Parker Burwell Toop credit Jak Kilby


‘Dad Lit’?

I had occasion to blog about David Hepworth a short while back, and didn’t think that I’d feel the need to repeat the exercise. At least not so soon, but then again, he’s been pumping books out to the tune of one a year since 2016, and I couldn’t really resist his latest, which is about the ‘golden age’ of the long-playing record, or LP. I don’t propose to get into an anorack debate about whether I agree about the dates of his proposed golden era, It’s from 1967 (Sgt. Peppers, basically, supposedly getting the whole shebang on the road) to 1982 (Michael Jackson’s Thriller, representing the apogee of the format, and the beginning of the end, at least until the vinyl resurrection of the 2000s). Nor to go into some very obvious omissions (Forever Changes being the one that rankled the most for me). What I want to do is briefly look at Hepworth’s influence, given that he is now nearly 70 years of age, and evidently feeling the need to put his ‘life in music’ into book form. Many of ‘em, what’s more, thanks to Bantam Press and people like me who buy the things.

It’s very good, by the way, and probably the one of his that I’ve enjoyed the most. It’s funny, witty, doesn’t take itself too seriously, and paints an accurate picture of the passion and absurdity involved in pursuing and getting hold of vinyl back in the Dark Ages of the sixties and seventies. I laughed out load at several points, as it bought back so many memories of the whole experience of living in the pre-digital age. But here’s the thing - you have to be around my age (seven years younger than Hepworth himself) to really ‘get it’, I would have thought. This isn’t meant to imply that anyone under 50 won’t be able to enjoy the book, as it is engaging and informative, but I would imagine that younger readers might wonder what all the fuss was about, just as it is nigh on impossible to conjure up just how crappy so many aspects of living in England were in those years. Obviously, they’re crappy now as well, but in a very different way. Looking at a punk retrospective on YouTube the other night just reminded me of how grim life could be then, and just how important music and the objects that held music were to us. I guess that a modern-day equivalent might be our attitudes to our mobile devices?

If there is such a thing as ‘Dad Rock’, symbolised for many by Paul Weller, well, here is ‘Dad Lit’. We have to remember that Hepworth co- hosted The Old Grey Whistle Test, with fellow publishing trend-maker Mark Ellen (the Paul McCartney lookalike), both of them probably chosen because they managed to appear like a breath of fresh air after Whispering Bob Harris. But given that the OGWT was kick-started by the great Richard Williams, the only way after Williams left was down. Only John Peel could adequately have replaced RW. Anyhow, both Hepworth and Ellen seem to have gone down in rock history for co-hosting Live Aid in 1985, for some reason. My wife was there on the day, and has commented that it was a bit like saying that you’d been at Woodstock - for most people who attended, they couldn’t see the groups properly, there was inadequate toilet and food facilities, and the whole event has been over-hyped ever since by people who weren’t even there. To be fair to Hepworth, he makes the same point (about Woodstock).

But the thing that Hepworth deserves to go down for (in history, that is, rather than to jail) is for being one of the principal creators of the idea of the ‘rock canon’ and, as part of this, the obsession with ‘lists’ of all kinds. He was also responsible for/involved in the creation of Q (the first of it’s sort, a sort of rock ‘glossie’,aimed at an ‘older’ audience than inkies like the NME), Mojo and The Word, and, by their influence, all of the other such publications that have monumentalised and set in aspic the ‘1000 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die’ type of thinking. Now, many people will say,”well, what’s wrong with that, exactly?”, and they would be completely entitled to. One response that I would offer is that this phenomenon of historicising popular music has partly led to ancient LPs being re-released by grasping record labels and re-sold to the public as expensive decorations for home and hearth, when really these artifacts should be as cheap as chips. I reckon that the record companies must have pinched themselves and thought their collective ship had come in, when they realised that young people were more than willing to shell out literally hundred of pounds for recordings that were made over fifty years ago. Over thirty notes for The White Album, even more for near-exact replicas of stuff by the likes of Zeppelin and Nick Drake. ‘Genuine’ old vinyl commands equally daft prices. I feel quite smug that I have kept my old vinyl, and it’s a bit like those who bought Victorian houses before they became fashionable, and can now cash in.

One (of many) good points that Hepworth makes is that LPs were actually expensive back in the day, and that, for the average 14-18 year old, say, the purchasing of one was a considerable challenge. I remember saving up for literally months to get hold of Hot Rats (I still have the price sticker on this, it cost forty shillings and eight old pence, i.e. two old pounds) and Ummagumma in 1970 (still have them, as well), and that they were priced by Reprise and Harvest Records respectively at the high end of their retail range (they were seen at the time as ‘luxury items’). It seems crazy to me that LPs are similarly priced today. But, as they say, “there’s no fool like an old fool”. Except when they’re young. And record companies are just as greedy as they were now as they were in 1970.

Female Improvisers and a great venue

We went to the wonderful I’Klecktik last night to see an evening “Celebrating Women’s Contribution to Improvised Music”, as part of International Women’s Day. It is absurd to think that there should be an event or events celebrating the contribution of half of the world’s population, but there you have it.

There were five female improvisers and, for some reason, Neil Metcalf on that perhaps most ‘feminine’ of instruments, the flute, in the ensemble. Given that there was an audience of less than twenty, it is hard to come to any firm  conclusions about anything, but it was interesting that, by the end, almost all the remaining listeners were, in fact, male. But this was not a stridently radical feminist gig, merely another very good free improv gig. Which made me wonder generally about if there is any longer a need for events that sell themselves as female-centered? Clearly there is, but this was in essence an evening of challenging and fascinating improvised music. Whether the fact that the majority of participants were middle-aged women is a moot (and wonderful) point, as is whether there is such a thing as ‘feminine improv’ or some such entity. ‘Insect Improv’ is ‘Insect Improv’, whatever gender performs it. Or maybe not. What do I know? Really?

Free Improvisation, as my two books about free improvisation have suggested, was spawned by men, and largely played by men, until fairly recently. This situation has changed, with women gradually  joining the ‘movement’ and older improvisers now being acknowledged, finally.

Just like any old men’s firm, I’m afraid.

It was thus a joy to behold, the other night, the always-recognised Sylvia Hallett, alongside the less well-known Catherine Pruygers on oboe, Sue Lynch on saxophone and Sue Farrar on violin. The excellent bassist’s name I’m afraid I didn’t catch, for which many embarrassed apologies (she was great, needless to say). I don’t propose to describe the gig, beyond saying that it was first-class improvisation, of both the ‘laminar’ and the ‘pointillistic’ type, involving both freely- extemporised playing and that which involved reacting to projected graphic scores from Livia Garcia and Martin Harrison. Adrian Northover’s electronics are also well worthy of recommendation. Hallett’s solo bowed bicycle wheel feature was especially wonderful, as was her duo with the great bassist.

I was rather baffled by the poor attendance.  Did it’s advert seem a bit ‘separatist’ (it wasn’t in any way) or was the publicity a bit crap (it often is for gigs like this)? Or is this stuff still infra dig, as they used to say?

It certainly reminded us of what a GREAT gig I’Klecktik has become, especially now that the space has been opened up by the removal of the partition at the front, and with a new coat of paint. Marvelous acoustics as well, maybe as good as the much-venerated Little Theater Club, which this place is increasingly coming to resemble. So, all in all, another totally satisfactory experience from the venue that is probably now my favourite of improv spaces - less compressed than The Vortex and less up-itself than Oto.  ‘Music Without Bluster’ seems to sum up the music presented here - Eddie Prevost and John Butcher seem to love the place, which gives one an idea of what to expect (no Brotzmann here). More than that, the whole ‘vibe’ of Old Paradise Yard and environs is special, and full marks are due to those people who have created this oasis in William Blake’s back yard. Venues tend to ‘peak’, and I think that I’Klecktik has reached it. Go and see, but don’t expect to see queues outside. Which should be a clue in itself.

Norman Rockwell vs. Trump’s Munch-ian Blight House

My wife and I have been looking for a substantial series to watch, a no doubt-hopeless effort to replicate the ineffable experience of watching ‘The Wire’ and ‘The Sopranos’. So, I chose ‘The West Wing’, a long-form series that seems to have gained generally universal praise. The missus dropped out of the long haul fairly early on, thinking that it was a bit too ‘folksy’ and ‘feel good’ for her tastes. How annoyingly up-to-speed she is, given the real-time changes in the White House, aka,nowadays,The Blight House or Bleak House?  I actually quite like The West Wing and its quasi-narcotic spell, but, having been made around twenty-odd years ago, it already feels like a Norman Rockwell painting, as opposed to the modern day Edvard Munch-ian horrors of the Trump Presidency. How low have we, in this case the Americans, fallen? ‘The Scream’ seems to just about sum it all up.

The Americans have always been idealists, and The West Wing’s main characters represent this - we all surely would want a family like this? President Josh Bartlett (Martin Sheen) or his Chief of Staff Leo would be the Dad of our dreams; C.J. our mum; Toby our cranky uncle; Donna, our slightly wacky sister; Sam our sexy cousin; Charlie our charmer cousin; Zoe our adorable little sister, Zoe our adorable little sister and Josh our ideal big brother. All of them exuding sheer charisma and good will. We’d all want them to cover our backs, wouldn’t we? They’re good people, period. But how would you fancy the current occupants of the White House as family?

Trump’s attitude to his daughter is dodgy at best, over-sexualised and over-familiar. That towards his sons is demeaning and hostile,all of the dysfunctional psychodrama putting me in mind of  the ‘myth’ of Chronos eating his children out of pure murderous envy.. Josiah Bartlett is saintly in comparison. But, then again, he is a fictional character! The Trump Administration is a nightmare version of that of Bartlett, all of the latter’s positive and joyful characteristics being leeched out of it. Josiah’s wife is a compassionate doctor - who/what, exactly, is Donald Trump’s wife? No-one really knows. Or really cares. Their only child seems to be a rather sinister replicant, one of the pod people that Jacob Rees-Mogg seems to have both a member of, and sadly seems to be grooming his children (including the ludicrously named ‘Sixtus’) to also join. Brrrrhhh! What scions of ugliness - Ivanka’s cold ‘allure’ (never mind  her husband’s equally robotic sheen). John Crace’s now-classic ‘Maybot- trope can be applied to this lot.

Just compare C.J.’s press briefings to those of the current era, and we can see how low we’ve all fallen. I’ll leave it to a few quotes about The West Wing: “”They could make you feel inspired about politics in our worst moments of cynicism” and “We dream of a real Commander-in-Chief who was half the president Bartlett was”. The comparison is painful, to be frank. We, and our American friends, are left with a sad refection of our joint aspirations and hopes. The West Wing is great TV, but it seems contemporary as Yes Minister (but without the nostalgic glow, as American TV occupies a never-never land of gleeful optimism).

Scott Walker - In memoriam

Like many others, I’m sure, I was taken aback at the news of Scott Walker’s death this morning. That makes two great ex-pop stars turned avantists that have passed in the past few weeks, the other being the somewhat less exalted Mark Hollis, formerly of Talk Talk.

Richard Williams, as per usual, has beaten me to it, with a lovely blog (or re-blog) about first seeing the young Scott Engels in 1965 on Ready Steady Go. Being slightly younger than Richard (just), I can still remember just how much of an impact the Walker Brothers made in the Beatles-obsessed mid-60s pop scene, all Brian Jones-haircuts and Righteous Brothers harmonies. A fantastic run of singles that remain truly timeless, from probably pop music’s greatest period. Period.

I won’t tell the story of Scott’s journey - the rock press will already be onto that. But what strikes me most immediately, in terms of narrative, is the sheer contrasts involved here. Engel’s renowned solo albums, four of ‘em from 1967-69, which is a tremendously concentrated feat in anyone’s terms, are counterbalanced by the four from 1984-2012 (Climate of Hunter, Tilt, The Drift and Bish Bosch), a nearly-thirty year paint-drying exercise in alienating his previous audience (apart from a few masochists like myself). Glorious excursions such as’ My Ship Is Coming In’, ‘Duchess’ and ‘Big Louise’ were eventually followed by horror-shows such as ‘The Cockfighter’ and ‘Zercon, A Flag Sitter’, surely one of the most pretentiously irritating tracks ever envisioned? I’m a big fan of Tilt, but the latter two albums remain rather indigestible delicacies only to be visited when I feel especially ‘unusual’, a mood that Withnail-ed. Two more monstrous propositions are hard to locate, but there they are, like particularly irritating gargoyles in your record collection, that won’t be forgotten and continually demand re-examination. And I thank Scott Walker for them, because they totally discombobulate (is that the word?) me.

It would be easy, at this point, to just luxuriate in Scott 4 (about which Thom Yorke has held forth, as a big influence on the oiky fifth formers Radiohead), so I’ve just played it - the wife says that ‘’he has a totally distinctive voice’’, but isn’t a huge fan. And now I’ve put on Bish Bosch ‘’, just to punish my earlier easy option: ‘’ Whilst plucking feathers from a swan song’’ is about as understandable as it gets. I still can’t decide whether I love or hate this record, and I’ve had it for seven years. I’m actually tempted to say that it’s a more difficult proposition than Trout Mask Replica, to be honest. Ultimately, it’s a colder and less humorous (although it tries, farts and all) album than TMR, I think, but, goodness what a piece of work!!

I hate to say it, but what equivalent artists are there today? Scott leaves eight totemic solo albums, his Walker Bros legacy, and a few very interesting side projects such as the Pola X,soundtrack and the Sunn O collaboration, Soused, which will stand as his final work, until the undoubted posthumous wave of ‘unreleased material’ emerges over the next few months ‘’….on their hands - at last- a dead star’’, as Morrissey said, but i prefer the ‘Zircon’ summary, ‘’It’s so cold…infrared…what if I freeze…and drop..into the darkness?’’ Good old Scott, never one to follow the pack.

Jack the Ripper. 2 of 2

Another Ripper rock riff that I’ve just remembered was a track by The Band of Susans called ‘Elizabeth Stride’, named after the third of the ‘Canonical Five’ (even this sounds like the name of a potential Bad Seeds spin-off?) to be found, on the same night that the body of Catherine Eddowes was also discovered. Hallie Rubenhold brilliantly reconstructs the life stories of Stride, Eddowes and the other three murdered women, and their tragic tales portray social conditions that have not only not gone away, but have become re-instituted in the welter of the many and various welfare and social care cuts/ ‘necessary rationalisations’ instituted in this country since 2010 by the Conservative Party’s wet dream of ‘austerity’.  Universal Credit is but one example of the headlong flight back toward the ‘Victorian Values’ ideology so trumpeted by Margaret ‘There Is No Such Thing As Society’ Thatcher and John ‘Back to Basics’ Major. Ian Duncan-Smith is merely one of the many keen heirs of this underhand method of punishing those deemed ‘unworthy’ of the state’s bounty.

 I’d like to just create a few bullet-points, in no particular order of importance, to illustrate a few of the factors that affected the five women concerned in ‘The Five’, factors that are still at play in 2019, and that seem to becoming more pronounced every day:

  • The paucity of ‘safety nets’. All it took to ‘fall out of the system’ was a significant change in life circumstances, e.g.the death of a spouse, especially of the main wage-earner, usually male; the birth of yet another child, allied to which was the poor awareness (and strong societal condemnation) of birth control methods; sheer ‘bad luck’, a factor that affected all of The Five, in one way or another; loss of employment and, linked to this, of a decent place to live; poor health, including unrecognised mental health and alcohol/drug dependence issues. As we can see on the streets of our cities today, people are increasingly losing their accomodation, and being forced to sleep rough, which, as Rubenhold makes clear, was a completely accepted feature of the Victorian London landscape, as it is now of ours.
  • Mysogyny in all its scum-coloured manifestations was at the heart at how The Five were judged (and found wanting) by the patriarchy that made and implemented the laws that represented the double standards of the day. One of Rubenhold’s main points is that all the women were labelled as ‘prostitutes’, despite evidence to the contrary in most of their cases. The mysogyny infected laws around divorce, separation, adultery and extra-marital dalliances in general. the #MeToo’ movement’ of today would have shocked and appalled the entire Victorian legal edifice which ensured that women were punished for perceived sexual and behavioural incontinence. If you the use of/dependence on alcohol to sexual independence, you were definitely beyond the pale. Alcohol issues affected all five women, but the concept of treatment (outside of religious rehab) barely existed then, and the nightmare world of the workhouse and the casual wards awaited those who stepped out of line, and out of the male-dominated marketplace of financial renumeration for the various ‘services rendered’ by women of the day
  • Allied to the notion of  financial transactions was the fact that marriage can be recast as a form of indentured labour, which included sex on demand for the husband, something that he was legally entitled to as part of the’ deal.’ The ‘prostitute’ label was a clear signifier that our five were considered by their male judges as ‘bottom of the pile’ in societal terms. The patriarchy had no other framework to help it understand how a woman could be sexually independent of a significant male other. Domestic violence, still a huge issue today, was just one obvious manifestation of the control/coercion formula that was largely accepted (if loftily disapproved of by the more affluent and fortunate, even if DV occurred in their own houses, which it did).
  • The horrendous statistics for infant mortality in Victorian times are clearly laid out by Rubenhold, who reminds us that most of these women had several children, of whom a significant amount died young. The concept of post-natal depression was unformulated then (although the middle-classes had the handy ‘neurasthenia’ diagnosis to explain away significant changes, particularly in women). The awful toll that continuous childbirth and death inflicted on the mother of Catherine Eddowes, for example, makes for difficult reading  - gone at 42 years of age, Catherine senior had nevertheless reached the average age of death ” for a woman of her class”. There still exists, even in today’s society, significant discrepancies between the age of death of the average person from somewhere in, say Oldham, and that of a person from, say, Kensington.
  • Finally (far from it actually, but this is all we’ve got time for), the issue of housing looms large throughout ‘The Five’. Unscrupulous and greedy landlords, substandard buildings, public health infringements, etc, etc, have an uncomfortable resonance with one of today’s biggest societal problems, and one that has been, very conveniently, sidelined along with much else, by the morass of Brexit. And, throughout it all, there is evidence that the gap between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’ (which The Five certainly were members of) is getting larger and larger. Look forward soon to Trafalgar Square regularly ‘housing’ over 200 rough sleepers, a phenonenen that was commonplace enough at the absolute epicenter of the British Empire at the height of its power and self-importance. Yet this was a time that some still look back towards with a bogus, yet dewy-eyed, faux nostalgia. O tempora, o mores!, as Boris Johnson would no doubt say.

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