16 November 2007
Having discovered that the rights to my early major-label recordings have reverted back to me, I have been pondering what to do about it - to exploit or suppress once and for all. The songs I wrote and recorded as a priapic poseur more than twenty years ago could at best be described as uneven. It’s not that what I’ve done since has been uniformly good either, and the future is almost certainly strewn with banana skins and custard pies ( the very near future actually), however, the early stuff
Is ‘approach with caution.’
My first two albums were massive budget, shareholders’ nightmares, recorded at Electric Ladyland Studio in New York – when I was still based in England, and at Air Studios in London - when I’d moved to New York. I would have had to sell millions just to recoup the hotel bills. I had the same backing singers as the Rolling Stones, top of the range session players, a string quartet, and Polygram executives flying in and out to check on progress and swoon at playbacks. Somewhere amongst this perfect boys own rock’n’roll fantasy, there were supposed to be some hit songs – great big smashes that would justify the expense and propel me into the super-league. Well there weren’t. Not one. Not even a sniff. Acid house swept the nation, and a man dressed like Edward Scissorhands, sounding like a prototype Robbie Williams impersonating Alan Vega was surplus to requirements.
When I die, I might have to explain to St Peter, why it was that I developed an American accent. This was all part of the madness. At times I wish I could re-enter the mindset, the insane self-belief that convinced me that in next to no time I would become a global brand, and the sooner I knocked being exclusively English on the head the better. Using American producers who didn’t help matters.
Hey ho – so what to do with these…um…documents? Bin them and hope nobody ever mentions them again…or re-visit the past like a time traveller, post them on i-Tunes and perch upon the village fete ducking stool for any curious late-night drunks to knock me into the water…at 79p a throw. ( Like the consummate whore I am) I’ve plumped for the i-Tunes option. Even though many of the songs are cringe-worthy, there are a few diamonds among the car crashes, and perhaps the odd semi-precious stone… I’d certainly advise you to keep a bucket handy.
Anyway, for anybody with a strong stomach and your mum’s i-Tunes password, you could do worse than downloading my early back catalogue…not sure how much worse though. It’s available from 26th November. There won’t be any more reminders.
16 November 2007
Amongst my assortment of possessions, I have an Ivory pencil case – a gift from the elderly lady who lived next door to me as a child, in recognition for nipping around each evening at twilight to switch the lights on. My daughter has taken a shine to this beautiful cursed object, and has promised to steal it if I don’t relent and give it to her. Bedtime reading took on a surreal edge as she abandoned the story and stated her case, countering every argument I could come up with.
I thought that explaining where Ivory comes from would do the trick. Nope, she knew it already. Apparently elephants are dangerous because they might step on you. The ‘by the time you have children, elephants will be as distant as dinosaurs’ argument fell flat. “ It’s a good thing they’re extinct, otherwise they eat you”. Explaining illegal poaching took us to another realm altogether, involving giant saucepans and hot water.
A potted history of the savage white hunter with his over-sized shorts, fat bottom and pasty legs, strutting into the bush behind his beaters and servants, sneaking up on the majestic beasts of the jungle, then blasting them to bits almost worked – until I over-egged it by mentioning tiger skin rugs and umbrella stands made from elephant legs - her eyes lit up…At least now I’m pleased to see wretched Disney Princess dolls and crap dvds on her Christmas list.
“How would you like it if it suddenly became fashionable for scrubbing brushes to be made from little girls’ arms, and hunters chased you?” She considered this for a moment.
“I’d keep my door shut”.
Exhausted by her argument I told her that if she felt the same way in four years – when she’s ten, she could have it, but I was sure that by then she would feel better disposed towards the animal kingdom, and ashamed for ever having coveted it.
“But that’s why you should give it to me now daddy. I’ll hate it then and I won’t want it.”
16 November 2007
Penny for the Guy?
I am the victim of a hoax – a gullible buffoon, taken in and played by a master of chicanery. A couple of weeks ago, I was accosted in the street by a young man whose face was a bloody mess; somebody had obviously beaten the crap out of him. His eyes were swollen and the bridge of his nose was flattened and oozing an alarming amount of blood. Although drunk, baseball cap wearing, and almost certainly a pain in the arse, even in the innocence of sleep, he commanded the benefit of the doubt, and a degree of sympathy because of the gravity of his injuries – and I’m a sucker for people crying. Needless to say he required money, but this was to get home. Street instinct made me certain that he was a horrible little shit who’d visited this misfortune upon himself - a nuisance who had fallen foul of even nastier people whose shit-patch he’d trespassed onto, but even so – he was quite badly hurt, apparently vulnerable – and just possibly, if he got home in one piece, capable of mending his ways. Some humanity was called for, along with some cash. Luckily, I was returning from the….oh alright then - off-license, and had little left to give. I did offer to drive him to hospital or call the police and wait with him until they arrived. Pathetic as he was, he rejected my Good Samaritan offers and staggered off in search of richer pickings.
A week ago, the same whining voice beseeched me for financial assistance - he’d been in the wars again. Actually, he’d yanked off the money-scab so he could leak some more horrorshow cash-inducing krovvy - I’ve come over all Clockwork Orange I’m afraid. file:///Users/johnmoore/Desktop/A%20Clockwork%20Orange%20-%20Glossary%20of%20NADSAT%20Language.webarchive
I should have given this stinking pretend-leper – weeping like a devotchka, a good tolchock in the yarbles for his troubles, but humanity – and the ever-present fear of a good stabbing stood in the way. He was at it again last night – horrifying passers-by with his cunning stunt and making fools of us all. I don’t know how much he’s making from mutilating his face on a regular basis, or what reality-negating, bum-smuggled panacea he’s frittering his blood money on – although I could make an educated guess.
Perhaps he’s making a fortune, like The Man With The Twisted Lip (a Sherlock Holmes story) and on retirement will hire plastic surgeons to remodel his features at a Swiss clinic before entering the world of legitimate commerce.
As November’s 24/7 blitz bursts above the city’s rooftops and brown-field sites – once referred to as back gardens, I can’t help thinking - If crack could speak…
16 November 2007
I’ve just come back from Trick Or Treating – this is a sentence I never thought I’d write. As the miserable curmudgeon who laid into Ukuleles with such po-faced relish, I ought really to abhor this Uncle Sam-led distortion of our own pagan heritage and cry cultural imperialism – I won’t though, because it was bloody fantastic - I love Rock’n’Roll music and Hotdogs as well, and I’ve never met an American who voted for George W, or his dad.
Obviously I wasn’t on the knock myself, but shepherded my own little hag and her ghoul-pals through a stretch of North-West London in search of occult plunder; and, as Brucie might have said –“Didn’t They Do Well.”
As one of the older parents on duty, I still felt a frisson of shame at letting my child beg from door to door – I was brought up to believe this kind of thing should be held in reserve until absolutely necessary – mind you, if the Christmas single stiffs it will be, and it’s nice to see that she’s already an accomplished door-stepper.
Queen’s Park NW6 was, in estate-agent parlance, ‘an up and coming area, great for families’. On tonight’s evidence it has up and come…but the families are still there – and prospering – although some have turned into monsters. House after house displayed pumpkins in the window – meaning “ We do Halloween, feel free to call”. I had no idea that it was so codified – like pampas grass for swinging-halloweenies. A group of tiny horrors being greeted by grown-up ghouls with baskets of sweets was – in this instance at least, to quote John-Boy Walton – Heartwarming. Only one household – with a lighted pumpkin in the window, gave a sour response. I wished the children had eggs to pelt the dessicated-joyless rot-dwellers with. I reassured them that I would put a curse on this not so yummy-mummy and in five minutes she would explode – which cheered them up.
Crossing roads in the dark with hyper-excited under-eights, dressed like left bank existentialists with fangs and wings is rather daunting. Like a lollipop man from the Astral Plain, I stood in the middle of the road and held up a plastic glow in the dark ghost to halt traffic – it worked brilliantly – Rush hour headlights lit it hideous-green, and the cars stopped to let our diabolical procession pass - I might go on Dragon’s Den to seek funding for next year…I bet I’d get it as well – Which of them would dare not to invest – ‘Duncan, are you saying that you’d like to see kiddies flattened?’
The early evening pillage ended on a wonderfully Graham Greene-esque note.
As I loaded my daughter into the VW Witch Mobile, a stout woman with a set of pipes straight out of Badmington Horse Trials – or is it Witch Trials barked “ Oh, going back to Harlesden now?”
16 November 2007
No Ukes Is Good Ukes
Chances are, if you do not already own one, you soon will – it might even become a legal requirement. Your child is having a Ukulele lesson at school right now, and you’ve probably had to move into another room and shut the door because your partner has just got one and is inflicting Ukelear war on you…and you can’t even march to Aldermaston to protest.
Call me old-old fashioned, but I can’t see what all the fuss is about. I like George Formby, Tiny Tim and Max Miller as much as the next man; and the population taking up a new musical instrument by the thousand ought to be a good thing, but I’m not so sure.
Witnessing loved-ones getting into Ukulele playing is distressing. There is a Children of the Damned like quality about them – as though on hearing a certain chord sequence, they might rise up and march over Beachy Head.
It pains me to say it, but one of the main culprits in this disturbing state of musical affairs is my great friend Tom Hodgkinson. I myself was temporarily press-ganged into the service of his Idler Ukulele Orchestra – albeit playing the saw (a useful musical instrument, tool and if necessary - weapon) but have since vowed to work against them to save my friend. Although there have been Ukulele Orchestras around for years, his evangelical enthusiasm has helped to turn a private pursuit into a national pass time.
What effect will this have on the nation’s songwriters? At present, it seems that most Uke bands stick to ironic cover versions, but what happens when someone writes a song – What if Tom writes a song –Could he be the next George Formby? Will he have a signature model and star in his own films? Be careful, you might have to sit through these on holiday with your children when it rains.
Perhaps I am immune to the charms of the Ukulele, due to a life of playing a proper big old guitar with metal bits, buttons, switches and a bar that makes the strings go wAwaWa. A little frightened that these majestic Jazz Masters, Les Pauls and Country Gentlemen are in danger of being usurped by waspy little lutes played by cheeky chappies and chappesses.
It should be remembered that proper guitars sound nice, look good and are excellent for covering up the lower abdominal section – often referred to as the beer gut. Perhaps the Uke is intended to do the same thing for higher up - a musical bra for man-boobs? This doesn’t explain its popularity with ladies though. Apparently, they are even regarded as sexy instruments - imagine, a child conceived by Ukulele pickers – what chance would it have of ever being able to rock?
Of course those seeking a beacon to lead them from the darkness is not a bad thing. Unfortunately, the Ukulele is not much of a beacon – it’s a damp almost empty box of safety matches in the void of eternity.
Luckily, there is an instrument that can save us. Not quite as portable or easy to play as the Uke, but hailing from a similar sepia-toned past, The Wurlitzer Cinema Organ is the thing to light the way. There are still plenty of them about if you know where to look http://www.atos-london.co.uk/
Recitals are cheap, very cheerful events – unless someone dies. They take place in the afternoon or early evening, and light refreshments are available. You will be transported to a bygone world of magical delight, and if you are very lucky, an elderly person will ask you to dance.
16 November 2007
Adventures In The Potato Fields
There’s nothing like a a jaunt out of London to revive one’s ailing spirits - of course I realize that not everybody lives in this sprawling southern sewer and some might even regard it as a place to come to for the replenishment of depleted joie de vivre.
Having been busy of late surfing the bi-polar big Wednesday brought on by kicking anti-depressants, then succumbing to a horribly tenacious little cold which has left me with a hacking nicotine gum cough and bleeding eyeball, I felt it was time to hit the north – or the upper south as it is now designated.
The A1, while lacking the folklore and neon signed romance of its American counterparts is not without its own grim charm. Who could fail to be moved by the garish glare of a roadside lap-dancing bar in the arse end of nowhere, promising adult fun to weary travellers? Readers, I didn’t stop and kept on truckin, sad for the women inside and the wretched circumstances which brought them there; but strangely impressed by the utter miserable seediness of the venture. This is still the England of post-war austerity, ration books and coupons – a place populated by Ruth Ellis’s and James Hanratty’s, and we’re not even at Peterborough yet.
The Peterborough effect – as it used to advertise when looking for inhabitants, was to send me completely the wrong way. Still undaunted, and enjoying the blanket of autumnal gloom spread across the land, while listening to an iPod which seemed to judge my mood perfectly, I continued. I found the flatlands of the A15. This road is essentially a race-track between potato fields. Should a tsunami ever hit Skegness, this will be the North Sea bed. Roadside markers advertise the staggering number of fatalities – perhaps caused by reading them and slamming into the tractor in front.
Having made it as far as Boston, the last leg of the journey was anything but fun. The Lincolnshire fens, while beautiful during the day, are hellish to drive through at night…especially if you are too stupid to read a map, and get lost, but are convinced that you recognize where you are, so keep on going, half-convinced that it will all come right. Apparently, the blackout is still in force up here. There are no street lights or cat’s eyes to guide you, everywhere is called Spillsby, Sibsey or Stickney, the RAF airfield you passed last time you were up here turns out to be one of dozens – the same goes for Old People and Blind People crossing signs – it’s a wonder that anyone can see again after the retina scorch of on-coming two-storey lorry headlights - It might have been safer just to roll the car over in a ditch and wait upside down until dawn…and curse Sir Walter Raleigh – he was such a stupid get.
At last, perseverance, desperation, and a little map reading in the car park of Morrison’s in Skegness remedied the error of my ways. Another death-defying screech back across the fens and woalds and I reached the destination of my relaxing break.
Thankfully, I am back in the London, revived, refreshed, culturally and spiritually enriched – having traipsed round Lincoln Cathedral, and am the possessor of an enormous pumpkin brought from a front garden, and a fifty pence, chipped and handle-less Victorian teacup with the face of a little girl on it who bears an uncanny resemblance to my daughter – A Halloween tale is forming.
16 November 2007
How To Have The Christmas Number One. Part 111
The Black Arts
Having sounded out a cross-section of potential customers, and consulted our friend Mr Marc Riley of BBC 6Music, we have decided that The Black Arts might be a wiser name-option for December’s orchestrated manoeuvres up the charts, than the originally planned Black Brut. He didn’t seem to think that an association with black magic (memo. Next year we collaborate with The Magic Numbers) would particularly harm our chances, although he didn’t actually specify what he considered our chances to be. But, we have taken his advice, so I’m sorry to say, Sir ‘enry will no longer be invited to appear in our video - although the ghost of Aleister Crowley may well be.
The song is finished – well just about. Acquiring the voice of Eddie Argos has proved problematic. Recording into a laptop and emailing while on tour wasn’t as easy as we imagined. He even tried phoning-in his vocals, which conceptually was brilliant, but sonically - potentially fatal. The b-side (is there a more up to date term than this?) will feature out-takes and extras, just like a dvd. Eddie phoning the studio at the allotted time from a tour-bus hurtling down the autobahn is up there with the Troggs tapes. Fortunately, we are finally securing his delivered in-person voice at teatime on Sunday, then we’ll be ready to roll.
The children’s choir situation resolved itself brilliantly. Having been treated by my friend’s ( perfect age to sing in tune, act sensibly and not go mad ) kids, like the MMR doctor attempting to acquire blood samples at a birthday party, my own dear daughter came up trumps. Costing no more than two dolls from the hospice shop, one Mrs Pepperpot Compendium ( full price ), one x smarties, one x salt’n’vinegar crisps, one x assurance that she will be my sole beneficiary and inherit the lot the second I snuff it, she was wonderful – BBR’s musical stem-cell. With only a few exceptions, she took it seriously, sang in time and often in-tune, discussed her various takes, advised me which she considered were keepers etc. She even made rude remarks about the St Winnifred’s School Choir, then did a take in a broad northern accent.
There are plenty more hurdles before we can sit back and let our accountants take over. We are right up against the deadline for manufacturing, distribution and press, but we’ve still got time. There’s a cover to be done – if we can make it look enough like a decoration, people might just buy it anyway to hang on the tree; a video – Westlife have brought up the entire EU Artificial Snow mountain, so we might have to get ours fro…I almost said South America – which could have been misconstrued as a drug-reference. Competing for Christmas Number One is like running for Prime Minister – it’s a good job all our backgrounds are so squeaky-clean. As far as possible, cynicism has been eradicated from this record. It really would be pointless to make an overtly cynical Christmas single. Slade didn’t, Wizzard didn’t – even though theirs included the sound of a cash-till.
Whatever else Christmas Number One by The Black Arts might be, it is intended as good clean family entertainment – just this once mind.
16 November 2007
Christmas Number One
This is the beginning of an ongoing campaign to conquer the charts at Christmas. By the time you read this, the best odds will have gone, but you’ll still get a good price on yours truly reaching music’s retail zenith for Jesus’, Shane McGowan’s and almost my own birthday – I’m the 23rd - the scary number.
Anyway – it’s Sunday where I am, so as most of you Bolanize – as you MUST, songwriters are officially exempt. There is work of national importance to be done.
Some of you might think that what sits atop the nation’s yuletide musical tree during the dog-end of the season is a spontaneous gift from above – well it’s not, and if you haven’t forced one out by now, it ain’t coming.
Having been raised during the Slade and Wizard era, the Toppermost of the Poppermost at Christmas is still important, and something to aim for. If it’s actually a good song, you’re sorted for life. Perhaps charity records should be banned in December, because they always win, are invariably crap, and are never heard of again. You can do something else for charity – drop some money in a tin or run a half marathon dressed as a duck. Isn’t it more generous to pay Shane McGowan’s bar bill for another year?
But for every Shane – blissfully intoxicated in a boozer/hotel/rehab unit, counting down the days until Fairy Tale Of New York goes back on the play list, a thousand journeymen are working through the night attempting to divert his royalties – and I’m one of them.
It’s happened by accident – A song has arrived and demands to be written. It is very unfair the way these things happen. You’re trying to sleep – but some lines come and refuse to go away.
“ Tomorrow”
“ No, right now”.
Finally you give in, get up, write them down, then hope to go back to sleep…No chance. They’ve got friends who have heard that you’re a soft touch. Before long, they are all lining up to be recorded for posterity – rowdy like a night bus queue in Trafalgar Square. This can last for hours. When I owned my own premises, I’d just write lyrics on the wall. Imagine trying to explain to a lettings agency how you had defaced an entire flat due to creative nocturnal emissions?
What makes it worse, is that you know you’re in stiff competition and there’s a deadline. If you listen carefully, you’ll probably hear sleigh bells being recorded three doors down.
Somebody somewhere….probably nearby is writing yer actual Christmas Number One. Well actually they’re not because I’ve just written it. The best they can hope for is a Christmas number two.
16 November 2007
Coughs And Sneezes.
Have you seen the new NHS advert to remind elderly people to have a flu jab this winter? What a missed opportunity.
An (every)Man sits at the back of a Route-Master bus and sneezes. Perhaps through lack of mental agility or pure bad manners, his hands don’t shield his ugly face in time, and his snotty outburst is shot across the bus. The vile snot-germs become animated leering bogymen, entering a woman’s mouth as she fumbles with an asthma inhaler, then attacking a group of elderly people, no doubt consigning them to the crematorium ovens before Christmas.
As the serrated green nostril-shrapnel exploded in traveller’s faces – suicide bomb like, aboard a crowded bus of perfectly mixed racial, sexual and economic stereotypes, my heart leapt - at last, an advertisement to promote hygienic good manners.
“ Don’t Be A Selfish Dirty Bastard This Winter - put your hands up when you cough or sneeze, or better still, carry a handkerchief. ”
The snot-bomber looks sheepish, worried that passengers will lynch him for such foul germ-spreading manners. At last, somebody at the Health Information Department with some guts – another Brown initiative per chance?
Sadly, like November’s general election, the advertisement is a total cop out. Its victims – the asthma woman and the elderly man are advised to get a flu-jab to protect themselves from ignorant filthy gits who don’t even attempt to stifle their public streptococcal ejections.
It was going so well – the message was clear – to me anyway – be considerate, don’t spread germs that can easily be stifled, and have some consideration for those unfortunate enough to be around you.
I am looking forward to the next round of NHS adverts –Wear a bullet-proof vest, a stab-proof school uniform, don’t go out after dark, and always keep some small change in your pocket for when you get mugged.
Who but a person without arms, or who is paralyzed does not actively attempt to prevent their sneezes coating those around them?
A. A Tosser.
16 November 2007
Ned Sherrin
So Ned Sherrin has died from throat cancer - the affliction that blighted my own family’s summer. Well RIP Mr Sherrin and thankyou. Quite apart from his great achievements in bringing new entertainment to the new ages - which will be written up fulsomely, and documentarized over the coming weeks, I have a personal tribute to add.
Black Box Recorder were lucky enough to be invited to appear on Loose Ends in 2003, and the pleasure of that experience has stayed with us ever since.
Loose Ends was recorded on a Saturday morning – slightly painful for the more nocturnal amongst us – in a subterranean lair in the BBC tunnel system which links Portland Place, Great Portland Street and most other streets in the area. The real room 101 is here…I don’t remember if lifts were involved, but we hunted for it down unlit corridors, un-patrolled by the corporation’s skeleton weekend security - It seemed more like a storeroom than the HQ of the Thought Police.
Black Box Recorder were there to sing a couple of songs and do a little interview – reaching out to the Roberts radios of little England - a demographic nicely indicative of our less than commercial pop status. Our fellow guests were the poet Murray Lachlan Young, some actors performing a musical as members of the Rat Pack, and Nick Berry of vast television fame – and the only performer on the show to actually have a number one hit ( yet ) – The Theme to Eastenders.
Ned Sherrin really did treat the performers as if they were personally invited guests to his home. There was no hint of fakery, off-mic detachment, or getting the tossers off as soon as possible, which most interviewers struggle to conceal. The studio was set up like a classroom – with government-issue tables and chairs, and Schoolmaster Sherrin moving between them. It was recorded in real-time more or less, unless somebody really fluffed their lines. By mid-day, it was done, just requiring a bit of sound balancing by the studio boffins before broadcast that evening.
It was apparently traditional at Loose Ends for all the guests, once the show had been successfully recorded, to troop round to The George on Great Portland Street for refreshments. Mr Sherrin’s table was laid out – as it must have been every Saturday for years, with an assortment of sandwiches, crisps and nuts – from his own coffers I believe, and several rounds from the bar were purchased. What was particularly nice, is that he continued the conversations from the interviews as though they had just been friendly chats, drew everybody in until a table full of disparate voices and competing egos was just a good lunchtime pub chinwag, and was affability itself when asked a question.
What prompted me to write this is that the bookmark I use in all reading matter is a postcard of thanks he sent Black Box Recorder for appearing on his show. It’s handwritten from his home address, it specifically and jokingly refers to things we talked about, and features a lovely illustration of him tipping his hat.
On a dull, hungover Saturday morning in the bowels of the earth, a funny, kind man with impeccable manners is something to be treasured.
