Indestructable?

Unlike a certain Paul Metcalfe a.k.a. Captain Scarlet I am fully aware of my mortality, my mortalness. But if you know me then you'll also know I don't dwell on the big stuff (conquest, war, famine, death), instead I tend to get bogged down in the weeds of triviality and nonsense: my obsession with all things 70s and this blog, 'Are We There Yet?', for example, being perfect distractions from a lot of the heavier (darker, even) stuff that may or may not be lurking around the next corner. But pretty soon I am going to have to address something pretty big, something even more important than much of what lies in the left hand margin of this blog. I'll leave it at that for now. It is the weekend after all and the sun is shinning; let's not bring the mood down. At least not today.

...

And it was only today I learned that Ray Davies name-checks Captain Scarlet on the Village Green Preservation Society album. I must have known that before. Mustn't I?

The Kinks - Daylight (1968)

222

On the back of something my friend The Swede posted the other day, I've been making a playlist of records lasting precisely two minutes twenty two seconds; it's called The 222 Club and is taking shape nicely - early inductees include T. Rex (Solid Gold Easy Action), Booker T & the MGs (Soul Limbo) and The Damned (Love Song). It's filling up fast, so I'll hopefully be putting it out there this side of Christmas.

You can file the next bit under 'Stop me if you've heard this before' (I've been writing this blog for over 10 years and can't for the life of me remember if I've shared this with you already or not). Fifteen years ago - whilst James was still living at home - we recorded a demo in his loft bedroom-cum-recording studio. We decided on an old Kinks song, I Need You, but gave it a much heavier feel.  Although we were both pleased with it at the time, it would be another 10 years till we recorded anything together again.  The reason for bringing this up (again?) is that I considered the Kinks for the 222, but was dismayed to learn it clocked in at a laborious 2:24; when James and I were set loose on it we were able to shave a full 22 seconds off that!

I Need You (2005)

Another Be-Bop Friday

Back in May of this year I was singing the praises of ex-Christians and It's Immaterial songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Henry Priestman, whilst at the same time - probably a tad unfairly - bestowing upon him the accolade of Unsung Hero. As you can see, Henry embraced the term (at least I think he did) and after writing about him again here (and bracketing him with Harry Nilsson no less) I approached him about doing something on my blog. The warm email exchanges that followed were, at every turn, reminiscent - I think anyway, and I'm sure Henry would agree - of two old boys who'd known each other all their lives; though we've never met - maybe that will change as soon as this bloody pandemic buggers off. I hope so.

So I asked Henry to tell his musical story up to the point where he met the Christian brothers. I've always thought that the best tales always happen before the main story.

"I was brought up on a 60s diet of Beatles/Kinks/Tamla/Stones etc, then moving on to psychedelia, then 'underground' or 'progressive' (as it was called in those days) in tandem with Bowie and Roxy. My abiding passion as a teenager was just music music music, and all I ever wanted to do in my life was play in a band. I attended Hull Art College in 1974 for a one year Foundation Course, having failed miserably in my 'A' levels(except Art), and, of course, bands form at Art Colleges (well, they did back then), so it was the obvious path for me.

Towards the end of my time at Hull I formed a band featuring John 'Brad' Bradbury on drums (who later popped up in the Specials), and future Yachts guitarist Martin Watson on guitar (with whom I would end up going to Liverpool Art College after the summer). We rehearsed for weeks and played the end of summer term party, supporting a chap from the main college called Eric Goulden (aka Alan Addis), whose band went under the marvellous moniker Addis and the Fliptops (featuring the Binettes). Two years later (Wreckless) Eric and I would both be signed to Stiff records.

Liverpool was actually my second choice for the three year Diploma Course; I applied to Leeds Art College, but failed the interview. Interestingly enough, if I had got into Leeds, I’d have been on the same Fine Art Course (and same year) as Marc Almond & Dave Ball of Soft Cell. It could’ve been all so different! So Martin and I both headed to Liverpool with ideas of forming a band. What sort of band we weren’t sure, and had no thoughts of actually writing our own material. We were lucky, punk came in (meaning you only had to be vaguely proficient on your instrument...ideal for me!): songs became shorter, less than three minutes, but full of 'honesty and energy' (as my later song 'Did I Fight in the Punk Wars for This?' stated). We formed the typical Art College band, somebody suggested we write our own songs and two years later fortune smiled upon us as we (now called Yachts) released our first single 'Suffice to Say'. With Yachts we had a good run for our money: a couple of albums (even scraping into the Billboard charts), toured the States twice, toured Europe supporting the Who...but all bands reach their sell-by date at some point - even if they don’t split up.

It was whilst in Yachts that I formed a hobby band with Yachts’ original singer John Campbell called It’s Immaterial - we’d find obscure songs by American garage/punk/psych bands (like the ones that would appear on Lenny Kaye’s wonderful Nuggets compilation, but even more obscure...so people might think we’d written them!), and just play for fun round Liverpool. I was away in the States touring with Yachts, and when I returned John and Jarvis from Itsy had come up with this idea for a song 'A Gigantic Raft in the Philippines'. Suddenly my hobby band was doing more interesting stuff than my main band, so I made the decision to leave Yachts and do It’s Immaterial full time. The only thing was that I was no longer a writer in the band (I’d been the main writer in Yachts), which started off fine; it was nice not to be having to come up with an album’s worth of tunes every year, and I became the sort of Brian Jones of the band - instrument-wise I’m jack-of-all-trade (master of absolutely NONE), playing a bit of keys/guitar/clarinet/sax/marimba/cello etc etc. This was fun for a while, but I was starting to come up with ideas for songs, and realising I probably wouldn’t get them away with Itsy, I stashed them, and began thinking about whom I could get to sing them. It’s Immaterial were working on a song (that became a single) called 'Ed’s Funky Diner', and we’d heard of this a cappella band of brothers who would be ideal for singing on the chorus of this new song. I was working at that time as an engineer in a demo studio that belonged to Itsy’s manager Pete Fulwell, and the brothers Christian were booked in to add their vocals to the track. I was the only member of Itsy at this session, and when the session ended, I plucked up courage to ask “would you like to hear some of my songs?” Two of them had a game of tennis booked, and didn’t really appear interested, but the three brothers Garry, Russell & Roger  all stayed to hear my demos and we began working together on songs that would end up on the Christians' eponymous triple platinum debut album. You could say that was a fortuitous meeting, and I’m glad I asked them to listen to my songs!"

***

And so to the second part of me quizzing Henry. Could he, I asked him, tell me in 200 words who his favourite band/artist is? Of course he could!

"I go through phases, last month it might’ve been Roy Harper, the month before that Belle & Sebastian; it changes, but currently, having just finished Johnny Rogan’s Ray Davies biography, I’m into all things Kinks - which is sort of where I came in. My friend and neighbour, John Lewis, his dad ran the Hedon Bakery, and John had all the latest singles, so it was a case of free cakes & Vimto, and afternoons listening to his amazing record collection -  Beatles, Byrds, Pretty Things, Stones and THE KINKS. Mum liked the Beatles (she’d bought me 'From Me To You' for my 7th birthday) tolerated The Stones, but couldn’t STAND The Kinks, which of course made me like them even more! And then I found out that me and Ray share the same birthday! So, having saved up my meagre pocket money, my next step was to buy my first album (with my own money). The Marble Arch label came to the rescue: for twelve & six you could buy 'Well Respected Kinks', it had all the classic early singles on, and the B sides were fabulous too. I was hooked. I’m currently trying to buy up all the Kinks LPs I sold in my ill-advised LP cull of 2010. They’re not cheap; lend us £50, would you, John?"

Henry Priestman at home, August 2020 (photo courtesy of Mrs. Priestman - a.k.a .'Her Ladyship')

A huge thank you to Henry who as well as being a perpetually busy man - writing and recording - was also in the middle of selling his house when writing this for me.

Cold Turkey

I'd like to think that the opening words of my first blog of a new year set the tone for the remaining 360 odd days to come. But as last year ended on an all time low (for all sorts of reasons - some obvious, some not so), the bar is currently set pretty low. However, as this blog approaches its 10th anniversary I'm afraid I can't make any promises for 2020. To quote Doris Day, what will be, will be. A Happy New Year to you all.

.........

I spent much of the holidays re-watching Budgie - Keith Waterhouse's finest creation (surpassing even the brilliance of Billy Liar). I've name-checked Waterhouse and Budgie Bird in previous blogs so I'll concentrate, instead, on the theme music. 

Only two series were made by LWT - in 1971 & 1972. The first deployed a haunting instrumental, The Loner, credited to the Milton Hunter Orchestra. Budgie, played by Adam Faith, is seen chasing (always out of reach) pound notes - the programmes's overriding premise encapsulated in just 45 seconds.

For the second series we see the same footage, only this time to the backdrop of a beautiful song written by Ray Davies: Nobody's Fool is - to the untrained ear, the Kinks at the top of their game. Only it isn't. Well, it's Ray Davies singing, that much we do know, but according to the label on the accompanying Pye single, the artist is Cold Turkey. Go figure.

Cold Turkey - Nobody's Fool (1972)

From the bright busy streets off the Charing Cross Road

To the dark little alleys in old Soho

Thank you for the days

A year ago I was heading in the right direction

Keeping it real in NG5

One year ago, to the day, I turned a corner: quite a few corners actually. 12 months ago, on what was a beautiful sunny morning (an omen if ever there was one), the removal van transported all my worldly goods and chattels down the country and deposited them back in civilisation.

So, an anniversary. Though no song or dance required; well, I may have to raise a glass or two this evening and toast NG5 (my postcode of choice) - just to be sociable, you understand.

I say no song; scratch that. Today's selection is a peach. Try as he might, Ray Davies can do no wrong in my book. His songs will continue to be sung as long as humans occupy planet Earth. And beyond, probably. Of that I am convinced.

'Days' was released as a single 50 years ago this month. Can you believe it? Pinch yourself. It's what I've been doing the last 365 days.

The Kinks - Days (1968)

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Postscript, 2 June '18

Oh my word, I've just found this - Ray Davies with the Crouch End Choir (audio only). I want it to be played at my funeral.

What about the Diddy Men?

Suit you 'Sir'

I woke up this morning to see Ray Davies' mug staring back at me from the telly. 'Christ, not another one!' I bellowed. Turns out Raymond Douglas Davies is very much alive - fit as a butcher's dog in fact. No, the reason he's on the news is because Her Majesty has given him a New Year's shiny thing: a trinket for services to Waterloo, or somesuch. Which is all well and good, fair play to the lad, but what about our kid?




Without Dave Davies there would be no Kinks (it was Dave's band, let's not forget), no Ray Davies the songwriter, no Knighthood. Someone needs to have a word with Queenie. You can't do one without the other. It'd be like honouring Ken Dodd but forgetting the Diddy Men - the young lads who did all the spade work and made him so tattyphilarious; it couldn't happen.

'In the back of the taxi, you squeeze my hand so tightly'

The first line of a song, any song, sets the scene: it's got to pull you in. In the words of Mick (and Keef) 'Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste.' An opening line that begins the story, makes you lean in closer and never stops cascading. I don't professes to be anything other than someone who dabbles with songwriting, but even I know that your first half dozen or so words is the one chance you get to make a first impression. The line at the top of this post opens my new three (nearly four) minute ditty, Days Like This. I'll get a demo put up just as soon as I've recorded it.

Phil Oakey knows a thing or two about opening gambits: 'You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I met you.' It does its job doesn't it? Who could turn the radio off when they've just heard that declaration?

John Lennon, in true heart on sleeve style, once said 'When I was younger so much younger than today, I never needed anybody's help in any way.' Not even Paul's. Or Yoko's come to that.

But my favourite has got to be one of Ray Davies' many brilliant starters for ten: 'I met her in a club down in old Soho where they drink champagne that tastes just like cherry cola.'

The Kinks: Lola

'Ray boils at a different temperature'

Ray & Dave. 'Ray boils at a different temperature.'

Ray Davies and Dave Davies: the two patron saints of Muswell Hill. Any story about The Kinks could only ever be about the love hate relationship the two siblings from north London have had with each other for nigh on three score years and ten.

Setting it to music was always going to be a doddle (countless hit singles and albums on both sides of the Atlantic); hanging a story around it, maybe not so.

But Sunny Afternoon, which we caught last Saturday (the 2:30 matinee - I love matinees) at the Harold Pinter Theatre, pulled the whole working class oiks come good parable together quite brilliantly. A rags to glad rags story, you could say, and a sheer joy from start to finish. It played out, in a weird way, like a sort of Austin Powers meets Return to the Forbidden Planet. And the two young actors playing the battling brothers, Danny Horn and Oliver Hoare, were superb.

From power chords (You Really Got Me) to barbershop (a beautiful a cappella version of Days), via Waterloo Sunset (of course), much of it to a backdrop of dolly birds and hot pants (well, it was the sixties) this show, as they say, had it all. I feel a return visit coming on.

Booking till April 2016. 

For C

Kinky

That's tomorrow sorted then: train into town, a couple of beers in the Nell Gwynne (just off The Strand), followed by a five minute walk to the Harold Pinter Theatre. Let's hope it really is a Sunny Afternoon.

Just Backdated

BBC 6 Music are cock-a-hoop about finding a 'lost' radio show that David Bowie knocked up forty years ago to plug his then current album Pin Ups - a perfectly sculptured and segued homage to 60s London. Talking about his version of I Can't Explain, Bowie has this to say about The Who:

'...but the biggest buzz was back at The Marquee. They dressed weeks out of date, but they did all the right stuff – Martha & The Vandellas and all that. A lot of action on a night. They were our band, The Who.'

That's right, The Who's fashion sense was so ancient they dressed weeks out of date; Pete Townshend must have been hanging his head in shame. I love the way Bowie put a sax on the song Townshend freely admits to nicking off The Kinks.

David Bowie - I Can't Explain (1973)