Robbie or Take That

Beatles or the Stones, Oasis or Blur, Spandau or Duran Duran, Robbie or Take That or Robbie and Take That. Rock battles, pop battles, tabloid news, a national debate. A nation cared for a week or two and life was better for the banter.

Will he wont he......Modern questions morphed by commercialism, fiendship or friendship or just growing older.

"We're putting the bad back together" Jake or was it Elwood said for charity, well now there is thousand and one reasons that one bif one has dollar, euro, signs ringing round them as if singing a tune The Charity of us.

Robbie or take that ....We can have both.

Saw Doctors

N19 - a road story hewn from a homely strain.

Celtic rock may have had more famous exponents, but for me the crack or craic of Celtic Rock fell upon the Saw Dooctors although thankfully not falling through.

Classic tunes brought smiles as lyrics could be heard and heartily chanted, early albums boomed large whilst later albums may not quite have such charm, but I like them too much to admit and I take it back and cross my heart and hope to die.

I bought several T-shirts to go along with the albums, compilations and cuddly toys if they had sold them too.

A fan

Kylie

Growing old can be a challenge as brain cells, confuse not just names, but birthdays, anniversaries and probably how much money a beer used to cost. But back in the day when pop was dominated by a threesome who talked of a Brit Motown, but never quite made it to shorten Motor to Mo, althouhgh it was probably a case of shortening Scooter to Scoo in global significane and still never made it.

But through the factory production came Kylie. A disposable poppet riding fame of a soap without attitude but plenty of accent.

And then in a matter of years, she traded polo necks for low cut, and rara skirts were redesigned to shorts that tested stiching and to lycra that came with a warning about parental guidance. And became an icon.....known by a first name. Poppet was a pop icon.

Still going strong, too.

Estropa

Straddling the divide between rock, rap and flamenco; and somehow coming out with something worthy of purchase, I give you Estropa.


A fusion that warmed the cockles of mi corazon.


A going native of the foreigner abroad, where musical pleasure was forsaken for fitting in and applauding the local talent. Complimenting mildly as the locals enthused of what can nastily be described by clinking keys randomly and froightening a cat to vocalise enthusiastically. But it changed to musical pleasure while also fitting in.

Estropa were and are damn good.

Several Hit wonders

Joan Armatrading was good, but is not exactly going to raise an eyebrow by the youth of today. Elkie Brooks aswell.

They were not maufactured, they had not been crafted, but grafted at their craft.

They had hits, several hits, and critical acclaim of albums, back when albums were black and shined and turned at 33 and a third. And today's youth may have a hard job in the pop quiz, songs that graced homes some thirty years ago as a soundtrack to a time are trapped in that time.

Somehow as wrinkles played across a face as fingers played across a guitar, faces were lost to the TV world and then lost to the radio world.

Still at one home they play on.

The First Record

How embarrasing, a confession, a shame. I hear them now calling out "Shame on You".


It was at school a second had "45", it was Rod Stewart and he was sailing. How I could now wish that it was London calling to a faraway town, but it was sailing b/w'd Stone Cold Sober. It s funny how I knew the B-side asreliogiously as the a side back then.

The first legit "45" bought from Woolworths, in a land that time still had a Woolworths. A Woolworths that had not thrown a history down the pan of a global recession and that "45" was Darts' "Come Back my love".

And the "33" Elvis Greatest Hits. Was I looking for trouble?

And the "78 rpm" was a never used setting on the radiogram. Radiogram indeed. How quaint I am?

For all my never mind the teenage swagger grown old to the arthritic swing of a sister, I still am proud to know the words and sing badly out of tune to a "Love coming back to stay".

From declaring Hello this was Joanie was good and paying the price, to Mull of Kintyre and saying it was damn fine, when others were worrying about their safety pinned ear. I called YMCA a guture number one hit when it was only top forty. I will walk back and forth across the Rock'n'roll tracks.

Lena - Eurovision Winner - Que sera, que sorpresa

In a mock english voice that was from somewhere between cockney and the USA, via Germanzy with a smile,with a tune that chirruped away with an Indie stamp. It was too good to be true, keeping it unreal . It was Lena with a lack of underam hair a la Nena, but underarm tattoo a la Lena.

She was German, representing Germany, a Germany famed for its singing aas in singiing with the aid of a trumpet, tuba, accordion and a very large beer in hand. Here she re-wrote the Book, even if not exactly the song which had a foreign stamp. Against the odds, she topped Greater Euro land, in a contest that we may mock, but we watch, we criticise and enjoy. Eurovision 2010 watched and won via Satellite.

So it was good for the under-dog, good against the Bloque vote. It wad good.

Although for you oficionados, not as good as a Bee.

A Rose in the Jam

In a time when being a "Mrs Nine o clock" news was a breakthrough on the mainstream middle aged sober male model television, that was in all colours bar black, at least for a while. When teenage fashion meant DMs were de riguer, punks in suits were not cool except to prive the rule there is an exception, the exception was the Jam. The Jam wore suits and ties be damned. How come?

Perhaps because the music was damned fine. Hard and edgy like a 45" vinyl edge to cut a thumb quicker than paper when drwn from its cardboard wallet.

And yet for all the swagger, the all mod cons, the punk with ties, the inner city chants, the aggression, there was a subtle coup d'etat of always being angry. There was a moment of metamorphosis to make a teeanger grow a tad towards his inner grown-up, there was a softer tune, a more poetic take on life. A cuddly toy in withthe Action men. Paul Weller could still write a tune that would sit back and re-set the button marked "so what if its not in yer face". "English Rose" acoustically meandered path to a gentle place and others like "Butterfly collector" meandered a path of pleasantness wrapping sadness in melancholy.


It nice, he's still here too.

Beetles and the Spelling Test

A friend at school who may have gone into greatness, if his water into wine trick was unfortunately flawed as a wine was morphed, via various several organs that caused temporary dizziness, into a form of water. It also caused long term hospitalisation eventually. He once said..... if I'm not being too clever and not getting to the point....anyway when lucidity was upon us, he said, if you was not a bleeding heart liberal at the age of 21 then you had no heart. I had a heart. And if you were not a roaring Tory gorging oneself on working class heart by the age of 41, you had no brain. So as of today I have no brain and my heart has probably been eaten.

So the music question that may have lost something of its key pop music trivia quality since its 60~s heyday and since martyrdom to a wannabe fan. A wannabe fan seeking wannabe fame. A fame that in "Rebel without a cause" way was more stupid than one can honestly believe of another human to steal a life that had flourished and embellished others. Fame for 15 minutes by getting life. The question was Paul or John?

Pre 1960s this question may have entertianed many a Mother's Union debate and post the 60's entertained several student angst ridden university dorm.


Now things may have changed since a Pope combined both names and came out as still a good bloke of sorts."Of sorts" because he would not be first choice on the Sex Advisor list, if your teenage daughter was mixing with Shady Smith, Big Eddy and Dirty Naughty boys posse.

I was a John man and outside socialist principles, I became a Paul man. I, not wishing to like myself to Jesus and end up forcing myself to apologise due to headline readers only reading headlines; I am like the old pope I became a Paul-John man because I can and they were both damn good. I do not need to choose. I can have my head and my heart.

To touch, perhaps not on the worst but what I think is the best, Mull of Kintyre derided although a Brit No. 1 is darn good. Frog chorus was a kiddy wonderland. Revolution was 33 and third at its best, even with your 3-2-1..... counting me out and in.

So for one getting older than 64 and the Bus pass years; and the other we can only remember .

Clash of the Cultures

When the television was yet to feature a fourth channel, when a TV remote control was called was teenager, London called and I answered, it somehow catapulted me into a place of disharmony that I wanted to be as a teenage soul.

Thay had they oozed street cred, they did triple albums that perhaps in hindsight should have been double albums, but we appalud the spirit. They were the Clash. Their leader was Joe Strummer although the other Guitaist seemed to be an able deputy who went onto a classic one album band "Big Audio Dynamite", who were BAD before Mr Jackson and who remembers them bar me, and who remembers them as classic bar me.

And then they were interviewed, Joe was interviewed, an opportunity to understand a hero, instead was a man who wrote grafitti on walls and says its OK. The fact that in my parallel life, my Saturday morning chore is cleaning off the grafitti of some hooli had thought was ok too, from the end of terrace wall of your home, you somehow start to question. I am not suggesting my wall was personalised by an amateur Banksy called Joe. But some average Joe with a brain in reverse was causing harm for no reason to a nobody he did not know and it was not ok.

Then urbanisation of myths brought rumours of a Joe Strummer less than working class hero upbringing. The mythology changes. So a clash of cultures with a working class soul was worn on a sleeve that once rested under a public school blazer.

But still, like it or lump it, I liked the music and they rocked.

Joe Strummer was another who died a tad too early.

The Songs of Ian Dury

When life was simpler and I was a teenage criminal. This may be a major confession for a third geek on the left in the school play whose only danger of theatrical faux pas was to have a fit of giggles as there is only so many times that "Lo My Liege Thee must go...", before the funny bone gets cramp.

But today I digress, to return to plot, I confess it was New Year's Eve, an old Grey Whistle Test was entertaining teenagers who were not quite actually out there enjoying themselves. A well known pop combo of the time that had managed to migrate into the new wave mainstream was "in concert" on the basis of "What a Waste" ~ a hit single.

I was recording the sound as produced by the TV onto a tape by a high tech tape recorder of the time ~ it had big knobs that went chunk. This was not high tech downloading as recognised by a modern day teenager and several door slams were inadvertently added to the production mix.

Ian Dury played on. The Blockheads played on. Ian Dury and the Blockheads played on.

He sang in a voice that was not quite Diva-like, which was a good thing. I, like the next man, may appreciate the double-falsetto-soprano-triple-octave-whatever, but my appreciation is brief. Brief as in nanoseconds. The subsequent 2 minutes 29 seconds and counting were not so appreciated, I kinda like the rough edges. Welcome Ian Dury.

Ian Dury sang in a prose that coupled rhyme with a reason left to the imagination.

Punk was born from garage band making a sound, whilst only having just learning how to play and somehow knew how to play a Top Thirty hit, with song titles that had a fair chance of not including the word "Love" or "Baby" ~ a good thing. But here was a band ~ the Blockheads~who played and did know how to play.

On the strength of this I bought the album. It was and still is a classic from rolling over to Dickies.

And back in the day when time was available to look at minutia of each and every cover detail. I did. I pored over "New Boots and Panties" the album, the black vinyl album that shone with more colour than the cover. I loved that cover, baby; the history in its photo-montage that hinted at the good, the bad and the handsome in ugly times.

The follow-up I bought on the strength I was a true fan, even if seeing them live was not in the diary. Remember I was still a graduating geek going on nerd going on cool. I listened and wished I was not a true fan as to coin a phrase it was "What a Waste".

But we forgive and as a post note ~ Ian Dury's wonderful song "Sweet Gene Vincent" should have been my wedding first dance song, but that's what you get for hiring a 50 pound-a-night DJ who could not go passed Wake me up before you Go-Go, without passing "Careless Whisper". A reflection on my life's could have beens. My life purrs on imperfectly.

The Blockheads played on and apparently, by urban myth, on several other band's records that had only just learned to play a mean guitar.

Ian Dury died before he grew old, as an icon, but this to me was one rock star who looked as if growing old may have just been, would have been a good thing. He seemed a good bloke. Sad.