Musings on the byways of popular culture
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I was listening to Garnett Mimms and the Enchanters this morning, as you do, and I had a sudden I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue moment, You know…
‘Please welcome Mr and Mrs Garnett Mimms and their delightful daughter South.’
Any others? Don’t have to be soul singers…
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Get yourselves over to Beverly Hills on Friday and grab something from Walter Becker’s truly EXTRAORDINARY guitar, amp and pedal collection. Choose from 22 vintage Gibson amps, or grab yourself a reissue Gibson Melody Maker for $100-300. Or a uke for $50-100. Or a Japanese Strat he played on stage $300-500.
He liked a nice Strat or Les Paul, sure, but what’s super-extraordinary is the literally hundreds of custom made guitars, often half a dozen or more from the same maker, and the commercially made guitars from manufacturers you’ve never heard of. And the pedals…as you might expect, he was a bit of a pedal freak.
Do not enter the catalogue if you have somewhere to be any time soon.
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Been knocking up a nut roast for the tinies, their mum and dad, and me and the missus if we’re lucky, and my thoughts turned to cooking music. It’s got to be something I know and love, with no sudden skronking or other unexpected surprises that make me cut myself or bring Mrs thep running to remind me that we have neighbours above and below. But it’s not always that simple. Why? Here’s a technical interlude (can safely be skipped if not interested).
The wifi in my not very big flat is a bit flaky at its farthest reaches, which includes the kitchen. (Sometimes the wifi on passing buses is stronger.) So I’ve installed a mesh network, which has solved the problem triumphantly. But the Sonoi (One in kitchen, Beam under the TV) are still on the original network, which makes controlling the One in the kitchen with my phone a chancy affair – sometimes it just gives up. For some reason, however, controlling it with Alexa works fine every time. So complicated curating is out, the routine is, ‘Alexa, play x’, where x is a single artist or album.
Back to the original question: it has to be » Continue Reading.
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Some absolute toerag has stolen and trademarked the Bonzos’ name, the name they have been using since 1960-whatever, and they’re no longer allowed to use it. All perfectly legal apparently. Said toerag is now suing them for illegal use of their own name.
They’re crowfunding to fight it, a most worthy cause. I’ve lobbed in some GBP, and it would be good if all like-minded Bonzoids did the same. This aggression will not stand, man.
Full details at the link.
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I doubt this will winkle H P Kurtz out of his Mekong hideway, but whatever.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve posted this extraordinary 1962 waxing on here, most recently on the Pre-Beatles tunes thread, and not one bastard has ever to my recollection ever even admitted to listening to it, much less go Wow Mike, that’s amazing.
And it is amazing – the ethereal vocals, the unexpected chord progressions, the energy, all seem way ahead of their time. There’s more than a touch of Jefferson Airplane about it. I bought it when it first came out – one of about 12 people to do so, I suspect – and it still haunts me.
The group cut the two sides as demos for Joe Meek, and then tried them on Norrie Paramor at Columbia. The story goes that Columbia had a choice between the Beatles and Jill and the Boulevards, and may just have made the wrong decision…
Anyhow, it was the only single they ever made and the group went from obscurity to semi-obscurity and back again in no time.
Ladies and Gennelmen, I give you And Now I Cry, by Jill and the Boulevards, the » Continue Reading.
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…in which our hero displays a hitherto unsuspected talent for Cockney hoofing.
This popped up on Twitter yesterday, and I thought I’d bring some innocent merriment into your dreary lives in honour of Blue Monday, apparently the most depressing day of the year – a perfect day for the Maybot to present a Plan B that bears an uncanny resemblance to Plan A.
The entire movie is available to stream on Amazon Prime. Caution: may be subject to the law of diminishing returns.
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Feels important to let everybody know that Mr thep headed south to, among other things, beard (er…) Mr Wells in his lair. He met the completely charming Mrs Wells, Mr Wells’s legendary music collection, and Mr Wells’s collection of unfeasibly large barbecue tongs (barbie not pictured). Lunch was taken, including fresh not-fucked-up-on-the-barbie-by-Mr-thep whiting, and drink. Speakers were dragged into the back yard, and a good time was had by all, after which Mr thep got on the plane, still smelling faintly of fish.
If you’ve never been driven round Melbourne by Junior Wells while listening to Junior Wells on the car stereo, you haven’t lived.
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If like Mr & Mrs thep you were hard up in the 90s, chances are you took out a bank loan or remortgage to try and put things right. Chances are, unless you were less whimperingly grateful than we were, you were mis-sold PPI.
So far, so obvious. I’ve been watching all the ads from people hoping to help you reclaim the hard-earned while hoping to seize a chunk for themselves, but thought the bank (Lloyds in my case) would try to wriggle out of it somehow. Then one day I thought what the hell and got in touch with Lloyds.
Next thing that happened was the arrival of a huge sheaf of forms asking for information I had no hope of finding. So that’s that, I thought.
Next thing, a cheery bloke from Lloyds rings up. We haven’t had your forms back, he said. I told him why. Everybody says that, he said, and proceeded to walk me through some simple questions: address of relevant property, rough time scale (mid-90s was enough) and so on. It was obvious from the way he was talking that I had a case: ‘So I expect you did this, or that, didn’t you’ » Continue Reading.
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So I bought tickets ages ago for what promises to be a splendid theatrical show featuring the wonderful Karine Polwart and her beautiful songs.
Inevitably we are now not double- but treble-booked on that night…Stables aren’t interested in swapping the tickets for another night, so I’ve bought 2 more for the Friday night. Have a look at the links and PM me if you’re interested in going on the Saturday. With add-ons tickets are about £30 each. Not looking for face value, but a contribution to the destitute publishers’ whisky fund is always welcome.
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Harsh but fair.
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I have been asked to let you know that the Spooky Men are doing a short tour over there – I think they’re afraid nobody has heard of them. Of particular interest to @nickduvet and @black-celebration (I hope): St Matthew in the City, Auckland this coming Saturday. A splendid time is guaranteed for all.
The rest of you: as you were.
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…With sitcom characters. Hours of innocent fun…I’m sure some of our more Photoshoppy chums can add to these…
https://twitter.com/hashtag/ReplaceTheHeadsOfMusiciansOnAlbumCoversWithSitcomCharacters?src=hash
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This isn’t really a review, more of a heads up – I’ve only watched a few episodes, but I’m in for the long haul. It’s amazing.
We’re in Berlin during the dying days of the Weimar Republic. Our hero is a cop and WW1 veteran plagued by flashbacks and survivor guilt who keeps himself going on morphine. Our heroine is a sparky young woman who works as a police typist/plucky girl detective, with a little light hooking on the side to make ends meet, so to speak. (She’s the one in the front of the audience in the clip.) Ranged against them are sinister proto-Nazis gearing up to Make Germany Great Again, communist revolutionaries (helpfully identified by their Jeremy Corbyn caps), sinister Balkan gangsters – and of course their fellow cops whose motives are not always clear. It’s a glorious high-concept and high-production-value soup of politics, sex and violence, and I’m enjoying it hugely.
16 episodes on Netflix here in Oz (hurrah!), and Sky in Germany and the UK (boo!).
Not least among its pleasures is the music, which nods towards the period without being obsessive about it. A dead ringer for Buddy Guy plays raucous electric blues in » Continue Reading.
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Wisden Cricket Monthly has reappeared after a 14-year hiatus – 3 issues so far. Excellent reading for those that way inclined – good writers, plenty of archive material and of course loads of meat for the Stattos among us.
Best of all, they’ve all popped up on Readly, which is how I know about it. The mag costs 5 of your British pounds in the shops, so that’s half your monthly sub right there. Then there’s also The Nightwatchman, Wisden’s Granta-style quarterly, where you’ll find the likes of Simon Barnes expounding at some length. That’s a tenner a pop. As I keep saying, I don’t understand the economics of all this, but who cares?
Here’s a top leg-break to get you in the mood. That’s all.
https://youtu.be/_kegK6WSdCM
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It has been suggest that this zinger from the Orange One (though probably not written by him) would make the perfect first line for a short story.
Over to you. I’m sure the hive mind can come up with something.
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Anybody come across Walter Martin before? Very droll and goofy, and gives a slight impression of making it up as he goes along. School of Jonathan Richman, I guess. His first number, I Went Along on a Solo Australian Tour, is helped along by a barbershop quartet, naturally. He’s a former member of the Walkmen, who have passed me by, I have to say.
Give him a burl, as they say round here.
https://www.npr.org/event/music/567226768/walter-martin-tiny-desk-concert
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Venue:
The Northern Steamship Company, Quay St, Auckland
Date: 13/11/2017
Personnel: this was pretty much a scratch outfit, four expats who happened to be in the right place at the right time. Any fears that they might not gel were dispelled right away by a riff on a shared favourite album which came to no real conclusion but segued into a rollcall of favourite Afterword keywords: Bowie, Zappa, drummers, Stones, Depeche Mode, Stevie Wonder, H P Saucecraft, various aspects of politics, life stories, living in ANZ, and plenty of other things I can’t remember. Drink was taken, toasts were made, and bollocks was talked non-stop for about four hours.
[Interlude] Two nights earlier Nick and I found ourselves in a funky if hard-to-find basement on the edge of the Red Light District (allegedly) listening to a series of piano players doing their thing. Highlights included a young girl with the face of an angel playing Monk, a young Frenchman playing Mernk, and another young chap with a full range of blues faces playing an astonishingly difficult Scriabin piano sonata from memory. The main attraction though was none other than Mousey, playing selections from his Abbey Road album and chatting » Continue Reading.
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Saw this last night, knowing nothing about it and without any great expectations, but I really enjoyed it. It’s a romcom written and directed by none other than WA resident Ben Elton, with a great script, lots of laughs and a great cast, including Deborah Mailman, Michael Caton, John Waters, Magda Szubanski, and Rebecca Breeds, an actress I guarantee you’ll fall in love with (even if you’re a woman, if Mrs thep is any guide).
The trailer inevitably plays up the feelgood element, but but the movie’s got quite an edge to it too. It was a great couple of hours. Bonus: it’s got theremin playing in it!
Chances of it making it to Blighty are pretty slim, probably… but you never know.
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Folk who like to read and review stuff ahead of publication might be interested in this just-launched site.
Once you’ve signed up (and constructed a not-too-obviously-bogus persona for yourself) you can request proofs (ie ebooks) from a whole range of publishers including Bloomsbury, Penguin, PanMacmillan, Fourth Estate, Granta, Canongate etc etc. You have to be approved by the publisher whose book you’ve requested, and you have to say where you’re going to post a review, but I would have thought several hundred committed book-buyers on the Afterword would constitute a fairly convincing demographic.
So give it a go if you fancy it.
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A recent thread (can’t remember if it was the cheese one or the unfashionable artists one) got me thinking about Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, and how they had this glorious disco second coming in the 70s (see also: Bee Gees). Poking around in their back catalogue on Spotify, I came across their 1969 concept album, The Genuine Imitation Life Gazette, a wildly ambitious and personal (and stupendously uncommercial, I should think) take on US life and politics of the time.
It wouldn’t be true to say that they’d gone psychedelic, more that their careers were on the skids, they were chafing under the restrictions of their own history, and they’d taken advantage of the new creative and artistic freedoms that the psychedelic era made possible. The music itself is more in the neighbourhood of MacArthur Park and other Jimmy Webb epics, with a bit of Van Dyke Parks thrown in – and of course the occasional sitar or wah-wah pedal. Have a listen to the title track (complete with Hey Jude quotes) and you’ll see what I mean.
This got me wondering if any other pop stalwarts from the early 60s had taken a similar route. Turns out » Continue Reading.
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I’m no great fan of jazz flute, and Herbie Mann would be right down the bottom of my list of favourite jazz flootlists. He made far too many albums – 42 in the 1960s alone – and plodded down far too many blind alleys, including getting down with ver kids.
But this, which turned up in my Spotify Discover playlist, is beyond appalling, and I felt i had to share. It starts off pleasantly enough – nice guitar by Larry Coryell in the background – but then degenerates into a dreadful noodlefest completely devoid of ideas and inspiration. And it goes on for ever, until it subsides into pleasant enough again.
It was Hunter S. Thompson’s campaign choon when he ran for Sheriff in 1970. No wonder he didn’t win.
Anybody agree/disagree?
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Beatles socks. “…the limited edition collection is an everyday reminder that all you need is love.”
Riiight…
As an example of the higher bullshit this would be hard to beat, surely?
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…and hobbits, interestingly enough. These and many more come from a list of names for ghosts, fairies etc collected by a C19 antiquarian. It seems pretty likely that Tolkien would have read the list, being something of an antiquarian himself.
Anyhow, I’m sure our lives would be enriched if we used these words as often as possible. Can we think of anybody who could be described as a chittifaced clabbernapper?
You can read more on Denham Tracts on Wikipedia, and also find a link to complete texts.
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All this talk of bangers* has got me wondering (and because I happen to have bought some of mine this morning). (And because I’m in a frivolous devil-may-care mood.)
My favourites are the Italian fennel sausages from Pennisi, Balaclava St, Woolloongabba (beat that for cultural diversity). Thick, meaty and no extraneous nonsense just like a good sausage should be (quiet at the back), and tasting delicately of fennel. You have to butterfly them for the barbie because if you don’t the outside is incinerated before they’re cooked in the middle. But boy, are they good.
What’s yours? Just to get you in the mood here’s an oo-er-missus song for you.
*Mysterious cultural divergence footnote: in Oz bangers are called snags.
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…should you happen to have a couple of long spoons with which to sup.
The Telegraph are offering a year’s membership of Amazon Prime, worth £79, if you take out a year’s sub for £100.
If only it was the Grauniad. But I’m putting this out there as a public service anyway.
