tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80956834441403275952024-03-16T11:52:13.711-07:00PANTHEONCLICK PIECES TO ENLARGE - COMMENTS ENABLED AND SHOULD POST AUTOMATICALLY NOW, WITHOUT A DELAYSIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.comBlogger532125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-48822958716993851262024-03-16T11:19:00.000-07:002024-03-16T11:19:30.463-07:00Neil Kulkarni - The Young Gods, live - Melody Maker - November 11 1995<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVYoYYeIKMrVAuxeABOBweo02r2i4xGECsO7e5c2AZ4ieETiXFxGrqUF4_4tszrfXcv_pMhUAzshUm3kS2JiUL3ZTnFz2a-uUIi9mAY2pHphOIBNSJn06CurMKP5LrUNL128M8QON5B7gklwbKyigm5zDdWueLPENPvzj-KMXMv-OihcIukyqZbIw/s1237/neil%20kulkarni%20young%20gods%20live%20mm%2011%20november%2095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1174" data-original-width="1237" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVYoYYeIKMrVAuxeABOBweo02r2i4xGECsO7e5c2AZ4ieETiXFxGrqUF4_4tszrfXcv_pMhUAzshUm3kS2JiUL3ZTnFz2a-uUIi9mAY2pHphOIBNSJn06CurMKP5LrUNL128M8QON5B7gklwbKyigm5zDdWueLPENPvzj-KMXMv-OihcIukyqZbIw/w400-h380/neil%20kulkarni%20young%20gods%20live%20mm%2011%20november%2095.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVYoYYeIKMrVAuxeABOBweo02r2i4xGECsO7e5c2AZ4ieETiXFxGrqUF4_4tszrfXcv_pMhUAzshUm3kS2JiUL3ZTnFz2a-uUIi9mAY2pHphOIBNSJn06CurMKP5LrUNL128M8QON5B7gklwbKyigm5zDdWueLPENPvzj-KMXMv-OihcIukyqZbIw/s1237/neil%20kulkarni%20young%20gods%20live%20mm%2011%20november%2095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1174" data-original-width="1237" height="608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVYoYYeIKMrVAuxeABOBweo02r2i4xGECsO7e5c2AZ4ieETiXFxGrqUF4_4tszrfXcv_pMhUAzshUm3kS2JiUL3ZTnFz2a-uUIi9mAY2pHphOIBNSJn06CurMKP5LrUNL128M8QON5B7gklwbKyigm5zDdWueLPENPvzj-KMXMv-OihcIukyqZbIw/w640-h608/neil%20kulkarni%20young%20gods%20live%20mm%2011%20november%2095.JPG" width="640" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVYoYYeIKMrVAuxeABOBweo02r2i4xGECsO7e5c2AZ4ieETiXFxGrqUF4_4tszrfXcv_pMhUAzshUm3kS2JiUL3ZTnFz2a-uUIi9mAY2pHphOIBNSJn06CurMKP5LrUNL128M8QON5B7gklwbKyigm5zDdWueLPENPvzj-KMXMv-OihcIukyqZbIw/s1237/neil%20kulkarni%20young%20gods%20live%20mm%2011%20november%2095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1174" data-original-width="1237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVYoYYeIKMrVAuxeABOBweo02r2i4xGECsO7e5c2AZ4ieETiXFxGrqUF4_4tszrfXcv_pMhUAzshUm3kS2JiUL3ZTnFz2a-uUIi9mAY2pHphOIBNSJn06CurMKP5LrUNL128M8QON5B7gklwbKyigm5zDdWueLPENPvzj-KMXMv-OihcIukyqZbIw/s16000/neil%20kulkarni%20young%20gods%20live%20mm%2011%20november%2095.JPG" /></a></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-49818516983387565422024-03-09T09:23:00.000-08:002024-03-09T09:47:24.639-08:00Barney Hoskyns - Barry Manilow - NME - September 10 1983<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5bWal9VP_H5DYEsYN17ctFkwHR32BVCnpsA69ywQYoE_-25-ULJES_ce49u412duziuaYB_WxIolGqgALVnBtAAcy0eRpEqyHVMhKOpV_rs5AhxVy1P5WFbb1eSH_BXeyn4uJ0PBrCGnWP5qG442q5fl7dY-iuGOfOmkGk_iwHQThpFLNdIjzncg/s1521/barney%20hoskyns%20barry%20manilow%201%2010%20september%2083.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1521" data-original-width="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5bWal9VP_H5DYEsYN17ctFkwHR32BVCnpsA69ywQYoE_-25-ULJES_ce49u412duziuaYB_WxIolGqgALVnBtAAcy0eRpEqyHVMhKOpV_rs5AhxVy1P5WFbb1eSH_BXeyn4uJ0PBrCGnWP5qG442q5fl7dY-iuGOfOmkGk_iwHQThpFLNdIjzncg/s16000/barney%20hoskyns%20barry%20manilow%201%2010%20september%2083.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXlroCxL26H5E5wzQlK4ASYatrM6C-2pzNxymcKGn2-ze-MAjh9JeuMYmdIs5jSp1dn9VygbJTJfJxlaZfzmhNy-f-Ttx8DtJIoEZR3bmoJohcDANaIrxTLm-k3qXksfNY2vHu5-c3VPyaa_jGLyP6OtQqD0cf9MCB5HM601oxszLx827n8229FF8/s1557/barney%20hoskyns%20barry%20manilow%202%2010%20september%2083.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1557" data-original-width="1455" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXlroCxL26H5E5wzQlK4ASYatrM6C-2pzNxymcKGn2-ze-MAjh9JeuMYmdIs5jSp1dn9VygbJTJfJxlaZfzmhNy-f-Ttx8DtJIoEZR3bmoJohcDANaIrxTLm-k3qXksfNY2vHu5-c3VPyaa_jGLyP6OtQqD0cf9MCB5HM601oxszLx827n8229FF8/w598-h640/barney%20hoskyns%20barry%20manilow%202%2010%20september%2083.jpg" width="598" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>One reason I get a little impatient with the "now we make amends for the crimes of rockism" type work that's been going on this past decade or so, particularly in America - writers and publications virtuously giving attention to genres of music formerly neglected and demeaned - is that I grew up on a publication that did this kind of thing back in the early '80s. All these moves of taking teenybopper pop seriously, arguing the case for the manufactured and the slick.... it wasn't quite routine, but it was normal. <i>Of course</i> there's great things coming out the pop assembly line....<i> of course </i>the M.O.R. and the A.O.R. can contain moments of piercing genius.... <i>of course</i> there's no area that you a priori rule out of contention or attention. </div><div><br /></div><div>Case in point, this great report by <b>Barney Hoskyns - </b>who typically raved about everything from The Birthday Party and The Fall to Carol Jiani and the S.O.S. Band - but here writes sympathetically about the huge cult adoration of <b>Barry Manilow</b>, as manifested at a mega-concert at Blenheim Palace. </div><div><br /></div><div>This story appeared on the news pages of <i>NME</i> - you opened the paper that week and this was the first thing you saw, nestling amid items on forthcoming albums and tour announcements. The UK weekly music papers (and this goes back to the 1970s and earlier, as I found when reading <i>Melody Maker</i> et al for the glam rock book) covered everything that was newsworthy and, in terms of reviews and interviews, did a sweep across the entire spectrum of popular music (and quite a lot of unpopular music too). Comprehensiveness was baked-in, taken for granted, axiomatic, virtually automatic. Simply the job that was there to be done. </div><div><br /></div><div>(This actually carried on into the late '80s and early '90s, despite the increasing specialization in the music media and fragmentation of the music scene... in defiance of entropy, a keeping faith with the original conception of what a weekly music paper should be doing) </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /> <p></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-62948518926076291322024-02-24T18:09:00.000-08:002024-02-24T18:09:20.151-08:00Charles Shaar Murray - Ohio Players (live in 1975) - NME - December 24 1983<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicckmccqJPWBU7riKd1nciRpjKEotJiQwpAbyhG5yI3YYlsQTWe6-JLAZ0xJFhjHVnqRhUjW_4iH75GDpyK5aI8l2KFwpUSjsNMfQoqv2FscN4jQ7__MKuvfmWqUbJmRFj7H94hIGrp-OJSLpBgjRMgKx28ZcIJNlmvXR_b8N4HqcFMp3CEer1XnID/s2520/charles%20shaar%20murray%20on%20ohio%20players%20live%201975%20dec%2024%20xmas%20983.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1975" data-original-width="2520" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicckmccqJPWBU7riKd1nciRpjKEotJiQwpAbyhG5yI3YYlsQTWe6-JLAZ0xJFhjHVnqRhUjW_4iH75GDpyK5aI8l2KFwpUSjsNMfQoqv2FscN4jQ7__MKuvfmWqUbJmRFj7H94hIGrp-OJSLpBgjRMgKx28ZcIJNlmvXR_b8N4HqcFMp3CEer1XnID/w400-h314/charles%20shaar%20murray%20on%20ohio%20players%20live%201975%20dec%2024%20xmas%20983.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p>This review made an impression when I read it in the Christmas 1983 issue of <i>NME</i>. The concept of this page "The Ghost of Live Past" is reviews not of concerts from the preceding week but from years ago - writers revisiting gigs that had a profound impact on them. </p><p>In this case<i>, NME </i>legend <b>Charles Shaar Murray </b>remembers a 1975 concert by <b>Ohio Players</b> he saw in Detroit. The first part of it is simply a well-observed live review (I should imagine that unless he has phenomenal powers of recall, CSM had been there to do a feature on the band and consequently had some old notes that he could draw on). </p><p>Where it gets interesting is when he gets into meta-talk about how black music works for its audience - an Ohio Players performance as the performing of a community service, the sound and the stage show communicating with the band's primary fans on a vibrational level that necessarily bypasses even the most informed and sensitive white listener. </p><p>Earlier in the 1970s, CSM did a round-up review of a bunch of soul and R&B records, criticizing some (Isaac Hayes for instance) in a fairly standard for the time white rock critic way: too slick, too over-produced / too over-arranged, too close to showbiz. As a fan of blues (later to write books about John Lee Hooker and Jimi Hendrix), he would have had that preference for the gritty, the raw, the raspy - and an antipathy for the mellifluous and the polished. Here, though, just a few years later, he grasps the power of slickness and tightness, the sheer commitment to entertainment manifested by Ohio Players. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/DuoVYP10Mfs" width="320" youtube-src-id="DuoVYP10Mfs"></iframe></div><br /><p>There's a phrase in this review - "<i>their murderous and militant elegance</i>" - that I assimilated so deeply I must have come to believe I'd thought it up all by myself, reusing it sometimes almost word for word and other times in adapted form (e.g. "lethal panache") many times over the years.</p><p>A few years later, I would have a similar revelatory experience to Charlie Murray's when I went to review Zapp for <i>Melody Maker.</i> A show so militantly - no, <i>militarily</i> - tight and professional I went to see the band perform it again at the same venue the very next night. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rA5VKKoonCo" width="320" youtube-src-id="rA5VKKoonCo"></iframe></div><br /><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicckmccqJPWBU7riKd1nciRpjKEotJiQwpAbyhG5yI3YYlsQTWe6-JLAZ0xJFhjHVnqRhUjW_4iH75GDpyK5aI8l2KFwpUSjsNMfQoqv2FscN4jQ7__MKuvfmWqUbJmRFj7H94hIGrp-OJSLpBgjRMgKx28ZcIJNlmvXR_b8N4HqcFMp3CEer1XnID/s2520/charles%20shaar%20murray%20on%20ohio%20players%20live%201975%20dec%2024%20xmas%20983.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1975" data-original-width="2520" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicckmccqJPWBU7riKd1nciRpjKEotJiQwpAbyhG5yI3YYlsQTWe6-JLAZ0xJFhjHVnqRhUjW_4iH75GDpyK5aI8l2KFwpUSjsNMfQoqv2FscN4jQ7__MKuvfmWqUbJmRFj7H94hIGrp-OJSLpBgjRMgKx28ZcIJNlmvXR_b8N4HqcFMp3CEer1XnID/w640-h502/charles%20shaar%20murray%20on%20ohio%20players%20live%201975%20dec%2024%20xmas%20983.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-55773771248752066172024-02-09T08:53:00.000-08:002024-02-19T11:52:57.552-08:00Confronting the Monster (a music press tradition)<p>One of the most enjoyable things to <i>read </i>in the music papers back in the day were the ritual encounters between the writers and the Metal Monolith - via the metal festival review. Enjoyable to <i>write</i>, not so much! Verily twas a short straw assignment: the rock paper equivalent of latrine duty.... And yet, <i>and yet</i>, in terms of the review filed, if not the actual lived experience, heavy metal at festival scale was a rich text, ripe for observational reportage, quasi-sociology, and obloquy. </p><p>Separated by six years, here are two reports on Monsters of Rock at Castle Donington. The first is by my ancestor-idol <b>Barney Hoskyns</b>, for the <i>NME</i>, in August 1981; and the second is yours truly, for <i>Melody Maker</i>, in '87. In both cases, despite aversion to the subculture and distaste for the onstage spectacle, each writer is attracted to... well, the monstrousness of metal - its awesome noise and power. Both are working a way towards rehabilitation for the genre, via the isolation of certain properties and powers of metal-as-sound. Although reluctant - to put it mildly - to undertake this assignment, agreeing only out of a salaried staff writer's sense of duty, I was already quite taken by Anthrax and intrigued by Metallica. It was a truly unpleasant day, made much worse by dismal, un-summery weather, and yet strangely I look back fondly....</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElqaPIfoe4MRwLa7uO6DEB9Jw7k1OK4_Luc1BDXb3kb34bYLV2jhbzEYO0Kp01xlw3rs_DFFm3YHcuJWBCfUxN2jv2AyTFPzu9E9ncv9D9cV2hyphenhyphenDzDlLAE5fpIwFB7nkF_qMTIl1g-Yi3k9IWAZ5VoY3NNL79G4QGcPnokKKXJvYZeYB1_uXKYMxb/s1386/barney%20hoskyns%20monsters%20of%20rock%2029%20Aug%2081%20CLOSE%201.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="711" data-original-width="1386" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElqaPIfoe4MRwLa7uO6DEB9Jw7k1OK4_Luc1BDXb3kb34bYLV2jhbzEYO0Kp01xlw3rs_DFFm3YHcuJWBCfUxN2jv2AyTFPzu9E9ncv9D9cV2hyphenhyphenDzDlLAE5fpIwFB7nkF_qMTIl1g-Yi3k9IWAZ5VoY3NNL79G4QGcPnokKKXJvYZeYB1_uXKYMxb/w640-h328/barney%20hoskyns%20monsters%20of%20rock%2029%20Aug%2081%20CLOSE%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_20acYrsJ3CCf43URDoxfmCHnxE_6b3bX3yESh8wUR7Vug5ixT5DNGzv8-ZoC9efM4iklWAQpxDd_BnnyRYlio42Pmx-0nSFdK3fHMENa-ncAG71aAAhRHsa7xmoD3A3ZoyJT-8sPhx-PPo8pU_QQxUrwu2FShNCQBqQgjYoHHKRr05OglolQpO2/s1398/barney%20hoskyns%20monsters%20of%20rock%2029%20Aug%2081%20CLOSE%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="738" data-original-width="1398" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_20acYrsJ3CCf43URDoxfmCHnxE_6b3bX3yESh8wUR7Vug5ixT5DNGzv8-ZoC9efM4iklWAQpxDd_BnnyRYlio42Pmx-0nSFdK3fHMENa-ncAG71aAAhRHsa7xmoD3A3ZoyJT-8sPhx-PPo8pU_QQxUrwu2FShNCQBqQgjYoHHKRr05OglolQpO2/w400-h211/barney%20hoskyns%20monsters%20of%20rock%2029%20Aug%2081%20CLOSE%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjp7L9_k-QOG-Ku9M-jcK4HXA_YlMvRrwsLQ8mzruLM57HfXE4uAPZYQY-K0jOiRzRopcXBbY6AC9t1O2KSpaVCW20ymH7ZZmZEQDHsX1EVLTN4pTrE9grpIck6ULNa8hYB7-lB_7MbZJY0aRiT7gKOc_A9KXA_NflKj6TeKdlumcbfwFerOO23VK/s1620/barney%20hoskyns%20monsters%20of%20rock%2029%20Aug%2081%20CLOSE%203.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1506" data-original-width="1620" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjp7L9_k-QOG-Ku9M-jcK4HXA_YlMvRrwsLQ8mzruLM57HfXE4uAPZYQY-K0jOiRzRopcXBbY6AC9t1O2KSpaVCW20ymH7ZZmZEQDHsX1EVLTN4pTrE9grpIck6ULNa8hYB7-lB_7MbZJY0aRiT7gKOc_A9KXA_NflKj6TeKdlumcbfwFerOO23VK/w400-h371/barney%20hoskyns%20monsters%20of%20rock%2029%20Aug%2081%20CLOSE%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhub4bEqD1vniXdJ9MnVEus3na9t_Zfil2kzwOYXnyBnquGISXSo5NEQGDOOFdZ840WQDI52SU1j0465iXLxMZvc8sAK-3MOeYvGPCgRGSx6qc-qL-MzPJGmqhor1WDteMWfVqkkxsY27yn13n4Ps7uzT48o5bYC8xVVGeojlDxbvA1fNFOE0OVAwlv/s3510/SR%20Donington%20metal%20festival%20Monsters%20of%20Rock%20August%2029%2087%20.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3510" data-original-width="2626" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhub4bEqD1vniXdJ9MnVEus3na9t_Zfil2kzwOYXnyBnquGISXSo5NEQGDOOFdZ840WQDI52SU1j0465iXLxMZvc8sAK-3MOeYvGPCgRGSx6qc-qL-MzPJGmqhor1WDteMWfVqkkxsY27yn13n4Ps7uzT48o5bYC8xVVGeojlDxbvA1fNFOE0OVAwlv/w478-h640/SR%20Donington%20metal%20festival%20Monsters%20of%20Rock%20August%2029%2087%20.jpg" width="478" /></a></div><br /><p>text below</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>MONSTERS OF ROCK, CASTLE DONINGTON : BON JOVI / DIO / METALLICA / ANTHRAX /
W.A.S.P.<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Melody Maker</i>, August 29th 1987</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><o:p> </o:p>By Simon Reynolds</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>For this festival-virgin, Donington was a brutal
deflowering; as futile and squalid as I could have hoped for. I always used to
enjoy the music press's ritual encounters with the unbudgeable stagnation of
heavy metal: they don't happen so frequently these days, partly because the
papers realized how pointless these confrontations were, partly because because
of a certain critical rehabilitation of metal. Listening to HM records at home,
it's possible to isolate, salvage and enjoy elements of power, aggression,
noise. But in this festival-context, where you encounter the totality of the
subculture, you're overwhelmed by the sheer size and span of its dumbness; as a
critic with dreams and schemes you're chastened by the realization that the
word 'rock' means totally different things for different people. For these
people, it's a celebration of the lowliest aspects of existence, vaguely in the
name of breaking free and being yourself and letting loose inhibitions.
Festivals are a chance for these people to live out their version of rock'n'roll
with a thoroughness that's just not feasible in everyday life.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">A crucial element is mud -- for how else can you wallow? The
preceding week was a sweltering blaze, but the weather's not about to let the
side down, and Saturday obliges us with a downpour. Within minutes of arrival,
I'm soaked to the skin. The soil around here is rich in clay; eerie maroon
puddles abound, while the Exits and Entrances degenerate into treacherous
slopes the colour of a working man's caff cup of char. A bloke loses his
balance and toboggans thirty foot of quagmire on his belly. A plucky paraplegic
headbanger tries to negotiate the slope in his wheelchair. Girls's bare legs
are streaked with red slime; high heels sink hopelessly into the mud. Others
have come prepared, wearing binliner souwesters, or huddling completely
enshrouded in giant sheets of transparent PVC. Troll-like figures squat on
leather jacket oases. A 15-year-old bloy
lies prostrate, comatose, his dank stringy hair mingling with the murdered
grass; a few inches from his lips, a small pizza-shape of vomit. Unconscious
before even the second group have come on.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">If most people here seem experienced (as festival-goers), in
another sense Donington is a vast celebration of virginity (or at least chronic
sex starvation) camouflaged. The crowd is a huge sea of gormlessness. There's a
dearth of fanciable men. People are either chubby-chopped or hatchet-faced,
blubbery or scrawny. Common syndromes include the unsuccessful moustache; the
Viking look; blokes with receding hairlines who nonetheless endeavour to grow
long, straggly locks. The women tend to be buxom wenches or Sam Fox clones;
there's a lot of electric blue make-up about. Everyone looks as though they're
from Saxon peasant stock--coarse fair hair; rude ruddy health or underfed
sallow. Everyone looks oafish. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><o:p> </o:p>W.A.S.P</b>., then, is probably more a case of White Anglo-Saxon
Protestant than We Are (Active) Sexual Perverts. "Any of you rock heads
come here looking for PUSSY???!" bellows Blackie Lawless, and there's a
massive roar of assent -- desperate, brave-face, wishful thinking. Lawless leads chants of 'Fuck Like A Beast',
then 'I Wanna Be Somebody' -- both hopeless, never-to-be-requited cri de
coeurs. Then some "theatre": Blackie wheels on a gallows from which a
semi-naked girl is chained by her wrists, flailing ineffectually. Blackie looks
to the crowd, that familiar wide-eyed gape at the depths of his own depravity,
the extent of his daring. He draws out a scimitar, looks round again as if to
say "Shall I?". Dumpy traitors to their sex smirk along with their
boyfriends at the naughtiness of it all. Blackie slits the girl's throat,
drinks deep and turns to face us quenched, drooling gore; glazed eyes appeal to
us to share his disbelief at the enormity of his own evil.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">W.A.S.P. are staggeringly bad at what they do, churning out a
leaden, thudding sound that no amount of climactic guitar-smashing can redeem.
<b>ANTHRAX</b> are superb. The irony of a group of anti-nuke pacifists who've named
themselves after one of the most ghastly weapons of biological warfare, should
be obvious. Like hardcore punk, which they closely resemble, there's an
unacknowledged fetishisation of the very violence and oppression they denounce.
Anthrax get high on the extremity of the language of war and apocalypse. It's
as though only imagery that sensationalist is fit to accompany their music,
which is located not far from the point where the exponential curve of
velocity/noise hits vertical. Anthrax
aren't about uninhibited wildness or release; they take the rhythm-as-manacle
idea to its logical limit -- rock as supremely regimented, mechanized carnage.
When Charlie Benate pedals the floor tom and bass drum it's like an abbatoir
slipping gears and locking into a perpetual cycle of mutilation.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">They're great fun. Scott Ian -- manically stomping around
the stage - is one of the charismatic metal guitarists. They play "God
Save the Queen", getting the HM audience to sing "no fewcha";
it's stronger than the Pistols version, but lacks the edge. Anthrax play a
blinder, but get less applause than W.A.S.P., perhaps because they're
"sexless". They're driven by a pure, almost hygienic fascination with
speed and violence.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>METALLICA</b> are like Anthrax only heavier and harder. That
might be good on record, but tonight at least it only means they're gruelling;
a dismal slog. Their death machine grinds remorselessly, with none of Anthrax's
kinetic grace. "Seek and Destroy" and "Master of Puppets"
attain a certain pleasing level of punishment, riffs like meat-cleavers. The
singer's inter-song banter involves appending the word "fucken" to
every noun or verb. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Where Anthrax and Metallica are clearly units, BON JOVI and
<b>DIO</b> take their names from their "charismatic" frontmen. The bands are
servile, relegated to a backing role. Both Ronnie James Dio and Jon Bon Jovi
are as much totalitarians of passion as Mick Hucknall or Terence Trent D'Arby,
histrionic and over-expressive. Dio are melodic metal, that's to say they
traffic in melodramatic, structured songs rather than chanted hooks (in
Anthrax's case, flechettes). Someone once described this kind of glam metal as
tart rock: pretty, hygienic guitar, purple lyrics, operatic singing, poncing
preening frontmen. I'm fascinated by this sub-culture where it's actually a
sign of manliness to have flowing Silvikrin locks. Tart metal seems to be a
kind of male soft porn which functions for the delectation of both the girlies
and (covertly) the boy fans.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">One last wander before Bon Jovi. There have been many
appeals to rock'n'roll solidarity tonight ("We Are Rock'n'Roll
Children", etc), but in practice it doesn't extend more than few rows
ahead of you. People are quite happy to sling one-gallon canisters of liquid
thirty yards through the air in order to deal someone a blow to the back of the
head, in the process dousing everyone beneath the missile's trajectory with a
comet's tail of beer, or worse, still-warm piss. As anticipation of the headliners
grows, the bottles and canister teems like spermatozoa in the night air. It's
cold: people are lighting bonfires, standing in bedraggled, post-apocalyptic
clinches. There are massive queues for the food stalls (vile greasy grub that
is breaking out furiously all over people's faces) or toilets (the bowls are
smashed, so most people urinates in copses or into empty beer bottles). I pass
a Samaritans stall, and consider making a brief distraught visit. Cholera
breaks out on the right flank of the crowd. It occurs to me that the Americans
don't have events like this: true, they've got a stadium circuit, but perhaps
only the British would put up with the torpor, the lousy facilities, would
actually pay to stand up for over ten hours solid.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>BON JOVI</b> cocktease the audience. After a very long delay,
giant vidscreens cut to… Bon Jovi's dressing room! Bon Jovi making their way
through the backstage maze! A superb baiting of the breath. And then amid a
fanfare of fireworks and dry ice… Bon Jovi descend a Ginger Rogers' staircase…<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">I enjoy everything about Bon Jovi tonight except their
music. In this sodden, beleaguered context, the lasers, the slick bombast, the
no-expense-spared showmanship were as welcome as Hollywood razzamatazz in the
Depression. Everything must have been rehearsed with military precision, every pout,
preen and strut, because it was video-taped, quick-cut and blown-up on the
vidscreens as it happened. MTV was inflated to the dimensions of a circus. I
enjoyed, so help me, Jon Bon Jovi prancing about on the top of the lighting
gantry, enjoyed their guitarist's solo (it blended most pleasingly into the
giant, ziggurat riffs of Zep's "Dazed and Confused"). But the music
isn't heavy metal, it's harmony rock, all rococo synth and soul-rich singing
(euucch!). The tunes are trite, as trite and appallingly sentimental as the
philosophical and emotional repertoire of the band. The titles tell the whole,
stunted story: "You Give Love a Bad Name" (the Bitch who
"promised me heaven/gave me hell"), "Wild In the Street",
"Tokyo Rose", "Together Forever" (a ballad about friendship
as syrupy as anything by Lionel Richie). Bon Jovi constantly refer to
"rock'n'roll" but there's nothing here that fits my definition of
rock - no sense of provocation, no idea of change or movement, no impossibilist
reproach to the world and its limits. The fantasies here are perfectly feasible
-- it's possible to live a monied playboy life of rocking out and screwing foxy
chicks, it's just very very unlikely that any of their fans ever will. Bon Jovi
aren't rock'n'roll, they are showbiz, and showbiz is all about the idea that
the world is as it only can be. Metal bands may call their music "heavy
metal" but really they deal in light entertainment: their job is take
people's minds off things. Tonight, Bon Jovi did a damn good job of taking my
mind off my wet feet and incipient hypothermia. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEtaAlsiW0-1hofnPRLkOLUrqF02e9Qjz4irMnXjdOiVb6_TxM8q3o3LRoZ5Vkmp9RdK7riDSq0cMJX7n3IEcPQBun_v-AZOA1qM3w_rTi4HqAuhUhzbGO1czooE_XCJCRbbKZuv_FUJuDc02CljMF5Aj0WrxpPigsWMSnyFztoANn3845SG_ntOX3/s2048/metal%20issue%20front%20cover%20cool%20design.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEtaAlsiW0-1hofnPRLkOLUrqF02e9Qjz4irMnXjdOiVb6_TxM8q3o3LRoZ5Vkmp9RdK7riDSq0cMJX7n3IEcPQBun_v-AZOA1qM3w_rTi4HqAuhUhzbGO1czooE_XCJCRbbKZuv_FUJuDc02CljMF5Aj0WrxpPigsWMSnyFztoANn3845SG_ntOX3/w480-h640/metal%20issue%20front%20cover%20cool%20design.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>A later (March 1984) issue of <i>NME </i>in which the paper gingerly grapples with the Metal Monster, although most of the pieces are dismissive or mocking. Great cover though - <i>NME </i>was streets ahead of the Other Two on the design front in those days. But here's Barney again doing the Singles and finding some metal to enthuse about, including a very early, independent-released single by Anthrax, which gets one of the Single of the Weeks slots: <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWrKtiMkkG12-DbJDXgH28MWVkzMOuyvqys9Lkmks7QEP5ZP1D1opbj9KkmTDrqf98z8FJsGNnA9UCYRzMXjVvbFZmqWuoMCOEJUEbVFub6Ezm96eAun1ISAFobiTD9e83SbunulbtiK7KHSNzRDK0m4whyphenhyphen3XfN65GV7H3zc9XHr_8Jux-VHIF8HM/s2048/Barney%20Hoskyns%20singles%20with%20metal%20reviews%20NME%203%20March%201984.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWrKtiMkkG12-DbJDXgH28MWVkzMOuyvqys9Lkmks7QEP5ZP1D1opbj9KkmTDrqf98z8FJsGNnA9UCYRzMXjVvbFZmqWuoMCOEJUEbVFub6Ezm96eAun1ISAFobiTD9e83SbunulbtiK7KHSNzRDK0m4whyphenhyphen3XfN65GV7H3zc9XHr_8Jux-VHIF8HM/w640-h480/Barney%20Hoskyns%20singles%20with%20metal%20reviews%20NME%203%20March%201984.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC4DV20q2HUBfR7WqfVUa2iEt1UT7UrsmigGhKDTygNb32w6waApJ3gdKT1xoUsE-sCnhIV1enHLdFKOduOf4Ew-w_spr7U2RdRGXvQ7pHKj3qjgl55Vz2pzdVJHQKpjQz0-ifX0QqxvPl7dtpKsgrmgzJiaB2sboZC8KS31bup4pmvluMDqFUUMuq/s2048/Barney%20Hoskyns%20singles%20with%20metal%20reviews%20NME%203%20March%201984%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC4DV20q2HUBfR7WqfVUa2iEt1UT7UrsmigGhKDTygNb32w6waApJ3gdKT1xoUsE-sCnhIV1enHLdFKOduOf4Ew-w_spr7U2RdRGXvQ7pHKj3qjgl55Vz2pzdVJHQKpjQz0-ifX0QqxvPl7dtpKsgrmgzJiaB2sboZC8KS31bup4pmvluMDqFUUMuq/w400-h300/Barney%20Hoskyns%20singles%20with%20metal%20reviews%20NME%203%20March%201984%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-66834763986951183802024-02-05T10:45:00.000-08:002024-02-05T10:45:47.371-08:00Barney Hoskyns - James White and the Contortions - Second Chance - NME -February 21 1981<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6W5LYUhA12pwsa3zbHivYXT1JOekp4PMf_6ZzwXO7tCQ7-zxY05SVEYZ9YgS-UWYKO9_-grtcuw2sI7WfJxQlcd4Xny1JZWJaoO-ydqVK73TRIzgtwA0kSxuTnlC8vxwVul4nZXB7zTrflBzr-R8HF3Rz1IzuSZowk7sgFsSTIYzetz6F57s-v6m/s765/barney%20hoskyns%20james%20white%20and%20the%20contortions%2021%20feb%2081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="704" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6W5LYUhA12pwsa3zbHivYXT1JOekp4PMf_6ZzwXO7tCQ7-zxY05SVEYZ9YgS-UWYKO9_-grtcuw2sI7WfJxQlcd4Xny1JZWJaoO-ydqVK73TRIzgtwA0kSxuTnlC8vxwVul4nZXB7zTrflBzr-R8HF3Rz1IzuSZowk7sgFsSTIYzetz6F57s-v6m/w368-h400/barney%20hoskyns%20james%20white%20and%20the%20contortions%2021%20feb%2081.jpg" width="368" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6W5LYUhA12pwsa3zbHivYXT1JOekp4PMf_6ZzwXO7tCQ7-zxY05SVEYZ9YgS-UWYKO9_-grtcuw2sI7WfJxQlcd4Xny1JZWJaoO-ydqVK73TRIzgtwA0kSxuTnlC8vxwVul4nZXB7zTrflBzr-R8HF3Rz1IzuSZowk7sgFsSTIYzetz6F57s-v6m/s765/barney%20hoskyns%20james%20white%20and%20the%20contortions%2021%20feb%2081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6W5LYUhA12pwsa3zbHivYXT1JOekp4PMf_6ZzwXO7tCQ7-zxY05SVEYZ9YgS-UWYKO9_-grtcuw2sI7WfJxQlcd4Xny1JZWJaoO-ydqVK73TRIzgtwA0kSxuTnlC8vxwVul4nZXB7zTrflBzr-R8HF3Rz1IzuSZowk7sgFsSTIYzetz6F57s-v6m/w589-h640/barney%20hoskyns%20james%20white%20and%20the%20contortions%2021%20feb%2081.jpg" width="589" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6W5LYUhA12pwsa3zbHivYXT1JOekp4PMf_6ZzwXO7tCQ7-zxY05SVEYZ9YgS-UWYKO9_-grtcuw2sI7WfJxQlcd4Xny1JZWJaoO-ydqVK73TRIzgtwA0kSxuTnlC8vxwVul4nZXB7zTrflBzr-R8HF3Rz1IzuSZowk7sgFsSTIYzetz6F57s-v6m/s765/barney%20hoskyns%20james%20white%20and%20the%20contortions%2021%20feb%2081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="704" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6W5LYUhA12pwsa3zbHivYXT1JOekp4PMf_6ZzwXO7tCQ7-zxY05SVEYZ9YgS-UWYKO9_-grtcuw2sI7WfJxQlcd4Xny1JZWJaoO-ydqVK73TRIzgtwA0kSxuTnlC8vxwVul4nZXB7zTrflBzr-R8HF3Rz1IzuSZowk7sgFsSTIYzetz6F57s-v6m/s16000/barney%20hoskyns%20james%20white%20and%20the%20contortions%2021%20feb%2081.jpg" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-83757210588178390072024-02-01T19:02:00.000-08:002024-02-08T12:01:33.347-08:00Angus MacKinnon - Defunkt - NME - January 17, 1981<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmtVc30MT832qdaoZNXHMw8sSnL1FIJwpToJTgaOutkbHmcEcYa7ESSFwDoDUrELcvOG7QFYSIuHAf9CrLz0ptiu9OmJBnIVTgrEwGeDRoUmkpkfL7WouiNfBDTMUJNATIpF44yGSrPrO3yFN1fSBWMJfbD03J-7yEeYkEizn3QTj446XXgb9-BAW/s1282/angus%20mackinnon%20defunkt%2017%20January%201981%20close%20and%20sharp.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1282" data-original-width="519" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmtVc30MT832qdaoZNXHMw8sSnL1FIJwpToJTgaOutkbHmcEcYa7ESSFwDoDUrELcvOG7QFYSIuHAf9CrLz0ptiu9OmJBnIVTgrEwGeDRoUmkpkfL7WouiNfBDTMUJNATIpF44yGSrPrO3yFN1fSBWMJfbD03J-7yEeYkEizn3QTj446XXgb9-BAW/w260-h640/angus%20mackinnon%20defunkt%2017%20January%201981%20close%20and%20sharp.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I vividly remember this review - recently recirculated by<a href="https://twitter.com/nme1980s" target="_blank"> <b><i>NME80s</i></b></a>. I cut it out at the time but then at some point mislaid it. "<i><b>Defunkt </b>are to funk in 1981 what the Pistols were to Rock in 1977. About time too.</i>" I was sold. Literally: I was down the record shop in a flash and bought it. The album very nearly lived up to <b>Angus MacKinnon</b>'s hype too. </p><p>What puzzles me now, though, is the opening scene-setting - the characterisation of the State of Funk as flaccid and enervated. This is January 1981 - what would he have been talking about? </p><p>I mean, if "funk" is narrowly understood as P-funk type stuff, then yes, at that precise moment the Clinton clan was in disarray, tangled up in legal disputes with record companies, and musically right off the boil. </p><p>But surely the start of the 1980s was a great moment in discofunk. And the first glimmers of electrofunk and that postdisco club sound were coming through. Synth-bass. Drum machines. </p><p>In 1980, you had frabulous gooey bass monsters like this <b>Yarborough & People's</b> smash </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zn9EzpH4W9o" width="320" youtube-src-id="zn9EzpH4W9o"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>And that same year <b>The Gap Band </b>romped across the charts with a string of rump-spanking grooves like "Burn Rubber" and "Humpin'". It was the era of <a href="https://blissout.blogspot.com/2012/12/drummage-3.html" target="_blank">the massive snare-thwack</a>. </p><p>And there was this <b>Tom Browne</b> hit, which I bought at the time. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/XYclWyC4qQo" width="320" youtube-src-id="XYclWyC4qQo"></iframe></div><br /><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>Slave </b>were active, <b>Rick James</b> was peaking, you had things like <b>Zapp</b>'s debut album, <b>The S.O.S. Band</b>... not forgetting<b> Prince</b>'s <i>Dirty Mind</i>. </p><p>Sonically, funk would appear then to be in rude, evolving health, as 1980 flipped into 1981.</p><p>Perhaps McKinnon was referring to the lack of any kind of politically militant or just broadly insubordinate voices in the area of danceable Black American music. Something in the continuum of Sly and the Family Stone, Parliament-Funkadelic, Johnny 'Guitar' Watson, Gil Scott Heron, and the darker intimations within Chic (who by 1980 were losing their touch - their commercial touch, certainly)</p><p>On the Defunkt album, there's a track that reworks "Good Times" - already shadowed with bleak ironies - into a song about heroin addiction. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_Y9xPSV-0Qo" width="320" youtube-src-id="_Y9xPSV-0Qo"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Of course, MacKinnon wasn't to know that rap - at that point, probably seeming like a novelty, a fad, as opposed to the birth pangs of a counterculture ("Rapper's Delight" = another reworking of "Good Times", of course) - would be within a year or two exactly what he was calling for: dance music with an aggressive street edge and gritty realism ("The Message"). </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBQXjRa8ZZidvB4uDK-ZjwUSrp2dhTDaeJtHKhR96QVdYZYJ74bDzAgEWTcaGyiotzmJ8BJ8-HM8tUQ8oubzNzoXrcfaK4Z8L1XD6qSZdA1XJ4l2EEdIAB_hH2fkfT_U2ZINIA1rGfbzDDnSyU7Vi3j17sYGQXyEdRvbTH96ic5JD0m_nKLyq1WN1N/s2048/funk%20wallchart%209%20May%201981.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBQXjRa8ZZidvB4uDK-ZjwUSrp2dhTDaeJtHKhR96QVdYZYJ74bDzAgEWTcaGyiotzmJ8BJ8-HM8tUQ8oubzNzoXrcfaK4Z8L1XD6qSZdA1XJ4l2EEdIAB_hH2fkfT_U2ZINIA1rGfbzDDnSyU7Vi3j17sYGQXyEdRvbTH96ic5JD0m_nKLyq1WN1N/w400-h300/funk%20wallchart%209%20May%201981.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2V-f9APNW8pZ2AqTbyfXqRi-ky26dVBcoMryL6yoFLkReZTtBbK7JFa6PaXgi-AI_Jvk3udU_m6yUPHyy7z3M7JTbVetgD7YecuuTHPnyeP5D5fBOLWV3QAhPwUuzf-k4wBKWl5yQfP-a8fYNIruGJQQy6QOWsFjzDAPKOk4IBjM_H2P0291oGuGq/s2048/funk%20wallchart%209%20May%201981%202.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2V-f9APNW8pZ2AqTbyfXqRi-ky26dVBcoMryL6yoFLkReZTtBbK7JFa6PaXgi-AI_Jvk3udU_m6yUPHyy7z3M7JTbVetgD7YecuuTHPnyeP5D5fBOLWV3QAhPwUuzf-k4wBKWl5yQfP-a8fYNIruGJQQy6QOWsFjzDAPKOk4IBjM_H2P0291oGuGq/w400-h300/funk%20wallchart%209%20May%201981%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The <i>NME</i> Funk Wall Chart from May 1981</b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBTH3RwUGUZ96MRxnKSKXquuU59Qi6i_Ud5lJbatCRiaCpuPk2Lge3VNoBrRUkORPpF2qTFzOKSUkqbn29Xnl1sPQik1lC5oFUAHc9ig2k7xe42xTf666zy31Nzy-pASgsSMnNREV9kc_iZQc6pm9Jmq0MAdqDxNOWm3pznF9rlB3WUDHpFaIaDH9d/s1529/joe%20bowie%20defunkt%20portrait%20as%20consumer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1503" data-original-width="1529" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBTH3RwUGUZ96MRxnKSKXquuU59Qi6i_Ud5lJbatCRiaCpuPk2Lge3VNoBrRUkORPpF2qTFzOKSUkqbn29Xnl1sPQik1lC5oFUAHc9ig2k7xe42xTf666zy31Nzy-pASgsSMnNREV9kc_iZQc6pm9Jmq0MAdqDxNOWm3pznF9rlB3WUDHpFaIaDH9d/w400-h394/joe%20bowie%20defunkt%20portrait%20as%20consumer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Here's a little interview I did with Defunkt leader <b>Joe Boyd </b>when music from that debut album and the follow-up was compiled at the other end of the Eighties: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTN1Au7ZRVYZrYKDpTE1mb_dLgLB_GRX8i9v0ZpHhr9YMLNu0orEkIFQ9mAIXmd73FVRpNR11CdwYlJg9_xv-lPs0U02Bj0x_oE1xq1OI712XUwe8sOPeNeaFIaso4a2pItgWabd0EE0oEGrPn2vmDuVj5HgufZ2FBUBBlsBTLi-3UCQFdzbTA9fEm/s1650/Simon%20Reynolds%20defunkt%20mini%20interview%20feb%206%2088-page-001.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1133" data-original-width="1650" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTN1Au7ZRVYZrYKDpTE1mb_dLgLB_GRX8i9v0ZpHhr9YMLNu0orEkIFQ9mAIXmd73FVRpNR11CdwYlJg9_xv-lPs0U02Bj0x_oE1xq1OI712XUwe8sOPeNeaFIaso4a2pItgWabd0EE0oEGrPn2vmDuVj5HgufZ2FBUBBlsBTLi-3UCQFdzbTA9fEm/w640-h440/Simon%20Reynolds%20defunkt%20mini%20interview%20feb%206%2088-page-001.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Along with the Defunkt review, I had another MacKinnon cutting amongst my earliest <i>NME</i> scraps: his 1980 interview with Jah Wobble. Done just before he left PiL, round the time of his solo album <i>The Legend Lives on... Jah Wobble in 'Betrayal'</i>. Wobble comes across as the "nice one" in PiL, the George Orwell fan always going down the library. I'll have to dig it out.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwSywq1iCJ2GblSi47ZW6j9Wp_LO_OwcU8vcfYwlYZSjJzBuQXi0xPd2IKGCD6IE3Nbc5iJXlXywudeBrXpMMWADGS8lGWlaMJPcuhyiHR1EpqAhs6vvjW4WGR40xK5nUwY_aOG9H7JfCAJMWQQghjcMGQekx7T3RpIE6zJMjDUs4fHVLpm1-xaaC/s1281/angus%20mackinnon%20defunkt%20alternate%20version%2017%20jan%2081.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwSywq1iCJ2GblSi47ZW6j9Wp_LO_OwcU8vcfYwlYZSjJzBuQXi0xPd2IKGCD6IE3Nbc5iJXlXywudeBrXpMMWADGS8lGWlaMJPcuhyiHR1EpqAhs6vvjW4WGR40xK5nUwY_aOG9H7JfCAJMWQQghjcMGQekx7T3RpIE6zJMjDUs4fHVLpm1-xaaC/s16000/angus%20mackinnon%20defunkt%20alternate%20version%2017%20jan%2081.jpg" /></a></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmtVc30MT832qdaoZNXHMw8sSnL1FIJwpToJTgaOutkbHmcEcYa7ESSFwDoDUrELcvOG7QFYSIuHAf9CrLz0ptiu9OmJBnIVTgrEwGeDRoUmkpkfL7WouiNfBDTMUJNATIpF44yGSrPrO3yFN1fSBWMJfbD03J-7yEeYkEizn3QTj446XXgb9-BAW/s1282/angus%20mackinnon%20defunkt%2017%20January%201981%20close%20and%20sharp.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1282" data-original-width="519" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmtVc30MT832qdaoZNXHMw8sSnL1FIJwpToJTgaOutkbHmcEcYa7ESSFwDoDUrELcvOG7QFYSIuHAf9CrLz0ptiu9OmJBnIVTgrEwGeDRoUmkpkfL7WouiNfBDTMUJNATIpF44yGSrPrO3yFN1fSBWMJfbD03J-7yEeYkEizn3QTj446XXgb9-BAW/s16000/angus%20mackinnon%20defunkt%2017%20January%201981%20close%20and%20sharp.jpg" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwSywq1iCJ2GblSi47ZW6j9Wp_LO_OwcU8vcfYwlYZSjJzBuQXi0xPd2IKGCD6IE3Nbc5iJXlXywudeBrXpMMWADGS8lGWlaMJPcuhyiHR1EpqAhs6vvjW4WGR40xK5nUwY_aOG9H7JfCAJMWQQghjcMGQekx7T3RpIE6zJMjDUs4fHVLpm1-xaaC/s1281/angus%20mackinnon%20defunkt%20alternate%20version%2017%20jan%2081.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="474" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwSywq1iCJ2GblSi47ZW6j9Wp_LO_OwcU8vcfYwlYZSjJzBuQXi0xPd2IKGCD6IE3Nbc5iJXlXywudeBrXpMMWADGS8lGWlaMJPcuhyiHR1EpqAhs6vvjW4WGR40xK5nUwY_aOG9H7JfCAJMWQQghjcMGQekx7T3RpIE6zJMjDUs4fHVLpm1-xaaC/w236-h640/angus%20mackinnon%20defunkt%20alternate%20version%2017%20jan%2081.jpg" width="236" /></a></p><p><br /></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-20471886068161125122024-01-28T11:55:00.000-08:002024-02-01T11:43:50.669-08:00RIP Neil Kulkarni<p><b>SLEEPER</b></p><p><b>Digbeth Institute, Birmingham</b></p><p><b>Melody Maker, October 21st 1995</b></p><p><b>by Neil Kulkarni</b></p><p>Indie is in Birmingham. Indie goes down a rapturous storm. Indie makes everyone happy tonight. Indie is lovely. Indie is the fleetfooted reduced to leadboot toetap. Indie is every single embarrassing moment of your life returned to like eternal dog's vomit. Indie's emotional limit is the delineation of when you feel a bit shit. Indie succeeds in this. Indie is tight T-shirts and rhythm sections. Indie is everyone wanting to look like one of the Beastie Boys even though the Beastie Boys have stopped doing this.</p><p>Indie doesn't see any point in voting because everything stays the same and comfy. Indie reaps the benefits of democracy and is unwilling to try and preserve it. Indie is communal contentment over mass ecstacy. Indie is an overheard conversation that makes you want to stab in the halfdark.</p><p>Indie is four people getting together wanting to create something sublime and immortal having had their lives swallowed by pop and needing to do the same, surveying the infinite possibilities and deciding three guitars some drums and some good songs will just about do. Indie is the scornful look from people your brain could eclipse and burn a million times over. Indie is every single transcendent spirit of humanity withered and died to the desire to succeed.</p><p>Indie is musical bigotry, political apathy, casual racism. Indie is a popularity contest that hates shallowness. Indie is revenge. Indie is the class weirdo with their own thrown in the sixth form centre. Indie is the dual luxury of the glamour of alienation coupled with party invitations. Indie is sauce over sex, ignorance over intuition, Gene over Gravediggaz, Powder over Pram and if you think that's petty you weren't here tonight, this was petty-lite. Indie is utterly wonderful.</p><p>Sleeper are great and I love them as much as you do. WILL THAT DO ARE YOU HAPPY NOW IT'S DOWN IN B&W JUST REREAD THIS SENTENCE FOREVER JUST FOR CHRISSAKES DON'T TALK TO ME. Indie is the only world in which Wener's cretinous Tory! Tory! Tory! blathering would not only be tolerated but applauded for their "bravery". Indie is the only type of pop that hasn't superseded poetry. Indie is happy. Indie is harmless. Indie is in love. Indie is moving with a bounce and a skip tonight and is proof that nothing is more revolting that the sight of the inheritors of the earth enjoying themselves. Indie has won. Indie will always win. Indie is where your assumption of universal complexity crumbles into the stark realisation that some people really are complete cunts. Indie is dead and buried. Indie is alive and well. The crowd roared.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>Kula Shaker</b></p><p><b>Melody Maker, 14th September 1996 </b></p><p><b>by Neil Kulkarni</b></p><p>I've just been informed by that porridge-faced wanker, Simon Mayo, that Kula Shaker are "the next Oasis". Of course, the obvious questions don't even get asked. Dissent is useless. Oasis are so big, such a huge commercial fact, they've created their own gravitational pull that sucks everyone below 30 along with them. They're as unavoidable as Coca-Cola or bad government, they're the indie Royal Family, a deadly virus to which there is only one cure: REMEMBER THE MUSIC'S CRAP. What Oasis have done is frighten everyone into a sudden fear of dissing "The Kids". To question The Kids is to miss the point, to be snobby, up yer own arse, a killjoy, a misery; Oasis have hardened The Kids consensus into a towering monolith that everyone must work around, accept, try and understand, try and JOIN. They can't all be wrong so the problem is you, right?</p><p>Well, fuck the kids. The kids will put this album at Number One. The kids are wrong. The kids are stupid. And, most importantly, "The Kids" DON'T FUCKING EXIST; the fallacy of consensus is created to pull as many tenners as possible into the slipstream, carried along by momentum and NOTHING ELSE. And this month's high- push-product is Kula Shaker and, Christ all mucking fighty, they're the worst of the lot.</p><p>There's enough woolly-minded idiocy and crass contrivance in this one record to consign the whole indie-pop scene into the abyss. But at least they're (open yer hymn books) Real Songs Played On Real Instruments. It's not even as if this could've been made in the last 30 years: Kula Shaker are so scared of '96 (is it a white thing? I dunno) and want SO BADLY to be dead and reborn in 1972 it's fucking ALARMING. Crucially, retro-accusations are less important than pointing out how deadly dull the bulk of this LP is, in a way that only true scumcunt hippies can be: "K" makes you feel genuinely ill, queasy, too much cheesecake too soon. It shits itself in fear of the future (1973) and stinks of living death.</p><p>In order, then: Hendrix in hell forced to tutor a disinterred Northside ("Hey Dude"); Cream at their most hideous ("Knight Of The Town"); Zep at their folksy worst ("Temple of the Everlasting Light" - I'm not making these up); fucking barbershop raga that's beneath contempt ("Govinda"); a repellent Madchester autopsy on Steve Marriott ("Smart Dogs"); a three-song burst of acoustic beardiness ("Magic Theatre", "Into The Deep", "Sleeping Jiva"); the two worst singles of '96 ("Tattva", "Grateful When You're Dead"); what you hope is gonna be an old-skool acid track but turns out to be more of the same ("303") and a closing fade-out ("Hollow Man") so stomach- churningly repugnant you feel like strapping suicide bombs to your body and marching straight over to Jo Whiley's house.</p><p>The trouble is it isn't that easy. Turn on MTV, open the NME, turn on the radio, walk into a record shop, and you'll be told that this is the way it is, this is what being you is, that this is a good thing, that we all feel the same way. Fuck that. This isn't the way things are or the way they have to be - this is living in FEAR of being young, this is a bad thing, and we here all AIN'T happy as can be, all good friends and jolly good company.</p><p>Don't be a sucker to this lame game. Time to tighten up and party.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wQr_u-VEzN7DWb5ZnlB5wOdgiWIx0CTAaHd3lkl3eYXg6VFhgtJJV48auxa5V3_9KjBPdl98TaAtMHp2dyBJ8ZGp8vooNYzyZ-xpgYdpba8iFjZrP09SeZmWnI38dkLQGHvvLIw_UV-8lqt_Mu8SAn-NpK01XYcUi4N_j6rBT1L7MRmNmpqJET3e/s3226/neil%20kulkarni%20neds%20atomic%20dustbin%20july%2015%2095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3226" data-original-width="1670" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wQr_u-VEzN7DWb5ZnlB5wOdgiWIx0CTAaHd3lkl3eYXg6VFhgtJJV48auxa5V3_9KjBPdl98TaAtMHp2dyBJ8ZGp8vooNYzyZ-xpgYdpba8iFjZrP09SeZmWnI38dkLQGHvvLIw_UV-8lqt_Mu8SAn-NpK01XYcUi4N_j6rBT1L7MRmNmpqJET3e/w332-h640/neil%20kulkarni%20neds%20atomic%20dustbin%20july%2015%2095.jpg" width="332" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Ten bits of advice from someone without a clue – the Neil Kulkarni guide to being a record-reviewer...</b></div><div><p><b><a href="https://drownedinsound.com/in_depth/4137350-the-neil-kulkarni-guide-to-being-a-record-reviewer" target="_blank">Drowned in Sound</a>, 2009</b></p><p>Love language. To the point where you wonder where it stops and you begin.</p><p>Realise where you stand. Not in relation to the record but in relation to the record business. You’re something less than the shit crapped out by the maggot that feasts on the shit crapped out by the rabid dog that is the music biz – if at any point you start thinking that what you are doing ‘matters’ in a bizness sense you’re fucked, if at any point you reckon you’re anything more than a piddling-peon in place to rubber-stamp or reject product, then think again. The biz will use you if you say what they want, if you don’t they won’t – be mentally clear about your own utter irrelevance before you even start or be ready for a steady diet of disappointment your whole working life. Might seem such pre-emptive knee-chopping action on your ambition might wither the writing down to meekness – quite the reverse: only by first accepting your inability to change pop, your lonely impotence amid the cogs and gears, do you realise that your words shouldn’t be measured, considered, or anything approaching reasonable. The self-abasing degrading shame of being a critic doesn’t paralyse, it frees you up to write what the fuck you want rather than what you feel the ‘job’ demands, disconnects you from anything approaching favours, but keeps your overarching pomposity (for if you don’t have this what the fuck are you doing being a writer anyhoo?) in check. You have no favours to grant, no friends to keep, no partner to find, absolutely nothing to lose except your own idea of yourself, your own relationship with your style, taste and ego. This has nothing to do with whatever PR has sent you the record, whatever ‘readership’ your publisher is aiming for or any ‘help’ you can give to a band or artist you deem worthy of your reverse-Midas messing. This is between you and the plastic and the mirror you have to look at yourself in and nothing else. There is no career ladder. Only a downward spiral from the first thrill of seeing your name in print.</p><p><br /></p><p>Be honest about your own dishonesty. Don’t lie, or at least make damn sure your lies are real. Delusions of grandeur aren’t gonna fly unless they’re not delusions, unless you can make the words vibrate with enough energy to create yourself the illusion of godliness. Tricky thang to create – conviction, the feeling reading that no matter how purple the prose it is still ineluctably connected with the life and soul of the writer. But record reviews are not really places to ‘affect’ anything – make sure your affectations are life-sized and real before you start unpacking them across the page. If you’re going to be a primping self-obsessed prima donna in print then make damn sure that self-image is intact and whole and the drama you’re throwing out and around yourself is rock solid, is firmly based in the time and space you find yourself right fkn now. If you’re going to shame yourself do it shamelessly. If you don’t regret what you’ve written after you’ve written it, or find in revisiting past work an occasional INTENSE embarassment (and equally intense pride) you’re probably not doing your job properly. But if ALL you feel is a faint embarrassment (and equally faint pride) then you’ve been writing needily, you’ve been writing to get friends you’re never going to meet, and you’re the next editor of the NME. Congratulations.</p><p>Teenagers. Read. By which I mean devour. Listen. By which I mean hollow yourself out until you only exist in the spaces between the pop you love. Then, try and find yourself again, or at least create something tangible in the gaps. Find the unique thing you have to say, the unique way you have of saying it, and hone the fucker until you can hear yourself talking on the page, until you can recognise yourself a line in. Your voice is easier found with a chip on your shoulder and a pain in your heart. Think about those writers who you feel weren’t just writing for you but who come to live in your life, a constant over-the-shoulder presence yaying or naying the choices you make. If you don’t want to be that important to your readers get out the game.</p><p>Getting song titles and lyrics right can be less important than nailing your feelings, your real feelings that occur before your mind has a chance to process them, the feelings a record puts in your brain and body before you feel the need to justify or back-up those instant instincts. If you can’t think of anything to say about a record you’re in the wrong place. Ditch this bitch of a non-job and get yourself a plumbing degree, s’where the money and the happiness is.</p><p>Stop dithering. You should be able to lash down a 600 word record review in an hour. Read it, change it, read it again, change it again – keep going until it’s inarguable. Be the most brutal editor you know – knocking shit down from EVERYTHING YOU THINK to a HINT of what you think will give you only the choicest shit, the toughest sense, the most committed nonsense. When writing always think Ed Gein – cut out the fanny.</p><p>Listen only to those colleagues whose writing you respect. Ignore pips on shoulders or being overawed by another’s ‘position’. Be willing to write anything for anyone but always try and pleas(ur)e yourself. In this day and age you have less and less to lose.</p><p>Be poetic be prosaic but if you’re gonna crack wise, be funny – remember what Fitzgerald said about exclamation marks being ‘like laughing at your own joke’ – if you’re gonna wank-off be concise. Get to the heart of your dreams and delusions quickly and convincingly – don’t waste time apologising or stage-setting. And if at any point you look on a paragraph and think ‘Mark Beaumont could’ve written this’ stab yourself in the eyes cut off your hands and drown yourself in the bath for the sake of Our Lord Jesu Christus himself. For the children dammit.</p><p>A difficult one this but NEVER Google yourself. Ignore compliments, avoid slaps on the back. Suck up criticism, it’s probably half-right. Be unfailingly polite and well-mannered in all your communications with PRs and labels (nothing’s quite so repulsive as a rude-cunt hack), watch what bridges you’re burning and keep on keeping on.</p><p>Accept that everything you say will be forgotten and ignored but write as if you and your words are immortal. Don’t just describe but justify – make sure the reader knows WHY the record exists whether the reasons are righteous or rascally. And always remember you’re not here to give consumer advice or help with people’s filing. You’re here to set people’s heads on fire.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>scans via Nothing Else On</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJsneY-WMXBskcYZ6RmzBaZKsQ9dIRrkQtod90wgSlnPnBV1xBWiOUDqgmVz1Q5qtOxUOkFZOFJTFK5Hb8LIc7sCUIY23t_QzKT3PgajX-Dmxc0yn9CbSpHHuJiLLZFjUbdkdpRhVrsPCXtyO1aVUU-Stan1FkFwA6r5j9G4q5la2Rvf7LUFz9gp5/s2574/neil%20kulkarni%20mobb%20deep.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2574" data-original-width="1715" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJsneY-WMXBskcYZ6RmzBaZKsQ9dIRrkQtod90wgSlnPnBV1xBWiOUDqgmVz1Q5qtOxUOkFZOFJTFK5Hb8LIc7sCUIY23t_QzKT3PgajX-Dmxc0yn9CbSpHHuJiLLZFjUbdkdpRhVrsPCXtyO1aVUU-Stan1FkFwA6r5j9G4q5la2Rvf7LUFz9gp5/w426-h640/neil%20kulkarni%20mobb%20deep.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBn3CV7gR6omIVse_hWvQ4mSSaHSndFuvYLn2yJ4cj4-ImfH3QmU1VrCnQeQX0bRwFFGBJXXx9oq0BejYQV3XtwybUUZJjFB27c8cL3VAflSGZLZOqGhavBxJzxZlO1OxDwNN-q-d60wUOpQj6xc1Ox81HekvXsZ_LBVmIuhoYacchCJkZyI2ZiBNN/s3803/53495154152_0029d132fa_o.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3803" data-original-width="2810" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBn3CV7gR6omIVse_hWvQ4mSSaHSndFuvYLn2yJ4cj4-ImfH3QmU1VrCnQeQX0bRwFFGBJXXx9oq0BejYQV3XtwybUUZJjFB27c8cL3VAflSGZLZOqGhavBxJzxZlO1OxDwNN-q-d60wUOpQj6xc1Ox81HekvXsZ_LBVmIuhoYacchCJkZyI2ZiBNN/w472-h640/53495154152_0029d132fa_o.jpg" width="472" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1IRHSw9d5efnPwxB2GjICkcAJpOcmloOtTd4ztderTPYx2fatyLTqQGyL7nzWbjmzGIZ066T_fN9Y7x1_Fno-AHitF_8RtM9VhBC4crRFY7MZjrFqYqEqxz3FiZoIWgks3QEzoYSxRtQMM8DCdc2fGUsy1CFxyGASU1DmVWOMSD6KnoGJD7fMLnQK/s3873/53496045086_23420fdcb0_o.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3873" data-original-width="2865" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1IRHSw9d5efnPwxB2GjICkcAJpOcmloOtTd4ztderTPYx2fatyLTqQGyL7nzWbjmzGIZ066T_fN9Y7x1_Fno-AHitF_8RtM9VhBC4crRFY7MZjrFqYqEqxz3FiZoIWgks3QEzoYSxRtQMM8DCdc2fGUsy1CFxyGASU1DmVWOMSD6KnoGJD7fMLnQK/w474-h640/53496045086_23420fdcb0_o.jpg" width="474" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Snippet from Neil's recent-ish <a href="https://reader.exacteditions.com/issues/99722/page/63" target="_blank">review for </a><i>The Wire</i> of a Xenakis box set (via <a href="https://www.dissensus.com/threads/580/page-3" target="_blank">Dissensus' s Version</a>)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wQol-_C9yasS1CRkVddOPT0lcrzYF61ElUI2a0aggYfzbkm0UPtgyqUBBmvOn97Ugq_S1GhHDoENiZk-ulFGwxj6g8wQwhYAvwS0tyMRyLcytqb2OHeiHUbUbMJooQhIfqUEoyzbqNOOn-ZmMITY1T7J4pj8z_9eZTxpTVf0jQ1A7r4b2JoEFXPi/s606/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-29%2017-13-04.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="606" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wQol-_C9yasS1CRkVddOPT0lcrzYF61ElUI2a0aggYfzbkm0UPtgyqUBBmvOn97Ugq_S1GhHDoENiZk-ulFGwxj6g8wQwhYAvwS0tyMRyLcytqb2OHeiHUbUbMJooQhIfqUEoyzbqNOOn-ZmMITY1T7J4pj8z_9eZTxpTVf0jQ1A7r4b2JoEFXPi/w400-h333/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-29%2017-13-04.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p></div>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-46364297232020000122024-01-22T16:57:00.000-08:002024-02-04T13:40:31.952-08:00RIP Paul Rambali<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhogW5GB1OFOCqQZEZ2fSV2XKxP_Sy4NpLhyphenhyphenOeIwC_j36qXOfG1GS5c6vmeSGu6-He85tnLQOKywQ-FuKtnZ4FM-fJg1NdqlEcoTTJ5S6AC5SVDwaZwhJhyphenhyphen4PtOHZtCMEupmRK0Wmu76ZtBUkd8AuJUEo7Kr8GClw2E8m0obALWB8p2KUVStYWPyAl/s300/paul%20rambali.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhogW5GB1OFOCqQZEZ2fSV2XKxP_Sy4NpLhyphenhyphenOeIwC_j36qXOfG1GS5c6vmeSGu6-He85tnLQOKywQ-FuKtnZ4FM-fJg1NdqlEcoTTJ5S6AC5SVDwaZwhJhyphenhyphen4PtOHZtCMEupmRK0Wmu76ZtBUkd8AuJUEo7Kr8GClw2E8m0obALWB8p2KUVStYWPyAl/w320-h320/paul%20rambali.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I was really saddened to learn last week of the death of <b>Paul</b> <b>Rambali</b>, one of the main writers at <i>New Musical Express</i> during its postpunk heyday, and later an editor at <i>The Face</i>. </p><p>I met Paul some years ago in Paris, where he'd moved and continued to work in the media. I was there to promote <i>Retromani</i>a, I think - at any rate after whatever it was we were doing together (a radio thing?) we had a lovely chat over lunch, during which he told me interesting stuff about how the music press worked back in those days and just how widely read the papers were, thanks to their phenomenal pass-on rate (many eyes looking at each copy). Some years later, I quoted him from memory in this tribute to the music papers I did for <i>Pitchfork </i>(have<a href="https://pitchfork.com/features/article/9491-worth-their-wait/" target="_blank"> a look here</a>, but hurry before it disappears behind a paywall,)</p><p>When I was a boy reading the <i>NME</i> every week, I used to have a handful of heroes whose by-lines I'd look out for and who I'd read virtually every single thing by. And then there were the other writers, the bedrock of the paper, who I'd read when they wrote about something I liked or was intrigued by. But when I returned to the music papers for <i>Rip It Up</i> and read through years and years of <i>NME</i>, <i>Sounds</i>, <i>Melody Maker</i>, and some of the monthly magazines too, I found myself more impressed by the work of the writers who <i>weren't</i> attention-seeking show-offs. At <i>NME</i>, writers like Angus Mackinnon, Paul Du Noyer, Dave Hill, Lynn Hanna, Andy Gill, Paul Tickell, Cynthia Rose, Graham Lock, Richard Grabel, many others.... and Paul Rambali. I appreciated the intelligence, clarity, and directness of what they did. It's not that they lacked for passion or incisive opinions or ideas - not at all. But they tended to also do the journalistic work of finding out the facts, telling the story. Which I probably took for granted at the time, but now - as someone undertaking the second draft of history as it were - I found incredibly valuable. (The same went for their equivalents on <i>Melody Maker</i> and <i>Sounds</i>). </p><p>Rambali in particular did some fantastic work on groups like Pere Ubu and The Pop Group, amongst many other key bands of that time. </p><p>You can find the motherlode of Rambali's <a href="https://www.rocksbackpages.com/Library/Writer/paul-rambali?orderBy=Artist" target="_blank">punk and postpunk era writing </a>here at <i>Rock's Back Pages</i></p><p>An interview with Joy Division </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNC8dYOqo3jz17-FD3ATwOwrLeSZgnmllHUo7LsNzowDRWTKO9mMDKgO14A4jCVjGHdzXLc7ah5ZBrxGJ3sEBzJSWSUO24gA7LzUDUQaWPe1nvs2OnxESWaCJxADCepm_FQiT8w33aIhCaF-QjnG6-1dnKFwlayOf-iEnNg1xp2ohgDBnYWLpjrjM/s2013/paul%20rambali%20joy%20division%201979%201.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2013" data-original-width="669" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNC8dYOqo3jz17-FD3ATwOwrLeSZgnmllHUo7LsNzowDRWTKO9mMDKgO14A4jCVjGHdzXLc7ah5ZBrxGJ3sEBzJSWSUO24gA7LzUDUQaWPe1nvs2OnxESWaCJxADCepm_FQiT8w33aIhCaF-QjnG6-1dnKFwlayOf-iEnNg1xp2ohgDBnYWLpjrjM/w212-h640/paul%20rambali%20joy%20division%201979%201.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13_DWNqHe5Heffl3SD7v7MjSFSBWaMHKJpcZmZ3n9Gz76DA_Oyvx42pzvEPlv6LBfRN32pltvNta8SuEWRVLvD_LRuD-sUQ29Vt17g9nWh6-eVD5TDWrZ3Sawc_8d-AH-ziwhoNf_V_yDMEPOEmCPpFpoTt4fkrr2PB8OTe6NdpePzlrgqfnXT2o_/s2048/paul%20rambali%20joy%20division%201979%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1425" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13_DWNqHe5Heffl3SD7v7MjSFSBWaMHKJpcZmZ3n9Gz76DA_Oyvx42pzvEPlv6LBfRN32pltvNta8SuEWRVLvD_LRuD-sUQ29Vt17g9nWh6-eVD5TDWrZ3Sawc_8d-AH-ziwhoNf_V_yDMEPOEmCPpFpoTt4fkrr2PB8OTe6NdpePzlrgqfnXT2o_/w446-h640/paul%20rambali%20joy%20division%201979%202.jpg" width="446" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Text of that <a href="https://punkrocker.org.uk/punkinterviews/joydivision.html" target="_blank">interview here</a></p><p><br /></p><p>Here's his review of The Pop Group's <i>Y</i>. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvxwtuFzS7vzLpWnbK3A0f8kLyhvROdIPakmI3ZkGNM_DZNDyplkHLUyhrb9XmnMjPBZ1BF7Qe7Ix-kp0DJRLpmqOgSTNbd5ic7_4Fx1L2HmjExbw4VqSXQI1OPJGv7XdclmMDZQHtyZeMVJZhaVkONbC6QFxTvhic-gbKHzDSwsmxb_TG-ooZa0u/s2789/Paul%20Rambali%20Pop%20Group%20Y%20NME%20April%201979.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2789" data-original-width="1035" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvxwtuFzS7vzLpWnbK3A0f8kLyhvROdIPakmI3ZkGNM_DZNDyplkHLUyhrb9XmnMjPBZ1BF7Qe7Ix-kp0DJRLpmqOgSTNbd5ic7_4Fx1L2HmjExbw4VqSXQI1OPJGv7XdclmMDZQHtyZeMVJZhaVkONbC6QFxTvhic-gbKHzDSwsmxb_TG-ooZa0u/w238-h640/Paul%20Rambali%20Pop%20Group%20Y%20NME%20April%201979.jpg" width="238" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p>And here is a famous cover story he did with Captain Beefheart (with famous shots by Anton Corbijn)</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzIq9djDHd4w9q2jfw5lWEFwbheDfIc3wfKAzHarXhzVo-BLbBNAzIX19TDuV26Zq_qCvm2TRT9EMC12bFUJCA5FRXRXFtlsoq1itrGycsAfCewe7yAu74D-AAikr2fOMOnkNT7E78275O_XekXClw5NePrcR45EKt4zU2ogUJge75sucWNoex1GC/s680/Paul-Rambali-captain-beefheart-1-November-1980-cover.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="510" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzIq9djDHd4w9q2jfw5lWEFwbheDfIc3wfKAzHarXhzVo-BLbBNAzIX19TDuV26Zq_qCvm2TRT9EMC12bFUJCA5FRXRXFtlsoq1itrGycsAfCewe7yAu74D-AAikr2fOMOnkNT7E78275O_XekXClw5NePrcR45EKt4zU2ogUJge75sucWNoex1GC/w480-h640/Paul-Rambali-captain-beefheart-1-November-1980-cover.jpg" width="480" /></a></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdpknSKynUNT8TaxGcf-CfNVQA2GysT2bDejgIl0hm4gpumKq7L1Wn-o5txFuHJ-Kaqv70Thbc1X3VxV_37-Y3j6Xf1m3tIekJCcfFJZW_pqLTwgFwRDMWVzcziTnF9yhgVcdAPWJqB6JDeHrlLoxmUZQGFvtRueEEw4nKqVNORXKr5diML1j_TB_O/s680/Paul-Rambali-captain-beefheart-1-November-1980-1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="510" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdpknSKynUNT8TaxGcf-CfNVQA2GysT2bDejgIl0hm4gpumKq7L1Wn-o5txFuHJ-Kaqv70Thbc1X3VxV_37-Y3j6Xf1m3tIekJCcfFJZW_pqLTwgFwRDMWVzcziTnF9yhgVcdAPWJqB6JDeHrlLoxmUZQGFvtRueEEw4nKqVNORXKr5diML1j_TB_O/w480-h640/Paul-Rambali-captain-beefheart-1-November-1980-1.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggq2vawYwVSYcMf8LwKOSLLTnIJjC4AvOA5robzo4dkqFxWL92WfP0TBnRNJB3rloBPlOASEgdcLbmSqUZ7jQYKswTxCd0W-aKmLGfeuM7FH0p9sG2IZrR8MtOlswnSSFg9UqhofTU3ABsHPgEUeUS276zeV3pTyZazyCsZl79qse97xlzsd0XAYXN/s680/Paul-Rambali-captain-beefheart-1-November-1980-2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="510" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggq2vawYwVSYcMf8LwKOSLLTnIJjC4AvOA5robzo4dkqFxWL92WfP0TBnRNJB3rloBPlOASEgdcLbmSqUZ7jQYKswTxCd0W-aKmLGfeuM7FH0p9sG2IZrR8MtOlswnSSFg9UqhofTU3ABsHPgEUeUS276zeV3pTyZazyCsZl79qse97xlzsd0XAYXN/w480-h640/Paul-Rambali-captain-beefheart-1-November-1980-2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76DjuwFenvC8Hp6NY84BXKbKPyWrs56yeitQkKYeVgxTPvQojFqMYOOT6VnQxnH5HQ8dccxjZGdqtAjV6YxD4FicdougqnVHpftm5JIybWntGK-6PsC4Yj9unHukFwwexIEHqoSp_G4hosbPue4gD-Vy64s_-k8Yd5E3YaRv2MXnFbFkEWhg1-ydF/s2048/Paul-Rambali-captain-beefheart-1-November-1980-3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76DjuwFenvC8Hp6NY84BXKbKPyWrs56yeitQkKYeVgxTPvQojFqMYOOT6VnQxnH5HQ8dccxjZGdqtAjV6YxD4FicdougqnVHpftm5JIybWntGK-6PsC4Yj9unHukFwwexIEHqoSp_G4hosbPue4gD-Vy64s_-k8Yd5E3YaRv2MXnFbFkEWhg1-ydF/w480-h640/Paul-Rambali-captain-beefheart-1-November-1980-3.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzIq9djDHd4w9q2jfw5lWEFwbheDfIc3wfKAzHarXhzVo-BLbBNAzIX19TDuV26Zq_qCvm2TRT9EMC12bFUJCA5FRXRXFtlsoq1itrGycsAfCewe7yAu74D-AAikr2fOMOnkNT7E78275O_XekXClw5NePrcR45EKt4zU2ogUJge75sucWNoex1GC/s680/Paul-Rambali-captain-beefheart-1-November-1980-cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p>When I have a bit more time I will try to dig up some other pieces by Paul. </p><br /><p><br /></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-61295646373641211922024-01-21T10:34:00.000-08:002024-01-21T10:34:32.083-08:00Barney Hoskyns - Cocteau Twins - Head Over Heels - NME November 5 1983<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNVdxNfOLHuoXKdR41qjGGTjhte0vbohROVDKPlmLTuivPvfnjB_55SjGuoyI8WVUWkrAZyx-a_fPiLsP_zP4qrRZDkZkA39-rY9hTqtMOOCNv2Js-xGZHvxbar8IvCIT9bA4X5AwQMyKO04QEYwoQMq4krwfIzfS96Yxl0_fLm9aaKWu_3l6X_tv/s3713/barney%20hoskyns%20cocteau%20twins%20head%20over%20heels%201983%20october.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3713" data-original-width="1724" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNVdxNfOLHuoXKdR41qjGGTjhte0vbohROVDKPlmLTuivPvfnjB_55SjGuoyI8WVUWkrAZyx-a_fPiLsP_zP4qrRZDkZkA39-rY9hTqtMOOCNv2Js-xGZHvxbar8IvCIT9bA4X5AwQMyKO04QEYwoQMq4krwfIzfS96Yxl0_fLm9aaKWu_3l6X_tv/w186-h400/barney%20hoskyns%20cocteau%20twins%20head%20over%20heels%201983%20october.jpg" width="186" /></a></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoS-15n5JrJ2EW17cY3UCG1kkqcJggNSZexbtiPSL1dg9wufPE7FQopSaWphDE0XxRamWAHGDdVpi4Cz4Y0FOcp57rhToSXYUATA0o-uwbLJoKozJdZZA9fs0VoxklIP0ndxPHHggNVBJ4lCxTTH9J5XAuhsF0SmEXQOIwbNcQx4X2yT9SLjaf-wD/s1697/barney%20hoskyns%20cocteau%20twins%20head%20over%20heels%201983%20october%20TEXT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1697" data-original-width="1687" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoS-15n5JrJ2EW17cY3UCG1kkqcJggNSZexbtiPSL1dg9wufPE7FQopSaWphDE0XxRamWAHGDdVpi4Cz4Y0FOcp57rhToSXYUATA0o-uwbLJoKozJdZZA9fs0VoxklIP0ndxPHHggNVBJ4lCxTTH9J5XAuhsF0SmEXQOIwbNcQx4X2yT9SLjaf-wD/w398-h400/barney%20hoskyns%20cocteau%20twins%20head%20over%20heels%201983%20october%20TEXT.jpg" width="398" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoS-15n5JrJ2EW17cY3UCG1kkqcJggNSZexbtiPSL1dg9wufPE7FQopSaWphDE0XxRamWAHGDdVpi4Cz4Y0FOcp57rhToSXYUATA0o-uwbLJoKozJdZZA9fs0VoxklIP0ndxPHHggNVBJ4lCxTTH9J5XAuhsF0SmEXQOIwbNcQx4X2yT9SLjaf-wD/s1697/barney%20hoskyns%20cocteau%20twins%20head%20over%20heels%201983%20october%20TEXT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1697" data-original-width="1687" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoS-15n5JrJ2EW17cY3UCG1kkqcJggNSZexbtiPSL1dg9wufPE7FQopSaWphDE0XxRamWAHGDdVpi4Cz4Y0FOcp57rhToSXYUATA0o-uwbLJoKozJdZZA9fs0VoxklIP0ndxPHHggNVBJ4lCxTTH9J5XAuhsF0SmEXQOIwbNcQx4X2yT9SLjaf-wD/w637-h640/barney%20hoskyns%20cocteau%20twins%20head%20over%20heels%201983%20october%20TEXT.jpg" width="637" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNVdxNfOLHuoXKdR41qjGGTjhte0vbohROVDKPlmLTuivPvfnjB_55SjGuoyI8WVUWkrAZyx-a_fPiLsP_zP4qrRZDkZkA39-rY9hTqtMOOCNv2Js-xGZHvxbar8IvCIT9bA4X5AwQMyKO04QEYwoQMq4krwfIzfS96Yxl0_fLm9aaKWu_3l6X_tv/s3713/barney%20hoskyns%20cocteau%20twins%20head%20over%20heels%201983%20october.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3713" data-original-width="1724" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNVdxNfOLHuoXKdR41qjGGTjhte0vbohROVDKPlmLTuivPvfnjB_55SjGuoyI8WVUWkrAZyx-a_fPiLsP_zP4qrRZDkZkA39-rY9hTqtMOOCNv2Js-xGZHvxbar8IvCIT9bA4X5AwQMyKO04QEYwoQMq4krwfIzfS96Yxl0_fLm9aaKWu_3l6X_tv/s16000/barney%20hoskyns%20cocteau%20twins%20head%20over%20heels%201983%20october.jpg" /></a><br /><br /></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-21203631882981921612024-01-16T13:53:00.000-08:002024-02-11T19:07:36.746-08:00Paul Morley - The Poptimist Trilogy (live reviews February 1982)<p>In February 1982, Paul Morley reviewed live concerts by three groups across three weeks - Haircut 100, Altered Images, Depeche Mode. Groups generally deemed among the flimsiest of the New Pop offerings of the time. The review trilogy was aimed as a series of goads goring the sober-sides of aging Clash fans and grey overcoats still mourning Joy Division. It's a tour de force of provocative - and genuinely thought-provoking - transvaluation, celebrating surface pleasures, frivolity, disposability, while gleefully rubbishing ideas of substance, seriousness and durability. Note the appearance of the word "post-rock" in these reviews, meaning something <i>quite </i>different from what it would in the '90s.</p><p>It's interesting to think what became of these three groups and how unexpected some of their trajectories would prove to be from how they appeared in '82. Thoughts about that below, after the Morley reviews... </p><p><b>HAIRCUT 100</b></p><p><b>Kilburn</b></p><p><b>New Musical Express, February 6 1982</b></p><p><b>by Paul Morley</b></p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLU4jX10DSrzZWetPYhuwTGrUZaucP5zRBp2gtTdO0byCRVs_GG6sMsX2zei58zHPyX2_MNDBiD0dpo_VdAbMd8j7_SoS3g0VjL_gNLwBfMH3LRh_5m8N_U_LjYboyCKVw7I41gvjCjGekCpw7gZIwn2ZqXra1Ny1SRmF9Mc2z8eYF1d9sSd6p17G/s1986/Paul%20Morley%20Haircut%20100%20live%20trilogy%201%206%20February%201982.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1986" data-original-width="1377" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLU4jX10DSrzZWetPYhuwTGrUZaucP5zRBp2gtTdO0byCRVs_GG6sMsX2zei58zHPyX2_MNDBiD0dpo_VdAbMd8j7_SoS3g0VjL_gNLwBfMH3LRh_5m8N_U_LjYboyCKVw7I41gvjCjGekCpw7gZIwn2ZqXra1Ny1SRmF9Mc2z8eYF1d9sSd6p17G/w444-h640/Paul%20Morley%20Haircut%20100%20live%20trilogy%201%206%20February%201982.jpg" width="444" /></a></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOWRUMOcAK8ggOayT3LmmfObiPCp-PclSw9qyrIQPytsC9l7_TbbznuZYFnCyRAiXgH9j7ZTOYRAQ0_nHB8Jj94LbEbSIF8woQN5M1dDyIFGdCU7tJc6rRFjjWriywRuXphvlkgqi3tF6Aytm5OUj8yeh7eq4LnfhDDedAHzozlmXMfGI1HdMimoPF/s1986/Paul%20Morley%20Haircut%20100%20live%20trilogy%201%206%20February%201982%20close%201.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1986" data-original-width="455" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOWRUMOcAK8ggOayT3LmmfObiPCp-PclSw9qyrIQPytsC9l7_TbbznuZYFnCyRAiXgH9j7ZTOYRAQ0_nHB8Jj94LbEbSIF8woQN5M1dDyIFGdCU7tJc6rRFjjWriywRuXphvlkgqi3tF6Aytm5OUj8yeh7eq4LnfhDDedAHzozlmXMfGI1HdMimoPF/s16000/Paul%20Morley%20Haircut%20100%20live%20trilogy%201%206%20February%201982%20close%201.jpg" /></a></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsUhSfmoRYiQX0R8tKGVT3MEfAPDpYUFyKHzhCkCMvzpijV-RJeMAng9I1TspCYCRbJiWphpwvC5Z5IrOG-HKwO0ZdqsmO580kcUN2mOwpWSGZSr8syFpjEItV9OJL5g3hxxKR3JYGH29WOS9wY_quPVSYzUgs1QJMOdoTOa5EOQJjnkMsnTTRpoc/s886/Paul%20Morley%20Haircut%20100%20live%20trilogy%201%206%20February%201982%20close%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="886" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsUhSfmoRYiQX0R8tKGVT3MEfAPDpYUFyKHzhCkCMvzpijV-RJeMAng9I1TspCYCRbJiWphpwvC5Z5IrOG-HKwO0ZdqsmO580kcUN2mOwpWSGZSr8syFpjEItV9OJL5g3hxxKR3JYGH29WOS9wY_quPVSYzUgs1QJMOdoTOa5EOQJjnkMsnTTRpoc/w640-h190/Paul%20Morley%20Haircut%20100%20live%20trilogy%201%206%20February%201982%20close%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>ALTERED IMAGES</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Hammersmith Palais</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>New Musical Express</i>, February 13, 1982</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>by Paul Morley</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibvbj5cQqfZvb1-PvNqMs46WJ1jpQrM1sCBpJxgHDlAG7FxtWJi0TUarMWD40O6cVGhZr2TKHoPrZVuGE7RMRt7jbo7Sy9gT-GB4vIPl5QNO8mrYQWLDYZpatx7ywuGaJbdGpgVhXIclsSLVSBJw5OZXRlYTC_iF15J2po1yieEYmtd1StYRBZklVM/s3240/Paul%20Morley%20Altered%20Images%20live%20trilogy%202%20Feb%2013%2082.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1185" data-original-width="3240" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibvbj5cQqfZvb1-PvNqMs46WJ1jpQrM1sCBpJxgHDlAG7FxtWJi0TUarMWD40O6cVGhZr2TKHoPrZVuGE7RMRt7jbo7Sy9gT-GB4vIPl5QNO8mrYQWLDYZpatx7ywuGaJbdGpgVhXIclsSLVSBJw5OZXRlYTC_iF15J2po1yieEYmtd1StYRBZklVM/w640-h234/Paul%20Morley%20Altered%20Images%20live%20trilogy%202%20Feb%2013%2082.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>DEPECHE MODE</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Hammersmith Odeon, London<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>New Musical Express</i>, February 20 1982</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>by Paul Morley</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">FAST FORWARD TO THE FUTURE!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To conclude my important three part examination of the
wonderfully unbrutal and irrationally enchanting post-rock teenEEbop
ideologies... BOYS AND GIRLS, the living resonance, the no mere ornament, the
fresh air, the dashed flair, the motiveless action, the living plasticity of
Depeche Mode Boys say go! A rejection of all forms of elitism! So sure of their
salvation! An eclectic imagination that celebrates the untrammelled future! The
fine delight!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Seen from one direction, Depeche Mode's 'innocence' and
'innocuousness' must seem a particularly irritating and sterile little thing: a
tiny thing, an almost invisible, unnatural thing. Those very ill people only
ever look at things from one direction and so as usual they miss out on all the
special side-effects and glorious incidentals that make new pop groups like
Depeche Mode so joyous and luminous and EXTREMELY INCONGRUOUS. I have learnt to
look at groups like Depeche Mode from at least 100 directions: but then, I'm
not ill, and I will not let Depeche Mode get me down...<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see that they are helping break down conventionalised
responses to the world, re-working and revitalising with a soulful, sighing
skill the impulsive, frivolous qualities of the traditional pop song,
reflecting sarcastically on their own role and image of themselves, overcoming
spectacularly the dismaying rockOH dogma, learning to love ironically the
technology that gives them their means and gets them earning. When I look at
Depeche Mode I see strange shapes, angelic precision, diamond brilliance, infinite
possibilities, in actual fact I see a very NATURAL THING... sort of — and I
wouldn't want this all the time, of course — an art without suffering,
spiritually healthy, unceremonious, not mournful and yet confidingly friendly,
an art which exists in terms of it's utmost familiarity with mankind. I don't
say that Depeche Mode are making heroic efforts to extend human application:
but their playful nonchalance — very Dada, don't you think — and their
exaltation of love as the supreme manifestation of the pleasure principle is
one hell of a smack into the eyes and teeth of the mediocrity of the universe.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As you can see, I will not let Depeche Mode get me down. I
leave that to The Resigned, who bow to a very strangled kind of necessity.
Superficially tidy, the surface hides much that is authentically doubtful and
unpredictable — just below the surface of Depeche Mode are very valid and
uplifting energies. Depeche Mode — as with all post-rock teenybop groups — are
empty ONLY TO EYES WHICH DO NOT KNOW HOW TO DISCERN THE HIDDEN PATTERNS i.e.
those very ill people, who someHOW remain dead earnest amidst the gleaming,
audacious, defiant, redemptive power of groups like Depeche Mode I say this:
Depeche Mode and their particular MIRACLE OF SIMPLICITY is enough on its own to
fill me with some kind of enfolding radiance — let that be known!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyone who could sulk all the way through Depeche Mode's
kissing, tingling, IMMEDIATE show at Hammersmith Odeon must be very ill indeed:
and of course their sulks don't make a damned difference, to the life inside
Depeche Mode, to the new waves of energy Depeche Mode are contributing to.
There is no absence of wit when Depeche Mode are on stage. "Life,"
they imply, "is neither good or bad: it is original " Based in this
premise, their songs are preoccupied with unpredictability, surprise and
discovery and underpinned with an almost comic jauntiness. The songs have young
bodies and an intense vivacity. Depeche Mode have refined as well as anyone the
pop choreography of transience. For the moment: only a moment. The reds,
greens, blues, pinks, yellows go flashing by: the fleeting moment, the
kaleidoscopic light of changing environment and circumstance, the kaleidoscopic
speed of changing perception... Depeche Mode songs are thoroughly on the brink
of 'a' — rather than the — next moment. So absolute: so arbitrary.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Depeche Mode left the air mild, but spinning with colour and
sensation. They wrecked the cliché that an electronic group can only be bland
and wistful on stage, or that a synthesiser group empties life of spiritual
content, through the sheer suggestive consistency of their transmission and the
energetic business of their presentation. They did Gerry and the Pacemaker's 'I
Like It' as a third encore and everything fell into place.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They are the boys who want tomorrow, with the best will in
the world.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p><p><b>^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^</b></p><p>So what become of these transient thrills of '82, New Pop's annus mirabilis? </p><p><br /></p><p><b>Depeche Mode</b> had the most surprising shift of direction, the most unexpectedly long-lasting career. All their dinkiness seemed to depart with Vince Clarke (into The Assembly and Erasure, shudder). Depeche quickly became a Serious Band, inheritors of the Clash and Gang of Four, railing against Thatcher and money-minded values and almost methodically ticking off the boxes of Big Issues to Tackle (they did racism and other-hatred, religion). They deconstructed the Love Song and critiqued Love as a distraction, in the very Gang-of-Four-y "Love, In Itself". They flirted with transgression: the Swans-gone-synth of "Master and Servant", the God-renouncing "Blasphemous Rumours". As the lyrics grew ever more serious, the music grew ever more sophisticated. Live, they became a kick-ass band, rocking huge crowds at American stadiums like the Pasadena Rose Bowl (capacity 70 thousand). Then, in the early '90s, Depeche veered in an outright rocky, blues-grinding direction around the time of grunge; Gahan became a junkie in the most cliched rock'n'roll LA way. Depeche turned out to be one of the most influential bands of their time - big everywhere but especially huge in importance in Central and Eastern Europe. </p><p><b>Haircut 100</b> had the briefest career. Yet in some ways, right from the start, they were the most rockist of the bunch. They could really play, and some of the band had clearly been listening to things like Average White Band and Steely Dan, even if the template for <i>Pelican West</i> is pretty much Talking Heads <i>'77</i>. In <i>NME</i>, Danny Baker - champion of Chic and Earth Wind & Fire, scornful sceptic about whiteboy discofunksters like A Certain Ratio and Gang of Four - gave <i>Pelican West </i>a rave review - said these boys really had their chops down. Nick Heyward went solo while the residue released a second H100 album, <i>Paint and Paint</i>, which disappeared without a trace. Heyward later on winded up recording for Creation Records of all places - the most rockist, or more precisely, <i>rock'n'rollist</i> of labels. </p><p><b>Altered Images</b> did a second album in their bouncy fizz-pop mode and then went for a drastic make-over with the sexed-up, glammed-up, all-grown-up <i>Bite</i> and its singles "Don't Talk To Me About Love" and "Bring Me Closer". Then it all fizzled out, and to be honest I'm not really sure what happened to Clare and the boys after that. But of these three groups, it's their songs - "Happy Birthday", "I Could Be Happy", "See Those Eyes" - that I'd be saddest to never hear again. </p><p>^^^^^^^^^</p><p>Morley comes back for a second bite of the live cherry with this review of a bizarre lineup that combines Bauhaus and Clare's crew. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqp0QTsszfFvlb-2hyeEvNCdjuE1plfw0ixXffE4hxsdAeLHGt2d0CqiNazrrwfC4hDGftKCCkmRaV8HLs1jDzTR1VEotbgiBPwppIQ7cV4G9UEu_qZk_XUmpdwLf7_RxTCD0sZEa9rfBsG3Xfoys2F2S2oOYM2aBGysqRE_CR7z67NhfFWe2YzS44/s1407/Paul%20Morley%20Altered%20Images%20Bauhaus%20live%2030th%20July%201983.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1302" data-original-width="1407" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqp0QTsszfFvlb-2hyeEvNCdjuE1plfw0ixXffE4hxsdAeLHGt2d0CqiNazrrwfC4hDGftKCCkmRaV8HLs1jDzTR1VEotbgiBPwppIQ7cV4G9UEu_qZk_XUmpdwLf7_RxTCD0sZEa9rfBsG3Xfoys2F2S2oOYM2aBGysqRE_CR7z67NhfFWe2YzS44/w400-h370/Paul%20Morley%20Altered%20Images%20Bauhaus%20live%2030th%20July%201983.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p>The Bauhaus is also a second go-round (sort of kind of part of the Poptimist Trilogy, or an extension to it, were the belittling live reviews of <a href="https://musicpresspantheon.blogspot.com/2021/03/paul-morley-bauhaus-live-nme-1982.html" target="_blank">Peter Murphy's lips</a> and <a href="https://musicpresspantheon.blogspot.com/2022/08/paul-morley-kirk-brandons-ears-aka.html" target="_blank">Kirk Brandon's ears</a>). </p><p>Morley savagely retracts - <i>bitterly</i> retracts - <i>biliously</i> retracts - his previous esteem for the pop genius of Nick Heyward upon the arrival of the lad's solo debut in October 1983, North of A Miracle fair suppurating with soft-rockism</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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In the third issue of <i>Monitor</i>, "What's Missing?" had the hand-wringing tone (it was 1985, <a href="https://hardlybaked.blogspot.com/2010/12/2009-more-thoughts-on-bad-music-era.html" target="_blank">Bad Music Era</a> nadir) but only faint inklings of a forward path. A couple of issues later, in very early '86, "Against Health and Efficiency" sketched a new kind of oppositionality, fastening on currents within underground rock that seemed to constitute a refusal of optimism and self-optimization, breaking the link between "youth" and the idea of fun or fulfillment. </p><p>But the essay that really slots into the Titanic lineage is "1976/86", from the final issue of <i>Monito</i>r, #6, which came out in the summer of 1986. Talk about handwringing! The papers were full of tenth anniversary of punk talk - commemorative pieces and nostalgic flashbacks whose unifying tone was "What happened to the revolution? Where did it all go wrong?” 1986 also saw Dave Rimmer’s <i>Like Punk Never Happened</i>, a book about Culture Club and New Pop. Scanning the landscape of U.K. music, to me it seemed like the <i>utter opposite</i> was actually the case: practically everywhere you looked there was ample evidence that punk had happened, to a stifling degree in fact. </p><p>New Pop itself had been a stage in the punk / postpunk dialectic. I knew that from living through it in real-time. But for issue 4 of <i>Monitor</i> I decided to retrace the dialectic, visiting the Bodleian Library and ordering up back copies of the music papers between 1976 and 1982. That resulted in the essay "New Pop" - not an example of "Titanic" discourse so much as "Titanic-ology", a Foucault-informed analysis of the rock discourse. Researching the piece certainly reconfirmed my view that the current music scene was massively over-determined by punk and set me up for what proved to be my final <i>Monitor</i> statement.</p><p>“1976/86” calls for a new direction. The idea of music as "opposition" itself is up for retirement. I write about washing "<i>the punk notion of threat out of our blood</i>". Much as I loved then and will always love <i>Bollocks</i>, Buzzcocks, <i>Germfree Adolescents</i>, et al, the potential in punk seemed utterly played out. </p><p>Members of <i>Monitor</i> would continue this polemic at <i>Melody Maker</i>, arguing that the scene urgently needed unpunking and fastening on any musical developments that promised to hasten this . </p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6InPcNuT0hI1T9aaSvygpIoKd_LaCHgN47fk7gl8B9wiZJBbLT98fnEZo6fuw2Fesi1xPR3bADu7vJsVZ1HnSIbyitnR6PTZAwvLR_l6MY3oypcysrICa0pl3hO9O80efm61RA4cOy7k7D3KuvR_JNMQhIr1-AmWeIf0tJbeTR7YBXhuhwt923O4/s2940/monitor_6_1.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2940" data-original-width="2492" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6InPcNuT0hI1T9aaSvygpIoKd_LaCHgN47fk7gl8B9wiZJBbLT98fnEZo6fuw2Fesi1xPR3bADu7vJsVZ1HnSIbyitnR6PTZAwvLR_l6MY3oypcysrICa0pl3hO9O80efm61RA4cOy7k7D3KuvR_JNMQhIr1-AmWeIf0tJbeTR7YBXhuhwt923O4/w339-h400/monitor_6_1.jpg" width="339" /></a></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I was 22 when I wrote that!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6InPcNuT0hI1T9aaSvygpIoKd_LaCHgN47fk7gl8B9wiZJBbLT98fnEZo6fuw2Fesi1xPR3bADu7vJsVZ1HnSIbyitnR6PTZAwvLR_l6MY3oypcysrICa0pl3hO9O80efm61RA4cOy7k7D3KuvR_JNMQhIr1-AmWeIf0tJbeTR7YBXhuhwt923O4/s2940/monitor_6_1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; 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display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3037" data-original-width="2419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfE3jq6LLXBC5HvpwTILycLdriUGrW2yxhKhEVIOLGI9phGgFb8BHAuPK37igrY1ZS9rf8mr15fS7DLjJw4cqpxQ4O-4pzz1HJmcVJnQ0N3IWrmpEmF2O5FsnyFzkxaB3_MF4Jesweu0offdxUJrqA-23ARN_-Wx-VfgXsgk9rlWrBxlcf9aOGshi/s16000/monitor%20issue%206.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><p><br /></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-56185027786954394752023-12-18T15:19:00.000-08:002023-12-18T15:19:55.804-08:00refloating the Titanic<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdCcDdijxZhjxhB0a7tWPUh9B61x08iiqgUtOwkZfSwL9QHqWd8YPI1ppZpWQRPRoQJcp2kh8FKuH-4XrmRx4GvyKwIpKAeRReIRe7gwo8DYecDRskRyBUAu_07PMxD4m0vYkQmDOtdoeNT9Vx9TAEBzgesQbdYdNnJGwfXCtRlMtlEfaOHYHJuww/s3683/ian%20penman%20Into%20Battle%20aka%20War%20on%20Pop%20september%208%201984%201.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3683" data-original-width="2576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdCcDdijxZhjxhB0a7tWPUh9B61x08iiqgUtOwkZfSwL9QHqWd8YPI1ppZpWQRPRoQJcp2kh8FKuH-4XrmRx4GvyKwIpKAeRReIRe7gwo8DYecDRskRyBUAu_07PMxD4m0vYkQmDOtdoeNT9Vx9TAEBzgesQbdYdNnJGwfXCtRlMtlEfaOHYHJuww/w448-h640/ian%20penman%20Into%20Battle%20aka%20War%20on%20Pop%20september%208%201984%201.jpg" width="448" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7zDXlJ9LB9lcBMCZfefh6Ef-nntHPOjIXEl1F6_fq9DKl202dInlEiZjX6rYjQUvzlGwPOqwFnCKcN2u9DUTBX7KOz1dd9X5SeYB7C0d-pWb0OPhpLELL5AtiibUv5UacxsnjCT9gX_ML70f5ejyvDPRXTq5W0UQqSFsiAUkefjPFKkK588lSYHj/s3785/ian%20penman%20Into%20Battle%20aka%20War%20on%20Pop%20september%208%201984%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3785" data-original-width="2629" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7zDXlJ9LB9lcBMCZfefh6Ef-nntHPOjIXEl1F6_fq9DKl202dInlEiZjX6rYjQUvzlGwPOqwFnCKcN2u9DUTBX7KOz1dd9X5SeYB7C0d-pWb0OPhpLELL5AtiibUv5UacxsnjCT9gX_ML70f5ejyvDPRXTq5W0UQqSFsiAUkefjPFKkK588lSYHj/w444-h640/ian%20penman%20Into%20Battle%20aka%20War%20on%20Pop%20september%208%201984%202.jpg" width="444" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHevqbmMSo9apV1HAR7G3QavIATMJZjR4tOwJ8t5o1N13jrIepEBVVIbgu6pzZq0uSrHB3-gSMr0DenwuJ2Av-BoZf7txXrlBDOPIwjGVYcFfuQcOA7pzioX2efCIBXpSh1rZbyRzdxfBb4xPoej03wlGahP8wSniip3eGB83O-eVN5lmXwj0SgZV/s3856/ian%20penman%20war%20on%20pop%20nme-8-september-1984%20cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3856" data-original-width="2680" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHevqbmMSo9apV1HAR7G3QavIATMJZjR4tOwJ8t5o1N13jrIepEBVVIbgu6pzZq0uSrHB3-gSMr0DenwuJ2Av-BoZf7txXrlBDOPIwjGVYcFfuQcOA7pzioX2efCIBXpSh1rZbyRzdxfBb4xPoej03wlGahP8wSniip3eGB83O-eVN5lmXwj0SgZV/w444-h640/ian%20penman%20war%20on%20pop%20nme-8-september-1984%20cover.jpg" width="444" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>From 1984, I Punman's own reflotation move. An attempt to imagine a form of oppositionality to "the state of pop".... </div><div><br /></div><div>But where Mick Farren <a href="https://musicpresspantheon.blogspot.com/2023/12/proto-titanic.html" target="_blank">envisage</a>d all of rock (once suitably reformed / reformulated) marshalled into <a href="https://musicpresspantheon.blogspot.com/2023/11/titanic-1-mick-farren-versus-max-bell.html" target="_blank">unified opposition</a> to Showbiz ... here Penman imagines a far more subtle, to the point of being somewhat elusive, idea of "against"</div><div><br /></div><div>For starters, "showbiz" is not the enemy, not at all.... he <i>loves</i> that Vegas / Broadway / Hollywood pre-rock nexus.... pines for the days when crooners crooned tunes crafted by dedicated professionals who didn't feel the need to sing their own creations... loves the contemporary ersatz echoes of the bygone (August Darnell / ZE).... even such pale reflections as Blue Rondo A La Turk.... The riffs about the Song with a capital S are being wheeled out for the first (but not last) time. </div><div><br /></div><div>So it's quite an elusive, flickering, evanescent sort of disruption.... <i>least </i>likely, in fact, to be found amid the overtly disruptive... likelier to nestle rather within the softest songs (another <a href="https://www.thewire.co.uk/issues/339" target="_blank">life-lasting</a> riff auditioned thenabouts)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUDh8ivlfv05goA8Rqd8xgz230_XW1CfwnNj6ETS5lfLp3yByLc7XQW8j7w_AMZQLJ1u4bBawdjAMBMHadFjBiOGk0mUzjBObADbXeEl9doAvKlkwLM1s3jY3Me5X2iULn1_ONoRQJKfodV4Lsdd6rl6IpTLMZKJR0Krn6PC4sPyklZOqyJIrH2DMr/s2611/Ian%20Penman%20Torch%20Song%20piece%201%20june%2028%201980%20NME-page-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2611" data-original-width="2509" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUDh8ivlfv05goA8Rqd8xgz230_XW1CfwnNj6ETS5lfLp3yByLc7XQW8j7w_AMZQLJ1u4bBawdjAMBMHadFjBiOGk0mUzjBObADbXeEl9doAvKlkwLM1s3jY3Me5X2iULn1_ONoRQJKfodV4Lsdd6rl6IpTLMZKJR0Krn6PC4sPyklZOqyJIrH2DMr/w384-h400/Ian%20Penman%20Torch%20Song%20piece%201%20june%2028%201980%20NME-page-001.jpg" width="384" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-38107829493185991512023-12-06T20:27:00.000-08:002023-12-06T20:27:43.904-08:00proto-proto-Titanic: Watch Out Kids<p><br /></p><p><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="316" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7C5TQycSZzh1chnWtaaqdJpKBXNpgdsIlELPJgdjB2OZQMGRz42OKOPwHblZdAI33HV_cKEwOFgOixN_M5LaQaSjzVpkIAjg6qQTWJwCJVXrX9Hv3tk6Nc3VJHQ3RJAyhBSXyBS3N2_7SHCUyGjP3Q8Q341mmry6BH77YPx_SfFAB2LN80p-Zue3r/w510-h640/51cgRI63q9L.SX316.SY480._SL500_.jpg" style="color: #0000ee; text-align: center;" width="510" /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96I6egmNHuLLR2vSFPzoV8FavtHMlGPxP9h44Gup8t-JFMu9dbPxfI8rbsjtNXvWIqosfcWU5FozPJnhi8-HPIjKX_xnqI7ufTMOd04yQcCSiCPFXYGhfSd3mMCo7r4IEX6JOHJmEH5U4WGklywqA1QYisCbVU30iocLCrJ3znoPK0-S2jjTbi_jS/s657/35998_2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="519" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96I6egmNHuLLR2vSFPzoV8FavtHMlGPxP9h44Gup8t-JFMu9dbPxfI8rbsjtNXvWIqosfcWU5FozPJnhi8-HPIjKX_xnqI7ufTMOd04yQcCSiCPFXYGhfSd3mMCo7r4IEX6JOHJmEH5U4WGklywqA1QYisCbVU30iocLCrJ3znoPK0-S2jjTbi_jS/w506-h640/35998_2.jpg" width="506" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>Moot point whether this 1972 tract is the swan song for the 1960s fever dream ("How Elvis gave birth to the Angry Brigade") or the earliest inkling of renewed faith in rock-as-revolution</p><p>Either way, the most seductively unbalanced over-estimation of the power of youth music until....</p><p>Well until the scribings of the 77-76 music papers. Until <i>The Boy Looked At Johnny</i>. </p><p>In retrospect, Mick Farren's science fiction novel <i>The Texts of Festival</i> from the following year (1973) seems closer to an accurate prophecy of what would become of rock: </p><p>"<i>In the Great Hall of the capital city called Festival, the magic ritual of Soundcheck prepares the ancient loudspeakers for tonight's Celebration. It is the distant future, when all that remains of the ancient ways is a collection of sacred black discs which contain the words and music of the great prophets who lived before the disaster: Dhillon, Djeggar, and Morrizen, the fabled lizard-king.</i></p><p><i>But in the hills and valleys surrounding Festival, a threat builds. An outlaw army, wasted by spirits and speeding on 'crystal,' works its way toward the dying city, raping and pillaging, gathering strength and weapons as it goes. In Festival, the population continues its preparations for the Celebration, unknowing, unsuspecting...</i>"</p><p>That's the jacket copy of one edition; here's another </p><p>"<i>In the wilderness of Britain little of civilization remains. Decadence and division have overtaken the huddled people of Festival. And faith in the texts of the old gods - Dhillon, Djeggar and Morrizen - is fading fast. Beyond the city walls the tribes are massing, united in evil intent. Hill savages fired by ritual superstition to pillage and slaughter. Satanic horse riders inspired by drugs to rape and defile. And crystal-crazed Iggy at the head of them all - a despot in search of territory. A territory like Festival.</i>"</p><p>In other words, rock as a dwindling, increasingly haggard tribe, cherishing its myths and rituals long after they have lost purchase on reality. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_MzHXRfG5YXdFpgXFV1ho7Prd1nd7gFNSpLlot7nnGrnpus6zuv5YxkJk0yJ7sYZFa5f_kmKYbqwitTfFhdAJMfuIp94B2Z8HR3tXigB7FgiwyOjziFaRAlp0FMxDLcRTadwDEYgTNnJRb5xFbyOdNkyKuCPkvp1C5llpXTVRQBB0IKJkWSSITKN/s402/6624470.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="234" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_MzHXRfG5YXdFpgXFV1ho7Prd1nd7gFNSpLlot7nnGrnpus6zuv5YxkJk0yJ7sYZFa5f_kmKYbqwitTfFhdAJMfuIp94B2Z8HR3tXigB7FgiwyOjziFaRAlp0FMxDLcRTadwDEYgTNnJRb5xFbyOdNkyKuCPkvp1C5llpXTVRQBB0IKJkWSSITKN/w373-h640/6624470.jpg" width="373" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGnDaj5U_XX8p8oN6l7M8g48RBOCF_7nsIOkPsr7zQanRSl0z0S3DM40Fg0idZhVkMhaNtG8soddj_YG7XGC-5wmZOkYnxXY-oYxf6StSZe-UjbN9YQyyvAu8duIyLOYpfJsOWG_4gPY7tR8ss1rpWR_3MBtloB-A3b6lrvZF4NBKodaB_hYQ2G6N/s803/Mick-farren-dailytelegraph.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="580" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGnDaj5U_XX8p8oN6l7M8g48RBOCF_7nsIOkPsr7zQanRSl0z0S3DM40Fg0idZhVkMhaNtG8soddj_YG7XGC-5wmZOkYnxXY-oYxf6StSZe-UjbN9YQyyvAu8duIyLOYpfJsOWG_4gPY7tR8ss1rpWR_3MBtloB-A3b6lrvZF4NBKodaB_hYQ2G6N/w462-h640/Mick-farren-dailytelegraph.jpg" width="462" /></a></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-80403743349388949762023-12-02T19:11:00.000-08:002023-12-02T19:11:08.109-08:00proto-Titanic <p><b>Mick Farren</b></p><p><b>Is Rock 'N' Roll Ready For 1976?</b></p><p><b><i> New Musical Express</i>, January 3rd, 1976</b></p><p>I don't know about you, but for some of us 1975 really turned out to be a bitch of a year, and that's a fact. Or maybe you didn't notice.</p><p>As far as music was concerned, it seemed to kick off with the release of Dylan's Blood on the Tracks and terminate with the qualified disappointment of Bruce Springsteen. A year of upheavals, turn-rounds, disappointments, hopes and, when all is said and done, damn-all to show for it.</p><p>Not that this is a complaint about 1975 and its shortcomings, nor is it a piece about Bob Dylan. It isn't a piece about Springsteen either (praise, the Lord), or one about my own personal trials and exultations.</p><p>I guess you could say it's an examination of what current rock and roll is all about, and what exactly it is relevant to.</p><p>Like I said, 1975 was a bitch of a year.</p><p>It wasn't one of those grand exhilarating years when it was all going on so fast that there was no time to touch ground and find out what was happening. In that kind of year you couldn't write a piece like this because you were too busy bringing back the word from the front, or too busy doing it to bother to bring back the word.</p><p>It also wasn't one of those years when nothing happened at all. In those kind of years you couldn't write a piece like this. It either wouldn't get published or, if it did, you'd get shunned by polite society. In those kind of years, only an attitude of complete terminal ennui would stop you from becoming a social pariah.</p><p>Commitment in years like that was a dirty word, and any emotional response above a yawn would be judged positively obscene.</p><p>1975 has been neither of these things. At risk of being repetitive, it's been a bitch of a year.</p><p>For a start, there really haven't been any dirty words. Sure you could be lethargic, it's just a mild aberration. If you wanted to, you could be committed, another charming idiosyncrasy. 1975 has seemed to be the year when we've been prepared to tolerate just about anything.</p><p>The one thing there's been plenty of has been confusion. It's been moving round the planet by the truckload. Even in the private, often hothouse little world of the rock writer, confusion has abounded.</p><p>On the surface, one would think that it was a relatively simple act to tell the world at large about the merits or otherwise of a record, artist, live concert, movie or what-have-you.</p><p>It shouldn't be hard to tell the public whether Batter Z. and the Dogs' Homes are good, bad, indifferent, or The New Messiahs. Yet we look around and see critics starting to doubt their ability to recognise a Messiah even if he came up and whacked them with his stone tablets.</p><p>The relevancy of rock comment, criticism and a rock press, has been seriously questioned, not only in the hangouts of journalists, but in the pages of Gasbag, the luxury hotels of the stars, and the air-conditioned warrens of the business manipulators.</p><p>Even the hoary old shock question "Is rock dead?" has been dragged out and given an airing.</p><p>The key word to this whole problem seems to be relevancy.</p><p>Before we go any further, let me tell you a little story, and maybe you'll see what I mean.</p><p>^^^^^^^^^^^^^</p><p>Like a couple of thousand others, I'd gone along to Hammersmith Odeon to see Bruce Springsteen's first U.K. concert. I came out with somewhat mixed critical feelings and got into a taxi. Frankly I was disappointed, and was trying to work out whether this came from something that was lacking in Springsteen himself, or simply that the show had been oversold to me by the massive promo campaign that had surrounded it.</p><p>At the time, it seemed that sorting out what I felt about Bruce Springsteen was somehow important. He had, after all, been referred to as the "future of rock and roll" and appeared simultaneously on the covers of both Time and Newsweek.</p><p>The whole thing was suddenly dragged into a much clearer perspective by the voice coming over the cab driver's radio. The despatcher was giving a blow by blow account of the injured being dragged out of a bombed restaurant. Each time a driver called with some fresh information the dispatcher would relay it to all the other cabs in the network.</p><p>The impact of this was immense. It wasn't the usual kind of tidied-up newscast. I was actually hearing what was happening, as it happened. I was seeing the bombing through the direct subjective view of a handful of cab drivers.</p><p>Suddenly the importance of Bruce Springsteen shrank to almost nothing. There seemed to be little relationship between the concert I had just seen and the horrific events that were going down on the street.</p><p>I couldn't recall ever experiencing a similar feeling after coming out of either a Dylan or an early Rolling Stones' concert. The question in my mind was no longer what had disappointed me about Bruce Springsteen, it had been replaced by a much more important one:</p><p>Why did Springsteen — and for that matter, a great deal of modern rock and roll — seem so damned irrelevant to most of everyday life?</p><p>This is not intended to be a piece, either good or bad, about Bruce Springsteen. His name is cropping up so often because he seems to be a perfect example of the problem afflicting the contemporary rock scene. He has been touted to us by big business promo men as the ultimate street punk. In the guise of "the new Bob Dylan" he seemed to be credited with a degree of commitment, sensitivity and perception that would surpass even the best work of the sixties.</p><p>This promotion was so overwhelming that nobody ever stopped to question exactly what Springsteen was either being committed to, or sensitive and perceptive about.</p><p>An analysis of his songs reveals not a precise observation of life on skid row, but a kind of punk fantasy world based not in real life, but on an amalgam of pulp fiction and B movies firmly rooted in the fifties' teenage gang tradition.</p><p>This concept may have been developed originally in the context of the street, but, as the CBS promotion campaign began to grow, Springsteen must, by necessity, have been isolated from his roots. Unless he possesses an amazing clarity and tenacity of mind, it would seem impossible for Springsteen (or any other artist in his position) to prevent himself becoming cocooned in record company money, and cut off from the first sources of his creativity.</p><p>The earning potential of even a middle-grade rock star has so increased in the last six or seven years that a management/record company is far more inclined to treat their "investments" like so many prize race horses.</p><p>This almost total isolation of the artist from his audience must result in his or her music becoming, no matter how good, somewhat irrelevant to what's going on in the outside world.</p><p>We're back to that word again.</p><p>^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^</p><p>In the sixties it was a lot easier for an artist to stay in touch. It was a time when the music was still controlled by mavericks. On the crucial levels of promotion, production — as well as the musicians themselves — control was in the hands of people from the same background and with very similar ideas.</p><p>Bill Graham, Andrew Oldham, Derek Taylor, Spector, and even Epstein set patterns in rock administration that made it possible for people like Lennon, Dylan, Jagger or Jim Morrison to still have solid links with the street.</p><p>Today, however, things seem to have changed. A corporation mentality has taken over. Admittedly it's a hip corporation philosophy, but it's a corporation philosophy all the same.</p><p>Its attitude to music is one of polish, and giving the customers what they want.</p><p>It's an attitude that strips away the rough edges. They are concerned with the smooth distribution of product. Words like 'commitment', 'involvement' and 'art' are, to this kind of corporate mind, bad for business. They cause hassles, they could lower profits.</p><p>This has given rise to the technique of totally insulating the artist from the real world. The more the musicians are encouraged to remain in their sheltered worlds, the less trouble they cause and the easier they are to handle.</p><p>In many ways it's like a rerun of Hollywood in the 'twenties and 'thirties. Like movie stars and top sports heroes before them, musicians are being encouraged to stay inside a private hothouse environment. It's a superheated world where gossip, scandal, drug habits and breakdowns flourish to exotic proportions. It's a luxurious pen in which are kept the prize, money-earning specimens.</p><p>It has little to do with any serious reality.</p><p>There seems to be a kind of rule emerging that when rock and roll gets wrapped up in too much money, it begins to lose its guts. The kind of insulation that the corporate salesmen wrap around the musician tends to shut him off from the kind of essential street energy that is so vital to the best of rock and roll.</p><p>Occasionally we can see an individual break out of the cocoon and recharge himself from this essential energy source. We have just witnessed Dylan doing this. Lennon does it at regular intervals.</p><p>Unfortunately, they are part of a very small minority. It is far easier to call room service at the Hyatt House than to get down on the street and check out the action.</p><p>However, it does seem that too long in the Hyatt House can, in creative terms, turn you figuratively blind. The balls go out of the music, and the original fire is replaced by massive displays of sheer money.</p><p>The Rolling Stones tour of the Americas, earlier in the year, was an obvious example of what Charlie Murray called "a dinosaur" in his excellent Little Feat piece a few weeks back.</p><p>It may have been a magnificent, exciting circus, but on a logistic level it was a vast, blundering, super extravagant, over-consuming thing. It didn't take the 73 people to get Woody Guthrie on the stage.</p><p>In a process of gradual evolution, the Stones had felt forced to augment their own unique energy with spectacles like the vast, illuminated folding stages. In the orgy of presentation the Stones' relevancy (that word again) slowly slipped away.</p><p>The band that once talked uncompromisingly about the world they saw around them had turned into a Busby Berkeley spectacular.</p><p>So is there no hope at all? Is rock and roll on an unalterable course to a neo-Las Vegas?</p><p>It damn sure looks like it.</p><p>We are currently going through the worst depression since the 'thirties. In global terms, the fear of civil war is probably greater than it was even at the height of '60's paranoia, and in quiet moments I tend to wonder just how long the food, water, air, etc., are going to last.</p><p>Do we ever hear any of this reflected in rock and roll? Not often. Most of the time it seems as though all either musician or audience want to deal with is pure escapism.</p><p>If that is what everyone wants, then fair enough. I'm not about to argue with the will of the people. You have to admit, though, that the only social significance that can be gleaned out of this is that maybe we've unconsciously started on the last great party before the human race becomes extinct.</p><p>I'd be quite happy to lie back and enjoy myself if it wasn't for a small group of musicians who seem to have turned their backs on escapism and are totally related to the environment in which they live. They are also producing some of the most exciting music that's around at the moment.</p><p>^^^^^^^^^^</p><p>If being plugged into the street is the only way to produce good rock and roll, then reggae is possibly the only kind of music that is still sitting up and taking nourishment.</p><p>I have a strange feeling that when we look back and get a perspective on the 1970s it will be Bob Marley who emerges as the "Bob Dylan" of the period.</p><p>This is no more a piece about reggae than it's a piece about Bruce Springsteen or the Rolling Stones. One of the problems in getting anywhere below the surface either in reggae or, for that matter, Rastafarianism is that a white boy never really gets a straight answer.</p><p>Marley appears to be talking to his own generation in the same way that Dylan talks to his. With Dylan in the mid-sixties it was the proto-freaks that grasped his convoluted symbols. It was a language that they, and they alone, understood.</p><p>Marley is talking to young West Indian blacks in the same kind of secret language. Unfortunately for the white would-be aficionado, a great deal of this language is unintelligible. We are, after all, the bunch who shipped their ancestors off to Babylon.</p><p>One thing does seem to have been established, however. Both Marley and the Rastas have moved the consciousness of their followers to a point beyond the consumer-orientated, leopard-skin-suit-and-diamond-pinky-ring ideology of the Superfly/pimp cult that grabbed American blacks so solidly.</p><p>They also seem to be able to hold off the corporation structure. The world of reggae is one of small studios, technical improvisations and for the most part, small struggling labels.</p><p>According to the corporation philosophy, this should create frustration and inferior product. In fact, it turns out far more energetic music than anything that comes gift-wrapped out of the high-rise entertainment complexes.</p><p>If we take the whole thing a stage further, even the most cursory examination of rock history proves beyond doubt that the most inventive and rigorous periods are those when musicians and producers worked in very similar circumstances as are now prevalent in Jamaica.</p><p>The Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and Howling Wolf classics that came out of Chess Records; the early Stones' material; Specter's first masterpieces and, to a certain extent, even Blonde on Blonde were produced in unsophisticated studios and on comparatively small budgets.</p><p>In this context, a considerable emphasis had to be placed on the musicians becoming absolutely proficient on a live stage before they could be trusted in a studio.</p><p>This kind of recording environment makes impossible both manufactured groups of good-looking incompetents and the marathon fifty-eight hour "if-we-go-on-long-enough-we-might-come-up-with-something" philosophy of album-making.</p><p>The question that we face at the moment is whether rock and roll can move back to this simpler, more dynamic method of working and hold back from becoming simply an extravagant show-biz spectacle.</p><p>A few isolated purists like Dr. Feelgood have consciously made this move, but they are, unfortunately, very much alone in their dedication. While bands like Queen go on spending the equivalent of the annual wages of a whole factory-lull of workers on making an album, far too many musicians are going to be tempted to follow the same course.</p><p>There is a slight possibility that the success of Bob Marley may encourage other creative musicians to re-evaluate their situations.</p><p>This could be the salvation of rock and roll. It really depends on whether the white boys in rock and roll can once again stop and learn from their black counterparts.</p><p>We shouldn't forget that in these terms, Bob Dylan is a lot blacker than Isaac Hayes.</p><p><br /></p><p>[going good until that last line - ouch!]</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGnDaj5U_XX8p8oN6l7M8g48RBOCF_7nsIOkPsr7zQanRSl0z0S3DM40Fg0idZhVkMhaNtG8soddj_YG7XGC-5wmZOkYnxXY-oYxf6StSZe-UjbN9YQyyvAu8duIyLOYpfJsOWG_4gPY7tR8ss1rpWR_3MBtloB-A3b6lrvZF4NBKodaB_hYQ2G6N/s803/Mick-farren-dailytelegraph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="580" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGnDaj5U_XX8p8oN6l7M8g48RBOCF_7nsIOkPsr7zQanRSl0z0S3DM40Fg0idZhVkMhaNtG8soddj_YG7XGC-5wmZOkYnxXY-oYxf6StSZe-UjbN9YQyyvAu8duIyLOYpfJsOWG_4gPY7tR8ss1rpWR_3MBtloB-A3b6lrvZF4NBKodaB_hYQ2G6N/w462-h640/Mick-farren-dailytelegraph.jpg" width="462" /></a></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-86893704688673505052023-11-27T10:05:00.000-08:002023-12-04T13:04:54.073-08:00Titanic #2 (Ray Lowry versus Ian Penman) (1981)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJ6Ul78IKoyqe0wB2Uio9LFFWCRUSwZHjQMlHaU-tnKTGNIIVJN74lD1oTBfZ9PWBNEw9apjNRrreXqxB28cCgLVtNemlVb57vegJUJjiGe0rrvnu-U1f-FQKbG7Ai9C8PjhXhp4FFfj6CTWylJAuskpMC7tUW_e7uwGFP50fqix8DLEyeCc0R5AB/s2622/ray%20lowry%20titanic%20refloated%20june%2020%201981.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2622" data-original-width="2118" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJ6Ul78IKoyqe0wB2Uio9LFFWCRUSwZHjQMlHaU-tnKTGNIIVJN74lD1oTBfZ9PWBNEw9apjNRrreXqxB28cCgLVtNemlVb57vegJUJjiGe0rrvnu-U1f-FQKbG7Ai9C8PjhXhp4FFfj6CTWylJAuskpMC7tUW_e7uwGFP50fqix8DLEyeCc0R5AB/w323-h400/ray%20lowry%20titanic%20refloated%20june%2020%201981.jpg" width="323" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Ray Lowry</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">Titanic Refloated</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>New Musical Express</i>, June 20 1981</span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxmSLnTew2BzirMedagOwaWB2aZoXXQrtpQjnpIl032IXfwpdnBIAvNCOv0Lcu3vE3p2K1UPhQtbTFpG4RabIwylxvHMmC_3AaBHFbY2Q9q92CQndwKXTqeoXoCHbvUaP8Ji3pEh__OiCY6H1j0I9puOhLfPPHNVLEz0hyjrKrDzrvRBFxIAPzwcd/s2622/ray%20lowry%20titanic%20refloated%20june%2020%201981.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2622" data-original-width="2118" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxmSLnTew2BzirMedagOwaWB2aZoXXQrtpQjnpIl032IXfwpdnBIAvNCOv0Lcu3vE3p2K1UPhQtbTFpG4RabIwylxvHMmC_3AaBHFbY2Q9q92CQndwKXTqeoXoCHbvUaP8Ji3pEh__OiCY6H1j0I9puOhLfPPHNVLEz0hyjrKrDzrvRBFxIAPzwcd/w516-h640/ray%20lowry%20titanic%20refloated%20june%2020%201981.jpg" width="516" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxmSLnTew2BzirMedagOwaWB2aZoXXQrtpQjnpIl032IXfwpdnBIAvNCOv0Lcu3vE3p2K1UPhQtbTFpG4RabIwylxvHMmC_3AaBHFbY2Q9q92CQndwKXTqeoXoCHbvUaP8Ji3pEh__OiCY6H1j0I9puOhLfPPHNVLEz0hyjrKrDzrvRBFxIAPzwcd/s2622/ray%20lowry%20titanic%20refloated%20june%2020%201981.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2622" data-original-width="2118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxmSLnTew2BzirMedagOwaWB2aZoXXQrtpQjnpIl032IXfwpdnBIAvNCOv0Lcu3vE3p2K1UPhQtbTFpG4RabIwylxvHMmC_3AaBHFbY2Q9q92CQndwKXTqeoXoCHbvUaP8Ji3pEh__OiCY6H1j0I9puOhLfPPHNVLEz0hyjrKrDzrvRBFxIAPzwcd/s16000/ray%20lowry%20titanic%20refloated%20june%2020%201981.jpg" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Ian Penman</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">Titanic Resunk </span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">a.k.a. Political Conscience Every Now and Then. Pub Every Night. NME Every Week.</span></b></p><p><b><i>New Musical Express</i>, June 17 1981</b></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTSI4WH9ApEjIB9yHP3Q8P5PDv_zFLC7-NSLd2XusEJSJ9UHKILagkZtgYwUQX-S_vhluKqisrrVZZmWU5TFRvwdYLgo-H44K137d_jIayOfSGS8fMAWSlQBWYaIRvncujwmExIGy7RuXNXC1-C_9YjKjTjoCDMxBZS3C9X_6WgjxvF7h-arKJYyg7/s2849/Ian%20Penman%20Titanic%20Ray%20Lowry%20riposte%20june%2027%201981.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2849" data-original-width="2606" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTSI4WH9ApEjIB9yHP3Q8P5PDv_zFLC7-NSLd2XusEJSJ9UHKILagkZtgYwUQX-S_vhluKqisrrVZZmWU5TFRvwdYLgo-H44K137d_jIayOfSGS8fMAWSlQBWYaIRvncujwmExIGy7RuXNXC1-C_9YjKjTjoCDMxBZS3C9X_6WgjxvF7h-arKJYyg7/w366-h400/Ian%20Penman%20Titanic%20Ray%20Lowry%20riposte%20june%2027%201981.jpg" width="366" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPkpRHVlqOre3ofhoMyT0FFZGkHTk5GChP802hqkWkf_LYU4hvURVA4Yp4ZvmGV2awegh04otvjfxIEy9m7g77sGNhBSg2_4uYbCM-r2uOsGeugo7O-KGlypZENyp7y0xfMKsI8y-rYp8JPxEBvNQgHR5kqhcXnSAi_2W0xEy4gNeACtPK8gIEfoa/s1807/Ian%20Penman%20Titanic%20Ray%20Lowry%20riposte%20june%2027%201981%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1807" data-original-width="1181" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPkpRHVlqOre3ofhoMyT0FFZGkHTk5GChP802hqkWkf_LYU4hvURVA4Yp4ZvmGV2awegh04otvjfxIEy9m7g77sGNhBSg2_4uYbCM-r2uOsGeugo7O-KGlypZENyp7y0xfMKsI8y-rYp8JPxEBvNQgHR5kqhcXnSAi_2W0xEy4gNeACtPK8gIEfoa/w418-h640/Ian%20Penman%20Titanic%20Ray%20Lowry%20riposte%20june%2027%201981%202.jpg" width="418" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Unusually clearcut for the Punman then - and a piece that did some rewiring of my ideas in those formative days, so deftly did it demolish the quaint 'n' clunky idea of politics + pop that the Lowry tirade wished to restore, with such clumsy yearning (stick to the cartooning, boy, you're ruff at that).</p><p>I believe this is the last of the Titanic-themed pieces that <i>NME </i>did. </p><p>Missing from the sequence: the proto-Titanic piece that Mick Farren wrote at the very start of 1976, a sort of warming up to the theme of "<a href="https://musicpresspantheon.blogspot.com/2023/11/titanic-1-mick-farren-versus-max-bell.html" target="_blank">things have gone adrift</a>". I feel that I have at some point read that proto-piece, but where it would be and how to get my hands on it, I'm not sure.... </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCDabXs_AbLIfQONtktUuPybVDVLwLaLMbmXxSm-g0ya4XotDRyVp6PYC4Z3z4c2RTmoKlT3tVVeJMDmY2jyXmWsKPpaLUEP7aYxfX2og5HjjZGSSVtvxnSg1W-_JWD9flzl1zcev-wrhtJNzp-NsxWNxVjTtMIjVXucJrmOa99VKMzFwt0k8IKVQ/s736/01413d689dd5f4d3e23732f21f10750d.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="736" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCDabXs_AbLIfQONtktUuPybVDVLwLaLMbmXxSm-g0ya4XotDRyVp6PYC4Z3z4c2RTmoKlT3tVVeJMDmY2jyXmWsKPpaLUEP7aYxfX2og5HjjZGSSVtvxnSg1W-_JWD9flzl1zcev-wrhtJNzp-NsxWNxVjTtMIjVXucJrmOa99VKMzFwt0k8IKVQ/w640-h376/01413d689dd5f4d3e23732f21f10750d.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Unabashed by being thrashed, in October 1981 Lowry continues to demand generational voices of angry sanity from within the ranks of rock. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi43c2aKSijTayltqQNlxGkjv4_XOTn14kL9YtoVJXCYC5FANvR_b53ITCMycGi89lqEHTbY7NBLt9s6eIOueni53VOYy-KiqZRig6iKqXwTJxEb0_Ud2Ox13fspOioFxWuE47Mxenqc-BjDRQdLKSQXvTgXWwhzLUJrWTC1DH_Fy2-wpl9KluVjSac/s1991/ray%20lowry%20i%20be%20funny%20again%20cartoon.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="1991" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi43c2aKSijTayltqQNlxGkjv4_XOTn14kL9YtoVJXCYC5FANvR_b53ITCMycGi89lqEHTbY7NBLt9s6eIOueni53VOYy-KiqZRig6iKqXwTJxEb0_Ud2Ox13fspOioFxWuE47Mxenqc-BjDRQdLKSQXvTgXWwhzLUJrWTC1DH_Fy2-wpl9KluVjSac/w640-h232/ray%20lowry%20i%20be%20funny%20again%20cartoon.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p>"<i>I promise I'll be funny again soon - when the economy looks up</i>"</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jq1y92iURgbCiQORD29_PWTF9xGAaOYGE5h4w6CkNr2gPt9C_fy_4JTVjv-6-FjRAr_tuG4WnH1IDt_7lH4dfNR3DoTloVS1FicHgIU9PvrlhOlR3wuP2LhyJvWK72LZ9jXsNUd6wSNsdgILS4YRB4RQmxJv47ZXvkSblNa_6S9m38pyaqpxvqTp/s2048/ray%20lowry%20on%20the%20cure%20faith%20april%2018%201981.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1607" data-original-width="2048" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jq1y92iURgbCiQORD29_PWTF9xGAaOYGE5h4w6CkNr2gPt9C_fy_4JTVjv-6-FjRAr_tuG4WnH1IDt_7lH4dfNR3DoTloVS1FicHgIU9PvrlhOlR3wuP2LhyJvWK72LZ9jXsNUd6wSNsdgILS4YRB4RQmxJv47ZXvkSblNa_6S9m38pyaqpxvqTp/w640-h502/ray%20lowry%20on%20the%20cure%20faith%20april%2018%201981.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTSI4WH9ApEjIB9yHP3Q8P5PDv_zFLC7-NSLd2XusEJSJ9UHKILagkZtgYwUQX-S_vhluKqisrrVZZmWU5TFRvwdYLgo-H44K137d_jIayOfSGS8fMAWSlQBWYaIRvncujwmExIGy7RuXNXC1-C_9YjKjTjoCDMxBZS3C9X_6WgjxvF7h-arKJYyg7/s2849/Ian%20Penman%20Titanic%20Ray%20Lowry%20riposte%20june%2027%201981.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2849" data-original-width="2606" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTSI4WH9ApEjIB9yHP3Q8P5PDv_zFLC7-NSLd2XusEJSJ9UHKILagkZtgYwUQX-S_vhluKqisrrVZZmWU5TFRvwdYLgo-H44K137d_jIayOfSGS8fMAWSlQBWYaIRvncujwmExIGy7RuXNXC1-C_9YjKjTjoCDMxBZS3C9X_6WgjxvF7h-arKJYyg7/w586-h640/Ian%20Penman%20Titanic%20Ray%20Lowry%20riposte%20june%2027%201981.jpg" width="586" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1807" data-original-width="1181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPkpRHVlqOre3ofhoMyT0FFZGkHTk5GChP802hqkWkf_LYU4hvURVA4Yp4ZvmGV2awegh04otvjfxIEy9m7g77sGNhBSg2_4uYbCM-r2uOsGeugo7O-KGlypZENyp7y0xfMKsI8y-rYp8JPxEBvNQgHR5kqhcXnSAi_2W0xEy4gNeACtPK8gIEfoa/s16000/Ian%20Penman%20Titanic%20Ray%20Lowry%20riposte%20june%2027%201981%202.jpg" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-87122345993420569322023-11-25T17:22:00.000-08:002023-11-28T17:58:34.707-08:00Titanic #1 (Mick Farren versus Max Bell) (1976)<div class="separator"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCMvqPOPicmg04O-6tR6-xtlgrlbhfZm8lZOtL6WqdJU2OGDGLpnQGWA2iRxYBN2VzyUHDgj44cwjc8mYDNwD5lqJPsulWj2rPjHgQINl6sdC8JcOfCMh5ucxCHJjB_xQCdTn38r21ZiZb5PQU2lvDAqhmEXyWIBSO2uD1R_9QLcr_PyTy2NYqkjKV/s267/mick-farren-titanic-sails-at-dawn-1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="189" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCMvqPOPicmg04O-6tR6-xtlgrlbhfZm8lZOtL6WqdJU2OGDGLpnQGWA2iRxYBN2VzyUHDgj44cwjc8mYDNwD5lqJPsulWj2rPjHgQINl6sdC8JcOfCMh5ucxCHJjB_xQCdTn38r21ZiZb5PQU2lvDAqhmEXyWIBSO2uD1R_9QLcr_PyTy2NYqkjKV/w283-h400/mick-farren-titanic-sails-at-dawn-1.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZIvzVHpaPxPCQW_psHerK-VJVRGG9qFwhUfXoVY8HhH5irLuwniaKit_RteuxqzET-D7PRSF07ovZG9cQ1fhwmfhyjQ-SUKtLBm8VmpNbuzz0kzaiRLYrMivL_n0WYRo3o-PJNRZr0m1rQ5tyY0WG9K9fLEiV0tGBu-CDVcn-JvJPqHCu3XeAWdR5/s298/mick-farren-titanic-sails-at-dawn-2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="169" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZIvzVHpaPxPCQW_psHerK-VJVRGG9qFwhUfXoVY8HhH5irLuwniaKit_RteuxqzET-D7PRSF07ovZG9cQ1fhwmfhyjQ-SUKtLBm8VmpNbuzz0kzaiRLYrMivL_n0WYRo3o-PJNRZr0m1rQ5tyY0WG9K9fLEiV0tGBu-CDVcn-JvJPqHCu3XeAWdR5/w227-h400/mick-farren-titanic-sails-at-dawn-2.jpg" width="227" /></a></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="175" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSX4aVeLSzbZpAZ2PVByEQ1ZZrCRPKSGbNVwOZWALge6FFOTWyyf__nqSj9cB3ijK3_2G4LMr5V8lKqilop7gu4o4oMdontFRa2WV7LUmVgZRTDQyD_KPtzhDXurkA_7G69TG6idf791Got7EUI7C_Y_Zm86LnGNSduMgQTtsSYxRAAyoEkkmpfwJ/s1600/mick-farren-titanic-sails-at-dawn-3.jpg" style="color: #0000ee;" width="175" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJdz_c2ZhdYu_nzScnquEYEVn8awpZ_ND81mAlxFh5uez4QIIgqm3eS5cepoFhHuyFVy58GMo_GKMvAm0cr7VgiAFsMj8sJqDzKIIqpzCyg53PsIwueUq00FzANLU29_iT44_hktooqndFKKxWyOX2aWtVRPRDeZvKW5c6dqvVAW-Z0S1YHwI9qPR/s390/mick-farren-titanic-sails-at-dawn-4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="129" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJdz_c2ZhdYu_nzScnquEYEVn8awpZ_ND81mAlxFh5uez4QIIgqm3eS5cepoFhHuyFVy58GMo_GKMvAm0cr7VgiAFsMj8sJqDzKIIqpzCyg53PsIwueUq00FzANLU29_iT44_hktooqndFKKxWyOX2aWtVRPRDeZvKW5c6dqvVAW-Z0S1YHwI9qPR/w212-h640/mick-farren-titanic-sails-at-dawn-4.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><h1>Mick Farren</h1><h1><span style="font-size: medium;">The Titanic Sails at Dawn</span><o:p></o:p></h1><div><b><i>New Musical Express</i>, June 19 1976</b></div><div><br /></div><p>As you can all quite well-imagine, the letters that get themselves printed
in <em>Gasbag</em> (or<em> Dogbag </em>or <em>Ratbag</em> or <em>Scumbag</em>
or whatever jiveass name we've dredged out of our collective misery that
particular week) are only the tip of an iceberg.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The iceberg in this case seems to be one of a particularly threatening
nature. In fact it is an iceberg that is drifting uncomfortably close to the
dazzlingly lit, wonderfully appointed Titanic that is big-time, rock-pop, tax
exile, jet-set show business.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Unless someone aboard is prepared to leave the party and go up on the bridge
and do something about it, at least a slight change of course, the whole
chromium metalflake Leviathan could go down with all hands.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Currently about the only figure who seems to have the least interest in the
social progress of rock and roll is the skinny, crypto <em>Ubermensch</em>
figure of David Bowie. Everyone else is waltzing around the grand ballroom, or
playing musical chairs at the captain's table.<o:p></o:p></p><p>(WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT?)<o:p></o:p></p><p>I guess it's the absorption of rock and roll into the turgid masterstream of
traditional establishment showbiz. For Zsa Zsa Gabor read Mick Jagger, for Lew
Grade read Harvey Goldsmith. Only the names have been changed, blah, blah.<o:p></o:p></p><p>If that's the way of the world then keep your head down, make like William
Hickey and drink yourself to death.<o:p></o:p></p><p>(OH GOD, DIDN'T HE GO THROUGH ALL THIS BACK IN JANUARY?)<o:p></o:p></p><p>That's right, he did. And short of picking up some change by doing it all
over again and hoping no one will notice, it would be something of a redundant
exercise.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Except that something seems to be happening that wasn't happening back in
January. The aforementioned iceberg cometh. And that iceberg, dear reader is
you.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Dig? I'm talkin' 'bout you.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Where once the letters that were dumped in the tray marked <em>Gasbag</em>
contained smart-ass one liners, demands for album tokens, obscene ideas for the
uses of Max Bell, or diatribes against Smith, Springsteen or Salewicz, now the
tone has changed.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Stewart Tray of Manchester wouldn't go down and see the Stones if he was
pulled there by Keith Richard.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Mart of Oldham doesn't want to see five middle-aged millionaires poncing
around to pseudo soul funk/rock.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Letter after letter repeats the same thing. You all seem to have had it with
the Who, and Liz Taylor, Rod and the Queen, Jagger and Princess Margaret,
paying three quid to be bent, mutilated, crushed or seated behind a pillar or a
PA stack, all in the name of modern seventies-style super rock.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The roar from the stage of "<em>I shout, I scream, I kill the king, I
rail at all his servants</em>" has been muted, mutated and diluted "I<em>
smile, I fawn, I kiss ass and get my photo took…</em>"<o:p></o:p></p><p>It was all too easy to accept that change until you out there pulled the
whole thing up short.<o:p></o:p></p><p>"We're not going to take it" wasn't coming from the stage with any
conviction. Instead it was coming from the audience. Could it be that once more
there's music in the cafés at night and revolution in the air?<o:p></o:p></p><p>It's hard to tell. Like it or not, <em>NME</em> is a part of the rock
industry and, to an extent, suffers from the same isolation that is endemic to
the whole business.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Certainly the massive rock gala of the last month has produced some kind of
backlash. People have become tired of the godawful conditions at places like
Charlton. They're sick of having their booze confiscated and being ordered to
stop dancing.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Maybe they're also sick of seeing the vibrant, iconoclastic music whose
changes did, at least, shake the walls of the city a little, being turned
round, sold out, castrated and co-opted.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Did we ever expect to see the Rolling Stones on <em>News at Ten </em>just
like they were at the Badminton Horse Trials or the Chelsea Flower Show?<o:p></o:p></p><p>It's not clear just how deep this resistance goes. There's no way of knowing
whether the mail we've getting is simply another version of "Dear Esther
Rantzen, I just found sewer rat in my Diet Pepsi".<o:p></o:p></p><p>The only thing I know for sure is the effect the whole thing had on me. I
woke up guilty and angry. Has rock and roll become another mindless consumer
product that plays footsie with jet set and royalty and while the kids who make
up its roots and energy queue up in the rain to watch it from two hundred yards
away?<o:p></o:p></p><p>The Who, the Stones, Bowie, are, after all, my own generation. We all grew
up together. I saw them in small sweaty clubs, cinemas and finally giant rock
festivals. At the same time as everyone else they embraced politics, mysticism,
acid. Together we ran through the trends, fads, psychoses and few precious
moments of clear honesty that made up the tangle of the sixties.<o:p></o:p></p><p>(ISN'T THIS GETTING A LITTLE...UH...SUBJECTIVE FOR <em>NME</em>? IT'S ONLY
ROCK AND ROLL, AFTER ALL?)<o:p></o:p></p><p>Yeah, maybe so. There does, however, come a point when a cynical sold-out
front has to drop for long enough to shout "Hold it!" Did we really
come through the fantasy, fear and psychic mess of the last decade to make rock
and roll safe for the Queen, Princess Margaret or Liz Taylor? Was the bold
rhetoric and even the deaths and imprisonments simply to enable the heroes and
idols of the period to retreat into a gaudy, vulgar jet-set that differs from
the Taylor/Burton menace or the Sinatra rat pack only in small variations of
style.<o:p></o:p></p><p>It's not so much the lifestyle of stars that is important. They can guzzle
champagne till it runs from their ears, and become facile to the point of
dumbness. They will only undermine their own credibility.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The real danger lies in what seems sometimes to be a determined effort on
the part of some artists, promoters and sections of the media to turn rock into
a safe, establishment form of entertainment.<o:p></o:p></p><p>It's okay if some stars want to make the switch from punk to Liberace so
long as they don't take rock and roll with them.<o:p></o:p></p><p>If rock becomes safe, it's all over. It's a vibrant, vital music that from
its very roots has always been a burst of colour and excitement against a
background of dullness, hardship or frustration. From the blues onwards, the
essential core of the music has been the rough side of humanity. It's a core of
rebellion, sexuality, assertion and even violence. All the things that have
always been unacceptable to a ruling establishment.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Once that vigorous, horny-handed core is extracted from rock and roll,
you're left with little more than muzak. No matter how tastefully played or
artfully constructed, if the soul's gone then it still, in the end comes down
to muzak.<o:p></o:p></p><p>(OKAY, OKAY, WE'VE HEARD THE "MUSIC IS THE LIFE FORCE" MESSAGE
PLENTY OF TIMES BEFORE. WHAT ABOUT A FEW SOLUTIONS FOR A CHANGE?)<o:p></o:p></p><p>"Well," he said, avoiding everyone's eyes, "solutions aren't
quite so easy."<o:p></o:p></p><p>The one thing that isn't a solution is to look back at the sixties and
reproduce something from the past. This is, in fact, one of the problems we're
suffering from today. The methods of presenting the biggest of today's
superstars were conceived in the sixties when the crowds were smaller and
logistics a whole lot easier.<o:p></o:p></p><p>When the Stones play at Earl's Court, or Bowie at Wembley Pool, we're seeing
the old Bill Graham Fillmore. The difference is that the crowd is five or ten
times the size and the problems of controlling it are multiplied by the same
extent.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The promoter's solution is to remove the dancing, freaking-about and general
looseness of the old Fillmore days. Instead the audience is expected to sit
still in their numbered, regimented seats, under the watchful ear of the
security muscle.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The same situation exists when the Who play at Charlton or any other
football ground. The stadium rock show is basically the open-air festival
penned up inside the walls of a sports arena. Again, from the promoter's point
of view, it makes everything very much easier. There's no more trouble with
ticket-taking or the collection of money. Security is simplified, and all the
problems of overnight camping are avoided. Unfortunately it's the audience that
now takes all the chances. They're the ones who take the risk of being crushed,
cramped, bottled, soaked, stuck behind a pillar or a PA Stack, manhandled by
security, ripped off by hot dog men or generally dumped on.<o:p></o:p></p><p>It's got to the point where the only celebration at today's superstar
concert is taking place on stage. The only role for the audience is that of
uncomfortable observers.<o:p></o:p></p><p>There are more ways of taking the soul out of rock and roll than just
changing the music.<o:p></o:p></p><p>We're six years into the nineteen seventies, and already the sixties are
beginning to sound like some golden age.<o:p></o:p></p><p>(OH NO, NOT THAT AGAIN.)<o:p></o:p></p><p>Of course they weren't. If we could be miraculously transported back there,
we'd probably be appalled at some of the dumbness and naivete that went down.<o:p></o:p></p><p>There were wrong moves, screw-ups, disasters and even straightforward
robberies. The two things that did exist that don't seem to be prominent today
were, first, a phenomenal burst of creativity that wasn't merely confined to
the stage but extended into the presentation, the audience and even right
through to the press and poster art.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The second thing was that from musicians to managers to promoters to
audience, the whole rock scene was in the hands of one generation. It was by no
means perfect, but at least the energy levels were higher, and the gap between
star and fan wasn't the yawning chasm that it has become today.<o:p></o:p></p><p>From sweaty, shoestring cellar clubs through the multi media extravaganzas
like the Avalon in San Francisco, the Grande Ballroom in Detroit or the
Technicolour Dream and UFO in London, clear through Glastonbury Fayre and even
Woodstock, it was one generation taking care of its own music.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The scene was sufficiently solid to ease out the old farts from the fifties
who thought promoting rock was a matter of giving the "kids" the kind
of safe product, the kind of thing that was good for them.<o:p></o:p></p><p>(AH-HA! NOW WE GET DOWN TO IT. FARREN'S TRYING TO TURN THE CLOCK BACK TO THE
SIXTIES UNDERGROUND SCENE.)<o:p></o:p></p><p>No such thing. Even if I wanted to, that simply wouldn't be possible. The
whole of the sixties underground , the free concerts and festivals, <em>Oz, IT</em>,
the crazed fringe bands and street theatre would be largely impossible today.
They survived financially in a tiny margin of a still affluent society that
doesn't exist today.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The seventies are without doubt an era of compromise. Even to get this piece
into print it is necessary to use the resources of a giant corporation, and
adapt one's approach accordingly.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The real question of this decade is not whether to compromise or not, but
how much and in what way.<o:p></o:p></p><p>One major lesson can be learned from the sixties, however, and that is that
the best, most healthy kind of rock and roll is produced by and for the same
generation.<o:p></o:p></p><p>There can be no question that a lot of today's rock is isolated from the
broad mass of its audience. From the superstars with champagne and coke parties
all the way down to your humble servant spending more time with his friends,
his writing and his cat than he does cruising the street, all are cut off.<o:p></o:p></p><p>If rock is not being currently presented in an acceptable manner, and from
the letters we've been getting at <em>NME</em>, this would seem to be the case,
it is time for the seventies generation to start producing their own ideas, and
ease out the old farts who are still pushing tired ideas left over from the
sixties.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The time seems to be right for original thinking and new inventive concepts,
not only in the music but in the way that it is staged and promoted.<o:p></o:p></p><p>It may be difficult in the current economic climate, and it may be a
question of taking rock back to street level and starting all over again.<o:p></o:p></p><p>This is the only way out, if we are not going to look forward to an endless
series of Charlton and Earl's Court style gigs, and constant reruns of things
from the past, be they Glenn Miller revivals or Bowie's stabs at neo-fascism.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Putting the Beatles back together isn't going to be the salvation of rock
and roll. Four kids playing to their contemporaries in a dirty cellar club
might.<o:p></o:p></p><p>And that, gentle reader, is where you come in.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">^^^^^^^^^^^^^^</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Max Bell</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">America: The Titanic Might Be Sinking, But There Are Plenty Of Lifeboats Left</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;"><b><i>New Musical Express</i>, July 3 1976</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Back in this very spot, Mick Farren pulled out his critical cudgels and delivered a sorely needed attack on the current state of rock'n'roll.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">With his critical scalpel sharpened and levelled like a cut throat, he gave us a grisly reminder of the appallingly mundane levels the whole sick joke has reached.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">His principal analogy, the sinking ship, was to the point – everyone is too busy drinking in the luxury bar or snarfing up large volumes of exotic white powders to notice the omens of death on the horizon.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">In no way is this article intended to be an answer to, an affirmation or rebuttal of the matters raised therein. Nor can I suggest a way out of the whirlpool, or offer watertight reasons for the demise of rock, it's just that for some time this year I've felt much the same way as Farren on certain issues and disagree violently with him on others.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Judging by the response to the article, most of you were in agreement with the aforementioned paragraphs. I was myself, but stop a second and recall the facts.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">For starters all the guilty names Mick brought up were British; The Stones, The Who, Rod Stewart – I could add a few names myself. Most of the really big names in 'The Biz', the bona fide superstars and debased rich kids crying all the way into the tax exile, are British. These people are so complacent and self-satisfied that they can afford to patronise the mugs who made them the over-fed, sleek, fauned and flattered cybernetics they invariably turn out to be.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Hard workers they ain't. Instead we're all supposed to feel grateful when Rod, Mick, Roger or Percy, wheel out the inflatable dildoes, Star Trek lasers, rocket propelled toy missiles, Spitfires etc. and lay on a 'show' for the punters. The encroachment of cheap theatre into rock music is one sure fire way of stifling its initial purpose.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Another is that the result is wasteful and counter productive. Groups take months producing grossly substandard records, lapping up hour on hour of expensive studio time – and then you wonder why your concerts are so expensive, why your albums so long in preparation. When they do play live it's merely a condescension.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">"There's no money playing in England man, everyone knows that, we only do it as a concession for the fans so they can watch us getting staid and fat."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Well personally I don't give a damn about Black and Blue or Presence or The Who By Numbers or Earls Court, Wembley and Charlton. Y'see it's quite possible to ignore all the ghastly charades being played out over here at present and still listen to the largest number of superb albums ever available to general Joe Public, still see most of the best bands in the world, and still feel part of the "core of rebellion, sexuality, assertion and even violence" that Mick so eloquently cited as prime data for maintaining an interest in the trip.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Only you won't find it by pinning your life savings on British rock.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">^^^^^^^^^</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Face it and square up; in the States the situation is altogether different, far more healthy. You don't find American bands playing once every twenty four months in selected cities, they'd be out of a job if they dared to pull the standard English number of "no bread and unsuitable venues," on their audiences. Everyone is on the road. The Americans are phenominally well off for new releases too; as usual the majority of great albums this year will emanate from the USA.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">I can find no justification for continually sticking one's head in the sand and refusing to recognise that, on both the East and West Coasts, bands of a calibre to surpass those heady days of the sixties do abound.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Moreover I refuse to accept that the originators of the psychedelic underground, accidental or not, are necessarily clapped-out old farts, just because it's ten years or more since their first flash on infinity. For Chrissakes, in no other cultural or artistic form (Mick was right, the language of idealism has been cold-bloodedly destroyed, reducto ad absurdum), would you meet with the kind of pigheaded attitude that dictates because 'A' was OK in '67, he must by definition be close to the knacker's yard a decade later. If an artist (and the most intelligent rockers are artists) had something to say way back when, the chances are – unless his brain is permanently damaged by the wrecking processes of countless hard drug cocktails and acid jock work-outs – that he'll have something equally valid to contribute a few years on.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">The West Coast, and here I'm getting to the meat of my own viewpoint, has long been considered a haven for faded, washed-up old hippies who made a couple of good albums under the influence when Owsley, Casady, the Blue Bus Company and Haight Ashbury community relations officers were dishing out funny little pills like Saturday morning sweeties. Bullshit.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">I couldn't care less whether it's infra dig to admire the supposedly past-it ancients and their recent work, but most second generation American name acts are producing artefacts which easily out-strip the initial, enthusiastic meanderings of their youth. You can mature and retain your ideals too. You can also betray your erstwhile champions for no other reasons than their stubborn myopia.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">If we persist in bewailing the lack of youth culture in which to channel the life force of rock'n'roll, we stand perilously close to missing out on the fact that it is still there – we're too damn busy moaning to get it on in '76.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">And what have we got instead? We've ended up in Britain with the future of rock manifested in one, or two, exciting new bands. What little rush of adrenalin there is left repines in bands utilising every degree of unpleasant, fascist, violent, artificial pseudo punk image imaginable. The best we can produce is bands intent on revibing the mid-sixties R&B, as we stick our collective noses in the mud to watch the after effects.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">On the other hand, what does America have to offer? Well put your money where your mouth is Bell – and I'll tell you. They got the Little Feat's, the Todd Rundgren's, the Lofgren's, the Smith's, the Walsh's, the Kingfish's, Steely Dan's, Cult's, J. Geils'. J. J. Cale's...the list is endless and at the risk of being boring these are all bands who've surfaced entirely in the seventies. Got that? The seventies. NOW.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">I could even stick in a few of my personal faves but without getting down to the Big Star's, Pavlov's Dog's, Elvin Bishop's, Berserkely or Sons Of Champlin, let's keep this as unesoteric as possible; those other names are generally reckoned to be exceptional, even by the people who will religiously tell you things aren't what they used to be.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">^^^^^^^^^</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">What happened to enthusiasm anyway? Maybe it was replaced by critical apathy, and we've been duped into thinking the entire operation is extinct. If I genuinely felt there was nothing going down at all I couldn't bring myself to write about rock anymore.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">But when it comes to uncovering the root reasons for the debacle, maybe we're all guilty. Experience proves that record reviewers are having their work cut out to provide informed synopsis of what is currently worthwhile. Not enough time is spent actually finding new material; instead we're trapped in the cul-de-sac of establishment top brass, whose work must be reviewed regardless of merit. So, far superior groups fall by the wayside, or are often not covered at all.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">The saddest symptom, cynicism, becomes more understandable when the critic – after all only a fan in the position of considerable privilege and responsibility – is faced with the prospect of reviewing the same formulae over and over again. There is also supposedly a duty to cover what is popular, a practice which ought to be squashed pretty fast.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">The charts reflect an appalling lack of new talent in circulation. Someone with the I.Q. of a retarded baboon could see that the charts are an absolute farce. At least eighty per cent of them (take a look) are comprised of strictly MOR lightweights or re-cycled greatest hits – an optimistic euphemism for old singles that sold more than five copies first time round. The American charts, though occasionally bland, have far greater class quotient. It's hardly feasible that Stateside record buyers would fall for so many utterly despicable records, so obviously lacking in both taste and style, as their English counterparts.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Without attempting to carry down the tablets, let's be a bit more objective and look at the role of the record company in one specific instance. Two of the finest albums of the past ten months. Spirit Of '76 and Son Of Spirit, have been completely snubbed by our moguls, although Randy California's immense talents patently deserve far greater exposure.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Spirit Of '76, a double album released last year, was a classic to compare with anything ever produced on the West Coast. It received grade 'A' reviews all over, including one from myself that on reflection wasn't as sympathetic or perceptive as it should have been. Whatever, the follow-up album, incredibly, is unavailable over here, unless you can afford to dish out the exhorbitant sum for an import copy. Why so? A call to the company a few weeks back elicited the response "Because someone (Christ knows who) didn't think if was good enough to release." Mmm...</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">In fact California is patently one of those heroes we've been pretending don't exist anymore – an expert guitarist with the originality, beauty and power of Hendrix, plus a sense of melodic invention that is frequently astonishing. Aside from his own startlingly unusual compositions his versions of 'Yesterday', 'Like A Rolling Stone' or even, at the risk of divine thunderbolts, 'Hey Joe' are better than the sacred originals.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">One of the biggest mistakes made by the 'sixties was best' movement (I used to be a fully paid up member myself) is that Dylan, Hendrix. The Beatles, Stones etc, etc. are irreplaceable. Not so, there have been probably thirty albums released so far this year that bear very favourable comparison with any psychedelic blue print you care to mention. Many of them, Seastones (Phil Lesh's experimental disc of classic heavy proportions). Keith and Donna Godchuax, Tower of Power's Live And In Living Color, The Crusaders' Chain Reaction, Lydia Pense and Cold Blood and of course Kingfish have either never been released here or gone unnoticed except by the hard core of devotees who buy such records.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">How many top British acts have a track record to compare with the West Coast greats? More to the point, how many British acts are likely to play benifits or free gigs as Grace Slick, Bonnie Raitt, Merl Saunders, Jackson Browne and the Jefferson Starship regularly do at Winterland and less prestigious halls in California and the mid west?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">^^^^^^^^^^^</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Although rock music is obviously the most ardently supported popular cultural activity in the world, we can count the number of purpose-built venues on the fingers of an amputated hand.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">The sundry Odeons, aircraft hangars, football stadiums, roller skating rinks and exhibition halls which house our large concerts weren't designed with musical acoustics in mind. What possible enjoyment can be obtained in paying over three quid to sit behind a granite pillar, or two hundred yards from the stage or even behind it, unable either to see or hear? Some band's idea of putting on a 'show' is my idea of contempt for the paying public. And once you've got that far, try to show the natural exuberance that rock'n'roll is bound to promote – i.e. standing up, dancing around, generally having fun – and see what happens; a squadron of security men descend on the victims and forcibly pinion them to their seats.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">The customer at a rock concert is invariably wrong and treated like dirt as a result.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Contrasting with the distinctly unpleasant vibe at most concerts now is the polar opposite, British apathy and selfish corollary of a favoured coterie indulging in an orgy of consumption and tedious social whirling. Viz. the on-off Rod and Britt saga (yawn) gets almost daily coverage in the press, the 'marriage' or the 'engagement' are as much a fixture now as the weather report, perhaps, more boring.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">The music press, NME included, is partially responsible for propagating the whole dismal tomfoolery, and the results are far reaching. For every column of verbiage on society rock news, the low down scam on genuinely interesting artists is sacrificed. If the public is unaware of what is going down now in the States, they remain oblivious of what new albums they might listen to.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">It's the role of the music press, as I see it, not to keep you informed on the spending sprees and evening hang-outs of our degenerate superstars, but to suggest how your listening hours can be more profitably spent. Steely Dan's Becker and Fagen summate the entire seventies, white elephant syndrome, in one crushing couplet. Got it show-biz kids?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">"While the poor people sleeping with shade on the light, while the poor people sleeping all the stars come out at night."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">There are still plenty of characters, spokesmen and heroes around. It's not difficult to identify with Rundgren, Gene Clark, Alex Chilton, Lofgren, Buck Dharma, Randy California or Bob Weir. There's music to satisfy any taste from Joe Zawinul to Curtis Mayfield, East meets West now. Oakland fuses into Philadelphia, San Francisco, L.A. and New York. In America people like Felix Cavaliere, The Crusaders (they've been going for twenty years and they continue to be exciting), and Little Feat are logically building on foundations laid down ten years ago. They don't look back and neither should we.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">If artists in '66 could overreach the '50s why can't we acknowledge the past and look towards the future? To hell with pessimism, if we can't see what's in front of us today we might as well knock rock on the head once and for all and take up knitting.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">^^^^^^^^^^</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">The truth is that there won't be any saviours, there is no ten year plan being cycled to save the world from hollow men. Springsteen, Bowie and Patti Smith aren't the sole answer. They're ingredients in the evolution. There is so much to appreciate apart from the bright hopes of the business doyens – almost too many brilliant albums to choose from. When more people realise this fundamental the greater the likelihood of rock's unspoken ideals reaching fruition.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Right I'll get off the ledge and make my point, loud and clear. Rock music she lives, alive and well and residing in the U.S. of A. in plentiful abundance. Not that everything over there is perfect, but it doesn't take much effort to locate the fertile patches. There's no need to map out the unseen future waiting for a nouveau youth culture to spring miraculously and lustily out of a million rat-infested cellars. Opening up the garage doors again might be one way of revealing the odd new find but there's a far more relevant continuation of the dream already staring you in the face.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">Comes a time to loosen up naturally – this summer has practically been laid on for the maximum enjoyment like an act of God. As the man said, 'It's Too Late To Stop Now' – if you can't realise that then you're culpably and wilfully wrong. Sorry.</p><div><br /></div><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><i>A kind of rockist poptimism, the Bell angle here - the supply is good and plentiful, "there's always good music if you are prepared to look for it". Be reasonable, satiate with the available... </i></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><i><br /></i></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><i>Mick Farren<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Max Bell</span></i></b></o:p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGnDaj5U_XX8p8oN6l7M8g48RBOCF_7nsIOkPsr7zQanRSl0z0S3DM40Fg0idZhVkMhaNtG8soddj_YG7XGC-5wmZOkYnxXY-oYxf6StSZe-UjbN9YQyyvAu8duIyLOYpfJsOWG_4gPY7tR8ss1rpWR_3MBtloB-A3b6lrvZF4NBKodaB_hYQ2G6N/s803/Mick-farren-dailytelegraph.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="580" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGnDaj5U_XX8p8oN6l7M8g48RBOCF_7nsIOkPsr7zQanRSl0z0S3DM40Fg0idZhVkMhaNtG8soddj_YG7XGC-5wmZOkYnxXY-oYxf6StSZe-UjbN9YQyyvAu8duIyLOYpfJsOWG_4gPY7tR8ss1rpWR_3MBtloB-A3b6lrvZF4NBKodaB_hYQ2G6N/w289-h400/Mick-farren-dailytelegraph.jpg" width="289" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBRndLet0JRSc5GCwHxnaNc8MAFW_e9fFzHhZiESAna5yJ1po3IKUNY4ScM82xIL7WR9DbZGQWqU7FMglI8i9vvrzg9z2Qet8zjVoU5l86JaeiKcSlsF7k_fGBosPvIdx4P46dwVW9FZ-aXW9WBsJ8r1gHsA6oXO1SXMJ4f2WVri_AeLd2guanz5n/s578/max%20bell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="228" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBRndLet0JRSc5GCwHxnaNc8MAFW_e9fFzHhZiESAna5yJ1po3IKUNY4ScM82xIL7WR9DbZGQWqU7FMglI8i9vvrzg9z2Qet8zjVoU5l86JaeiKcSlsF7k_fGBosPvIdx4P46dwVW9FZ-aXW9WBsJ8r1gHsA6oXO1SXMJ4f2WVri_AeLd2guanz5n/w158-h400/max%20bell.jpg" width="158" /></a></div><br /><p></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-30180366455312922332023-11-16T19:27:00.000-08:002023-11-20T11:52:37.542-08:00RIP Bob Mack<p>Back in the early '90s - when I was first spending large chunks of time in New York, and getting a feel for the U.S. rockcrit scene - one of the larger voices around was a fellow called <b>Bob Mack</b>. Not sure if we ever met - if so, it was the briefest of encounters - but we did chat on the phone when I was doing a piece for <i>iD</i> on the <b>Beastie Boys</b>'s burgeoning <b>Grand Royal</b> empire. They were pioneering that thing which is now endemic in hip hop on both the mainstream and the underground level, where what you are really selling is sensibility, a vibe that people want to plug into and wrap around themselves, something that can be done as much through a limited-edition T-shirt as a record. Bob Mack was the editor of <i>Grand Royal</i> the magazine, another conduit between the Beasties and their fanbase. He'd first got friendly with them through annoying them, writing a piece in <i>Spin </i>that pegged them as past it: Mack described L.A., where they'd relocated, as "<i>a rest home for retired rappers... the Beastie Boys</i>". The Beasties counter-dissed with a couplet in the B-side "The Skills to Pay the Bills": "<i>Workin' on my game cause it's time to tax /I'm on a crazy mission to wax Bob Mack</i>".</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1VqK42apVIJQlUJyRo-z3-Ks5Pk8wQEBTCaKG4ac_E_m3laFJ9AqYRhyphenhyphenhE2kQghV0n1nQrhAuJF3qKazByP_jjQdZlZ-vHBuG096UJskvneAYy4w8A2QFdKWjCff0qqElTDKQibhxFeS-EO7fP2VLmT_tQRWKfUsog1DBBV_PSgdVDGdv9Fk0xrL/s1024/E9-T-UZX0AAowar.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1VqK42apVIJQlUJyRo-z3-Ks5Pk8wQEBTCaKG4ac_E_m3laFJ9AqYRhyphenhyphenhE2kQghV0n1nQrhAuJF3qKazByP_jjQdZlZ-vHBuG096UJskvneAYy4w8A2QFdKWjCff0qqElTDKQibhxFeS-EO7fP2VLmT_tQRWKfUsog1DBBV_PSgdVDGdv9Fk0xrL/w300-h400/E9-T-UZX0AAowar.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65mk44bh3YUjGnxtsfHtTVNZGR50IP443B_KEB3gTfGM1QbKJidEL-yn5jQH__SukUCQzY8gqm5jPmBNedXHE-xQ0PL38iLKJ4xRXJUwXQcwTJuZxdm_nFIHVE2Nhnt5ZwBJv0OB8Q-ClENtmWF3STWQoGx1We7fC_TYkqGqSd7PgVE40k2nKNDU2/s600/gr-moog.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65mk44bh3YUjGnxtsfHtTVNZGR50IP443B_KEB3gTfGM1QbKJidEL-yn5jQH__SukUCQzY8gqm5jPmBNedXHE-xQ0PL38iLKJ4xRXJUwXQcwTJuZxdm_nFIHVE2Nhnt5ZwBJv0OB8Q-ClENtmWF3STWQoGx1We7fC_TYkqGqSd7PgVE40k2nKNDU2/w300-h400/gr-moog.jpg" width="300" /></a></p><p>One of Mack's best-known pieces of writing is <b>"Confessions of A Rush Fan"</b>, an appreciation of the Canadian prog-metal power trio published in <i>Spin</i> in March 1992. It was the beginning of that rock crit game where you shyly reveal the uncool passions of one's youth, back before you learned the rules of hip. In the process, creating a kind of inverted capital out of the earnest identifications of formative fandom - you became all the cooler for having once been so uncool. </p><p>But <b>Rush</b> - that was a bold leap into the naffzone!</p><p>It caught my eye because - while never a Rush fan - I'd always loved "<a href="https://tidal.com/magazine/article/songs-about-songs/1-86322" target="_blank">The Spirit of Radio</a>", a hit single in the U.K. Even now I still haven't got round to properly digesting their uuurv - a few attempts over the years resulted in a pretty quick strategic withdrawal. But I have gradually, through classic rock radio exposure rather than any exertion on my part, increased the number of Rush songs I like-love to three, maybe four: "The Spirit of Radio", "Tom Sawyer", "<a href="https://shockandawesimonreynolds.blogspot.com/2017/09/glam-anti-glam-quote-1-of.html" target="_blank">Limelight</a>", and at a push "Subdivisions". The full-blown Rand-y epic-ness, I may never be ready for. </p><p>The piece is below - for more on Bob Mack's life and career, and the circumstances of his death, <a href="https://airmail.news/issues/2023-11-18/bob-mack" target="_blank">check out this tribute</a> by <b>David Kamp</b> at <i>Airmail</i>. </p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2MHDioh-Ws0jNRZSjtsfd30jzX_9fbMc1NKRVv0_JYTi7fXWVMWrwBouEhZ9r6C0ih3oVbavmpj1DUDR5i2kCVhS0w-6YJ2IGJSdrMZKbNzcopyYuxN9HGN_I1Zg05eIQ__-qDnVdgGTHiNLThLDJsLVnqgVFAGU_IbSXjeZ-q4NxcqwMau8Wqw-D/s820/bob%20mack.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="820" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2MHDioh-Ws0jNRZSjtsfd30jzX_9fbMc1NKRVv0_JYTi7fXWVMWrwBouEhZ9r6C0ih3oVbavmpj1DUDR5i2kCVhS0w-6YJ2IGJSdrMZKbNzcopyYuxN9HGN_I1Zg05eIQ__-qDnVdgGTHiNLThLDJsLVnqgVFAGU_IbSXjeZ-q4NxcqwMau8Wqw-D/s320/bob%20mack.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><b>Confessions Of A Rush Fan</b></p><p><b>Bob Mack Justifies His Love For Canada's Prog-Rock Pariahs</b></p><p><b><i>Spin</i>, March 1992</b></p><p><br /></p><p>Rush?</p><p>Yes, Rush. Not the movie or the B.A.D. II song. Certainly not "Rush Rush" by Paula Abdul or "Rush Street" by Richard Marx. And not even Frank Marino and Mahogany Rush. Just plain ol' eternally unfashionable, the-guy-with-a-high-voice-singing-scary-songs Rush.</p><p>So what in God's name is it doing in SPIN, a publication nominally devoted to alternative music? Well, I could go on about how Rush really is an alternative for lots of suburban loners, at least in the context of classic-rock overkill. About how it is the ultimate punk band for people who thought punk was bogus. But basically the bottom line is this: Even though you may think Rush is uncool, it's influenced a lot of the bands and artists that you probably think are cool.</p><p>Not the old fogies like Randy Newman, Nick Lowe, and Billy Joel (who apologized to Geddy Lee for missing the band's L.A. shows a few years ago). And not the cheeseball metal dudes like Queensryche who, for example, now employ Rush's former producer, lighting director, and video director. We're talking about some of the more critically praised and commercially successful groups of our era.</p><p>It all started a couple of years ago at the same L.A. shows that Billy Joel missed. Vernon Reid of Living Colour told Neil Peart that Rush had shown him that "a band could make it the way they wanted to." Peart was profoundly flattered because, he recalls, "I was so worried five years ago that we wouldn't leave any mark, that it was all for nothing."</p><p>Pretty soon anybody who played smart hard rock was being compared to the Canadian power trio: Metallica, Voivod, King's X, Faith No More, Jane's Addiction, Fishbone, Primus (Rush's current opening act), and even Guns N' Roses. Hip cartoonists Los Bros Hernandez created a kid drummer in Love And Rockets who wore a NEIL PEART IS RAD T-shirt; alt-rock goddess Kim Deal of the Pixies often wears her Rush tour T-shirt on stage. Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers even got his start in a band called Anthym (probably taking its "y" from the first name of Ayn Rand, individualist author of Anthem, which became the title of a 1974 Rush song).</p><p>While it's almost understandable that fellow musicians have come to give drummer-lyricist Peart, bassist-vocalist-keyboardist Lee, and guitarist Alex Lifeson their due, it's nothing short of a miracle that the critics are starting to come around, too. When I wrote my first defense of Rush for Village Voice in 1985, I was responding to colleague Chuck Eddy's slurs on the band. By the decade's end, Eddy had come around, calling it "the secret rock critic influence of 1989-90" and adding Sinead O'Connor, Midnight Oil, and Megadeth to the list of disciples.</p><p>And yet, if 1991 was the year that Rush returned with an album, Roll The Bones, that entered the Billboard chart at No.3, tour dates that sold out during a depression, and an updated sound that included a rap that wasn't half as goofy as Michael Jackson's or Michael Stipe's, I still couldn't help feeling a bit ambivalent . . .</p><p>"Neil, I hope you realize that your face is dangerously close to a pair of Damn Yankees promotional panties," I say.</p><p>Neil Peart, who is sitting in my sparsely-furnished apartment, laughs and launches into a good-natured anecdote about the band. In addition to ambivalence, I feel guilty about how lucky I am to have the lanky drummer over to my pad. Rush fanatics would give their eyeteeth to me in my sitch, and there I was trying to play it cool. It is the night off between the band's two shows at Madison Square Garden last December. Nursing a cold, Peart is nonetheless in good humor, especially while imitating a typical girlfriend at a Rush show. "Sometimes, you see this [exaggeratedly feigns sleep]. Sometimes this [tugs on sleeve]. But the other day Geddy and I saw this one girl literally hitting this guy."</p><p>With this in mind, I take the cutest young intern I can find at our office to the next night's show. She enjoys but doesn't love it and is amazed at how "well-behaved" the audience is. She is, however, impressed by how "real" Peart is when we meet him backstage. The only celebs present are John McEnroe and Tatum O'Neil. O'Neil says, "I really liked your drum solo" to Peart, who smiles and mumbles some pleasantries while I whisper, "Excuse me, but I've got to go call the gossip columnist at the New York Post." He hits me.</p><p>After spending the entire day in his hotel room reading the Sunday Times, Peart orders two glasses of dry sherry, tells me how he's practicing to records recorded by a Brazillian drummer named Milton Banana these days, and puts on Maceo Parker's 11-minute instrumental version of "It's A Man's World", retitled "Children's World."</p><p>Peart is seen as the ogre of the group, and granted, Lifeson (his pastimes are golfing and Pearl Jam) and Lee (rotisserie baseball and Nat "King" Cole) are far less intense; but it's Peart who wanted to do the rap, and who is able to drop trendy names, like Massive Attack into the conversation. Even so, he's still Neil Peart, whose rugged individualism makes Metallica's James Hetfield seem like a Commie in comparison.</p><p>I had set out to really grill the guy, but from the outset he takes control of the conversation. First he lays down the premises: Peart believes in "standards of quality" and "progress, though not linear"; for the most part, "there are no failures of talent, only failures of character"; it's also true that "first we must acquire the virtues and then eliminate the vices." He then quotes Duke Ellington's dictum that "there are only two types of music -- good and bad."</p><p>Eventually, though, we get more specific. Talking about the situation in Eastern Europe, the man who wrote "Free Will" concedes, "If I had been born in Bulgaria, no matter how much free will I'd have wished to apply, it would've been worthless." It is this hopelessness, which Peart also finds in the AIDS situation, that fills him with enormous resentment. "My response is always anger. It's so gratuitous. There's no reason, no fault, no blame."</p><p>I wondered if this cosmic capriciousness frustrated his white, Western, male, middle-class, and middle-brow nature. "The basic questions I ask in Roll The Bones -- 'Why are we here?' 'Why does it happen?' -- are the wrong questions. It's 'What can we do about it?'"</p><p>The Maceo jam climaxes, and I tell Peart that when I saw the sax master recently in concert he said that funk was "happy music." In those terms, where does he see Rush's music fitting in?</p><p>"At it's best, it's inspiring. Who's that guy in Seattle that pitched a no-hitter? He'd played his drums that day and when he was out there pitching, he was thinking of Rush songs. When I was writing 'The Pass' [a 1989 song about teen suicide], some kids told me that people who are truly suicidal listen to Pink Floyd. Rush is seen as hopeful music."</p><p>For the many who see Rush's music as hopeless, the pyrotechnic sticksman has a surprising tolerance. "It's fine for people to say they hate us -- our music is too busy, too self-absorbed elevated. Or they hate Geddy's voice. Fine. That's a taste thing."</p><p>Actually, it's more than a taste thing. After all, as the Duke would ask, "Is it good or is it bad?" At this point, Peart stops backpedaling and defends his honor. "Rhythm is the basis of a lot of musical styles. To Rush, it's just an element. That's why we're accused of being too busy, too convoluted, too far-reaching. Yes, we're restless, and yes, our work is uneven -- but no one can ever question the sincerity of the attempt."</p><p>No one was questioning the sincerity of the attempt, at least not in this room. I just wanted to know if Rush's '70s-style eclecticism was still relevant. Back in high school, it certainly had been. With its mix of power pop, barroom piano, and mock reggae, "The Spirit Of Radio" had been the prefect antidote to the skinny-tie ska geeks and anemic new wavers. But is the funk, folk, and rap of "Roll The Bones" just as effective in 1992? Peart, unflappable as ever, is free of doubt.</p><p>"'The Spirit Of Radio' is a valid musical gumbo, even now. The concept was to combine styles in a radical way to represent what radio should be. I think we really nailed that with 'Roll The Bones' as well. And it's happening on the fringe of pop music -- like Faith No More. They're not afraid to head off in a strange direction within a song. But it's still unacceptable in the mainstream. There's this strange intolerance among music fans."</p><p>Valid musical gumbo? I'd still buy that for a dollar.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^</div><div><br /></div><div>Talking about Rush... here's an <a href="https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/music/story/2023-11-13/rush-geddy-lee-my-effin-life-memoir" target="_blank">enjoyable interview</a> with <b>Geddy Lee</b> on the occasion of the publication of his memoir <i>My Effin' Life</i>. By <b>Rob Tannenbaum</b>, another of those rockcrits whose byline I clocked when I started to live half the year in NYC. </div>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-65469447556010883472023-11-12T16:22:00.000-08:002023-11-12T16:22:17.847-08:00David Stubbs - Justified Ancient of Mu Mu - January 7 1989 - Melody Maker<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOD0YPmfTe7orxnbRkAnrXFiU1TgN5inK61Guh_w9F9mpuDBsiUemryYlEyCW5VTptMnCoNUZ9X4nrxOS8Vqv3ZD_BKTbcL6nG_NHRXQo5xgSmrkd8k42iq87hQYCk1EwHIEp9kBQqFmyuoF3X5hIoGTD1GdaYS_usSRVTuzEMI6SQrZepjbWxgD6/s2101/david%20stubbs%20justified%20ancients%20of%20mu%20mu%20shag%20times%20jan%207%2089%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2101" data-original-width="1504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOD0YPmfTe7orxnbRkAnrXFiU1TgN5inK61Guh_w9F9mpuDBsiUemryYlEyCW5VTptMnCoNUZ9X4nrxOS8Vqv3ZD_BKTbcL6nG_NHRXQo5xgSmrkd8k42iq87hQYCk1EwHIEp9kBQqFmyuoF3X5hIoGTD1GdaYS_usSRVTuzEMI6SQrZepjbWxgD6/w286-h400/david%20stubbs%20justified%20ancients%20of%20mu%20mu%20shag%20times%20jan%207%2089%20.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOD0YPmfTe7orxnbRkAnrXFiU1TgN5inK61Guh_w9F9mpuDBsiUemryYlEyCW5VTptMnCoNUZ9X4nrxOS8Vqv3ZD_BKTbcL6nG_NHRXQo5xgSmrkd8k42iq87hQYCk1EwHIEp9kBQqFmyuoF3X5hIoGTD1GdaYS_usSRVTuzEMI6SQrZepjbWxgD6/s2101/david%20stubbs%20justified%20ancients%20of%20mu%20mu%20shag%20times%20jan%207%2089%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2101" data-original-width="1504" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOD0YPmfTe7orxnbRkAnrXFiU1TgN5inK61Guh_w9F9mpuDBsiUemryYlEyCW5VTptMnCoNUZ9X4nrxOS8Vqv3ZD_BKTbcL6nG_NHRXQo5xgSmrkd8k42iq87hQYCk1EwHIEp9kBQqFmyuoF3X5hIoGTD1GdaYS_usSRVTuzEMI6SQrZepjbWxgD6/w458-h640/david%20stubbs%20justified%20ancients%20of%20mu%20mu%20shag%20times%20jan%207%2089%20.jpg" width="458" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOD0YPmfTe7orxnbRkAnrXFiU1TgN5inK61Guh_w9F9mpuDBsiUemryYlEyCW5VTptMnCoNUZ9X4nrxOS8Vqv3ZD_BKTbcL6nG_NHRXQo5xgSmrkd8k42iq87hQYCk1EwHIEp9kBQqFmyuoF3X5hIoGTD1GdaYS_usSRVTuzEMI6SQrZepjbWxgD6/s2101/david%20stubbs%20justified%20ancients%20of%20mu%20mu%20shag%20times%20jan%207%2089%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2101" data-original-width="1504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOD0YPmfTe7orxnbRkAnrXFiU1TgN5inK61Guh_w9F9mpuDBsiUemryYlEyCW5VTptMnCoNUZ9X4nrxOS8Vqv3ZD_BKTbcL6nG_NHRXQo5xgSmrkd8k42iq87hQYCk1EwHIEp9kBQqFmyuoF3X5hIoGTD1GdaYS_usSRVTuzEMI6SQrZepjbWxgD6/s16000/david%20stubbs%20justified%20ancients%20of%20mu%20mu%20shag%20times%20jan%207%2089%20.jpg" /></a></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-78831591669188545882023-11-07T09:35:00.000-08:002023-11-07T09:35:27.262-08:00Pete Silverton - Malcolm McLaren + Bow Wow Wow - Sounds July 26 1980<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyuxMOL2YjAsEpcLBaqDsaL5VpZrtSfF8yY8W5JMdK6wED5giMtFc6zpidWw4SDeBPp2PotrybG8vvwLSE4FINL3dLX9lIr2gKolM3ZZD3wuIaa48cmc35iW2tBBhp1jzHuJldaLoHXKFjBI_VhE8qAyhn-5-HhX0ujwVNhiowPI5slFV5o1HKqJZ/s680/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyuxMOL2YjAsEpcLBaqDsaL5VpZrtSfF8yY8W5JMdK6wED5giMtFc6zpidWw4SDeBPp2PotrybG8vvwLSE4FINL3dLX9lIr2gKolM3ZZD3wuIaa48cmc35iW2tBBhp1jzHuJldaLoHXKFjBI_VhE8qAyhn-5-HhX0ujwVNhiowPI5slFV5o1HKqJZ/s680/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; 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float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyuxMOL2YjAsEpcLBaqDsaL5VpZrtSfF8yY8W5JMdK6wED5giMtFc6zpidWw4SDeBPp2PotrybG8vvwLSE4FINL3dLX9lIr2gKolM3ZZD3wuIaa48cmc35iW2tBBhp1jzHuJldaLoHXKFjBI_VhE8qAyhn-5-HhX0ujwVNhiowPI5slFV5o1HKqJZ/s680/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyuxMOL2YjAsEpcLBaqDsaL5VpZrtSfF8yY8W5JMdK6wED5giMtFc6zpidWw4SDeBPp2PotrybG8vvwLSE4FINL3dLX9lIr2gKolM3ZZD3wuIaa48cmc35iW2tBBhp1jzHuJldaLoHXKFjBI_VhE8qAyhn-5-HhX0ujwVNhiowPI5slFV5o1HKqJZ/s680/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAlYYrRNr1eHt21ATrRFN5AIqh5yeUPKckqnnxTXReWD0EOthJLCUOaBXkui_KOLOXNDgrCs9FJIn_RjNMXWoNhwhmG81ia3GBDcO2wpWd-6TkgmN13-RB8iW8NZsWKmTiT5_kCrpNCMabcpMzR-TZcogHHFcbIjZ4fbOfpFSoy8zfUcWJjF2t3pJ/s680/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAlYYrRNr1eHt21ATrRFN5AIqh5yeUPKckqnnxTXReWD0EOthJLCUOaBXkui_KOLOXNDgrCs9FJIn_RjNMXWoNhwhmG81ia3GBDcO2wpWd-6TkgmN13-RB8iW8NZsWKmTiT5_kCrpNCMabcpMzR-TZcogHHFcbIjZ4fbOfpFSoy8zfUcWJjF2t3pJ/s16000/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-cover.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKuC-zfoGxiyzKhhHJEH9xAsYIzo0qJ0Xk2kzjgPpjoBkzFBFsEGYI1K12g3DAaAX5XjDbrV2_VHJt9fBvfibcKhf35eAk2nTHSJudS89xrwY1zMOKgyqHgEQxPqvVgFrvR0HmIC5aqH31VOpFDdLffy-iz1WplpRwVFM2xHcjjbsWDuXkRSFZDJkq/s680/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="510" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKuC-zfoGxiyzKhhHJEH9xAsYIzo0qJ0Xk2kzjgPpjoBkzFBFsEGYI1K12g3DAaAX5XjDbrV2_VHJt9fBvfibcKhf35eAk2nTHSJudS89xrwY1zMOKgyqHgEQxPqvVgFrvR0HmIC5aqH31VOpFDdLffy-iz1WplpRwVFM2xHcjjbsWDuXkRSFZDJkq/w480-h640/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-1.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialbzUfK0pxaayaH3g5wAZRGcMK6Bf1vSTtXpnGiTMRQSg6EdawbvGbtV4JN0EZ0jhmFMJe2WhblU__Qhbw99ggRwR8RYjzHZMjHDQIsf4LdXU8sGs3plq9w5QAZaUhqiJwWGAcrkIJYK4Ne3ATPVtpwOAazlqiQfdmYi2byRlzOgLYraPFS5N-1pi/s680/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="510" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialbzUfK0pxaayaH3g5wAZRGcMK6Bf1vSTtXpnGiTMRQSg6EdawbvGbtV4JN0EZ0jhmFMJe2WhblU__Qhbw99ggRwR8RYjzHZMjHDQIsf4LdXU8sGs3plq9w5QAZaUhqiJwWGAcrkIJYK4Ne3ATPVtpwOAazlqiQfdmYi2byRlzOgLYraPFS5N-1pi/w480-h640/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljfWghV17HGHZJU2cno_kKOxwWlLvLAUroZ3TaJGHwMkySIWcK5BteNju62R3Y8qOiho2tZxRhiMcE3GbRUtPETHO8pVL7KTJ9qbsaYRGnoxbuUr3HVWM0Z7H27Lf-rJVP7ICbqXnEGOQkU3LK5li0ZwXR5P9mnHqv7fzQ3YCR7ImWJ6N5SvuUY6i/s680/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="680" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljfWghV17HGHZJU2cno_kKOxwWlLvLAUroZ3TaJGHwMkySIWcK5BteNju62R3Y8qOiho2tZxRhiMcE3GbRUtPETHO8pVL7KTJ9qbsaYRGnoxbuUr3HVWM0Z7H27Lf-rJVP7ICbqXnEGOQkU3LK5li0ZwXR5P9mnHqv7fzQ3YCR7ImWJ6N5SvuUY6i/w400-h300/malcom-mcLaren-Sounds-26-July-1980-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Not so much for the writing - although it's ably enough done - as for the Malcolm element. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Interview as artform.</div><p></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-15575399021343509662023-11-02T14:24:00.003-07:002023-11-02T14:24:43.454-07:00Paul Morley - Van Der Graaf Generator live - NME - December 18 1976<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZY7OlDA79xbai_yf8_5KBoZzjTKo3nQPCJ2RvWEExpyJbjNpWhZWsLWpcRPASF-angQ1rKLS6pJ9fm1Zt2uR3gkyzaSN5ULuu71cWFnFeBn6HV5ISK8J5W7xp-MfMyTxPLirq9m4l4x4Q4bcuODdRxMtWHIgVxxNyk3p7TSHlAK7bhmunQcRukw/s2129/Paul%20Morley%20Van%20Der%20Graaf%20Generator%20live%20New-Musical-Express-1976-12-18.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2129" data-original-width="1002" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZY7OlDA79xbai_yf8_5KBoZzjTKo3nQPCJ2RvWEExpyJbjNpWhZWsLWpcRPASF-angQ1rKLS6pJ9fm1Zt2uR3gkyzaSN5ULuu71cWFnFeBn6HV5ISK8J5W7xp-MfMyTxPLirq9m4l4x4Q4bcuODdRxMtWHIgVxxNyk3p7TSHlAK7bhmunQcRukw/w302-h640/Paul%20Morley%20Van%20Der%20Graaf%20Generator%20live%20New-Musical-Express-1976-12-18.jpg" width="302" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-7683778220749851612023-10-24T18:51:00.000-07:002023-10-24T18:51:46.082-07:00Barney Hoskyns - Blancmange - May 26 1984<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6SJw9cxzpo2PGzUPSMQtEhq4o7Amb-mnkoKfEJJcH83mzA4OyroJMkBcohCwmO-3QKDReh5mkUWazkfcZItXxQYZwWp209o5EGPuUT3WclLAkZjZojSNzBXwjrQxVZBD16bp8Gfc13JttWH3FdbxunhdpXpIIwiLxxBSCvutQ0oxNCYcTSbsr11I/s1929/barney%20hoskyns%20blancmange%20nme-26-may--1984-.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1929" data-original-width="643" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6SJw9cxzpo2PGzUPSMQtEhq4o7Amb-mnkoKfEJJcH83mzA4OyroJMkBcohCwmO-3QKDReh5mkUWazkfcZItXxQYZwWp209o5EGPuUT3WclLAkZjZojSNzBXwjrQxVZBD16bp8Gfc13JttWH3FdbxunhdpXpIIwiLxxBSCvutQ0oxNCYcTSbsr11I/w213-h640/barney%20hoskyns%20blancmange%20nme-26-may--1984-.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6SJw9cxzpo2PGzUPSMQtEhq4o7Amb-mnkoKfEJJcH83mzA4OyroJMkBcohCwmO-3QKDReh5mkUWazkfcZItXxQYZwWp209o5EGPuUT3WclLAkZjZojSNzBXwjrQxVZBD16bp8Gfc13JttWH3FdbxunhdpXpIIwiLxxBSCvutQ0oxNCYcTSbsr11I/s1929/barney%20hoskyns%20blancmange%20nme-26-may--1984-.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1929" data-original-width="643" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6SJw9cxzpo2PGzUPSMQtEhq4o7Amb-mnkoKfEJJcH83mzA4OyroJMkBcohCwmO-3QKDReh5mkUWazkfcZItXxQYZwWp209o5EGPuUT3WclLAkZjZojSNzBXwjrQxVZBD16bp8Gfc13JttWH3FdbxunhdpXpIIwiLxxBSCvutQ0oxNCYcTSbsr11I/s16000/barney%20hoskyns%20blancmange%20nme-26-may--1984-.jpg" /></a></div><div> <p></p></div>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-51676476622665415002023-10-13T19:09:00.007-07:002023-11-14T18:19:08.907-08:00Barney Hoskyns - ICA Rock Week - January 10, 1981 - New Musical Express<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3yAAD5ldRLgklI1A6qzo6fcMis4H19ZRt88pFRACZ-C020rnJNynOyaQ0R0YwPukIS5NKWQu0FQMLUPK9PCJZ5qSu0gUWUbNrpUMOmld7p4_X3Okp5O0jVy3u4sv17SnYLM7mjNOvK9nvwp2_EK1FuXiXhN8Z0xLCAYki-7BCmbjo86g68V7fg/s1861/Barney%20Hoskyns%20ICA%20Rock%20Week%20postpunk%20critique%20Jan%2010%201981.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1861" data-original-width="725" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3yAAD5ldRLgklI1A6qzo6fcMis4H19ZRt88pFRACZ-C020rnJNynOyaQ0R0YwPukIS5NKWQu0FQMLUPK9PCJZ5qSu0gUWUbNrpUMOmld7p4_X3Okp5O0jVy3u4sv17SnYLM7mjNOvK9nvwp2_EK1FuXiXhN8Z0xLCAYki-7BCmbjo86g68V7fg/w249-h640/Barney%20Hoskyns%20ICA%20Rock%20Week%20postpunk%20critique%20Jan%2010%201981.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>A counterview to the "<i>instruments of discourse</i>" idea in the <a href="https://musicpresspantheon.blogspot.com/2023/09/steve-sutherland-josef-k-young-of.html" target="_blank">previous post </a>(Steve Sutherland in '87 remembering Josef K and an allegedly different climate of rockwrite).</p><p>I didn't read this Barney review at the time (came across it much, much later) but got the drift from his subsequent writing on.... everything, really, but especially The Birthday Party and the marshalling of his personal Dionysian pantheon that enshrined The Stooges above all.... but others too (the Stones, Suicide, etc) (see <a href="https://musicpresspantheon.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-birthday-party-manhattan-melodrama.html" target="_blank">closing peroration here</a>).</p><p>The basic drift: music should not be a vehicle for social comment or critique, for meta-musical positioning.</p><p>It should be "about" nothing except the ecstasy it grants us - access to sacred frenzy. </p><p>Hence the call for a new kind of Rock Theatre of Cruelty. (Reminding me I still haven't got around to reading Artaud).</p><p>The stance here is not unlike the "<i>irony and reference points are the dark destroyers of music</i>" line that Bill Drummond took in the early '90s, inspired by rave. Except in this 1981 bit o' rhetoric, it's more a case of "<i>earnestness and reference points are the dark destroyers of music</i>". </p><p>Integrating this credo into my own way of hearing, I eventually ended up with the bliss-rock polemic and then (finally escaping the forefather's vision! or at least sufficiently transmuting) the ardkore years ("ecstasy" conjoined with literal Ecstasy).</p><p>Despite regaining some love for the postpunk way of (over)thinking, it remains a consistent base-line of expectation and demand. </p><p>Reactivated most recently with the frustrations expressed about <a href="https://blissout.blogspot.com/2019/11/conceptronica-further-thoughts-deleted.html" target="_blank">conceptronica</a> (where's the release, why won't it <a href="https://energyflashbysimonreynolds.blogspot.com/2017/08/post-step-post-brock.html" target="_blank">let loose</a>? - well, I<i> know</i> why.... but I'm a greedy listener) </p><p>As with the ICA scene - a.k.a postpunk - that Barney critiques, the music is trammeled by its own articulation and positioning.... which becomes a form of self-repression</p><p>(The comment about how "<i>art is replaced by subsidy"</i> and jibes at the ICA as institution also anticipate the conceptronica critique). </p><p>Where does this greedy listener find the bliss?</p><p>Not many places at the moment... but around the time of conceptronica, it was <a href="https://theface.com/music/trap-music-gucci-future-thug-travis" target="_blank">this</a> <a href="https://simonreynoldsfavesunfaves.blogspot.com/2021/04/pitchfork-album-of-year-and-track-of.html" target="_blank">stuff</a>, <i>floodingly</i> so... </p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3yAAD5ldRLgklI1A6qzo6fcMis4H19ZRt88pFRACZ-C020rnJNynOyaQ0R0YwPukIS5NKWQu0FQMLUPK9PCJZ5qSu0gUWUbNrpUMOmld7p4_X3Okp5O0jVy3u4sv17SnYLM7mjNOvK9nvwp2_EK1FuXiXhN8Z0xLCAYki-7BCmbjo86g68V7fg/s1861/Barney%20Hoskyns%20ICA%20Rock%20Week%20postpunk%20critique%20Jan%2010%201981.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1861" data-original-width="725" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3yAAD5ldRLgklI1A6qzo6fcMis4H19ZRt88pFRACZ-C020rnJNynOyaQ0R0YwPukIS5NKWQu0FQMLUPK9PCJZ5qSu0gUWUbNrpUMOmld7p4_X3Okp5O0jVy3u4sv17SnYLM7mjNOvK9nvwp2_EK1FuXiXhN8Z0xLCAYki-7BCmbjo86g68V7fg/s16000/Barney%20Hoskyns%20ICA%20Rock%20Week%20postpunk%20critique%20Jan%2010%201981.jpg" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p>chiglo</p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-70360121016990811332023-09-29T15:21:00.006-07:002023-10-01T17:23:51.277-07:00Steve Sutherland - Josef K - Young and Stupid / Endless Soul - July 18 1987 - Melody Maker<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkN7XO8ZWpp4kAPrpKi9bzaxKFy_5HCvv13ilQcM0dF6grpyEFWRsygU01MZ8a7cXNo2Keh7XrtB-Pk_tidD87Q6D0VD9SpV1LjWmJpgJNXzGko8CVU5ZLHn0tv5JtG-bevwe0Kjp85DDqpJjFx5jZTDlDg90yrvU2i7vb52O_YkisB4PZGSIXzw/s3482/steve%20sutherland%20josef%20k%20instruments%20of%20discourse%20July%2018%2087%20.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3482" data-original-width="1904" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkN7XO8ZWpp4kAPrpKi9bzaxKFy_5HCvv13ilQcM0dF6grpyEFWRsygU01MZ8a7cXNo2Keh7XrtB-Pk_tidD87Q6D0VD9SpV1LjWmJpgJNXzGko8CVU5ZLHn0tv5JtG-bevwe0Kjp85DDqpJjFx5jZTDlDg90yrvU2i7vb52O_YkisB4PZGSIXzw/w350-h640/steve%20sutherland%20josef%20k%20instruments%20of%20discourse%20July%2018%2087%20.jpg" width="350" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>When I first read this review, of a group I'd almost forgotten the <i>existence</i> of by 1987, I was really struck by the phrase "<i>instruments of discourse</i>." as used by <b>Steve Sutherland</b> to describe <b>Josef K</b> and other groups of that postpunk-into-New-Pop moment. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not so much as a revelation, but simply as <i>recognition</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>For that was the way I habitually processed music almost from the start of reading the music press. </div><div><br /></div><div>As much as they made music, groups existed to be conversation-starters. They would initiate a conversation, or they might try to disrupt the existing conversation, make it swerve off course - go somewhere different, somewhere new. In the hyper-conscious climate of postpunk>>>New Pop, music-making could be a form of <i>active criticism</i>. Which Steve conveys here with his sharp line about how Josef K "<i>recorded reviews, not records. They could / should have all been journos..</i>." </div><div><br /></div><div>The unspoken corollary of that, though, is the disorienting thought that criticism, at its utmost, could be a kind of unsounded music-making<b>*</b>. A real contribution to the evolution. </div><div><br /></div><div>The thing that puzzles me now about this review is why Steve situated all this in the past - six long years ago, a lost golden age of discourse fever. </div><div><br /></div><div>Why the elegiac long-face, Mr. <i>Melody Maker</i> Features Editor Sir? For surely the pages of your own magazine at that very moment teemed with "<i>instruments of discourse</i>." What was <a href="https://blissout.blogspot.com/2023/09/dream-daze.html" target="_blank">A.R. Kane</a> if not an intervention, a gauntlet thrown down - a purposeful polarizer of a proposition. As were, in different ways, with different degrees of intentionality, Throwing Muses, The Young Gods, and others... Groups then in the process of formation would in time reveal themselves as mirroring the rhetoric and write-ups that framed the late Eighties surge, as much they were reflections of the surging sounds themselves.</div><div><br /></div><div>"<i>Spotty, unshaven visionaries</i>"** - Steve was surrounded by them. <i>Because he'd hired them</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>* </b>C.f. Christopher Small's idea of <b><i>musicking</i></b> -- a term he invented to convey and encompass the ways in which a music culture is sustained not just by the craft and creativity of musicians but many other kinds of contributions and activities: fans and listeners, critics and reporters, A&R and publicists, photographers and record designers, managers and booking agents, radio deejays, promoters..... We are all musickers. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">** Morley, clearly. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div>Late Addition: Forgot that I reviewed some Josef K reissues a few years later and picked up on Steve's line. From October 20 1990</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgGqROvJ5zdV7drf_2BPJhq_HkXL8RCIOJ5XfBkmSNLO2g22tieLZMzXCnhPo8xDsijQPNOkjitlX_c_9wEcocZWVmexpjrkAsEYM0DvtmP_IoucsX11qyszIdumEBGAXRZ-AL8g6RS3bXHF8swDnvdtYxcg18g7oUHhG07XjU03TBwa08feL_lE1/s2318/SR%20josef%20K%20reissues%201990%20October%2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2318" data-original-width="1589" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgGqROvJ5zdV7drf_2BPJhq_HkXL8RCIOJ5XfBkmSNLO2g22tieLZMzXCnhPo8xDsijQPNOkjitlX_c_9wEcocZWVmexpjrkAsEYM0DvtmP_IoucsX11qyszIdumEBGAXRZ-AL8g6RS3bXHF8swDnvdtYxcg18g7oUHhG07XjU03TBwa08feL_lE1/w438-h640/SR%20josef%20K%20reissues%201990%20October%2020.jpg" width="438" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8095683444140327595.post-63159042513536130902023-09-24T10:29:00.000-07:002023-09-24T10:29:31.779-07:00John Gill - The Residents - Commercial Album - Sounds - October 4 1980<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnt4zlNdo9KI6QhN-cRpLE1CtIpNPrkQb8LglNzot_518CX4yT-_q_g-Z_3TnCOEVVwq1R2nmPwXouBUILoXbwx4iPejAyVRtKm2Q98pSHOYpYoQM7FvZ50GFg2bn7OUvvPao4yhUpW4dvoPg9dNF2NTHFIHZySWGLEkU5hNugfRBkQcRoyT454g/s900/Residents%20%20'The%20Residents'%20Commercial%20Album'%20reviewed%20John%20Gill%20%20Sounds%204%20October%201980.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="482" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnt4zlNdo9KI6QhN-cRpLE1CtIpNPrkQb8LglNzot_518CX4yT-_q_g-Z_3TnCOEVVwq1R2nmPwXouBUILoXbwx4iPejAyVRtKm2Q98pSHOYpYoQM7FvZ50GFg2bn7OUvvPao4yhUpW4dvoPg9dNF2NTHFIHZySWGLEkU5hNugfRBkQcRoyT454g/w342-h640/Residents%20%20'The%20Residents'%20Commercial%20Album'%20reviewed%20John%20Gill%20%20Sounds%204%20October%201980.jpg" width="342" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnt4zlNdo9KI6QhN-cRpLE1CtIpNPrkQb8LglNzot_518CX4yT-_q_g-Z_3TnCOEVVwq1R2nmPwXouBUILoXbwx4iPejAyVRtKm2Q98pSHOYpYoQM7FvZ50GFg2bn7OUvvPao4yhUpW4dvoPg9dNF2NTHFIHZySWGLEkU5hNugfRBkQcRoyT454g/s900/Residents%20%20'The%20Residents'%20Commercial%20Album'%20reviewed%20John%20Gill%20%20Sounds%204%20October%201980.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnt4zlNdo9KI6QhN-cRpLE1CtIpNPrkQb8LglNzot_518CX4yT-_q_g-Z_3TnCOEVVwq1R2nmPwXouBUILoXbwx4iPejAyVRtKm2Q98pSHOYpYoQM7FvZ50GFg2bn7OUvvPao4yhUpW4dvoPg9dNF2NTHFIHZySWGLEkU5hNugfRBkQcRoyT454g/s16000/Residents%20%20'The%20Residents'%20Commercial%20Album'%20reviewed%20John%20Gill%20%20Sounds%204%20October%201980.jpg" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>SIMON REYNOLDShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01282478701882900354noreply@blogger.com0