tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4584582987553615032024-02-07T13:34:05.385+00:00neil storey @ storeysthoughts, opinions and views on the ever changing world of music... and other things that matter (or infuriate).Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-89547776685041111352013-11-04T18:18:00.002+00:002013-11-04T19:03:32.919+00:00Remake Remodel<style>
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</style><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Twenty or so minutes in, centre-stage remains bereft of the
main man.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">His orchestra (for want of a better term) has gradually assembled –
first up was the entrance of a five-man horn section; all neatly done up to the
nines in Dinner Jackets and perfectly prepared bow ties along with a
double-bass player (who gives the impression of being let out of school for
evening) who’s own dickie-bow is being worn almost as an after thought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">There is a guitarist cum banjo-player sporting a moustache that resembles one much
favoured by 70’s footballers backed by a veteran drummer hidden away behind an
alarmingly sized bass drum, a number of shell-like cow bells and a couple of elderly
cymbals.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">They’d been toe-tapping out sinuously re-imagined Dixieland
arrangements of some of the main man’s main tunes to the cue of the grey-grizzle-haired
pianist who doubles as MD for the evening before yet another drummer appears. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">She
adjusts her micro-skirt while (carefully) positioning herself behind her own kit
centre stage as two backing singers appear in what might be construed as
cocktail dresses – although, frankly, I’ve never been to a drinks party where
that kind of attire is considered legal. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">They rev up by ooohing, aaaahing and
sashaying in simpatico with the massed ranks of clarinets, saxophones, trumpets
and trombones; tonight the roaring twenties are being re-positioned way beyond
the jazz age. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Next up is a guitarist who has obviously been studying hard
at the Brian Jones school of hairdressing: he looks about sixteen, shoegazes
while tuning up his Les Paul and prepares for action so languorously that he
gives the impression of someone who’s wandered onto the wrong stage – his nod
to more conventional evening attire sported by the rest of the ensemble is a
jacket worn with the lapels turned inward. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">The bass player and moustachioed
guitar/banjo-picker swap acoustic for electric as the lady drummer counts four to
the bar by cracking her sticks together much like pistol-shots sound in an
enclosed space… and… all of a sudden, the orchestra is in full swing: it’s a
bit like listening to a thoroughbred Maserati change gear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Within moments, the curtain back stage-right has twitched
and… there the main man is, sidling up the microphone in a soft-shoe shuffle
like no other; he grips the mic-stand with his right hand, tips it slightly sideways
and, with his left hand clicking the time signature behind him, leans into his
first vocal of the night. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">But… wait a moment… lets go back a bit, in fact to Saturday
May 28<sup>th</sup> 1972. A bank holiday weekend spent in Lincolnshire – or,
more specifically, at the Great Western Express Festival; a three day event
held near the village of Bardney some ten miles or so away from and more or
less due east of the Cathedral. True to bank holiday type, it tipped down for a
good proportion of the duration. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaL_PWLhudlevpqgVdjeE1vu38WgvWwIdqnneig5bHFgg3Zs9UbuSQb5CLv6j99VFmyED5sIert0KsN79il-LN_IsIbBF8eHoYYc8V5mKbAPqTD8gCLHDqxdh1o9VdZam-4vjl_pyjKSg/s1600/lincolnposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaL_PWLhudlevpqgVdjeE1vu38WgvWwIdqnneig5bHFgg3Zs9UbuSQb5CLv6j99VFmyED5sIert0KsN79il-LN_IsIbBF8eHoYYc8V5mKbAPqTD8gCLHDqxdh1o9VdZam-4vjl_pyjKSg/s320/lincolnposter.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">And, after the debacle of trying to get to Glastonbury the
year previous – when, after inadvisably partaking of rather too much of my pal
Horace’s finest Jamaican stash en route to the West Country we ended up in
Wales – we did… eventually… make it to Lincoln this time.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I’ve no recollection of seeing Smith Perkins & Smith,
Gnidrolog, Capability Brown or Jade Warrior who played in one of the tents;
maybe it blew down – within a matter of hours of tipping up the place was a mud
bath and, on the second night my tent was stolen: Saturday and Sunday night
were spent huddled up in my Afghan Coat underneath the Mini-Van in which we’d
travelled. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">By the end of the
weekend my fashionably scrotum-constricting crushed velvet, hugely flared
purple loon-pants were ruined. And, inevitably, we broke down on the M1
motorway on the return leg. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Even so, the delights on offer were pretty serious for those
of us whose weekly edition of the Melody Maker provided (so we thought) nearly
the level of knowledge Moses had acquired after he reappeared clutching his
stone tablets: Joe Cocker (who was so refreshed on the night in question that
he had to be held upright by one of his backing singers – when he actually
sang, his hand and arm-propeller movements kept him more or less erect); the
sublime Head Hands & Feet – little did I know that this would be one of
their last performances with Albert Lee about to quit and join up with Emmylou
Harris; a very young Average White Band and Slade (who I must’ve missed ‘cos I
can’t remember anything about them at all).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue;">There was </span>Vinegar Joe who, like HH&F
must’ve been close to their own end given the on-stage body language between
Robert Palmer and Elkie Brooks; Rory Gallagher – who was six-string-bendingly amazing;
The Sutherland Brothers (with or without Quiver – I can’t remember); Stone The
Crows with Maggie Bell exorcising the ghost of Les Harvey who’d been
electrocuted on stage a few weeks earlier; The Beach Boys – pure class in the
rain when the sun shone both physically and metaphorically while the unexpected
highlight was Sha Na Na – like stepping into the film of Woodstock but with the
benefit of real rain falling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Opening the proceedings on the Saturday and quite the cure for
my too-many Gauloise-smoked/rough Cider-aided hangover was… Roxy Music. One of
their first shows and quite possibly their Festival début – so, whether the
20,000 or so souls gathered in the drizzle were quite ready for Eno in a full
on Boa-feathered outfit at his nob-twiddling finest, Andy Mackay’s squawking
Sax or Bryan Ferry’s lounge lizard Cole Porter lamenting vocals, its hard to
say. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">To me… this was like seeing something from outer space.
Musically – and just as it was hearing (say) Bob Marley or Miles Davis for the
first time – what they did that Saturday lunchtime was other-worldly. Clearly,
Roxy didn’t inhabit the same (musical) planet as Marley or Miles; but, they
were equally out there… quite where I wasn’t too sure… but, it was certainly somewhere
very interesting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Not long after, my hair has been clipped (a bit) and the
crushed velvet has given way to a nicely conservative three piece suit; I’ve
joined EMI in the lowest of all low sales reps positions and I’m doing whatever
it is I’m meant to be doing in a record shop in Harrow – I can’t remember which
one but it might well have been Harlequin. In walks the Island rep. He’s
wearing jeans and a confident smile. He fishes a new single out of his bag and
plays it to the shop-manager. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">While I’m meant to be stocking the shop up on stuff they
don’t want – Manuel And The Music Of The Mountains – I can’t but help but hear:
he’s playing Roxy Music’s first record, Virginia Plain. Not long after that and
despite the fact that EMI distribute Island, I’ve given up my safe pension and
the equally safe suit and have joined the Island sales force. St Peters Square
feels like home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">So… here we all are at Cambridge Corn Exchange; it is full to
the rafters and, six rows back, what’s hitting us straight between the eyes ‘n
ears is better than I dared imagine. I mean, one hardly needed the brain of
Einstein to know this was going to be a good show but… <i>this good</i>? Nah, I didn’t
imagine that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Obviously, Ferry is aware of his audience; this is a sit down
gig for a start. But, that’s the only safety net: his show could have gone one
of two ways – play the safe card and trot out the hits (and there are many,
very many) which would have left the massed ranks of newly coiffed housewives
delirious or… forego the safe option and… in a sense, challenge us as much as
challenging himself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">The arrangements are more than re-arrangements; the
re-working of songs is like he’s mining a seam of material that has little
nuggets hidden away, previously covered in… stuff. Suddenly, they’re exposed
and his songs start to breathe and amass a new life all of their own. The transformation is genuinely
remarkable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">It’s as if Ferry has taken his canyon of a catalogue and said
to himself… ‘y’know what… I’m going to have a bit of a play with these tunes,
have a bit o’ fun.’ The direct
opposite of one of the more recent shows I’d seen at the same venue when Steve
Winwood had (unfortunately) settled on the safe option being the wise choice.
Yes, there is that peerless voice, the superlative playing – that’s all a given
with a musician of his calibre… but… ultimately, it was all a bit… the same as
the time before… and the time before that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">And Ferry’s reinvention process hasn’t exactly been hindered
by some of the best players I’ve seen in years. The lady drummer hits so hard
and so accurately that one has the impression she wouldn’t be the first person
one’d like to encounter after imbibing nine pints of Scruttocks Old Derisible down
a dark alley after closing time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">The interplay between shaven headed sax player
#1 (who doubles on keyboards) and shaven headed sax player #2 is astounding –
watching their combined eye-trajectory is an abject lesson in eyebrow raising; one
twitch of the latter leads to miniscule fills that are so, so subtle yet within
the whole are just… right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Neither is the bass sax player who doubles on
clarinets various a slouch either – he looks like the kind of bloke who’d take
on a crumhorn without so much as a second thought. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">A quarter of the way through the show and the bass-player’s wrap-around
bow-tie has found a new home, directly under his right ear. Ferry’s meantime, just
dangles… Bryan is old school – he can tie a tie. Properly. Oh… and the jacket he wore in the first
half – show me a man in the audience who wouldn’t have maxed-out his credit
card for that or a wife who’d not have approved of the transaction. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">And… the man can dance. He’s downright dangerous – the sort of chap
who you really do not want to meet at a wedding… y'know – when the dancing starts and
the dads all get up and trudge about embarrassingly somewhat akin to the Hairy
Biker on that Strictly dirty (obviously rigged) Dancing BBC programme. Ferry
really does have all the moves; he may well be nearer 70 than his Byronesque
looks suggest but, trust me – his footwork is something to behold. </span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZaU_8pZaOXiQZN2U1TK5WiCSHMHENytWMkyZ8TetnUAz7SR3ue94xqZfQAccyzU7OBPXLdHr9q4lPavqhIJB50rZreTi_9Thhr08wEqQ8jA_ifALu2eDnQTNHWZic2yXZQEBecEobH4/s1600/IMG_3831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZaU_8pZaOXiQZN2U1TK5WiCSHMHENytWMkyZ8TetnUAz7SR3ue94xqZfQAccyzU7OBPXLdHr9q4lPavqhIJB50rZreTi_9Thhr08wEqQ8jA_ifALu2eDnQTNHWZic2yXZQEBecEobH4/s320/IMG_3831.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">There really isn’t much to complain about – other than… why
on earth break the show midway through? There’s really no need for the
half-time oranges – although the bar did a roaring trade in Gin and Dubonet,
plastic pints of IPA and ice-cream… Ice cream? Yeah, not that rock ’n roll an
audience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">As much as the first part of the show cranked it up toward the
break, so the second half had to all over again – meaning momentum was lost;
even so, the home run was a delight and finally the good (but staid) burghers
of Cambridge actually got up from the safety of their seats and… danced. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">The
final section included a heart-stopping Carickfergus, a stellar Jealous Guy
that out-Lennon-ed the best Beatle, a scorching Sam ‘n Dave’s Hold On I’m
Coming; there was Editions Of You during which Ferry worried a keyboard so much
it was like watching a ferret having just grabbed a rabbit by the neck. He
closed with a harmonica infused Lets Stick Together and that was pretty much it
– he just walked off, nodding his head, clicking his fingers to the beat. Sheer
class. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">When the band were introduced, one or two of the names I got, most
I didn’t. I inquire of Tiggles B the name of the Brian Jones look-a-like
guitarist; he’s been exemplary all night. She’s unsure… ‘Oliver someone or
other, I think.’ The house lights come up and it doesn’t look like there will
be an encore – the perfectly-coiffed gather up their Barbour jackets en masse and
head for the exit. Drat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Please sir, may I have some more…</span></div>
Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-7276878608339939192012-11-12T13:40:00.001+00:002012-11-12T13:42:04.981+00:00The Jess Roden Anthology... Hidden Masters... CD6 (the bonus CD)<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIR4o_wjl851U97Nx2NlGTtpkpVDCdyLkHWmGCN29WVoWR3wXzMqRN8v76C8wDcfYrITAfX5Ii0BFt8z4fQtuo4IXB9kkA8svfi_Msw_EeQuH4x2SeJXQxX9oXqA8B9-jbqARP2kPSrw0/s1600/CD_SIX_SLEEVE+Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIR4o_wjl851U97Nx2NlGTtpkpVDCdyLkHWmGCN29WVoWR3wXzMqRN8v76C8wDcfYrITAfX5Ii0BFt8z4fQtuo4IXB9kkA8svfi_Msw_EeQuH4x2SeJXQxX9oXqA8B9-jbqARP2kPSrw0/s320/CD_SIX_SLEEVE+Front.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Here is the track listing for The Subs Bench, the bonus CD
(6) that will be only <u>ever</u> available with the 1<sup>st</sup> edition of the
Anthology. None of these tracks have ever been released before.</div>
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<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">1. Storm And Stone (Shine On Joe). </span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Sourced from the ¼” master and recorded
during March 1972 at Basing St during the Rabbit Sessions (for Jess’ first but
aborted) solo album. The track features Rabbit (keyboards), Robbie Blunt
(guitar), Kellie (drums), Pat Donaldson (bass) and Jess (acoustic guitar)</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">2. Love Me (The Alan Bown Set).</span></b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A demo
recorded at Pye Studios in London on December 19<sup>th</sup> 1966. Sourced
from the original ¼” tape.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">3. On Your Life.</span></b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Written
by Rabbit and also recorded during the sessions from which, ultimately, only
What The Hell became part of Jess’ first solo album. Kellie plays drums with
Rabbit mixing Mellotron and Hammond Organ as well as playing bass pedals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sourced from the original ¼”
master.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a footnote, the version
that Rabbit has in his own archives is different again (indeed, he never knew
this version existed until very recently… and was pretty surprised that it
did).</i> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">4. Desperado (The Jess Roden Band).</span></b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As a
track, it needs no introduction whatsoever. This was recorded live at Leicester
University during November 1976 on the Island Mobile and has been sourced from
the original 2” multitrack.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">5. Loving In Your Sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Also recorded during March ’72 at Basing
St this features Gerry Conway, Rabbit and Pat Donaldson and has been sourced
from the 2” multitrack. The actual take (there are two) of this demo is a good
deal longer but… in the cold light of day… the coda contained way too much
ambient noodling (Jess’ phrase) equals it really didn’t work so we extracted
the song and… here it is.</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">6. Special T’anks (Jess Roden / Pete
Wood).</span></b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One of the short instrumental tracks that
were to have formed linking passages to the (never recorded) 2<sup>nd</sup>
Rivits album that Jess and Pete were working on at Compass Point while waiting
for their riddim section (the mighty Sly ‘n Robbie) to tip up. They were
delayed for ‘business’ reasons in Jamaica and… this was one of the tracks
recorded at that time… indeed, at the same point that Jess and Island finally
parted company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sourced from the
original 2” multitrack.</i> </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">7. Surrender To Your Heart (Jess Roden
& The Humans). </span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Could be described as a Humans demo… only very
recently discovered (by Bob Pridden) and recorded at Quarwood, John
Entwhistle’s home studio on the day the actual writing of the tune was
completed with Jim Capaldi (drums), Gary Grainger (guitar), Nick Graham (bass)
and Steve Winwood (Hammond Organ). Harmonica courtesy the singer of songs. </span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">8. Too Far Gone (The Jess Roden Band). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">From the first (recorded) night at The
Marquee… sourced from the 2” multitrack.</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">9. Love Will Grow. </span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">A vocal
demo (#take 1) from the Summer ’78 Player Not The Game sessions with John
Cartwright (bass), Rob Mounsey (Fender Rhodes) Cliff Morris (guitar) and Chris
Parker (drums). Jaki Whitren (John’s wife) can also be heard (briefly) on
backing vocals. Sourced from the 2” multitracks.</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">10. Let Me Make Something In Your Life. </span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">This is Jess
backed by </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Muscle Shoals ‘Swampers’</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">– essentially
the main Muscle Shoals rhythm players who later formed the backbone to Traffic
at the time of the Low Spark / Shoot Out and On The Road albums – together with
the Muscle Shoals Horns… Sourced from the ¼” and recorded in 1974… as a
possible contender for Jess’ first solo album.</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">11. Eight Days On The Road (The Jess
Roden Band) </span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Sourced from the 2” multitrack and recorded in
September ’76 during the Pinewood Sessions… sessions that, for a number of
reasons, were largely unproductive… just prior to the proper recording of the
Play It Dirty album.</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">12. Feelin’ Easy<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The Jess Roden Band). </span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Live at The
Marquee (altho’ for those who were actually there or remember JRB perfomances
of the time, not all of the band featured on this track when played live) and
sourced from the 2” multitrack. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">13. Sweet One. </span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Recorded
during October ’72 this, for a while, confused us. How so? Well… it was
actually one of the first tunes that we unearthed and, when we listened back
(all those many months ago)… all was running along in ship-shape Bristol
fashion until… up pops a Soprano Sax. Nothing weird there as you may imagine…
The Sax worked perfectly within the context of the tune but… who the heck was
the mysterious Sax player? We simply didn’t know. After a bit the song title
assumed brackets in which it said: The Mysterious Sax Player edit. Months went
by and we still couldn’t work out who it was. Undeterred, we started listing
out every Sax player we could think of who might have been around Basing St at
the time (some, sadly, no longer with us) and… still… we couldn’t work it out. More
months went by. Until (spooky as this is) on the very same day about six months
ago there was an exchange of early morning emails that crossed each others
incoming path. Jess’ note said: I reckon the sax player is… while mine to him
said; d’you think it might be..? And the answer..? It most certainly is John
Helliwell.</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">14. Ain’t No Sunshine. </span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Recorded
one late night in March ’73 at Basing St… its just Jess and an acoustic guitar…
We found it, unmarked, on a 2” multitrack in amongst a whole heap of ambient
studio nothingness… there were two takes… and this is the best of ‘em. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div>
Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-69057802460497039442012-11-01T14:10:00.000+00:002012-11-12T13:38:27.460+00:00The Jess Roden Anthology | The Final Countdown<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And... here we now are, the countdown has begun. Pre-ordering for the JR Anthology is set to begin at high noon (hey...which bright spark suggested that...?! Its all far too Garry Cooper)... on Monday, November 12th. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">High noon or otherwise, we're underway. Someone (no names, no pack drill) asked the other day, "<i>Bet you're thrilled now</i>?' And was, I think, a bit flumoxed by the response... "<i>Not really, I think I'm more relieved than anything. The thrill bit will probably... hopefully... come a bit later</i>" </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For why? Well... we inhabited this bizarre nether-world for so long that there were times when it felt like no matter what, this bright idea of three and a bit years ago, conceived as it was in the womb of ideas over Korma heaven, a few Popadums and a couple of Kingfisher beers would result in such a lengthy birth that the chaps from the Guinness Book of Records would be knocking at the door and queuing round the block eager to document the labour pains. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In any event, now that the log-jams are behind us we can proceed... and proceeding in a straight-ahead fashion we jolly well are. Am I thrilled – yes, whisper it... I am (rather a bit), 'cos there really were moments when this all seemed like it was stuck in a moment we simply couldn't get out of. But, that was then... </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">First up... I should make mention of the fact that this edition will be limited just as we've said all along plus it will be absolutely exclusive to PledgeMusic. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And limited means limited... which means we're absolutely not going to be quietly manufacturing another X quantity in the background and then offering those via the back door. Exclusive has the same meaning; this edition is only ever going to be made available via PledgeMusic. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why PledgeMusic? Well... when we initially got underway we talked to a number of 'entities' (for want of a better word); they all loved what we were setting out to do but... quite honestly, they were all so steeped in the past that, as much as they liked our ideas, they couldn't see any logical way of making them happen without so many obstructions along the road that made the whole thing not just implausible but impossible. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But, we were sticking to our guns. And one particular Howitzer in particular. IF we were gonna do this... it had to be as special as we could make it. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And then... we met with the chaps at PledgeMusic – Malcolm Dunbar (their major-domo) is steeped in the traditions which we all learned at the Island coal-face which <u>begin</u> with thinking outside the box. He got it (in other words what we were planning) in a matter of peco-seconds... not only that, but he and his compadres positively welcomed our A4 sheet of ideas with a foolscap envelope choc-full of their own. You want to do this..<span style="font-size: small;">?</span> <span style="font-size: small;">S</span>ure, we can accommodate that. You want to do that..<span style="font-size: small;">?</span> Of course... not a problem. And do this in that way? Yeah, we can make that happen too but we can also do this as well. Brilliant. Suddenly, we were able to channel the past by embracing the future and, it felt really rather good. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Running through Hidden Masters' core (a bit like when you chomp<span style="font-size: small;"> your way</span> through a stick of Brighton rock)<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>– the JR Anthology gave its title to the name of the label by the <span style="font-size: small;">way</span> – is 'the end-user deserves the best'. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And that p<span style="font-size: small;">hrase (even tho' the wording is pretty rubbish)</span> applies to absolutely everything we do... so, by linking to the way the PledgeMusic methodology operates, this enables HM to deliver on that promise. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Am I giving the game away, hinting at what is to come too much? Without furthering the tease any more, ALL<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">of the details on
exactly what the singer of songs + self have been beavering away on in the background these last few
many-months will be announced very very soon. Promise. Honest injun.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">In the meantime... should you wish... you can join the official pre-registration list via this link : </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">> <a href="http://www.pledgemusic.com/widgets/5108" target="_blank">http://www.pledgemusic.com/widgets/5108</a>< </span></span><br />
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Its a very simple process... click on the download link... </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">And... hey presto... another box will pop open... </span></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC4Tfv5d85Sc-lMhXrpgaFuQswImonUtmLdsE-ENS8NTz8N0dRECx5Vrzz4X0XROPD0ycl_fYOfEq7Y0M9dZfGUMljiYSnIOSNKFszkUzcy_wbCvNMI18EAOzXUNKEJ1jUFK_EEbWUgT0/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-10-30+at+13.12.37.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC4Tfv5d85Sc-lMhXrpgaFuQswImonUtmLdsE-ENS8NTz8N0dRECx5Vrzz4X0XROPD0ycl_fYOfEq7Y0M9dZfGUMljiYSnIOSNKFszkUzcy_wbCvNMI18EAOzXUNKEJ1jUFK_EEbWUgT0/s320/Screen+shot+2012-10-30+at+13.12.37.png" width="299" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">Fill
in the required fields... and not only will a free download of one tune
from the forthcoming Anthology immediately land, as if by magic, on
your desktop but... you'll also get an email alert just upfront of when the actual pre-ordering begins. <br />
<br />
The download we've chosen is Song 3 – </span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">virtually the first tune unearthed when all of the archive research began –
many, many moons ago! Although, naturally,
once it is properly re-mastered, the version included on the actual Anthology is going
to sound a whole heap better than an MP3! </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></span></span>Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-83522783904414990292012-10-24T10:22:00.000+01:002012-10-24T10:22:23.099+01:00Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2D4t65lEI9hNiUtTsS8LQzLuPpEzTgSBuwEvHXSpyaZixt7oGSuhoWY1uSFLxEAEGcZ2yig5SXNjC8eDKxO8cALEpLRfRTLv0K3WnaN6fVg9QkGPJcA_ARGU10gxBfYxDKscCOJkaoE/s1600/HM+JR+Anthology+1a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2D4t65lEI9hNiUtTsS8LQzLuPpEzTgSBuwEvHXSpyaZixt7oGSuhoWY1uSFLxEAEGcZ2yig5SXNjC8eDKxO8cALEpLRfRTLv0K3WnaN6fVg9QkGPJcA_ARGU10gxBfYxDKscCOJkaoE/s320/HM+JR+Anthology+1a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
And... at long last... so it begins<br /><br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-65341166567682403952012-08-13T12:20:00.001+01:002012-08-13T13:29:43.159+01:00The Octopus’s Garden<br />
<br />
After the outstanding Danny Boyle-driven opening ceremony and two weeks of equally astonishing athletic feats across the board, last night we finally arrived at the closing ceremony of the London 2012 Olympiad. <br />
<br />
But… (fairly) closely guarded secret as it was, what would it actually comprise…? Part peculiar comic-book circus or a celebratory carnival of (British) music from the last five or so decades? Would Sir Cliff of Richard make a token appearance, would Dame Kate of Bush come out of hiding and perform live for the first time in more than thirty years? Would the Strolling Bones get the nod or would it be down to Status Quo to provide some invisible-pony-tail Dad-Rock? Would it be more wake than festival? Or, perhaps, it'd be a sum of those and many other parts? <br />
<br />
It was and it wasn’t some of the above. Yet again, Britain proved itself a world-beater... in Pantomime. <br />
<br />
Starring… <b>The Villains</b>: <br />
<br />
<b>The Spice Girls</b> as <i><b>The Ugly Sisters</b></i> – the vision of Posh Spice frantically clinging to the ‘elf ‘n safety cage atop her black London taxi, out-of-time miming to ‘Spice Up Your life’ while hurtling around the stadium will live long in the memory… if only the taxi had just driven straight out of the park. <br />
<br />
<b>George Michael</b> as <i><b>The Village (People) Policeman</b></i>, proving the Olympics can be bought by agreeing to sing one song on the basis that he was allowed to plug his tuneless new song straight after. Horrible. Jacques Rogge – hang your head in shame. <br />
<br />
<b>Eric Idle</b> as <i><b>The Widow Twankey</b></i> – awkwardly warbling away surrounded by a glee club of high-kicking Roman legionaries, men dressed in Welsh women’s national costume and backed by a chorus by roller-blading nuns. Surreal so long as one’d taken the correct pharmaceuticals. <br />
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<b>Jessie J</b> as <i><b>Cruella de Ville</b></i> – killing a billion indelicately and indiscriminately with her song(s). A thoroughly unpleasant noise. <br />
<br />
<b>Taio Cruz</b> and <b>Tinny Temper</b> as <i><b>Dennis The Menace</b></i> and <i><b>Gnasher</b></i>; hiding behind their designer-shades, all the bling and crocodile-hide transport couldn’t disguise the ineffectual twaddle proffered. Perfect pee-break / kettle boiling / extra glass of the well-chilled moment. <br />
<b><br />
Madness</b> as <i><b>The Tin Men</b></i> – Suggs really should have opted for the full-mime option; flat as a Shrove Tuesday pancake resonated far beyond Camden Town tube station. Even Lee Thompson's Sax-in-Space moment seemed half-hearted. <br />
<br />
<b>Russell Brand</b> as <i><b>Russell Grant</b></i> – involving him within the performance in the first place was enough of an own goal; his desecration of I Am The Walrus when he failed to even mime convincingly was pure travesty. <br />
<br />
<b>Brian May</b> as <i><b>The Scarecrow</b></i> – his three minutes of ear-wrenching six-string pyrotechnics before slugging his way into We Will Rock You like a past-his-sell-by-date heavyweight boxer was more than enough. Being accompanied by <i><b>Cruella de Ville</b></i> writhing at his feat (sic) like a recently beheaded snake underneath Roger Taylor’s Barclay’s bank of kettle drums redefined unnecessary. <br />
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<b>Annie Lennox</b> as <i><b>The Cheshire Cat</b></i> – her entrance on a ghost Galleon was pure and unadulterated theatrical-magic; sadly the performance as underwhelming as soggy toast. <br />
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<b>The Household Division Ceremonial State Band</b> as <i><b>Dick Whittington’s Cat</b></i> – Blur’s Parklife didn’t translate well as a jerky arrangement for massed ranks of trombones. <br />
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<b>Ed Sheeran</b> as a ginger <i><b>Andy Pandy</b></i> – thankfully a song as good as that can’t be totally annihilated but, along with <i><b>Big Ears</b></i> (the tall bloke form Genesis) and <i><b>The Classic Car Collector</b></i> – the only Floyd-ster who could be bothered to show up – this was not a performance at which the Division Bell could come quick enough. <br />
<br />
<b>Liam Gallagher</b> as <i><b>Petulant Postman Pat</b></i> – take one great song; the brother who wrote it can’t be arsed (for whatever reasons) to perform it with the original band… solution – bring on the other brother as substitute. As exciting as waiting for a letter posted second class. <br />
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<b>One Direction</b> as <i><b>Wishee Washee</b></i> – and, they were. Utterly pointless. <br />
<br />
<b>The Heroes</b>: <br />
<br />
<b>Boris Johnson</b> as <i><b>Baron Hardup</b></i> – the sight of him doing his Dad Can Dance routine alongside Mr and Mrs Cameroon in the upper-twit tier while <i><b>Cruella de Ville, Dennis The Menace</b></i> and <i><b>Gnasher</b></i> slaughtered The Bee Gees made one realize just why Barry Gibb stayed at home, pleading a previous hair-washing appointment. <br />
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<b>The Set Designer</b> as <i><b>Sleeping Beauty</b></i>. It began as a thing of wonderment and evolved into… something else again. Chapeau. It’s a shame that Thomas Heatherwick's spectacular flames had to be extinguished. <br />
<br />
<b>The Pet Shop Boys</b> as <i><b>Tweedledee and Tweedledum</b></i> – what’s not to cherish when our favourite dead-pan-twosome perform from underneath gigantic conical chapeaus while being pedaled around the stadium clingfilmed inside two rickshaws and covered by fluorescent orange origami. <br />
<br />
<b>The Lighting Designer</b> as <i><b>Buttons</b></i>. Whoever programmed the lighting throughout the entire show deserves as knighthood as much as Sir Bradley of Wiggins, Lord Mo of Farrah, Dame Jessica of Ennis and Queen Victoria of Pendleton will be (rightly) anointed in the forthcoming didn’t we do ever so well Olympic pat-on-the-back honours list. <br />
<br />
<b>The Supermodels</b> as <i><b>The Wicked Witch(es) Of The West</b></i> – if looks could kill and they probably will… Games With No Frontiers: take a bow Kate, Naomi and the others… probably the first time you’ve all been in the back of one of Eddie Stobard’s finest for a while. <br />
<br />
<b>Ray Davies</b> as <i><b>Aladin</b></i> – for igniting the lamp; a billion people singing the Sha La La’s when instructed and pulling one right out of the bag. <br />
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<b>Take That</b> as <i><b>Tinkerbelles</b></i> – if only for Jason Orange’s running on the spot routine as he waited for Sir Gary of Barlow (hat-tip to courage in light of recent personal events) to morph into the Queen Mother of Song center stage. <br />
<br />
<b>The Video-designer</b> as <i><b>Snow White</b></i> – the inclusion of Lennon’s face, full-screen, as he (and a children’s choir) sang Imagine was heart-stopping as was Yoko’s unfolding piecemeal design of her husband’s face in repose, like a gigantic death-mask… A dry eye in (Our) House…? Not a chance. <br />
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<b>Darcey Bussell</b> as <i><b>Princess Jasmine</b></i>, the senior flight attendant air-lifted into impossible Phoenix arising ballet-shapes. <br />
<br />
<b>The Who</b> as <i><b>(the) Genie(s) Of The Lamp</b></i> – showing Queen, The Kaiser Chiefs and Muse just how to do it with a startling rendition of My Generation… real lyrical irony given that this Olympiad can only inspire this (and future) generations. <br />
Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-6775905182395356772012-08-03T10:49:00.000+01:002012-08-04T09:19:20.180+01:00Fix You (Babylon Makes The Rules)<br />
Last Friday, a British athlete, holding a corner of the Olympic flag, read the Olympic Oath penned by Baron de Coubertin – using the exact same words as were recited by the Belgian Fencer, Victor Boin at the start of the 1920 Olympiad held in Antwerp. <br />
<br />
<i>"In the name of all competitors, I promise that we shall take part in these Olympic Games, respecting and abiding by the rules that govern them, in the true spirit of sportsmanship, for the glory of sport and the honour of our teams."</i> <br />
<br />
There was something in the air, the other afternoon on the roadsides around Weston Green, Esher, Kingston, Teddington and Hampton Court… not just a collective feeling of being part of a little Britain inhaling a bit of (British) sporting history. That was celebratory in itself but there was also that indefinable knowing that the absolute best won the day.<br />
<br />
The Cycling TT is exactly that, a timed trial over a set distance; the fastest man or woman gets the Gold Medal. It is, as the French like to call it, the race of truth. Man (woman) against machine, wind, rain, road surface and adverse camber or otherwise… it’s dead simple, the fastest wins. And… it’s the Olympics = as blue a ribbon as it gets. <br />
<br />
At the end of the men's race, Wiggins and the German, Tony Martin embraced; both had ridden to limits of endurance; one – the World Champion – roundly beaten by the other, the first ever British winner of the Tour de France. It was a poignant moment that epitomised all great sporting achievements; the best on the day won fair and square and the athletes themselves acknowledged it. <br />
<br />
OK... so here's the bit I don't get...<br />
<br />
Over the last few days, there has been total media (and public) outcry as some of the Eastern nations’ Badminton teams were clearly seen / shown to have thrown games. Reason being, they all wanted an easier draw for the next round… thus losing against an opponent they should have beaten meant an easier passage into that next round.<br />
<br />
The public howled; the media growled and the authorities acted – all of those athletes were disqualified. <br />
<br />
Yesterday, we had the bizarre sight of not just Britain but also China getting disqualified in the ladies team sprint at the Velodrome. For why? The commissaries (the judges) ruled that both teams had made an illegal move when their sprinter (in Brian’s case this being Queen Vic of Pendleton) went to the front at the start of her charge to the line (and a probable medal) outside the designated limit on the track. <br />
<br />
Quoted in today’s Guardian, Pendleton was candid. <i>"It was an illegal change. I came through about a metre too early. We are talking about one hundredth of a second of a mistake there. Jess (Varnish) moved up a fraction too early and I just saw the door and went for it, because that's my cue to try to squeeze underneath her as quickly as possible. We felt we were getting into that gold medal gear. But, now and again, rubbish things happen."</i><br />
<br />
As much as the public booed in the Velodrome, as much as the experts stated it was a stupid rule, as much as it was virtually impossible to see the change over line (especially if you’re haring round a track in excess of 55kph), as much as the public felt cheated at not seeing the world’s best going head to head… Rules are the rules are the rules. <br />
<br />
Bit of a bugger, but there you go – I mean, imagine if Usain Bolt gets to the 100 metres final next week and then false-starts..? That’s him done. No one’ll like it, 80,000+ people in the stadium and countless millions round the world viewing on TV will feel somehow cheated… but… that’s Usain B back to the dressing room. <br />
<br />
And yet… last night we had the equally bizarre sight of Philip Hindes, the lead-out man for the men’s team sprint, crashing moments into the race. Did he have a mechanical failure..? Had he punctured..? (In which case, the rules state a restart is allowed). No… it seems not. He’d just made a lousy start. And knew it. <br />
<br />
Quoted today in The Independent, this is what Hindes said, <i>“We were saying if we have a bad start we need to crash to get a restart. I just crashed, I did it on purpose to get a restart, just to have the fastest ride. I did it. So it was all planned, really."</i> <br />
<br />
Maybe I'm just a bit old fashioned but I was brought up to respect (and abide by) the rules. <br />
<br />
When I was much younger, I played a lot of Squash… dare I say it, I was pretty good. No, not International material but still darned good. One day, I came up against someone who was much better and was being roundly beaten. I tried a spot of gamesmanship but still got played off the court. A few days later, I mentioned my attempt at gamesmanship to my father thinking he would be pleased by my win-at-all-costs ideal. He was appalled. He told me, <i>“If you’ve played to the utmost level of your skill but are beaten by the better player, no one can ever ask for more. Learn from that… practice harder and one day you’ll be the victor. But never, ever, resort to underhand ways of winning. If you do, the victory will just be a hollow one” </i><br />
<br />
It’s been a principle central to my very being ever since. <br />
<br />
I very much admire Sir Chris of Hoy – one of the greatest Olympians of all time regardless of nationality but, I’m really wondering how he feels wearing another Gold around his neck that 'appears' to have been obtained by a degree of stealth?<br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-23400340852577780212012-07-31T17:03:00.000+01:002012-08-04T09:19:45.538+01:00I Can See For Miles (A Day At The Races)The morning after the Transvision Vamp - a beautifully executed Dark Satanic Mills Ceremony of Mordor night before - has dawned slightly earlier than my weary (yet excited) mind (body) is ready for. The shrill of the ‘phone-alarm reveals its all of 5.45 am; drat. Yet there is a long-awaited appointment with the curb-side of a Surrey lane to be kept. <br />
<br />
Tiggles B, having prepared wayside sustenance, pilots me to the train. She, at least, can grab another few hours under the duvet unless the Psycho-Killers’ bloodlust gains momentum. This has seen the body count of late include two medium-sized sparrows, a frog, a baby blackbird, mice various and a full-grown pigeon all deposited (and dealt with, cat-style) in various parts of Bearwood Hall. <br />
<br />
How the hell they got a size 10 pigeon through two cat-flaps prior to slaughtering it is beyond me. Maybe one pushed and the other tugged? Sleepily, as we trundle toward the railhead, I wonder if they sell cat-scan-cameras anywhere local? <br />
<br />
Incredibly, the 6.49 to the metrop is jam-packed and equal in the incredulous stakes is the inescapable fact the ‘phone-howlers are already out in force. Don’t these people sleep? <br />
<br />
The one diagonally opposite takes out her Olympic Aquatic-centre tickets and starts photographing them. <i>“I’ll just put these up on me FaceBook”</i> she loudly and excitedly tells her heavily-tattooed girlfriend, sat next to me. The elderly gentleman across from me looks quizzical; I tend to think he has no Social Network presence. (Or knowledge thereof). And… is probably headed to the Dressage event. <br />
<br />
<i>“Hello Mum… Yeah… I’m on the train. What’s that you say, I can’t ‘ear ya… I’m on a train. Yeah… on a TRAIN innit. Ahhh shit, I ain’t got no signal”.</i> I point to the sign on the window that illuminates the fact we’ve all chosen seats in the quiet carriage. <i>“Yeah… so?”</i> hisses the Lady of the Estuary. I just love going through tunnels. And… there are quite a few coming up. Plus, as a just-in-case, I’ve come equipped with industrial-strength noise-abatement headphones. <br />
<br />
Overground, underground I Womble free into the bowels of Waterloo, by way of a much required goblet of caffeine, purchase of The Thunderer (The Times of London) and onto Platform One suitably refreshed and energised; destination Leatherhead. <br />
<br />
On arrival, Leatherhead was, to all intents and purposes curled up under the blankets but about to get a rude awakening, as thousands upon thousands descended on what is otherwise fairly described as a sleepy market town. <br />
<br />
Big screens are being set up, market-stalls are being readied; pubs are opening early and the roads barriered throughout make progress painfully slow along the pavements with room for one only in any direction. Pity the poor mother with a push-chair as whoever had laid out said barriers clearly hadn’t figured on either families attending or the sheer volume that were starting to arrive. The invalid on his mobility-scooter out to collect his Daily Telegraph got stuck; executing a three-point turn became an exercise in minimizing the twists on the handlebars to double-digits. <br />
<br />
A gentle one-mile tramp to the south leads on to the main Box Hill circuit. Roadside space is already, even at this early hour, at a premium – the race itself is yet to even begin from The Mall. The scent of coffee from flasks hangs heavy in the air, one man barbecuing breakfast bacon on the verge has drawn a sizeable crowd. <br />
<br />
There was a quote I’d found earlier in the week from one of the local councilors who’d queried the anticipated volume of people, wondering <i>‘What will we do with 250,000 people?’</i> Well… the answer was becoming obvious. No… this wasn’t a people-deluge aka Woodstock but, if this early-morning influx was replicated around the entire 15k circuit, by high noon the good people who run the Mole Valley District Council were going to have a good half-million on their doorsteps. At least. <br />
<br />
Were they ready, ready with the laughing gas? <br />
<br />
Turn the corner off the big road and up onto the Old London Road – my heavily Googled and long-planned ‘spot’ is a few hundred metres ahead. But, it seems that I’m not the only one who’s had this bright idea: also walking up the road is a sea of humankind… there are crowds gathering that one’d only otherwise see on Tour de France stages. And… this is Surrey. Home counties, leafy… suburban… Surrey. <br />
<br />
The two policemen stationed just beyond this intersection are already and clearly in trouble. Both are on their respective radios urgently asking HQ what to do. Fairly obviously, they’ve not been briefed in how to deal with this volume of people. Plus, they’re trying to stop the hundreds of cyclists going any further; the thin blue line resembles Canute and tide. Ultimately, they see sense, step aside and the river of humanity flows steadily uphill. <br />
<br />
Past the pub that’s going to have its busiest weekend since… goodness only knows when… and finally, just below the brow of the hill, on the edge of the dappled shade, underneath a high-brick wall behind which black sheep contentedly graze, the green backpack is heaved to the ground. X marks the spot. <br />
<br />
Settle down to wait. <br />
<br />
Check Twitter feeds to see where the race is and what’s going on. A break of twelve with some relatively heavy-hitters have scarpered up the road and established a 5 minute plus advantage, the bunch are riding tempo with Team Sky (whoops, GB) on the front and they’re about an hour away. Relay same to fellow spectators within earshot as everyone nearby is eager for news. <br />
<br />
Munch sandwich and wait a bit more. <br />
<br />
A few moments later, the first of the security posse amble by – two young women police constables. Both are wearing flak jackets… what are they expecting to be assaulted by? Cucumber sandwiches?<br />
<br />
Because they’ve been told this is what they have to do (and probably because they have nothing better to do), they ask that we all stand on the pavement. As they move off the request is ignored. <br />
<br />
With so many handcuffs and other jangly police-type paraphernalia attached to her belt, the slimmer of the two clanks her way downhill; the other is more amply proportioned, with a posterior encased in black serge that is roughly the diameter of Guatemala. As the disappear from view, sundry Germans, English, Irish, Dutch and a smattering of Italians as well as self meander back into the road. And wait… some more. <br />
<br />
Five minutes later, hi-visibility orange-vested security people hove into view. They, too, request everyone to stand on the pavement that, by now, is bulging with people, pushchairs, backpacks and bikes. <i>“Hey, friend... the race is an hour away”</i> says the Dutchman next to me. <i>“Don’t matter, mate. Stand there... on the pavement”,</i> instructs one of the shaven-headed security man. <i>“You’re causing a hazard”.</i> <br />
<br />
He moves off, we move out onto the road. Again. And wait. This is just like a Tour stage; camaraderie – no matter nation or creed – all around abounds. <br />
<br />
At more or less the appointed hour, the first police 'command vehicle' flashes past, driven by a uniformed officer, his face masked by impenetrable dark glasses quickly followed by another security 4x4 with four occupants… again sporting the obligatory dark glasses. Isn’t this just a tad over-zealous? <br />
<br />
(This actually happens on each lap; they’re too obviously serving absolutely no purpose and one can’t help but wonder exactly what the hired thugs are doing in their 4x4 – for example, do they charge by the hour or by the mile? It doesn’t take the brain of Einstein to work out that they are on an serious earner for doing… nothing). The helicopter is chattering overhead; the race is getting closer. Excitement builds all along our stretch of pavement. <br />
<br />
The first of the police motorbike outriders is heard below us on the hill; the on-off squawk of their sirens pierces the early lunchtime quiet. They flash by quickly followed by another two and then another pair… Moments later the workman-like leading group ride tempo up the hill. A flash of heavily tanned thighs, a whir of carbon-fibre and they’re over the brow and heading toward the roped-off sections of Box Hill itself. <br />
<br />
Ecologically minded as I am, I’m all for saving the rare daffodil, exceptional species of orchid and certain genus of butterfly but why the race has been routed in such a manner whereby sections of the route will be designated as no-go areas for spectators is beyond me. <br />
<br />
The assembled throng holds its collective breath for five more minutes and then the main bunch come through, most of the (expected) main protagonists easily recognisable even despite the fact their race colours are unfamiliar (national jerseys and not the more usual trade-team ones). Even so, it’s a little bizarre seeing the Italians more marble-white than Azzura-blue and the Australians in canary-yellow while close up, Team Sky (GB’s) grey-blue outfit is downright horrid. <br />
<br />
The hi-visibility orange-vested security people amble back uttering the same, tedious demands. By now, they also look bored; they have little or nothing to do because its quite evident that the crowd do, actually, know what to do when the race comes through. Even those who – probably because they saw it on one of the high-mountain stages – decide to briefly run alongside the riders are hauled off by other spectators. This is a crowd self-policing itself. <br />
<br />
The lady PCs amble back and forth and chatter to the crowd, they have no job to do either other than enjoy their day out. The Police outriders who come through give high-speed high-fives to those who choose to extend their hands; other than the orange-vested Orangutang-bullies it’s as good natured as it gets, a real festival on the roadsides of Britain. <br />
<br />
Some of us in our little sub-section of the route are timing the gap between break and main group. There are virtually no updates coming from the race itself (generally, there would be an announcers’ car either just ahead of the race itself or in-between break and bunch) but, inexplicably, this is either a detail overlooked or, maybe, just thought unnecessary. Whichever it is, its becoming clearer still that none of the relevant authorities had imagined the size of the crowds assembled. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlD2h0PGpVeCOdACIiCiAZYnJo7NTf6jX6bCTz-SGBSnGYthJE3nzsDiSCV8wwlLgFJCHaS1zs1qUVNSTMfhAhyphenhyphenzEK4AyXQhk58SmuP_ScwiExlcVtxQ7nZZKViTnjuhyphenhyphenqAjtN2N8HWdQ/s1600/Olympic+RR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="166" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlD2h0PGpVeCOdACIiCiAZYnJo7NTf6jX6bCTz-SGBSnGYthJE3nzsDiSCV8wwlLgFJCHaS1zs1qUVNSTMfhAhyphenhyphenzEK4AyXQhk58SmuP_ScwiExlcVtxQ7nZZKViTnjuhyphenhyphenqAjtN2N8HWdQ/s320/Olympic+RR.jpg" /></a></div>As the race unfolds, the gap between break and main bunch slowly comes down. And then, the inexplicable happens. The next time up our climb, a second group on the road has formed and they’re rapidly closing in on the break: and, it contains a welter of big names; Gilbert, Sanchez, Cancellara, Phinney, Nibali… big-hitters every one and yet… no British jersey is to be seen. <br />
<br />
They roll through on the front of the main group some 70 seconds later… interestingly, Eissel (Cav’s Sky loyal team-mate but, obviously, today in Austrian colours) is sitting second wheel. Even so, the tempo they’re riding is not (perhaps) as hard as it could… or should… be. <br />
<br />
Either there is supreme confidence that they’ll bring it all back together or… they’ve felt no need to at least police that second group by placing one of their guys in it (thus forcing other teams to chase) or… they’re stuffed… or they’re riding at a pace that suits Cav and daren’t up it just in case he can’t hang on. <br />
<br />
What is clear is that the Plan A – Z (to bring Cav to the line and position him to achieve Britain’s first Gold Medal) as publicly outlined by the boss of Team GB isn’t going to waver come hell or high water; no matter what, there is to be no deviation. <br />
<br />
Its only as the race unfolds that the viewers will be able to herald this as being either a tactical master-stroke or… strategic ineptitude akin to the Charge Of The Light Brigade. We’ll see… battle has, by now, been properly joined. <br />
<br />
As they all roll on toward another skirmish on Box Hill, its my time to head back down this hill and retrace steps back to Leatherhead. I’ve figured out that, so long as I time it right, I’ll get to see the race once more along the circuit, then catch it at the roundabout on the southern edge of Leatherhead as it heads back into London and still be in plenty of time to make it to the big screen to see the closing stages. <br />
<br />
Parts one and two went swimmingly; the crowds had grown to colossal proportions at the entrance to the Old London Road – there, the Cancellara fan-club had staked its place right along the verge, they’d set up a tv screen around which were gathered as many as could see. The Norwegians were next door, the good people of Surrey and every other part of Britain crammed into every other available space. <br />
<br />
The helicopter’s over head and Gilbert streaks through, spring-loaded and whippet-like. The break behind has swelled – so obviously the junction was made somewhere out there and Millar leads the chasing bunch through… the gap between front and back of the race is maybe no more than two minutes. Game on. Best foot forward and stride-out to the roundabout. <br />
<br />
It’s jammed. Even so, a little hustle and bustle and you can feel the swish of air as the riders hurtle past. The leading group, which feels like it’s about 30 strong now, is bearing down on Gilbert and a minute or so ahead of the main peleton. The race is fast heading for denouement and its my time to make equally rapid foot-fall toward the big screen a mile hence. <br />
<br />
There is a path that runs behind a hedge parallel to the main road up which the race and attendant convoy of vehicles has just made its way. Along with many others, I make for it. <br />
<br />
Not so fast. <br />
<br />
Three security people bar not just my but everyone’s way. <i>“You can’t come through here yet... mate”.</i> Pretty obviously, I'm not his mate but we'll let that go for the moment. <br />
<i>“C'mon... don’t be silly… the race has gone through… we’re all trying to get to the screen in Leatherhead”. <br />
“Sorry… mate... you can’t come past until I say so”.</i> <br />
The security guard inflates his beer-belly and stands there implacable behind his dark-glasses. Its becoming less and less likely that we'll be buying one another a pint at days end. <br />
<i>“Hey chum..."</i> I'm trying my very best to be... chummy. <i>"The race has gone by… why are you holding us all up?”</i><br />
Clearly, enforced chumminess isn't going to operate any form of thawing mechanism. He and his cohorts stand there, saying nothing, hiding behind their man-sized shades. The minutes tick by as crowd-anger increases. <br />
<i>“Can you let us past please… now! We're going to miss the finish. Please!”</i><br />
He starts fiddling with his ear-piece. One of his colleagues starts talking animatedly into a cell-‘phone. Still nothing happens. The minutes continue to trickle by. There is visible irritation coming from everywhere. The security guys are pissing everyone off; the roads are silent with all race traffic long since gone that-a-way and, sooner or later, someone is going to march forward and deliver a healthy blow to this bloke’s solar-plexus. We wait for another five minutes. <br />
<i>“What the fuck is the problem?”</i> yells someone in the deep background from amongst the grumbling throng of adults and crying children.<br />
<i>“I’m not allowed to let you through yet. It’s a health and safety issue”.</i> <br />
<br />
Five minutes (which feel like fifteen) later, word comes through that we’re no longer a danger to anyone’s health or safety and the over-sized, over-zealous security man steps aside. There is a congenial rush toward Leatherhead central.<br />
<br />
Breathless, a whole group of us make it into the main market area of Leatherhead, there’s the big screen and images are coming through but they’re horribly pixilated and Chris Boadman’s co-commentary and race analysis is being transmitted as if by way of a vocoder from outer space operated by an alien. Moments later the screen goes blank.<br />
<br />
A howl erupts from the throng all across the pavement; it was a collective moan the like of which I’ve heard just the once before when, watching the screens in Times Square at just the moment Obama walked out to accept his nomination in Chicago for the US Presidential elections… they, too, went dark. A moment of history about to be missed.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, there is an Irish couple stood next to me; he has somehow managed to get a radio-feed on his cell ‘phone, my own is dying a slow death by battery-run down. The commentary is intermittent but at least a little information is coming through; the big-screen technicians are struggling with both the equipment and a visibly (and understandably) hostile crowd. <br />
<br />
This is not just a race against time but a malfunction which is, in anyone’s book, unacceptable. This is Britain, it’s the technological age and we’re hosting the Olympics. For pity’s sake, don’t fuck up and look like you don’t care or, worse, that you don’t know how to fix it.<br />
<br />
Moments later, the screen pixilates back into life; the audio feeds-back but settles whereby Boardman now sounds like he’s being strangled. The sound is so awful that it is impossible to make out what co-commentator Hugh Porter is actually saying. If anything. <br />
<br />
The images on the screen swirl to the extent that only someone who’d taken a mouthful of Dr T Leary's most famous substances would have been able to make head or tail of what they were seeing. They could have reached Knightsbridge... equally, they may still be in Richmond Park... that might have been a shot of a deer. Either which way, it was impossible to tell. Twenty seconds later, the screen goes black and the commentary fades away and eventually fizzles out like a slowly released fart. <br />
<br />
This is utter bollox. A shambles. <br />
<br />
There… look… a pub with a mass of people straining to see something through the window. God-willing, the pub will have their TV hooked up to the transmission. <br />
<br />
It does… and yes, they were traversing Knightsbridge. Phew, just in time then. <br />
<br />
Those of us piling up against the window get to see someone in a pale blue jersey beat someone wearing predominantly white in a two-up sprint. The word goes quickly around that Vinokourov has out-smarted the Colombian Uran in the final metres along the Mall. <br />
<br />
A hectic sprint for third place follows and then another big bunch comes in. It’s just possible to make out Cav being bested for the line and looking decidedly down-faced as he rolls to an ignominious halt; his race run. <br />
<br />
Time for the train home. <br />
<br />
And the moral of this tale is?<br />
<br />
This was (is) The Olympics. This was Britain’s first chance of a Gold Medal – fielding the outright favourite. <br />
<br />
And what is abundantly obvious is that the authorities (local, national and international) underestimated this entire event from the get-go.<br />
<br />
Why, for example, were there no large-screens at all the obvious places where the crowds would gather?<br />
<br />
Why was there no system put in place for the crowds on the roadside to be kept informed of the race’s progress?<br />
<br />
Who decided to employ security staff who’d absolutely no idea of the event they were ‘securing’? (And how much public money was flushed down the lavatory in so-doing?)<br />
<br />
And… then… when finally being able to watch a re-run of the television coverage, the entire debacle became clearer still.<br />
<br />
Consigning TV footage to only two motorbike cameras – when you have a minimum of three in every classics, semi-classic and all Grand Tours – was unpardonable in that immediately all live footage which could be edited for the broadcaster to pass on to the consumer was a third less than for any other major race. <br />
<br />
The on-screen information / timing-splits issues that the broadcasters suffered from has been well documented in the mainstream media. But… no one seemed able (or capable) of thinking on the hoof. <br />
<br />
For example, how hard was it to establish who was in the first (or second) break by way of collecting the race numbers off the tv footage, correlate that to the start sheet and get those up on screen? The first leaders’ caption came up (unless I’m much mistaken) one hour and forty-seven minutes into the broadcast. That’s not just inexcusable but smacks of a ‘couldn’t care less’ level of incompetence / nah, that’s someone else’s job.<br />
<br />
And now we have this party blaming that party who, in turn are blaming someone else who, in their turn are blaming people using Twitter and Facebook, texting their pals back at home and so forth – all in all, saying the mobile networks couldn’t cope.<br />
<br />
This is so much bollox as to be beyond incredible – firstly, the telemetry should have been carried on the same protected networks as the video, rather than using a domestic mobile 'phone network and secondly (and perhaps more importantly) this should have been figured out before the fact = long before race day. <br />
<br />
LOOSECOG (or whoever really was responsible for the broadcasting) got this unutterably WRONG way, way before the event. And, most probably from when the 'test-tube-event' was run last Summer. After which they (undoubtedly) said... yeah that all ran fairly smoothly... that'll do. <br />
<br />
And is anyone going to admit it? Damn right your sweet ass, they won’t. <br />
<br />
Because and unhappily its symptomatic of the total denial, the absolute non-acceptance of accountability culture we all inhabit nowadays. <br />
<br />
A culture epitomised by the total inability of person X / organization Y to put their hand in the air and say (humbly)… ‘you know what… that was my / our fault… I / we cocked it up’. <br />
<br />
But no… So much (so far) with this Olympics – be it the empty seats debacle, the insipid commentary across many events (try the beach volleyball for size) or the televised coverage of the Mens’ Road Race smacks of: Not me guv, it was his fault… no it wasn’t, it was theirs. No, that’s not possible it was them all along.<br />
<br />
And so the blame games rumble on.<br />
<br />
And will do until someone, some organisation takes it on the chin and says… we fucked up. <br />
<br />
Pity the athletes and pity the public who couldn’t get in to see / understand what they wanted to watch. <br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-2480523716944277562012-07-25T07:46:00.000+01:002012-07-25T07:46:33.902+01:00Get Ready (Get Ready For The Laughing Gas)<br />
<br />
Advice offered on the Mole Valley website for those attending the Olympic Road Race this coming weekend is as follows:<br />
<br />
<i>If you are planning to make the journey to Mole Valley on 28 or 29 July by car, there are five designated car parks for the race weekend. Four of the car parks are in Leatherhead and Dorking and are owned by Mole Valley District Council and the fifth is a privately owned car park in nearby Tadworth.</i><br />
<br />
That’s it…? FIVE car parks? With a capacity of 3,700 vehicles? Lets say that averages out at 3 people per vehicle. Simple mathematics means they’ve legislated for 11,100 people arriving by car. <br />
<br />
Earlier this year, (GetSurrey.com / February 3rd – article penned by Guy Martin) the District Council was reported as saying it was impossible to predict how many people were likely to attend. Estimates had been put forward of 250,000 people but… the council were ‘allowing for 90,000 on each day.’<br />
<br />
The District Council – in a report presented to councilors – admitted (then) that transport plans and logistics were complicated by uncertainty over how many people might attend.<br />
<br />
The report stated: <i>“It is important for the council to be comfortable with expenditure that may only be experienced by a small section of our community and an unknown number of visitors”.</i><br />
<br />
Mole Valley District Council leader, James Friend stated: <i>“We have tried with [Olympics organising committee] LOCOG and the county council to come up with an estimate. The field of uncertainty is in tens of thousands.”</i><br />
<br />
Councillor Emile Aboud predicted that many more than 90,000 will turn up. <i>“Where on earth are we going to find space for 250,000 people?”</i> he asked.<br />
<br />
I’d imagine, right now, its squeaky-bum time down at Mole Valley District Council. <br />
<br />
IF… repeat IF… MVDC still believe less than 100,000 people are going to show up then they must be in some form of collective state of denial. <br />
<br />
Have none of the local councilors taken note of the acres of space that all of the print media – broadsheets as much as the tabloids – have given over to one of the biggest British sporting achievements of the last millennium? Has not one of them noticed that ITV reported they attracted their highest viewing audience ever for this year’s Tour de France? <br />
<br />
Hasn’t anyone computed that that success will <b>guarantee</b> spectators in the millions? <br />
<br />
But… as of this week… the advice offered to potential attendees on ALL of the local authority websites suggests that this isn’t going to be that big an event. <br />
<br />
Get ready… get ready for the laughing gas good people of Surrey. <br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-58211957343733006752012-07-20T15:04:00.000+01:002012-07-20T15:33:39.873+01:00Better By You, Better Than MeIn a couple of days and barring a lightning bolt of misfortune from out of the great rain-filled yonder hanging over the motherland like a funeral pall, Britons en masse will celebrate something that has never been previously achieved by anyone from the Sceptered Isle. <br />
<br />
A British rider will stand head and shoulders above the rest on the top step of the podium on the Champs Elysees; a British rider will win the 99th edition of the Tour de France. <br />
<br />
A pinnacle of extra-ordinary achievement; one of the final sporting bastions breached. <br />
<br />
For decades, the top-step-podium-position was the (assumed) right of the French, before opening up to include other European nations until English-speakers became a dominant force as the sport globalised. <br />
<br />
This achievement will overshadow that of the Scot, Robert Millar who took to the podium as the polka-dot jersey-wearer signifying his King of the Mountains title in 1984; it will eclipse the brace of 4th places (Wiggins and Millar in ’09 and ’84 respectively), the late Tom Simpson (6th in 1960), and dwarf Millar’s other top twenty finishes with Graham Jones the only other British finisher in the top 20 (1981) in the race’s entire history. <br />
<br />
Because on Sunday 22nd July, at about five in the afternoon CET, history will be made by Bradley Wiggins. <br />
<br />
Just cause for celebration. Roule Britannia. <br />
<br />
And yet, curiously, Wiggins himself is quoted in Richard Williams’ column in today’s Guardian saying, “And even now, no one's actually said, 'Bloody good on you, mate, well done.'"<br />
<br />
I wonder why?<br />
<br />
Is it because Wiggo knows, in the subterranean depths of his heart, in the deepest part of his soul that only renders purity of thought in the bible-black of the night, that he’s not won as he could or… should: as a great champion… with panache and aplomb. <br />
<br />
Because, unquestionably he has not. This has been like watching a machine win. <br />
<br />
For sure, it’s a machine that’s been fine-tuned to the absolute n’th degree; the months of selfless training have been well-documented in any publication you care to read; the quantum level of sacrifice that his team-mates have exhibited has been expected. This, after all, was all-for-one from the get-go. <br />
<br />
So… what’s not to like?<br />
<br />
Well… I find it incredibly hard to get excited about a winner whose lengthy proboscis has not once deviated from his team-mates collective arse throughout the entire race.<br />
<br />
A voice crying in the wilderness to be rounded on for not towing the Team Murdoch corporate line? I think not – because, why for example, did L’Equipe publish a front page cartoon this week that showed a dog towing a bike uphill (an unmistakable reference to Wiggins’ uber-domestique Chris Froome who they clearly saw as the strongest man in this year’s Tour). <br />
<br />
As another commentator, Lionel Birnie stated this week, writing in CycleSport on-line – <i>In the old days, watching the Tour was like standing back and enjoying the sight of a beautiful painting. Now it is more like looking at a set of architect’s plans. While you can admire the skill and calculation that has gone into producing the drawing, there is something cold and clinical about it. Rather than inspirational or emotive, it is functional and rational.</i><br />
<br />
Very true: yet, there is panache and aplomb a-plenty to be celebrated on Sunday… the exploits of the likes of the Czech Peter Sagan and France’s own Tommy Voeckler (as the rightful victor of this year’s King of the Mountains spoils) as well as Cav's two utterly remarkable sprint wins (anyone betting against him on Sunday?) have animated an otherwise tedious trip around France that, more often than not, resembled a high-speed training ride led by Murdoch’s black-clad storm troopers. <br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-30788226630035555812012-06-05T13:47:00.000+01:002012-06-05T13:47:02.020+01:00Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?<br />
<br />
Poor old (sic) Gary Barlow… might as well be hung for a sheep as much as a lamb. <br />
<br />
Unless his ego really did get in the way, he’d probably have been wiser passing on the offer of curating the music for last evening’s Diamond Jubilee concert in London. <br />
<br />
Because... attempting to span the breadth of pop represented throughout HM’s 60 years on the throne was a big ask and GB was on a rank-outsider from the moment the invitation was proposed and the flag dropped. <br />
<br />
Even so, it was as if Barlow G had convened a cast of performers while reading from a pop(ular) music health and safety manual. Don’t upset anyone, least of all the ducks in the fountain and the Corgis across the road. Keep it strictly middle of the road. In that respect he succeeded but, crikey, it was mind-numbingly tedious. <br />
<br />
Yet it began on a wave of possibilities… Norman Wisdom (in the guise of Robbie Williams) unexpectedly came out of the musical traps like Usain Bolt; thronged by implacable trumpeters from one of the cavalry regiments, he grabbed the occasion by the scruff of the neck and… hit the bulls eye. <br />
<br />
That it continued with a whimper like a damp firework is testament to the sheer ordinariness of some of the bill assembled, the manner in which some of the songs chosen were sung and the sheer ineptitude of most of the in-between-acts link–deliverers. <br />
<br />
Of course, only a lunatic would have expected a degree of subversion, a hint of radical, a touch of extremism to follow – all being basic staples of rock ‘n roll. Yet, it was if punk… ska… reggae… BritPop… psychedelia… had never happened; as if that vast swathe of music that Britain <i>should be</i> justifiably proud of never existed. <br />
<br />
Instead we were treated to the abysmal caterwauling of Jessie J. And, can anyone enlighten me as to the reason Will.I.Am was granted stage-time? Similarly Cheryl who, allegedly, is now such an important personage in the pantheon of pop that she’s disposed of her surname; both of these horrific musical miscues emphasized by their inability to actually hold a tune (what tune?)… in tune – yep, both sang flat as pancakes. <br />
<br />
There was the irrelevancy of something called JLS while Ed Sheeran looked like a frightened rabbit startled by headlights. The exceptionally gifted pianist, Lang Lang was on the wrong stage entirely while Alfie Boe and his suit weren’t the only part of his act that failed to fizz. Ruby Turner showed the also-rans how to actually sing but, oh how one longed for the Pet Shop Boys backed by a troupe of Welsh miners; Tennant and Lowe dressed in oil-skins, belting out Go West. Now… that was happy and glorious. And where was Adele or Rumer, Aswad or Coldplay, Eric Clapton or Oasis even…? (the list of non-invitees / attendees is / can be as long as you like).<br />
<br />
It was partially saved by… here’s…. Grace; Ms Jones – who’d evidently tipped an economy-sized bottle of baby-oil all over (possibly to aid entrance into her latex sheath-dress) fabulously hoola-hooped all over Slave To The Rhythm which, sadly, so obviously lacked the real grit-rhythm that should have been provided by Sly ‘n Robbie. <br />
<br />
Annie Lennox sang with angel-wings and then some; grasping the implausible situation and breathing life into a, by then already dying on its feet, musical corpse. Yet, unlikely as this is, the nation’s favourite posterior totally blew her four minutes centre-stage: oh Kylie… why did you screw up so royally? And frankly, the least said about GB’s decision to allow Rolf Harris to wobble-sing his Two Little Boys to the back of The Mall the better. <br />
<br />
Even by now, with the concert cadaver barely breathing, one’d have thought that dear old Sir Tom of Jones and Sir Riff of Pilchard – beat-veterans twain who, in their prime, were rightly touted as Brit-rivals to Elvis’ crown – would have amassed a bit of vocal clout… and excitement… between ‘em. <br />
<br />
But no… the former dignified grey but facially orange struggled to engage let alone get out of third gear; the latter proved pink wasn’t a wise choice by his stylist. His hits medley fell at the first like an elderly racehorse who should have been put out to grass long ago. So… why on earth didn’t Sir Cliff perform with Bruce, Brian and Hank – the three remaining Shadows? After all, wasn’t it John Lennon who once said “<i>Before Cliff and The Shadows, there was no music in Britain worth listening to</i>". <br />
<br />
A shame – and yet what was equally fascinating was the amount of ‘rockers of yore’ who’d clearly nipped to the chemists in order to purchase age-defying hair-products; indeed, one wonders if Cliff holds shares in the same follicle-aid company that Sir Paul of MacCartney and Sir E John of Weybridge and other compounds clearly do. <br />
<br />
And Gary B… he trashed one great idea by over-egging it. The essence of meandering around the Commonwealth and thereby creating a song from so many disparate sources and players was hardly new but nonetheless alive with fascinating possibilities. <br />
<br />
But, that’s not dissimilar to creating a mouth-watering sauce from contrasting components – and to quote Michel Roux “<i>You can always add ingredients but its impossible to take them out. The trick is knowing when to stop</i>.” <br />
<br />
One had to feel for the remarkable Aboriginal singer / guitar player and the equally gifted strange-stringed-instrument player from Kenya; the extraordinary rhythm kings from the rubbish heaps of South Africa and the young Rasta hand-drummer. All drowned out by the non-sensical – way too early in the mix – inclusion of Gareth Malone and his massed ranks of Military Wives. The incision of a chorus within the tune wouldn’t have harmed it either. <br />
<br />
The finale of Madness vertiginously performing Our House atop the roof of the Palace reeked of irony – a remarkable playground for their lighting designer and he (she) justifiably did that opportunity proud; the gently-moving strings-wash of the Irish quartet’s Beautiful Day set to images of Her Majesty through the years purveyed more than a hint of double-irony; Stevie Wonder put a spell on everyone but muddled what the actual occasion was and Sir Paul Of Macca – always the show-closing safest each-way bet – belting out Beatles tunes brought it all to a wonderful… anodyne… finale. <br />
<br />
Yeah… it was safe – it was never going to be toxic; it was never really going to even come close to celebrating British music (as it should have done / as it was touted to) over the last 60 years. Nope… this was The Royal Variety Show under another guise; a Diamond Jubilee Concert that was as safe as milk and about as interesting. No harm done because it was as harmless as it gets. <br />
<br />
And Gary B will probably earn a knighthood in the next Honours List… for not upsetting anyone. How very British. How very rock ‘n roll.<br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-26327188302377331702012-04-20T10:20:00.001+01:002012-04-20T10:28:24.968+01:00The Last Waltz<br />
<i>My name is Virgil Kane and I served on the Danville Train…</i><br />
<br />
Late-Summer 1968 – There has been quite a noise over the last few weeks in the Melody Maker; their writers have been talking about this new group from America. A few pictures have been posted – the group all seem to wear hats and beards and, according to the scribes to whom I subscribe, the music they make is unutterably glorious: a heady mix of Southern soul and Northern driftwood. <br />
<br />
I don’t actually know what this means but, my (nearly) sixteen year old musical mind has started salivating. Nothing but nothing has been played on the radio yet my pocket-money has begun burning a hole in my flared jeans. <br />
<br />
My Dad works in Argyll Street, just off Oxford Circus and, one morning, he finally relents to my constant pleas… Locally (this being the backwaters of Hampshire) no record shop I know of stocks this record I've been reading about so, please… please… take my money, all 32 shillings and 6 pence of it (that’s about £1.70 or so / $2.30) and bring home a copy of this album. Please. <br />
<br />
That very evening, it arrives. It has been purchased from Harlequin – a record store in Berwick Street (now long defunct). And, the purchaser wasn’t actually my Dad at all; he’d sent his secretary out to affect said transaction. It’s a mono pressing (hell, what did I know, what did I care)… and is contained in a sleeve adorned by what looks suspiciously like a child’s painting. Only its not, it’s by Bob Dylan. There is no wording on the front cover – just this painting. And, on the back not a whole heap of information either– so far, not so terribly good. But, inside… the warmth of the black-vinyl exudes… something. <br />
<br />
The needle drops and I’m all expectation. Can this be really as good as has been written about? Forty minutes or so later, having indulged myself in both sides of the vinyl, I’m in quite a state of shock. At this distance, its quite hard to explain in mere words just what an impression that record made. Put simply, up until that point in my life I’d never… ever… heard anything like it.<br />
<br />
Its akin, I guess, to someone hearing (say) Miles Davis for the first time; hearing Winwood sing; seeing Hendrix or watching Bob Marley for the first time – this was music from another place. Completely. <br />
<br />
Fast forward. It’s the end of June 1983, I’m in New York and traveling with Niall Stokes, the editor of Ireland’s most fortnightly music publication, the much-revered Hot Press. We’re out on the road with the Irish Group; these being the final US dates on this leg of The War Tour… and have tipped up in Manhattan with the venue for the evening being Pier 84 (don’t think they have shows there anymore). It holds about 3,000 people – places like Madison Square Gardens are on the tour itinerary horizon but not booked… just yet. <br />
<br />
Late afternoon and there’s a knock on my hotel room door. Stokes’ beaming face is at the entrance. <br />
<i>“Shall we meet in the lobby at 6?”</i> he inquires. <br />
<i>“Bit early, isn’t it?”</i> I suggest. <br />
<i>“Well… yes… but… actually, there’s a bar downtown and I thought we should go there first ‘cos there’s a band playing that would be well worth seeing before the show”.</i> The good Stokes is giving little away and I’m not entirely convinced. Nor am I really of a mindset to go see a bar-band but… to humour him… sure, why not.<br />
<br />
At the appointed hour, we meet in the lobby and jump a cab that is propelled downtown by a driver of Eastern European extraction. It appears unlikely that this fella is possessed of a license as red lights are run at a terrifying pace but, eventually, we’re deposited relatively unscathed outside a not-terribly-enticing bar in a particularly seedy part of lower-Manhattan. This isn’t looking that promising but a beer is a beer is a beer – we push our way in and up to the bar. <br />
<br />
As Niall does his best to lure the barman over, I start tugging at his coat. There is a band setting up in the corner… keyboards, drums have been placed in position, a bass guitar is on its rack… mic stands are in place. And, there are faces that look extremely familiar along the bar; isn’t that…? That surely can’t be…? I tug again <i>“Niall will ya look for pity’s sake… isn’t that…?”</i> Two pints in hand, he turns round… and says, <i>“Thought you’d fancy this… only found out by chance…"</i> <br />
<br />
At that moment, the musicians started to take their places… there is a short drum roll… The first song kicks in, with the bearded drummer easing up to his mic on the off-beat and that familiar voice, straight out of Arkansas, opens with… <i>My name is Virgil Kane and I served on the Danville Train…</i><br />
<br />
There are maybe 75 people in this bar. Stokes is grinning ear to ear; me – my jaw has just dropped to the floor. If there is a musical heaven, then I’ve arrived. <br />
<br />
Unhappily, due to our appointment at Pier 84 being at 8pm we have to leave before the end of the show (I later discover that this edition of The Band minus Robbie Roberston were due to play two sets). But, it was… in retrospect… enough. In fact, it was more – it was a true privilege to witness musical magic that close up. <br />
<br />
Fast forwards. A few days ago, the news broke that Levon Helm was loosing his battle with throat cancer. This morning, the unwelcome news came through that he’d quietly slipped away, surrounded by friends and family.<br />
<br />
This, therefore, is simply to echo all that is being written today across the globe: Levon – for all the music, over the years… thanks. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-13495337436057815352012-04-02T12:43:00.000+01:002012-04-02T12:47:52.586+01:00Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology CD 5 – Eight Days On The Road<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyC7S2cvQyOrB9Atw8f0v4VDPQNUjjo9Dsb-XTNUPEHgVoNDfQ73nkGnMPoceiI6ob_J2kLFJBhCvKMd-hZXN5oqyam6JTDBTZNtSbf74mZxcqk0OD5krQGXzy6sTGLjCg7xSQyZ7ngA/s1600/CD+FIVE+Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyC7S2cvQyOrB9Atw8f0v4VDPQNUjjo9Dsb-XTNUPEHgVoNDfQ73nkGnMPoceiI6ob_J2kLFJBhCvKMd-hZXN5oqyam6JTDBTZNtSbf74mZxcqk0OD5krQGXzy6sTGLjCg7xSQyZ7ngA/s320/CD+FIVE+Front.jpg" /></a></div><br />
There are some... perhaps many... who would argue that an act or artiste recorded live is when their true colours really emerge; no last-chance studio-saloon for overdubbing, re-working those vocal harmonies that went horribly off-key, re-recording a guitar solo because said guitarist was playing with maximum fretwork enthusiasm but minimal concentration by soloing all over the intricate bass-line – thus ruining an otherwise cracking rendition of song Y... and so forth. <br />
<br />
Well, that is unless unscrupulous producer Z decides to employ all the gadgets at his or her fingertips that have, far too often over the past few years, turned real live recordings into a travesty bearing the name whereby 'recorded live' actually means it was replicated in the studio but the applause came from the night in question (and very often thats dubbed in too). <br />
<br />
So... what do we have here..? Actually, this is as pure as it gets. <br />
<br />
Yes, we fixed a couple of things; on one track from the JRB's (now legendary) Marquee appearances, Pete Hunt's bass-drum mic became detached and, quite literally, moved right to left across the stage. Pretty obviously, this rendered the track – as it stood – unusable... but, 'cos the performance was outstanding, how to fix it? <br />
<br />
We (that is Jess, self and Richard Whittaker) sat there in the windowless gloom of FX – no one should be under the illusion that studios are all glamour – one Sunday afternoon, chewing on sandwiches, drinking a lot of coffee and scratching our heads. There was a soloution and it was going to take at least three hours: Richard took one, simple, bass-drum 'thud' out of the same song, recorded the previous night, and back into the track we wanted to use. This was done by replacing one note after another. Thud... thud... thud... Was that cheating... nope, we didn't think so. <br />
<br />
On another tune we wanted to use, Bruce Roberts' guitar lead wasn't plugged in properly for the first thirty seconds or so; how did we fix that – same methodology. Thank goodness that the multitracks actually survived. <br />
<br />
And now ladeeeez and gentlemen..., for your delectation – here <i><b>is</b></i> Jess... recorded live as live is... <br />
<br />
<b>1. Intro / The Alan Bown</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded September 19th 1966 live at The Marquee Club, London</i>… segues into…<br />
<br />
<b>2. Reason To Change / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded May 20th 1976 live at <b>The Marquee Club, London</b></i>… segues into…<br />
<b><br />
3. It’s Growin’ / The Alan Bown</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded September 19th 1966 live at <b>The Marquee Club, London</b></i> (from the only known Alan Bown club recording, originally issued on Side 2 of the seminal 1966 London Swings | Live At The Marquee LP, the A side featuring Jimmy James & The Vagabonds – although their performance was actually captured on a different night)<br />
<br />
<b>4. The Ballad Of Big Sally / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 30th 1976 live at <b>Birmingham Town Hall</b></i> (from one of the two shows that were recorded – the other being Leicester university – during the last JRB UK tour from which, ultimately, the Blowin’ album was released)<br />
<b><br />
5. You Can Leave Your Hat On / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 30th 1976 live at <b>Birmingham Town Hall</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>6. Down In The Valley / The Alan Bown</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded September 19th 1966 live at <b>The Marquee Club, London</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>7. Can’t Get Next To You / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded May 20th 1976 live at <b>The Marquee Club, London</b></i> (the third and final night of the JRB’s residency at The Marquee that May and on a night when the temperature rose to such a degree that water was running down the walls; a collosal early-Summer thunderstorm broke overhead right as the final notes of that night’s performance played out). <br />
<br />
<b>8. Get To Steppin’ / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded September 18th 1974 live at <b>The Lyceum, London</b></i> (a Robert Parker tune, ‘Steppin’ was recorded at one of the earliest JRB shows – pre-Billy Livesey joining on keyboards – supporting Georgie Fame’s band at London’s legendary Lyceum)<br />
<br />
<b>9. In A Circle / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 20th 1976 live at <b>Leicester University</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>10. Me And Crystal Eye / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 20th 1976 live at <b>Leicester University</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>11. You Better Believe It / Jess Roden And The Humans</b> – <i>sourced from the WAV Master and recorded November 1st 1996 live at <b>The Robin, Merry Hill, Birmingham</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>12. Miss US Dream / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 20th 1976 live at <b>Leicester University</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>13. The Boomerang / The Alan Bown</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded September 19th 1966 live at <b>The Marquee Club, London</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>14 & 15. All Night Long & Friend Of Mine / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased encore, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 30th 1976 live at <b>Birmingham Town Hall</b></i> (the penultimate night of their final tour)<br />
<br />
(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information). <br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-67799472426588755982012-03-30T10:25:00.000+01:002012-03-30T10:28:55.917+01:00Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology CD 4 – Outside Its America<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTjSPnK8nxkPtS5Mh0ymKsDWNXSSfpQAu6zjmydmx-F5kmyXvpPxQwaUSPkZkFrNptkN9Gq8fmjqeEiXRG4K5pdbMfZdyn5LmOO9Wid0guBojw4aZKuKcmRKOO4MzwhkT61ydFMVF7fA/s1600/CD+FOUR+Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTjSPnK8nxkPtS5Mh0ymKsDWNXSSfpQAu6zjmydmx-F5kmyXvpPxQwaUSPkZkFrNptkN9Gq8fmjqeEiXRG4K5pdbMfZdyn5LmOO9Wid0guBojw4aZKuKcmRKOO4MzwhkT61ydFMVF7fA/s320/CD+FOUR+Front.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Those among you who’ve followed this tale thus far will probably have come to realise that this hasn’t been the easiest of jigsaws to piece together. For those who’ve just joined this remarkable adventure – we’ve been dancing in the dark in extremis many, many times. <br />
<br />
Firstly, only a tiny proportion of Jess' recorded output had ever been digitised in the first place. That meant trawling through literally hundreds of analog boxes (many of which were marked up wrongly – possibly by over-reefer'd tape-ops of the time) and transferring everything we found (off of 1/4", 1" and 2" + acetates + cassettes and more). Plus, any multi-tracks had to be monitor-mixed whereby we then had a format so’s we could actually start the listening-back process. <br />
<br />
And, the deeper we delved, the more the unexpected and absolutely unanticipated came to light. Many, many instances of that occurred but two of the most remarkable are represented on this particular track-listing. <br />
<br />
One late pm, Richard (Whittaker, the chief analog renovation expert / uber-studio-boffin @FX) and I are sitting in the studio. He’s got a 2” multitrack fresh back from the FX oven – some of the tapes were deteriorating so badly that they had to be baked for a few days so as to preserve them before we could run them through the equally ancient analog machines; Heston Blumenthal would have been proud of us. <br />
<br />
The tape rolls, dials are twisted, nobs are twiddled with, faders moved into position and a monitor mix of this particular 24-track tape is begun but, within a couple of minutes, both of us are scratching our respective heads. There are weird ghosting sounds coming from the deep background – as if someone has recorded over something else… We complete the monitor mix and, while it sounds great, there’s something weird going on. An MP3 is run off and, later the same night, I tip up at JR HQ for a glass of the well-chilled and our (by now usual) recap of the day’s musical archaeology. He presses play on his machine and… starts to scratch his head too. <br />
<br />
<i>“Hmmm… Is this the only multi with that track title?”</i> asks the singer of songs. <br />
<i>“Yes… why..?”</i> I query <br />
<i>“No ¼” then?”</i> <br />
<i>“Nope, none at all… this is all there is... or, rather all I've been able to unearth” </i><br />
<i>“Ahhh… OK… Then... What I reckon is"</i> He says carefully <i>"what you’ve found is one of two 24-track tapes...”</i> His head-scratching continues, mine multiplies.<br />
<br />
<i>“As I recall"</i> He goes on <i>"we recorded this tune once with Joel (Dorn) – it’s one of Mags, John Cartwright’s songs… and that version had pretty much all of the instruments played by him. But, we dumped that because… I dunno… it all got a bit mad, everyone kept hearing different things that they thought should go in to it so we started again and so this must be from that second session. “</i><br />
<br />
<i>“Anyhow… what happened was… eventually, we had so many tracks going that we slaved two 24-track tapes together so as to create a 48-track master. There were whole horn sections flown in… we recorded them… then they got erased… I’m pretty sure that Lee (Goodall) came in with a bag of flutes and overdubbed one after another… There may have been a choir at one point too. Real studio lunacy. But, the more we did, the more we lost sight of it...”</i><br />
<br />
<i>“The strange thing is, tho’… listening to it now, what is it – thirty-something years later… it’s as near as dammit to how I heard it in my mind.” </i><br />
<br />
A few days later, one late Saturday afternoon and JR and Richard have been slaving over a hot console, fuelled by more cups of coffee than any self-respecting doctor would prescribe along with brought in sandwiches. After three hours of dextrous nob-twiddling, the tape-ghosting has gone, the track’s been cleaned up… and <b>To Enter Heart And Soul (Peace Within Me Now)</b> has been completed as a final mix for the first time in over three decades. <br />
<br />
A week later into the process and the crates of analog boxes are starting to dwindle; we’re coming to the end of the digitisation process. We’ve one of the few remaining multitracks spooling… in the near-darkness of the studio… we're listening to silence. <br />
<br />
<i>"Why are we listening to nothing... shouldn't we just fast-forward the spool and be done with it?"</i> I admit it now, I'm absolutely exhausted at this point in the proceedings. <br />
<i>"We could"</i> replies Richard, <i>"but... you never know..."</i> <br />
<br />
Off I go to grab us both more coffee and five minutes later am back in Richard's lair and he's as good as dancing on the console.<br />
<br />
<i>"Just wait 'til you hear this... I've cued it up. You thought it was just gonna run out... Well, they must've just left the tape running at Basing St... 'cos... just listen... this is really special!" </i><br />
<br />
Richard rarely displays excitement – possibly 'cos he's seen / heard it all before – this pm, more super-strength coffee now firmly attached to bear-like paw, he's grinning ear to ear. He hits play and... within seconds, its obvious we've found another diamond in the rough. <br />
<br />
That same evening, I've a USB drive in hand and tip up chez JR for dinner and another recap 'n playback on the day's events. We get to Track X... there are two takes... <i>"Crikey, where the heck did you find that?" asks the singer of songs. "You know... I honestly can't remember doing that at all... but obviously I did! That's some very late-night strumming, that is...Diga must've just left a tape running or something... and... you know what, it's not half-bad actually, is it? Bit annoying I got the words ever so slightly wrong but, I'd say that take #1 is certainly one for the consideration list."</i><br />
<br />
Quite a few months later, we're starting to pull the track-listings together... Although sequentially, it’s slightly out of place, there is really only one candidate to close CD4; the 1' 30" of '<i>late-night-strumming</i>' found that late afternoon while listening to playback silence.<br />
<br />
<b>1. Old Broadway / The Rivits</b> <i>– Sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded January 14th 1979</i><br />
<br />
<b>2. Light Brown Colour / Seven Windows</b> – <i>Sourced from the WAV File Master and recorded during 1982</i>. Featuring Jack Waldman, Gary T Amos, Lee Goodall, Mark Egan and with strings arranged by Paul Buckmaster, this is from the incredibly hard to find and long-since deleted Seven Windows album recorded variously at Skyline Studios & Classic Sound Studio, New York; Rock City, Shepperton & The Garden Studio, London that has been especially remastered for The Anthology by A. T. Michael MacDonald at AlgoRhythms Mastering, Brooklyn, New York <br />
<br />
<b>3. One World, One People / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Sourced from the Sterling Sound ¼” Cutting Master, recorded July 11th 1979</i><br />
<br />
<b>4. If Ever You Should Change Your Mind / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Sourced from the Sterling Sound ¼” Cutting Master, recorded July 11th 1979</i><br />
<br />
<b>5. Misty Roses / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Sourced from ¼” Master, recorded February 5th 1977</i> <br />
<br />
<b>6. Vital Sign / Jess Roden & Pete Wood</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded on February 18th 1981</i>. One of three short pieces recorded at Compass Point as mini-track-breaks for the planned second Rivits album that never really got off the ground. <br />
<br />
<b>7. Some Vision / The Rivits</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded January 14th 1979</i><br />
<br />
<b>8. Bird Of Harlem / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded on July 11th 1979</i><br />
<br />
<b>9. Easy Way / Seven Windows</b> – <i>Sourced from the WAV File Master and recorded during 1982.</i> Featuring Jack Waldman, Lee Goodall, Mark Egan and Steve Dwire, this was recorded in New York and London and has been remastered especially for The Anthology by A. T. Michael MacDonald at AlgoRhythms Mastering, Brooklyn, New York <br />
<br />
<b>10. In Me Tonight / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded on February 5th 1977</i><br />
<br />
<b>11. Believe In Me / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Sourced from the Sterling Sound ¼” Album Master and recorded July 11th 1979</i><br />
<br />
<b>12. Oo She Do / The Rivits</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Album Safety Master and recorded January 4th 1980</i><br />
<br />
<b>13. Parachutes / Seven Windows</b> – <i>Sourced from the WAV File Master and recorded during 1982.</i> Featuring Jack Waldman, Rob Mounsey, Robbie Kondor and Michael Dawe (among others) this, too is from the long-since deleted Seven Windows album recorded variously in New York and London that has been especially remastered for The Anthology by A. T. Michael MacDonald at AlgoRhythms Mastering, Brooklyn, New York <br />
<br />
<b>14. The Hardest Blow / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Album Master and recorded on February 4th 1973</i><br />
<br />
<b>15. To Enter Heart And Soul (Peace Within Me Now )/ Jess Roden</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded on June 8th 1978</i><br />
<i><br />
16. The Quiet Sound Of You And I / Jess Roden</i> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Album Safety Master, recorded on February 4th 1973</i><br />
<br />
<b>17. What’s Going On / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased Take #1 of 2, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded on March 23rd 1973</i><br />
<br />
(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information – obviously, some relate to initial sessions while some are final-mix dates. Since some of the original multitracks haven't survived, this is the closest possible dating available). <br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-7260282324188362482012-03-29T13:40:00.000+01:002012-03-29T13:42:32.216+01:00Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology CD 3 – Get Ta Steppin’<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxP4ZIB7ukNOiK-1oA7jS3TlMXCeYDAmc3YG41uyRBrRyq136B5eLqSHzo1ZDzYtQhHdV0luX_sL2yjyUtNzeLQs7NlNz2SRHHw6rX-SnxkH0oddj6AUqUr5Zdzd28EYdUSsTh4d0Et4/s1600/CD+THREE+Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxP4ZIB7ukNOiK-1oA7jS3TlMXCeYDAmc3YG41uyRBrRyq136B5eLqSHzo1ZDzYtQhHdV0luX_sL2yjyUtNzeLQs7NlNz2SRHHw6rX-SnxkH0oddj6AUqUr5Zdzd28EYdUSsTh4d0Et4/s320/CD+THREE+Front.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<b>1. Raise Your Hand / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded July 2nd 1975</i> (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)<br />
<br />
<b>2. Rat Race / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded July 1st 1975</i> (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)<br />
<br />
<b>3. In A Circle / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased Version, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded August 9th 1975</i> (later recorded by Producer Geoff Haslam, this is the original version with Steve Winwood on Hammond Organ and produced by Steve Smith – taken from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)<br />
<br />
<b>4. Celebrate / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded July 1st 1975</i> (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)<br />
<br />
<b>5. Send It To You / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased Mix, Source tape ¼” Master, recorded January 16th 1975</i> (later recorded by Geoff Haslam, this is the original version produced by Steve Smith)<br />
<b><br />
6. Every Time A Man Gets Lonely / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased , sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded December 20th 1975</i> (produced by Geoff Haslam and originally recorded for the Keep You Hat On album)<br />
<br />
<b>7. Can’t Get By Without You / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the Acetate transfer to ¼”, recorded July 2nd 1975</i> (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)<br />
<b><i><br />
8. If You Don’t Get What You Want / The Jess Roden Band</b> – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded August 9th 1975</i> (with Steve Winwood on Hammond Organ, produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)<br />
<b><br />
9. Work Out / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded July 1st 1975</i> (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)<br />
<br />
<b>10. What Took Me So Long? / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 17th 1975</i> (produced by Chris Blackwell, recorded at Basing St)<br />
<br />
<b>11. Yes Indeed / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the Acetate transfer to ¼”, recorded October 2nd 1975 </i>(with strings arranged by Harry Robinson – who’d similarly arranged the strings for Jess’ version of On Broadway and produced by Steve Smith)<br />
<br />
<b>12. Me And Crystal Eye / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master, recorded October 17th 1976</i><br />
<br />
13. Honey Don’t Worry / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased Version, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 11th 1975 (later recorded by Producer Geoff Haslam, this is one of the earliest takes produced by Steve Smith)<br />
<br />
<b>14. Stonechaser / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master, recorded October 17th 1976</i><br />
<b><br />
15. Black Jack / The Jess Roden Band</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded December 20th 1975</i> (produced by Geoff Haslam and recorded originally for the Keep Your Hat On album)<br />
<br />
<b>16. Blowin’ (Gospel Version) / Jess Roden & Billy Livesey</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased take, sourced from the 2” Multitrack, recorded January 21st 1977</i> (recorded during the mixing sessions for Blowin’ – the final, Live, JRB album)<br />
<br />
(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information – obviously, some relate to initial sessions while some are final-mix dates. Since some of the original multitracks haven't survived, this is the closest possible dating available). <br />
<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/IWnMmD9uGkg"></a><br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-27136920232431421212012-03-26T14:55:00.000+01:002012-03-29T13:43:40.247+01:00Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology – CD 2 – Basing St To Beyond<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_o7QMHmsb6pgeCECBnLEdjt8alWu8AOfZxbA9TYblfC0kcOhyphenhyphenQOWQUroCL2jfFUHhg94hwtM8pIwUfeCR9DBPmlMX_JqSZBYYoVJStRiSt1sXZ7ixCEJyw7zoQV_177z6nmH1bZTttw4/s1600/CD+TWO+Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_o7QMHmsb6pgeCECBnLEdjt8alWu8AOfZxbA9TYblfC0kcOhyphenhyphenQOWQUroCL2jfFUHhg94hwtM8pIwUfeCR9DBPmlMX_JqSZBYYoVJStRiSt1sXZ7ixCEJyw7zoQV_177z6nmH1bZTttw4/s320/CD+TWO+Front.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<b>Song 3 / Jess Roden</b> <i>– Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 13th 1972</i> (originally recorded as part of the 'Rabbit sessions' for the proposed 1st solo album)<br />
<br />
<b>The Farm / Jess Roden</b> <i>– Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded March 28th 1972</i> (originally recorded as part of the 'Rabbit sessions' for the proposed 1st solo album)<br />
<br />
<b>I Won’t Be Alone Anymore / The Butts Band</b> <i>– sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded, May 1973</i><br />
<br />
<b>Strength & Guidance / Jess Roden</b> <i>- Previously Unreleased Demo (later titled Sweet Danger), sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded March 23rd 1973</i> (originally demo'd at Basing St and later recorded by The Butts Band) <br />
<br />
<b>New Ways / The Butts Band</b> <i>– sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded, May 1973</i><br />
<b><br />
Sweet Danger / The Butts Band</b> <i>– sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded, May 1973</i><br />
<br />
<b>What The Hell / Jess Roden</b> <i>– sourced from the ¼” Master / Sterling Sound Cutting Copy, recorded May 25th 1972</i><br />
<br />
<b>I’m Ready / Paul Kossof</b> <i>– sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded August 27th 1973 </i><br />
<br />
<b>Toe The Line / Jess Roden</b> <i>– Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded January 18th 1974</i> (originally recorded during the same Olympic sessions that included On Broadway)<br />
<br />
<b>For Granted (I’m On Your Side)</b> / Jess Roden <i>– Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded January 18th 1974</i><br />
<br />
<b>Trouble In The Mind / Jess Roden</b> <i>– Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded March 26th 1974<br />
</i><br />
<b>You’ve Got What I Need / Jess Roden</b> <i>– Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded January 17th 1974</i> (recorded during the same Olympic sessions that included On Broadway)<br />
<br />
<b>On Broadway / Jess Roden</b> <i>– Sourced from the ¼” Master / Sterling Sound Cutting Copy, recorded between November 11th 1973 / January & May 30th 1974</i><br />
<br />
<b>Reason To Change / Jess Roden</b> <i>– Sourced from the ¼” Master / Sterling Sound Cutting Copy, recorded March 26th 1974</i><br />
<br />
<b>Sad Story / Jess Roden</b> <i>– Sourced from the ¼” Master / Sterling Sound Cutting Copy and recorded March 26th & May 1974</i><br />
<br />
<b>Feelin’ Easy / Jess Roden</b> <i>– Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded March 26th 1974</i><br />
<br />
<b>Under Suspicion / The Jess Roden Band</b> <i>– Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded February 3rd 1975</i> (planned as the US single mix) <br />
<br />
<br />
(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information – obviously, some relate to initial sessions while some are final-mix dates. Since some of the original multitracks haven't survived, this is the closest possible dating available). Further Anthology track listings to be announced shortly.<br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-10188506567759895322012-03-23T13:02:00.000+00:002012-03-29T13:43:24.602+01:00Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology CD 1 – Town & Country<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7r32x61hX27ncLNob1EQfg5z1zamdsQdu8OBNZ9JkBvn25r9E7suadF6SMdnvwn318kj8kRSbetyU7P61I35AMB71LQo_kEhVAnsBGWzRCynKyj0JsJJDAypTDrC9DrEXBO0__RTGmeo/s1600/CD+ONE+Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="217" width="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7r32x61hX27ncLNob1EQfg5z1zamdsQdu8OBNZ9JkBvn25r9E7suadF6SMdnvwn318kj8kRSbetyU7P61I35AMB71LQo_kEhVAnsBGWzRCynKyj0JsJJDAypTDrC9DrEXBO0__RTGmeo/s320/CD+ONE+Front.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<b>1. Baby Don’t Push Me / The Alan Bown Set</b> – <i>Previously unreleased mix; sourced from the 1” multitrack, recorded February 28th 1966</i><br />
<br />
<b>2. Headline News / The Alan Bown Set</b> – <i>Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 1” multitrack, recorded September 14th 1966</i><br />
<br />
<b>3. Gonna Fix You Good / The Alan Bown Set</b> – <i>Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 1” multitrack, recorded December 19th 1966</i><br />
<br />
<b>4. I Really, Really Care / The Alan Bown Set</b> – <i>Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 1” multitrack, recorded March 1st 1967</i><br />
<br />
<b>5. All Along The Watchtower / The Alan Bown</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded June 3rd 1968</i><br />
<br />
<b>6. My Girl The Month Of May / The Alan Bown</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Production Master, recorded June 3rd 1968</i><br />
<br />
<b>7. Amber Moon / Bronco</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master and recorded April 9th 1971</i><br />
<br />
<b>8. Lazy Now / Bronco</b> – <i>Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 2” multitrack that was recorded August 21st 1970</i><br />
<br />
<b>9. All The Love I Sing (Love) / Bronco</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 19th 1970</i><br />
<br />
<b>10. Time Slips Away / Bronco</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master, recorded April 9th 1971</i><br />
<br />
<b>11. New Day Avenue / Bronco</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 9th 1971</i><br />
<br />
<b>12. Bumpers West / Bronco</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded September 2nd 1970</i><br />
<br />
<b>13. Sudden Street / Bronco</b> – <i>Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 2” multitrack that was recorded March 19th 1971</i><br />
<br />
<b>14. Joys & Fears / Bronco</b> – <i>Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master recorded March 15th 1971</i><br />
<br />
<b>15. Life / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased Demo, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded August 27th 1972</i><br />
<b><br />
16. Song 3 / Jess Roden</b> – <i>Previously Unreleased Instrumental Demo with guide vocal, sourced from the 2” Multitrack recorded on February 10th 1972<br />
</i> (Take #2 of 2...)<br />
<br />
(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information – obviously, some relate to initial sessions while some are final-mix dates. Since some of the original multitracks haven't survived, this is the closest possible dating available). Further Anthology track listings to be announced shortly.<br />
<br />
<br />Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-41911056092640089932012-02-22T09:42:00.006+00:002012-02-22T10:01:31.185+00:00Aspirin And AftershaveThe route from Frithville Gardens – the last appointment of this particular #IBoR day – to the collecting of Tiggles Bearwood from meetings in the backwaters of Chelsea is fraught with rush-hour traffic. Our metropolis-exit, bypassing the Great West Road, finds the #HiddenMasters-mobile halted at one set of traffic lights after another. <br /><br />We’re stuck beside white-van man whose vehicle is belching a pungent cocktail of diesel fumes, stale nicotine and van-interior air-freshener. In the general 2 o’clock direction as the crow might fly is a building above who’s front door is emblazoned a large semi-circular, globe-like logo. <br /><br />It’s one of the London homes of Universal – an entrance through which I’ve trudged more than a few times of late in quest of cementing our template masters’ rights agreement. This late afternoon, however, the building looks quieter than usual; the lights on the top floor (where the senior executives prowl and growl over dissemination of percentages of net or gross earnings) are dimmed. The usual ebb and flow of hot and cold running secretaries and personal assistants stemmed by the mass-exodus across-town… Because…<br /><br />It’s the late afternoon before the evening of... that precedes the morning after… of The Brits.<br /><br />Britain’s prime-time televised, annual be-dinner-jacketed man-hugging / scooped into little-black-number air-kissing ladies pop-awards event… The dress-codes alone should tell you everything you need to know. <br /><br />Its our very own Grammys… And, lest we imagine otherwise, an ab-fab joyous celebration of all that’s super-duper in Popular Music emanating (more or less) from our wonderfully green and pleasant. Smashing. <br /><br />Now… I speak (write) with a degree of previous with regard to this annual back-slapping fest. Among the many highlights of previous years would be when Sam Fox and her improbable-sized Page 3 chest stood alongside Mick Fleetwood's waist at the height of his substance addiction, jointly (sic) reading the wrong cue-cards at the Royal Albert Hall. <br /><br />When Jarvis Cocker invaded the stage and pulled down his trousers as Michael Jackson ‘entertained’ children on stage while posing in a scene reminiscent of the crucifixion. <br /><br />Another at The Grosvenor Hotel when the aforementioned Jacko tipped up with Giant Haystacks as his minder for the evening; an event during which the Storey bladder became over-full with the non-chilled and I found myself at the next again urinal, standing right beside the aforementioned member (sic) of the Jackson Five. <br /><br />The night when John Prescott had a bucket of warm-Champagne emptied over his head by Chumbawamba – proof positive that politics and anarchist punk ‘n roll really shouldn’t mix. <br /><br />Debacles every one of ‘em… and, last night was no different – the only difference was the music but, true to form, the Brits (yet again) proved itself long past its sell-by date. <br /><br />That’s not to say (and similar to most years) that some aspects worked. Remember Robbie Williams embracing all the best bits of Norman Wisdom and totally up-staging Tom Jones before the latter turned entirely orange? Or Liam Gallagher’s ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">if you think you’re ‘ard enough</span>’ gong-acceptance speech? The Pet Shop Boys and a bunch of Welsh Miners singing Go West – if never seen, worth the YouTube visit for that alone. <br /><br />And last night there was Adele; simplicity itself… a great tune… fabulously understated band… and that soaring vocal. (Unfortunate camera angles that dwelled over-long upon the rippling posteriors of her amply-proportioned backing singers but… hey... that’s ITV for you). <br /><br />Yet, while that simplicity exuded sheer quality, the show, as a whole, did not. <br /><br />I can’t claim to have any insider knowledge on something called Bruno Marrrrs and his preposterous quiff (I believe his second name has more than one R). But, c’mon laddie… ease up on the spray-tan… and… it’d be not a bad idea to be able to actually sing. <br /><br />Honestly… was his a voice to be celebrated? Having been lucky enough to have worked with more than a few of the greatest interpretative singers of all-time and then seeing / listening to that… Hello… music industry… is there anyone out there? In another year, all those iTunes downloads and hastily-bought CDs will be swamping computer trash-bins and Charity shops alike. <br /><br />As for One Direction… kinda says it all that their records are doing well in what can most kindly be termed Lady-boy countries. Another couple of years and those band-members not in rehab will be appearing way down the bill in provincial pantomime. <br /><br />We were treated to Lana Del Ray poured into her Jessica Rabbit gravity defying dress on the edge of tv-blubbing as she collected her skittle (the re-design of the actual Brit award was a complete nonsense); there was the (rather sad) sight of Noel Gallagher clearly missing Liam’s vocal on what was otherwise a semi-decent slab of rock ‘n roll that included Chris Martin hunched over his piano deftly adding the twiddly bits in an attempt to transform the ordinary to the almost quite good. <br /><br />And then came Rhianna – with a costume as ill-fitting as the Euro-bail out of the Greek National debt – I still can’t figure out just who her auto-tuned vocal actually says anything to? In chalk and cheese comparisons Etta James passed away (sadly) not too long back – and yes, I know she’s not British but then neither is Rhianna – but the latter would be well-advised to invest in the former’s entire catalogue and secrete herself away… To listen and learn that great singing does not involve three-dozen scantily clad dancers nor does it involve crotch-moves that would look out of place in a pornographic B-movie. <br /><br />And Blur… yes, probably was more or less appropriate that they got a gong for their ‘outstanding contribution’. But… it strikes me that the very word appears to be misrepresented here and I find it entirely incongruous that while they (deservedly) received recognition, that someone like Bob Marley was overlooked. After all, it can hardly be down to nationality when the likes of U2 and Van Morrison have both collected ‘outstanding contribution’ gongs. <br /><br />And Damon – for pity’s sake, learn to do your belt up… ‘cos, the exposure of the Albarn, M&S styled horizontally-striped underpant that revealed way too much Allbran is, really, not an attractive sight. Nearing your middle years, you really should know better. And, if you really do need to bare your arse, then show a bit of dignified cheek by studying the Jarvis Cocker methodology. Please. <br /><br />The lights are out and, at the 2012 Brits no one’s home. It’s a just a TV show that tries to please everyone and fails miserably due to that very fact. <br /><br />Its no wonder then that lower key events such as the Mojo Awards or The Mercury Music Prize exist… and continue to thrive. Why? They know what they are and don’t pretend otherwise and neither do they try so hard.Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-4943666895977067842012-01-19T07:30:00.009+00:002012-01-19T08:24:28.934+00:00Jess Roden / The Rivits / Old Broadway / Hidden MastersY’know… there really is a sense of magic – albeit an indefinable one – the moment one’s brogues touch down on Broadway. <br /><br />I can recall the first time like it was yesterday; and, while the last time was just a few months ago, it’s still etch-a-sketched down memory lane just as vividly as if it was yesterday.<br /><br />Those were the days when Pan Am flew from Heathrow; in fact this was to be my very first Transatlantic crossing and all of it was spent squished into a middle seat in between La Faithfull and her (then) husband, Ben E Ficial – more properly christened Ben Brierly. <br /><br />Those were the days when food at 36,000 feet up was served on proper plates with real cutlery – not the abominable plastic, bendy-breaky-bollox knives and forks one is forced to employ today. You also got more than one bread roll. <br /><br />Days too, when one’s pre-luncheon snifter (make mine a pretty sizeable Bloody Mary with extra Worcestershire Sauce please) was accompanied by a gasper or twain. We all smoked – heck, half the flight did in those days; walking back down the aisle from the lavatory was like strolling through an early 60’s London smog. No wonder they banned it – the air conditioning system that could have coped with that amount of fumes hadn’t been invented. <br /><br />La F was off to do a week of promo for the Broken Biscuits (English) record… that’d later nail her a Grammy nomination; Ben was there ‘cos he was her fella… and me? Well, I was the bloke from Island and it was my job to ensure that everything ran tickety-boo. <br /><br />Pretty obviously, it didn’t – and much of that was down to entirely unexpectedly bumping in to La Pallenberg in a hotel lift. This little reunion of kindred spirits and shared pasts distracted my charge somewhat. <br /><br />Employing her deep dulcet Germanic tones that reverberated upward from her not inconsiderable bosom, La P beckoned toward the lift (elevator), saying (well, more commanding actually)… <span style="font-style:italic;">Ahhh, Marianne… so good to see you…come up to my room, I have a little something for you…’</span> Now, I reckoned I was relatively wise to the ways of… but… this was on an entirely different scale altogether; a small mountain of Peruvian marching powder was upended on the table and… basically… they weren’t going to stop until… <br /><br />A lot of other mad stuff happened on that trip… but… trooper that MF is, the work did all get done. <br /><br />Years later, she toured the 20th Century Blues record… taking in such exotic locales as Tel Aviv and Jerusalem as well as more conventional gigs in the more obvious places. And, for sizeable chunks, I was on hand too – more or less in the same capacity. About three-quarters of the way through the show each night, there’d be a bit of a break in proceedings (Paul the pianist would nip off to have a wee) which gave La Faithfull – who is a raconteur of astonishing prowess – the opportunity to regale the audience with tales of derring-do.<br /><br />Most usually, this involved a lengthy narrative that involved serious narcotics shared with the late, great Harry Nillson, his untimely death, the manner in which it occurred, an earthquake and a strange burial. And always, but always, she prefaced the whole with the opening lines of… <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Now, you… lovely audience that you are… need to understand that those were the days when we did proper drugs – not this nimby-pamby stuff you get handed nowadays’.</span> <br /><br />Anyway… I digress. So, after what seems an eternity mid-air, we land and my first encounter with US Customs and Immigration – I’m travelling with a former drug addict who just happens to be the head Rolling Stones’ ex and a punk who also goes by the name of Ben Dover. Needless to say, our time in Immigration was somewhat extended before, ultimately, passports were stamped and we were allowed outside… and squashed into a cab – no one thought to come and meet us – and hi-tailing it into central Manhattan. <br /><br />It was like entering a picture postcard or… even better, a film-set. For some reason lost to the mists of time, we were in different hotels… so, after being deposited at the gates of the Essex House (on the 20-something’th floor of which CB kept an apartment at the time), I shuffled out, onto Central Park South and walked over to… Broadway.<br /><br />At that junction and looking south toward the bottom end of Manhattan, the street sort of curves slightly right-handed down toward Times Square. It’s only a few blocks… and yet, as you trudge down toward all that the neon flashing in the distance, its like walking into the set of (say) Blade Runner. OK, so that film was still a couple years away but, you get the idea. <br /><br />The next again morning, I woke unfeasibly early… one’s body-clock is absolutely fucked by this international travel malarkey and so, at about 4am I’m wide awake. What to do? There’s only one person in Manhattan I know and, I can’t call him just yet… Oh, I know… I’ll switch on the tv. Whatever the programme was, it goes straight in to an ad break. And, the very first bit of American TV I saw was… an ad for… Preparation H… hemorrhoid cream. Smashing. <br /><br />Since MF hasn't got anything to do ‘til the afternoon, that means I’ve a free morning and, by now fed up with watching adverts for intimate ailments, I head off for a walk in the general direction of the Upper East Side 'cos that's the locale of the only person I know in this strange metrop I've tipped up in. <br /><br />I’m not entirely sure where his lair is, of course, but guided by the sun I figure it has to be... that-a-way. <br /><br />Skyscrapers… concrete canyons… hustle… bustle… the bums on the sidewalks… the drunks with their brown paper-bag covered liquor bottles… and the bag-ladies pushing their trollies… the air bisected by the billowing steam rising from the pavement grills like so much fog… the suits and briefcases scurrying, coffee in hand... the punks... the tourists like me (pretending to be anything other). Everyone talking loudly. I’m lost but at home. <br /><br />Intent on calling the only person I know in New York, I find a pay ‘phone – don’t forget, this was aeons before everyone walked around with a cell ‘phone clamped to his or her ear… and long before the side-stepping of people texting while walking became an Olympic sport. <br /><br />I push my coins in… and, after a few moments, the Singer of Songs answers. He sounds perplexed; <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Crikey… what on earth are you doing here..?</span> I explain. <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Splendid’</span> says he, <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Are you nearby? Can you come over for coffee? </span> He gives me directions but, basically, that’s pretty hopeless ‘cos, within minutes, I’m lost… I’m a stranger in a strange land and a cab further uptown has to be the best solution. <br /><br />We spend the morning together, drinking a lot of coffee… and he plays me a few tunes he’s working on with another chap called Pete. His deal with Island is over but, even so, he’s been writing… looks fitter than fit and slimmer than slim from daily runs around Central Park – and the songs sound really good. They’re thinking of maybe making a record… perhaps shopping it round a bit. <br /><br />Fast forward a good few months and a new record pops up on the release schedule. It’s by The Rivits – the Singer of Songs did make the record he said he was planning to.<br /><br />And, the final track on side one is something I’d heard months back as a rough sketch; it tells the tale of Connie and Clem The Clean and extols the dreams of the ghosts whose own shoes… some frayed, some torn, some perfectly polished… trod those self-same sidewalks that I’d walked. <br /> <br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxV3r3s30dcQnzgD2e1fM1X71mXdJ_9OTpG5oQOUf4ang9UqhGgfNzzV8ETjLis3PKexjhF0gkZGwuhVKm7qg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-81677369085112613832011-10-27T14:01:00.005+01:002011-10-27T15:22:06.026+01:00Jess Roden / Sudden St / Hidden MastersOk, Ok... I know, its been a long time but, honest injun, busy as busy is in the background... with masses going on down in the über-shed otherwise known as #HiddenMasters HQ. <br /><br />So... here's a little something that's only just been finished off. Its a short clip of Bronco's Sudden St from the forthcoming Anthology.<br /><br />It features ultra-rare footage of the band recording at Basing St during the Summer of 1971 (and a massive hat-tip to DJ Demitri who found this gathering acres of dust in the back of a darkened cupboard). <br /><br />The original sound-bed was, to all intents and purposes pretty much fucked as was some of the grainy black 'n white imagery too, so I've married the surviving video to one or two stills and under-laid it all with this never-heard-before version of Sudden St. <br /><br />Ok, so what news on the Boxed Set... the Anthology? <br /><br />Right – annoyingly, we are a teensy-weensy bit behind where we’d hoped to be right now but this is purely due to the fact that the Anthology involves a number of masters’ owners – meaning that preparation of the documentation (which has to be completed before we move to the final steps) is a bit more complex for all concerned.<br /><br />Nonetheless, the legal eagles and business affairs bods on all sides of the fence(s) have locked horns in the last two or three weeks and are now at it like rutting stags because there are innumerable Is to be dotted and just about as many Ts to be crossed. <br /><br />And so, once all parties have signed off (doubtless employing judicious usage of their lucky pens), we’ll be pushing the final three buttons.<br /><br />The first bit being the re-mastering of all the UK-based analog masters that we’re including. These'll be worked on by Richard Whittaker @ FX who's just become a dad for the first time to lil' Ed (so, thats caused a bit of a natural break as it is). The 7Windows tracks being included have already been re-mastered by Michael MacDonald in New York – so, we're somewhat ahead of the game there.<br /><br />And, at that point, we can finally reveal the full track-listing!<br /><br />So, after all the knob-twiddling, its the fine-tuning of all the artwork and then straight to manufacture.<br /><br />In the meantime… what can be confirmed is: The Anthology will be issued as an initial limited edition of 950 copies – all of which will be hand-numbered.<br /><br />And... within this run, there will be a number of really special (and very limited) editions.<br /><br />We’re working out all the details right now (see, I said its been busy as... down in the über-shed) but, just as soon as these particular Ts have been crossed and Is dotted, we’ll be announcing what we have planned – here... on the JR FaceBook page as well as on the main JR website.<br /><br />Further to all of that, the singer of songs and self are formulating something else that we reckon to be a bit special and as a way of saying thanks to everyone who’s shown so much patience while we’ve been putting all this together. <br /><br />So... here's the vid – and if anyone's wondering why it appears out of sync... it is..! 'cos the original sound-bed was a different toon. <br /><br />IF, by any chance, your browser starts to buffer and the vid goes a bit wonky - try it on YouTube - link is: http://youtu.be/vVO2y2rU90s <br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyS-c10gC4y7vqH8ltgoW6sNMnxGUAeghvEDoV9GdBIAmRE5HlLFx2PuK_RdMpe1xJIwP8d3Z369zf2yKs4Yg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-68107913681481316012011-04-22T18:23:00.004+01:002011-04-22T18:31:02.596+01:00Jess Roden | For Granted #3 (I’m On Your Side)The blossom is on the trees, luminescent Cherry-Vanilla at its best. <br /><br />Yet the studio in which we’re ensconced during this period of self-imposed confinement hides behind a couple of struggling trees of uncertain genesis. Neither of which appear to have known blossom once. <br /><br />They stand like a pair of forlorn, Kevin-The-Teenager saplings; their leggy, Eyeball Paul, branches windswept by the diesel-breeze-rush of a speeding bus every twenty minutes of so. <br /><br />It’s a surreal yet short walk from the bus-stop; past where Reginald Iolanthe Perrin hastened the demise of CJ and Sunshine Deserts, along the crumbling pavement to the studio door – tucked away in this downtrodden backwater of a demoralised north-west London trading estate<br /><br />While the setting may be unlikely – neither does this place much look like what one’d imagine a studio to appear as. <br /><br />The facade is about as far removed from the Fab-Four graffiti-scrawl of Abbey Road or the Edwardian splendour of Olympic in Barnes where Procul Harum recorded A Whiter Shade Of Pale; in which Jimi Hendrix reconstructed All Along The Watchtower to turn a Dylan masterpiece into his own magnum opus or where The Rolling Stones laid down six consecutive albums between 1968 and ’72 as is possible to get. <br /><br />This space – our space for the duration – is decidedly more warehouse-veneer and on the utilitarian side of functional. It is what it is and does not pretend otherwise. <br /><br />Inside is what counts and progress is such that we’re heading toward the sharp end. Upstairs is where we completed all the digital work on the ¼” tapes… now we’re downstairs and starting to delve in to all the crates that contain the 2” multi-tracks. <br /><br />These, unlike their country-cousins, the ¼” tapes, come in a variety of configurations – many are 24 track but we’re also encountering their step-brothers – the 16 and 8 track variants. <br /><br />And, in the middle of that lot, we’ll be returning to those tapes that are currently sitting in a temperature-controlled oven a little way down the corridor… baking away ever so contentedly in a Julia Childs’ styleee. <br /><br />Baking..? Yes indeed – because they’re elderly (in tape-terms that’s 30+years old) and, frankly, they’re in pretty dodgy shape. <br /><br />And, the only way to remedy this level of tape-degradation and all round dodginess is to bake the blighters for between 24 and 72 hours.<br /><br />Crikey – am I starting to sound like a bit too Gordon Ramsay here..? I sincerely hope not, because, trust me, I’m no expert – but I do have a very good teacher. <br /><br />Ladies and Gentlemen… may I introduce my newest best friend; a raven-haired Goth, who sits in front of rows of blinking lights, manipulating computers, software and ten dozen other gadgets all of which require an advanced degree in pure Einstein before they’ll even spark into life. <br /><br />He can tell a tape’s age just by looking at it and can hear things coming through the mix that are inaudible to mere mortals – <span style="font-style:italic;">hmmm, that sounds about 2db out to me…</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />It does?</span> I look over his shoulder at a bank of intermittently blinking lights, our very own studio aurora borealis. The lights appear – to me – to be lined up in a pretty satisfactory line but equally I’ve learned to trust the set of ears beside me. If he says its out, chances are that it is – and very probably by exactly 2db, whatever that actually means in plain English. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Yeah, I’ll just check via this gadget.</span> He peers shortsightedly at yet another set of entirely mystifying flickering lights (obviously I’d been looking at totally the wrong set)… and, flicking his pony-tail out of the way, he leans over and makes a microscopic adjustment with an equally minute screw-driver and… sure as eggs are eggs, the lights (that he’s been studying) all line-up as they should… he’s correct. <br /><br />Me – I heard nothing wrong at all. Matron – the earwax candles, please. <br /><br />I stand and stare in constant admiration as one would at anyone at the top of their game. Occasionally, I am allowed to make the coffee… but only after having to be shown how that machine worked three times. <br /><br />The advanced being-Delia stage in this entire process has been critical. <br /><br />Because, without this tape-baking exercise, what’d happen is this: when the tapes roll through long-out-of-date (tho’ state of the art in the sixties and seventies) Studer machines, the tape would start to shed a very fine layer of oxide… meaning the play-back-heads would (in layman’s terms) eventually clog up. And eventually there would be a tragic outcome – what was recorded long ago would be lost forever. <br /><br />This, therefore, is last-chance saloon for these tapes… fuck it up and… that’s it, gone for all time. Which is why, when the mane of hair in front of me nods sagely and says, <span style="font-style:italic;">off to the oven with you my boy…</span> there’s no argument brokered. <br /><br />These are precious commodities found in amongst a myriad of other jewels hidden away in dusty boxes in a dirty warehouse presided over by youngsters who simply have no idea what they’re custodians of. <br /><br />There is no real criticism implied there, it’s simply that they don’t – by and large – have a clue about The Hidden Masters that they’re looking after. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTbp0a8v7wWn9_IGI4_mnLx4j1w_plxVmo1nN1sweermeWW5kN7g5zkjGroYB8rbSgRGC3juCxUDXB3sJhBVdRw-QSDu-V1nY7vASRxo5EWhyphenhyphenaH0aT-CJRVg4Htei0deBIx11Uwte08c/s1600/%2522.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTbp0a8v7wWn9_IGI4_mnLx4j1w_plxVmo1nN1sweermeWW5kN7g5zkjGroYB8rbSgRGC3juCxUDXB3sJhBVdRw-QSDu-V1nY7vASRxo5EWhyphenhyphenaH0aT-CJRVg4Htei0deBIx11Uwte08c/s320/%2522.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598461684124878994" /></a>Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-85259007286277925502011-03-24T16:03:00.005+00:002011-03-24T16:52:15.209+00:00Jess Roden | In A CircleGive or take a month or so, it’s taken nearly two years to get from there to where we are now. And, within that journey, suitcase life became very much part and parcel of the whole. <br /><br />So, at this particular point in the burgeoning process of pulling the Project-X rabbit out of the hat and while being of budget-conscious frame of mind, I’ve checked into modest accommodation not too far from the studio. <br /><br />Indeed, it’s no more than a couple of miles away from where the singer of songs and I munched happily away on a pile of popadums while concocting what we reckoned might be… a… bit of… a… plan. <br /><br />Besides, I figured a quiet night would give me a few hours to get my head around some more of the music that we’ve been digitising before trotting westward chez JR for post-lunch discussions; we’re slowly arriving at the point where we’ll be shortlisting those that have made the grade and confining those not worthy back to the cupboard. <br /><br />However, I’d only been inside the Hotel Splendide long enough to unpack, uncork a glass of the well-chilled and spread my spreadsheets (detailing all the work we’d been doing in the studio) over the bed before another visit to reception was rendered necessary. Or, rather, what passed for it – this splendid hostelry being on the unassuming side of wallet-threatening in terms of a home from home for the night. <br /><br />Uber-drat… my carefully planned evening of reviewing work thus far was not running to plan… at all. <br /><br />It took a while to attract the manager of this emporium’s attention – his gaze being fixed to the PlayStation machine that’d been hooked up to an oversized tv-screen on the other side of what served as his office. <br /><br />He was playing carton golf. <br /><br />Eventually, a little louder-than-discreet cough was enough to put him off his stroke whereby his ball landed ever so satisfyingly in a digital bunker. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hello,</span> I grin (reckoning that his position in the pixelated sand looked frightfully tricky), <span style="font-style: italic;">My room is flooding.</span> <br /><br />He stared at me with a mix of disbelief and annoyance criss-crossing his face, his jaw opening and closing soundlessly much like an out of fresh-water-Salmon would. <br /><br />Nevertheless, digital Phil Mickelson put his machine on pause and, blowing air like a beached whale, grudgingly trudged after me – all the way back to my room. There we halted as I struggled through various jacket pockets, searching for the key while the audible drip, drip, drip of water splashing happily away could be clearly heard behind the door. <br /><br />There was enough water pouring through the extractor fan, right above the lavatory, to render needless any thought of pulling the chain should I require the use of said appliance – it’d be like peeing in a heavy rain storm. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ahh yes…</span> the beached whale exhaled loudly… <span style="font-style: italic;">that would be the people in Number 5 taking a shower. Would you like another room? </span><br /><br />We trudged back up stairs, down a few steps and up some more before suitcase, self, spreadsheets and the well-chilled were finally installed overlooking the rumbling thunder of mid-summer traffic below. With no air-conditioning and the nonadjustable heater set to maximum, the only thing for it was to open as many windows as possible. The thunderous rumble immediately turned to a Niagara-roar – time to take spreadsheets, headphones and self off to get something to eat .<br /><br />But, not before perusing the book of words pinned to the back of the door – from which I gleaned that <span style="font-style: italic;">da-management</span> weren’t much bothered if anything was stolen from one’s room. Paragraph eight stated that they’d not be liable for anything nicked that was valued at over fifty notes and nor were they insured for the contents of cars or horses. <br /><br />I look about me and, before shutting the door firmly and trousering the key, confirm a Shetland Pony wasn't hiding in the shower cubicle. <br /><br />A police car wailed in the background as I crossed the road that was nearly obliterated from view by a passing cloud of high-grade ganja; safely over to the sunny side of the street, it took but moments to size up the local culinary delights. It was a choice of one from one. <br /><br />Settled beneath an abstract Himalayan scene that had somehow been stenciled onto cheap hardboard, it took mere seconds before two grinning waiters brandishing identical menus quickstepped across the shagpile that only a visually impaired person would have chosen. <br /><br />There was a gay couple to my far left, both busy with their mobile ‘phones – perhaps searching out alternate dates since it quickly transpired (via the one with the restaurant-carrying voice and fringe of over-floppy hair) that he wasn’t planning on going home with his companion. <br /><br />The later-than-me influx of customers included an all-girl group who brandished their ‘phones with aplomb taking picture upon picture of each other studying the menu. With fingers and thumbs set to dexterous, multiple Facebook profiles were being updated long before their starters arrived. <br /><br />To my right another couple settled in – and, it was immediately clear from their touchy-feely, stroke me / stroking you / sit on the same side of the bench that they would place the Greek island of Lesbos fairly high on their summer holiday shopping list. <br /><br />Given that they were on the next again table and I’m dining alone while being studious with my spreadsheets, it’s wasn’t hard to overhear their conversation. Within three minutes they’re discussing particularly intimate and very recent… errrr… occurrences… that… occurred… in a shower… Ah yes… they’ll be the occupants of Number 5. <br /><br />The next afternoon, JR and I are seated at a table at the top end of the garden; there is a bit of a breeze getting up that’s rustling the tops of the Silver Birch trees that line the far end of the greensward. <br /><br />As much as we’re starting to narrow the choices down now there has also been a mutually agreed consensus, a rationale behind that making of choices in place from day one. The tune, the song, the performance – whichever it may be – has to stand up in its own right all these years later. <br /><br />In effect, that means making choices on the basis of fast-forwarding ourselves further into the future and being able to collectively look back and say; <span style="font-style: italic;">Y’know what… that’s actually not bad at all. </span><br /><br />And, right now, we’re back in amongst those tapes that emanated from those sessions at The Fallout Shelter, the studio deep down in the basement at the back of Island’s London HQ in St Peters Square. <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I have to say, that I don’t remember – until I heard them recently – that we’d actually finished many of these tunes. I thought they were still awaiting final vocal or finished mixes…</span><br /><br />Attention is diverted for a moment. Perched on the fence is a pair of Squirrels intently studying the bird-feeder that’s suspended from the about-to-be-shorn Cherry Tree. They’re trying to figure out a way of bypassing the latest Roden-anti-squirrel device that has been deployed in the ongoing battle to defeat the enemy’s attempts at extricating food that’s not been left out for them. <span style="font-style: italic;">Bloody rascals… Y’know, they’re a lot more intelligent than you’d give ‘em credit for. This latest gadget we have looks like it could be the one tho’; its kept them out for a good couple of weeks but, you never know, they’ll probably figure it out. Another coffee before we get back in to it? </span><br /><br />Two more cups of the well-frothed are placed on the table and we return to the subject of some of the songs that I’ve unearthed that would – had it not been scrapped – have constituted the first JRB album. The breeze has notched up a bit, rattling the sunshade against the table centre… or is my leg involuntarily twitching; much more of JR’s super-strength coffee and I’ll start to astral-project. <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Steve Smith album wasn’t finished – there was probably more material to add to it, but I think there was probably a sort of… a kind of impatience starting to develop in that I wasn’t having hits… and the band had been in the studio for a couple of months and there was a feeling of… ‘this ain’t gonna get him a hit either…’ which was, probably, a fair judgment on a musical level. </span><br /><br />The entrance to that particular studio was to the side of the canteen – oft-presided over by Lucky Gordon, one time pimp to one of the Profumo Affair’s central characters, Christine Keeler – and where many of Island’s acts of the time recorded including Bob Marley, Aswad (who were almost fixtures there), Eddie & The Hot Rods, Steel Pulse, U2 (recorded a number of B sides with Steve Lilywhite who began his career there), Rico, King Sunny Adé, The Snivelin’ Shits, Rebop Kwaku Baah, as well as non-Island acts such as The Smiths (Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now was recorded with the then in-house engineer Stephen Street), Shriekback and countless dozens more. <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes… that’s Steve (Winwood) on In A Circle. I’ve known him for years and… he must’ve been hanging about or whatever and y’know, we just wanted a keyboard player and, in some ways, it would have been very nervous for the band approaching him, I’m sure because he was a very busy guy – but, anyway, we’d got to a stage where we had a whole bunch of material but there was something lacking… so we asked Steve to come down… and he said, yeah. <br /><br />He was just magnificent. There was a couple of passes and, basically, that was it… he just knows what to do, especially when it comes to Hammond.</span> <br /><br />Some days later we’re sitting at his dining room table – its boys night in and the hour is late; the remnants of our meal has been cleared away to the kitchen, two glasses of the well-chilled are before us as are two computers. Their respective cables stretch across the bare wood before trailing along the floor boards while various lists adorn random scraps of paper, post-it notes struggle to adhere to screen-edges and, in my open notebook track-listings are starting to take shape. Song titles have either been scratched through or have a tick beside them; other lists are emerging – the whole is slowly starting to take shape… <span style="font-style: italic;">So, which version of In A Circle do we go with? </span><br /><br />JR looks back to the bigger of the two machines and scrolls down a bit and presses play. As the song moves from the extended chorus to where the Sax and Hammond start to interweave, he says, <span style="font-style: italic;">Has to be the one with Steve… don’t you think? For me, there’s something really special here.</span> <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Absolutely… Don't think anyone's heard it before either 'cos I'm pretty sure that it wasn't part of the cassette that Webbo had up on his site for a bit… I’d say, it’s a better version too…</span> I pause. <span style="font-style: italic;">I mean… just listen to that, it’s just… floating… So, that’s a tick to that one…?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yep…</span> He agrees, <span style="font-style: italic;">That, Holmes, is a definite tick… So… moving on… what do we reckon for track four then..?</span><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwvNvPF2YpOJvCTPIUrRnNrzVlge0C5KbYP4rvU6kNO1UAMbyDi3EbSSSYhUr_8DR46YV0r7jC4v_x3Fslq' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-20691047884127764422011-03-16T00:10:00.003+00:002011-03-16T00:21:14.351+00:00Gimme’ Some TruthAccording to the BBC’s web site (from a story – www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-12701664 – posted on Monday, March 14th ), Cory Doctorow is not just an author. He’s also a blogger and a journalist… and… stand by your beds, Matron’s on her way… he’s an activist too. <br /><br />And, according to Auntie’s on-line presence, he’s passionately opposed to DRM (Digital Rights Management). Indeed it appears he’s pretty opinionated on the subject too since, in among many other quotes on that website within the self-same article, Mr and Mrs Doctorow’s son states: <span style="font-style:italic;">"The one thing that everyone should have uppermost in your mind when you're designing your business is that computers are never going to get worse at copying things."</span><br /><br />Wow… Cory, that really is revelatory stuff… and not just because of your grammar. <br /><br />Now then, that’ll be… Command (or Control) C for copy… and Control (or Command) V for paste… and, its been that way since… ohhhh… how long now..? Well, the Mac was introduced to the world on January 24th, 1984 and PC’s also use that same shortcut structure…… Ohhhh no… wait a sec, that’s not what he’s on about… oh heavens… nooooooo… <br /><br />Goodness gracious, Mr and Mrs Doctorow’s grammatically challenged offspring is banging on about something much more important… <br /><br />What’s that then? Well…. He – Cory D (lest we forget) – believes <span style="font-style:italic;">‘digital content should be shared freely and that copyright laws should be liberalised to reflect this.’</span><br /><br />Blimey… who is this radical thinker who’s discovered the road-map to Utopia? <br /><br />Well, according to the BBC, he’s a Canadian who lives in London, he writes best selling science fiction novels and co-edits a blog called Boing Boing… He also (apparently) contributes to the Guardian (online) and was, in 2007, named as a Young Global Leader by the World Economic Forum. Crikey… <br /><br />But wait… there is more… He is also a former director of the Electronic Frontier Foundation and (golly, how does he find the time) a co-founder of the UK Open Rights Group as well as being a leading proponent of Creative Commons. Errrm… yes… and that is..? <br /><br />In short, with a Creative Commons license, you keep your copyright but allow people to copy and distribute your ‘work’ provided they give you… a proper credit for so-doing. <br /><br />So… what kind of ‘work’ falls into this category? Well, according to a Google search with that very phrase in the title, Creative Commons licenses can be applied to all works that would normally fall under copyright, including: books, plays, movies, music, articles, photographs, blogs, and websites.<br /><br />I see… so… one get to keep one’s copyright… however… it’s also cool (<span style="font-style:italic;">maaaan</span>) for others to copy the work that you have copyrighted (as your own) freely. How splendid, how very forward thinking: that’s a bit like allowing free run with the photocopier in the nearest Public Library. <br /><br />I think those who read this little Voltaire out on its windswept knoll can safely assume that our newest Canadian pal, Mr Doctorow gets paid (ie, earns money with which he pays his bills) to write for the Guardian (online)… to co-edit Boing Boing… or… write his sci-fi novels… or sit on the Creative Commons committee. <br /><br />If not, then he either has very understanding backers or is someone of independent means who doesn’t need to work for a living. <br /><br />Either which way, the viewpoints he’s presented and as outlined within this BBC article are about as lop-sided as the Titanic was about ninety minutes after striking the ‘berg. <br /><br />The fact of the matter is… IF creatives do not earn (and copyright is rendered worthless – as described above) then those ‘things’ that we all enjoy (music / books / films etc) are gradually (no… make that rapidly) going to dry up. <br /><br />This Utopian idea as purported by Mr Doctorow of… <span style="font-style:italic;">oh, everything should be, like, free maaaan…</span> is as misguidedly imbecilic. <br /><br />Any internet economy based on that model or ethic will collapse like a pack of cards disturbed by the breeze when the door is opened. <br /><br />Consider – if you will – how newspapers are facing meltdown right now… For why? Well… you don’t need to buy one… do you? They’ve been giving away all their 'content' for nothing on the wibbly wobbly web for aeons… and all of ‘em (save Murdoch behind his pay-wall) are wondering why they’re hemorrhaging money. <br /><br />Duh… it's simple… you cannot give away your ‘goods’ for free and expect to break even let alone make a profit with which to invest in the future. Or, pay the bills. Or eat. <br /><br />If MC Doctorow wants to give all his work away for nothing… fine, that’s his choice. <br /><br />But, it is entirely wrong to purport the theory that it is the right way forward. It is absolutely not because that juvenile attitude is simply promoting the rape of creativity.Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-23221958477194956712011-03-08T17:08:00.008+00:002011-03-24T16:52:44.757+00:00Jess Roden | Song 3The room to the back of the anonymous back-street building in which I’ve been placed is, at best, serviceable; it is approximately fifteen feet square with walls painted a uniform, hint of a tint (but now-fading), Magnolia. Truth to tell, the colour scheme is actually more off-white with no tinted hint at all. <br /><br />There is just the one, metal-framed window. It is set annoyingly high on the far wall – presumably so as to preclude any view other than that of the gun-metal grey, rain-bearing clouds, scudding past on this dreary, mid-February, afternoon. <br /><br />Beneath the window is an oversized, malt-brown melamine-topped desk – more junior accountant than office manager. The right-hand border is scored with blackened cigarette burns that spread along its edge like so many decaying woodlice; I’ve seen fag-end burns like this many times before – most often on old B3 Hammond Organs played by the likes of Steve Winwood. <br /><br />On the desk and in a mug that’s known better days, there’s a half-drunk cup of coffee. It has been poured from a machine down-along the frayed-brown-carpeted hallway. Even behind the now-closed door, the percolator gives off its own signature odour of stale dregs at twenty paces. <br /><br />The entire place reeks of early-Seventies, Habitat-inspired, office functionality.<br /><br />My Moleskin notebook lays bare and untroubled (yet) by note-taking on the desk; my coat is hanging on a hanger that, itself, is suspended from the single hook on the back of the plywood door. My brown-leather briefcase is huddled against one of the desk-legs; much like a cat, hungry for its master’s affection. <br /><br />Spread across the stone-carpeted floor are plastic crates – some are green, others are Air Force grey while a few began life as shout-out-loud iridescent orange. <br /><br />Some are stacked, one upon another while others have been spaced apart in random order; all are heavily pock-marked – as if suffering from crate-acne – and scratched from being thrown into and around the back of Transit vans; their heavy contents man-handled with ease by burly men with muscles to match. <br /><br />Functional boxes which, in their own simple way, are simply that – since there is no other requirement… strong but serviceable; sturdy and utilitarian. <br /><br />And each of these containers that are approximately three foot long by eighteen inches by another eighteen or so in depth hold innumerable smaller boxes. <br /><br />Most of these are twelve-inches square; some are over two inches deep, some are slimmer volumes. All are stacked vertically and… sprinkled amongst them are a handful of smaller boxes – a mere seven inches square and slender in width too. <br /><br />All of them have been labeled at some long-past time or other; the labels themselves have been stuck on the actual box fronts – some have been scrawled on, some have a good deal of writing that’s been crossed out and replaced by other, almost-as-old, scribbles; some have a doodles and drawings while some of the labels have been neatly typed out. <br /><br />Like ancient hieroglyphics high on a wall on the inside of a Pharaoh’s tomb, they offer their own clues… hints that these boxes contain the treasure which, Indiana Jones-like I’ve been hoping to find for many months. <br /><br />Fast backwards: a restaurant from the Indian sub-continent on the main drag that connect Chiswick to Hammersmith; Popadum frenzy, Chapatti heaven and Korma bliss. Two Kingfisher beers have been part-supped yet we’re not quite ready for the next infill; the singer and writer of songs and I sit opposite one another.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“Sometimes,”</span> he muses, <span style="font-style: italic;">“I do wonder what still exists… Me and my bands, y’know… over the years… we recorded a lot; over at Basing Street and just down the road at the back of St Peters Square… And… now that I come to think about it, I do wonder what… might have survived.”<br /><br />“There was a lot that never got released… but… I suppose all that stuff probably got wiped… or, maybe recorded over… or, perhaps those tapes just got chucked out. I dunno… but… yes, absolutely, if you wanted to do your Sherlock Holmes thing and… see what really is there… then… yeah, I’d be up for that…” </span><br /><br />He sits quietly for a moment or two; a sliver of Naan bread held lightly in his fingers, hovering just above his side-plate. <span style="font-style: italic;">“Y’know… there was some really good stuff that we did… so yes… it’d be interesting to see what they have… but, honestly, I don’t suppose there’s very much. Another beer..?”</span><br /><br />Fast forwards a few months… the singer and writer of songs wanders back into his sitting room with two large glasses, each having been re-charged from the bottle of well-chilled in the fridge; a couple of reserves are laying in wait in the garage that's attached to the house... just in case. <br /><br />A real-fire hisses and pops in the grate… the gentle scent of top-notch Welsh lamb being oven-roasted in the kitchen across the hall mixes with the wood-smoke to permeate the air. A cat trails in after him and struts past the small, elderly dog curled up on the hearth. <br /><br />The singer of songs settles into the depths of the sofa as I sit on the floor, just in front of the drawn curtains in the bay window. There’s a MacBook attached to the stereo-system; speakers placed either side of the fireplace. <br /><br />A portrait of him, his young son and his wife taken at the time of the photosession for his first solo-album hangs, ever so slightly off kilter, above and to the side of the left-hand speaker. Books of eclectic persuasion stand to attention like so many soldiers line abreast on their parade-ground shelves. The lights are low with music in the air. <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“Y’know… I’m amazed at what you’ve found…already… and you say there’s lots more?”</span> His trademark eyes are lined by no regrets as he leafs through the box-front scans from today’s work-in-progress for project-X.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“This… y’know what it is..? It’s pretty much the whole album I did with Rabbit who nowadays plays keyboards with The Who… the one that CB</span> (Chris Blackwell – owner / founder of Island) <span style="font-style: italic;">kinda rejected… I mean, we kept one track… but… really, it’s quite incredible that you’ve found this.”<br /><br />“I mean, some of it is a bit… y’know… but… this one still stands up, don’t you think..? I have to be perfectly honest, though… I can’t really remember writing this let alone recording it… Let’s have a bit of a memory-jog.”</span> He presses play on the MacBook and the unedited song is counted in by an unknown voice and then sparks into life. <br /><br />Three minutes or so later, the tune gradually fades into the distance… the singer and writer assumes a far-away stare. Abruptly he says, <span style="font-style: italic;">“Heaven's, what kind of compression did we use on that piano..! That’s Mike Kellie from Spooky Tooth on drums… Pat Donaldson who played with The Fairports as well as lots of others is playing bass… that’s Rabbit on keyboards… and me strumming away on an acoustic guitar…”<br /><br />“Why is it listed like that on the box? Well… I never came up with a title for the song. I think… maybe… I was planning to call it Hallelujah or something like that… but… ‘cos it was the third song on the tape and had no proper title, the engineer or the tape-op would have written it up as that.”<br /><br />“I think we can stick this on the list as a definite for inclusion… don’t you..?”</span><br /><br />Ladies and gentlemen… this… really is… the very first Hidden Master we found… Song 3… by Jess Roden. <br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzCRH6HIVSDVB2iFvcaHBf4gNnka5bIWus3nhgr8D70qN1fZIOkStEZ1csAColOF7_luxJXLU7AF79RJgsEGg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />(nb, this is an edited clip – there being very real reasons why the full track isn’t being posted… a) this song has yet to be re-mastered (this is a lo-res MP3 audio) and b) to make it less attractive to the pirates - copyright must be respected. In time, however, this track – as well as the original non-vocal demo – will be part of the <span style="font-style:italic;">Hidden Masters : The Jess Roden Anthology</span> set that is in preparation currently).Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-63801649637574203332011-02-16T15:52:00.007+00:002011-02-16T18:18:23.417+00:00The Party’s OverSo, it’s the morning after the night before: The BRITS has been, gone and put back in its cupboard for another year.<br /><br />Collectively, the UK business of music is nursing a monumental hangover; drinks were drunk, little black dresses got crushed and without a shadow of a doubt, some woke up this morning with an unfamiliar person next to them – its not always that the best fun is had in the kitchen at after-show parties. <br /><br />Yet, while this is the British equivalent to The Grammys, it strikes me as being extraordinary that neither organising ‘committee’ on either side of the pond can get their own flagship ‘awards show’ anywhere near right.<br /><br />The Grammy’s, for example, have in excess of one hundred categories… that’s a bit like awarding a child at school a prize for attending class; you know – the modern <span style="font-style:italic;">‘no one is a loser’</span> ethic which, actually, stifles competitiveness. <br /><br />It’s also a way (they would argue) of covering all the bases… when the reality is that they (the Grammy organising wallahs) are simply finding more and more genre boxes into which they can conveniently put ‘music’.<br /><br />Have a look at category 108 and tell me about its relevance… please. It is: <span style="font-style:italic;">Best Long Form Music Video</span> and subtitled (presumably for the hard of understanding) as follows – <span style="font-style:italic;">For video album packages consisting of more than one song or track. Award to the Artist and to the Video Director/Producer of at least 51% of the total playing time.</span><br /><br />This little Voltaire out there on its windswept knoll would argue strenuously that there are only two of these cardboard boxes… one is marked good… the other is labeled bad. End.<br /><br />Anyhow, as a consequence of this boxing-off of genres, The Grammys go on for… hours… really they do; quite literally from mid-afternoon to lateish in the evening. How those attending get through that without resorting to the intake of advanced pharmaceuticals to stave off the boredom of all those acceptance speeches (Mum, Dad, my Record Company, Juan Pelota my underwear stylist, my managers, the person tending my Cairn Terrier, Auntie Joan, God and, before I forget… you – the fans!!! And, Mum – this if for YOU… etc etc) is entirely beyond me. <br /><br />Besides which, there are – in reality – almost two shows… the first (lengthy) segment isn’t televised… that’s when the boxes labeled ‘Best Sleeve Notes’ or Best Traditional World Music Album / Vocal or Instrumental – that being category 72 of the 108) are ticked and the (doubtless) worthy winner steps forward to thank God, his / her Mum and Dad, Lover, Dog (again), MTV, the Fans etc etc).<br /><br />To underline the absurdity of all the categories, back in 1996 Eddie Veeder said, when accepting Pearl Jam’s Grammy for Best Hard Rock Performance, <span style="font-style:italic;">‘I don’t know what this means, I don’t think it means anything.’</span><br /><br />The second part begins with the televising of the (ridiculous) parade down the blood red carpet when the interviewers ask, in the main, <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Who are you wearing’</span> to each of the freshly-coiffed contestants. The answers that spill from between their professionally whitened teeth seem to (somehow) add up to enough product placement-endorsement to satisfy the likes of Armani, Malandrino, J-P Gaultier, Pucci, Cavalli, Givenchy and D&G as worn by the Beiber-ling. <br /><br />After which, the main show begins with a mere twenty or so Awards… yet, this is so muddled as to make no sense… Best Recording is up against Best Song…? Errr. Hello? <br /><br />The BRITS, on the other hand, only had – by comparison – a handful of trophies to give out… in which were categories described as… Best Male… Best Female… yes, but Best Male or Female what exactly…? <br /><br />Well, in the former we had the likes of Paul Weller up against Robert Plant, Tiny Temper, Mark Ronson yet someone called Plan B won… other than observing that the ‘list’ is horribly mismatched, I find it hard to understand how someone like the constantly reinventing-himself Robert Plant isn’t recognised as being… the best. <br /><br />As to the other ‘best’s of the evening… Adele is being lauded by the ‘real commentators’ for her performance of Someone Like You – sparse and real, just piano and vocal. Sure, it is a great song but, I couldn’t help feeling that – while great – that greatness could have been embellished with strings to turn her performance into something quite remarkable. <br /><br />Money on a big string section that would, quite frankly, have been better spent by the organisers than on the horrid troops (sic) of totally unnecessary ‘dancers’ dressed up as quasi-Fascist riot police for Take That and… the aforementioned Plan B who reenacted some kind of eccentric court scene while strangling his lyrical language by rapping it at us in pure, unadulterated, estuary. <br /><br />Best hair on the night belonged to uber-puppet Beiber – he turned up, looking far to fresh-faced from a transatlantic flight to be real – no dark glasses for him unlike Cee-Lo who swung very low in his.<br /><br />Chaps – dark glasses indoors are a sign… a signal… of utter affectation; they’re not cool… not funny… not glamorous… they just make you look plain stupid. <br /><br />And, of the acceptance speeches… Laura Marling’s was – without doubt – the most real, most normal. I admit I was rooting for Rumer in this category but, Ms Marling – who looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights – was head and shoulders (sic) over the likes of Jessie J whose crocodile tears were as false as her eyelashes. Critics’ Choice..? Well, in that respect, those critics should be lined up against a wall and… because time will out on this, as I guarantee that, in five years time, people will be asking… Jessie who? And, the song was… Do It Like A Prude..? Nah, don’t remember that one. <br /><br />And… the best album… the BEST British album of the last year was… really… honestly… you’re telling me that Mumford & Sons’ record was THE BEST British album of last year… ok, I’ll accept it was better than Take T’at – who’re collectively fast becoming the Queen Mother of The Brits… I mean, they’re like a standard fixture aren’t they, rather like that bloke seen at every Rugby match, wearing a Union Jack coat and a top hat being the epitome of a British Bulldog by the touchline. <br /><br />And, James Corden… well, he looked (and acted) more like a safe Vicar who’d had one too few glasses of Sherry at Christmas… bumbling and smiling inanely. Time, if ever there was, to bring back a proper presenter or to say sorry to Jarvis Cocker and acknowledge that his stage invasion whilst wacko-Jacko was acting out his Christ-like tendencies surrounded by children was a genuine act that everyone in the hall that night (including self) wished they’d have been nearer the stage and been able to protest in like manner. <br /><br />Oh… and its about time that the background TV presenter stopped using the word Platinum… honestly, luv… no one out their watching from the comfort of their sofa knows what it means… neither is it impressive. <br /><br />But, hey, this was all about the ‘live’ music… wasn’t it…? Maybe so – and Adele and the rather loud Arcade Fire certainly showed how it could be done… However, the Mumblefords, scored a spectacular own goal by playing like a bunch of subway-buskers who are so ordinary that one hurries by without dipping the hand in the trouser pocket. <br /><br />And Rihanna… I’m told that was a medley of her hit… hmmm… clearly lip-synching, it was not far short of a total travesty; guileless style over minimal content… and with choreography (was that what it really was?) that was about as exciting as watching a parody of all those old Top Of The Pops routines. Grabbing your crotch while wearing a ?dress? that shows all and sundry that your bottom is the size of Trindad isn’t raunchy, its just plain sad. <br /><br />And so… the morning after… and as much-heralded 24 hours previously, up on iTunes are the live performances from last night to download and enjoy… for as long as one likes… <br /><br />Well, actually, that’s not quite correct – not all of the performances are there due to technical hitches (according to my mole); hitches like auto-tuning and lip-synching... ha ha!<br /><br />Be that as it may, some are... go to The Brits site and up there on the top right hand corner a graphic shows that the Cee Lo performance with Paloma Faith is available via iTunes… <br /><br />Except, its not… it is geographically challenged… meaning that if (for example) one is logging on from the US or Australia… its not available.<br /><br />Brilliant… how utterly fxxxxxg dumb is that? Someone in (say, Detroit or Adelaide) wants that recording and so how do they get it..? <br /><br />Here’s what they’ll do: they’ll go to YouTube, engage a gadget called AudioHiJack (a free download - about which I've written and emphasised the dangers thereof in relation to pircay before) and… press record… Four minutes and thirty-two seconds later and it’ll nestle happily within their iTunes folder.<br /><br />For free… that’s zilch… nada… nothing… FREE… <br /><br />Fuck me, but record companies are about as stupid as they get… one day, those that forge these licensing arrangements will actually understand that the web is a global entity… global equals worldwide… <br /><br />Is it any wonder that the ‘record companies’ are losing money / the war against piracy? <br /><br />And, as a final comment on the success of this year’s BRIT Awards… we need look no further than Music Week who have just announced that the 2011 awards had the lowest viewing figures for five years and was outstripped by not only the film, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding (6.5 million viewers against 4.7 for the BRITS) but also Holby City which attracted 5.6 million. <br /><br />Re-make / re-model..? Yes, please.Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-458458298755361503.post-73055129013772186932011-02-15T18:21:00.011+00:002011-02-15T18:53:53.285+00:00One Moment In TimeToday, via the auspices of Music Week – Britain’s one and only trade magazine for the business of music – came the news that tonight’s BRIT Award performances will be available online via a dedicated BRITS page on iTunes. All proceeds from said recordings will go to the BRITS Trust.<br /><br />This follows last year’s ‘experiment’ of the same which saw the collaboration between Dizzee Rascal and Florence of Florence + The Machine sell over three hundred thousand copies of their mid-February BRIT Awards’ on-stage mash-up. <br /><br />Not much to concern ourselves about here… is there?<br /><br />Not really… so long as those involved (the artists / their management / the musicians involved / relevant record companies etc etc) are all totally cool flying by the seat of their proverbials.<br /><br />And, so long as those who purchase said artefact of the night, fully understand what they’re shelling out their money for – ‘cos what the public will be offered to acquire will be nothing more than an officially sanctioned bootleg of song X / onstage collaboration Y.<br /><br />Perhaps I should set my stall out here and state that I believe live recordings contain some of my most favourite moments within all music: this is when it really is down to those four fundamental chords and the truth. Its when the magic of a band at the top of their game can send shivers down the spine; moments that can never be replicated – it is, for the moment and of the moment – a true snapshot in time.<br /><br />And, something that’s incredibly rare to capture since every single star has to be perfectly in alignment for it – the magic – to happen. <br /><br />Come with me, if you will and we’ll head off to Hammersmith Palais on the night of September 29th, 1980. <br /><br />This venerable building began life in 1919 as The Hammersmith Palais de Danse and, besides being a ballroom it hosted an ice rink and was also where tanks were constructed during the war besides doubling as a tram shed. It was also one of the greatest music venues in all of London… and I saw countless bands there… U2 supporting Talking Heads (standing next to Bruce Springsteen on the balcony and later helping smuggle his Broooceness into the dressing room so that Bono and Bruce’s first meeting could be committed to celluloid by (our) photographer who, himself, gained access to the inner sanctum through an open window); OMD, The Clash, the B52s, Nils Lofgren, The Cramps, The Alarm, King Sunny Adé , Orange Juice, The Waterboys and literally dozens of others.<br /><br />Its a warm, balmy early autumn evening… outside and inside some three thousand or so punters are gathered – John Curd the promoter of many Palais gigs was never that fussed with fire regulations that called for specified maximum numbers of an audience to be adhered to. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpj8WYEM1Q17lr8Qxr9LgkvI4V5TnMaphKXDhpxTmVSE8ugB4JcaxPC39YZgk1T_logQUh5RgyuD6pDKcjBQvd5VGXVru__XIi59cfoGI5rV417G3y34zA8AmNnotxsQgzq9fUU0cYhcE/s1600/TootsHammersmith.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 219px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpj8WYEM1Q17lr8Qxr9LgkvI4V5TnMaphKXDhpxTmVSE8ugB4JcaxPC39YZgk1T_logQUh5RgyuD6pDKcjBQvd5VGXVru__XIi59cfoGI5rV417G3y34zA8AmNnotxsQgzq9fUU0cYhcE/s320/TootsHammersmith.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573985558739892018" /></a> Edged up onto the pavement is a big truck; a mobile studio… cables spill from its innards like so much spaghetti, trailing into the venue via side doors. Inside this state of the art (for its time) articulated lorry are slightly-bearded sound engineer Godwin Logie, a veteran from Island Hammersmith studios, The FallOut Shelter and the ever-suave Alex Sadkin, imported over from Compass Point in The Bahamas to produce the recording. <br /><br />A large spliff smolders on the edge of the desk, the air is fetid with the reek of high quality grass. Marianne Faithfull and her then husband, The Vibrators’ Ben Brierly are hovering in the background. Richard ‘Hutch’ Hutchinson – more regularly employed as front-of-house sound engineer for The Jess Roden Band – meanders back and forth between his desk in the hall and the truck, checking and double-checking. <br /><br />Inside, it’s a cauldron of noise, heat and anticipation – the latter most keenly felt by those at the sharp end of proceedings. A little over a week previously, a bit of a plan had been hatched… we’re going to create a bit of history here by putting out the fastest live recording in history; the Guinness Book Of Records are in our collective sights. <br /><br />As near as dammit to the appointed hour, at nine pm, Toots and The Maytals bound on stage… theirs is high-energy reggae, not for them the languid build of a set… it kicks off in the overtaking lane with Pressure Drop (covered by label-mate Robert Palmer) and morphs along the central-reservation barriers almost seamlessly through classic Toots tracks such as Monkey Man, Funky Kingston, Time Tough and his timeless 54-46 That’s My Number… the crowd, predictably, go nuts… and, ninety or so minutes later… this one night of music is all there, committed to reels of two-inch, 24-track, analog tape.<br /><br />The guys in the truck have been mixing on the hoof; they have time for one more pass of the entire show to readjust levels before filtering out the songs that – for whatever reason – are deemed (in those pre-ProTools days) as being sub-standard… thankfully, the key Toots songs have made it… Crowd noise is edited… the song sequence is chosen… before that is run off as a final, quarter inch, stereo mix.<br /><br />A fast car is waiting… the stereo mixes – accompanied by Alex Sadkin – head to the mastering suite where the two sides of vinyl will start to take shape. The tapes are run through, levels are once again tweaked and the alchemy of mastering is underway; memory at a distance (in this instance) is hazy but, I’m pretty sure the knob-twiddler in chief would have been John Dent, one of the masters of this alchemic artform. In general terms, a good couple of hours would have been allowed for each track… but, on this particular night where time was of the essence, this vital process would have been cut to maybe two or, at a pinch, three hours max. <br /><br />In the background – and only once the final album running order had been confirmed – the artwork was being completed… and sent straight to the printers, bypassing the usual colour checking processes. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpUh55UcaU2ig2I987aJBMDZq7mBt-rBnY3TRz3HOqRVG3Xk78ToydX8PNQ9SX-SpkUuTBz9EQUvt5-esbeCpp40_4czTCD2IiIP4KxnRmSTcKBw0NIsNlOq2Jw5OVg28CJsRHz7PKSI/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpUh55UcaU2ig2I987aJBMDZq7mBt-rBnY3TRz3HOqRVG3Xk78ToydX8PNQ9SX-SpkUuTBz9EQUvt5-esbeCpp40_4czTCD2IiIP4KxnRmSTcKBw0NIsNlOq2Jw5OVg28CJsRHz7PKSI/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573985820343748658" /></a> Once the finished album had been mastered, the fast car was employed yet again – this time, destination EMI’s pressing plant at Hayes… the master became the laquer… the lacquer became the stamper that would produce the vinyl. The presses rolled early in the morning and each album was hand-sleeved… more fast cars stood by and, as record stores in London opened for business, the album was there to buy… recorded and in the shops in under twenty-four hours and yes… a few weeks later, the letter from the Guinness Book Of records people duly arrived. <br /><br />So… how does all that relate to this evening’s little BRITS exercise…? <br /><br />I’d say it was more down to the performance than anything… IF – and this a huge ask – IF everything goes according to plan for song X or Y then the sheer logistical exercise of putting that performance up on iTunes isn’t that much of a difficulty.<br /><br />That IF, however, should be written in sky-high letters. For example – and lets take as one example the Grammys from the other night… in which Bruno Mars’ (sort-of) tribute to James Brown, a song called Grenade went horribly, horribly wrong. <br /><br />For why…? Master Mars’ vocals were as flat as a pancake throughout much of the song… ooopsy, should’ve used the old auto-tune gadget, son… fixable after the fact in ProTools… yes, undoubtedly but… its time consuming. <br /><br />So, lets imagine that there is a cock-up with an instrument… violas are notorious but lets think about something more fundamental, the bass drum pedal is at the root of most songs isn’t it? <br /><br />So, consider what happens IF the mic isn’t securely-enough attached to the floor and, throughout performance Z… it moves… just a few centimeters but, trust me, that’s enough to matter. Why? Sonically (and noticeably) the song is out of kilter. Is it fixable… of course… ProTools to the rescue yet again. However… this, and trust me here, really can be time-consuming. <br /><br />It’s a process I watched unfold during one of the archive projects I’m engrossed in currently – we wanted to use a particular live recording (from The Marquee since you’re wondering) and an absolute belter of a performance it is too. <br /><br />However, during initial playback of the two inch multitracks something sounded… out… we couldn’t quite figure it out but, definitely something was wrong. My lankily-haired, cup-cake-eating, engineer cocked his head on one side… listened intently again and again then, one by one, started to ‘solo’ every single mic-input. <br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />‘Aha… found it… the bass-drum mic moved.’</span> he pronounced after an hour of twiddling. <span style="font-style:italic;">‘And the solution is…?’ </span>I asked – worrying that this might be a problem too far even for his skill-set. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">‘Well…’</span> he said, scratching what passes for a beard… <span style="font-style:italic;">‘I could take one bass-drum beat right at the start where everything is aligned properly and use that and put it back on every beat in the song… that should, in theory, do the trick… you might want to go and make a big pot of coffee, though… we’re in for the long haul… it’ll probably take the rest of the day.’</span> <br /><br />The song was nine minutes long and… it did take the rest of the day. Ultimately, it did get fixed but the point is, it would have been unusable without that fix. <br /><br />With the BRITS tonight… how will they do this; make sure that that we, the end-users – the iTunes purchasers, are on the receiving end of performances that are as good as they can be in every single way?<br /><br />Well, if they’re heading down the sheer speed route, I’d imagine its highly unlikely that they’ll use the actual performance from the televised show – there will be a safety net in place whereby the run throughs, the sound-checks will have been recorded and those performances will act as audio-security… perhaps with a live (auto-tuned) vocal laid on top. <br /><br />Why..? Well, I can’t imagine any of tonight’s scheduled performing (loosely applied adjective as that is) acts such as Take That, Plan B, Rihanna, Cee Lo or Tinie Tempah) comfortable enough with their own – raw – performances to allow anything sub-standard out there. <br /><br />Arcade Fire or The Mumfords… perhaps… but then again and in the cold light of day, would one want to really head over to iTunes and pay to download a copy of The Mumfords backing His Bobness, growling out a dirge-like Maggies Farm from the recent Grammys?<br /><br />You know what... quite honestly, I reckon its far better to leave everything as is... don't bother with the kerfuffle and uncertainty (and undoubted pressure) of recording to release from a show like this... leave it as a moment in time that can be found on YouTube in time to come, just like so many great performances where the visual combines with the audio - and its that which makes it work as well as it does - as a final example, Mick Jagger's solo Grammys performance of Everybody Needs Somebody To Love was hardly perfect but, the visual of Mick as man in motorway service station caught out by an over-hot hand-drier in the men's lavaotories, belting it out made it work.Neil Storeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844747663590337912noreply@blogger.com2