The Great Spector Spectacle
- 30 Apr 07, 03:56 PM
How bizarre is the sight of Phil Spector on trial for murder? Certainly the man who invented ¡®the wall of sound¡¯ in the sixties was always more than a little eccentric to say the least. Short in stature he has long had a penchant for wearing platforms and Cuban heels, and then there are the wigs, from the ¡®I stuck my finger in an electric socket¡¯ to his current courtroom look, a rather fetching Ann Widdecombe style blonde bob.
It¡¯s all a far cry from the days when he was churning out hits for the likes of The Crystals, The Ronettes and The Righteous Brothers, producing The Beatles ¡®Let It Be¡¯, and writer Tom Wolfe could describe him as ¡®the Tycoon of Teen¡¯. But even then the sub-text was of a troubled man with many demons to face, and stories of violence, gun play and all round craziness were common place.
When he finally withdrew from the world into his castle in Alhambra, a run down suburb of Los Angeles, it would be 25 years before he gave another interview, and when he did it was to Daily Telegraph journalist Mick Brown. In that interview Spector told him that in life timing is everything, ironic considering that within 36 hours of its publication in February 2003 former B-movie actress Lana Clarkson was found shot dead in the castle and Spector was on the front page of every newspaper in the western world.
In the four years since, Mick Brown has gone on to chronicle the life of the infamous legend in a new biography ¡®Tearing Down the Wall of Sound: The Rise and Fall of Phil Spector. I¡¯ve just finished it and despite the fact that it weighs a ton, I literally couldn¡¯t put it down. So imagine how much I¡¯m looking forward to interviewing its author tonight on Arts Extra at 6.30 ¨C or 10.30 Californian time ¨C and getting the latest on the trial. It¡¯s also the best excuse I can think of to play some of the finest hits of the sixties on a sunny afternoon, and whether its win, lose or draw for Spector, however much we've lost that lovin feelin for him, those great songs will always be untouchable.
Cherry Blossom Special
- 28 Apr 07, 01:03 PM
Cherry blossoms always remind me that it¡¯s time for the Cathedral Quarter Arts Festival in Belfast. This might seem like a strange association, but some of my best memories of early May are connected with my Van Morrison bus tour, cruising around east Belfast on behalf of the festival, listening to the guy¡¯s music while the gardens and roadsides are rich with the pink of the seasonal petals.
This year¡¯s tour has been held over due to work commitments, but I¡¯ll never forget that first tour, when we parked the coach at the corner of the Beersbridge Road and Cyprus Avenue and we all walked through the tunnel of trees, gobsmacked in the sunshine. We were effectively in the middle of his greatest inspiration.
But what is the best season for a Van song? In the track ¡®Cyprus Avenue¡¯, the leaves are falling one by one, so I guess it¡¯s an Autumn setting. But the same vista is revealed in ¡®the Healing Has Begun¡¯, when his girl is wearing her Easter bonnet and the song virtually blooms before you. I¡¯ll go for that vision every time.
I never tire of that sight, and I often take considerable detours in my daily journeys to bring myself back to that wonderful place with the music, the colour and the magic.
Chic to Cheap
- 25 Apr 07, 02:17 PM
Picture the scene¡.queues ten deep around the block, mounted police and security staff keeping impatient crowds in line, an undignified stampede as the doors finally open. No, it¡¯s not the FA Cup Final or Harrods sale or even the X Factor auditions. This is the opening of a new Primark store on Oxford Street in London with 50,000 shoppers through the doors on the first day of trading.
If you had told me that in the late 70¡¯s when I was an employee, I¡¯d have sent for the men in the white coats. Oh yes, when I was at school my Saturday job was working in Primark in the Northcott Shopping Centre in Glengormley. What I remember most was the uniform ¨C turquoise polyester blouse, petrol blue nylon front pleated skirt and matching acrylic v neck sweater ¨C not quite what you¡¯d expect from the high street¡¯s favourite fashion chain, but times have changed in more ways than one. Indeed, only yesterday I was complimenting a colleague on her very lovely short black swing coat. ¡°It¡¯s Primark¡± she said with as much pride as if it had been Prada ¨C and quite right too. Couture is so over. Cut price chic is cool. So much so that even super model and party girl Kate Moss is designing a range of outfits for Top Shop ¨C mind you, she¡¯d look amazing in a bin bag she has such a sense of style - and the uber cool songstress Lilly Allen will have her own collection of pretty girl dresses in New Look.
By way of explanation consider the zeitgeist. We live in such a restless age. Boredom thresholds are low and everything is disposable - people, places, clothes, objects. It¡¯s all about moving on, the cult of the new, and of course nothing typifies that more than fashion. Yes, there will always be room in every girl¡¯s wardrobe for the classics, the basics that never go out of style, but in general you don¡¯t want things that will last for years, you want something you can wear for a season, bin and move on, something that hasn¡¯t cost you a fortune. The vast majority of us aren¡¯t ¡®WAGs¡¯ or ¡®IT¡¯ girls or heiresses, we work for a living and have budgets that are more Debenhams than Dolce and Gabbana. Mind you, even those with the dough now recognise that when it comes to shopping, the High Street is where it¡¯s at and you can still get the look of the catwalk, but at a whisker of the price.
That¡¯s why, unless you¡¯re Victoria Beckham, Armani and D&G and Prada are so last season. This is the age of Primani and Prida. All in favour of a new outfit top to toe for ?50 please raise their hands!
If You Tolerate This¡
- 25 Apr 07, 09:10 AM
Nazis are not cool. Even Brian Ferry has realised this. We hope that David Bowie has outgrown his fascination with Hitler, while Sid Vicious and his swastika are mouldering in his grave. Rock and roll is by nature a libertarian form ¨C it aims for freedom and co-existence rather than prejudice and final solutions. The same goes for jazz, which is why Adolf Hitler tried to ban it. He was a marching band kind of a guy.
Back in the mid Seventies, an organisation called Rock Against Racism arrived. It was supported by The Clash and the Tom Robinson Band. It involved Steel Pulse and Elvis Costello and it tried to give music a sharp agenda. In part, it was a reaction against Enoch Powell and his ¡°rivers of blood¡± speech about the apparent perils of immigration. It was spurred on by an Eric Clapton remark that seemed to support this little Englander view. Whatever, RAR was a crucial element in my youth ¨C fostering the idea that music can involve politics, protest and social responsibility.
And while the Nazi supporters are still lurking out there, Rock Against Racism is still alive. It now organises gigs under the banner of Love Music Hate Racism. And given the appalling prejudice in Northern Ireland just now, it¡¯s important to make a noise here.
Tonight, Love Music Hate Racism will stage an event at the Speakeasy Bar in Queen¡¯s University Belfast. Bands such as the Olympic Lifts, The Ultra Montanes, Spree DJs, and a series of MCs and turntablists. It will be preceded at 7pm by a debate in the nearby Beech Room, with input from student leaders, unions and politicians. The collective message is simple: Nazis and Fascists are no fun.
Dream On
- 23 Apr 07, 03:28 PM
So, here I am, back on the blog following a period of rest and recuperation after the operation on my dodgy knee which, sadly, remains dodgy. But let me not dwell on that fact, thus sinking further into the pit of despair. What I¡¯m actually trying to say, apart from the fact that my knees are knackered, is that because of all this I haven¡¯t been out and about very much these last few weeks and haven¡¯t had a great deal to say. Indeed, I have used this spell of enforced inactivity to lie on the sofa feeling sorry for myself, watching bad television, eating chocolate and drinking wine ¨C but never before tea time and always red wine because of the anti-oxidants!
I had initially planned to use this opportunity to catch up on my reading. You know, all those novels you read reviews on in the Sunday papers, buy in a ¡®three for two¡¯ deal in the bookshop, then leave gathering dust in a tower Rapunzel would be proud of in a corner of the bedroom because you just never seem to have the time. Well, finally, I had all the time in the world, but the truth is that quality fiction is no match for the lure of trashy telly when you want some mindless escapism. I have spent many hours being entertained but unchallenged, which is just what I wanted, and the conclusions I have drawn are thus¡..
The finest doctor to grace the small screen since first donned the white coat in ER, is Dr Shepherd in to which I have now become addicted. So much so that my friend Nicky, a fellow devotee of the show and in particular of sexy Shepherd, bought me the first series on dvd to cheer me up¡.and talking of hunky men on dvd. I finally treated myself to the last series of and spent three glorious days watching Jack Bauer save America yet again - you just know the world is a safer place with him in it. The same thing goes for Dr Who, and I must say David Tennant is fast becoming my favourite ever time lord. Cheeky, charming, clever and cute, I¡¯d be happy to share his tardis any time he asked me.
And while we¡¯re on the subject of Lords, time or otherwise¡.I loved last year¡¯s ¡®How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria¡¯, the Saturday Night tv search for a new Maria to hit the high notes of Julie Andrews and star in Andrew Lloyd Webber¡¯s latest West End production of The Sound of Music. There were a few tears and the odd tantrum on the road to Connie¡¯s eventual victory, but the main characteristic displayed by all the prospective Marias was cutthroat ambition and a steely determination to win. Now, fast forward to this year¡¯s ¡®Any Dream Will Do¡¯. Forget Camp David, this is Camp Joseph! Imagine, if you can, a show where Graham Norton is the straightest thing on it. Yes, as the ¡®Phantom¡¯ Lord searches out a new Joseph to fill the technicolour dream coat enough tears have been shed to fill the Nile. Talk about big boys don¡¯t cry! These boys cry when they win, they cry when they lose, they cry when they¡¯re praised, they cry when they¡¯re criticised ¨C I haven¡¯t seen so many manly tears shed since Gazza retired. It¡¯s like Miss World without the tiaras. They make Jason Donovan look like Russell Crowe in Gladiator! It¡¯s compulsive!
So, even though I¡¯m well on the road to recovery and shall be forsaking my serious television viewing habit in favour of long walks and knee strengthening bike rides, I¡¯ll still make time for doctors Shepherd and Who and the Joseph boys. Oh, just realised the time! Got to go now or else I¡¯ll miss the start of Countdown¡¡..well, old habits die hard and I¡¯m not quite ready to go cold turkey just yet!
The Pepper Pickle
- 23 Apr 07, 12:32 PM
It was twenty years ago this June when I stood in Abbey Road studios, elbow-to-elbow with Paul McCartney, thinking about the anniversary of ¡®Sgt Pepper¡¯s Lonely Hearts Club Band¡¯. Even for a case-toughened music lag like myself, that was a cool little occasion, as the trumpets blared, the stories unfurled and we caught some of the wonky-eyed flavour of 1967.
Now here comes the 40th anniversary. The Beatles trainspotters and nostalgia merchants will urge us to buy into the myth again. People will insist that it was the greatest album ever made, that was a western landmark, the most unifying event since the Congress Of Vienna.
Really? Well maybe if it didn¡¯t contain the dour George Harrison track, the mawkish wibble of ¡®She¡¯s Leaving Â鶹ԼÅÄ¡¯, and the badly-realised try at a sustained concept. It¡¯s a terribly over-praised album. Remember, the release was preceded by an impeccable single, ¡®Strawberry Fields¡¯ / ¡®Penny Lane¡¯ that outscores everything on the long player. And if you¡¯re measuring it against other Beatles albums, The ¡®White¡¯ album and ¡®Revolver¡¯ are surely better.
While we¡¯re thinking about 1967, let¡¯s remember that an Ulster artist called David McWilliams left his signature there with a winsome, literate song, ¡®The Days Of Pearly Spencer¡¯. He was a big hit on pirate radio and a couple of his albums made the top 40. But David, who died in 2002, never really made the big time. Indeed, during the making of the TV music doc, ¡®So Hard To Beat¡¯, we couldn¡¯t find the archive or the wherewithal to give David his credit. In hindsight, we should have tried harder.
Hopefully, some fans will be raising the McWilliams name this summer. There is talk of a tribute record and perhaps even a live event. His reputation could do with a little help from his friends.
Chasing Kharma
- 20 Apr 07, 10:48 AM
Wednesday night, Oxford Street, and the spirit of rock and roll hangs over the warm London night. Tim Wheeler and Ash have just finished a set at the Virgin Megastore. Down at the 100 Club and The Damned are recreating the birth of punk rock. Meantime at the Metro, an act from Strabane is making a noisy claim.
They¡¯re called Kharma 45 and they play rock anthems with robust beats. The two singles, ¡®Ecstasy¡¯ and ¡®Where¡¯s Your Spirit Man¡¯ are not afraid to rave in the tradition of Faithless and Underworld. Given that rave was the last original youth culture, 20 years ago, this isn¡¯t such a bad place to start.
But when we see them in this hot little basement, it¡¯s the rough edges of the music that charm us best. The machines are secondary to Glenn¡¯s squalling voice and the roar of Peter¡¯s guitar. An approving audience of fans, industry heads and tourists are into the scheme. The hope, of course is that they can all tell their kids that they had the foresight to witness future music legends in a tiny joint.
Apparently Kharma 45 signed a very substantial deal with Warner Records, possibly the biggest since U2. I don¡¯t necessarily know if I want that kind of expectation hanging over my head, but you can probably live with it. The challenge right now is to keep playing those gigs, to inspire their congregations and to place their urban hymns in the order of service.
They play The Limelight, Belfast, May 6. Check out the bands¡¯ myspace site .
Stormin' Stormont
- 17 Apr 07, 09:48 AM
William Crawley recently used his Â鶹ԼÅÄ blog to ask what books we should send to our new political leaders in Stormont. Some exceedingly heavy tomes were suggested, and in response, I¡¯ve decided to burn a CD compilation for the people up on the hill. Here goes:
1. Bob Dylan ¨C ¡®God On Our Side¡¯. Pretty simple reason for this. The dangers of combining patriotism and religion. Every side reckons it has a divine mandate to kill and discriminate. Really?
2. Stiff Little Fingers ¨C ¡®Alternative Ulster¡¯. Because we could all do with one of these.
3. The Clash ¨C ¡®Death Or Glory¡¯. Power, corruption and lies.
4. Pat & Nipsy (aka The Fools) ¨C ¡®Don¡¯t Fight With Me¡¯. Local boys make a magnificent case for passive resistance. With a great tune to match. The national anthem we deserve. Check it out .
5. Radiohead ¨C ¡®Electioneering¡¯. It¡¯s a dirty business.
6. Terri Hooley ¨C ¡®Laugh At Me¡¯. Ridicule is nothing to be scared of.
7. Sly Stone ¨C ¡®Don¡¯t Call Me Nigger, Whitey¡¯. Prejudice stinks. Great music prevails.
8. The Specials ¨C ¡®It Doesn¡¯t Make It Alright¡¯. See notes for (7).
9. 
U2 ¨C ¡®Please¡¯. Soundtrack to the agonizing peace process, Nineties style. Lest we forget.
10. Primal Scream ¨C ¡®Movin¡¯ On Up¡¯. We wanna have a good time. We wanna get¡ represented.
Any other suggestions?
The Vinyl Frontier
- 13 Apr 07, 11:23 AM
I keep promising to whittle down the collection of old-fashioned albums, but it¡¯s too painful to go far. By now, I¡¯ve reconciled myself to not having the same release on CD and vinyl, but come on ¨C 
who¡¯s gonna part with their precious, full-size sleeves of Iggy, Ziggy and Patti? So a degree of duplication is permitted and gatefold albums have a special emotional attraction, even if the contents have not been played in ten years.
As a practicing radio presenter, this process is doubly interesting. Long-lost records can suddenly appear, demanding their appearance on the playlist. So yesterday¡¯s rummage has delivered some lovely tunes from the Bulgarian Voices, The Rockingbirds, Big Joe Turner and the mighty Plush.
It¡¯s also been a good season for new releases, including Modest Mouse, Bright Eyes, Kings Of Leon, The Watson Twins and that tasty Joni Mitchell tribute. Consider them all ready for the Friday, 10pm slot on Radio Ulster.
We¡¯ll also have a very special guest in Stella Chiweshe, an icon of Zimbabwean music, the Queen of the mbira. She¡¯s been working and recording here with Gabriel and Wilson from Talking Drum, who¡¯ve taken a detour from Harare to Belfast, and seem to like it here. Which is a great bonus for the show and ultimately, a boon for us all.
Madge For It
- 11 Apr 07, 11:44 AM
I have this terrible vision of Madonna at Wembley on July 7, singing ¡®Ray Of Light¡¯, wearing a white trouser suit and gazing compassionately to the heavens. She¡¯s the big draw at Live Earth, the music industry¡¯s conscientious bid to save us all from global warming. Her concert ends with a massed choir, bellowing out ¡®Like A Prayer¡¯ as Maddy holds her finely manicured hands aloft. James Blunt and Phil Collins are shaking their tambourines and Al Gore wipes away an oceanic tear.
I wish I had the generosity in my heart to think otherwise. Maybe it really will make a difference as this musical cavalcade rolls across seven continents, getting the urgent message out there. But like many others, I¡¯ve seen too much hokum and vanity in the entertainments business, often dressed up as piety. My feeling is that music works best when it comes from a counter-culture and not from the mainstream, with all the compromises that comes from the latter.
Wouldn¡¯t it be better to have a special day of contemplation and locally organised events ¨C projects that didn¡¯t involve air fares, generators, lighting rigs and massive amplification? Or would that get in the way of a fat spectacle?
The Troubadours Of Perception
- 6 Apr 07, 06:29 PM
There¡¯s a production line in some infernal factory that¡¯s turning out troubadours by the yard. Each of them has a weedy, trembling voice. The vast majority have sunken cheeks and a sprig of facial hair. They have acoustic Martin guitars and biographies that stress their sorrowful lives, their dysfunctional families, their fatal love affairs. They have suffered, and now it¡¯s our turn.
They¡¯re called James and Paolo, Scott and Ray. They can bleat for Britain. They apparently represent the most precious feelings, the apogee of jazz freedom, the most expressive beats of the heart.
But really, aren¡¯t they rather feeble, sorry-livered and generic? I would advise anyone who ever buys one of these irksome little releases to head directly to the wellspring. Wouldn¡¯t they prefer some Nick Drake, Tim Buckley or Fred Neil? People who were originators, not some fifth generation warblers? What about Karen Dalton or David Ackles, or even a taste of Paul Simon? And by rights, everyone should now have a copy of ¡®Astral Weeks¡¯ by Van Morrison, the ultimate in jazz-soul meanderings.
Tomorrow, I will review Jack Savoretti on Radio Ulster¡¯s Saturday magazine. Sorry, but he¡¯s rubbish. I don¡¯t really want to go there, but it¡¯s been strongly suggested that I do so. I told presenter Kim Lenaghan that it¡¯s really not my bag, that these puny guys don¡¯t move me. ¡°There can never be enough sensitive guys with guitars and emotional songs and cute facial hair,¡± she says, emphatically.
So am I too much of a bloke to get it?
The Swish Family Robinson
- 3 Apr 07, 11:30 AM
Fifteen years ago, I fell in love with a book. I was browsing through a mom and pop store in Toronto when I spied ¡®A Day With Wilbur Robinson¡¯ by William Joyce. The illustrations were classy and the humour was perfect. I made an impulse buy and then returned the next day to empty the shop¡¯s stock for friends.
Essentially, it¡¯s about a boy falling in with an eccentric southern family. There are inventors and astronauts, jazz-loving frogs and precocious belles. Drawn in the coolest art deco style, it¡¯s like The Great Gatsby doing the wild thing with Dr Doolittle.
The book has served my three kids well and led us on to other William Joyce works such as Dinosaur Bob and George Shrinks. The writer, who lives in Shreveport, Louisiana, feels like a family friend. Occasionally I google his name to find other books, and more recently, to uncover his film connections with Disney.
Last night, the Bailie tribe went to the cinema for ¡®Meet The Robinsons¡¯. We were rather worried that our favourite book would be turned into some dumb product. And sure enough, the visuals have been simplified and the characters all have that bug-faced Disney look that passes for cute. And what¡¯s yer man Jamie Cullum doing as Frankie the frog?
But William Joyce¡¯s vision has somehow survived, so we left smiling and reassured. The book still rules, of course, but the movie will do.
Gob On Our Side
- 2 Apr 07, 01:47 PM
I wouldn¡¯t class myself as a paid-up Paul Weller fan, but I let out a private cheer when he started rubbishing The Police. Maybe the guy was being childish for gobbing on a photo of Sting, but still, old habits die hard. It all goes back to the punk era, when poseurs were rejected and credibility was all.
And The Police certainly weren¡¯t credible. They liked jazz music, for heaven¡¯s sake. And they all had form as jobbing musicians with careers and dull back catalogues. Suddenly they went to the barbers, lashed out the peroxide and started singing in silly Jamaican accents (as in ¡°Roxanne¡ pud out dee red liiht¡±). What was there to like?
And let¡¯s not forget ¡®Invisible Sun¡¯ as one of the most risible comments on the Northern Ireland situation. The guy rhymed ¡°armalite¡± with ¡°rest of my life¡±, and made a suitably grainy and ¡°sincere¡± video of our cultural wasteland. Cheers, pal.
Sting¡¯s last album was a preposterous collection of Elizabethan lute music. He knows no boundaries of shame, no feature that¡¯s beyond the realms of his preening self-regard. So the Police have been recommissioned, and those awful old songs have been exhumed.
It makes you want to spit. On your side, Weller!
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