Could make this better. In any way.
Betty Wright Clean Up Woman
At Mini’s request on the “Lurkers” thread, a Yacht Rock thread.
What is it? Well, I guess, music that would sound good on a yacht as you glide around Catalina bay or the Med. Yet it’s hard to define. It’s not Easy Listening exactly. Or less still, Guilty Pleasures. Or is it?
It could be Fleetwood Mac. Or The Doobie Brothers. Could it be British? Sure, How about How Long by Ace. Sail On Sailor, yes. Sailor’s Glass Of Champagne? Probably not. Wait, maybe. Oh heck you decide.
It’s probably mid-tempo, slickly produced, well played, well sung. Good in other words.
As a starter, I’ve gone with prawn cocktail. And musically, something with a suitably nautical theme Brandy by Looking Gkass
Led by a charismatic coach who has tournament winning experience and tactical insight. A man able to formulate a plan yet allow for situational adaptation and intuitive action.
A team that has growing maturity and confidence with unity at its core allied to an indomitable mindset.
A group of coaches and players who avoid cliched responses and platitudinous commentary.
Seemingly at ease with themselves and their fans who support them passionately but without aggression.
On the other hand, there is England’s football team.
As an eleven year old, I fell in thrall to Deja Vu. It was my first taste of the holy sacrament that is The Rock Album. Immediately, I was seduced. The stiff cardboard, almost mock leather, cover. The sepia tinted photography. The promise of new stories, more complex than those told by Chicory Tip or Edison Lighthouse, my former fancies.
I had, literally, no idea who they were but loved the way they looked and loved the way they sounded. Only later, did I read about the craziness, the competitiveness, the contractual conflicts. All I heard was magic.
And, despite my subsequent Punk led adventures, rebellion fed Reggae binges or drug addled House experiments, C and S and N and Y – have always been quietly present. A hidden treasure. A guilty, if you call it that, pleasure.
The track I’ve selected may not actually be my favourite. It’s certainly not their best. It’s from one of their many comeback albums but it carries their essence. Sounding slightly fucked up, slightly fucked off. Simultaneously careworn and carefree. Perfect poetry one minute; Off the wind on this heading, lie the Marquesas. We got eighty feet of the waterline, » Continue Reading.
Madeleine LeBeau. Madeleine the beautiful.
She played Yvonne, Bogie’s jilted lover in the immortal Casablanca. Her impassioned singing of La Marseillaise providing an indelible image.
The passion was genuine. She had fled Paris with Jewish actor Marcel Dalio in 1940. They braved a hurricane torn Atlantic to escape from Lisbon to Chile. Dialo using connections to get them to California and Hollywood.
The rest – c’est l’histoire.
Just watched a bit of the 10cc documentary and they were probably a better band than given credit for. Not least by me.
What struck me listening to songs like I’m Not In Love and I’m Mandy Fly Me, for the first time in ages, was how good a singer Eric Stewart is.
Control, phrasing and sweetness of tone. Possessing a soulful quality , with a hint of husk and a touch of break. I’d compare him to Colin Blunstone and even Paul McCartney. He’s that good.
Apart from singing, Eric Stewart is an accomplished producer, writer and guitarist. Good looking too. Dormant man crush rising.
When great singers are mentioned, you never hear much about Eric Stewart – but you should. He’s a great singer
Any thoughts on who else never gets a mention as a great singer, but is one?
Roy Greenslade in The Guardian lauds the Current Bun and its lampooning of the Police and the inconsistent, not to say perplexing, no to say asinine, approach it is taking to high profile cases currently.
The piece is quoted in full below.
Thoughts? —————————————————————— The Sun has registered its outrage and incredulity at the decision by the Metropolitan police not to charge the peer it pictured and filmed appearing to take drugs.
In July, the Sun on Sunday ran photographs, plus footage on its website, that seemingly showed Lord Sewel using a rolled-up banknote to snort white powder, which the newspaper maintained was cocaine.
“Lord Coke”, as the paper termed him in a headline, was shown partying with two women who were said to be prostitutes and, following the exposure, Sewel resigned from the House of Lords, where he was deputy speaker and chair of its privileges and conduct committee.
Two days after the initial story was published, Metropolitan police officers raided Sewel’s flat in London’s Dolphin Square and launched an investigation into the matter.
But the Met issued a statement on Tuesday saying: “Following a review of all the material, including a forensic examination of an address in » Continue Reading.
We love all kinds of tunes and tracks but often there’s a particular which gets us in the ear or the heart or the guts. That bit that goes…
Maybe the scream from Won’t Get Fooled Again. Or the horns building in Beyonce’s Crazy In Love. Or the forlorn defiance of the line “Fuck me up” from Ryan Adams’ Come Pick Me Up.
A recent post about David Ruffin reminded me how much I love. love, love the husky falsetto he breaks into at several moments in Walk Away From Love.
He can’t go higher you think – and then he does.
Heard to good effect at 1′ 33″ in version below.
So, what’s your favourite bit from a favourite choon?
That bit you love. You know, when it goes…
Google spies on us. The government spies on Google. Other governments spy on ours. Spy drones. Spy clones. That bowtie is really a camera. Snowden and Assange The news is full of stuff about who knows what and how they came to know it.
Songs please about this kind of thing.
Jamo Thomas I Spy For The FBI
Who starts these things? Think it’s fascinating how certain memes take hold. I work with clients who are desperate for their marketing messages to “go viral” They very rarely do. Dollar Shave, Old Spice and the John Lewis ads are rare exceptions. And the more they become “a thing”, they less they become something meaningful. As people can smell a shill a mile off.
Anyway, right here, on The Afterword blog where did acronyms like GLW, TMFTL and HJH orginate? And what about phrases like “As usual the answer is ..(David Bowie?) or “Afterword T-Shirt. I’ll take that in a black, XL” and variants, how did they emerge?
Answers on a postcard. There’s another one from long ago.
This is the most naked, the most honest thing I’ve heard in years. Perhaps ever. It ain’t pretty but curiously beautiful. Heartrending and somehow uplifting.
Jason Isbell – Elephant
In the Blatter thread, Vulpes suggests that since we invented the game, we make some changes to the rules, sorry Laws, of the sport.
I think this is an excellent suggestion. I propose the following to stamp the inherently English origin of football back on the game.
This is what I propose:
1. Insist that all players wear woolen shirts and plus two trousers. 2. Rename positions such as Midfielder to Yeoman Half-Eighths and Striker to Advanced Bowman Major. 3. Insist that all transfers are calculated in Guineas and paid as their Farthing amount. 4.The pitch be the same size and dimensions as the graveyard of Winchester Cathedral. Graves and headstones an optional extra that the Home team may impose. 5. The goals should be unfeasibly small at one end and unfeasibly large at the other. 6. Only one “half” known as a “half” should be played. Thereby, giving the team winning the toss and choosing to kick towards the unfeasibly large goal an unfair advantage.
Addendum to law: Needless to say, that any English team winning the toss will always choose to kick towards the unfeasibly small goal, handing an outrageous advantage to their opponents.
Gentlemen and Ladies » Continue Reading.
And as I run, a song runs through my head. Over and over.
I’m running down to the fields. We said we’d meet in the fields. Near the stream. We’ve been told not to go in the woods.
We scare each other with stories about Archie. He lives in the woods, they say. He killed someone, some people say.
“He’s harmless. But stay away from him” shouts my mum as I run out. “And, anyway, don’t go in the woods”.
Run into the sunshine. To the fields. To the stream. To the woods
I am not sure who’s coming. Tim’s coming. He makes me laugh so that’s good. Paul’s going to be there. And his sister, Caroline.
Why am I excited to be seeing her? Girls are silly. She cried when Paul scared her with his Archie story. I told him off. He told me off for telling him off. He had a point I suppose. She is his sister, after all. What’s it got to do with me?
I keep singing this song. We all like it. We sing along every time it comes on the radio.
We sing it in the fields. We » Continue Reading.
During his time, Football has become truly embedded as *the* global game. With an audience of billions and the active participation of tens of millions.
The same sponsors who now mimsy around like delicate ladies at a tea dance flooded money into the game because of its global reach and the ability to capitalise on its associated virtues of individual endeavour and team spirit.
The idea that Coca Cola and McDonalds and Visa should now wield some kind of moral arbitrage in the matter is vaguely nauseating.
The upside of the money that did flood in was the development of the game in some of the most deprived and underprivileged parts of the world. Blatter himself overseeing the creation of pitches and facilities in far flung parts of Asia and Africa.
The principle that a country like Russia or a region like the Middle East should not be entitled to host a World Cup is ludicrous. Football has been a force for good in many parts of the world and has played a part in social change. It should be allowed to continue this work.
And by the way, why shouldn’t Monserrat have the same voting power as, say, » Continue Reading.
Gook splat. Gook gunk. Ankle deep. Blood seeping through his shoes. Try it on she said. Try it on she laughed. That gook kid. Gook dead. Blood seeping. Ankle deep.
American Tabloid is great. The Black Dahlia is very good. But all his novels are pretty much the same aren’t they? Stacccato. Sentences. Tight. Claustrophobic. No fluidity. Little grace.
Characters like his sentences don’t really evolve. Don’t grow. Have shade or nuance or subtlety. The men are all venal and corrupt and weak in ways various. All the women are tarts with hearts. Or good girls gone bad. They like their men tough and their sex rough. Then they die. At the hands of weak, venal, corrupt men. The cast of thousands becomes impossible to follow. Especially as they are all so similarly drawn. The hundreds of pages difficult to read. As it’s not writing. It’s typing. Page after page. Same shit. Over and over. I bought Perfidia, started to read it. Gave up. Page 162. I’m gonna try again. Some time. I know I will.
So is Ellroy any good? I sort of want to think he is. But is it boy music? Do we like Ellroy, the » Continue Reading.
Don’t be bashful. Don’t be humble. Unless humility is your greatest strength, of course.
I’m talking character, traits, attributes. Rather than skills. Such as your ability to play Scott Joplin rags on the piano with one foot , while operating the Sky remote with the other.
My greatest strength is decisiveness. The ability to assess, plan, act and then move on.
Have I always made the right decision? Probably not. Supporting Spurs turned out to be pretty hairbrained. Going to a Boston project at 4 a.m to score coke, monumentally stupid.
And it’s not to say I don’t reminisce about people, places and events, I do. Often. Just that, broadly speaking, I am comfortable with what I did and why I did it. In business and in life.
So, look us in the eye and say
“My greatest strength is…”
when early summer is here. As a poet almost said.
I love London on long holiday weekends. Quietens down. Thins out. You can find seats on transport, tables in restaurants. And space. In open places. Your space.
Ran back to my place from hers earlier. Got a coffee. Sat on the top of Primrose Hill. Saw what I saw and felt happy.
So, wherever you are, England or elsewhere, hope you have a good weekend.
Feel free to post a song, an image, some thoughts about where you are, what you’re doing
Saw an article about the Mac in Mojo. With a picture of Stevie. I remember being in physical pain if I saw her on telly when I was a lad. Somewhere down the crazy river of teenage longing.
Probably explains my lifelong predilection for women of a boho bent. A slight hippy vibe. My ex-wife Anna had a touch of that. Foxy, feisty and a doctor too. Man, I was gone. Solid gone.
May explain too my fondness for girls with boy names. There’s been an Alex, a Robyn, a Billie, and, oh yes, a Stevie. A Californian called Stevie! Dark hair, mind.
Some things pass. And some things remain. The things you love. The names of girls.
Aunty Christina died yesterday. She was 84. Twenty five years older than her sister my mother was when she died.
I was in the hospital as her breathing faded and her life ebbed away. And a life it most defitely was.
My mother was girl next door pretty. Big boobs and great legs. Fun, lively and popular.
Aunty Christina was beautiful. Model beautiful. Ghost beautiful. Distant beautiful. A shoreline in winter.
And she broke hearts. Wrecked marriages. Ended lives. One of her lovers throwing himself under a train the night she left him.
She married three times. To an artist, a theatre director, and finally, a banker who loved her devotedly for nigh on three decades. I once commented on the longevity of their relationship, saying Tony, her husband, was a good man. “Yes” she agreed. “A good one, and a gay one too. That’s why it works, darling”.
She and my mother were not close. Unalike in temperament or in looks. Hardly surprising as Aunty Christina was, it transpired, adopted. The truth emerging one tumultuous Christmas.
Aunty Christina died yesterday. I rarely cry. Yesterday, I did.
One weekend long ago, when I was » Continue Reading.
I’m going out in a bit. With my current stepping out with person. She is 35. She wants me to meet her friends, God help me. What on earth will I talk about to them?
I mean, I find Massive Attack, thrillingly modern and bleeding edge hip. She and her chums were barely germ free adolescents – if that – when Blue Lines appeared.
Germ Free Adolescence! Bloody hell! They won’t get that reference. The Clash? They’ll say “oh yeah, I’ve heard of them. Think my parents might have one of their records. Wait, isn’t it a pub in Shoreditch? Not sure..who’s for another Dirty Martini?”
Dirty Martini? Didn’t I see them at the Roxy? I’m confused. If I start talking about Thatcher and Lewisham 77 and The Who at The Valley, I’ll sound like a boy soldier who joined up to serve with Kitchener.
I think she’s told them I’m “older” but not the Ancient fucking Mariner for God’s sake! They won’t believe me if I said I’d pull all dayers in the office followed by all nighters in Soho, or the other way around, off my tree on gak and vodka.
Bloody Oasis ruled » Continue Reading.