Piracy

It always seemed to be in Germany that we were listening to this, in England there was no real need. At home we’d just drive about with the radio on, Radio 1 unless it was a Saturday and we wanted to hear Burnley match reports, then we’d have to listen to Radio Lancashire.

In Germany though we needed some entertainment. If we were in range we’d listen to AFM, the American forces network. The Americans were still occupying the Frankfurt and Mainz area in decent numbers so they needed radio stations pumping out American rock music around the clock. All three of us loved it for the adverts, nothing seemed funnier than Americans selling things to each other, whether it was burgers or life insurance. When AFM wasn’t delivering though, or when we were out of range, we had to listen to Joe Madden’s C60 cassette.

Sometimes we'd just hear snippets on the way somewhere in Ober Ramstadt. Maybe it was a baking hot summer’s day and we’d be making the three minute drive to the swimming pool whilst hearing one song. Or driving out into the woods by the Naturfreundehaus, far enough to hear two bangers back to back.

Sometimes we’d be setting off on holiday full of optimism that drained away as we got lost in France or Belgium, the whole cassette would cycle as Mum and Dad argued relentlessly about whose fault it was. Actually it was Dad that argued, “Why did you tell me to drive down this one way street,” “this stupid bloody town,” and more. The kind of exclamations that don’t help anyone or anything. Mum would be fumbling with a map, folding and unfolding trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Covering half the windscreen with unfurling sheets. And the tape played on. Cycling through for a couple of hours before Mum made the symbolic protest of pressing stop with what she hoped would be recognised as the firmness of angry protest.

One time Mum was driving herself because Dad had been having a few beers. We’d been to watch his old Heritage bandmate Maurice Nicholls doing a gig somewhere, way out of AFM’s reach. We got lost in the deepest darkest forests with no street lights and Mum was concentrating on the road with every reserve she had. The tape played on and on, cycling round. She said afterwards she didn’t dare turn it off, that was why we kept rolling through this haphazard, roughly executed mixtape.

Everybody did a bit of home taping back then, listening to the radio and waiting for your favourite songs before leaping into action with the play and record buttons. As far as I know though Joe Madden only made one cassette and it was of this bizarre collection of songs. As Dylan started compiling his favourites from the radio and then a bit later I joined him, we’d pride ourselves on catching as much of the song as we possibly could, thrilled if we managed to get next to no interference from the DJ introducing the songs. It took concentration, preemptive action, hard earned knowledge about each radio show’s quirks. It took real human skill and intelligence, skill that was of the utmost of importance in every teenage bedroom of every country where pop music mattered in the 1980s. Skill that has disappeared entirely from the face of the earth and is almost impossible to explain to those who weren’t alive then.

Joe Madden had none of that skill, his C60 was complete chaos. I’ve made a spotify playlist of it below but you really had to hear it to believe it. There must’ve been more songs than this because my playlist is ten minutes short of the hour that the tape would’ve had on it. Songs would come in a verse late, others would be missing the end. All too often some clown of a 70s DJ would be prattling over them. There’d be thumps and squiggles, flutter and static. Some songs came through underneath because they’d been partially recorded over. Sometimes there be dead air where he’d simply pressed record whilst listening and taken a moment or two to realise. Most of these tunes aren’t exceptional in anyway, this isn’t some “deep cuts” selection, but when I hear any of them the never ending narrator in my head stops what he’s doing and says “That’s from the tape!” Imagine that, some of these songs are very popular. Every time I hear Don’t Stop Me Now, which is let’s face it quite often, I think of the tape. And every time I hear Layla too.

This tape was the first time I heard Deep Purple, that insane crashing chaos of the opening to Speed King settling into Jon Lord’s divine and regal organ introduction. The first time I heard any Jethro Tull, listening to what is essentially a pop song in 5/4 with virtuoso lead flute throughout. It was the first time I heard Otis Redding, forming an unbreakable bond between my heart and the sadness of his voice. The soulful organ of Try a Little Tenderness, played by Isaac Hayes whilst Booker T handled the piano, left its imprint forever.

It was the first place that I heard God Only Knows. I was spellbound.

You might sit in the back of the car and try to feel something. Maybe we’d be driving home after our three weeks with Oma and Opa and I’d gaze out on the forests I knew I wouldn’t see for another year, trying to rustle up some real melancholy. Mum might even be crying in the front. But then The Devil Went Down To Georgia would come crashing in, there was no way to stabilise your emotional world whilst listening to the world’s least crowd sensitive DJ lurch between genres.

I still think the Devil did a better fiddle solo than Johnny for what it’s worth, although I’ve been reliably informed that the technical details in Johnny’s are what gave him the edge with Hell’s judging panel.

It took me till I was about thirty to hear what happened to Tommy in The Coward of the County. Dad had taped something over the last verse where he gives the Gatlin Boys their just desserts. I jumped out of my seat with joy when I finally heard him get his revenge.

It took me till just now to realise the children singing “She’s only a poor little sparrow…” were actually called the Ramblers.

What was he thinking?

What is he ever thinking?

Real King Crimson

I sat and watched the BBC TV broadcast of the Prog at the Proms special on the iPlayer. Still enjoyed it too, I’m not going to turn traitor just because I looked at the people. If we’ve learnt anything it’s that prog has never been a visual medium. Beware of good looking prog rock musicians. Still, after the second consumption I did think the one thing that was missing was actual virtuosic prog soloists. The BBC session players were beyond capable but it all looked a bit like a piss easy day at the office. In prog I like to see excitement, people flying right out there in the outer regions of their own abilities, walking tightropes that they could genuinely fall off at any second. I wasn’t getting that, everyone was just nailing stuff with bland efficiency and economy of movement. It’s only a small criticism but it led me back to watching this clip of the King Crimson reunion tour from 2015. They do not shy away from that middle section in the slightest and both Robert Fripp and Mel Collins are soloing with that sense of danger and intensity that I was missing last week. Mike Moore went along to watch this tour and told me it was the best gig he’d ever seen, I deeply regret not making it. Give it ten minutes of your time. Interestingly enough I’ve been playing organ on a project with one of the drummers here- Gavin Harrison also of Porcupine Tree, and a Canadian bassist called Anton Fafard. It’s without doubt the hardest stuff I’ve ever played on and I’m completely out of my depth. Too proud to say anything obviously so I’m just plodding on.

I Saw The Light

My algorithm dealt me this little Hee Haw clip the other week and as always I’m grateful. I Saw The Light is a country gospel classic and I love it. We used to play it at the close of the first set in the Patsy Cline tribute show and it always felt absolutely joyous. This version is a hilarious watch as well as a good listen, you’ll note that Roy Clark is a great banjo player with a rich voice. I’ll have to come back to him in future in more detail because that’s not the half of it, he’s a true entertainer and an unfathomably brilliant guitarist. We’ll just enjoy this nugget for now though, there’s enough to go off. I always thought the Italians had cornered the market on pairing beautiful, young women with lecherous, aging pests but the Hee Haw seems to have taken things a step further and recruited all their men directly from the local Sex Offenders Register. Honestly, watch it. Every single one of them! I can’t stop playing this video, it looks like something off the Fast Show but sounds glorious.

A Different Kind Of Church

It’s only right that after a bit of country gospel we should round things up with the real thing. I’ve been meaning to post this for a few weeks since my friend Elmo sent it through. I try and pace these things a bit too, you can’t eat steak every day. This is the utterly inimitable Billy Preston where he’s most comfortable, in church. He’s joined by Donald Vails on piano and a breathtaking choir and congregation which I can’t actually tell the boundary between. This is You Can’t Beat God Giving. If I had to sit in a room like this once a week I don’t think my atheism would make it through August.