Another one bites the dust

There are certain episodes in your life that shake you to your very core, and disturb you in ways you couldn’t even begin to fathom. One such episode occurred last night when I was sitting down to watch Eastenders and was forced to witness a sobbing Samantha Janus sing Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ to her dead daughter’s coffin. No wonder the girl gormlessly walked into an oncoming car…

There are some traumas that not even the most adept power-showers can wash off.

Which got me thinking about the nature of death, funerals and music in general.

When a rare 70s soul track was played at Jade Goody’s funeral recently, a herd of Jade-ites from Essex reportedly bombarded their local HMV with requests for the track.

Staff at HMV revealed they were inundated with people trying to get their hands on a CD of ‘Ooh Child’ by The Five Stairsteps….and I quote, “it obviously had a real impact.”

This might be a controversial confession to make, but of all the tunes I’d imagine Jade picking, this one ain’t one of them. Thinking about it further, the song choices you make during (arguably) the two “biggest” events in your life – marriage and death, say an awful lot about how you view yourself, and….more importantly, how you wish others to view you. Are the two necessarily compatable? Of course not…

When Hunter S Thompson was laid to rest, he ensured the oppositive would happen in true Gonzo style by having Johnny Depp fire his ashes from out of a canon to the tune of Bob Dylan. Not bad, not bad at all…

Which singular track sums you up?

When I asked folks to send me the songs they’d like to be played at their wake, the results were gloriously eclectic: from The Who, to The Stones, Patti Smith and Green Day…

Top marks, however, goes to my mate Guy for revealing he’d like to be cremated to the melody of Prodigy’s ‘Firestarter’. Guy, if you’re reading, you win a mars bar.

On record, the official list of the most popular tunes played at funerals range from the predictable, to the bizarre, to the sublime.

Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ took the gold medal, but up there with him sits AC/DC with ‘Highway To Hell’, Queen’s ‘Another One Bites The Dust’ and Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’.

Which just shows the divide between people who still wanna wind people up at their own funeral, and those who are determined to get every single member of their congregation miserably blubbing into their cut-price Tescos flowers.

In fact, the UK top three is currently:

1. ‘My Way’ – Frank Sinatra/Shirley Bassey
2. ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ – Bette Midler
3. ‘Time To Say Goodbye’ – Sarah Brightman/Andrea Bocelli

Which only goes to show how many deceased people still lack musical integrity – even in the afterlife.

For the record, the song I would most like played at my own funeral is T-Rex’s ‘Cosmic Dancer’.  Closely followed by: Verve’s ‘History’, Melanie’s ‘Little Bit Of Me’, Cat Steven’s ‘Lilywhite’ and PJ Harvey’s ‘The Desperate Kingdom of Love’.

So someone please write that down before some Co-Operative idiot whacks on Bette Midler…

Ta. I’ll leave you with Marc Bolan:

Boys Keep Swinging

So, in the same weekend that I had a lengthy (*add insubstantial and frivolous to that mix actually – this was less about battling the throes of theology and more about whiling away my bored Saturday night with inane observations on throwaway subjects I am unequivocally unqualified to comment on, yet still seem to have a wealth of un-researched opinions about*)…

Do you know what? I’m complicating things. Lets start this again.

So, in the same weekend that I had a (actually, not so lengthy) “discussion” with my mate Andy about how I reckon Jesus was the first feminist (in so far as any man can actually be a feminist…which is another theological issue altogether), I put on some David Bowie and…yes, you’ve guessed it! Bowie and Jesus really do have more in common than you’d think.

Gender issues as a given (I’m also sure Bowie must’ve worn a loin cloth at some point in his career), I’ve been looking at his lyrics with refreshed interest. David Bowie: un-championed male feminist in rock music?

I mean, lets look at the facts. Most of the rock ‘n’ roll greats have cemented an entire career upon the burning embers of their glorious misogyny. We’ve all acknowledged the likes of Bob Dylan (“I didn’t mean to treat you so bad/You shouldn’t take it so personal/I didn’t mean to make you so sad/You just happened to be there, that’s all.”), Neil Young (“A man needs a maid”), Leonard Cohen (to an extent, I guess if you’re talking about categorising a woman as merely a “muse” above all other things) and The Rolling Stones (“It’s down to me, the difference in the clothes she wears, down to me, the change has come, she’s under my thumb”), but kudos to The Beatles for slipping past the net. I don’t know any other band that could pull off a cheery tune like ‘Getting Better’ and whack the most blatant wife-beating discourse over the top.

“I used to be cruel to my woman, I beat her, and kept her apart from the things that she loved. Then I was mean, but I’m changing my scene, I’m doing the best that I can…”

(Well that’s fine then Maccas, as long as you’re doing the best that you can…that’s all that matters. Why don’t you lay another shiner on her whilst you’re at it? All in the name of rehabilitation, naturally…) Are these the same boys that most mothers in the 60s claimed they’d prefer their daughters brought home, over The Rolling Stones? Top marks for misogyny-under-the-radar, kids! I mean, how many of us have whistled along to lyrics that in the cold light of day, read like a Jeremy Kyle transcript? Hands up, we’ve all done it…

Then you have something like David Bowie’s ‘Boy Keep Swinging’ which really does hit you right between the eyes, in terms of the kind of sharp summation that you easily could’ve been written by a woman.

Heaven loves ya

The clouds part for ya

Nothing stands in your way

When you’re a boy

 

Clothes always fit ya

Life is a pop of the cherry

When you’re a boy

 

When you’re a boy

You can wear a uniform

When you’re a boy

Other boys check you out

You get a girl

These are your favourite things

When you’re a boy

Which I guess is the crux here – many men try and satirise machismo, yet few pull it off with such insightful ease. Throw in the video for good measure – a suited Bowie backed by backing singers that turn out to be Bowie again in drag – and the WI has themselves a cracking good pop tune.

I’ll await Lily Allen’s rendition with bated breath…

Oh Odetta

 

I thought it would be a good  idea to celebrate the life and extraordionary work of Odetta, who passed away today at the age of 77.

 

Many of you may remember Bob Dylan nodding his cap to this core-shaking singer on his Scorsese documentary ‘No Direction Home’, as her earthy ‘Water Boy’ vocals tumbled out of her.

 

In a 1978 interview, he said: “The first thing that turned me on to folk singing was Odetta.”

 

In fact, it was Odetta’s integral handprint on the American folk music revival in the 1950s that convinced the freewheeler to sell his electric guitar and play an acoustic one instead.

 

In her own right, she was a striking performer and freedom fighter, best-known in the US for taking part in the 1963 civil rights march on Washington, where she sang ‘O Freedom’.

 

Meticulous to her art, Time magazine even wrote in 1960. “To understand the emotions of a convict in a convict ditty, she once tried breaking up rocks with a sledge hammer.”

 

A raw talent. A defiant legancy. Odetta will be sorely missed. 

 

Please click onto this YouTube video in tribute and memory:

Ibiza rock ‘n’ roll

Syd Barrett in Formentera

The year is 1970. A bare-footed Joni Mitchell is ‘looking for the key to set her free’. Fleeing her lover, she packs up her guitar case and tip-toes the beaten path down through the French grape-vines, battling across the border to Spain and onwards to Barcelona before finally carving a path across the sea and coming home to Atlantis. Dipping her toes in the azure-water, she breathes in the Ibicenco air and breathes out her soul-defining record ‘Blue’. Her lover, Graham Nash, will hear her farewell letter when the album is released a year later in 1971. Postcards from the edge will never be the same again…

I recently had the pleasure of compiling a brief history of Ibiza’s rock ‘n’ roll myth-making for Ibiza Now, which has now been uploaded onto their blog pages.

To read up on the shape-shifting antics of Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd and Bob Marley on the island, click on the link below:

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He’s an artist, he don’t look back…

It begins with a statement of intent:

“It seemed I’d always been chasing after something…Anything that might lead out into some more lit place, some unknown land downriver…”

The lit place is at Halcyon Gallery. The unknown land is brought to us by none other than Bob Dylan.

Lets cut to the chase: so many musicians have tried their hand at a spot of canvas work and failed miserably (not naming names, Ronnie Wood). It’s certainly a brave attempt by any person renowned for doing something completely different, to whack on the Picasso overalls and try something else. And do it well.

It’s even braver to (after many years) agree to showcase these extremely personal paintings to the public, especially bearing in mind the manner in which Dylan has curtained off his private life to roving eyes. Even XM Radio in the US (who host the troubadour’s Theme Time Radio Hour) have no idea where he broadcasts his shows from. Yet here we see Dylan unveil one of the most private aspects of his personal and artistic worlds: his paintings. And each tells a completely different story…

Sure, Dylan has displayed his love of painting to us on record sleeves such as his 1970 (critically ripped apart, yet I cherish as one of my personal favourites) release ‘Self Portrait’. But I’ve never had the opportunity to gain access to three floors worth of his material.

Waltzing into the first floor display room and the eye meets a series of paintings entitled ‘Train Tracks.’ For many fans, these paintings sum up Dylan’s philosophy: a man hell bent on walkin’ down that line, always keeping going, ever the shape-shifting artist, never looking back. What strikes immediately is the way he repeats a number of identical paintings, using different colours for each. Turquoise switches to white, switches to orange, swathes to blue. It is a theme that continues throughout his work and is something that struck me as indicative of Bob Dylan’s life and work – just as he changes the colour, thus changing the mood, appealing for different reactions; so the same applies to his music. This is a vibrant reminder of why Bob Dylan can never be categorised: each colour change on canvas symbolises his entire musical career and displays just how he approaches performing his songs – constantly changing, ever evolving, never conforming to expectation and always pissing off those traditionalists who yell at the back “get out an acoustic guitar and sing it like on Freewheelin’!”

Whether it’s a single draped violet curtain, an azure blue horizon, or a random pedestrian man swathed in green on a bridge: colour is what moves Dylan. You can soak in the David Hockney rainbow-palate and drink up the Picasso brush-strokes. 

New Orleans walkways give way to Chicago back alleys, into walled in introspection of Dallas hotel rooms, lakeside cabins and New York apartment blocks. This is Dylan’s world: a life on the road. Each shows a different side to the rolling stone who has made his life his own self-made train tracks.

I found it particularly interesting that the one canvas that most summed up Bob Dylan was the one that has sold the least. Was it the prettiest? No. The most vibrant? No. Most accomplished? Of course not. To me, this was the one that summed up the spirit of the story-teller, but most importantly of the acerbic social-commentator. ‘Statue Of Liberty’ would probably be the painting that most would walk by on the way to ‘Train Tracks’. But it drew me in like star dust. An imposing outline of the Statue of Liberty is cast aside by a jump-suited passer by, with ‘Cowboys’ blazened on his back. Across the bottom states the words: “RAPE IS NOT SEX”. Four words that say all you really need to know. It’s a punch in the guts. And isn’t it as relevant today as it was in the late 80s? I mean, all we’ve really achieved is to swap one Bush for another.

The Drawn Blank Series by Bob Dylan is on show at Halcyon Gallery in London until July 13. Link below:

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The Hippie Hippie Shake

 A few years late on the uptake, but what do you expect? It’s 738 pages for christ sakes…

Hands down, the definitive rock biography – a few darker shades of disturbing, but always with that trademark Neil Young humour threading through…I found parts of it devastating to read, but I guess that’s the whole deal. This isn’t some Waltons re-hash of the bygone era. It’s a book that defines the death of the existential hero who was celebrated on the pages of Albert Camus’ ‘The Outsider’.

You’re not supposed to amiably agree with what it has to say. It’s supposed to wind you up in places…and it succeeds:

You cringe at Stephen Stills’ over-bloated insecurities masquerading as rock ‘n’ roll arrogance as you watch the Woodstock dream metamorphose into the drugs-fuelled nightmare it was inevitably going to become. The binges, the murders, the violence…all simmering under the pretence of “peace and love”. Whatever those words meant…’Shakey’ is really about delusion. It’s a tale of ego and excess. The only truth is the truth you find in the music. And even then, it sometimes eludes even that…

You laugh at the insane anecdotes that are offered up along the way: choice passages being Neil Young’s farewell telegram to Stephen Stills before he legged it off tour: ‘Dear Stephen, funny how some things that start spontaneously end that way. Eat a peach, Neil’; in addition there’s a genius account of a noise being heard in the back of Neil Young’s hearse, quickly revealed to be an unravelling Bob Dylan in his ‘turban phase.’

Which brings me onto comment that perhaps at the centre of all of this (forgive me if I’m wrong in stating this but what the hell) are Neil Young and Bob Dylan. Cruising down Route 66 in that hearse. Evaders of truth? Yes…but ultimately torch-bearers for their generation. 

What struck me more than anything was the scene’s blatant testosterone-fuelled tunnel vision – a generation of Southern-Bible-Belted rockers wanking themselves off (and often wanking each other off) in the name of guitar rock. The whole book revolves around their hanging “attributes”…the women in their lives are always the silhouettes. Ever present, (say, with the over-domineering presence of Neil Young’s own mother) ever haunting, but ultimately shadows that fall behind in the proverbial lay-by of their own story.

As Neil Young once told his son Zeke when he started yelling “no no no” on his tour bus: “Look – we’re men. It’s okay for men to tell women no – that’s cool. But look around, Zeke – there’s no women on this bus. You don’t say no to a man.”

Or if we really want to highlight the offensive, in the words of Crazy Horse guitarist Frank “Poncho” Sampedro: “Rock and roll – I thought that meant Loot the Village and Rape the Women.”

Also surprising is Young’s ever-shape shifting political and social views: a singer that protest sings against the recent war in Iraq also is a staunch believer in the death penalty and infamously supported Reagan under the banner of “pro American patriotism.”

As the book goes onto highlight, Neil is none of things. What he is, is an isolationist. Perhaps the last of Camus’ outsiders. In the words of Elliot Roberts: “You never know which Neil Young you’re dealing with.”

In the immortal words of Shakey himself: innaresting…

Girls Like Us

“This is a man’s world”.

James Brown sung it. Music breathes it. Have I got the masses groaning yet?

I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been an ongoing aspiration of mine to write a non-fiction book on the status of women in the music industry.

How revealing then, that whenever I’ve expressed this particular interest to colleagues and friends, the statement has been ritually met with a raised eyebrow or a knowing smirk.

“Are you a feminist?” is the usual response. It’s even more revealing that this response is not just concentrated to a strictly male camp. Whisper the word “feminism” and the term evokes a shudder from most people. My relayed response used to be this: “I’m not a feminist, I’m all for equal rights”. But was this just a defensive reaction to divert people away from picturing me as some kind of greasy-haired lesbian in DM boots and dungarees, burning my bra against a chorus of “votes for women!”?

Does championing against the blatant sexism in the music industry (of which I have personally experienced at first hand) make me a feminist? More importantly: should feminism really be something to shy away from?

When did “feminism” become a dirty word?

Getting back on track with my interest in writing this book: Sure, I’ve dabbled around the outskirts of the subject on a few occasions, writing two features on my frustrations at the portrayal and treatment of women within the industry. With both features I always had the sneaking suspicion that my editors were “indulging” me in a flight of fancy, un-convinced at my belief that women are still denied equal footing. They’re entitled to their opinion – but lets face it. Most rock the Y chromosome themselves. Is it any wonder?

Let me back this rant up with a small anecdote: having decided that this was something I wished to write more about, I set about sending out proposals and synopsis to various book publishers. A few got back to me: a polite “thanks but no thanks” was all that was required.

But wait…One well known publishing house surprisingly got back to me with a shocking “maybe”. My ears pricked up as I read through his email. And then my heart sank at his investigative questions in response:

“We already have two female writers on our books already. Both of whom have written musical biogs. My question to you is: what makes you so different to the women we already represent?”

Now, for many of you, this may seem a fairly inoffensive question to ask. For me, it highlighted the obvious:

“The fact that you are even asking me what makes me different from the minimal two female writers you already represent exactly proves why I want to write this book in the first place” I bluntly responded back.

“If you can honestly tell me that you would ask a male writer what made him different from the twenty male writers you already have on your burgeoning books, then I’ll happily explain to you why I should be considered as an individual journalist as opposed to a gender that needs to be minimised.”

Of course I never heard from that particular editor ever again. I’m sure he blamed it on my hormones.

So it is with great interest that I have been reading various reviews for Sheila Weller’s latest non-fiction book ‘Girls Like Us’ (a book which aims to dissect and compare the musical careers of Joni Mitchell, Carole King and Carly Simon).

My first grievance is as follows…Actually, it’s concentrated in the one word: Girls. This book title sounds like the kind of Mills & Boon romance trash you find free with your August edition of Glamour. These artists weren’t girls, they were women. And should be celebrated as such. Is the term “girls” supposed to make them non-offensive acoustic guitar-strumming hippies? Would you ever call a novel comparing the careers of Neil Young, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen “Boys Like Us”?

The next grievance is not so much with the book itself (I’m yet to pick up a copy in Waterstones – I’m sure there will be more de-constructions to follow…I’m polishing my Doc Martins as I write) but with the reviews that have commented on it. I find it incredibly telling that each review centres around the men they shagged as opposed to the songs they wrote. 

And I quote: “…how the bedsit singer/songwriter princesses of the early 1970s became rock royalty and feminist role models, a leap that saw everyone from James Taylor and Mick Jagger to Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson leaping between their songsheets. Although not, sadly at the same time.”

That’s Metro Lite. The reviewer in question is, of course, a man (by the name of Keith Watson).

Keith, Keith, Keith. Where do I start? For one thing, did you seriously just use the phrase “between their songsheets”? Secondly, did you really just identify them as feminist role models in the same sentence that you role-called their various sexual conquests? Is this your clumsy and simpleton view of feminist role models? Do the men that they slept with personally validate the music that they made in your professional opinion?

It may seem like I’m ganging up on poor Keith. But actually, he only represents the majority of reviews which have stereotyped the book in the same way. Maybe the book is a stereotype itself, who knows. What I do know is that I’m sick and tired of reading some mis-guided feature on the nature of female musicianship by ageing male journalists who haven’t the foggiest idea on what it’s about and how it should be explored.

Having “personally” experienced an editor’s hand up my skirt as he suggested I might sleep with him in return for him “perusing” my written portfolio, forgive me if I’m a little prickly about this subject…

Surely this is a side to the music industry that truly needs to be exposed: a side that still continues to un-repently indulge in its own dated brand of over-bloated and blatant sexism?

The Lost Dylan

There’s something quite comforting in the fact that, no matter how many albums you buy, tunes you download or music videos you watch, there will always be an artist left to discover, a song waiting to be uncovered.  

You know that feeling (albeit a rare feeling) when you meet someone for the first time and you think to yourself: “Fuck! We’ve shuffled alongside each other on this mortal coil for decades without knowing each other even existed, but now I’ve met them I can’t imagine my life without them.”

The moment the stranger becomes a friend. 

I had that feeling the other day. I got that feeling from Karen Dalton. And just like that, a moody, broody Cherokee singer suddenly jumped out at me from behind her banjo and screamed “Kat, you fool! I’ve been here for DECADES! How did you not notice me before?!”

Hands up. I am a fool. All the signs were there: she played with Bob Dylan, seeped in the Greenwich Village folk scene in the 60s. When she opens her mouth she sounds like a world weary Billie Holiday with swan songs of heartbreak to impart. And I’ve only just found her…

I’ve seriously worn her 1971 record ‘In My Own Time’ out at the seams: a collection of covers and traditional folk aires like ‘Katie Cruel’ which take your breath away. Opening track ‘Something On Your Mind’ washes over you like a vinyl-etched old friend, lost along the way, yet finally making their way back to you.

It’s only a shame that this soulful creature lost her battle with AIDS before any of us had the chance to truly pay homage to her incredible talent and spirit.

If you were in any doubt:

Nick Cave: “She understood the blues better than the folk singing milieu she was hanging out with. Absolutely. She’s a blues singer to me. It’s full of idiosyncrasies that you can’t repeat – it’s in her voice and it’s just extraordinary.”

Bob Dylan: “My favourite singer in the place was Karen Dalton. She was was a tall white blues singer and guitar player, funky, lanky and sultry. Karen had a voice like Billie Holiday’s and played the guitar like Jimmy Reed and went all the way with it.”

Devendra Banhart: “I just wish I knew more about her, you know? Karen Dalton looks like an agel, alchemist, witch! There’s a real magic. A look that’s piercing, deep, dark, mysterious, angelic, but strong as hell!”

Need more proof? Hit her MySpace and click on to ‘Katie Cruel’ and ‘Something On Your Mind’ for yourselves. Here’s to Katie Cruel:

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