Uneasy riders

Late 60's America gave us plenty of thrilling music (Hendrix, The Doors, Love) and a good number of goofy, psychedelic freak flicks (The Trip, Head, Wild In The Streets). But Easy Rider was something different. On the surface we have a somewhat trite premise - two 'freaks', Billy, and Captain Wyatt America (Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda), move a stash of coke from LA to New Orleans on two very splendid choppers and live the hippy dream along the way. It's a drugs and bikes and chicks and camping movie, undeniably. But scratch that surface and we're soon wrestling with doubt, disillusionment, moral dilemma and the unraveling of the very alternative lifestyle on which the movie is based.

Indeed, the contradictions are right there in the set up. This duo of dudes (and there's a cracking scene where the term 'dude' has to be explained to a surprisingly square Jack Nicholson) are setting out not to find themselves or their country, but to get filthy rich selling a drug which was to become more associated with Wall Street dealers than pot pushers. They don't want to change the world, just make a ton of cash - a hippy retirement plan, if you like.

Hopper, the most obvious 'freak' in appearance, intentionally displays a disregard for his fellow man throughout - little love and peace, plenty of shove and fleece. But as the road trip progresses, it's Fonda's Wyatt who starts to question the entire escapade. When the two of them take a break at a fledgling commune, Captain America immediately embraces the idealism, while Billy is dismayed, embarrassed and ultimately rejected. He simply can't walk the walk and sees the counter culture as what it ultimately became - an excuse to get stoned, get laid and get away with it.

Many of the 'head' movies mentioned above, attempt to recreate the LSD experience with some primitive prism lenses, and phasing blues guitar. But the trip in Easy Rider is set in a graveyard, soundtracked by a gothic choir and is genuinely disturbing. We're actually quite pleased to be sober and straight and not sobbing into the bosom of a statue like Fonda. The acid fuelled sex is far from 'free love' - there's more than a suggestion that the girls are hookers hired by Billy. We are not being sold the dream of a never ending party, more a glimpse of an anarchic nightmare from which no good can come.

Interestingly, with Hopper directing, one feels he has already seen through the beguiling facade of the beautiful people and 'flowers in your hair' emptiness, long before the Pistols warned us to 'never trust a hippy'. And he chillingly draws our attention to the fine line between amorality and immorality as Billy and Wyatt effectively lead Nicholson's George to his death at the hands of bat swinging rednecks, simply raiding his wallet as he lies still warm. There's something rotten in this journey and the corruption drives deeper the further south the bikes advance.

By the final reel, there's a spiritual battle raging. Billy picked his side from the start and therefore is untroubled by the 'bad vibes', so the war rages in the heart of Fonda. It's no coincidence his character is nicknamed America and his leathers sport the stars and stripes. He's as much caught up in conflicting loyalties and polarised principles as the land on which he rides - with one foot in the fields of Vietnam and the other in the fields of Yasgur's farm as it hosts the Woodstock festival.

The pair are ultimately separated not by the bleak ending - which I won't spoil for you - but by their comments at the final camp.

'We made it!' crows the jubilant Billy. 'We blew it' counters the despondent Wyatt, 'Goodnight'.

Of course, there's some tremendous music layered over the whole saga and ground-breaking

photography (witness the painfully slow pan at prayers in the commune) but what lifts this movie above its 'weed and weirdness' cousins is the way it picks apart the sixties revolution at the same time as celebrating and documenting it.

Hot vinyl

Whilst I cannot pretend that this is the first time I've told this tale, it is only the second time I've committed it to print. On the basis that this was more than 25 years ago, I'm presuming some sort of statute of limitations applies.....

Back in the mid 1980's - alas (minimal) research has not thrown up the actual year - I was down in the capital city, Hackney to be precise, visiting my friend Epic Soundtracks for the weekend. This fairly frequent if irregular two day stay would invariably revolve around the visiting of the many wonderful record stores then in existence - remembering of course that even Virgin was worth a visit in those days - so as usual, I'd spent a couple of months saving up for the traditional spending extravaganza. This particular weekend was to be a little different though.

On arrival, after marvelling at the ever increasing and quite breathtaking record collection Epic was accruing (some years later after his sad and early demise, it was rumoured that Noel Gallagher had written out a cheque for £250,000 to buy the lot, only for Meg to put the kibosh on that) it was suggested we took the tube out to Kensington Park Road, and the original Rough Trade Record store, which was in the process of closing down as it relocated to the Portobello Road - rumour was there might be some bits and pieces going spare (ie free).

Epic (as had his brother Nikki) had worked there of sorts in the past and had obviously (I say obviously but then I'm old and I'd know anyway) been in Swell Maps, one of the label's first acts. I knew the store from occasional visits down south to ask them to shift copies of several fanzines I'd produced over the years.

On arrival, the place had been pretty much stripped, but along with a few Metal Urbain singles and green vinyl Sire promotional LPs (with unreleased Ramones track, as I recall), we found a box, about to be chucked (honest guv), of used record tokens - staff had obviously exchanged these for vinyl and not known what to do with these odd bits of paper oftimes attached to greetings cards. Some were pristine, some a little bashed up, but none had been crossed out, so it occurred to us we might be able to re-use them....

We weren't sure mind you and bravely though hesitantly sallied forth to test things out. It fell on me as an unknown face to go first, and I remember to this day going into WH Smith on Notting Hill Gate, picking up a 12" single of Rod Stewart's "Baby Jane" - (1983?) - and nervously approaching the cashier with the least obviously used token, half expecting an alarm to go off and certain arrest to follow. Of course nothing of the sort happened, I was given a few pence in change, handed the bagged up record and hastily departed the premises. We spent the rest of the weekend blowing this treasure trove (see note) on all sorts of stuff in all manner of chain store record emporia (hello Virgin and HMV).

(note - treasure trove may broadly be defined as an amount of gold, silver, gemstones, money, jewellery, or any valuable collection found hidden underground or in places such as cellars or attics, where the treasure seems old enough for it to be presumed that the true owner is dead and the heirs undiscoverable- well, close enough....)

Memory is that we split something like £550 worth of tokens between us which back in those pre-CD days bought a fair bit of vinyl. Engorged with spending power I inevitably went on to buy a whole load of stuff just for the sake of it, much of it since given away or sold on, but as a fond memento of my luckiest day, I've still got that Rod single.

Do not worry though record stores of London (especially Plastic Passion, Minus Zero and, yes, Rough Trade) you more than got your real money's worth out of me in the years that followed.

Chris Seventeen, 2010

The most famous unknown drummer

Hal Blaine. Who? Hal Blaine. You’ve heard his work a thousand times and more.

Hal Blaine is one of the most talented (and certainly the most prolific) drummers, that has ever picked up a pair of sticks. Prolific, in Hal’s case, means having played on over four thousand records – but such records!

Hal Blaine plays on lots of records because he is good; very good. He’s the master of drumming styles, renowned for knowing just what to do. An instinct that allows him to roll up to a studio, tune in to what the artist and the producer are driving at, and somehow turn from a hired sideman into an absolutely essential player in pop history.

He’s played with Elvis, The Mamas and the Papas, Sam Cooke & Frank Sinatra. I was checking out how many US number one hits featured Hal Blaine, and gave up counting when I reached thirty. Imagine having so many number one singles, that you can’t

keep count.

Hal played on all of the Phil Spector ‘Wall Of Sound’ recordings, often deciding to go nuts and belt the drums for all he’s worth, on the fade out. Yet, on the Ronettes ‘Be My Baby, he decided to use just the bass drum and snare. Listening to it now, it sounds perfect, and yet who has ever noticed that he’s walloping only the snare/bass combo?

Hal Blaine brought such ingenuity to 1960s recording sessions that he didn’t just limit himself to the standard drum kit. On Pet Sounds, Blaine zoned into Brian Wilson’s helter skelter creativity and figured what was needed was something ‘different’. Throughout the album, Hal can be heard playing an assortment of empty orange juice bottles.

While Dennis Wilson was out playing at being Dennis Wilson, Hal Blaine played on ‘Good Vibrations’. He received a one-off ‘sideman’s fee’ of forty dollars.

Listen to the title track of Bridge Over Troubled Water. Hal doesn’t really get going until the song is at least 3:30 old. If you listen closely, you’ll hear the sound of what appears to be someone chucking snow tyre chains onto a stone floor. That’s Hal Blaine. He decided on the day that the record needed a little extra percussion, so went out to his car and dragged in his tyre chains (it was a cold November in 1969). Contrast this to the subtle yet passionate drum sounds on ‘The Only Living Boy In New York’ from the same album.

Blaine played on all of the Monkees' hits; there he is on The Byrds’ Mr Tambourine Man; and when John Lennon drifted into his lost weekend, and decided to record an album of rock ‘n’ roll covers, out went the call for Hal Blaine, doubling up with Jim Keltner.

Nobody can play like Hal Blaine. He uses really small, lightweight sticks – perfect, for example,

when playing on Carpenters’ records. When he needs a heavier, thumpier sound, he simply

turns them round and hits the drums with the ‘handle’ ends.

If you have some time, take a listen to the variety of Hal Blaine’s styles on any number of hit

records. He was paid somewhere between thirty and forty dollars as a one-off fee for each of

these recordings; yet how lacking the sound would have been without his unique style.

Hal Blaine celebrated his 81st birthday on 5th February 2010.

Terence Dackombe, February 2010

Everything begins here by Jude Rogers

April 2005, my first time in New York. Three months earlier, they were here, trying to make stitch and mend. Now I am here, after the knots of their marriage unraveled; trying not to think about what we are patching together back home; trying to find my own place in the city. On Broadway, Alex and Welsh Dan are arguing in a clothes shop, and I know I have to get out. I need some time alone. I leave, turn off the busy, bustling sidewalk, wriggle through yellow cabs, pretzel vendors and soapy launderette vents, and weave past NYU. And then, quite by chance, I find the record shop I've been looking for the past four days. The orange ‘Other Music’ sign smiles at me from West 4th Street, and its dusty door welcomes me in like an old friend.

And the sounds that I heard as I do...I still struggle to put into words the effect they had on me. I knew I had never felt like this before. It was like I was walking into a dream, or a dense, lovely fog; a warm welcoming bath. Even though I could pinpoint why the music was doing this to me – it had the minimal beauty of Brian Eno's Ambient records about it for starters, especially 1/1 from ‘Music For Airports’; it also used the sound of a music box in such a heartbreaking way that it took me back instantly to my grandmother's bedroom in Swansea, and the chipped little girl in her jewelry box doing an endless pirouette among old pearls and bright gemstones – I knew there was something deeper going on here. It was like heaven speaking to me in-between the dusty jewel cases and recommendation labels, the light getting in through the crack in everything. Wide-eyed and slow-limbed, I remember asking someone behind the counter to identify this hypnotic treasure, and he said, "a French woman called Colleen", but the album was only on promo, and, "wasn't out for two months". I remember the sadness rising in my chest when he said this, the next twenty minutes or so floating around the shop like a ghost, taking in every note of the rest of the record, feeling my mind and body dissipate. I'm still surprised I left on two feet of my own volition, rather than on the shoulders of the staff, or the back of one of my friends.

One week later, back in London, I was still carrying this song with me. I kept wondering what would have happened if I hadn't left Alex and Dan at that moment, walked in that particular direction, not looked up and saw the sign, walked into the shop right at that time. I was still thinking about it at work, opening our reviews post, chatting to Keith and Andrew – tear red tape, open jiffy bag, read press release, shelve sleeve – and didn't notice a cream and black case falling out of the envelope, the feel of the jewel case in my hand, then the jolt, the eyes to my hands, the smack of realisation that it was there, there it was.

Colleen's The Golden Morning Breaks, sitting here in my hand, its cover a little girl with wings, being consoled by a unicorn. I have it here with me now, on the desk next to me as I write, and the image on the front shouldn't work, but it does. There is something eerie about its composition that cuts through the sweetness, the same sinister sheen in its black, inky lines that ripples through the smallest details in Colleen's music.

I remember taking the album to Dan's that same night, him falling in love with it too, and soon it becoming the soundtrack to that strange summer. The summer where Andrew and I became close in our little flat overlooking Lower Clapton Road; the summer where our Sunday club, The Light Programme, started to focus our lives; and the summer when we laid in one morning, him freelance, me part-time, Tim calling Dan's mobile three times before 10 o'clock, asking him what was wrong with the trains into town, could we turn the radio on, then the young man phoning in, his voice rising with panic, a bus roof exploding in Tavistock Square, us turning it off, thinking he was lying, then the pictures of the road outside my old flat in Edgware Road, quickly becoming a makeshift hospital and morgue, the panicked phone calls and emails about where everyone was, Barry writing that his boss couldn't find her son, his DNA being found some months later between Kings Cross and Russell Square. Us all meeting, as friends, for drinks again and again over those peculiar days, trying to stay together, just because we could. Dan and I getting back together, keeping each other warm in his tiny flat in Stamford Hill, listening to Colleen to warm our cold bones.

Very simply, this track is the one that I have loved the most from the album that has made me smile, soothed me, lifted me, and comforted me, more than any other record in the last ten years. It gets to the heart of me, somehow. It's as though I can see my 21-year-old self in it, the girl with a sad soul starting the decade, and the way she has changed into this 31-year-old woman – the relationships she has had, the things she has done, the way she has grown.

This is because of the melancholy in it, I know – moving and surging in huge, cresting waves – and the unbearable tensions before it breaks at 1.53 and 2.46. But there is also plenty of me in the hope it holds, too, the sunlight sparkling at its lovely edges, the magic that pours out of its every tiny movement.

It's funny to think for a moment about the girl I was ten years ago, sitting in the front room, crying on the phone to Steve, wondering how my life would change. I don't think she'd have believed that my grandfather would die two years later – the lovely, precious man; that her brother would get married and teach at their old school; that she would be lucky enough to end up writing about things that she liked for a living; that she would go through such crushingly low moments and such gloriously high ones; and that her love life would take on so many ridiculous tics, twists and turns.

But when I listen to Colleen, and hear its heavenliness taking me over, I can understand how I got through everything in one piece. After all, there have always been things around – like wonderful, life-changing songs – to help us all on our way. And as I listen to I'll Read You A Story putting its arms around me, rubbing its nose against mine, I can also understand how anything this lovely as my relationship with Dan could get through so much. It tells me that some things can get to you out of the blue and transport you completely; that something that began in the dust and the dirt of the past can survive ruptures and devastations; how the deepest scars can heal over; and how we can face our future together, as husband and wife, our eyes bright and alive.

Music has always been there to give me strength, give me support, and give me solace. And in two weeks, after the new decade has made its mark, I will be moving out of here, and in with my boy, where I'll take the vinyl version of the Colleen album with me – something we're getting as a joint engagement present for our new record player. I look forward to setting the stylus on those warm, lovely grooves, letting this track take us into the times that lie ahead. As I do, I will also remember the times that have gone by, treasure their lessons, and keep my old songs singing.

Jude Rogers, 2009

Cilla - not all black and white

So. Cilla Black. Queen of Saturday night eezee-view chav-tv. Chirpy front woman of seemingly endless sugary feel-good sofa Prozac television shows. Flag waving icon of Thatcherites, and professional Scouser. Maybe? Definitely.

It’s probable that Cilla was advised to head for the verdant fields of light entertainment because, in the 60s, girl singers tended not to be taken seriously, and came with an expectation that the hits would only last as long as their novelty value could be stretched out. Cilla though, had her own, weekly, Saturday teatime television show at the age of twenty-four. To put that in a contemporary perspective, Lily Allen (her tv show had a 2% share of the total, potential audience) is also twenty-four, and Amy Winehouse is twenty-six. The theme song for Cilla’s show was not some throwaway tune knocked out by the BBC Variety Orchestra. It was written for Cilla by Paul McCartney; here’s a seldom heard demo version coupled with some film footage taken at the recording session.

Cilla was never an innovator, nor was she (it would seem) interested in song writing. Cilla was, in the 1960s, an artist from the school of interpretation. Her first success was under the management of Brian Epstein, and her truly golden years, with some remarkable performances, were formed at Abbey Road, where she was produced by George Martin. Let’s be clear, this was not the ‘Surprise, Surprise’ era Cilla. This was an artist in her early twenties, at the pinnacle of her career, both belting out northern white soul, and soft, girl next door, ballads.

Cilla Black has a wonderful vocal range, with her two distinctive styles often showcased in the one song. The lilting, come hither, of the verse, often augmented with the rock-out, throaty shout, of the chorus. Cilla had released seven hit singles, including two that topped the charts in the UK (Anyone Who Had A Heart, & You’re My World), but it was in 1965, that she hit her peak artistically, and it was this year in which a performance of extraordinary clarity and emotion was teased from her, by one of the world’s greatest songwriters, and producers.

Cilla had been used to George Martin’s production style which, though thorough and professional, often concentrated on orchestration, and left the singer to bring their own characteristics to the vocal, which, it may be argued, sometimes led to a ‘comfortable’ outcome. Nothing had prepared her for the events of the day Burt Bacharach came to Abbey Road to produce Cilla’s version of his, and Hal David’s, mesmeric and majestic ‘Alfie’. In this tingling film footage we can see Cilla living out the song, as Bacharach coaxed the achievement of a lifetime from her. He urged and cajoled a total of (unheard of in the 60s, especially with a full orchestra in attendance) nineteen takes before he was satisfied that he had got the very best vocal performance possible.

In this breathtaking two minutes and forty seconds, Bacharach taught Cilla to believe in the song, to inhabit it as if she were aching with love. The result was one of the greatest records of a generation, a seismic mix of Cilla Black’s raw, yet beatific and joyful voice, with Bacharach’s passion for perfection, born from a genius of musical knowledge and talent. We can only speculate on the outcome for Cilla Black if the association with Burt Bacharach had continued, and although there were still some great performances to come (Surround Yourself With Sorrow, If I Thought You'd Ever Change Your Mind, Something Tells Me Something’s Gonna Happen Tonight), Cilla’s career began its change in direction towards light entertainment, and ultimately to dating shows, and appearances with Spit The Dog.

If you need any final evidence of her overwhelming coolness, take a look at this gorgeous moment from Cilla’s 1973 TV show. Singing a duet, with Marc Bolan on Life's A Gas, Cilla is set free, momentarily, from the chains of fluffy, weightless teatime telly; she overcomes the sequined top and flared slacks, and revels in delight at joining a (then) teen icon, in a laidback, passing insight into what might have been. “And I hope it’s gonna last…” It didn’t, but nobody can ever take anything away from that run of hit singles, and that charged up, confident, wonderful voice.

The oddest gigs ever.

1. Katie Melua - Statoil Troll A

The raven haired singer songwriter and her band performed 303 metres below a North Sea oil platform in 2006, setting a world record.

2. U2 - L.A. warehouse roof

For the 'Where The Streets Have No Name' video the Dublin troubadors took to the top of a downtown building to play live in 1987. LAPD had other ideas.

3. Pere Ubu - Chislehurst Caves

Ticket holders had no idea where the American avant garde troop would be playing when they boarded coaches in Bromley, until they arrived at the dank rock formations.

4. Pink Floyd - Pompeii

Setting up and playing in an ancient amphitheatre, it is often thought the psychedelic dinosaurs had no audience but a camera crew. Not so. A gaggle of local children crept in to watch (probably didn't dance though).

5. Mike Peters - Empire State Building

The Alarm front fellow and band climbed 1576 steps to gig at the top of this NY landmark. A storm prevented them from playing outside and they performed their set in the gift shop.

6. Kosheen - Belgrade Poseidon Hall

A fairly ordinary looking concert hall was revealed pre-gig to be the site of a concentration camp and genocidal Nazi massacre. The band declined to play .

7. Jamiroquai - 747

The prat in the fuzzy hat and his white funk friends staged a gig on a Boeing jet flying from Germany to Greece. You don't get that on Ryanair. Fortunately.

8. Slim Jim, Glen Tilbrook, Mike Peters - Everest Squeeze, Stray Cats and Alarm blokes (plus 40 others) trekked for 14 days through the Himalayas to reach a base camp 18,000 feet up the world's tallest mountain.

Once there, they performed a few of their hits in the freezing cold raising £120,000 for cancer

charities.

9. Doctor & The Medics - Butlins Southend

A train full of freaks and hippies trundled from London to Southend unaware of their destination. Once at Butlins, they were treated to 24 hours of Hendrix tribute acts and a lengthy set by the good Doctor. Suitably refreshed they floated home.

10. The Clash - busking tour

After the departure of Mick Jones and the poorly received 'Cut The Crap' album, Strummer demanded the band go back to basics and led them through the streets of Britain, busking for pennies. A permanent split followed.

11. Sex Pistols - Ivanhoe's, Huddersfield

Amidst the filth and the fury of 'God Save The Queen' and 'Never Mind The Bollocks' the Pistols spent Christmas Day 1977 playing a free gig for the families of striking firefighters in West Yorkshire with buffet provided.

12. Louis Armstrong - Batley Variety Club

Strange as it may seem, this West Yorkshire venue was once known as the Vegas of the north and at its height in 1967 was such an attractive prospect it drew Satchmo across the Atlantic to perform in a former mill town.

13. Jesus & Mary Chain - Ambulance Station

A deserted, squatted ambulance station obviously. Before they released anything and started riots, the band played a chaotic set on London's Old Kent Road with Primal Scream's Bobby on drums and several dogs in the audience.

14. Ash & Catatonia - Sheffield Park

A gig notable for the fact that both headline acts chose to split up the day before and were replaced by, wait for it, Emma Bunton and A1.

15. Echo & The Bunnymen - Crystal Day

An event which invited bunnyfans to spend the day cycling a route which described the outline of a giant rabbit and touring the band's favourite Liverpool haunts, including a cafe.

Magnus Shaw, 2010