hambone, or the checkered demon

ham•bone |ˌhambəʊn|
noun informal

a style used by street performers who play out the beat by slapping and patting their arms, legs, chest, and cheeks while chanting rhymes.

▼ BO DIDDLEY: BO DIDDLEY from "Bo Diddley b/w I'm A Man" 78rpm (Checker) 1955 (US)

cosmic warrior

I streamed the following T. Rex cover early this morning when I noticed it had arrived overnight in my mailbox. From the bathroom - making water with my sleep befuddled head lolling on my shoulder - it sounded disconcertingly like Alvin and the Chipmunks, or even Pinky and Perky.

Still. The very same accusations were once leveled at the very puckish Mark Feld.

Dance it out the womb.

"cosmic dancer iii", 2009, by chennu pillai.

▼ MANETT: COSMIC DANCER from "Citiholic" EP (Unknown Label) 2009 (?)

five knuckle shuffle

F3966: johnny the greek.

Credited by Frank Zappa as being the inspiration for cultivating his own Viva Zapata! crop of facial hair, Californian bluesman, Johnny Otis was born Ionnis Veliotes four days before Christmas in 1921.

From Wiki:

"In the 1960s he entered journalism and politics, losing a campaign for a seat in the California Assembly (one reason for the loss may be that he ran under his much less well known real name). He then became chief of staff for Democratic Congressman Mervin Dymally."

Peaking at # 9 on the US Billboard Chart in 1958, this ungarnished side-order of authentic Bo Diddley was Otis' only Top Ten hit. A capable politician and tireless advocate for civil rights - addressing the 1965 race riots in his 1968 publication, "Listen to the lambs" - he later founded and pastored a new church, Landmark Community Gospel Church, which held Sunday services in Santa Rosa, California.

I knew an Otis on the outskirts of Glasgow who was one of the shyest young men I have ever met, and tortured by his name. He used to alleviate - or deflect - unwanted attention deficit disorder by burning his initials into the upholstery on the back seat of our shared expressway bus. I once, to be fair, smashed an elbow into the teeth of a youth on the same when he insisted on getting in on my own face. The driver might have made an unscheduled stop had a thirteen year old threatened to cap him directly on the spot, but I very much doubt it.

'See no; hear no; speak no' is a thoroughly Glaswegian mantra. We are all Neutral Born Buddhists, Kill Bills and Tarantinos be damned.

"sunflower girl"
johnny otis, 1988.

▼ THE JOHNNY OTIS SHOW: WILLIE AND THE HAND JIVE from "Willie And The Hand Jive" 45 (Capitol) 1957 (US)

pal joey and the queens mafia

Anyone with half a heart will guess immediately from just checking in on yesterday's 1974 post what this is all about.

Formed in Forest Hills, Queens, NYC in the very same year, our holey knock-kneed stick insects concocted the perfect antidote to all which was sick and rotten in the state of detritus. A simple largactyl laced three chord syrup for all our ills.

As unequivocal as a slap straight on the kisser.

I have been grossly negligent up here on the bleachers, sadly. A chain-smoking fuckwad nursing uncalled nostalgia much of the time.

It was only as the result of my wife nagging me to wear my reading glasses that I realized just how much I'd given over to half fartedness. That, and the last two fingers of a bottle of Italian House White we purchased earlier; in spite of more sound financial judgment.

As I sit here typing spastically on one digit, I am mildly shocked to recall that Johnny Ramone was born - Cummings, motherf@cker - way back in 1948. A mere three years after the Big Red One. Small wonder, then, he bequeathed us so much shit on lugers; blitzkriegs; and bop. A commando on Quaaludes, he dealt dealt back the aftershock in graphic primary colors. No f@ckin' 'u' for you.

This, ultimately, is what made it a good deal easier to swallow all that tired Emerson, Lake & Palmer crap; the low slung bass of Dee Dee and the myopic impertinence of Pal Joey strobing out over the closed jackboot ranks of a CBGB's anorexic gathering.

God bless 'em.

1-2-3-4!

SA-746

RAM001

Produced by Tamás Erdélyi and Tony Bongiovi.

▼ RAMONES: SHEENA IS A PUNK ROCKER from "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker b/w Commando / I Don't Care" 45 (Sire) 1977 (US)

on the way home thru the park; or a tuna, darkly

Perhaps merely the faintest registration that broadcaster, Michael Terence Wogan has finally confronted the none too premature prospect of retirement has upset the radio friendly tuning in my brain. For whatever reason, I find myself contemplating Carly Simon circa "No Secrets"; and from there, the jump to Helen Reddy's 3 minutes and 29 seconds of sheer hokum requires not so much a leap of faith into the abyss of 1974 as a gentle shove.

The fashionably oblique "Angie Baby", penned by Californian musician turned professional songwriter Alan O'Day, provided the Antipodes' born Reddy with her first Billboard #1 in the US, and a top 5 position here in the UK. Allegedly inspired, in part, by the Beatles' "Lady Madonna", I freely admit to being less intrigued by the lyric at the time than vaguely irritated. In fact, prior to my stumbling across the copious speculation it appears to have provoked over the decades since its release, I had not given it much headroom.

From Wiki:

" O'Day said he also thought to his own childhood, since as an only child who was often ill, many of his days were spent in bed with a radio to keep him company...

Originally the character was just supposed to be mentally "slow," but while writing the song, O'Day showed it to his therapist, who pointed out that the character's reactions in the song were not those of a retarded person, so O'Day changed the lyric from "slow" to "touched," and the character switched from retarded to "crazy." "

Well. There you go. Don't shoot the messenger.

Despite its conceit, I have always secretly harboured some fondness for this disposable slice of psychopomp, oddly. File next to Bobbie Gentry. Or Bobby Goldsboro.

For those of you well acquainted with or simply dumbfounded by Mr. Beer N. Hockey's fixation for Grammy Award winner - and celebrity golfer - Anne Murray, this is one you might want to ponder.

Go now. Before I open the Pandora's Box that is Jimmy Webb's "McArthur Park".

Written by Alan O'Day.
Arranged by Nick De Caro. Produced by Joe Wissert.

▼ HELEN REDDY: ANGIE BABY from "Angie Baby b/w I Think I'll Write A Song" 45 (Capitol) 1974 (Australia / US)

big star city rollers

a gerard love composition. now you see it, now you don't...

Sounds vaguely familiar ? It ought to. The sound of Memphis filtered through the dirty grey lense of the River Clyde; a perfect sound east coast pretenders, the Bay City Rollers, never quite got down on tape.

Before Teenage Fanclub (and the arrival of one Brendan O'Hare) there were the BMX Bandits, and - as this home recorded compilation of 4-Track demos proudly attests - The Boy Hairdressers and The Clydesmen too, a loose Big Star fixated collective forged between Glasgow's Norman Blake, Raymond McGinley, Francis Macdonald and Gerard Love.

Purloined from an undisclosed source:

"With Brendan, full-volume afternoon rehearsals begin in the unlikely setting of Norman’s bedroom in his Grandmother’s house in Bellshill and continue regularly until they feel about ready to exist in public. Throughout the practices Mrs Blake watches championship snooker on the television in between making the lads pots of tea."

"Kylie's Got a Crush on Us" eventually got it's chance to go public with the pressing of the Bandits' 1993 12", released through Alan McGee's Frankenstein, Creation Records; home to the mono-browed, super inflated egos of those New Deal upstarts, the Gallagher brothers.

1986, 53rd & 3rd Records.

▼ THE CLYDESMEN: KYLIE'S GOT A CRUSH ON US from "4-Track Stuff" (Bootleg) 1990 (UK)

northern exposure

ed•dy |ˌɛdi|
noun ( pl. -dies)
a circular movement of water, counter to a main current,
causing a small whirlpool.
• a movement of wind, fog, or smoke resembling this.

ORIGIN late Middle English : probably from the Germanic base of the Old English prefix ed- [again]

From Montreal, Quebec, there is something of a "Rumours" era Christine McVie or Stevie Nicks in Veronica Charnley's approach running through "One Hundred Words for Water". Lindsey Buckingham too.

This is no bad thing. I am more comfortable with this gentle undercurrent than the febrile expositions of Kate Bush and Tori Amos the Fleetwoods informed in turn; or the everything-bar-the kitchen sink assault of the once elfin Bjork.

The instrumentation and arrangements - courtesy of Geof Holbrook - are almost uniformly exquisite. In particular those shimmering eddies of concert harp.

Veronica Charnley : vocals, guitars;
Geof Holbrook : bass, piano, spinet organ, electronics, vocals;
Eveline Grégoire-Rousseau : concert harp;
Benoit Monière : drums, percussion.

Recorded and mixed by Robert-Eric Gaskell at the REQ Room & Studio Loco.
All songs written by Veronica Charnley. Arranged by Geof Holbrook.

illustration by evan moore.

▼ FLOTILLA: COURT AND SPARK from "One Hundred Words For Water" CD (Sophomore) 2009 (Canada)

PURCHASE ONE HUNDRED WORDS FOR WATER

he said, she said...

collage by klaus voorman.

An intriguing splicing of demos from the "Revolver" era, culled from the original vinyl bootleg - "Lost Lennon Tapes (Volume 2)" - and reissued on a double CD through the Dutch label, Walrus, in 1996.

back off boogaloo.

▼ JOHN LENNON: HE SAID HE SAID from "The Complete Lost Lennon Tapes (Volumes 1 & 2)" 2 x CD (Walrus / Bootleg) 1996 (Holland)

don't slander me

mapledurham watermill.

"I'm back, I'm back, I'm on the right track..."

Who ever said married life was easy ?

I am quite blissfully partnered, but I thought I might just appeal to my more juvenile self with a piece of bile aimed squarely at very local external (under the) influences who would seek to promote irrevocable damage. Just remember this - if you have mastered even rudimentary literacy, motherf@cker - slander is a capital offense in my book.

Written by David Waggoner; Dick Weigland: Larry Weigland.

▼ BLACK SABBATH: EVIL WOMAN (DON'T YOU PLAY YOUR GAMES WITH ME) from "Black Sabbath" LP (Vertigo)

BONUS BALLS 666:

▼ ROKY ERICKSON: DON'T SLANDER ME from "Don't Slander Me" LP (Pink Dust) 1986 (US)
▼ BOB DYLAN: POSITIVELY 4th STREET from "Positively 4th Street b/w From A Buick 6" 45 (Columbia) 1965 (US)

kinder kafka

"die verwandlung" - very loosely - leipzig, 1915.

kafka's children

Apologies, siblings. The last week or so has seen me jumping through more bureaucratic hoops than one might comfortably entertain after an entire summer of reading Kafka; a civil service nightmare of transition from singleton to married benefit beneficiary with all attendant material facts required in triplicate. And then some. This in itself is not anything more than should respectfully be envisioned, burden on the state that we are, but even at a snail's pace - with due lubrication and obsequiousness - all is far from running smoothly.

Monies suspended until the bitch with the sovereign ring who registered my claim tires sufficently from analyzing the latest instalment of the X-Factor on her tea break to get to grips with the relevant paperwork and encrypted DWP forms.

A language of disjointed cypher and insult.

Meantime, of course, I am doing my best to unearth a paid job in this climate of recession if not outright depression, add to which I have finally gotten around to redecorating our communal landing with pilfered eggshell acrylic paint and a nefariously obtained gloss of epic institutional bias; having long discarded any fantasy that the GHA might ultimately recognize its civic remit regards building maintenance and the restitution of resources collected through rents.

I painted madly like a possessed young Adolf, while Rosa scrubbed away the stench of decrepitude with the lingering scent of coconut bath oil and opium.

In short, it has been a fortnight of Stalin meets Thatcher on a Brighton bank holiday. The totalitarian red forked knobbing of a blue rinsed grocer's daughter on sulfurous sands. Honeymooning in the ashpits. On the whole nowhere near as black as I may have made it sound.

All is in stasis. And - yet - all is far from so.

Do not be alarmed if all here should fall quiet. The situation is only temporary; key accounts on hold. And, yes, strictly speaking Kafka was Czech.

Kinda Bohemian, despite the German mutha' tongue.


▼ MICK JAGGER: MEMO FROM TURNER from "Performance (OST)" LP (Warner Bros.) 1970 (UK)

▼ THE DEVIANTS: METAMORPHOSIS EXPLORATION from "The Deviants #3" LP (Decca) 1969 (UK)

bleedin' aida

glengarry glen ross.

There was a time, a couple of decades ago maybe, when I rather fancied to have the Stooges' "Gimme Danger" played at my funeral. Well might you chortle. These days I am no longer quite so given over to melodrama. At a push I often feel Lieutenant Pigeon's "Mouldy Old Dough" would be a good deal more fitting. Not to mention modest.

I can easily visualize some c@nt in black tails and stovepipe hat fidget a liver spotted finger onto the button primed to lower my casket as that jaunty drum roll kicks in. Like Jacob Marlowe in leather and mothballs, I take some rancorous comfort in those perceived gasps fluttering up from the pews. Assuming the news of my demise might scrape up any mourners at all, of course. The way things are heading fiscally, the end result is more likely to be a black plastic body bag stuffed in the fiery maw of an anonymous hospital waste disposal unit.

Worst case scenario ? Our government has already drafted a skein of (none too) secret measures to cope with the anticipated surfeit of Swine Flu fatalities. Mass burials might soon be back in vogue on European soil.

For a time back when I brokered health insurance. There's a laugh; have I confessed that one before ?

I even sold life insurance direct down the phone; cold calling at its worst. Of course, neither myself or my fellow agents ever dreamt of similarly investing in the same. Think 'Glengarry Glen Ross' and you would not veer too wide of the mark. The floor we worked stank of mints and bad feet. Farts and desperation.

A supervisor patrolling the aisles of our hunched undead once found a bag of smack in the cracks between floor tiles.

I'm sorry. I hope I never sold you any product, brothers and sisters. I had a gun to my head. Meantime, like Tiny Tim on death row, I tiptoed through the tulips.

I'm doing my utmost to make up for it now.

Recorded September 10th - October 6th, 1972 at CBS Studios, London.

▼ IGGY & THE STOOGES: GIMME DANGER from "Raw Power" LP (Columbia) 1973 (US)

after balloon burning...

The wasted tail fin hovers under the radar. Peeling decals fluttering. The cockpit has been hosed down and the instruments crackle on autopilot; a rusting colossus immune to nagging; neglect; and niggardliness.

"So far as I'm concerned, the early 70s were the Pretties' finest twinkling hour. Ladbroke Grove was their acid drenched stamping ground, home to Van Morrison's Madam George and the group's fluctuating line-up saw them brazenly trading key members with pioneering mental cases, the Pink Fairies ; recording in and out of Abbey Road studios and switching record labels as quick as jumping on a London borough bus."

From the ground its black silhouette hangs like a painted flag. The ghost of 'SF Sorrow'. One by one those remaining occupants crawl through the hatch and drop. It would be cheaper to get there by underground, missed opportunities refracting off steamed glass like kisses on the top deck window of a stalled bus.

"As smokey brown as the Beatles' "Abbey Road" in places, but shimmering and translucent too as the best of Chilton & Bell's Big Star. A perfect pop masterpiece painted from a well rehearsed palette of limited colour, a perfect teenage summer's trip."

The girl you covet waits at the bus stop. Her knees are trembling. She glances up and over her shoulder, where sweet wrappers and discarded beer tins pock thistle and wayward berries. There is something moving behind the fence. This is the sound of your free period on a summer's afternoon. Or the 8:00 AM journey from a suburban outback into a blotter tinctured oasis of hallucinogenics and Ritalin lozenges; an aggravated spinster in laddered tights by the roundabout who shares much in common with Sunday's maiden aunt. A spindle-legged hankering. Old English Spangles and Dandelion Clocks. Arachnids weaving unseen in the dewlaps, spotted hounds off the leash and foaming. And. Transgressions on your tongue.

A tangle of strings.

Free-fall. For aviators and survivors of 1970's unopened "Parachute" everywhere.

▼ THE PRETTY THINGS: GRASS from "Parachute" LP (Harvest EMI) 1970 (UK)

▼ THE PRETTY THINGS: LOVE IS GOOD from "Freeway Madness" LP (Warner Bros.) 1972 (UK)

brian and dennis, wilson and wilson; sans charlie

'dirty doll". photograph from here.

From the second disc of Pavement's 2004 re-release of "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain" - L.A's Desert Origins - featuring previously unreleased material which was subsequently rerecorded for their third album, "Wowee Zowee".

I met Steve Malkmus once on stage at a village hall in Belgium during Sonic Youth's "Dirty" tour. I did not like to inform him I generally considered "Slanted & Enchanted" a work of some genius. Modesty, and my woefully reserved Celtic temperament, absolutely forbade it. Besides. I was too busy looking up Kim Gordon's ass.

Sorry. Mrs. Thurston Moore's ass. The marital thang is still something of a novelty. I will get used to it. Fine asses always warrant serious reconsideration. Genuinely.

kim gordon by richard kern.

Possibly recorded at 'Louder Than You Think', Stockton, California, 1993.
Engineered by Mark Venezia.

▼ PAVEMENT: PUEBLO (BEACH BOYS) from "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain (L.A.'s Desert Origins)" 2 x CD (Matador) 1994/2004 (US)

S&M ?

"shy boy in soyapango, el salvador". photograph by donna decesare.

Any allusion to a large UK supermarket chain's commandeering of this piece through its television advertising is lamentable. But sadly inescapable. I detest food pornography, and it is a fairly safe assumption that Carlos Santana does not need the bread, however finely baked or dressed.

I notice, too, that a large mobile network has just launched a campaign underpinned by the Box Tops' "Neon Rainbow". I hate that kind of shit. Jim Morrison was right to be churlish. Hand back the jaded junkie glamour it deserves.

Produced by Fred Catero and Carlos Santana.

▼ SANTANA: SAMBA PA TI from "Abraxas" LP (Columbia) 1970 (US)

widdershins

"de sole et vento", aesop's fables. detail from illustration by francis barlow, 1666.

wid•der•shins |ˌwɪdəʃɪnz| (also with•er•shins)
adverb chiefly Scottish
in a direction contrary to the sun's course, considered as unlucky; counterclockwise.

ORIGIN early 16th cent.: from Middle Low German weddersins, from Middle High German widersinnes, from wider ‘against’ + sin ‘direction’ ; the second element was associated with Scots sin [sun.]

A wind...

howled in from the south or north this morning - up or down, I am undecided. Buffeting the kitchen window in sudden sheets of rain which drained away in minutes. I could hear it whistling through the cracks left open to allow in some air even as the kettle sputtered and boiled. A witchy sound; blowing hot and cold.

All day long the skies have been bruised and pewter. Autumn is just around the corner.

I have been on the caffeine again of late. Yesterday was all but dry.

Still. I imbibed a little cider. Just enough to whet the whistle. It did not do it for me, though, and I left the bottle pretty much alone and opted instead for tap water. It was alright. Toxic though it may have been, I miss the dull metallic tang which comes solely from a domestic supply routed through archaic plumbing; its slow percolation through countless submerged yards of unfit lead.

I pottered aimlessly around our flat and eventually poured a bath. All the while I listened to that wind.

It reminded me, not unkindly, that there is doubtless worse to come.

What is wrong with architects round here ? They all start out with misguided preconceptions, prejudices or inherited vices. Shutters would be nice.

Yesterday morning I rose early and strode out to deliver some thank you letters to the mailbox down the street. As close as I dare get to doing the same in person. Today I slept in until 10 or so. It seemed like the safe thing to do. I lay for a while and listened to Rosa move things around. Put breakfast cereal in china bowls for the kids. No hangover behind my eyes. No twitching in the body's extremeties.

Actually, I have not gotten drunk for quite some time. Well. Not in the habitual sense. Maybe I am losing it.

Don't speak too soon kid, the wind warned me: there is a gale brewing.


▼ DONOVAN: CATCH THE WIND [ECHO & STRINGS] from "Catch The Wind b/w Why Do You Treat Me Like You Do ?" 45 (PYE) 1965 (UK)

▼ BOB DYLAN: IDIOT WIND from "Blood On The Tracks" LP (Columbia) 1975 (US)

why we never hired a wedding singer

don gibson and reprobate accomplice, 1972.

Alright. A Don Gibson number recorded, of course, by Faron Young in 1956 and Patsy Cline in 1963.

It was Louisiana born crooner, though, Tommy McLain- one time time member of the Vel-Tones, alongside country singer, Cline West - who scored a #15 hit on the U.S. Billboard charts with this one in 1966 and brought the song to international prominence. This is the one I remember most fondly. Big cheese and Brilliantine. The cops are on the way... and everything is cool. Nothing ominous.

▼ TOMMY MCLAIN: SWEET DREAMS from "Sweet Dreams b/w I Need You So" 45 (Decca / London) 1966 (US)

earthman supersmell: sand and sod

A time to reap, a time to sow



August is fallen upon us and the hour is ripe for harvest. Several months back as winter settled in, I exhumed 1991's "Earthman Supersmell" from Eindhoven collective, Alabama Kids, a group justifiably lauded in their native Holland at the time as deserving of major league status. I pondered:

"Not a lot of information is available on the Kids. From Eindhoven, they were touted as the Dutch Dinosaur Jr. and built their reputation on sprawling live performances attended by a small hardcore in and around the Netherlands in the early 90s. As a guitar band - think Neil Young snagging picks and overstepping licks with Peter Laughner; an uneasy alliance somewhere between Cleveland and the other side of Lake Michigan - the J Mascis comparisons are certainly valid, and to my ears Alabama Kids should have been truly huge.

'Stadium' rock played out in countless church halls connected by equally endless stretches of anonymous motorway; and not a stadium in sight.

Flatlands and Skunk. Crates of Amstel."

Feloniously, the album - released on Schemer, a subsidiary of Semaphore - has been out of print for longer now than is seemly. Their sound, contrastingly sparse and dense and earthy, quite perfectly evokes the peculiarly Dutch landscape; mile after mile of conspicuous flatland and the odd marriage between arterial freeway and quietly flourishing pockets of agriculture. And in the south, near the border with Belgium, the squat spectacle of one of the world's first panopticon prisons. More like a botanical hothouse than a holding centre for violent offenders. And closer still - stagnant canal water and the ruinous wasteground of a derelict hospital where I exercised a pair of snarling dogs. A return favour for a friend.

I roomed overnight with an Irishman who had come just to photograph that gaolhouse. Not for nothing is the first port of call for newly released inmates a bar named after New York's Bellevue.

Michel Boekhoudt: bass; Jacco Van Rooy: drums ;

Rob Geerings, Stefan Vermeeren: guitar;
Djie Han Thung: guitar, vocals.

Mixed by Pidah; recorded by Pieter Kloos.

Thanks to Milo, whose recent comment prompted me to dust this one off before it spoils.

▼ ALABAMA KIDS: DON'T ASK ME from "Earthman Supersmell" LP/CD (Schemer) 1991 (NL)

▼ ALABAMA KIDS: THE LADDER from "Earthman Supersmell" LP/CD (Schemer) 1991 (NL)

OUT OF PRINT

sans cowbell

Written by Donald 'Buck Dharma' Roeser.

"Agents of Fortune" line-up:
Eric Bloom: vocals, guitar, keyboards, percussion, cowbell;
Albert Bouchard: drums, vocals, acoustic guitar, percussion, harmonica;
Donald Roeser: synthesizer, guitar, percussion, keyboards, vocals;
Joe Bouchard: bass, guitar, piano, vocals;
Allen Lanier: bass, guitar, keyboards.

Patti Smith: guest vocals ("Vera Gemini");
Randy Brecker & Michael Brecker: horns.

Produced by Sandy Pearlman.

▼ BLUE ÖYSTER CULT: (DON'T FEAR) THE REAPER [BUCK DHARMA ORIGINAL 4-TRACK HOME DEMO VERSION] from "Agents Of Fortune (Remastered + Bonus Tracks)" CD (Columbia/Sony) 1976/2001 (US)

it's a rainy day, sunshine girl

Well. I am a married man; it is a done deal, brothers and sisters. The well is flowing over.

Well and truly.

By morning last Friday, the rain began to fall. By noon it became clear this was no ordinary precipitation. Those raindrops were the size and colour of bright pennies, bouncing back up from the pavement to gather round the knees like a charm bracelet. Sluicing down under the collar and the back of one's neck.

In many cultures the presence of rain on a wedding day is considered an auspicious omen. The Italians, I hear, have a phrase for it: "Sposa bagnata, sposa fortunata" - a wet spouse is a lucky spouse - bride and groom anointed with good fortune. A token of fertility seemingly.

My God. We have three already. We might yet sire a football team.

Buddhists and Hindus, too - I am told - are united by this conviction.

All that rain could not dampen our spirit any. Although I would have welcomed the chance to stroll along sun dappled lanes rather than dash between taxi and registry office sheltered beneath a golfing umbrella. Still. Our Portuguese piper had earlier called the tune, stoically observing that pipers are much like the rain here in Scotland; guaranteed to grace the day. And so he did. Ceremoniously playing us out like a trooper through the downpour; our guests braving the same as they showered us with confetti. Some of it in my face as harshly as a slap.

Thank you, Jose. And all those who joined us despite the awful traffic threading and choking the city centre. Like salmon fighting upstream we made it in the end.

14th August, 2009.
For my beautiful wife, Rosa.

▼ TOM VERLAINE: RAIN, SIDEWALK from "Around" LP (Thrill Jockey) 2006 (US)
▼ THE BLUE NILE: TINSELTOWN IN THE RAIN from "A Walk Across The Rooftops" LP (Linn) 1983 (UK)
▼ BOB DYLAN: EARLY MORNIN' RAIN from "Self Portrait" LP (Columbia) 1970 (US)
▼ FRED NEIL: LITTLE BIT OF RAIN from "Bleecker & MacDougal" LP (Elektra) 1965 (US)
▼ LED ZEPPELIN: THE RAIN SONG from "Houses Of The Holy" LP (Atlantic) 1973 (UK)
▼ DIRTY THREE: RAIN ON from "Cinder" LP (Touch And Go) 2005 (US)
▼ FAUST: IT'S A RAINY DAY, SUNSHINE GIRL from "So Far" LP (Polydor) 1972 (Germany)
▼ THE BEATLES: RAIN from "Paperback Writer b/w Rain" 45 (Parlophone) 1965 (UK)

this little piggy went to market

son of sam says...

Man. Those leathers don't fit me any more. Not even the act of cutting Jim Morrison darts in the waistband is gonna help. No sir. I had hoped the diet might have gotten me closer, but given the liver no longer functions as it ought to, there was fat chance. Mid life crisis ? Not a bit of it. I just never wanted to fill the trotters of the common garden porcine groom.

So. There are options.

I thought briefly about a long kilt. No dice. I saw a gaggle of wedding guests last Friday in the West End rigged out in full kilt hire regalia with Ray-Bans on the side and it looked, I felt, just f@cking ridiculous. I got a jacket. I bought a collarless shirt - no fucking ties, alright ? - and that was okay. Vaguely the same muumuu pattern Homer Simpson might opt for at a pinch.

There. It is only the lower half which concerns me abjectly; the conventional option of dress trousers or otherwise. Yes, a suit can be fine, but only if the wedge in your pocket stretches to Giorgio Armani. The A-List celebrity shit, in short. Clearly, this is not an option. No dough to go Italian or French ? If you are no longer quite the skinny f@ck of yesteryear, my advice is think again.

Let's go Dutch. I have no notion of dressing up like Christopher Lambert for the ubiquitous budget Highlander sequel or Gibson in his Braveheart slice of ham. F@ck Sean Connery while we're at it; his kilt no doubt cost him the price of one of our smaller islands.

In the end it was jeans, of course. Are you listening Mr. Lydon ? What may be the lower bowels of hell, sartorially, for you, is by no means the same piece of shit for the rest of us. It still cuts the mustard quite adequately, I feel. Maybe I am misguidedly conservative. Inverted. Granted, I may not possess the credit to opt for imported US brands which sell here for a ludicrous premium, but I am f@cked if I am going to clad myself in a bin liner out of a shop on the Kings Road just to grab some backhand coin. You know where I am coming from. It was all a simple matter of under the counter spoils.

Jeans, I tell you. Nothing more and nothing less will do.

And. If I do happen to ever shed these surplus pounds of shrieking blubber, you can be guaranteed it will be back in the leathers in the blink of an optometrist's eye. No f@cking PVC for me.

▼ TAD: BEHEMOTH from "God's Balls" LP (Sub Pop) 1989 (US)

sno doz, the city which never sleeps

Meantime...

up near the eaves, waiting to drop like a stone, it was close to business as usual. Norris Gable, sometime broker in scrap iron - and officially the groom - paced the floor cagily and threw coffee after coffee down his throat. Outside the occasional siren wailed and the constant jackhammer in his head could only be appeased with a chain-smoker's fumbled offering.

In and out, the fumes catching in his chest and the butterflies protesting.

"Fuck this," he said. "My nerves are shot. I am almost out of cigarettes and I'd sooner recycle those butts in the ashtray than go down there and buy some more."

He pressed his nose to the glass puttied in the metal frames and ran his fingers over his neck. Agitated, he wasted five minutes or so rifling the window sill for stray papers. There were none and he knew it. He might kill an hour pointlessly going through pockets hanging on coat hooks next to the electric meter but in the end he would come back empty-handed. There was no percentage in it, it was just the unconscious desire to worm his head into the noose; to fiddle with the knot.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he went. Creaking back and forth.

The minute hand on the clock on the kitchen wall turned faster than he could believe. Not spinning, no. A kind of spastic twitching, merely. The tick of one hand clapping in mirthless applause.

"Oh well. There is nothing else for it. I will just sit down and watch that tv programme on The City Addicted to Crystal Meth. That should be distracting."

It was just like peering into the mirror. A procession of strung out blank eyed insects; each one twisting on bespoke soldering wire. Going through the motions of nothing in particular.

Keep the green tea on ice. His own bag from now until tomorrow was nothing more than caffeine, like Philip K. Dick with an empty fridge.

Blink and you might miss it.

note: ring shown not actual size.

▼ WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS: MILDRED PIERCE REPORTING (OLD SARGE) from "Spare Ass Annie and Other Tales" CD (Island Red) 1993 (US)

litterbugs

detail from "les très riches heures du duc de berry" by the limbourg brothers, circa 1413.

On the littered waste ground my apartment block looms over I spied a woman in a white jacket. She was on her knees, still as death, feeding a gathering of pigeons. Or observing them intently. In much the same way I stood watching her.

We are so high up, at first I mistook her for just another plastic bag. I actually had to retreat into the kitchen to fetch the scratched set of binoculars which once belonged to my grandfather. I am a nosy motherf@cker at times, I must admit. Add that to my list of vices.

Well, alright. It transpired it was just another plastic sack, but that doesn't mean we don't have our ration of Francis of Assisis round here. Albeit most are content to simply drizzle breadcrumbs from their windows. Or leftovers and glass bottles; and on one notable occasion a pair of scissors which very nearly impaled my skull. There is even a Chinese family with impeccably green credentials who rise every morning at the crack of dawn and sally forth to uplift beer cans and used syringes before the many children shared between twenty-three floors spew out in a tide.

A regular battalion of weasel faced brats watch the elderly matriarch stooping to retrieve the debris which has accumulated overnight. They too are forced out of their homes as soon as the sun comes up. They watch her dispassionately as they cram crisps into their mouths. They drop their emptied packets under CCTV cameras mounted on the walls and run.

In less than a year they will begin to swagger. This is the ritual.

I cannot quite grasp why the Chinese family persist with it. But I admire their dogged perseverance all the same.

I hear Bill Burroughs whine in my ear:
' "Aren't you going to do something?" I demanded. He looked at me and yawned.'

That old woman refuses to be cowed. Like a peasant sowing the fields while the B52's buzz overhead.

reup: from the gorbals to stonehenge

roger kynard erickson's
all-seeing eye, or some outlandishly fiendish occult plot ?

This song was recorded in Roky's manager's office in Marin County, California during an acoustic solo performance in which the Aliens were notable by their absence.

"from the gargoyles to stone henge
from the sphynx to the pyramids
religious temples praising the devil right
to the devils club as it strikes midnight..."

Hear that first line quoted above ? I'm still not convinced.

Ever since my friend, Gus - an Erickson aficionado - first brought this song to my attention a couple of years after its original release, I have been stone cold certain Roky actually sings "From The Gorbals to Stone Henge"...despite the odds. Even listening to it now, having finally sourced the lyric on the web somewhere in a bid to lay old ghosts to rest, I continue to harbour grave doubts.

Gargoyles just don't do it for me.

▼ ROKY ERICKSON: I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE BEFORE from "Gremlins Have Pictures" LP (Pink Dust) 1986 (US)

sans palmolive, without lubrication

Oh, well. It's now or never. In less than a fortnight I shall be officially married - road traffic accidents and strokes, excepting - a convention I have studiously avoided in the thirty odd years since I legally 'came of age'. Out of atypical modesty, I have thus far resisted the urge to announce said event. That, or the faint anxiety regarding plans which gang awry.

Anyhow. The game is afoot. Events have been set in motion.

A piper, even, has been procured; a splendid Portuguese busker on Spanish pipes who kindly agreed to step by and bless the ceremony. Far better a relaxed Iberian note than the spectacle of pomp and circumstance. A far more colourful route to travel than booking a complete stranger through any agency, I would suggest. It rained abysmally in the moments of my asking him if he had ever done a wedding gig. He carefully flicked a raindrop off the display on his cellphone as we swapped numbers and made sure we were not about to drag him on to the steps of a church. A man of the cloth, his tartan was wholly black. Without stripe or accent.

"Pipers are much like the rain in Scotland," he said. "One can always be assured we will be there."

I have not stepped foot in Portugal for quite some time. Twenty years, in fact. Give or take a downpour. From his tattoo I took him to be a man of his word.

Tessa Pollitt: bass;
Ari Up: drums, vocals;
Viv Albertine: guitar;
Steve Beresford: keyboards;
Bruce Smith: drums.

Recorded on October 12th, 1981;
first transmission on October 26, 1981.

Produced by Tony Wilson.
Backing vocals by Neneh Cherry.

▼ THE SLITS: EARTH BEAT / WEDDING SONG from "The Peel Sessions" CD (Strange Fruit) 1998 (UK)

smile a little smile

Delightful schmaltz from the UK production / songwriting partnership between Tony Macaulay and Geoff Stevens; better known through their association with The Foundations - "Build Me Up, Buttercup" - and Pinkerton's Assorted Colours.

Owing a massive one farthing debt to "Penny Lane" era woodwind flourishes and cow lashed McCartney-isms, one also harbors a secret admiration for the way the middle eight almost meanders off through the overspill of trash cans from Ray Davies' "Dead End Street". A little piece of uniquely shameless English whimsy.

Tony Newman: vocals, guitars;

Steve Jones: guitars, vocals; Sam Kempe: vocals;
Stewart Coleman: bass;
Paul Wilkinson: drums.
Written by Geoff Stevens and Tony Macaulay.
Produced by Tony McCauley.

photograph by alex waterford hayward.

▼ THE FLYING MACHINE: SMILE A LITTLE SMILE FOR ME (MONO) from "Smile A Little Smile For Me b/w Maybe We've Been Loving Too Long" 45 (PYE) 1969 (UK)

formal disclosures

toulouse, 2008. photographs by rory lindsay.



So much has been written here and elsewhere regarding Brooklyn's once forgotten finest that I will resist the temptation to embellish, save for the reminder that chief songwriter, Mike Brown was just sixteen years old when this rarified gem of an album was recorded in his father's studio above a beauty school just a block from the infamous Brill Building. And vocalist, Steve Martin a mere two years his elder.

A quick glance at my iTunes play count reveals that this song is well up there in my own Top 50. Like several others on their debut LP, the song's inspiration lay in Brown's well documented infatuation with Renée Felden, a young woman introduced to the boys living out of 1595 Broadway through mutual acquaintance, Tom Feher.

According to bassist, Tom Finn - who eventually secured Felden's affections - on the original session the drums were laid down by an anonymous jobbing 802 Union professional; the bass provided by classical cellist, Seymour Barrab; and the strings - oboe and cello - by friends of Michael's dad, including George Marge.

Recorded in the bleak winter of 1966, this is the sound of unrequited passion without the almost inevitable acrimony.

Steve Martin (Caro): vocals ;
Rick Brand: guitar;
Jeff Winfield: guitar;
Mike Brown (Lookovsky): harpsichord, piano;
George Cameron: drums;
Tom Finn: bass.

Written by Michael Brown.
Produced by Harry Lookofsky; Steve Jerome; Bill Jerome
at World United Studio, 1595 Broadway NYC.

▼ THE LEFT BANKE: PRETTY BALLERINA from "WALK AWAY RENÉE / PRETTY BALLERINA" LP (Smash Records) 1967 (US)

CHARLEMANGE'S LEFT BANKE SITE

two rum cherries spells casino ruin

one armed bandit. photograph by yale joel, 1951.

I like berries. I do not like fruit machines. Slot machines.

The term "one armed bandit" seems hideously appropriate. Like a shrunken Mexican purse snatcher lying in wait in a dark alley in Vegas. Or the deserted parking lot at the back of the diner.

As I mentioned here previously, I have an aversion to gambling. It is not quite a hobbyhorse, this disinclination to let my money ride, but in light of those other vices I have embraced or accumulated it is something of a small saving grace.

Flutter. Another ominously fitting tag. Moths dancing around the flame; glued and twitching on the backlit glass as the the bars and cherries refuse to settle on the line. I have known people thousands of pounds in debt thanks to those bells and whistles. Sober, god-fearing bastards who have never smoked a joint. They pass one bar after the other without a backwards glance, but still they are hooked. They avoid the beer gut but the cold sweat waits to spring forth just the same. The anxiety and panic is always there lurking.



I have heard the police come knocking at six o'clock in the morning to spirit away the inveterate debtor, and have felt relief it was not me. Shivering under the quilt like a coward. One fist balled in my mouth. It could have been far worse, of course. It just as easily might have been debt collectors with razors and saturnine threats. Ivory cue balls rattling on the stairs.

Pony necked, slab thighed yobs with running eyes and too much aftershave. They collected an uncle of mine that way, the bastards.

The slot machines have kept pace with shiny trends in entertainment, but the thugs employed to break arms and dislodge teeth have not changed to any remarkable extent. The interest repayments are invariably unmakable. The vigorish remains vigorously outlandish.

Still. We all have our vices. It is not merely a capitalist failing. Everyone begins a winner; flushed and flexing muscle. All bets off as the starting pistol barks.

Now, pinball, well; that's another story.