The Accelerator

At the start of July 2006 the King Creosote band, with its now newly embedded member Christian Madden, headed to Sweden for the Accelerator festival. It was a travelling circus where lots of bands came, largely from other countries, and travelled between three city sites in Malmö, Gothenberg and Stockholm. They were really good bands too, all on very different trajectories, starting and ending careers that would feature entirely different story arcs and successes.

I was starting to go through what would turn out to be a lifelong crisis of confidence in my abilities as a musician at the time. I say lifelong, it comes and goes but I remember at that time starting to feel that I was fully committed to this life in music but wasn’t nearly good enough to succeed at it. I hadn’t put enough time in, I hadn’t diversified enough, I hadn’t been serious enough. I was starting to gather materials online that I thought would make me better, finding videos, sheet music, albums by great players and then just feeling overwhelmed that I’d never make any use of them or master their contents in any way. We drank on the plane over, as is standard fare, but then I set up my keyboard on the stage when we arrived at the gig and started attempting to practice. I plugged headphones in and sat there with my digital metronome trying to play mega complicated licks by other people, starting slow and gradually dialling the speed up. I have folders of these still, check this one out:

Or this one:

I didn’t realise how unhealthy focusing on other people was, comparing yourself to them and obsessing over the various ways you fall short of them. You’re just supposed to enjoy this whole thing, that’s the whole deal. You’re on your path and other people are on theirs, everybody has a unique voice and nobody else has yours. I know to tell myself that now, I remember to try and believe it too. My early 20s had been a relaxed romp, always pretty much feeling like I was great in some unique way that other people maybe just “didn’t get”. Back then though as I approached 30 I think I was starting to fill up with the fear that I’d been wrong, that I wasn’t uniquely brilliant, that I’d put all my eggs in one basket and they’d gone off without me knowing and started to stink.

There was a full bill of inspirational artists from a range of ages to busy myself watching across the three shows though. Although there was enough talent there to feed my imposter syndrome I do remember largely enjoying it all, out in the sunshine with Nathan drinking away the afternoons whilst waiting to play. Regina Spektor was there who I’d thought was brilliant when she’d supported us the year before, I think at the Barfly in Camden. Things were changing for her though, she’d just released her second album Begin To Hope, putting it out on Maz’s 29th birthday without possibly even knowing that. She’d arrived as a fully fledged virtuoso of piano and voice from the off, but now she was showing serious pop writing chops too, her song Fidelity was about to be a Billboard top 20 hit and her profile would elevate considerably. Quite right too, it’s wonderful song on an album where the quality never drops.

Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins were an afternoon fixture at the gigs that I ended up enjoying very much. I actually bought their album Rabbit Fur Coat when I got back to England buoyed by the sense of having watched a really amazing gig. With a bit of time to reflect I realised that the main reason I thought their set was brilliant was because they’d done a cover of Handle With Care by the Traveling Wilburys. This was in that period of my life where I’d buried away the Beatles post-band solo efforts and not given them a thought. Then I heard that belter start up and I felt utterly overjoyed. The rest of her album is fine but it isn’t Handle With Care, and come to think of it her version of it isn’t Handle With Care either. Most of us aren’t Beatles, it’s just the way it is.

She had a pedal steel player, a good looking guy who looked a little bit French if you know what I mean? I’m not sure what I mean either. He kept making eye contact and giving me little nods. It took my a couple of days to realise it was Farmer Dave from the Beechwood Sparks, who I’d met on the Earlies epic American tour. I told him I didn’t recognise him and he said that last time we’d met he was in his tour managing disguise, shades, beard and glasses. He was the star player of her band really, I hope he’s still making a crust in this business.

I’ve looked back at the lineup and one band who I’d had no idea were on was Silver Jews, who I’m guessing were touring their 2005 album Tanglewood Numbers. At this point I’d never seen them but Giles was always telling me they were the best band he’d ever seen. They were never operating at a particularly high level, I think Giles had watched them upstairs at the King’s Arms a couple of times. I ended up watching them in maybe 2009 or 2010 at the ill-fated Nelson ACE centre- a high spec, money guzzling, white elephant of a venue that was a failure from the first council meeting where the concept of “let’s put a venue and recording studio in the middle of this town that doesn’t even have any pubs left” was first aired. The venue sat empty for two or three years and then one day I saw a poster saying that Silver Jews were on, a plucky local promoter who was a fan of theirs was taking a punt on them. Giles jumped on an X43 and joined Nicky, me and about six other people for a show that truly belonged somewhere better. Giles had absolutely been right all along, they were fantastic.

I’d been learning to eat my words about Jack White over the preceding couple of years. I’d done an early interview with some DJ magazine while I was still at college, where I gleefully proclaimed that I hated the White Stripes. I called them the “Posh and Becks of the NME” which sounded like a real zinger, although it was Billy who’d first said it and I was just parroting him. They kind of were the Posh and Becks of the NME but that was hardly their fault, it was just a shit magazine trying to peddle celebrity tittle tattle to indie inclined teenagers. I don’t think I really knew enough of their music to hate them, I just got annoyed when Charlotte played their music with her door open at our University halls. I think I enjoyed saying they were shit. I’m a natural contrarian.

I was forced to realise how wrong that position was over and over again, since the Loretta Lynn album that Jack White had made the game was up and I was in a full reversal of position. I thought Jack White was a genius by now. I’ve stuck with it since too, he really is. I took the opportunity to watch him with the Raconteurs at Accelerate and not only did I think he was brilliant, he seemed pretty funny too, the kind of chap you’d get on with easily. I can’t find footage of it anywhere but I swear he played organ on one tune- really well. I stood watching and imagining Maz saying in my ear “He’s just pissed on your chips- and fed ‘em to you!”

Vashti Bunyan was there as the senior of the line-up, beautiful and brilliant and always totally welcoming and friendly. Hot Chip were there riding high on the wave of Over and Over’s success, by now Joe and Alexis felt like old friends and were great to hang out with. I doubt I had much impact on their life but I always found them really nice to knock about with. And of course the headline every night was the exciting new band of 17 year olds from Sheffield, Arctic Monkeys. I liked them too, I thought “good for them,” a bunch of Northern kids fresh out of school with spots all over their faces being tour managed by their Dad. Whenever I heard their voices in catering I felt like I was back home. Okay, not back home but maybe over in Skipton for the day visiting Griff.

One memory that I recall keenly isn’t musical but in the interests of transparency I suppose I should share it anyway. We were riding the train between gigs, so I think this might have been between Gothenburg and Stockholm. I’d drunk a fair bit the night before but I thought I was fine, I knew once I got on the train and sat down all would be well and I’d probably fall asleep. The train was packed to British Rail levels of inhumanity though and it was a scorching hot Swedish summer’s day. The air conditioning was broke on the train so it was hot throughout but then I sat down in what I thought was an excellent score of a window seat, to find out there was a vent next to me blowing hot air at my face as the sun was beating me through the glass. It was relentless and what started out as discomfort turned into full blown nausea and a wildly churning stomach. I’m hardly ever sick, once a decade or so maybe, but when you know well, you know. I excused myself and tried politely passing people, making excusing mumbles that deteriorated into offhand grunts as the urgency mounted. I made my way to the vestibule area which was as packed as anywhere else and lunged towards the toilet door scattering a group of well dressed, impeccably tanned and generally unflappable Swedes. It was locked, no bother though, I noticed another across from it and staggered towards that, by now dribbling a little. The crowd were becoming casually interested, I think they knew what was afoot. Door two was locked too, wouldn’t you know it. Everyone was looking at me now, a gallery of judgement and pity. I looked straight at them and threw up down my own front, into my cupped hands and all over my t-shirt. Just one tidy little gip, perhaps a half pint of liquid and an assortment of veg. I then looked one of them directly in the eye, gave a little shrug and an eye roll, a gesture that said "What do you know eh? The fucking bogs! Always some fucker in them when you need them? Am I right?” Off I popped back to my seat, giving discreet little cleansing flicks of the hands.

I think I got away with it.

True Blue

I’ve said it before but this week it’s worth reiterating- I love True Blue. Madonna’s third album masterpiece turned 40 this week so it’s been on my mind. I listen to it when I’m drunk, with or without company. Sometimes I listen to it when I’m vacuuming or painting a wall. It’s never a mistake to listen to it, there aren’t many things that make me as happy to listen to as early Madonna and True Blue is as good an example as there is.

I don’t like to be the kind of person who’s trying to point out “the guy” behind the female popstar who is the “real genius” of the whole affair. It’s a dirty trick and Madonna doesn’t deserve it, she plays lots of instruments well and was a formidable writer with an acute understanding of what worked for her as an artist. She has co-writing and co-production credits on every tune on True Blue and this is from an era when that really meant something. Two of the tunes were brought in from outsiders that had been pitched to other artists already. Interestingly Open Your Heart had been offered to Cyndi Lauper which I can kind of imagine, La Isla Bonita had been pitched to Michael Jackson which I definitely cannot imagine. In both instances Madonna took what was offered and changed lyrics, production and melodic content to fit her style properly.

There were two guys who did help her though, good friends and true collaborators. One was Stephen Bray, a former boyfriend who’d been playing with her in punk bands from the moment she arrived in New York. He’s the co-writer on Papa Don’t Preach, an album opener that succeeds in announcing the arrival of a new, more mature Madonna in lyrical content and sonic palette. Patrick Leonard is the other major collaborator on True Blue and he’s always been the one that interested me more, for fairly obvious reasons. He was a keyboard player and a massive prog fan, he loved Genesis, Gentle Giant and Jethro Tull. He played with an amazing array of artist over the years: Roger Water, Elton John, Leonard Cohen, Michael Jackson and many more. He also co-wrote, with the exception of Borderline, most of my favourite Madonna songs including Like A Prayer, Cherish, White Heat, Dear Jessie, Frozen, Who’s That Girl, La Isla Bonita and the truly stunning Live To Tell.

He’d written Live To Tell as an instrumental for the soundtrack of the film Fire with Fire which was rejected by Paramount. There’s a great video here where he tells the story of how Madonna stuck her neck out for him after the rejection, took it to Sean Penn and got him to take it to the producers of At Close Range and have it included on the soundtrack. She wrote words and a bridge and it ended up on her album as a lead single. It’s hard to imagine now but her label were not behind the idea at all, a 7 minute ballad that kept on stopping dead. She wasn’t actually a sure thing yet, it’s hard to remember a time when she wasn’t but she was genuinely taking an artistic risk.

I enjoyed this video of Patrick Leonard playing his instrumental version of the tune, it makes sense that it started this way, it’s obvious that it came through the hands of a keyboard player but it makes me respect Madonna all the more for where she lifted it to as a piece. Pop is infinitely more interesting when the people who make it come from other musical backgrounds and interests. Pop written by people who listen to nothing but pop leaves us in the ever decreasing circles of pedestrian harmony and banal lyrics that we hear now. When I am Prime Minister I will hand pop music back to the proggers.

Rofe Interjects

Dave Rofe got in touch after last week’s installment to ask if I was aware of Shirley Bassey’s version of Spiining Wheel by Blood, Sweat and Tears. I was of course aware of that, come on Dave try harder. Everyone who shopped the car boots of the 90s got a few Shirley Bassey records, in my case I ended up loving them too. Was I aware of Light My Fire by Shirley Bassey he asked? See above Dave, Shirley Bassey’s Light My Fire is a belter, a breathtaking, atmospheric and groovy reinterpretation. Did I know Johnny Harris, the arranger responsible for those two Bassey masterpieces who was a top UK arranger and worked a lot for Mickey Most? Er, no Dave I did not. Madden hasn’t done his homework.

Was I aware that Johnny Harris had done an album of his own using the cream of 70s session players? Did I know this song, All To Bring You Morning, which featured Jon Anderson, Steve Howe and Alan White of Yes?

I was not aware, I did not know this song and it’s absolutely worth listening to all 14 minutes. Sometimes you should just shut up and listen to Dave Rofe.

Happy Independence Day

Do you remember what you were doing this time last year? I suppose I’ll never forget as I was sitting around waiting for Live ‘25 to start. In the morning I wrote quite a good substack as far as mine go, reflecting on a decade of unimaginable opportunities that had somehow come my way. I then headed to the stadium and decided I’d stay in it and wait for the show. I think I still didn’t have any notion of how big it was all going to be, I certainly couldn’t have guessed how unanimously positive the response would be. I took the photo below in an empty Cardiff stadium in the afternoon, I remember standing around the halfway line by the desk looking at Pete or Gary walking across the stage, not really being able to tell who anybody was and thinking, “How on earth will anybody see anything from back here?” That’s stadium gigs though, the screens make it all work and really it’s about being part of the communal outpouring, the human sea of emotions. In the afternoon it was hard to understand what would all be so obvious a few hours later. At about three or four o’clock there was just Bonehead and me in the dressing room. He was ironing a shirt and I was making an elaborate sandwich which featured meats, cheeses, salad and a layer of crisps. Steve the security guard came in and said “How can you just be sat in this room lads, you need to take a look outside, the whole world’s gone mad out there!”

But of course you can’t really go and take a look outside, you can’t get carried away with the spirit of the occasion. You can’t be staggering around Cardiff drinking lagers with your arms around strangers singing. You’ve got to keep it together a bit, especially on day one. So you sit in the bubble and wait.