered from Hepatitus B, although I’m still not drinking.   When my liver finally recovers I’ll be a cheap night out.   My vinyl-buying habits haven’t subsided though, and I can be found flicking through bins in Soho, Camden Town Record & Tape Exchange or Notting Hill.   I actually scored a job at the Notting Hill Record and Tape Exchange – it’s in my collection of short-lived futile jobs.

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On day one the manager  (who was like a bitter incarnation of Alan Rickman), asked me what music I liked.  It was a trick question of course.   I think I answered “Roxy Music” and possibly “David Bowie” : being an honest kind of chap and not prone to pretending I was cool – much.   He sneered in derision.  “How about you?” I asked.   “No rock music,”  he deigned to answer but didn’t offer anything else.   Wow what a twat.    Gave me a box of records to put into the bins.    They were unsorted – and I was expected to know what they all were.  I think most of them were jazz, and placed them (in alphabetical order) in the various jazz bins.   By the end of the shift I was asked not to come back tomorrow.   So much for access to cheap vinyl….

My appetite was wide and deep – I was up for anything new.  So when I found Bobby Bland smiling at me from the ‘blues’ bin I chose him.

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I knew nothing about him, or his music, but felt that as a music lover, I ‘ought’ to know about the blues.   It’s been a part of my musical journey this self-taught encyclopaedic approach and it has taken me up many delicious backwaters, and into plenty of powerful running rivers too.    A lucky dip is a fun way to collect music too.  I rarely really hate anything I’ve bought like this, but sometimes stuff gets returned, for a fifth of what I bought it for,  that’s just how the 2nd-hand music market works.   I’ll happily hand over 10 CDs now that I don’t need any longer and buy two “new” ones with the proceeds.    But this was vinyl day, and each new slice was lovingly wiped clean, placed onto the turntable and the needle gently brought down onto the black shiny spinning groove.

If you don’t know Bobby “Blue” Bland – he is an astounding singer of the blues, with a deep and profoundly emotional voice.  Bobby was brought up in Tennessee, never went to school, and got his breaks in Memphis alongside B.B. King – he was one of the Beale Street blues boys.  (BB means blue boy King, and Bobby’s nickname was Blue)  and he recorded a great live LP with B.B. King too.   I never saw him live, although I did see B.B. King at Hammersmith.   Bobby Bland’s big hits were Cry Cry Cry, I Pity The Fool and Stormy Monday, later he hit home with Ain’t No Love In The Heart Of The City but the tune which caught my ear & my heart & my soul was called Too Far Gone, which was the final song on the LP.    Many years later, I tried to track this song down and discovered an LP called Get On Down which Bobby had made in 1975 – a collection of country music songs from Nashville…

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Too Far Gone was written by Billy Sherrill for Tammy Wynette, and many others have covered it, notably Elvis Costello and Emmylou Harris.  This blues version though, is astounding.   I love how the different parts of the band join in one at a time.   It’s a simple trick, but never done with such aplomb.   First the rolling piano, then the off beat catches the rich warm voice, the strings join in, are we in country honky-tonk or Nashville – then the horns sweep majestically into the equation bringing Memphis back to the fore, the backing singers join us for some oohs, then the harmonica adds a blues harp twang before the mighty chorus, key change and finale, and we’re done.  No middle eight, no more verses just a mighty last growl from Bobby before the end.  I still find this song completely perfect, and it would always be in any mythical top-ten I may have to produce in pop-favourite-land.   Not bad for a lucky-dip.

Around this time I visited previous flat-mate Nick Partridge (from West End Lane Pete and Sali’s place) as he was now living on a house-boat in Amsterdam, and running a blues show on the radio there.   Or maybe I’ll leave that story for another song….

Many years later I would include this tune on a cassette tape I made for my new love, Jenny Jules, a C90 that I imaginatively called “The Soul Tape”.  (See My Pop Life #29)

My Pop Life #27 : Concerto in F (allegro) – Gershwin

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Concerto In F  (Allegro)   –   Gershwin

Music has given me many perfect moments in my life.   At concerts, on trains, in cars, in rehearsal, even on stage.  Often through headphones.   I just had a perfect moment on my front door stoop in Brooklyn on ipod shuffle.   A positive rush of joy where the music – Gershwin’s Concerto in F – matched my thoughts and feelings precisely in a rush of connection.

We all know Rhapsody In Blue.   Manhattan.   Used as the soundtrack to Woody Allen’s film.   But had been the soundtrack of the city since 1924.   The brilliant use of jazz in a classical score has not been bettered, except perhaps by Miles Davis’ Sketches Of Spain.   It has an amazing section two thirds of the way through which Brian Wilson transposed into a vocal opening for his “Gershwin” LP a few years ago.  I’ve toyed with getting those four bars of music tattooed onto my left arm, below the butterfly, the Jenny symbol and Chester’s pawprint.   It’s an iconic piece of music.   I’ve seen it live in concert, at the Dome in Brighton, and seen that great musician Leonard Bernstein conduct it in New York, on youtube of course.   But this piece is less well-known, certainly by me.   Due diligence reveals that it was written a year after Rhapsody In Blue premiered, in 1925.   It’s more classical in form than the more famous piece, but has echoes of it nonetheless.   My “well-trained ear” (this is a joke) immediately finds astonishing beauty in it.

Today was a bit nothing.   Cold and rainy, I went out at five to try and make something happen – maybe buy a chest of drawers, get the dry cleaning delivered because it’s too heavy to carry down the road, buy some of Jenny’s favourite beer Negro Modela.   All failures.  I did manage to buy cheese eggs and milk at Trader Joe’s.   Jenny was on a long Facetime.   When she came off it she cooked us both an amazing stew.   We don’t cook much, so it was a treat.   I helped a couple of young people make a connection in “this business we call show”, and was rewarded by a Twitter follower explaining to me how I could embed videos onto this blog.   What goes around comes around said Leonard Kravitz.   I had some puff, went downstairs onto the stoop for a Benson & Hedges with my ipod on, and this slice of unknown New York music came on random shuffle.   It was beautiful.   Life is good suddenly.

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It wouldn’t be my pop life without random shuffle now would it?   As serenity flowed through me (mingling with the pleasant effects of marijuana) I felt lucky, satisfied and happy with myself.   It’s been a bad day but it can end well even so.   Fleeting moments of joy that I welcome and hold close for a second.   Then decide to write it down.  My Pop Life.   It’s almost live.

My Pop Life #25 : There There My Dear – Dexys Midnight Runners

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There There My Dear   –   Dexys Midnight Runners

…you know the only way to change things is to shoot men who arrange things…

In the summer of 1980 I had what remained of my tail firmly between my legs and I was licking my wounds.  The trip to Latin America with brother Paul had foundered in Mexico where I’d contracted hepatitus B and been rushed back to Coppett’s Wood tropical diseases hospital for a couple of weeks.  I was weak as a kitten, couldn’t drink for a year, and had to start thinking about getting a job (over and above my Saturday all-nighter at the Scala coffeebar).  Mumtaz, whom I had left to go on a hitch-hiking year off with Paul, had gracefully welcomed me back into her attic flat in Finsbury Park. I was 23 years old.

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“Seen quite a bit in my 23 years” sings Kevin Rowland on track 2 of Dexys first LP “Searching For The Young Soul Rebels”, a record which blasted into my ears that summer and blew (almost) everything else out of the water.   It had bags of attitude and swagger, it had a manifesto, but most of all it had soul.   English white kids from Birmingham playing soul.   Legend has it that Kevin Rowland walked into the first rehearsal of Dexys with a box of Stax singles and announced “We’re doing music like this”.   But listening to that 1st LP there’s loads more than Stax influences – there’s Jackie Wilson, Motown, the Bar-Kays, Northern Soul.   Since I’d spent the previous three years cramming a PhD in soul music (to make up for my teenage pop youth) I was ready to play my part as a disciple of Dexys and spread the word – not that they needed me – the NME and the nation were already enamoured.   I’d bought the first single Dance Stance the year before, and helped Geno to get to number one in the spring (B-side: Breaking Down The Walls Of Heartache a cover of Johnny Johnson & The Bandwagon !!).   I think my first Dexys gig was in the National Ballroom in Kilburn, appropriate for their Irish/Celtic roots.   But did I see them support The Specials?  Is that where I discovered them in fact??  Sometimes I simply cannot remember critical details of these formative years.

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They were absolutely brilliant live, real power and passion.   Of course I loved the horn section and spent hours playing along with the album on my ancient alto sax.   I’d always wanted to be in a horn section – playing chords, harmonies with other brass players.   I was particularly fond of “Keep It”.   They actually did manage to do that Stax sound – Booker T & the MGs with the Memphis Horns.    I’m less convinced that Kevin had the vocal chops of the soul greats, but he certainly committed to it heart and soul, and more importantly he sounded like he meant it.

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It’s hard to remember now, how much that mattered in those days, as punk morphed into Two-Tone and battles with the NF, Rock against Racism, and “whose side you were on” felt like your daily bread – those early Thatcher years were full of aggro and passion, maybe it was just me but the times were intense.   Live and onstage Kevin demanded attention and respect.   Watching him sing “Respect” live was an exercise in faith, he would end up writhing on the floor whooping and squealing and I would feel equal amounts of embarrassment and admiration.    He would continue to make a career out of this strange dialectic, even today he stretches what is acceptable in a musical context beyond what is simply cool, out to the edge of reason.    But these were early days when he wanted to be a soul singer.   And he was a white boy, my age.   Christ I wanted to be in that band.   Lyrical interlude : “Holed up in white Harlem, your conscience and you…”   Those early gigs were a riot.   Wilfully antagonistic toward the audience, we were used to it old punks that we were, there was an atmosphere of danger, aggression, risk in the air.  But most gigs in those days felt like that.   The band were tight as anyone I’ve ever seen.    Pete Williams, Al Archer, Big Jimmy Patterson on the trombone.  The Teams That Meet In Caffs.   They were formed with gang membership in mind, a ready-made pop subculture.    That’s just how it used to be.    They would go on to have different line-ups, different instruments and their biggest hit as a bunch of raggle-taggle pseudo- Irish punks with ‘Come On Eileen’ and weddings thereafter would never be the same, but for me the first LP is still an astonishing listen.    Maybe you should welcome the new soul vision.

As a footnote I have to mention that Kevin Rowland moved to Brighton around the same time as us in the late 90s and we spoke on a number of occasions at parties and so on.  He was a gentleman and a scholar, softly-spoken and funny.  He moved to Shoreditch around 2005 “because Brighton was getting too cool”.

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