Thursday 22 April 2010

Spam albums

A good few years ago, a parishioner pointed out that the subject lines of spam emails can be used to create compelling, imaginary albums. We wondered if this still held true and this was the result:

Band: LoveFilm

Album title: Double Nectar

Track listing:

1. Your Tasty Benefits Are Served
2. How’s Tricks
3. Compliance and Control
4. Failed Message Delivery
5. Salsa on the Thames?
6. Northern Belle
7. Escape to Scotland
8. Realise All Your Dreams
9. Doors Closing Forever
10. I Found Something
11. Trade In Your Valuables
12. Drop A Stone
13. Your Problem Credit
14. Blast Your Ads
15. Let’s Be Having You
16. Your Account Status

Band: Bingo Cafe

Album title: Flight to America

1. Almost There
2. Get With It
3. Easter Weekend
4. Shopping Spree
5. Offer Extended
6. Prizes Hidden
7. Free For 30 Days
8. News Seekers
9. Unlimited Music
10. Beauty Bar
11. Lawyers and Doctors
12. Detox For Two
13. Vacation Reply
14. Lazer Eye
15. Sex Pictures

Magnus Shaw, 2010

Tuesday 20 April 2010

Malcolm McClaren RIP

The man who popularised hip-hop in the UK was a red headed white man. The fact that he also created the most incendiary and exciting band my generation will ever know is what made him one of popular culture's most remarkable figures.

Malcolm McLaren, who has died at the age of 64, was born to a war deserter and the granddaughter of a Jewish diamond dealer, the year after the Second World War ended. Raised largely by his maternal grandmother in Stoke Newington, London, he left home at 17, with his grandmother's sage advice burning in his ears: 'Being bad is good, being good is boring'.

McLaren was always a man without portfolio. He designed clothes but wasn't a fashion designer. He ran shops but was not a retailer. He made records but was no musician. If he had a job title, it would have been 'professional agitator'.

His expulsion from several art colleges laid a path of provocation and agitation that would last his entire career. Attracted by outsiders (the Parisian situationists in particular), Malcolm's shops catered, initially, to teddy boys, then glam rock transvestites, fetish gear enthusiasts and would-be punks. By the time a shy, paranoid John Lydon was introduced to two young thieves and one of his employees, he had already flirted with band management, unsuccessfully handling the latter days of the New York Dolls.

But to McLaren, rock music had nothing to do with hit singles and airplay. He regarded a band in just the same way that he regarded fabrics or shops - as tools. They all had their individual powers and they could all be manipulated to deliver an impact, to provoke thought, promote action and upset the status quo. They all had the ability to agitate.
It would be overly romantic to suggest Malcolm McLaren knew exactly how culturally inflammable the Sex Pistols would become. But he certainly saw where their enormous potential lay. It wasn't necessary for them to re-invent the rock format; it was enough that they were awkward, belligerent, angry, and sufficiently contrary to upset the business and the establishment. That Lydon (by then, Rotten) proved to be as confrontational as Malcolm, and a superb lyricist to boot, was one of those stunning coincidences one only really finds in rock music.

In fact, there is plenty of evidence that McLaren was quickly terrified by the Pistols rise to infamy and felt control rapidly slipping from his hands.

But getting what you wish for is always scary (not to mention the threat of actual violence) and it was probably at this point that he realised he could actually be a successful agitator.

The Pistols could never have lasted, and McLaren and Lydon were too alike in philosophy and character to have any longevity as partners.

After one breathtaking studio album ('Never Mind The Bollocks') they split, two short years after their birth, and for a while Malcolm lost his way, recording with Ronnie Biggs and releasing a patchwork, revisionist Pistols movie ('The Great Rock & Roll Swindle').

Had it all ended there, Malcolm's reputation as an arch art manipulator would have been assured. But before long he was closely involved in successfully resurrecting the dormant career of Adam Ant - giving him the tribal, pirate concept, before sacking him, stealing his band, and creating a new group - Bow Wow Wow! It is rarely noted that BWW anticipated the current download controversy by encouraging home taping as a means of acquiring free music. A source of agitation to the same music industry the Pistols had annoyed with some aplomb a few years before.

Malcolm McLaren had an almost supernatural ability to spot potential. In 1983 hip-hop culture (rapping, break dancing and scratching) was a niche, underground phenomenon, almost exclusively followed by black teenagers. What mainstream media overlooked, McLaren saw as clearly as he saw the anarchic appeal of punk rock. Thus inspired, he released 'Duck Rock' which opened up the sound and feel of New York's projects to a white British audience. It even spawned two top ten singles and still sounds fresh and tremendous right now.

Hip-hop exploded to become arguably the most popular music genre on the planet - it would be unfair and incorrect to credit McLaren alone for this - and Malcolm moved on.

While his later work was certainly not as significant as Sex Pistols or 'Duck Rock', it was no less intriguing. 'Fans' took the unlikely step of combining electronic pop with opera, and 'Waltz Darling' was the only album based on the Voguing craze to make any kind of creative statement.
A constant and diverse output followed, including a much loved soundtrack to a British Airways advertisement, and notably, an ambitious, flawed, but ultimately enjoyable musical movie for Channel 4 called 'The Ghosts of Oxford Street', featuring Sinead O’Connor and The Happy Mondays. More recently McLaren took to guesting on various reality TV shows (resigning from one before the cameras rolled; ever the provocateur).

Showing up in Big Brother may seem a long, long way from the 100 Club Punk Festival, but had mesothelioma not ended his life, it seems entirely likely that Malcolm McLaren would have shocked, surprised, excited and infuriated the world many times again. And that's no more than we'd expect from the world's most accomplished, professional agitator.

Magnus Shaw, 2010

Wednesday 14 April 2010

A - Z of the Brits

A: America. Roared with laughter as a nation, at Russell Brand's 'friendly fire' gag at the 2007 event.

B: Britannia Music Club. Do join, this month's editor's pick is Stars by Simply Red on the new CD format.

C: Corden & Horne. Britain's favourite comedy duo produced a masterclass in irony last year by being completely unfunny.

D: Death Metal. Extreme Noise Terror prompted Sir George Solti to walk out of the ceremony in 1992. It's okay, he wasn't nominated.

E: Electricians. Tried to sabotage the 1987 show as part of an industrial dispute. Event powered by steam that year.

F: Fox, Samantha. Too small to read the autocue at the Bad Brits (and therefore the best). Thought Boy George was the Four Tops.

G: Gallagher, Liam. Refused to attend in 1997 because he was scared of Sporty Spice. As were we all.

H: Halliwell, Geri. Once made an appearance via a giant 'lady garden'. As did we all.

I: ITV. Don't seem to know when the show is this year ('coming soon'). Ought to check.

J: Jackson vs. Jarvis. Now look what's happened, Cocker.

K: Kids, The. It's all about them. Or their cash, at least.

L: Lennox, Annie. An act of Parliament insists she wins best British Female every year. Sometimes twice.

M: Minogue, Kylie. 'No album this year Ms.M? Why not present the thing instead? Yes, Corden and Horne will be very funny.
You will? Great!'

N: No clear winner. It happened twice - 1982 and 1987.

O: Oasis. Called Mike Hutchence a 'has-been' as he handed them a gong. Pot recently overheard insulting kettle in a similar way.

P: Preachers, Manic Street. Tenth most successful Brits act. You may be surprised to know.

Q: Queen. Former Brits host Ben Elton is now their singer.
Or something.

R: Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood. Now regrets throwing a drink over Brandon Block. Wishes he hadn't wasted a drop of that lovely, lovely boozy booze.

S: Steps. 1999 saw them claiming Belle & Sebastian had rigged the Newcomer vote. Overlooked being rotten as a factor.

T: Take That. Won two awardsin 1994, waited a bit, won another two in 2008.

U: Unbearable. That'll be Fearne Cotton's backstage feeds.

V: Venue. Has to be Earl's Court as it is one of the few halls big enough to house Bono's head every year.

W: Who, The. BBC delayed the long forgotten Nine O Clock News in 1988 in order for Pete & Rog to get their bit in.

X: Xylophone. Always Xylophone.

Y: You don't happen to have a couple of spare tickets do you? Mine haven't arrived. Postal strike I expect.

Z: Zeitgeist. They wish.

Magnus Shaw


Monday 12 April 2010

Sexual squealing

In the 1990s, when AIDS was set to engulf us all, rather than the national debt, an American called LaTour released a single called 'People Are Still Having Sex'. The song sought to remind us that despite the pleas for restraint, folk were still at it like knives. It contained the line 'Somewhere in the world / Someone is having sex right now'. I guess it was supposed to be an arousing thought, but it always made me think that 'someone' might be Nicholas Soames or Nicholas Lyndhurst and soon I was stuck with a bad image in my head.

That's the problem with songs about coitus. The more overtly explicit they are, the less sexy they become. But of course, the act of love is probably the most popular subject for popular music compositions, so there's an awful lot of awkward recordings out there.

George Michael's early solo outings were very well crafted pop songs - 'Faith', 'Careless Whisper' and such - but he suddenly came unstuck with a toe-curling effort called 'I Want Your Sex'. It's a classic example of the 'sexy song' paradox. Riddled with corny old nonsense like 'I've waited so long / Look into my eyes' - it's about as sexy as a road traffic accident. On the other hand, his 'Father Figure', which doesn't use the 'S' word once, is considerably more seductive and risque.

Oh - and if you're moved to hear another dreadful clunker in the catalogue of bad tunes with 'sex' in the title, you may want to pay a visit to 'Sex' on Paul Young's 'No Parlez' album or Color Me Badd's 'I Want To Sex You Up'. Celibacy guaranteed.

Clearly some artists have realised the provocative nature of the overt lyric and have used it to their advantage, from the unforgettable 'Je T'Aime' by Serge Gainsborg to the rather terrific Wayne County track 'If You Don't Want To F*ck Me Baby, Then Baby F*ck Off'. And let's not forget Frankie Goes To Hollywood and that chart topper.

But you'd be hard pressed (ahem) to find these tracks actually sexually exciting. So which songs, or performers actually get it right. And how do they manage to translate the most primal human drive into a musical expression of a horizontal desire, without sounding utterly daft?

Well, it's no secret that sexual tastes are as varied as the human population harbouring them. So there's no guarantee a track that sends one individual into a sweaty passion will work in the same way on the next listener. But perhaps if the best examples of genuinely erotic records have one thing in common, it's subtlety and suggestion, rather than schoolyard sniggering.

Led Zeppelin's 'Lemon Song' is a tremendous rock work out, but Planty telling us he wants his friend to squeeze him until the juice runs down his leg, is just a tad teenaged. However, the rather lovely 'Sky rockets in flight / Afternoon delight' by the Starland Vocal Band has surely brought more than the odd guilty smile to a listener's lips.

Similarly, 50 Cent suggesting a young lady may like to 'lick his lollipop' is beyond pathetic, but Prince telling us his squeeze wears a 'Raspberry Beret' and not much more, allows us to paint our own picture and drift off for a moment.

If one performer is associated with sexual
content more than the little purple fella, it's
Madonna. Which is interesting as, more than
anyone else, she has tried and failed to
produce erotic pop music throughout
her career. Releasing an album
named 'Erotica' only compounded
the problem and her 'Sex' book is just unbelievably horrible. She has never grasped the concept of trying too hard and its passion killing qualities.

Genuinely sexy music must avoid that pitfall at all cost. Or perhaps I should allow Leon Haywood to explain: 'Don't push it / Don't force it / Let it happen naturally'. Donna Summer's 'Love To Love You' for instance, progresses at a very natural pace - real time you might say. So the erotic appeal lies is the relaxed nature of the ... er ... performance. Madge always seems in such a rush.

That said, there is also something quite exciting about unrequited longing. Consider The Boss on 'I'm On Fire'. While the actual song is somewhat laid back, Bruce is feeling very agitated: 'I got a bad desire / Oh, oh, oh / I'm on fire'. One assumes the recipient is in little doubt as to Mr. Springsteen's message there.

And it would be wrong to depart without reference to the master of this 'yearning' genre of love song, Marvin Gaye. Although we tend to think Marvin was all silk sheets and champagne seduction, we're probably confusing him with Teddy Pendegrass. Gaye's best known lyrics are all about the pleading - 'Lets Get It On', 'Sexual Healing' - won't someone bless Marvin with a bit of relief?

There is a huge difference, of course, between finding an artist attractive and their songs arousing (There's little dispute that Sophie Ellis Bextor is a striking woman, but 'Murder On
The Dancefloor' wouldn't seem to be a particular bedroom favourite). But when the two aspects coincide, the effect is impressive.

From a male hetero perspective, I'm thinking Kylie's 'There aint a single night / When I haven't held you tight / But it's always inside my head / Never inside my bed'.

Or, for me, the sexiest lyric I can recall - Debbie Harry on 'Picture This': 'I will give you my finest hour / The one I spent, watching you shower'.

Now that really is sexy.

Magnus Shaw, May 2010

Friday 9 April 2010

Strummerville

Due to the huge interest shown in our current Joe Strummer competition, I have remixed a column I wrote last year, added new aspects, and dredged the vaults of my memory for further reminiscences ...

It came as something of a surprise to me, that as I was playing Clash records on pirate radio in London, Joe Strummer and members of the Clash entourage were taping my shows and trying to get in touch with me about helping them set up Radio Clash. This was Joe’s dream of setting up a free flowing pirate radio station for London, playing obscure King Tubby and Lee Perry mixes.

Working as a booking agent in London, I had met Joe a few times, in the mid-seventies, in his incarnation as a not terribly skilled guitarist but great shouter, in the 101ers. He was called Woody Mellor then, and was not always a popular visitor to the dozen or so booking agencies around town, partially because the facilities for washing clothes were not terribly abundant in squats, and equally for his tendency (shared with many down at heel visitors) to nick anything that wasn’t nailed down.

At this time, there was a growing scene of small gigs, mainly based around big, old, pubs in North London which could accommodate a tiny stage in a corner (the ‘stage’ was often a few rickety builders’ palettes covered with some chipboard), and as many drinkers that could be squeezed in, without anyone actually being crushed to death. Every landlord that I ever spoke with (and this is not stereotyping, it’s just the way it was) was a huge, burly Irishman, who had little care for music beyond the showbands from his heritage, but was very interested in anything that would bring in more punters, and thus more drinkers. Many of these landlords had rather cunning ways of supplying booze beyond the remit of the breweries, and stood to make a Mercedes buying profit, by selling dodgy beer to unquestioning music fans.

The ‘cream’ of the pub rock bands were Brinsley Schwarz, Ducks Deluxe, Kokomo and Ace; somewhere lower down the pecking order were groups such as Grand Slam, Chilli Willi & the Red Hot Peppers, and GT Moore & the Reggae Guitars. When there were still slots to fill, we turned to the 101ers or Flip City.

With the smaller bands, who often had no, or at best chaotic, management, we insisted the venue sent a cheque directly to the agency, otherwise the 10% cut would never materialise. Incidentally the booker received 25% of the 10% so for booking a band into The Brecknock at £20.00, the humble booker would find himself (always blokes at this time) in possession of fifty pence.

Whilst the bands with some sort of management, or even better, a record company advance, could wait a week or two for their £18.00 cheque, those bands living (literally) a hand to mouth existence, would be at the door, the day after a gig, seeking an advance against their share.

On being handed a pound note, they would leg it to the café round the corner from Praed Mews, and enjoy what would almost certainly be their only meal of the day, barring the chocolate bars and crisps they could liberate from the unwary shopkeepers, café owners, and pub landlords of West and North London.

We will, no doubt, return another day, to mine from the rich coalface of pub rock memories, but it is the development of Woody Mellor, the pallid, always hungry, singer and guitar thrasher with the 101ers, into the pallid, leg shaky, reggae adoring, icon of punk, that concerns us here.

As I remember it, it was a combination of Neil Spencer’s energetic promotion of reggae in the NME, listening to Charlie Gillett on BBC Radio London (Joe had a fascination with Radio London, right through to his later years) and living amongst a growing West Indian community in various squats in Notting Hill, Harlesden, and Cricklewood, that fuelled what became Joe’s obsession with Bob Marley, Big Youth, The Gladiators, U-Roy and more.

Joe never lost a desire that burned deep in his soul to promote new (to him) sounds from around the world. He was a sponsor of ‘world music’ before the term had been coined.

So it turned out that it wasn’t my propensity for playing Complete Control each week, on my show on pirate radio, but my deep love for reggae and its half brother dub that ultimately brought Joe and I together again, after a complex series of messages delivered by Generation X roadies.

We arranged to meet at Asterix Creperie in the cheap end of the Kings Road, and we sat at a window table, while Gaby went off to the dry cleaners.

Joe was already involved in the ingestion of exotic substances, and this led to a rather odd conversation, where I tried (pretty unsuccessfully) to describe how pirate radio ‘worked’
and Joe kept banging on about his fixation with the Department of Trade & Industry (DTI) who regulated radio licences, and were responsible for closing down as many pirate stations as they possibly could. Joe really did see the pirate adventure as being equally as much about running from the law, as he did of it as a way of playing music he loved to a ‘cool’ audience.

Let’s fast forward a few days, and Joe’s interest had risen to a new peak. After a couple of drinks, Joe was convinced that he needed to see for himself, how a radio transmitter, placed high above London, could shower the metropolis with Augustus Pablo dub sounds. We jumped on a bus.

The sheer scale of Trellick Tower in Kensington seemed terrifying as we stood at the foot of this 31 storey monolith.
“Shhh! Shhh!” I recall myself saying about twenty times a minute as we reached the top, Joe shouting with glee as if he was on a carnival ride. After clambering up some deadly ladder that took us into a room holding some sort of mediaeval looking machinery, we were on the roof, and I have never been more frightened in my life.

Joe was inspired, and heavily drunk. He wanted to shout from the rooftops. I had to beg him not to. I knew I could never be a pirate radio foot soldier, crawling around on rooftops. Give me the safety of ground level, a few punk and reggae singles, and I would happily broadcast to anyone who cared to listen, but that feel of the tornado style wind whipping around as I scrambled around on a two hundred feet high roof? No thanks.

Somehow, at a time when Joe was about as ‘untogether’ as he ever was in his life, he worked with some middle men and bought a transmitter. He put together some rather incoherent tapes, and one evening, Radio Clash (with the aerial pointing the wrong way) did manage to broadcast, to a few square miles around Ladbroke Grove, at least a few hours of Joe’s vision of reggae and dub, mixed in with some old blues.

Not many people heard it, the sound quality was dire, and his personal nemesis, the DTI, came and took away all the equipment. As so often with Joe at this time, he tried something, it half worked and half didn’t, and then he left it in mid air.

Radio Clash was never heard again.

Terence Dackombe, August 2010