Raves Archive 2004
The Music Goes...All Over The Place!
There are some warped geniuses out there.
Take a look at this:
I don't think even Frank Zappa at his most obtuse would expect this
to be played. Mind you, I'd like to hear someone try, although it's
doubtful they'd be able to get all those frogs, let along the
penguins...
The Music Goes Round And Round...
...and it comes out here.
Yes, it's time for the latest edition of My Hundred Best Tunes,
pop-pickers!
This, for the benefit of newcomers, is where I go through my
ever-expanding record collection and pick out the one hundred tracks
which mean most to me at the moment.
Some, of course, are always there. Many others pop in and drop out
again. Others are new: in fact, there are eighteen tracks which are
making their début in this chart.
I've also added a few more clips for you to sample.
Enjoy!
Anniversary Waltz
What are personal web-sites for if not for publicly embarrasing
your nearest and dearest? That opportunity justifies the ISP's
subscription and the domain registration fees on its own.
So, I take full, slyly-grinning advantage of the chance to wish my
brother and sister-in-law, Brian and Susan Stapley, all my love and
best wishes on the occasion of their 30th wedding anniversary.
(Actually, it's on Tuesday 5th, but what the heck - I may not have
the time to do this on Monday night).
Brewer's Dictionary Of Phrase And Fable, that last refuge of
the desperate in search of weird information, tells me that this is the
Pearl Anniversary. Leaving aside the thorny question of how pearls are
made (i.e. a response to irritation), I have to deem this very
appropriate indeed.
I won't get all sentimental about it, but if you consider a pearl
to be something of great value and worth, then that just about sums
them up, really. Through good times and not-so-good ones there they
have been, not only for one another but for all their family, friends
and neighbours. And, should any further proof of how well they have
succeeded possibly be needed, all you need do is to look at their own
children - all grown to adulthood without becoming involved in anything
dubious or nasty, all now raising their own children to the same good
standards.
I realise to my disgust that I have no photographs suitable to put
here - not even embarrassing ones. Ho-hum...
So happy 30th, both! Here's to the next 30.
Folk On!
I've just received the line-up for the first half of the new season
at Wrexham Folk & Acoustic Music Club, which meets on the first and
third Thursdays of the month at The Nag's Head, Mount Street, Wrexham.
Read all about it here.
As ever, the resident musicians are Offa, comprising the
singer/songwriter Ian Chesterman and the veteran singer/guitartist Goff
Jones. It'll be good to see them back, especially after Goff's tragic
loss of his wife Liz back in the Spring.
If you're anywhere in the area, go along and enjoy!
Peeling Back The Years or "Forever (Jimmy) Young"
I can't imagine how I missed it.
For the first time since I got on-line in 2001, I didn't send John
Peel an e-mail to wish him a happy birthday. And this year of all
years, when The Oldest Teenager In The World reaches pensionable age!
I suppose the real reason was that last Thursday night's show was
probably the shortest programme ever broadcast. All of four seconds,
before a technical problem somewhere between darkling Suffolk and
London silenced The Sage Of Stowmarket. Had the show gone ahead as
normal, I would have been sitting here at this computer sending him my
customary effusive greetings. But it didn't, so neither did I. Perhaps
the programme did resume at some point later on, but I had long since
gone beddy-byes and missed it if it did.
John Peel at BBC Maida Vale studios, July 2004, on the
occasion of Orbital's final live performance.
Photograph © Wendy Lacey
So, what can be said of John Robert Parker Ravenscroft (son of
noted Liverpool cotton broker Robert (Bob) Ravenscroft) that hasn't
either been said already, or would sound ridiculous if committed to
posterity?
Well, let's start by saying that he is the only presenter from the
inception of BBC Radio 1 in 1967 who is not only there now, but has
been there throughout (despite various attempts - about two every
decade - to shove him out to the margins). What is the secret? Does he
have a set of incriminating photographs purporting to show strange acts
of perversion involving successive Directors-General of the BBC, a jar
of mayonnaise and what looks suspiciously like a goat? Does he have a
crucial royal connection which comes through for him at critical
moments? Or has he simply made a Robert-Johnsonian pact with The Devil?
No, not these (at least, nothing has got into the papers about it).
And it's not because he hasn't changed. Au contraire, m'dear,
he has. Having played an important part in bringing what became known
(in increasingly perjorative tones) as Prog to wider attention,
Peel's encounter with the first Ramones LP changed the style of his
programmes in short order. Out went interminable meanderings from The
Grateful Dead, in came 110-second punk blasts, and the whole
'demographic' (if you'll excuse the obscenity) of his shows dropped an
entire generation.
Similarly, he was playing Jamaican music when it wasn't remotely
fashionable to do so. This led to the neo-Nazi wankers of the time to
send him turds through the post. John, ever willing to give selflessly
of himself to others, sent them some of his in return, thus ensuring
that they got the better of the transaction.
On into the eighties, and the rise of hip-hop and house. We heard
it on his show first. Then, what became known under the shorthand term Indie
was the backbone of his selections. The Jesus And Mary Chain, The
Wedding Present, The Smiths, all gained their fame as a result of
exposure on the Peel Wing-ding. He recorded Pulp nearly a decade before
the know-nothings of the corporate media had ever heard of them.
(And let's hear it here for the Peel Sessions, an absolute goldmine
of rare performances, often giving fascinating glimpses of artists in
various stages of undress...erm...I mean development).
Then there was Grunge. David 'Kid' Jensen, one-time
colleague and the other half of the famed 'Rhythm Pals' (like a hip
version of the Chuckle Brothers, but nowhere near as scary), tells the
story of the day in the late 80s when he passed Peel's office and heard
an early Nirvana single. When Jensen asked what on earth it was, John
replied airily, "Oh, don't worry, you'll be hearing all about it in
a couple of years time!"
African music (Diblo Dibala has long been a favourite). Dance.
Electronica. Death metal. All has been grist to the mill when it comes
to Peel's Pleasures.
But this has been no opportunist faddism. Backing it all is an
immense love of music. His long-time producer, the greatly-missed John
Walters, said that Peel was always at that stage of excitement we all
went through in our early teens when we began to discover our own
musical tastes, adding cattishly that if he (Peel) ever reached
puberty, we'd all be in trouble.
I don't think there's much danger of that happening. Where else, on
the ever-more demographically-obsessed and computer-programmed radio of
today are you likely to hear a Lightnin' Hopkins reissue followed by a
thumping drum'n'bass 12", or a Rasta lament, or a track from a demo by
a group of 18-year-olds from somewhere like Melton Mowbray? And that's
not forgetting 'The Pig's Big 78', of course.
And this is the point to pay tribute to Sheila ('The Pig'),
the light of John's life and the motor of his enthusiasm for over
thirty years. Also to their four children, William, Alexandra, Thomas
and Florence, and latest addition grandson Archie. These are the true
testimony and tribute to the paterfamilias (and materfamilas
too, of course).
I've never actually met the man, of course (my friends Tez &
Wendy have, hence the photograph above), but I find it difficult to
believe that there are people out there who do not like and respect
John Peel (the singer from The Pooh-Sticks was one such, and where are
The Pooh-Sticks today, huh? I rest my case...). What we hear is what he
is, and who cares that sometimes he has trouble with the technology of
modern life and plays vinyl at the wrong speed? Aren't we all like that
in some aspect or other of our own lives?
I look at my own record collection, and recognise how many items in
it have been garnered as a result of listening to Peely over the last
eighteen years. Where would my musical tastes be now had I never heard
The Orb, Dr. Phibes And The House Of Wax Equations, or the perennial
delight that is Half
Man Half Biscuit? I think by now I would have turned into my
father, specifically in that "Music? You call that bloody row
music?!!" period that we all went through.
I have avoided that and I'm grateful, very very grateful.
So a belated happy 65th birthday, John. To rejig a title of a song
by my favourite singer-songwriter Harry Chapin, "You Are Always
Seventeen". Long may you remain so.
With love, gratitude and Fall acetates,
The Judge
My Hot House Flowers!
Having spent a large part of the past year saying nasty things
about Wrexham County Borough Council (see here, for example),
it's only fair to balance things up a bit.
Having pleaded poverty year after year, they finally installed
central heating for me a couple of weeks ago. I suspect they were left
a sum of money by a rich maiden aunt, or they held the insurance man
hostage, but whatever...
You've no idea what a difference this is going to make to
my life. All I previously had in the way of heating was a coal fire
with a back boiler, which powered (although 'powered' is hardly the
word to describe so pathetic an effect) a number of radiators, none
of which was in the bedroom!
What that meant in practice, of course, is that if you didn't have
a fire halfway up the chimney, you had no heat. Nor did you have any
hot water. This left me with the situation whereby, when I wanted to do
the washing up outside of the coal-fire season, I had to boil two
kettles of water to fill the sink. As for having a bath, well that
meant an hour and a half of the immersion heater, and those bastards
gobble electricity like there's no tomorrow.
The period from early October to early April every year is a
depressing one at the best of times, but consider this on top of it:
get up at 6:50 five days a week to go to work - house freezing cold;
try to get warm by holding hands over cup of hot coffee; look forward
to going to work simply so as to be somewhere warm. Come home
from work sometime between 4:00 and 5:30 - house freezing cold; take
twenty minutes making fire; take a further fifteen minutes for it to
catch; take two hours for the warmth to become apparent; take coat off.
And then, just as the radiators start to get warm, take the wooden road
to Bedfordshire and spend an hour or so shivering until Sleep finally
turned up (wearing a parka and heavy gloves, of course). Either that,
or resort to putting an electric convector heater in the bedroom, and
those things eat power too.
Add the cost of firelighters and coal (and I haven't yet had the
heart to break the news to my coalman, Alfred Green - a good-hearted
man), and the frantic sawing and chopping of firewood during any
remotely dry and mild Saturday afternoon which might present itself
(Confucius he may have said "Man who chop firewood warm himself
twice", but sometimes Confucius he talk bollocks), and you have a
recipe for a form of misery. One which lasts for about half the year.
When the guy came to do the survey for heating at the end of July,
I wasn't expecting plans to be so well advanced. So, when he told me
that the work would be done on August 16, I was astonished. "Are
you sure they'll be able to do the job in one day?", I asked him. "Oh,
yes.", he said confidently, "They're a good bunch of lads".
The 'good bunch of lads' turned up on the appointed morning and
started work at about 8:50. By about 10:15 they had completely stripped
out what was laughingly called the 'system'. I stayed in the garden out
of the way throughout, not wanting to get under their feet. It's always
wise to leave the professionals to get on with the job.
They worked hard, there's no doubt about it. They scarcely broke
for lunch, and by shortly after 3:15, they were done. And I had a new
gas-powered central heating system (with radiators in the bedrooms!),
a new fireplace and a dual-powered fire (which also, as I discovered to
my pleasure, can be used as a convector fan in hot weather - lovely on
the old tootsies; I hate my feet getting too warm).
That evening, I did the washing up. Without having to wait for the
kettles. It's the simple things that give the most pleasure (ask Laura
Bush).
Some things have taken some getting used to, though. I've kept
imagining that I can smell gas, although I'm sure that this is merely
the smell given off by new plumbing getting hot. I also had a bit of
surprise the second night. Because of all the cleaning I'd been doing,
I'd had the system set for constant hot water. At about 1:00 on the
Wednesday morning, I was lying in bed trying to get to sleep. Bear in
mind the following:
The boiler had been placed in one corner of the kitchen
My bedroom is the one immediately above the kitchen
My bed is in the same corner
So when, on the verge of dozing off, I heard "bloop, bloop,
bloop....HISSSSSS" coming from a point about three feet below my
head, I almost shat myself. The only reason that it took me all of
eleven seconds to get down to the kitchen to see what the kilowatt was
going on was that I had to put my glasses and slippers on first.
Although I have to say that they were all I had on (luckily, I'd
remembered to put the curtains back up by then).
So, I face the coming winter with a greater degree of happiness
than for some years. Whatever happens outside the house, at least I'll
be warm inside it.
All praise to the contractors who did the work, Robert T. Downs
Ltd. of Mold and GLE Electrical. And to the Council, to give credit
where it's due. Now, about having new front and back doors.....?
Picture Boy!
Just to show once more (if further proof were needed, and it isn't)
that your Judgie is an old softie really, here's a photo of my
great-nephew Ethan Alexander Young, aged six months:
Sort of makes up for the crappy graphic I used here when he was
born...
Album Time
This sort of follows on from the last entry. Well, not sort of,
it very definitely does.
What sparked it off, though, was an article in a recent edition of Counterpunch
in which some of the regular contributors were asked to name their Top
25 albums of all time. It was interesting to note how some albums and
artists cropped up time and again.
Well, I thought that might be a fine idea for this site - it would
fill a corner, at least. So I set to pondering...
...and made the interesting discovery that, while I have quite a
sizable collection of albums (vinyl and CD), I couldn't possibly find
25 which were indispensible. In fact, I had trouble finding ten.
Even then I wasn't happy with the list, because some of them were
clearly not of the absolute, alpha-plus class. So I whittled it down to
just five. And still I'm not sure about at least one of them.
All the same, I'll have to rest my case. If I did another one in a
month's time, chances are it'd be different anyway.
You can see the list (with typically pseud comments) here.
Music Rides Again!
Having been a bit late once or twice before, I decided to be really
punctual this time.
What am I talking about? Well, the June 2004 edition of My
Hundred Best Tunes, of course!
A brief explanation, if only to save you trying to find the last
explanation: every six months, because I'm a saddo without a life, I
trek through my record collection and pick out my 100 favourites. Some
of them are always in the list, others may appear only
occasionally.
There are a few debutants again this time around, and I've added
three new sound clips for your delectation and delight.
Go here, and then tell
me how wide-ranging and interesting I am. Oh, go on! Please!
(I just had to put in an update today, if only to be able to type that
date! It's the simple things in life....)
I know I'm a bit late with this. I video'd the Welsh version at New
Year, but have been putting off watching it until now.
This 108-minute film, completed last year, is a mixture of live
action and animation of various styles.
It's based on Pedeir Keinc Y Mabinogi, or what is known
elsewhere as The Mabinogion, a collection of interlinked
stories, dating from the pre-mediaeval period, which are the
centrepiece of the whole history of Welsh prose. They have inspired
generations of writers and poets, and are said to have been influential
on Tolkein (yes, him again), C.S. Lewis and others. Many will
be familiar with the stories from the translations into English by
Charlotte Guest in the 19th century.
I'm not usually one for boasting, but I can claim the ability to
read the stories in the original (with the help of some scholarly
footnotes, partly because our 13th century forebears were useless
at spelling), and I have recently re-read them with great enjoyment.
It's a pity I didn't do that twenty-odd years ago when I was supposed
to be studying them for my degree.
The film tells the story of three teenagers, each with their own
problems and challenges in life, who go diving at the site of the isle
of Gwales, said to be the doorway to the Otherworld of the English
title. They find the doorway, and are transplanted into characters of
the Mabinogi to face challenges which may, in due course, help them
determine their path in their 'real' lives.
This sounds deadly dull and worthy. Believe me, it isn't. All
right, it might have been better had we been given more background to
the live-action characters' histories at the start, and the animation
style might not be to the taste of those enamoured of high-tech,
bang-up-to-date CGI-fests; but it's an enchanting (if you'll pardon the
word) film, full of feeling. It must have been difficult trying to tell
a series of interlinked tales in an overwhelmingly linear medium, but
the makers pull it off pretty well.
It's not one for the squeamish or prudish, either: mediaeval
realism has, thankfully, triumphed over the rather cutesy-pie Guestian
legacy, and violence and sex make their due appearances.
I can rarely sit down and watch a movie - I don't have the
attention span. But the time passes with ease with this film, and I was
quite sorry when it ended - always a good sign.
The film has, unfortunately, been given only a limited theatrical
release, and I don't think it's out on video or DVD yet. It has had
some television exposure, however, and if it comes to a channel near
you, please find time to watch it.
In this, it might help if you don't live in England. True
to form, it seems that the English version has yet to find a screening
spot on any of the English TV networks. Perhaps it didn't contain
enough Central-Casting clichés for the tunnel-visioned Visigoths
who seem to run English television nowadays. I mean, how can it be any
good if it comes from Wales and doesn't have a single choir in
it, darlings?
Which brings me on to a rant. After watching the film, I Googled
for some reviews. I found three from the mainstream London media. They
were, I'm afraid, much as one would have expected. "It's a worthy
cause, but it doesn't quite work", twittered the BBC; "a fey
prog-rock world", hummed The Guardian; and worst of all, from some
sneering twonk in The Telegraph, "This might pass muster on Welsh
kids' TV, but for cinemas it will not do" (these last two remarks
coming after each had repeated the BBC's patronising remarks about
worthiness).
In my experience, no-one is quite as provincial (or as shallow) as
the English metropolitan reviewer, especially when the subject of the
review comes from one of England's subject cultures. Unless it conforms
to a clear set of stereotypes, which obviates the need for the critic
to actually think for him- or herself, then it may safely be
patronised, dismissed or (in the hands of a truly versatile reviewer)
both. Had this film come out of Prague or Budapest in the Cold War
years, these same shallow hacks would have found all sorts of
significances in it, and would have effused that it "sublimated
this, transcended that and came to terms with the fundamental
dichotomies of the other", as the much-missed Douglas Adams would
have put it. They would also have been left with a profound and vivid
insight into something-or-other, even if they had had to make it up to
justify their expenses.
(For a further exposition on the laziness of English intellectuals
vis-à-vis the cultures of the Celtic nations, see my rant here).
So please, if you have the chance, watch this film. I'm not
claiming that it will change your life, but at least you will be able
to make up your own mind and stick two fingers up at the
pseudo-intellectual snobs of the London media at the same time - which
is never a bad idea.
Beginning To Take It Back
I was very rude about Janet Street-Porter a few months ago (see here
for what I mean), so I think it only right, as your dear Judgi-poos is
such a soft-hearted fellow really, to balance things out in the light
of more recent developments.
In this case, I mean her brave (in the circumstances) decision to
volunteer to take part in a one-week-long intensive Welsh language
course at Nant
Gwrtheyrn, and to
do so under the scrutiny of television cameras.
That she came out of it with considerable credit, and an obviously
clearer understanding of the value of our language and culture to us,
must be put on record, especially after what I called her before; so...
Da iawn, Janet! Daliwch ati!
Heroes
Well, there are 'heroes', heroes and heroes, I suppose.
No-one has ever asked me to name mine. Not even those slightly
distracted women with clipboards who try to promote mayonnaise in our
local supermarkets. But if they did...
...I hope they would be more specific, and ask me who my sporting
hero was. I could then tell them that it is this man...
Glyn Davies.
Known as Dino.
Who he? You mean you don't know?
OK, no reason why you should, I suppose, unless you are one of a
select number.
First off, let me take you back a bit...
(On film, this would be a cue for those wibbly-wobbly pictures
and a harp arpeggio, but I got a right kicking from visitors to this
site just for doing a rather artless bit of Dynamic HTML, so no chance,
matey).
Brymbo Steelworks Football Club was founded in the closing stages
of World War II. The works already had a cricket club and other sports
teams, and the village itself had spawned some football clubs down the
years, all of which were quite short-lived.
My father, Bill Stapley, had played for some of these, and as an
avid sportsman it was inevitable that he would become involved with the
club from its earliest days. So began a family connection which lasted
nearly fifty years. He started taking me to games when I was only about
three or four years old.
I can't claim for one moment that I was remotely interested in
sport of any kind then (or indeed for many years afterwards); I just
saw it as a chance to get out of the house for a couple of hours. But
from my earliest visits to The Cricket Field ('The Crick' to us
faithful), I recall hearing one name being mentioned over and over...
"Dino....Dino....Dino"
(It's rumoured that Dexy's Midnight Runners were inspired by
this to write their first hit, although of course they had to change
the name slightly for reasons of copyright).
Even back then, Glyn Davies was there. He had first played for the
club when he was a still a schoolboy in the early 1960s, and by this
time he was a well-established member of one of most feared and
respected teams in Wales at what was then still called the 'amateur'
level. He played mostly at inside right (yes, children, there really was
such a position - none of this 'deep-lying schemer' nonsense for me,
thank you very much!), and his skill and industry were immediately
apparent.
His proudest moment was surely in April 1967, when Brymbo
Steelworks became the first and only club from the Wrexham area to win
the Welsh Amateur Cup. Indeed, Dino scored the winning goal,
just two minutes from the end. You can read about this here.
When I myself got genuinely interested in football (when I was
about thirteen), Glyn was still there, as much a fixture in the first
team as he had been a decade before, the last remaining member of the
team of the Golden Age of the late 60s, still giving it everything and
passing on his experience to younger team-mates. Of course, some of
them thought he was a whingeing old git, but you can't teach some
people anything - Glyn set himself extremely high standards,
and expected nothing less than that from his team-mates.
He stayed in the team to witness something of another Golden Age in
the early 1980s, when local competitions were won by the vanload,
although there was the bitter disappointment of losing the final of the
Welsh Intermediate Cup twice in three years. I remember after one of
them, Glyn coming out of the changing room about half an hour after the
game ended, walking onto the pitch and hurling his loser's
tankard into the middle distance.
Commitment. Determination. Loyalty, too. When I left the club in
1988 after seven years on the committee, Glyn was still there,
still playing whenever he was needed, now in his forties and late into
his third decade of service. At a time when, even at the amateur level,
players were moving between clubs as if sponsored by Pickfords
Removals, Dino was a fixture, as much a part of the club as the
field itself; more so, in fact, because the club had moved to a new
ground in 1979.
For all I know, he's still there, although perhaps he has
been persuaded to stop playing by now...I wouldn't bet my house on it,
though.
To me, you can be as talented a player as you like. You can be as
wealthy as you like. You can be on as many reality TV shows as you
like. You can only be a hero to me if you have as big a heart and soul
as it is humanly possible to have. Glyn Davies has always had that.
That's a hero to me.
Folk It!
The line-up for the rest of the current season at Wrexham Folk
& Acoustic Music Club is now available here.
Another New Arrival!
Big congratulations to my cousin Rachel Hillier and her husband
Phil on the arrival of their daughter Emily Francesca yesterday!
Now the fun starts!
(No, I still haven't found a better graphic than this....)
Album Review
(I'm not likely to do these often, but sometimes I simply must...)
Steve Tilston -
"Such & Such" (Market Square MSMCD124)
It's almost exactly ten years since I first heard Steve Tilston
play. I was so impressed that I bought four of his albums on the night
(he gave me a discount for bulk purchase, gentleman that he is).
Steve first emerged as a mere colt at the beginning of the 1970s as
one of the more interesting figures in the burgeoning
'singer-songwriter' boom of that time. His first LP was widely
appreciated and is still much sought-after, but he faded from general
view after his then record company tried to turn him into a pop-star
without any real effort or know-how on their part.
He forged on despite, and although his name was known for many
years only to the cognoscenti, those in the know recognised that here
was a talent for the ages. The string of albums he produced in the late
80s and early 90s (some in collaboration with his then-wife Maggie
Boyle) produced classic performances and songs which have been widely
covered by such luminaries as Fairport ('who's in the band this week?')
Convention. "Slip Jigs And Reels" and "Coronado And The
Turk" have gained classic status, and quite bloody right, too.
"Such & Such" is Steve's first album of all-new material
since 1998's "Solorubato". That set was a self-searching, often
melancholy work, a working out of emotional and psychic crises. There
is little which is 'down' about this new album, however. Here we have a
man looking up, out and forward.
One thing Steve Tilston has never been afraid of is variety of
styles. So, "Totterdown" (the only instrumental track on the
album) would not sound remotely out of place on Jazz FM of an evening; "West
End Samba" is just what it says on the label. Elsewhere, we have a
more 'traditional' singer-songwriter feel to the material, with the
brooding "The Sniper's Tale", the introspective "Mirror
Dance", and the driving blues of "I Need A Cup Of Coffee".
The closing tracks are about that most perennial of subjects. "There
Is A Song" is a celebration of love (losing it and regaining it), "Sweet
Such & Such" is a paean to the new light of the singer's life,
and the whole thing ends with an adaptation of the traditional song "The
Constant Lover" which, despite being one of those
tragedies-in-five-verses for which folk music is justifiably renowned,
actually sounds remarkably cheerful, due to a deft arrangement.
The arrangements on the whole album are faultless, the playing
highly proficient and the production and atmosphere exactly right. If
Steve Tilston could ever be said to have suffered a dip in form
(doubtful), then this is undeniably Championship material, quite
possibly his very best set ever.
Right! What else do you need to be told before you go
and buy this album?
