Bought - John Menzies, Argyll Street, Glasgow, 1982

Take that!

I am going to start here, not because it’s the first record I ever got, but because it is the first from which I can trace a line through my teenage years and beyond.

I bought this in John Menzies in Argyll Street, in the space now occupied by TK Maxx. This was my favourite shop throughout most of the 70s, mainly because when I entered it I would inevitably leave with a new scribbling pad and a packet of felt tips, crucially containing a new black one. It was always the first to go. 

John Menzies had a record section right up at the back. I was still sufficiently spooked by Virgin Records on Union Street to avoid it if I was going shopping with my mum. After all, there were punks inside. Who probably sniffed glue.

So, John Menzies it was. It had the added value of a large poster rack, which was liberally stocked with pictures of that tennis playing girl with her arse hanging out.  You could sometimes sneak a swift look on the pretext that you were browsing for an A3 Angus Young.  

I didn’t buy this the year it came out, but the following year. I was sufficiently thrilled at the Number of the Beast album, and knew there were other Iron Maiden albums. This, of course, had the selling point that Eddie was holding a bloody axe, having recently offed some poor Duran Duran fan or something. It was grim, and seemed to be taking place in some neon lit nocturnal world evoking memories of TV broadcasts of the Yorkshire Ripper hunt. There was something really seedy about it too, with the barely glimpsed silhouettes of people getting up to actuall shagging behind the net curtains, starting the trend in Iron Maiden covers for seeking out tiny details in the artwork which used to keep us amused for literally minutes at a time. Our teenaged selves where nothing if not prurient.

Hipsters sneer at metal, possibly because most of them are drawn from the middle class. Despite claims to authentic northern working class heritage, it’s probably a fact (I say probably because I have absolutely no way of knowing; you just have to trust me on this) that most Smiths fans, for instance, were probably nice middle class students. Metal fans, on the other hand, recognised the essential escapism of the music. This was music of the working class, in ways that most other 80s music, with its shiny surfaces and aspirational messages, wasn’t. It also didn’t pander to a kind of frayed cardigan elitism of the dispossessed in the way most indie music of the 80s did. There was community in metal music, and it celebrated it in songs such as Denim and Leather, by Saxon, the anthem of the NWOBHM. It was a community of sweat soaked gigs, of provincial watering holes reeking with the smell of cider and lager, of small record shops and market stalls selling patches and bootleg t-shirts.

Iron Maiden fitted this world perfectly. For a start, their logo was easy to draw on your school folders. All you needed was a ruler and a set square, both of which came handily bundled in your start of term maths set. They also had really cool covers which translated into really cool t-shirts. And of course, they had the tunes. Number of the Beast was a number one album, heralded by a top ten single in the form of Run to the Hills. Looking back on it, it seems utterly mental to think of a song about warring cowboys and Indians sharing airtime with the Wham Rap, but it did. What really sold me on Iron Maiden was the spoken word introduction to the title track, though.  Spooky voiceovers were in at the time – witness Vincent Price’s turn on Thriller, also from 1982 – and from the moment I first heard those words from the book of Revelation, echoing round Chris Taylor’s living room from his big brother’s picture disc edition, I was sold.

The trouble was, my own big brother, as they are wont to do, had already decided to buy the album. Hence, I was content to dip into the back catalogue and shell out for Killers. I can’t remember how I paid for it, but I do remember being quite chuffed to own such an obviously transgressive artefact. However, this wasn’t Bruce Dickinson singing; this was some weird looking bloke with short hair, who sounded like he had been gargling with shattered Irn Bru bottles. It was clear why he had to go. He looked like a punk rocker, and that wasn’t really cool in 1983, at least, not to me. In fact, this was a very different beast altogether, if you’ll pardon the pun. For a start, one of the tunes had acoustic guitars on it. I was reliably informed by my brother that this meant it was “really heavy”. Strangely enough, Prodigal Son has ended up one of my favourite tracks on this album, perhaps because it is so unlike anything the band have produced since.  The album also contains a fair dose of the speeding, punkish energy of the debut album, but the arrangements are tighter and the production (the first by Martin Birch) is slicker and more powerful. I confess I had to dig the album out to check what was on it, and even after listening to it still can’t remember how Another Life goes, but Wrathchild is still a beast of a tune and possibly the best their best from those pre-Dickinson days.  

I will probably return to Metal as I blog my way through the shelves over the coming months. I was a massive fan of Iron Maiden in the 80s, and saw them live probably more than any other band, mainly because they seemed to tour every year. However, most the albums in the house belonged to my big brother, and by the time he flew the coop I had moved on to other things. I still keep a place for Killers, though, mainly because it was one of the first few albums I bought with my own money, and also because every eleven year old needs an album with a horrific axe murder on the cover, doncha think?

George Michael and his Swollen Epiphany

So, George Michael takes the Olympic opening ceremony as his opportunity to wallow in egotistical shite bath to remind us all how ill he was last year. I can’t really describe how annoyed this made me, but by jingo, I’m going to have a go.

George, there is a time and a place. The fact you have seen fit to make your new single a self-confessed ode to your near death experience is surely enough reference to what should really be a private matter. This whole tawdry spectacle offends me for the simple reason that I think he’s making far too much out of it. And before you call me a heartless bastard who should just allow his tracheotomy scar its little moment in the sun, let me explain.

I have a personal axe to grind here. Barely a month after George left his enforced stay with the intensive care nurses to confront the world’s media on the lawn of his Hampstead home, I found myself facing exactly the same predicament. A very nasty case of double pneumonia resulted in a hospital stay of three weeks, including two in intensive care where I languished in a medically induced coma as my body fought off various complications. Eventually I got better, but not before my family went through hell wondering if I was going to pull through and I had spent weeks lying in bed waiting for my strength to come back.

George seems to labour under the misapprehension that he had some kind of life changing experience that we are privileged to share with him via the medium of his tedious dance-pop. He claims there is some kind of mythical “white light” waiting for us as we ascend to the spirit world. Of course, George isn’t claiming to have got religion: he’s got the pop star’s next best thing, the uselessly vague term “spirituality”.  Excuse me, Mr Michael, but what exactly does that mean? Spirit of what? The only spirit I remember from hospital is possibly the white spirit they used to swab my catheter. I mean, get Catholicism or something: at least it’s a creed.

Why pop stars insist of assigning some kind of spurious significance to any major health scare, as if every bump in the road was a readymade epiphany waiting for the juggernaut of their massive ego to thunder over it in a blaze of self-regarding publicity, utterly eludes me. I can confidently assure anyone who is interested that there is no white light waiting at the gates of paradise or elsewhere. All I remember is confusion, nightmares, hallucinations, a feeling of being choked and an endless beeping sound from the various machines I was hooked into to keep me alive.

Maybe I’m just not as “spiritual” as George. Maybe only those so preternaturally gifted as the former shuttlecock stuffing pop star can truly appreciate the significance of death brushing past you in the corridor like a cold draft from an open door.  All I know is I am thankful to the doctors and nurses who kept me alive and brought me back to my family, who let me hold my wife and my son again, who gave me a chance to keep on acting out this random pantomime. Did they get me closer to my spirituality? Frankly, no.

George, make a donation to your local ICU, file it under “lucky escapes”, then get back to what you do best: singing songs about shagging strangers in public toilets. And cut down on the spliffs, as they aren’t good for your fragile lungs.  Anything else is just crass grandstanding and you should keep it to yourself. 

Anyway, here's his fucking video...

White Light

Inside the Cult of Manowar

It’s not that often that you find yourself standing in a crowd of men raising your arm in salute and chanting “Hail and Kill!” In fact, to my normally liberal sensibilities, there is something not quite right about such behaviour. When Pink Floyd drew parallels between fascist rallies and rock concerts, it may all have seemed like vague millionaire whinging and tortured metaphor, but now I’m not so sure.

But why have doubts when confronted by the sheer bollock rattling volume emitting from what appears to be a PA system beamed in from some masturbatory sonic fantasy? Conversation is impossible, but in any case, what would be discussed?  The only subject here today is METAL, as brought to us by its undoubted overlords, Manowar.

There’s no denying it: truly they are the Kings of Metal. We know this because they tell us, repeatedly.  Manowar is a metal version of those motivational speakers who teach you ways to pump your confidence so that in the end you truly believe you can conquer all who stand in your way. They are the Paul McKenna of motivational metallurgists.  

For those of you yet to experience their singular vision, here’s some backstory. Manowar were formed in 1980 by bassist Joey DeMaio, guitarist Ross the Boss and vocalist Eric Adams. Typically, they’ve had a succession of drummers over the years, most notably the handlebar moustachioed Scott Columbus. For most of their career they’ve ploughed a lonely furrow, fighting against what they term the forces of False Metal, typified by the spandex, hairspray and inherent “pussyness” of prevailing eighties rock trends.  They’ve weathered changes of musical fashion by staying firmly in one place, and if anything are now even more fundamentalist in their vision of metal Valhalla.  Even in their fifties, they can still be found clad in animal skins and leather chaps, their bulging biceps lightly oiled and gleaming in the pyro. They have performed with 100 piece orchestras, recorded a version of Nessun Dorma, and performed the William Tell overture as a bass solo. In short, they rock.

Manowar are here in Glasgow for the first time since 1984 to celebrate the 30^th anniversary of their debut, “Battle Hymns”.  Many of tonight’s audience have waited since then to see their heroes return, judging by the expanding waistlines and receding hairlines in evidence.  Metal fans are unfailingly loyal, and this is especially true of Manowar’s. Numerous examples of the band’s fantasy themed artwork adorn bodies and clothing, and the merchandise stall is doing brisk business, even at 30 pound a t-shirt. Should you get lucky, you can even buy Manowar condoms, known as “Warrior’s Shields”, tastefully emblazoned with the romantic legend “Rock, Drink and Fuck”, which may or may not be intended as instructions.

Like any successful business, Manowar is a brand. Everything is calculated to appeal to their core audience, from their artwork of muscled warriors and busty submissive wenches to songs such as Warriors of the World, Metal Warriors, Hymn of the Immortal Warriors and Hymn of the Immortal Metal Warrior of Steel. Okay, I made the last one up, but they will probably get to it eventually. So precious is this brand that bootlegging or photography is policed with frightening efficiency, with guards aiming laser pens at errant camera phones.    Most fans here paid almost sixty quid a ticket and have likely spent the equivalent on merchandise, so perhaps it seems somewhat churlish to deny them the chance to take a photograph of their heroes, but Manowar are so definitively of a bygone age perhaps they fear their souls may be diminished.

So the faithful have gathered like storm clouds over distant plains, although the Army of Immortals fail to fill the entire venue and the upstairs balcony remains resolutely closed.  As the band hit the stage to their theme song, dubbed, naturally, “Manowar”, I am struck by two things: the sound is perhaps the clearest I have ever heard at a rock concert, but it is also, surprisingly, not that loud. After all, this is a band who achieved Guinness Record status in 1984 with a performance of 139db, over 50 decibels above the recommended safe limit.  My ear plugs remain in my pocket, but it’s a cunning ruse. Once the levels are set, the volume fader goes ever upwards. By the time the third song is reached, my ear plugs are in and the music is actually beginning to affect the composition of my internal organs. The band power through their debut album in its entirety, and I allow myself a definite tear of nostalgia as “Battle Hymn” reaches a thunderous climax of feedback and screams.

And then, we stop.  Just as the audience are warming up, the band announces an intermission. The idea of such bloodthirsty warriors nipping backstage for a quick pee, cuppa and maybe a cheeky scone seems oddly out of place. I scan the hall to see if a scantily clad pleasure slave has emerged from the wings bearing Manowar’s own brand of choc-ices, but it seems we are to stock up on alcohol in readiness for the concert’s second half, which arrives soon afterwards with yet another increase in volume.

There is no doubt Manowar are in great shape. DeMaio, with his long straight black hair, resembles a Cherokee chief on the warpath, his expression seemingly carved out of granite while he plays his bass in the manner of a lead guitarist.  Adams possesses a voice to match the bulging of his muscles, which bring to mind Clive James’ memorable description of Arnold Schwarzenegger as a “condom stuffed with walnuts”. Guitarist Karl Logan operates with the studied demeanour of a classical musician, peeling off the mighty riffs like flesh from a thigh bone.  

It is all ridiculously entertaining and performed utterly straight faced. Manowar truly believe in everything they sing about. They are on a mission, and would, should it come to it, “Die for Metal”, although why such sacrifice should be required is left unclear.  Their lyrical view, when not dealing with motorbikes and heavy metal, is firmly focussed on mythology of either Norse or Greek origin. The overall effect is Wagnerian in intensity and intent, which perhaps explains their popularity in Germany and Greece. 

Unusually for a metal band, they don’t really go in for Satanism, and references to Hell are more likely to refer to Hades than any Christian notions. Instead, they hark back to an idealised paganism or warrior society, and although they profess to stand for freedom, they do so by adhering to a strict code of behaviour. Honour, sacrifice, death, victory, vengeance; these are the main pillars of Manowar’s religion. 

In our age of irony, when nothing can be taken at face value and everything must be approached with a knowing smirk, such dedication is commendable.  This crowd knows exactly what they want and Manowar are happy to deliver it to them, re-affirming a sense of belonging and community which may be sadly lacking in other areas of life.  Manowar exist outside the whims of fashion, standing up for what they believe, whatever that might be.  With their eagles, swords, and black and red hammer emblems, as if Albert Speer was in charge of creative direction.  Allied to DeMaio’s dedication to Wagner and the fascination with power and domination, there’s something disturbingly familiar about their iconography. Is it any wonder that extreme right wing idealogues, such as Greece’s Golden Dawn party, draw their support from disenfranchised working class males, much like Manowar’s audience, unhappy with their perceived powerlessness in the face of encroaching modernity?

I could be reading too much into this and I’m certainly not accusing Manowar of being fascists. Maybe I am, in the parlance of Manowar, a False One, an unbeliever. But, as I raise my imaginary Hammer high, shout “Hail and Kill!” with my fellow fans, and watch DeMaio prise the strings off his guitar with his bare hands, I feel strangely exhilarated and somewhat spent.  And you can’t ask for more than that from a rock and roll show, can you?

PINK FLOYD - LEGACY FATIGUE

Once again, those caring, sharing people at EMI are, in all their beneficence, inviting you to part with your shekels to buy the music of Pink Floyd.

In this era of heritage rock, when anyone who managed a top 20 single sometime between 1965 and 1985 can be called legendary, there are few bands held in higher esteem than Pink Floyd. Hardly a month goes by without them gracing the cover of one of the few remaining music magazines. Classic rock radio stations bulge at the seams with the sound of Dark Side of the Moon, while legions of new bands queue up to proclaim the genius of those terribly well- spoken chaps with a penchant for concept albums about the nature of human despair.

In short, they are everything I should hate. I once attended a concert by the Australian tribute act, called, with breath-taking literalness, The Australian Pink Floyd, at the Albert Hall in 2004. Expecting an evening of hilarity amid like-minded freaks, I was disappointed to find myself amongst an audience seemingly comprised of engineering graduates and members of provincial college rock societies. There were mullets and satin bomber jackets, for Christ’s sake. Even more worryingly, there were acres of Division Bell t-shirts.

Yet, of all the bands I have followed over the years, its Pink Floyd I keep coming back to, like a murderer returning to the scene of the crime. What is it about this most peculiarly English of bands which so appeals? Brett Anderson of Suede, in a rare moment away from using the word gasoline as an inappropriate adjective, once pointed out that they are simultaneously enormously popular but incredibly obscure, and therein lays their appeal.

As a youth, I vaguely remember my dad having library copies of Wish You Were Here and Animals lying about the living room. I was transfixed by these weird covers. Pigs floated serenely over grim industrial landscapes, while faceless business men from the pages of nightmares made incomprehensible offers in the wilderness and burning men shook hands on deserted back lots. It was the kind of landscapes which populated dreams, the kind of landscapes which were somehow intriguing to my eight year old self but which also said, somehow, that this was something you approached with caution. I had a similar feeling when I opened one of my dad’s art books and found a Magritte painting which transposed a facial portrait into the form of a naked woman. In short, this was something decidedly adult and therefore attractive.

Imagine my surprise when these strange beings appeared in the charts in 1979. Not only that, they hit the Christmas No. 1 spot. With a weird disco type tune about hating your teachers. And it was in my Christmas stocking. Hooray!

I listened to Another Brick in the Wall obsessively. I even listened to the B-side, One of my Turns, but had no fucking idea what it was going on about. I wondered at the strange cartoons in the video, and though how cool it would have been to be one of the kids in the video, running happily through a wet council estate while pondering the inequities of a cruel system. Or something. To this day, I could probably whistle you every single note of the guitar solo, infinitesimal semi-tone bends all.

Throughout the eighties I was obsessive about The Wall. I even, for a few years, thought the follow-up, The Final Cut, was one of the greatest records ever made. Thatcher was in power, you see, and anything which reinforced my opinion of her as an evil hag was all right by me. (Incidentally, I don’t think Pink Floyd ever got enough credit for coming out in opposition to the Falklands war on that album. Can you imagine any other pickled 60s survivor doing something similar? Genesis? Yes? Eric “Enoch was right” Clapton?) And, as Wham! reigned supreme and most of the people at my school looked to U2 and Simple Minds for their thrills, I found solace in the portentous strains of Comfortably Numb, Not Now John and The Fletcher Memorial Home.

Of course, I came to realise that The Wall is an album which is best listened to when angst ridden and fourteen. The Final Cut is altogether too personal to ever be considered a proper Pink Floyd album, and, apart from some searing solos from David Gilmour, is pretty much a Roger Waters solo album in all but name. I can’t say I listen to them at all these days, unlike many of the people at the Albert Hall, who probably have side three of The Wall on repeat in their fucking Vauxhall Insignias.

However, what they did do was open the door to the exploration of a remarkable back catalogue, which even these days continually reveals itself anew to me like a shy lover in the waxy light of a stolen bedsit tryst. The peculiar English misery of many of Waters latter day lyrics seems to strike a melancholy chord as our world becomes increasingly confusing. Of course, it’s also worth remembering that we approach most things with the arrogance of all generations, assuming that our particular version of impending Armageddon is somehow more valid than any other. When “Dark Side of the Moon” came out, the Vietnam War was drawing to its bloody denouement, Israel and her neighbours were littering the deserts of the middle east with burning tanks, the Bahder Meinhoff gang were getting busy, and the streets of Northern Ireland were already running with blood. Apart from the latest series of X-Factor and the upcoming global financial meltdown, what do we really have to worry about? As the years go by, it all seems rather quaint, and it seems quite sobering to think that Pink Floyd’s magnum opus was released only thirty years from the battle of Stalingrad. Of course, it’s all relative. We think we are in dangerous times, therefore we are.

The band have all but dismissed the music made between the departure of Syd Barrett and their eventual commercial flowering with Dark Side of the Moon, but I maintain that it is here that their most enduring music is to be found. Take “Obscured by Clouds”, the album immediately preceding “Dark Side…,” made for the soundtrack to Barbet Schroeder’s hippy flick “La Valee” . Knocked off in a couple of weeks it contains some wonderful moments, not least Rick Wright’s lovely piano ballad “Stay”, which finds its writer once again grappling with guilt at rock and roll’s illicit pleasures of the flesh, like any nice grammar school boy would. There is also the marvellously portentous drone of the title track, where synths gather like storm clouds over a primitive drum machine while Gilmour’s stately slide guitar soars like a B-52 overhead.

I’d quite happily never hear most of the orchestral cow pat that is Atom Heart Mother ever again (apart from the funky middle section) but the second side comes alive with “Summer 68”, a strange kind of chamber pop piece totally out of kilter with just about anything else the band ever did. Gilmour still retains a soft spot for “Fat Old Sun”, his first good Floyd tune, and it’s easy to see why, even if Nick Mason’s drumming is hilariously inept during the guitar solo.

Virtuosity, though, was never the main reason to like Floyd, which is why their music has weathered the storms of the great Prog Rock Purges better than some of their more studied contemporaries. At the heart of many of their finest moments is a sense that they were just, well, arsing about, such as the fortuitous piano note which kicks off “Echoes”, which to me beats the more favoured “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” for the title of “Best Floyd Epic”. At times, this could be embarrassing, such as most of the studio half of “Ummagumma” or “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast”, but occasionally it would yield enduring hallmarks of experimental rock such as “One of the These Days”, built around an echoing pattern on the bass. When Pink Floyd stopped arsing around, their music suffered and became predictable.

Of course, predictability is the one word which could never be used to describe Syd Barrett. His time as leader of the band was brief, yet his presence casts an enormous shadow over everything they have done since. To many, Pink Floyd ended the day the rest of the boys decided not to pick him up for a gig. Syd, his mind blown either by incipient mental illness or a massively heroic dose of LSD and Mandrax, drifted off into reclusive legend, leaving the legacy of a pair of remarkable solo albums and one full album with The Floyd. But what an album.

“Piper at the Gates of Dawn” certainly has its faults, but there as an artefact of Brit psych it makes Sgt Pepper look like Brothers in Arms. Certainly, it toned down aspects of the band’s live act to suit the straight laced EMI studios, and the version of Interstellar Overdrive doesn’t really measure up to the Joe Boyd produced original featured on the soundtrack of Peter Whitehead’s movie “Tonite Let’s All Make Love in London”, but to listen again to Astronomy Domine and try to figure out just where this music was coming from in 1967. Barrett’s chromatic chord changes and glistening, echo-laden guitar glissandos have no precedent in British pop music, while his focus on the dark inner space of childhood resonated with the acid drenched climate of the times. And has there ever been a song as gleefully and unselfconsciously mad as “Bike”?

So, we are now promised “immersion” sets of the classic albums, starting with “Dark Side…” and “Wish You Were Here”, replete with reproduced memorabilia, various rarities, posters, coasters, alternative mixes – in fact, all the usual bollocks we expect when a major record label decides to make the pips of loyal fans squeak one more time. How much more re-mastering can they take, I wonder, before the oddities and foibles which made them unique are leeched out and we regard the albums as little more than the musical equivalent of the remains of a plate of half time oranges at a school football match? Can we, as fans, really take any more of this?

I don’t think we can, and I think EMI’s policy of drip-feeding Floyd fans with the occasional rare nugget bundled with new versions of the same old albums is flawed. Why not release a series of CDs containing all the rarities, outtakes and rare live recordings in one place, including the final Syd Barrett recordings, “Vegetable Man” and “Scream Thy Last Scream”, in proper quality at last? I’d be willing to replace all the bootlegged mp3’s and old cassettes for a proper, official release, and I’m sure many others would too. Look at the success of The Beatles’ Anthology to see how it could be done.

Alas, they probably won’t, and the music industry will continue to vanish up its own arse while selling ever more spurious collector’s items to superannuated “fans” who last bought a new album sometime around the turn of the century. And, as the last member of the Australian Pink Floyd is buried beneath the last re-mastered, quad sound, 5.1 DVD Audio SACD super heavyweight vinyl mix copy of “Dark Side of the Moon” (with special 3D backstage pass reproduction), those of us who actually cherish the maverick spirit of the band’s original incarnation as avatars of the English underground will breath, breath in the air and let out a sigh of relief.

The Abiding Influence of Nick Drake

Originally appeared on Radio 2 website as part of promotion for a documentary hosted by, of all people, Brad Pitt.

It's an oft repeated cliché that only 500 people (or something similarly insignificant) bought the first Velvet Underground album, but all of them went out and formed a band. The same may not be true of Nick Drake, but as his cult reputation has grown, so has the number of artists citing him as an influence on their own music.

The first major re-appraisal of Drake's work came with the release of the Fruit Tree box set, containing all three of his original albums, in 1979. This was a largely unprecedented move for an artist so obscure, and was a testament to producer Joe Boyd's continued faith in Drake's work - when he sold his Witchseason Production company to Island Records in the early 70s a precondition was that Drake's albums would never be deleted.

The albums gradually accumulated a small but dedicated band of admirers, including REM guitarist Peter Buck and ex-Television guitarist Tom Verlaine. In the UK, ex-Duran Duran member Stephen 'Tin Tin' Duffy called his band The Lilac Time after a line in Drake's song River Man. Dream Academy's Life in a Northern Town was dedicated to Drake, even as his albums continued to sell to an ever growing band of devotees who cherished his work like a family heirloom.

By the turn of the 90s Drake was being cited as an influence by artists as diverse as country rocker Lucinda Williams, Robyn Hitchcock and Mark Eitzel of American Music Club. However, actual covers of Drake's songs remained thin on the ground, apart from the fabled acetate of Drake songs recorded by Elton John as publishing demos in 1969 shortly before finding fame in his own right. Original copies are extremely rare – although you can find it on the Internet if you look hard enough.

The release of Island Record's Way to Blue compilation in 1994 was met with rave reviews, while Drake was rapidly becoming the hip name to drop. Paul Weller was introduced to Drake's music by his mates in Ocean Colour Scene, and the mellow pastoral vibe of his 1994 comeback album Wild Wood was directly inspired by it. Latterly, artists such as Turin Brakes, Kings of Convenience and Kathryn Williams have all come in for Drake comparisons, not always justified, as did Belle and Sebastian, largely thanks to Stuart Murdoch's breathy vocals. Perhaps the best known fan is Badly Drawn Boy, whose Hour of the Bewilderbeast album bore the unmistakable mark of Drake's influence. Norah Jones has also recorded a cover version of Nick's song Day is Done.

Drake's latter day renaissance has also been fuelled by television programmes, radio documentaries, numerous articles and a fine biography by Patrick Humphries. But perhaps the strangest appearance of this quintessentially cult artist was in 2000, when Volkswagen used Pink Moon in a US commercial, introducing thousands of new fans to Drake's music for the first time.

Mick Fitzsimmons

Cat Stevens - A Musical Journey

Feature article written to promote Yusuf Islam's return to the spotlight. Interestingly, I met the former Cat Stevens as he was leaving a studio in Broadcasting House. I, and various others, were gathered round a small television set watching the second plane crash into the Twin Towers. The next day Yusuf Islam was all over the papers appealing for tolerance and calm. I have to say, I found him a thoroughly decent chap.

In late September 2001 Yusuf Islam gave one of the most revealing interviews of his career to Radio 2's Bob Harris. From his youth in London's West End, through his pop stars years and his subsequent conversion to Islam, it's a fascinating journey.

Cat Stevens was one of the most popular artists of the 1970s, with a string of best selling albums which virtually defined the concept of the sensitive singer songwriter. Albums such as Teaser and the Firecat and Tea for the Tillerman were classics of their genre, and his tours regularly sold out. Rising again after an abortive career as 60s pop star, Stevens' introspective and often highly personal songs connected with a huge audience and made him a star.

Then, in 1978, he turned his back on it all, embraced Islam and changed his name. For many of his long time fans, it was a baffling decision - why would a man who appeared to have it all throw it all away? Now, in a major interview for Radio 2, Yusuf Islam charts the long journey from pop stardom to religious enlightenment and reveals the reasons behind his decision.

Steven Giorgiou was born in London in 1948, the son of a Greek Cypriot father and Swedish mother. He was raised in the heart of London's West End where his parents ran a café, just round the corner from the then heart of the British music industry, Denmark Street. Young Steven developed two consuming passions, music and art, and initially fell under the spell of Bernstein's West Side Story when it opened in nearby theatreland in 1958. The arrival of The Beatles in 1963 inspired him to get his first guitar, but he was also listening to blues and folk music.

POP STAR
Early demos (one of which is included on his new boxed set) led to a deal with the fledgling Deram label. Along the way he changed his name to Cat Stevens and before long found himself a bona fide pop star, with hits such as Matthew and Son and I Love My Dog. However, sudden fame carried its own pressures. In February 1968, he was admitted to hospital suffering from tuberculosis.

"I felt I was on the brink of death," he tells Bob Harris in the programme. "At the same time I had incredible hope. I kind of made the best of it as much as I could. Now I had a break I could review myself and decide where I wanted to go and not necessarily where my agent felt I should go."

By the time Stevens left hospital he had started writing songs again. He told Melody Maker: "I think I will just use guitar as backing. I'm not doing a traditional folk thing, but a contemporary thing - my own version of folk, if you like." He had also started studying various religions, and his new material reflected this mood of reflection.

The first evidence of this new direction was the Mona Bone Jakon album, which emerged in May 1970. The new decade brought a new Cat Stevens, now sporting long hair and beard. The album reintroduced him to the charts, but it was the follow up, Tea for the Tillerman, which launched him onto the international stage and gave him his first top ten in the states. The follow up, Teaser and the Firecat, was even more warmly received, producing three hit singles.

THE TURNING POINT
Stevens' star would continue to rise, but within himself he was becoming increasingly troubled. Typically, this was addressed in songs such as Sitting or the Majik of Majiks, which contained the line "What kind of man can make me turn/and see the way I really am". The beginnings of an answer came to him when he was swimming in the Pacific near the home of record company boss Jerry Moss. Caught in a strong current, he found himself fighting to get back to shore.

"There was no-one on this earth who could help me and I did the most instinctive thing," he told Bob Harris. "I just called out and said 'God, if you save me I'll work for you' and in that moment a wave came from behind me and pushed me forward."

The following year his brother David gave him a copy of the Koran as a birthday present. Increasingly drawn to it, Stevens began losing interest in the music industry. In December 1977 he formally embraced Islam at Regent's Park Mosque and soon after changed his name to Yusuf Islam. The Back to Earth LP, released in November 1978, was the final Cat Stevens album - with no artist to promote it and no chance of a tour, it sold poorly, but by now yusuf had no interest in playing the pop star game.

FAITH
In the years that followed he devoted himself to his faith. Initially he channelled his efforts into the establishment of the UK's first Muslim school, but by the mid-eighties he began giving lectures at universities throughout Britain. Increasingly he's been an articulate spokesperson for Britain's Muslim community - in the wake of the September 11 atrocity he was once more called upon to defend his faith, advocating peace and tolerance at a time of anti-Islamic hysteria. He's also made forays into recording again, with the spoken word album The Life of the Last Prophet in 1995. 2001 saw the release of a box set, collecting work from all the stages of his career.

Strange as it may have seem to many of his fans, Yusuf Islam is far happier today than he ever was at the height of his stardom in the seventies. He also seems to have come to terms with his former life, working with A&M in the production of the box set, writing some touching liner notes and contributing previously unreleased material.

"Being more mature now," he writes, "I've managed to make peace with my past, as it's making peace with me. Certainly there's a mutual gain for reflecting on both phases of my life and although I consider the here and now perhaps to be more important there are still many people who appreciate my past ephemeral stages and the lessons they represent."

Mick Fitzsimmons

The article can also be found, along with lots of other interesting stuff, on Yusuf Islam's official website.

Just out of interest, here are some more reviews written for the BBC Music Website.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/music/reviewers/9vvr

I even got my own page and everything!

Summer Sounds

To almost paraphrase Captain Boyle from Sean O'Casey's "Juno and the Paycock", I look up at the sky and ask meself, "What is the sun?" As I look out the window we are in the midst of an unseasonal spell of sunshine. I am currently working my way through the almost 20 minutes of La Dusseldorf's "Cha Cha 2000", a shimmering electronic groovefest driven by Klaus Dinger's trademark motorik beat, and it strikes me that it's perfectly suited to the weather.

In fact, loads of music from the 70s seems to conjure up the sun for me. Perhaps it was the regular heatwaves, or perhaps its just the strange hindsight that renders everybody's childhood shiny and bright, but if it's a beautiful sunny day I find myself inexorably drawn to the music from that wonderful decade. And I don't mean disco (although that, of course, has its place.)

On the other hand, the 1980s for me are characterised by drizzle. And even "Club Tropicana" can't change that. In fact, it actually conjurs up images of sodden espadriles queuing up outside some shady Essex "nite spot", the whiff of hairspray and odour of Bezique heavy in the dreary air.

Martin Carthy and Norma Waterson Interview

Interview conducted with Martin Carthy and Norma Waterson, Saturday 3rd August 2002, as they prepared for an appearance at that year's Cambridge Folk Festival.

Neither of you are strangers to the Cambridge Folk Festival. Can you remember the first time you played here?

Norma Waterson I was here at the very first Cambridge festival in 1965. It was small - one stage in a field and a few seats out the front. Paul Simon was on, and the Clancy Brothers. It was a pound to get in.

Martin Carthy I was on the second one and it wasn't much bigger. The first one he had to make a thousand pounds to break even. And he did and that's why it's still going.

NW The thing I really remember was the Clancy Brothers arriving on site in an open top jeep. They roared through the crowd in this open top jeep. Nowadays pop stars would come in on helicopters.

The most obvious change for Cambridge is the size, but do you think the atmosphere of the festival has changed much since the early days?

NW Yes. It's much more populist than it was. It used to be very much a straight folk festival, although it wasn't a traditional one in the sense that you could only get up and do stuff from your own country, but it definitely has got more poppy. But then I think the whole folk scene in general has become much more pop orientated than it was in the 60s.

Do you think people see folk music as a viable career option these days?

NW I think the media have got hold of it. Certainly since we've been singing there have been three or four occasions when nothing's been happening in the charts and someone's realised that there's this thing called traditional music happening - let's have a folk revival! Are there any young and pretty people that we can put pictures in our papers of? It's no bad thing if it gets people interested in folk music, though.

MC It's really bad news for us to be isolated. You get an awful lot of righteousness around, but not a lot of sense. And frequently not a lot of music either!

But neither of you have ever been accused of being purist in any way…

MC I've never really understood what purist meant, honestly, because I don't really know what impure music is.

NW The music in England is a hybrid music anyway. In fact, most of the music in the British Isles is a hybrid - none of it is pure. To go back to pure you're going to have to go back to the ancient Britons.

MC Back to banging rocks…

You're playing with Blue Murder tonight, and there is a definite buzz about your appearance. Expectations are heavy.

NW I hope they're not disappointed!

MC It's very much a band that hits or misses. If it works it's fantastic, but it requires everybody to be on song. There's a lot of chances get taken and a lot of opportunities for falling off the wire, walking into the door and falling over your own feet. But we have a great time.

The way the group started was fairly informal, wasn't it?

NW In the 70s our local school in Robin Hood's Bay was bursting at the seams and needed a new room. We did a concert and all the money went to building this new room. We grabbed as many people as we could. There was Peter Bellamy and Swan Arcade and the Watersons and various other people. We did a concert and we did a few songs together at the end and really liked it.

MC Then in 1987 Iain Anderson asked The Watersons and Swan Arcade to put together a one off concert with an hour's worth of stuff. After the first gig we decided to call ourselves Blue Murder, but the party aspect took over from the music and it fell to bits basically. We had a fantastic time…

NW Rehearsals were very boozy!

MC We started being really industrious then got to talking, telling stories, drinking a bit of wine…

NW …you know, like folkies do.

MC It just got silly, so we gave it up for a while. Then when Jim started up with Lester and Barry we decided to give it another go and it's great fun, it really is. I mean, Barry Coope is a stupendous singer.

Shall you be leaving the boozing until after the gig tonight then?

MC Well, we don't do much of that now. I think 'cos we're older our livers have given up!

NW I think this is about the third time we've been together as Blue Murder. We did the 70s and 80s, but we missed the 90s.

Can we expect another Waterson: Carthy album in the near future?

NW It's finished already, but Tony at Topic didn't want it to clash with the Blue Murder album. You can't flood the shops! We were happy that the Blue Murder album came out first and our album, A Dark Light, comes out in September.

It's been a remarkable couple of years for you, Martin, what with the boxed set, the birthday concert and the honorary doctorate…

MC Yeah, that's astonishing…

…What's the betting on a knighthood?

NW There's no betting. He wouldn't accept it.

MC Knighted folk singers is silly. I mean, knighted rock and rollers is bad enough. Sir Elton John, Sir Cliff Richard… come on lads! To go on from there to knighted folk singers, I mean, what a ridiculous idea. Sir Mick Jagger is bad enough...

NW What would be really nice would be something like the French Legion of Honour, which is just your country recognising you've done something really good. But it's not going to happen in our lifetime.

So what about your solo careers? Can we expect more of that?

MC For the last few years I've been doing an instrumental album, but I'm not entirely happy with doing an entire album of guitar tunes, so it'll probably turn out half and half. I've no idea what I'm going to call it yet.

There's a lot of young talent emerging. When you look to the young talent does it give you hope for the future of the music?

NW Oh, yes. There's some young performers doing some really good stuff. John Boden and John Spiers, they take risks, which is what we did. It doesn't seem risky now, but when the Watersons came along, nobody was singing unaccompanied apart from the traditional singers and people like The Copper Family. We really like it when there's something wild about what the young people do, and there's a few around like that, which is great.

MC The only reservation I had about a lot of the crop of the new singers was that they were all tremendously accomplished and there was not one hint of a risk anywhere, and performing is about risk. But people like Boden and Spiers really are risky. They may make mistakes, but by God, the passion's there, and that makes up for a lot. But they both happen to be very good instrumentalists and very good singers.

NW What I do like is that the young performers specialise in English material. Irish and Scottish material is so lovely, it's easy to go that route, but English songs are weirder, they need more listening to. It really does please us that people have taken that route. It's very exciting.

Just emerged from bed to hear the new Kings of Leon single, which has raised two questions. Firstly, should I have stayed under the covers and secondly, why does every band with pretensions to stadium ubiquity end up sounding like U2?

The Kings seem to have all but disowned their debut album of scratchy garage rock, which is a shame, as its Ethan Johns produced charms, while rough and ready, were certainly more beguiling than their current incarnation as Bono-lite.

In fact, the signature sound of the noughties seems to have been some kind of psuedo striving for profundity provided by a single note bassline and excessive use of a delay pedal, topped with the kind of vocals which suggest big boys stole your lunch money and left you standing bereft in a corner of a primary school toilet holding a melting ice-pop.

Come on, lads. Man up.

Just emerged from bed and switched on the radio to hear the new Kings of Leon single, which begs two questions: should I just ha

Thoughts on Erskine Bridge

There has been a river crossing at Erskine for thousands of years. In the days before the industrial revolution dredged the Clyde and prepared Glasgow for age of the great ships, it was shallow enough to walk across. Later, a small chain pulled ferry navigated the oily waters from its weed slicked slipways on the banks.

When the Erskine Bridge was opened in 1970 by Princess Anne, it became one of the last emblems of the massive campaign of road building which had seen the city of Glasgow carved up by the M8 motorway. Just as the old tenements of Glasgow were crushed beneath the relentless march of progress, so the sleepy river crossing at Erskine became another conduit for the motor car. And in the fields and orchards around began to sprout the new town of Erskine, its council housing and neatly trimmed verges and roundabouts itself a product of Scotland’s post war redevelopment.

It was here, amidst the tidy gardens and white rough cast walls, that I grew up. My bedroom window looked out onto the bridge, which spanned the river in its graceful arc seeming to echo the whaleback curve of the Kilpatrick Hills beyond. At night, the lights on the roadway where strung across the darkness like pearls, while the red lamps on the top of the massive pillars winked at the aircraft gradually slipping into Glasgow airport.

The bridge was our proudest landmark. For years, the town of Erskine was not to be found on any maps, as if its very novelty defied the cartographer’s attention. However, the short spur of the M8 which leapt across the river was. We were a town defined by the bridge. The councillors of Erskine, no doubt keen to forge an identity for their dormitory suburb, incorporated the pattern of approach roads at the bridge’s southern end into the town’s coat of arms. Bargarran primary school, which I began attending in 1976, had incorporated a stylised image of the bridge into its badge, which adorned our neat little grey blazers and schoolbags. When, as a senior pupil at the local High School, I won a competition to design a mural for the local library, the bridge became the central motif in a historical tableau which spanned Viking invasions, 17th Century witch trials and German air raids on the shipyards across the river. In my naïve way, I suppose I was using it as a road into a history for a town which, to most people, didn’t exist except as a road sign on the way to somewhere else.

Of course, such grand social gestures as the building of entirely new towns on green belt have fallen out of favour. It is unlikely that a road scheme on the scale of the Erskine Bridge and its associated approach roads would get the green light these days. In fact, although it dominated our little new town, for many years the bridge was prey to many detractors. From the start, its design was routinely called into question. The designers, Freeman Fox and Partners, were responsible for almost identical West Gate Bridge in Melbourne. As it was nearing completion in 1970, a 112 metre span collapsed, killing 35 workers, a fact my father, with alarming regularity, liked to remind us of when we took the occasional walk over its counterpart in Erskine. As juggernauts thundered past on the four lane car deck, we felt the girders shake and held the railing tight.

The Erskine Bridge’s failure was to be less dramatic. Its cost spiralled out of control; tolls remained in place far longer than anticipated. They were eventually lifted in 2006. The little row of blue toll booths and their cheery occupants disappeared forever, leaving nothing but a windswept plaza through which motorway traffic now sweeps unhindered onto the graceful span. Grass pokes impudent fingers through the cracked cycle track and rust streaks the rails and girders, while down below the vast concrete pillars are scrawled with generations of graffiti. And at night, the red lights still wink at approaching air traffic, over and over and over.

Of course, most people never see the details as they drive across. At this time, they may be vaguely aware of the vast carpet of light from Glasgow upstream, while downstream the Clyde slinks off to the sea between the rolling hills of Renfrewshire and the jagged tooth of Dumbarton rock. It is a lonely place, an odd, transient place where streetlights and headlamps bathe the concrete and the wind whips through the hair. The sad, secret history of Erskine Bridge is hinted at by the phone boxes at either end bearing the numbers of the Samaritans. Even before the double suicide of two unfortunate teenage runaways from a nearby care home, Erskine Bridge had a reputation.

According to some estimates, up to 15 people leap from the bridge each year. From my childhood bedroom, the distant chatter of a hovering helicopter betrayed another tragedy as its searchlight hunted through the darkness. Blue flashing lights would join the yellow and red glow along the span. Once, my family and I watched through binoculars as the police talked a man in from the edge. At school the next day, those of us who lived within sight of the bridge talked of little else and imagined ourselves hanging from the slippery parapet, far above the cold darkness. The playground currency of grim tales permeated our youth and copycats were routinely reprimanded with the accusation that they would jump off “the bridge” if someone told them to do it. Occasionally someone we vaguely knew would. Erskine, although growing rapidly, remained a small community.

To grow up in the shadow of Erskine Bridge was to be constantly aware of its dark secret, even while such events passed unremarked upon by the media. As debate continues about what can be done to prevent such tragedies, it is a grim fact that all high bridges are prone to them. The usual floral tributes are tied to the barriers, and heads shake as we ponder the awful circumstances that drive people to walk out onto the bridge, never to reach the other side. For me, the bridge occupies a place between the glow of a past which promised a better future, and a dark present which has finally, irrevocably, put Erskine on the map at last.


Word Count - 1066

The Bristol Stool Theory of Music

This theory is based on sound scientific research and the adoption of complex colo-rectal principles to explain one key fact - why singers sound the way they do. Hitherto, arguments over the relative merits of vocalists have been utterly subjective. In a heroic quest to introduce objectivity into the otherwise utterly opinionated and purely subjective field of music criticism, I propose the adoption of the following classification system - The Bristol Stool Scale Theory of Pop.

Long the preserve of medics to classify bowel movements on what could horrifically be called a "sliding" scale of one to seven (from "Hard to pass and nutlike" to "Entirely liquid"), the Bristol Scale has revealed its true application. Ever since Bruce Springsteen first popped a vein (and, it is rumoured, more) when straining for the high notes during "Glory Days" at Wembley Arena in 1985, this theory has gained in credibilty as the one truly scientific way of classifying rock vocalese.

Springsteen's adoption of black jeans as stage wear after a series of unfortunate incidents led members of his band to start referring to him as "Darkness on the Seat of Brown" showed the validity of this groundbreaking research. In line with established scientific practice, however, we must first establish a control, or benchmark for the scale.

Type One - The Bolton Bullet
These small, hard and nutlike stools often require straining from the singer, and may even require breath to be held for long periods before expulsion in an outburst of overwrought exasperation. The passee can occasionally turn purple from the effort, and the result often fails to justify the immense emotional outlay involved. The prime example of the Type One vocalist is everyone's favourite mulleteer, Michael Bolton (pictured left, visibly relieved after a successful bout of pebble dashing.) It is said that our Mike could shatter a car windscreen at a distance of half a mile with the powerful ejection of one of his faux soulful putrid pellets.

See also: Barney from Napalm Death.

Type Two - The Lumpy Bruce
These sausage shaped but lumpy extrusions denote some degree of effort and can occasionally cause visible strain on the face of the afflicted. A prime Type Two stoolee is the originator of the theory, Bruce Springsteen, who can occasionally produce Type Threes or Fours - "The Streets of Philadelphia" was produced after a month long All Bran and banana diet - but is more likely to be found bent forward, heaving like a heifer with a headache.
See also: Joe Cocker

Type Three - The Jaggy Sausage

The strain is beginning to show, but not quite to Bruce levels, as we approach this beauty, so called because of its pleasing mass but possession of just a hint of the unpleasant jagginess which can cause furrowing of the brow. The Jaggy Sausage is the preserve of smooth singers with rough edges. Appropriately, spiky haired trollop tickler Rod Stewart is a perfect example - seemingly effortless vocalising but with a throaty rasp offering just a hint of more craggy exertions. Here he can be seen in the perfect position for squeezing out a jaggy jobbie, and he has even wisely worn spandex to allow himself some extra "give", a true sign of a professional at work.
See also: Otis Redding (He's gotta, gotta, gotta!), Frankie Miller, Paul Rogers ("All Right Now" being a prime example of post jag reflection).

Type 4 - The Smooth Snake
Truly the Prince of Poos, this perfect specimen glides out with all the ease of a velvet torpedo. Needless to say, it tends to provide a lack of emotional "oomph" or any hint of danger and is the preserve of perfectly fed, balanced diet munching popsters with faultless technique but little understanding of what it means to really suffer. In the late 90s the lack of anything resembling rock action saw a plethora of shining examples of this beige wonder.

Fran Healey of Travis can lay claim to one of these, although the undoubted master is Chris Martin of Coldplay, a man so well balanced of bowel that he is often forced to write reminders on his hand to use paper, his ploppers so perfect that he sometimes fails to notice their egress from his apple scented arse. So happy is he with his wonderful toilet habits that it is all he can do to stop himself from "nipping one off" in the most unsuitable of locations, such as here, captured while walking with Gwyneth in Hyde Park and hunkering down to give the ducks a feed they'll never forget. And, given Chris' avowed liking for all things organic and Fairtrade, his eco-turds are often dried, repackaged and available to buy at Coldplay concerts where they bear an uncanny resemblance to Jordan's Fruisli bars.

See also: Bloke from Keane whatever the fuck his name is.

Type Five - The Blurry Blob (or Winehouse)
As we leave the fragrant enamel whiteness of the Martins et al we begin to enter the murky waters of the loose stool brigade. And these waters can get murky. The soft blob presents a pleasing smoothness at first, but hidden behind this facade lurks a world of debauchery and vice of the kind seen in only the more insalubrious of Soho nite-spots. As such, it may appear sweet and innocent at first, but repeated exposure to its ill-formed troubles can lead to rapid deterioration. For this reason, it is sometimes referred to as the Winehouse Stool. Also in this category is mono-limbed folk booze repository John Martyn, who initially gave this stool its original nickname of the "Solid Air".

Vowels will begin to blur, words will lose definition even as the music remains perfectly sculpted, and before you know it incontinence and shambolic mutterings are all that is left. It marks the start of a slippery slope downhill towards the foul depths of...

Type Six - The Monster Mush
Singers fitting this profile have started to lose coherence in a large way. What in the previous type had seemed on occasion to be a pleasing smoothness has now been surpassed by an ill-formed mess which frequently borders on the incoherent and downright slimy. A great exponent of the "mush" is Shane MacGowan, whose vowels have blended into a foul smelling miasma of Martini and Malboros and who pours out his words with the splattering profligacy of the truly inspired. Unfortunately, such is the stench created by this mushy horror that few people can make out the profundity through the intestinal fug. Rapidly bringing up the rear (so to speak) is trainee musher Pete Doherty, who rumour has it is preparing to move in with Shane to better share fluffy tips.

Type Seven - The Liquid Launch
In an almost Neitzchean coup, Liquid Launchers have passed beyond Good and Evil into a realm of almost transcendent toilet habit. Effortless, floating and possessed of so little gravity that their vocalising cannot truly be called solid in any way, such singers are epitmosed by porky androgyne Anthony Hegarty (of Johnsons fame), a man whose vocals are so liquid that they barely have time to form before they dissolve into soft clouds of fragrant liquidity. Originally, his breakthrough album was to have been called "I Am a Turd Now" but sharp eyed observers pointed out to him that this would represent wishful thinking of the highest order, and redirected him to something more suitably weightless. Here he can be seen lurking behind Jo Whiley (as yet un-rated on the Bristol Scale) in case someone should pass him an oat cake and disrupt his carefully cultivated looseness.

The Court of the Crimson King - Mellotrons Ahoy!

Gonzo rock critic Lester Bangs labelled it a mix of ‘myth, mystification and mellotrons’. Poor old codeine guzzling Lester thought this was a bad thing. He was wrong, of course. Although routinely lumped in with the excesses of progressive rock, In the Court of the Crimson King remains one of the most defiantly adventurous, rigorously experimental and downright strange records ever made.

King Crimson originally formed from the remains of Giles, Giles and Fripp, a folky trio who had cut one poorly selling album (The Cheerful Insanity of…) in 1968. Briefly boasting ex-Fairport Convention singer Judy Dyble in their ranks, the band gelled with the arrival of multi-instrumentalist Ian McDonald and bass player/vocalist Greg Lake. Assisted by suitably portentous lyrics courtesy of band roadie and light show operator Pete Sinfeld, the band made their debut before 650, 000 people on the bill of the Rolling Stones’ free concert in Hyde Park in July 1969.

The warm reception their appearance gained no doubt inspired them when it came time to record the album later that month. Self produced in an era when such artistic freedom was still relatively rare, it was an immediate success, catching the emergent vogue for progressive music and resonating perfectly with the darker mood beginning to cloud the end of the 60s.

From the crashing chords and distorted vocals of 21st Century Schizoid Man to the eerie textures of Moonchild, In the Court of the Crimson King is a million miles away from soothing flower power homily. Occasionally the music seems to break free from structure altogether, flowing into jazzy improvisation and jarring chord and tempo changes. Sinfeld’s lyrical flights have enough lysergic bite to keep them on the right side of pretentious, perfectly matching the musical foreboding on the doom laden title track.

Unfortunately the strength of musical personalities was too much to sustain. Even as the album was becoming a head favourite, the line-up was splintering, with McDonald and Michael Giles baling out first, disenchanted with the band’s musical direction. McDonald would later re-surface in that renowned band of avant-garde adventurers Foreigner. Greg Lake hung around long enough to record vocals for the band’s second album before following his own particular road of excess into ELP.

Fripp, meanwhile, has kept the Crimson flame alive through the years, continuing to record challenging and exciting records with a variety of line-ups (1995’s Thrak was a powerful return) while collaborating with other maverick talents such as Brian Eno and David Bowie. In the Court... was recently re-mastered by Fripp, restoring the sonic clarity missing from earlier CD pressings.

What's Going On

The album widely regarded as Marvin Gaye's masterpiece almost never got made at all. At the turn of the 70s, Gaye had fallen out of favour at Motown and developed a reputation for wayward behaviour. Traumatised by the death of duet partner Tammi Terrell in March 1970, he had retreated from the limelight and was smoking grass in prodigious quantities.

His return to the studio was therefore met with some scepticism by Motown boss Berry Gordy. The first track to emerge was the titled track, which in itself had a convoluted genesis. Written by Four Tops member Renaldo Johnson and lyricist Al Cleveland, it had already been turned down by the Tops and Joan Baez. Johnson and Cleveland persuaded Gaye to record it only by dangling the carrot of a cut in the publishing.

From then on, recording proceeded in a relaxed atmosphere amid clouds of dope smoke. What's Going' On reflected a new mood of dissatisfaction with contemporary America. The promised Great Society had failed to appear and the inner cities were awash with race conflict, hard drugs and poverty. As well as the continued conflict in South East Asia, America was at war with itself.

Some musicians used this as a platform for belligerence, confrontational lyrics and a rising militancy. Gaye, however, took the opposite view. What's Going On was a relaxed, inclusive record, epitomised by the 'brother, brother' opening. Gaye cast his eyes over a range of social ills, from the plight of the ghettoes to the state of the planet. Throughout the message was sweetened by David van DePitte's smooth string arrangements and expertly assembled rhythm tracks, over which Marvin double tracked his vocals. Gaye was partial to protracted bouts of masturbation to rid him of sexual tension and to help achieve a suitably relaxed ambience. Tellingly, the album's themes were all resolutely non-sexual.

However, the relaxed vibe didn't make Gaye easier to work with. He was regularly late for sessions, or missed them altogether. When he did appear it could take hours to nail a good take. Confidence in the album wasn't high, and it took the unexpected success of What's Going On in the single charts to change Berry Gordy's mind and finally give Marvin free rein in the studio.

Gordy, whose reputation was forged in Hitsville USA with a string of classic singles throughout the 60s, suddenly seemed like a man out of time. The album was a massive critical and commercial success, re-establishing Gaye as the company's premier artist even while he drifted further away from the man who was both his boss and brother-in-law. He followed it up with his tremendous soundtrack for the blaxploitation film Trouble Man, before returning to politics of a sexual nature on Let's Get It On. However, What's Going On remains his best.

Scorched Earth - Funk Rock Grooves

I came across this CD completely by accident (a promo copy lying around my office, in fact) and stuck it in the Walkman on the way home, drawn by the inclusion of a few famous names, such as Quicksilver Messenger Service and Ike and Tina. I have to say, it certainly livened up a dull tube journey.

From an era (the late 60s and early 70s) when it seemed it was practically a requirement for every band to get a little funky, this trawl through EMI's vaults throws up a mixed bag, but one which makes for a very enjoyable listen. From the deranged Japanese funk of Sadistic Mika Band (with a break just crying out for sampling!) to the silky funk blues of Quicksilver Messenger Service and the fat horn section funk rock of Alexis Korner's CCS, there's much to enjoy here. But the highlight for fans of Hammond organ is the nearly seven minute work out of Green-Eyed Lady by Denver based one-hit wonders Sugar Loaf, in which the organist pulls out all the stops (literally) over a mesmeric groove vaguely reminiscent of Brian Auger's work from the same period.

Elsewhere, Terry Reid, one of British rock's great lost voices, turns in a creditable version of Donovan's slightly creepy ode to a 14 year old groupie, Superlungs My Supergirl, and you also get a track from the Steve Miller Band before they took off and flew like eagles into FM ubiquity, showcasing Miller's prodigious guitar skills. Also, listen out for the sound of Bob Downes being strangled whilst attempting to play the saxophone...at least that's what it sounds like!

The only sour note is sounded by the bizarre inclusion of Hank Marvin's ill advised foray into psychedelia on Sunday for Seven Days, like your geography teacher trying to get down with the kids.

Like most samplers, you probably won't like it all, but plenty of it is worth having, and might open up a few new seams in your record library. Fascinating stuff, and you get the impression someone at EMI had a blast putting it together. Good effort, whoever you are!

Mind the Soap - Johnny Cash Live at Folsom Prison

'Hello. I'm Johnny Cash...'

It might not be the wittiest opening line, but it's hard to imagine 'Hello, I'm Mick Hucknall' having the same impact. Similarly there are few live albums possessing such an electrifying ambience. Recorded within the forbidding walls of a maximum security jail housing some of California's most notorious criminals, Live At Folsom Prison may well be Cash's finest moment.

Cash was no stranger to the insides of a cell, mainly for public order and drugs offences. He'd also played inside prisons before - Merle Haggard tells of seeing Cash play in San Quentin when he was an inmate himself - but this would be the first time his performance was captured on tape.

By the late sixties Cash's career was in dire need of a boost. The hits had dried up. His hard living had effectively blackballed him with the Nashville country establishment. It took marriage to June Carter in 1968 to put him back on the straight and narrow. At Folsom Prison was intended to bring Cash back into the public eye, but it wasn't a compromise.

The stripped down rockabilly of the Tennessee Three was a long way from the prevailing trends of the moment in country, and provided the perfect framework for the tales of prisons, cocaine, bad women and worse whiskey. It's still slightly chilling when Cash gets his biggest cheer for the line in Folsom Prison Blues about shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die - you can imagine many of the audience having done just that.

At Folsom Prison was released to widespread acclaim, giving Cash his biggest hit to date. Its outlaw appeal enabled his first major crossover into the mainstream. Coming just as many American rock acts, in particular The Byrds, were rediscovering and reinventing country music, it won him a new audience as well as adding to the iconic status he still enjoys today. A guest appearance on Bob Dylan's Nashville Skyline album soon followed, with Cash returning the compliment by inviting Dylan to appear on his television show. A follow up album was recorded at San Quentin prison, but Live at Folsom Prison remains the better, more focussed, set.

The Human League - Greatest Hits

Review originally published on the BBC Music Website. I have to say, I astonish myself with my fairness in this review, as I could quite happily live without ever hearing the Human League again.

There are a number of reasons why we should celebrate The Human League. For starters, there's Phil Oakey's defiantly ridiculous hair style. There's his recruitment of two schoolgirls from the dance floor of a Sheffield disco into the band, like a Jackie photo story made flesh.

There's also their indelible imprint on the landscape of early 80s British pop. Without the Human League there would be no Depeche Mode, no Yazoo, no Howard Jones...

It's unsurprising that this latest compilation plays its trump card immediately with ''Don't You Want Me''. As perfectly constructed as any pop can be, its shifts between major and minor perfectly reflect the emotional turmoil and yuppie angst of the lyric. It's almost matched by the other singles from the classic Dare album, such as ''Open Your Heart'' and ''The Sound of the Crowd''; a perfect marriage of synthesised detachment and romantic yearning.

How odd, then, to find a brace of early singles tucked away at the end of the CD. Pre-schoolgirls and discotheques, The Human League was as po-faced as any band could be. ''Being Boiled'' remains the greatest single inspired by the plight of silk worms ever released. ''Empire State Human'', which finds Phil cleverly rhyming 'tall' with 'wall' ad nauseum, still sounds remarkably contemporary. Screamingly pretentious, of course, and all the better for it.

Even after Martyn Ware and Ian Marsh departed to form Heaven 17, Phil's liking for doomy pronouncements still lurked beneath the pop veneer. Take 1984's ''The Lebanon''. A misguided foray into middle-eastern politics, it may well be their lyrical nadir, their trademark synth-pop swamped in a hideous 80s production.

Although 1986's ''Human'' momentarily revived their chart fortunes, they never equalled Dare. By the 90s, they had committed the cardinal sin of their futurist origins: they sounded dated. Mid 90s singles such as ''Tell Me When'' were largely forgettable. Tellingly, 2001's ''All I Ever Wanted'' is redolent of their earlier, purely electro sound, and marks a return to form.

Now largely confined to the tawdry spectacle of 80s revival tours, The League's best years may be behind them. However, as this compilation demonstrates, they were one of the great singles bands of their era, and proved enormously influential on subsequent electro-pop. And if they failed to equal the sublime pop rush of ''Dont You Want Me'', they can always rest in the knowledge that few ever did.

Rolling Stones - Singles

Originally published on the BBC Music Website in 2004.

The second instalment in this handsomely packaged but vaguely pointless series finds the Stones moving away from blues and Chuck Berry covers and hitting their stride as one of the prime singles bands of their era.

You'll be familiar with the A-Sides, of course. Kicking off with ''(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction'', this collection traces the Stones' evolution into perfect chroniclers of their era the pocket psychodramas of ''19th Nervous Breakdown'' and ''Paint It Black'', the social commentary of ''Mother's Little Helper'', the psychedelic whimsy of ''She's A Rainbow''. Classics all, but can there really be anyone who doesn't own most of these already?

The B-sides for the most part don't measure up to the glories of their flips, but there's still much to cherish here for Stones collectors. Many of them find the Stones harking back to their blues roots, whether it's on the Slim Harpo style stomp of ''Who's Driving Your Plane'', or the more laid back ''The Spider and The Fly''. There are also a couple of lesser pop gems, such as ''I'm Free'', memorably revived by Bellshill indie chancers The Soup Dragons, and the airy fairy ''Dandelion'' from their brief flirtation with flower power. The latter, of course, was only a B-side in the UK - in the US it reached the top 20 in its own right.

Personally, this reviewer is a big fan of The Stones psychedelic phase - there's something gloriously incongruous about hearing Big Bad Mick forsaking his butch blues boy act for songs about love, flowers and rainbows. ''2000 Light Years From Home'' remains the perfect flip side to the marmalade skies of the benign flower power revolution, it's swirling mellotron and ominous bass riff carrying the song into dark nebulae of alienation and loneliness.

Altogether, it's a great collection of music, but whether you want to fork out over 30 quid for some nice packaging is another matter. If you do, you'll probably end up burning them all onto a couple of CDs anyway - the music's certainly worth the effort.

The History of Psychedelia - Part One

Originally written to accompany Radio 2's 2003 documentary, more details of which here.

Pop critic Jon Savage makes the case that whereas American psychedelia was informed by radical politics and the experience of war in Vietnam, UK psych took a very different approach. On The Beatles' It's All Too Much, George Harrison intones the subject to 'show me that I'm everywhere then get me home for tea.'

It's this cheery domesticity which defines British psych - a fascination with childhood as a lost age of innocence, Edwardian fashions and a hankering after the pastoral idyll. Add in a healthy dose of fantasy from the likes of Tolkien, Lewis Carrol and the Wind in the Willows, soak in LSD and you have the perfect recipe for a right old freak out.

Hence, you get Pink Floyd's Mathilda Mother, in which a child asks his mother to keep reading stories to him, or The Penny Peeps celebrating the joy of their Model Village. There are plenty of magicians and witches floating around too, reflecting a general curiosity about the occult. And of course, there are plenty of veiled drug references, such as The Smoke's My Friend Jack (who eats sugar lumps - whatever can they mean?).

Sgt Pepper remains for many the definitive artefact of the Summer of Love, and its influence was all pervasive. All over Britain groups plying their trade on the hard edged R'n'B circuit swapped suits for Edwardian jackets, grew their hair and proceeded to sing the praises of blowing your mind. Witness the change in The Move, whose I Can Hear the Grass Grow retains an R'n'B snarl but perfectly reflects the sensory overload of the acid trip. I Can See For Miles by The Who also filters their trademark power chords through a lysergic haze, to quite stunning effect.

The back to nature element of psychedelia was perfectly suited to sitting on rugs strumming acoustic guitars and singing about gnomes. Marc Bolan, unable to find success with John's Children, adopted a bongo player and started singing about fair maidens and unicorns to audiences of stoned students and John Peel. Donovan released the Sunshine Superman album, the title track of which perfectly captured the sunny optimism of the day, while Season of the Witch hinted at the darkness at the heart of the LSD experience.

But perhaps the purest expression of British psych's folky contingent was Glasgow's Incredible String Band. They evolved out of the Scottish folk scene, but they gradually began to incorporate what we'd nowadays call World Music influences, filled with spaced out lyrics, and odd time signatures.

And then of course there's probably the other crowing glory of British psychedelia - Pink Floyd's Piper at the Gates of Dawn. The Floyd, nice middle class boys one and all, quickly became the house band at the hip UFO club. Led by the mercurial talent of Syd Barrett, their trademark improvisations and pulsating light shows made them a popular attraction. Piper… remains a stunning album, balancing whimsy and dread in equal measure and featuring some truly stunning guitar playing from Barrett, who would later suffer a nervous breakdown apparently brought on by a prodigious diet of LSD.

Marmalade Skies
Of course, British psych inspired its fair share of dross and pastiche. By 1968 the charts were filling with records which virtually parodied the worst excesses of the movement. Even the staunchly bluesy Rolling Stones got in on the act with the "Their Satanic Majesties Request" album, right down to the pseudo Pepper cover sporting Mick in velvet wizard's hat.

As the sixties waned, the sounds got harder and heavier, paving the way for progressive rock and the dawn of the dreaded concept album. As flower power gave way to power to the people, the wide eyed wonder of early psych seemed ridiculous as the barricades went up across Europe.

Still, there were still those for whom the naïve delight in experimenting both with sound and drugs held allure. Hawkwind kept the flame in the 70s, and periodically other artists, such as Julian Cope, would sing the praises of trippy classics. XTC even recorded an entire LP of prime 60s psych as The Dukes of Stratosphere in 1986.

By the late 80s dance culture was the true successor to psychedelia. Rock bands were quick to pick up the new mood - The Stone Roses were closer in spirit to classic 60s acts such as The Byrds than they were to any of their 80s contemporaries, right down to their penchant for backwards guitars.

Today, psychedelia is just another element in the great cultural melting pot. Although the hippy philosophies may inspire chuckles, the spirit of experimentation, playfulness and refusal to accept the boundaries of contemporary society still attract acolytes.