Gotta Hear This, #1
- 29 Aug 07, 12:42 PM
The plan is to run an occasional series on lesser-known records that I like. So here¡¯s a wonderful example to start with. Feel free to suggest other albums, and I¡¯ll try to find them into my Friday show, whenever possible. Here goes:
THE ABYSSINIAN BAPTIST GOSPEL CHOIR
Shakin¡¯ The Rafters (Columbia)
Who¡¯s gonna ride that glory train and where¡¯s it gonna take them? Why, it¡¯s headed straight to heaven and the people who will sing us out there are the Abyssinian Baptist Choir with their jubilant voices, their flowing robes and their unbeatable faith in the hereafter.
That¡¯s the message in this 1960 recording, live in a church in Newark, New Jersey. Tom Waits calls this album ¡°astonishing¡± and ¡°awesome¡± in on Amazon. Tony Bennett also calls it the greatest rock and roll record ever recorded. And y¡¯know he¡¯s possibly right.
This is a record that soars and then drops, reprises and rallies for some thunderous moments. The 120 strong choir is clapping, stomping and syncopating while leader Alex Bradford is holding the delerium in shape. We catch little glints of the Promised Land. We hear words of comfort for the darkest times, and hear expressions of resolve and awe.
This experience was kept for posterity by John Hammond, a visionary record man who signed Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen and worked with Billie Holiday and many other quality acts of the last century. He had tremendous ears, as they say in the trade, and here¡¯s extra proof if you want it.
I¡¯m listening to the record again and thinking oft Bono¡¯s line about the church and dreary dogma. "Religion, to me, is almost like when God leaves and people devise a set of rules to fill the space." Well this is the sound of pure spirit, unharmed by the petty stuff. Before soul music had even been invented, its formative heart was beating steady.
Stu Bailie presents The Late show on Radio Ulster, every Friday from 10pm until midnight. See his playlist here.
He Bangs The Drums
- 27 Aug 07, 12:41 PM
As a young, music-obsessed fella, I used to spend my music holidays fretting about the new tunes I was missing back home. I remember getting back from Spain in 1981 to hear 'Tainted Love' buzzing out of car radios and bedrooms, a sweltering marker of the age. Next year and I returned from two months away to learn that the western world had gone collectively mad for 'Come On Eileen'. My best ever summer tune would be the Balearic ideal of 'Barefoot In The Head' by A Man Called Adam.
It's not such a massive deal anymore, but some old instinct still finds me looking around for the song that defines the season. And right now, I can't hear anything more pertinent than Ian Brown and 'Illegal Attacks'. You may know this guy as the former voice of the Stone Roses, the born-again King Monkey who fixed up a decent solo career in defiance of a wonky voice and a scattershot attention span. Since then he's been jailed for air rage, has said some objectionable things about gay culture and has delivered a few Manc-minded classics. Without Ian Brown there would be no Liam Gallagher, but hey, we can't blame him for everything.
His new single is a sustained rebuke to the war-mongers in the Middle East. The tune is reminiscent of earlier tunes like 'F.E.A.R.' and 'So Many Solidiers' and the self-righteous skank is what you might expect from a long-time reggae fan. I'm not sure that his analysis of Al-Qaeda is terribly profound, but at the the end of this tune, as Sinead O' Connor takes up the refrain and the body count rises, you feel satisfied that at least somebody wants to say something with a pop song. Give that man a banana.
Anyway the holiday was quite restful and I avoided a computer monitor for almost two weeks. The eyes were confused and then pleased, while the head achieved a nearly-forgotten state of clarity. The greatest indulgence was to read, hungrily. So I finished the last volume of the Dark Materials trilogy before taking on the elegant murk of Gore Vidal and Palimpsest. The last challenge was to tackle Underworld by Don DeLillo, a gig that's defeated me in the past. Well, I'm 700 pages in, and just 100 to go. People, I think I'm gonna make it.
Stu Bailie presents The Late show on Radio Ulster, every Friday from 10pm until midnight. See his playlist here.
Hey Girlfriend¡
- 25 Aug 07, 09:23 AM
I wish to discuss with you an issue of terminology that has long perplexed me. Why is it that single men, regardless of age, insist on referring to the women they are with as their ¡®girlfriends¡¯. Let me give you an example. Yesterday evening I happened by chance to meet a man I know, very proper, very professional and 60 if he¡¯s a day. I casually asked what he¡¯s doing over the bank holiday weekend and he replied that he was taking his new ¡®girlfriend¡¯ sailing. Instantly I had this vision of some brash, blonde, busty, babe of 25, only after him for his money. I needn¡¯t have worried. It turns out that she¡¯s a grandmother, a woman he knew from his university days, who was widowed a few years ago. But you know that misconception isn¡¯t my fault, it¡¯s the image that word conjures up.
Women don¡¯t say ¡®boyfriend¡¯. They¡¯ll introduce the man in their life as their ¡®partner¡¯ or refer to their ¡®significant other¡¯. That¡¯s because women know that when you¡¯re over the age of 40, no make it 35, to call anyone a ¡®boyfriend¡¯ is just too, too ¡®seventeenish¡¯. It makes you sound like you¡¯ve just written into the ¡®Dear Cathy and Claire¡¯ page of the Jackie asking for advice on French kissing. The last time I had a ¡®boyfriend¡¯ he had acne, rode a chopper (pedal powered) and wore a school uniform. Even if your tastes run in that direction, toward the younger man that is, then he¡¯s a ¡®toy boy¡¯ he¡¯s still not a ¡®boyfriend¡¯. Ask Joan Collins. No, on second thoughts¡.
I would have to say that even ¡®mon homme a Paris¡¯ - see, not ¡®boy¡¯ but ¡®man¡¯ ¨C describes me as his girlfriend, just like all the rest of them. Now, I certainly don¡¯t find it insulting or objectionable, I just wonder why? Now I hate to generalise, and I certainly don¡¯t want to psychoanalyse, but I think men think it makes them sound quite cool and still able to pull. It certainly sounds a lot more frivolous and flirtatious than ¡®partner¡¯ and could that be the core issue. Are men looking for fun while women want something a lot more serious? This is clearly turning into one of those ¡®Mars¡¯ and ¡®Venus¡¯ debates which means there¡¯s no sensible solution except to say ¡®huh, that¡¯s men for you¡¯ or ¡®I just don¡¯t get women.¡¯
Actually wait a minute, I take that back. I may have just thought of the perfect way to solve this entire problem. Guys just marry all those lovely women and then it¡¯ll be all 'husbands' and 'wives' and everyone will know were they stand. Otherwise, if you can¡¯t get him up the altar then I guess we should remember that at least ¡®girlfriend¡¯ sounds better than ¡®spinster¡¯.
Manics In The Streets Of Belfast
- 23 Aug 07, 05:52 PM
So I?m finishing off the Spanish holiday when a pal rings on the mobile from Reading, Berkshire. He?s been watching the Vital festival - relayed from Ormeau Park, Belfast, and the Manic Street Preachers have just lashed out a succession of the hits. Next thing they?re dedicating a tune to "esteemed journalist Stuart Bailie". This information makes me laugh and feel rather pleased. A series of text messages from other people confirms the fact.
What makes the story a little bit better is the the song they dedicated to moi is ?Faster?, one of the killer tracks from ?The Holy Bible?, back in the perilous days of 1994. It?s a song about mental disorder and physical abasement - a theme song from writer Richey Edwards, who checked into The Priory before the album was released and who would literally walk off the set into pure mythology a few months later. I think it?s a monumental song. And I feel honoured to be mentioned in such close proximity.
Stu Bailie presents The Late show on Radio Ulster, every Friday from 10pm until midnight. See his playlist here.
The King is dead....
- 17 Aug 07, 02:21 PM
I seem to have done nothing over the past 24 hours but watch or listen to Elvis tributes. There is no question that he could carry a tune, that he changed the face of popular music and spawned a million impersonators, but surely even the most ardent Elvis fans must have been surprised at the level of global interest in this 30th anniversary. It was on every show, on every news report and whilst I would happily accept that he was a phenomenon I am still, quite frankly, shocked. All these debates about whether he should have gone into the army and whether he should have split from Col Parker? Then there are the people who keep coming up to me and asking ¡®Where were you when Elvis died?¡± like it¡¯s some kind of rite of passage or defining moment in your life. To be honest, I don¡¯t actually remember where I was. I think my friend Carol rang me up to tell me, but I was a schoolgirl in Glengormley and Elvis wasn¡¯t really my thing.
Actually that¡¯s why I almost didn¡¯t go to Graceland when I visited Memphis about ten years ago - I was much more interested in hanging out on Beale Street and going to see Al Green. As it turned out I¡¯m delighted I did. To see the Jungle Room, where it's forever 1977, with its outrageous animal print furniture, indoor water feature and green shag pile carpet ¨C on the ceiling! But most impressive of all is the museum behind the mansion where you literally tour through Elvis¡¯s life and see that sad, inexorable slide from gorgeous, hip gyrating, rock & roll god to sad, overweight, parody.
Seeing that terrible waste of life and talent, by the time I ended up in the Contemplation Garden, where Elvis is buried next to his nearest and dearest, I was crying almost as much as those ardent disciples who had made the pilgrimage to Graceland from all over the world.
That visit changed my perception of Elvis forever. I'm still far from slavishly devoted but there are a handful of songs like ¡®The Wonder of You¡¯ and ¡®Always on My Mind¡¯ that will always have a special place in my heart. You also can¡¯t help but wonder what would have happened to Elvis if he hadn¡¯t died of a heart attack at the age of 42. That¡¯s younger than I am now and I like to think that my best work is still to come.
But above everything else, what has struck me most forcibly in the least few days is that whether you¡¯re a fan of Elvis or not surely no other historical figure, world leader or cultural icon could have pulled off such a coup three decades after their death. Long live the King!
Sunny by name¡.
- 15 Aug 07, 06:20 PM
Every now and again you turn on the radio and hear a story that makes you gasp with horror, moves you to tears one minute, has you laughing the next and ultimately leaves you feeling uplifted and inspired. That was certainly the case with my guest on This New Day last Sunday morning (12th).
Sunny Jacobs spent 17 years in a Florida prison, five of them on death row, and all because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. When she and her partner Jesse accepted a lift from a casual acquaintance with a shady and dangerous past she had no idea it would lead to a shootout during the road trip that would leave them wrongly accused of the double murder of two policemen.
The five years she spent on death row were in solitary confinement because she was the only woman in the state under threat of execution. Her cell was 6 paces long and if she reached out with her arms she could touch both walls. She was only allowed to leave it twice a week for a shower and 30 mins in the exercise yard - alone. Yet she survived, wrote her thoughts down in a journal and stayed mentally strong through a series of little tricks including her five minute rule ¨C she would never allow herself to stay angry for one second longer than 5 minutes, as she said ¡°it could have been my last day on this earth and I wasn¡¯t going to waste it being mad at something or someone stupid.¡± She also never gave up hope, believing that if you really are innocent surely ¡°the truth will set you free.¡± Her chief horror was that anyone could believe her capable of such a crime. ¡°I was a vegetarian, I wouldn¡¯t have killed a fly. How could they think I would kill a man!¡±
Sunny was finally exonerated in 1992 when the evidence that convicted her was discredited, but unfortunately that was too late for her partner Jesse. He had been executed two years earlier in the most horrific way when the electric chair malfunctioned and it took over 13 minutes for him to die. She had been separated from her 9 year old son and ten month old daughter after her arrest and, in another tragic twist of fate, her parents had been killed in a plane crash ten years earlier. Now, as a 45 year old woman she had lost her partner, her family, she had nowhere to go and all the contents of her life were contained in a cardboard box.
But Sunny Jacobs is a survivor, not a victim. She re-built her relationship with her children, got work as a yoga teacher, became passionately involved in campaigning against the death penalty and, against all the odds, has a story with a happy ending. On a trip to Dublin she met Peter Pringle, another exonerated death-row inmate, and the two now live happily together in the West of Ireland. He¡¯s a giant of a man with a shock of white hair, while Sunny is a tiny slip of a woman, but they are clearly a perfect match in every way, very much in love and very contented. But that¡¯s the most striking thing of all. Sunny Jacobs isn¡¯t bitter. She doesn¡¯t feel sorry for herself or wallow in the past. She is the most positive, optimistic person I have ever met. She describes herself as ¡°lucky¡± and her life as ¡°magical¡±, indeed she told me she thought she had the best life of anyone she knows.
I felt humbled in her presence and vowed never to grumble about the petty things in my life again. Naturally, being me, that lasted about four hours, but I will never forget Sunny, a woman so aptly named, and the effect meeting her had on me.
And I¡¯m not alone. Many of you listening on Sunday morning have called to ask for details about her and her recently published book. Based on her prison letters and journals it¡¯s called ¡®Stolen Time¡¯ by Sunny Jacobs and is published by Doubleday. And while you¡¯re on the website you can also listen to that interview with Sunny again on ¡®This New Day¡¯.
Post Parisian Holiday Blues
- 10 Aug 07, 11:24 AM
Forgive me readers for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last blog. The reason, of course, is that I have been on holiday. But while I¡¯m in a confessional mood I should come clean and admit that I¡¯ve actually been back now for over a week. The problem is I¡¯ve been just too damned depressed to do anything about it. I think this must be ¡®blogger¡¯s block¡¯! I haven¡¯t written anything, haven¡¯t gone anywhere ¨C for goodness sake I only finished unpacking my case last night! And that¡¯s the whole problem with holidays. They¡¯re fantastic to look forward to, even better when you¡¯re actually on them, but just awful once they¡¯re over.
I suppose in some ways you could compare it to eating a family size bag of Revels. You carefully plan that sofa moment, relish each of the sweets (except for the orange ones) as you¡¯re stuffing them in, but then you feel really sick when the bag¡¯s finished ¡.and you¡¯ve consumed thousands of needless calories into the bargain. Mind you, at least you don¡¯t end up with a ton of dirty washing and a credit card bill the length of the Mississippi. That¡¯s because my favourite phrase when I¡¯m away, whether it¡¯s ordering coffees at a fiver a go or drinking pink champagne in the afternoon, is ¡°sure I¡¯m on my holidays!¡± Of course it was worth it in every way and my love affair with Paris grows deeper every day.
It¡¯s a bit like that old song ¡®How you gonna keep ¡®em down on the farm, now that they¡¯ve seen Paris.¡¯ In the last month I¡¯ve admired the Mona Lisa, wept at Edith Piaf¡¯s grave, stood in awe in Marie Antoinette¡¯s bedroom, spent late nights in smoky jazz clubs and early mornings watching the sun rise over the seine. Whatever time of the day or night I¡¯ll never get tired looking at the Eiffel Tower, or fail to gasp when the Sacre Coeur comes into view. Like Cole Porter ¡°I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles¡± and I had one unforgettable, ridiculously romantic afternoon with my beloved in the Bois de Vincennes watching Randy Crawford sing as part of the Paris jazz festival.
Now do you see why I¡¯ve been down in the dumps this week!
If you¡¯ve already had your holidays then you¡¯ll know exactly what I¡¯m talking about, and if you haven¡¯t¡¡you are so lucky!
Bap 'Til You Drop
- 10 Aug 07, 09:17 AM
Tonight I¡¯ll be joined on my radio show by Bap Kennedy, a singer and songwriter of this parish. I¡¯ve known the fella since the days of Energy Orchard and he¡¯s always had a fine taste in music and a good supply of one-liners. Some of the records he¡¯s promising to bring in include Commander Cody, Billy Fury, Eddie Vedder and The Chi Lites, so the proceeds should be fascinating. And when he plays the Everly Brothers, will he mention his own interesting relationship with brother Brian?
In the second hour, I¡¯ll be playing tribute to the late , author of ¡®These Boots Are Made For Walking¡¯, ¡®Some Velvet Morning¡¯ and many other wonderful tunes. Lee songs remind me of a trip to Gracelands in Memphis and the pervading smell of Seventies plastic. The artificiality is hard to escape, but the soul of man is deep within. And the man¡¯s final album ¡®Cake Or Death¡¯ is a giant statement in itself, regarding death, life and Baghdad with a steely eye. Legend.
I¡¯ve decided to do a series of co-presents during August. Next Friday is Paul Charles, major music agent in London, crime writer and son of Magherafelt. He¡¯s talking about The Kinks, Mary Margaret O¡¯ Hara and The Blue Nile, so we¡¯re elected there. And on August 24, we¡¯ll be invaded by Terri Hooley, punk legend and folk devil, who¡¯s threatening to play Gene Vincent, Gregory Isaacs and The Ruts. How can this not be awesome?
I¡¯m having a short break from my blog duties, but hang fire, and we¡¯ll resume the discourse presently.
Stu Bailie presents The Late show on Radio Ulster, every Friday from 10pm until midnight. See his playlist here.
Rockers And Holy Rollers
- 8 Aug 07, 12:05 PM
Thanks to William Crawley and his ever-questing blog for drawing my attention to an article about American music, its churches and its politics. The author is Camille Paglia, who knows her culture and if you have five minutes for a good old read, check it out .
She concludes that without some kind of spiritual crackle in the arts, there is no soul. She prepares the way by name-checking Calvin, Luther, Little Richard and Elvis Presley. There¡¯s a coherent thread, she argues. Most of America¡¯s music forms reach back to the holy rollers, getting restless in the woods, back in the day:
¡°A principal influence was the ecstatic, prophesying, body-shaking style of congregational singing in the camp meetings of religious revivalists from the late eighteenth century on. All gospel music, including Negro spirituals, descends from those extravaganzas, which drew thousands of people to open-air worship services in woods and groves.¡±
Paglia reckons this gave rock and roll its backbone, and why the Americans had the vigour that mattered. But while she¡¯s drawing us pictures of the southern soul stirrers, I¡¯m thinking that this is still at large in Northern Ireland. We still have our street preachers, our rocking non-conformists, our Pentecostals and charismatics. And of course, it¡¯s deep in the bones of our most famous artist, Van Morrison.
Van says that he took his inspiration from American artists such as Mahalia Jackson, but a similar thing was also happening in the mission halls of east Belfast, and he evidently soaked it up. Likewise with Duke Special¡¯s Peter Wilson, who uses old hymnals and celestial choruses and elevates the heart on a regular basis.
You find it in the more unusual places, like Therapy, who welcome us to the ¡®Church Of Noise¡¯, a heretical branch of the same order. More conventionally, it¡¯s all over the music of Foy Vance, the son of an evangelical preacher, who fills his new album, ¡®Hope¡¯ with grace and faith and an undented sense of deliverance. Likewise with Iain and Paul Archer, who routinely open up channels to the mystic.
Many of the Ulster acts who are now coming of age were strongly connected to churches such as the on Belfast¡¯s Hollywood Road. A dozen years ago, they took their music to venues such as the Warehouse on Pilot Street and they literally played like missionaries.
I witnessed some of this and I was a little dismayed. The music was flimsy and the art was secondary to the message. The audience was almost cult-like, and I felt this was essentially bad for rock and roll. But several things have happened since then. Many of those acts have persevered. They have become much better writers and players.
And they¡¯ve taken the lead from acts like U2, who express their spiritual views by stealth. If you know the story of Noah¡¯s ark, or about Jewish traditions of renewal, then ¡®Beautiful Day¡¯ makes extra sense. If not, then the songs still works. And so the music from Northern Ireland is also littered with clues and ciphers.
So you can hear Peter Wilson making calls to the ¡°born agains¡± on ¡®Low¡¯, which swings like some tent show classic. Or there¡¯s ¡®Quiet Revolutionaries¡¯, which is almost a manifesto for the believers, patiently working for ¡°a quiet shift of power¡±, believing that something all-powerful will come out of the woods and get the healing done.
The plan seems to be working. There is power in the blood. And the circle is unbroken.
Stu Bailie presents The Late show on Radio Ulster, every Friday from 10pm until midnight. See his playlist here.
The Numbers Racket
- 6 Aug 07, 05:33 PM
In the coming weeks I'm planning some themed radio shows. Brace yourselves for a clatter of songs about painters, a solid hour of cult troubadors and something about space travel. I'm also working at a two hour programme full of songs that feature numerals in the title.
Here's the shorlist, but I could do with some better suggestions, especially for 9 and 13. Whaddya reckon?
1. One ¨C U2
2. It Takes Two ¨C Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell
3. Three Is The Magic Number ¨C Jack Johnson
4. Four To The Floor ¨C Starsailor
5. Five Years- David Bowie
6. Six Underground ¨C Sneaker Pimps
7. The Magnificent Seven ¨C The Clash / 7 Nation Army ¨C White Stripes
8. Eight Days A Week ¨C The Beatles / Dinner At 8 ¨C Rufus Wainwright
9. Nine2Five ¨C Ordinary Boys / Adam Ant ¨C Apollo 9
10. Ten Commandments Of Love ¨C Neville Brothers
11. Eleven O¡¯ Clock Tick Tock ¨C U2
12. Twelve ¨C Forward Russia / 12XU ¨C Wire
13. Thirteen ¨C Cold
14. Fourteen Years ¨C Guns ¡®N¡¯ Roses
15. Little 15 ¨C Depeche Mode
16. Sixteen Tons ¨C Ernie Ford
17. At Seventeen ¨C Janis Ian
18. Eighteen With A Bullet ¨C Pete Wingfield
19. 19th Nervous Breakdown ¨C Rolling Stones
20. 20th Century Boy ¨C T Rex
21. No Time To Be 21 ¨C The Adverts / 21 Seconds To Go ¨C So Solid
22. 22 Grand Job ¨C Rakes
23. 23 ¨C Jimmy Eat World / 23 ¨C Blonde Redhead
24. Twenty Four Hours From Tulsa ¨C Gene Pitney
25. Twenty Five Miles ¨CEdwin Starr
Stu Bailie presents The Late show on Radio Ulster, every Friday from 10pm until midnight. See his playlist here.
Winkle Picker Blues
- 3 Aug 07, 02:14 PM
Back in 1994 I spent an amusing night with Noel and Liam Gallagher as they argued about Primal Scream. The boys from Oasis had recently signed to Creation Records, home of the Scream, and they weren¡¯t sure if this was a bonus or not. Noel was positive, but Liam wasn¡¯t having it.
The singer was fresh out of Burnage, still at war with the universe, scowling like Albert Steptoe. He hated the Primal Scream front man, almost as much as he despised those southern chancers from Blur. What it boiled down to was that Bobby Gillespie wore winkle pickers boots. This, Liam claimed, was conclusive proof that the guy wasn¡¯t rock and roll.
And if he wasn¡¯t rock and roll, then the Oasis rules dictated that you were indie. Or indie schmindie, as Noel called it with an exquisite sneer. The bothers didn¡¯t have to spell it out much further. Indie kids, the Gallaghers believed, were fey, middle class boys with guitars and floppy fringes. They were musical snobs and underachievers, slumming it in music before taking up a position in father¡¯s estate agent offices. Indie kids, according to Oasis, were the ultimate moral cowards.
Yesterday, the argument began all over again in Belfast. This time, the opponents had come from the local scene to debate the perennial issue: ¡®What Is Indie¡¯. The discussion had been set up by the Trans festival in conjunction with the Bruised Fruit agency. And so we heard about industry ethics, about DIY marketing and the heavily fetishised joy of a pristine, limited edition, seven inch single.
The essential problem is that independent record companies in the ¡¯70s and ¡¯80s were brave enterprises, trying to nurture new music and alternative practices. These days, the process has been utterly infiltrated by the major record companies. Indie is now a lifestyle, a demographic on a marketing plan. The revolution has been auctioned off, leaving behind the fabled ¡°indie bedwetters¡± with their damp ballads.
I used to care about such stuff myself. But these days, it seems like an inevitable process. Capitalism will always find ways to make money out of the counter culture. The trick is to move a bit faster and to look for new challenges in different places. Hence the only important question left: whither the next revolution?
Stu Bailie presents The Late show on Radio Ulster, every Friday from 10pm until midnight. See his playlist here.
Don't Stop The Rocco
- 1 Aug 07, 01:22 PM
On Friday evenings, I¡¯m mostly watching on Channel 4. It¡¯s a weirdly amusing series that follows the progress of Rocco and Dawn as they move from London to Barcelona in search of a new life. Rocco Barker is a musician who looks like a composite of Keith Richards, Ronnie Wood and Johnny Thunders. He¡¯s a classic stumblebum and wastrel. He drinks plenty, he falls over, he messes up the most basic plans. Dawn tries to bring order to the scheme, but the Canadian girl is also essentially daft.
Rocco wants to live in Barcelona because they still tolerate chain smokers there. He has limited funds but some charm, and the sight of this fella trying to sort out the gas cylinder with a ciggy hanging from his lip prompts the cameraman to intervene on the grounds of terrifying danger. And so the action staggers on each week, so funny it might be scripted, so silly it can¡¯t possibly be.
I have an additional fondness for Rocco as he¡¯s the first person I ever interviewed. Back in 1985 I was a cub journalist for Record Mirror and he was the guitarist in , a band that briefly found glory in a venue called The Batcave. I met them at their record company offices in Hammersmith and I was rather nervous. But Rocco and his singer pal Nick Marsh treated me well and regaled me with many tall stories.
Costa Chaos is like Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen without the appalling drugs. It¡¯s could be a new fangled version of Vanity Fair, with all the hilarity, the blagging, the tantrums and misunderstandings that make for excellent social drama. Long may it rock.
Stu Bailie presents The Late show on Radio Ulster, every Friday from 10pm until midnight. See his playlist here.
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