Monday, 16 July 2018

THE FINAL CURTAIN?




If I could have back the lost weekends in the grass, the Glastos, the Readings, the Knebworths, the Isle of Wights. I gave up festivals years ago. Primarily because they were never about the music, but about loitering within tents, messing about with your musicbiz mates and boozing. You have kids, you grow up. I can never fathom those folk who take babies to open-air gigs.
Yet there are times to go back. We'll do it for legends, the opportunities to see and hear them receding all the time. We don't get our skin out. We shield ourselves from head to foot, but still boil in the blistering sun. We resist the champagne tents and the awful food. We glue our faces with Factor 50, equip ourselves with agua and face sprays, tissues and baby wipes, and are a bit Girl Guide about it. We seek swift stiffeners at the Hilton across from the park, in the Windows on the World. That's some view from the twenty-eighth floor, by the way. I had forgotten it. We brace ourselves to jostle among the throng for a few final shreds of the soundtrack of our lives.
Bonnie Raitt hauled us back to her roots. The ten-time Grammy winner who makes a mockery of sixty-nine is as great a guitarist as she is a singer, still pulling magic out of the same Fender Strat that she's used in every gig she's played since the Sixties. 'Nick of Time' and INXS's 'One of My Kind' were the stand-outs - the song that started life, in 1987, as 'Need You Tonight', and was later renamed.
James Taylor is much older than his seventy years, in many ways. His nine lives, triumphs and nightmares are all in the songs. The hair's gone, the cap's on, but the smile is as youthful as it ever was. 'Carolina In My Mind', Carole King's 'You've Got a Friend' and 'Fire and Rain' mesmerised. Taylor penned the cowboy lullaby ‘Rockabye Sweet Baby James’ for his newborn nephew, who was named after his uncle. The baby's father, Alex, was James's brother. He died on James's birthday, in 1993. 'There is another America,' he told the vast crowd, in a thinly-veiled reference to the embarrassment felt by millions of Americans at what their country has become under The Donald. Fear not, was the message: 'We'll be back.'
The eldest of the trio headlined in what is billed as his 'Farewell Tour'. Will he do a Tina Turner on us, and play fifteen comebacks? Only time will tell. Paul Simon celebrated a seven-decade career in the time-honoured fashion of subjecting us to a trawl of as yet obscure tracks from the forthcoming new album, while leaving the hits until the encores. 'America', 'Me and Julio' and 'Mother and Child Reunion' thrilled before the big one: his reclamation of 'the best song I ever wrote'.
'I gave away my best one,' lamented seventy-six year-old Simon, of 'Bridge over Troubled Water', meaning that he surrendered it to the voice of Art. 'This is the first time I've sung it. I'm reclaiming it. I am taking back my long lost child.'
Life, drugs and booze do the withering. Angels save the brave. They go again, rejuvenated by their own resilience. Music rescues them. It rescues us all.


Wednesday, 11 July 2018

WE WILL REMEMBER THEM





Gilbert O'Sullivan's showcase at 100 Wardour Street last night whisked us back to the time when time stood still. The half-mast trews and offside cloth cap are a memory. He still cuts his own hair, still sings with Waterford clarity, his quirky, gentle songwriting and plaintive themes at times hard to hear.
He was on top of the world in 1972. He was my first crush. Superstardom was as good as all over by 1975. But they don't go away. They keep doing it. A dozen albums later, a Glasto, an Albert Hall. He's still big in Japan.
There were tears in the eerily mauve-lit room, not least in the eyes of men. Ray performed tracks from his new album 'Gilbert O'Sullivan', to be launched next month, interspersed with the songs of way back when. 'Clair', 'We Will', 'No Matter How I Try', 'Alone Again (Naturally)', 'Get Down', 'Nothing Rhymed'. Could we take much more? Why is this hard to write?
It's true, isn't it, that the music we loved as kids means more with each passing year. Such songs hold disproportionate power over our memories. The brain binds us tightly to the soundtrack of our youth, more than anything we encounter down the line as adults. The connection never loosens. All it takes is for a song to be heard again. Musical nostalgia, explain the scientists, is much more than just a cultural phenomenon. ‘Doc Rock’ Julia Jones has authored a brilliant thesis on this theme. It's no less than a major neurological command. We stay wired to the songs that awoke us to love and life. It's that simple. I think.
But memories mean little without emotion. And nothing stimulates emotion better than music. It lights the sparks of neural activity. On rare occasions, it ignites it into a full pyrotechnic display. The music we love between the ages of twelve and twenty-two, when our brains are undergoing rapid neurological development, gets wired into our lobes for all time. Even as the importance of childhood memories fades, the emotional glow provoked by music lingers.
The years may have evaporated and can be experienced no more. But hear the songs we loved when those memories were being made and we are zipped right back there. The love and joy that they made us feel surge anew. Thank you, Ray, for reminding us.

Wednesday, 4 July 2018

STILL GLEAMING?



My father covered ten World Cup tournaments. He wrote about their games, glories and fall-outs with the style and flair of the polished journalist, but with the courage and gut emotion of a genuine footballer. Which he had been. He played professionally before I was born, was injured out, and strayed far. Fleet Street called. He took his talent to the Daily Mirror and the Sunday Mirror, both roaring newspapers in their day, and then on to the Independent, at its inception. His confident overview, insightful sentences and acerbic observations floored the competition, took him around the world and made his name.
It's a big-bucks game these days. It wasn't always like this. There was a time when footballing excellence as good as defined this country, presenting fair play and best-of-British values; when the working man's fun gave us something to look up to. Then money happened. Sponsorship kicked in. Premiership players became obscenely overpaid. The heart was ripped out. Isn't it always.
Though my footballing forebears are mostly dead and buried, their names never heard of by most modern fans, they were once one of the greatest British footballing families. If I felt the game's decline personally, it wasn't hard to see why. My grandfather Emlyn Jones and his four brothers, five of ten kids, all played for Merthyr Town FC in Wales before being sold to English clubs. Grandad went to Everton. My great uncle Bryn became the world's most expensive player in 1939 when he was sold by Wolves to Arsenal for £14,500. The fee caused a riot on Downing Street, what with Europe teetering on the brink of war. History repeated during the 1950s and '60s when three of the sons of those five brothers, Ken, Bryn Jnr. and Cliff, turned professional. Our family soared again, producing the most valuable player on earth for a second time. 'Uncle Cliff' was a star at Spurs. The original Gareth Bale. My father Ken Jones turned out for Southend United, Swansea and Hereford before becoming a writer in 1958, and eventually the Voice of Sport.
Football gave in to corporate investment and gentrification. But where there was once dignity, there is precious little these days.
If the FIFA World Cup has a purpose beyond showcasing competition between the best on the planet, it could be to remind us not only of how beautifully the game can be played, but what it represents. Like baseball in America, the one constant down all the years has been our national sport. It marks time. It's why the tournament matters. It reminds us, as the writer said in the movie 'Field of Dreams', of all that was once good, and could be again.
People will come. They will flock to living rooms and kitchens and back gardens and sports bars and streets on Saturday afternoon, clutching beers and bottles and bags of crisps, and reaching for burnt offerings from barbecues; they will waft into private members' clubs and to giant screenings in leisure centres, fine refreshment on tap. A quarter-final is a quarter final. We may not be spared. The best team on the day will win. Gareth Southgate's knighthood is perhaps assured, not only for having galvanised a clutch of boys into achieving what has long been impossible, but for having restored diminished dignity; for having moulded a role-model team; for having inspired pride; and for revealing a glint of a foreign country, our distant collective past. We did things differently there. We won. We are winning now. Whether or not we lose.


Monday, 18 June 2018

GOD BLESS THE CHILD THAT'S GOT HIS OWN: HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY, JULIE FELIX



People often ask me why I spend so much time 'hanging around with old rockers.' Well. It's in the eye of the beholder, right? Youthful beauty, zipless sex, plastic surgery and fake news have their place in a heartless world. True friendship, love and loyalty can sometimes seem pointless in our shakily selfish age. But I have always found those qualities in abundance in the music industry.
Last night's gig at the Charing Cross Theatre being a case in point. We were there to celebrate folk legend Julie Felix's eightieth birthday. Yes, eighty. The die-hard troubadour was marching for peace, equality and women's rights before most of us were born. She was hosting her own acclaimed, star-studded shows on BBC television while many of us were still in nappies. She hung with George Harrison; told Macca that 'Strawberry Fields' was 'ok, I s'pose' when he played her the first acetate; lent a young Canadian poet her father's Mexican guitar on the Greek island of Hydra so that he could write the songs that would turn him into Leonard Cohen; became the female Bob Dylan and recorded many of his songs - a whole album's worth, at one point. And she invested in her friends, with the love and loyalty that would glue them together for a lifetime, forming bonds that would never be torn.
They were there in force last night, lending their talent and exuberance to an occasion that will long dwell in the memory. Madeline Bell, seventy-five on acid, she of Blue Mink fame, who sang the BVs on the Stones' 'You Can't Always Get What You Want'. Her take on Billie Holiday's 'God Bless the Child That's Got His Own' shook the venue harder than the tube trains rumbling through Embankment station, and the tribute she sang with Julie to their lamented buddy Dusty Springfield, featuring Carole King's 'Goin' Back', was breathtaking. John Paul Jones, seventy-two, legendary bassist, mandolin and keyboard star with Led Zeppelin, accompanied Julie on her own songs unrehearsed, in his usual smiley and unassuming way. And John Cameron, who once worked with Cilla, Donovan and Hot Chocolate, who rearranged Led Zep's 'Whole Lotta Love' as the theme tune for 'Top of the Pops', who was musical director of Julie's many TV series, scored movies the likes of 'A Touch of Class' with Glenda Jackson, and arranged/conducted the Boubil/Schonberg concept album that became 'Les Miserables', winning him countless awards, is seventy-four ... Bass player Charley Foskett and an array of saucer-eyed backing singers seemed mere newborns.
But the oldies are spring chickens in the scheme. It is their secret. So feel young, reading this. Do as these guys did, and are still doing, even at an age when they don't need the money and no longer have anything to prove. Take charge of your one precious life. Don't wish for it, work for it. Hang with real people, honest people, and hang on, for all time, to the best. They don't grow on trees. They will all too soon be gone, though 'never gone from spirit', as Julie urges us to believe. Remembering her words makes me wish, so wish, for one last laugh, one more crack at the mischief, with 'the Unforgottens': Jim Diamond, Roger Scott, David Bowie, Rob Lee, Nick Gordon, Freddie Mercury and Nick Fitzherbert.
Happy birthday, Miss Tambourine Man. Forever Young. See you at your Ninetieth. 

Friday, 1 June 2018

HELLO DARKNESS, MY OLD FRIEND : ART GARFUNKEL, ROYAL ALBERT HALL, 31.05.18




Meandering through the all-too-familiar songbook, the voice is fractured, frail and wanting. He talks more than he sings, that old Artie arrogance rearing as he reads out self-penned poems from random sheets, the verses lauding the great blessed life he leads. 'Scarborough Fair', he imparts, is a song he always thought of as 'lovely wallpaper', only realising lately that it is a lament 'about loss. Because we've all lost HER. We all know what that kind of loss is about.' 'Kathy's Song' is pre-ambled with tangled musings. 'The Sound of Silence', Paul Simon's 1964 reckoning about the assassination of JFK, is a wisp of its once magical self. 'Bridge Over Troubled Water' is so epic in all our hearts and minds that I wish he hadn't crossed it by himself. Then '99 Miles to LA', via which he at last rises to the occasion, and echoes the greatness of yore in this great hall.
We didn't get 'Mrs Robinson', 'Song for the Asking', 'The 59th Street Bridge Song', 'The Boxer', or 'The Only Living Boy in New York'. I guess too much epic past is too much for a worn-out heart.
Why do this, then? Seventy-six is seventy-six. Touring and live performing are the most challenging aspects of being a musician. Why not stay home with Kathryn, the beautiful wife he calls 'Kim', and with Beau Daniel, the second son born to them via a surrogate mother, a brother for James, the little apple of their eyes, the everything to live for?
I'm not saying that this was not worth seeing, not worth hearing. Because we rock up for these gigs and what we experience, deep in our souls, is what we want to remember. We are not hearing Arthur (as he refers to himself often, in the third person) as he sounds now, but as he sounded then. We are right there, at the immense reunion concert in Central Park in 1981.
There are times when we shouldn't go back. But how do we know, unless we do so, unless we lend a willing ear? I am always moved by live music, but felt curiously unmoved by this legend whose unique, haunting, blood-stopping voice I have long loved. And then, the moment. A preamble about creatures, and about singing to cows. And without introduction, the ghostly opening bars of one of the most perfect songs of all time: 'Bright Eyes'.
He dedicates it, thankfully, to its creator: our dear Mike Batt. He wonders aloud to his adoring audience whether Mike is in the house. Art should have known whether or not he was. He should have invited him. He should have brought Mike up on stage and thanked him personally for the greatest gift of his career. It is the single song that will carry Art Garfunkel forward into the centuries to come. Thank God Mike wrote it. Thank God Art sang it. Enough.

Friday, 25 May 2018

THE TIME HAS COME, MEN: #YOUTOO





Good to talk with BBC Radio Kent's Kate Recordon on the Drive-Time show this afternoon, about Harvey Weinstein. The 'Pulp Fiction' and 'Shakespeare in Love' producer handed himself in to the NYPD this morning, was handcuffed, escorted to court, and charged with rape, sex abuse and other crimes against two women: one of them Lucia Evans, the other choosing to remain anonymous (as is her right). It is important to remember that no trial has yet taken place, and that Weinstein remains innocent until proven guilty. Having said that, the weight of evidence against him looks overwhelming, and appears to be increasing by the day.
This man undoubtedly used his position, influence, wealth and power to lure vulnerable young women, most of them would-be stars, into situations in which he could violate them sexually. He does not deny most of this behaviour. He has always denied non-consensuality. He would, wouldn't he. His attorney reminds us that Mr Weinstein did not invent the Hollywood casting couch, and that bad behaviour is not on trial here: it's criminality that is. Was there any? How difficult sex crimes are to prove. It's usually one woman's word against one man's, which is why so many rape victims recoil in horror from going public with their experiences. We all know how that can go. But how many other female victims will now feel galvanised and emboldened into coming forward to declare #MeToo?
I know few women of my generation who have NOT been subjected to sexual violation of some kind. My friends and I discuss it. We conclude that we were always made to feel that it was our fault in some way, for being young, cute, and irresistible to the beast in man. They 'couldn't help it,' they'd plead. Or they were 'having a mid-life crisis.' But we were not toys. And isn't it always the seemingly avuncular and safe sorts who get away with it for the longest time? Kevin Spacey. Bill Cosby. Rolf Harris. Roman Polanski is on thinner and thinner ice. And now, accusations against Morgan Freeman, which so many male friends are refusing to believe. Who next? Will Woody Allen's luck at last run out?
Meanwhile, as well as an additional federal investigation against Weinstein, similar cases are mounting in Los Angeles and London. Gwyneth Paltrow and Angelina Jolie are marching at the head of an ever-swelling clan.
The time has come, declared one commentator, for men to call out other men who are guilty of such behaviour. The tide is turning, for sure. But the world will not change for good, nor to the lasting benefit of all our daughters and grand-daughters, until the male of the species stops sticking up for the bad guys and adds his voice to the chorus. Men, all of you, are you listening? #YouToo.

Sunday, 13 May 2018

SIMON DRAKE'S SECRET CABARET, LIVE




The story began one night at Chrysalis Records, in 1982. Ex Scorpion Michael Schenker was in the office at Stratford Place for a summit. There was trouble at t’mill, and the blonde bomber was pleading for help. Having sacked MSG’s original singer Gary Barden for Rainbow’s Graham Bonnet, he’d got more than he’d bargained for when blind-drunk Bonnet exposed himself on stage in Sheffield, broke the law and compromised the band. It was, funnily enough, Graham’s only gig with MSG. He’d managed to record just one album with them before falling off the side spectacularly. Talk was of Irish rocker Robin McAuley, formerly of Grand Prix, joining the line-up, and of whether the band should rewrite its name to reflect the collaboration. McAuley, incidentally, currently performs in the Vegas production of Harry Cowell's and Simon Napier-Bell's 'Raiding the Rock Vaults'.
Sitting silently in a corner of the Chrysalis board room that evening, taking it all in, was a threadbare, pixie-eyed artful dodger, belatedly of Decca and Rocket, shuffling cards, twitching knives and perfecting the art of the unexpected. His flick-fingered routines and libidinous innocence proved too much for the man with the flying V. Our peroxided metal guru leapt eventually from his chair, leather-squeaked his way to the walnut double doors and delivered a parting shot that went down in history:
‘Zeig mir nicht mehr Tricks!
Don’t show me any more tricks!’
Michael Schenker fell on hard times. The boy magician became a massive star. During the early Nineties, when British television broadcast on only five channels and when to be a household face on one of them was a really big deal, the young upstart had sharpened both his blades and his wits and had reinvented himself as the antithesis of Paul Daniels. His bizarre, almost X-rated approach to stage magic, vice and illusion turned his fortune. As if overnight, the over-lit world of light entertainment grew darker than anyone had previously imagined it could. Millions will remember the two globally-acclaimed series of Simon Drake’s ‘The Secret Cabaret’. The rest of you can find it on YouTube.
Why only two series? Television didn’t thrill the boy wonder for long. Mass media attention did little to whet his enthusiasm. He retreated to a Gothic mansion in one of London’s most ancient parishes, and became an eccentric recluse. He raised a family, wondered a lot about life, and licked his wounds for twenty years. What goes around, comes around. Now ‘The Secret Cabaret’ is back, but in a live format only, somewhere not too challenging a totter from the Thames, in a location which will never be disclosed. You have to be there, on the guest list of the House of Magic.
There is no indication, on arrival, as to what lies within. The mansion is situated in a quiet residential neighbourhood off the beaten track. Its exterior bears no clue as to its inner secrets. Stepping gingerly through the Enchanted Garden into a living museum of magic, one escapes the distant howling of wolves, sinister rustlings in the undergrowth and eerily-glowing ponds into the overblown gorgeousness of the Red Room, lured by a headless butler who points the way to knockout pre-dinner cocktails. Seduced on a whispering chair, persuaded with fortune-tellings, mystics and dungeon tours, and invited to feast on a fine repast while table tricksters do the rounds, the visitor is agog by the time the lights are dimmed, the smoke is belched, and the full-blown celebration of the Dark Arts begins.
Expect nothing of the brand of magic associated with ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ or some predictable Las Vegas revue. This show is terrifying, mesmerizing and arousing in equal blasts. So popular with the showbiz fraternity has Drake’s House of Magic proved that his diary is booked out for months: private parties for international celebrities, after-shows, movie launches, corporate happenings, the complete shebang. Still, our crazed host holds back a handful of nights for the experienced, the curious and the eager to suspend disbelief. And now, for the resurrection of ‘The Secret Cabaret’. For grappling with death is the essence of life. It is here, anyway.
www.secretcabaret.co.uk