I am a Child

My soon-to-be-10 younger daughter came into my room this morning, just after I woke up. She climbed into bed with me, and we chatted. I reminded her that this was the morning when she would be going off to the park with two friends, all on their own - the second time this has happened, and the first under my care. She said she was sorry to be going off and leaving me at home. I said there was no need to apologize, and that this was just part of growing up. Imagine, I told her, being 21 years old and still coming over to my place and doing all the same old things on a Saturday. I informed her that when she's 21, I'll have just turned 61, and might be old and decrepit. Always full of odd, but touching, insights, she replied, "You might be like my child by then. That's okay, as long as you keep fit and don't break your neck or anything, it'll be alright." I will try, my child.

Everytime You Touch Me (I Get High)

I wrote some time back about my brief encounters with Charlie Rich, who possessed a talent still woefully under-appreciated today, and who was probably the first committed genre-buster in popular music - a common enough stance today, but one which was probably incomprehensible to the record company execs of the day. This piece, a jazz samba reworking of his 1975 smash country hit, from his final album, once again underlines just how versatile he was. And the baritone solo by Fred Ford just takes it to an entirely new level.

Scenes from London life

Happy Friday!

And not a moment too soon.

Hell on Earth Halloween bash (1992?)

Photo by Patty Padgett. Part of the legendary Bob's Lead Hyena. L-R: Stoten Outlan (v), Jim Duckworth (g), Roy Berry (d), Brian ? (not in this band but a member of Voodoo Village People, among others), and me (I did play bass with them at one point as a replacement for Johnny Williams, but I can't remember if this was one of those occasions.) Not pictured - Mark Gooch (g), though that could be him I am looking at. This was such a wonderful band, but sadly short-lived.

Love's Gonna Live Here

I would have never expected that Andy Williams' passing would provoke a deep reaction in me, but it has indeed made me search back in my mind to the kinds of artists I was fortunate enough to be exposed to by my parents as a child, the kind of influences that contributed to my ability to understand and appreciate the broad spectrum of music I enjoy today. I can recall clearly watching the Buck Owens TV show as a little boy, and maybe that's why I have such an abiding love for his music to this day. Or maybe it's just because it's heartfelt and awesome, and I have good taste. I suspect it's a bit of both.



However, one of the things I like doing in my own work is inverting the mood or intent of the original version of a song, to create a conflict or a disconnect. In Buck's version, the tone is one of optimistic certainty, but I think mine sounds desolate and broken. Sorry, Buck, I like them both.

Go, Linda, go!!!

Really wish I could have been in attendance as an observer for this. (I did "phone in" three mp3s, however, so I was in the room, in a manner of speaking.) I think it would have been fascinating to see a different line-up playing the "Transformed" album, in its own unique interpretation. I think this is the beauty of Linda's emerging model of forming "collaborator cells" (my term, not hers) in key cities (we are ready in London, I can now say with confidence), such that the only constant throughout is her and her material, and the possibilities for interpretation are theoretically infinite, because I know she will always surround herself with the right people to make it work. Onward!

Sun Child

So Long, Andy

Andy Williams died today. His voice is one of the clearest auditory memories of my childhood. When I was little, my parents' musical palette ran from country to Broadway to The Beatles to a bit of classical to Sergio Mendes to Dionne Warwick to Andy. And Andy was in heavy rotation, as I recall. I guess it's also noteworthy that the first time I ever saw the Jackson 5 was on the Andy Williams Christmas Special, which I recall being a big deal in our house, as seasonal communal TV went. Croon on, Andy.

Huun-Huur-Tu Live

In the period 1992 - 95, I was an itinerant Japanese teacher in an early years languages pilot project (called Project SAIL) in the Memphis City Schools, which meant that I spent a lot of time driving between six different schools dispersed across the city, which gave me a lot of time to listen to music and sing as I drove. At some point in 1993, I happened to see a documentary on TV about Tuva one night, which featured some throat singing, which I was already familiar with from some Mongolian recordings I had, and this coincided with the release of the seminal Huun-Huur-Tu album "60 Horses in My Herd," which I bought and listened to obsessively for the next couple of years. All those hours spent driving around Memphis gave me a chance to experiment, and I eventually worked out how to do throat singing, after a fashion, and I have employed it occasionally recently, as well as on the track "All Things Fall Away" on the wonderful Linda Heck album "Transformed." These guys are truly astonishing, and it's also worth remembering that this band also spawned the awesome Yat-Kha, and brought harmonic singing to the masses. 

Libertyland

"Covered with barbed wire, land of the free, Libertyland, baby you and me." It was a delight to stumble across this lost gem recently. The Marilyns were one of my favorite Memphis bands of all time, and I saw them countless times, recorded them in one of their later incarnations, and recently covered one of their songs. This was shot by Ron Easley at the Ornamental Metal Museum on the banks of the mighty Mississippi, probably in 1984. From left to right: Jeannie Tomlinson (now Saltmarsh) - vocals, Kim Kruger - guitar, Marilyn Albert (then Duckworth) - guitar and vocal, and Jim Duckworth - drums. Libertyland was Memphis' fairly unspectacular amusement park attraction, now long gone, which did have one saving grace - the Zippin' Pippin. It was a bit of a laughing stock, even in its heyday, but it did give us one classic song.

Under the Big Black Sun

One of the best albums of the 1980s, in my view, and I think the vinyl still sits in a closet in Memphis, TN. I hadn't thought about it in years until a few months back, and now I don't seem to be able to get it out of my mind. Fortunately, it's available as a playlist, for the edification and enjoyment of those who don't know it, and as a blast from the distant past for those who do. I have yet to meet anyone in the UK who has heard of X, though I see they are making their way over in November.

Up On Cripple Creek

Levon Helm, perhaps the only genuinely good singing drummer in history.

Scenes from London life

The Magic of Memphis

A couple of weeks back, I had the pleasure of playing a 45-minute solo set at a new venue just up the road in Forest Hill, called Canvas and Cream. It's an amazing place, and I'm pleased to say that the lovely management have asked me back again, on 4th October, on a bill with my friend Paul Betts and the ever-amazing Flamexicano.

Shortly before it all kicked off, I was sitting in the garden behind the venue with a couple of people, one of whom mentioned that a drummer with a studio just around the corner had once played with Isaac Hayes, and had photographic evidence to prove it. They were all amazed at the idea of photos of Isaac, and for most people in the normal world, that would be entirely understandable.

At that moment it hit me full-on in the face. I grew up in Memphis in the period 1974 - 1995 - a place where one might casually wander into a friend's house and find a rockabilly legend, wait on a genre-hopping genius, see Sam Phillips out mowing his lawn on a regular basis (my mother once had Al Green as a member of a school focus group, just for the record), have Al Jackson's wife as a teacher and see him dropping by the school, be befriended by an awesome artist who happens to be the niece of Duck Dunn, meet Alex Chilton on a friend's sofa and subsequently form a sort of friendship with him. That sort of place, just normal life.

Well, that may have been normal for Memphibians of my generation, but for the rest of the planet it is the stuff of legend, which brings me back to Isaac Hayes. Back in the early '90s, I lived a couple of blocks from Squash Blossom, a health food restaurant and grocery store on Poplar Avenue in Midtown, Memphis. Almost every time I went in there, which was frequently, Isaac Hayes was there. Normally he was just ahead of me in the queue, and as one friend recently pointed out, he had an annoying habit of ordering the last slice of the vegetarian pizza. I never actually spoke to him, which I regret, but he always seemed like a very likeable and approachable person, and his skin was amazing, a veritable baby's bum across all of his visible body.

Ue o Muite Arukou

To the non-Japanese reader, this song may be familiar as "Sukiyaki," the Kyu Sakamoto smash of 1963, which I remember hearing and loving as a child. When I was teaching in Japan, I had four different groups of co-workers to socialize with, being based in city hall, but mostly rotating between three junior high schools. This meant that every social event marking a key date in the calendar (New Year, end of school year, etc.) found me receiving four different invitations to boozy nights on the town, inevitably culminating in late night karaoke sessions. I typically was called upon to do "The Tennessee Waltz" and "I Left My Heart in San Francisco," which I always happily did, but I also had managed to learn this one by virtue of having a copy of the 45 back home, and I would insist on singing it if they would let me, which they always did.

Linda Heck & The Train Wreck played this a few times live, as a country number, which always baffled and impressed people. The lyrics are simple, but very moving, if you speak Japanese, that is. (The lyrics of the Taste of Honey version in English bear no relation, just for the record.) The title translates as "I'll Walk Looking Up," and the song makes clear that this is so the singer's tears won't spill from his eyes, as he walks alone at night remembering days in the springs and summers of his life, the details of which we are left wondering about - but it must have been heavy. Happiness is beyond the sky, beyond the clouds. Sadness lies in the shadows of the stars, of the moon. A literal translation would make it sound lame, which it isn't, so I'll refrain.
 

Swim and Sleep (Like a Shark)

I find the cover image here a bit disturbing, but this is a beautiful song.

Viv Savage, philosopher

Scenes from London life

Live Rust

I listened to this album obsessively when it came out, and I think I saw the "Rust Never Sleeps" film at least three times when it was on its fairly limited release. I hadn't really spent much time with it in recent years, but I stuck it on the iPod ahead of my American trip during the summer, and it ended up being the dominant soundtrack through four states on the drive back to Memphis from the Texas gulf coast. In particular, I have fond memories of how well it suited the journey up Highway 61 from Vicksburg to Memphis, in the brilliant Delta light of late afternoon on a beautiful summer's day, a day I won't soon forget.