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Their club house was in a tiny yard off D’Arblay Street...

 THE SOHO RIFLEMEN

Est. 1984

I

Their club house was in a tiny yard off D’Arblay Street. They took it over from the recently disbanded facilities team of a local magazine company that had, up until then, used it to either; a) store re-purposed (i.e. stolen) gear from local shops, b) conduct midday card schools or c) conduct drunken midnight manoeuvres with Lilibet from accounts on a rather rotten looking mattress.

The Soho Riflemen were an odd bunch. A disparate group of stylish outsiders, creative collaborators and hard-living innovators. They predated the current bunch of self-obsessed influencers by a good three decades. Soho phone boxes were decorated (daily) with polaroids depicting the latest clothes the Riflemen were wearing. Typewritten poems were left pinned to pub noticeboards and startling new music filtered out from numerous speakers that were seemingly linked (or synchronised) to play the length and breadth of Soho. 

In addition, collection boxes were sent round various West-End pubs every Friday night. In those days, the implication of any collection taken up in a London pub with ‘4 the boys’ on the side was obvious. However, instead of the money wending its way back across the Irish Sea to support the families of those ‘on the blanket’. It found its way to “Riflemen’s Yard”, as it became known. 

By 1987, activity had reached warp speed. Paper aeroplane poems were literally being flung out of the barely open windows of Gt Windmill St knocking shops and from the top deck of tour buses. Cycle couriers were posting them through rogue letterboxes and traffic wardens were placing them on numerous windscreens. 

One such paper aeroplane poem was recently discovered tucked down behind an unopened bottle of Koskenkorva Salmiakki in the back bar of The Finland House (a home from home for left-wing dissident Finns and the latest group of freelance Dadaists plotting the overthrow of international capitalism using photocollage and explicit sexual images). The poem reads as follows:

Transmission will commence in 5,4,3,2,1…

The sun, trapped. Behind glass. A heart, imprisoned. The soul, fired. From a stolen gun. A thousand bullets rain down from heaven. A million tears, fall to earth. A hush descends, across London tonight. The lovers have been rounded up and shipped down river. The Thames, awash with blood…  

Making love is a revolutionary act.

Other activity involved subverting street signs, billboards and other prominent advertisements. Notably, one of the Riflemen offered to look after the sandwich board of the famous Oxford St ‘End of the world is Nigh’ man – Gregory Pinnock. When Mr Pinnock returned after a brief visit to the staff toilet in the Pantheon Marks & Spencer at 173 Oxford Street, he took back the Sandwich Board and carried about his business of reminding the infidels and holidaymakers of the perils of protein. It was only some three hours later, when yet another group of awayday Scallies (down for the Everton v West Ham game) gave him a massive thumbs up did he stop to check his sandwich board again. It read, quite simply:

‘The End of the world is High’

Mr Pinnock never let anyone, even a kindly looking Vicar from Bexhill-on-Sea, get hold of his sandwich board again. However, that didn’t stop the Riflemen from trying! They even went as far as dressing up like a kindly looking Vicar from Bexhill-on-Sea. 

The Riflemen’s musical output was equally inventive and omnipresent. At 6:00am on a bright June morning, a brisk martial tune struck up from a vast array speakers that stretched from Regent St, to Charing X Road and Shaftesbury Avenue to Oxford St. After a triumphal opening, the NEW Soho anthem bellowed out:

Arise, arise, Soho wake & rise. 
True to these sacred streets

we shall remain until death.
People of Soho, free and fearless.
My Drink and Drugs, are my shield, on You I rely.
On You I will build; never leave me,
So that I may remain pious, your servant at all moments,
Dispelling the tyranny that wounds my heart.

Arise, arise, Soho wake & rise!

And then silence returned to the streets. Shopkeepers, discombobulated nightclubbers wending their way home, early rising office workers, blitzed media executives sweating night excesses out and Soho’s slip sliding slew of homeless and dispossessed stared at each other in degrees of bemusement and pride. From that day forth until the First Banishment, the Soho anthem blared out every morning at 6:00am, a veritable call to arms for the People’s Republic of Soho. 

Other musical interruptions included the 24-hour Summer Solstice rave. Even now, gnarled old washed out ex-cycle couriers still talk in wonder of the low almost subterranean throb of tribal drums and super-funky wah-wah guitar that accompanied the ebb & flow of the traffic, that clogged the arteries of the heart of London. 

These aural assaults were not appreciated by everyone by any stretch of the imagination. The resident squares (Ad agency hacks) were forever up in arms about The Riflemen’s activities – not least because it shamed their own turgid creativity and general piss-weak plagiarism. Complaints and representations were made to the much-despised SPF (Soho Police Force). 

The leader of the SPF Commander Serena Perry went on television urging anyone with connections to the Soho Riflemen, to come forward in strictest confidence. She was quoted as saying “The Soho Riflemen are nothing but anarchists and socialists threatening the very fabric of society”. The Riflemen responded with a series of posters directly quoting Commander Perry’s obvious endorsement of their ideology. ‘CMDR Perry speaks the truth’. 

The Soho Riflemen - Communiqué #1

 

The Soho Rifelmen have been re-activated

Communiqué #1

Do you remember America?

Lilac skies dissolving into an indigo night...

Do you remember America? Burning brightly in the numbing embrace of history. 

Do you remember America? When it stood alone & lost
Do you remember America? Careering down the freeway with Dean at the wheel and Maggie on his arm
Do you remember America? With candy & silk stockings to burn
Do you remember America? Hanging out at The Factory 231, East 47^th, Midtown
Do you remember America? From the dust bowl to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Do you remember America? In a log cabin just outside Woodstock
Do you remember America? Wrapped in a flag and burdened with hope
Do you remember America? Slashed to the waist, tattooed top to toe

Do you remember America? A neon sunset shimmering over Vegas

 

...followed by the pitch black dawn

©️Andrew Franks 2023

Whatever happened to Napalm Shakedown? - In the beginning, there was nothing

Like a misguided intercontinental missile…

They shot across the Sussex night sky on the early evening of Thursday 27^th May 1982 only to immediately implode somewhere over Cross Levels. Napalm Shakedown were the ultimate one gig wonder!

No recordings, demos, ticket stubs or posters survive. A couple of murky images of young men in dark brown army shirts with severe Afrika Korps haircuts, taken at the infamous Archery rehearsal may survive somewhere in a closely guarded and faded WH Smith’s photo album. But certainly, no photo of the White Horses pre-gig run through ever existed, nor do any polaroids from Mr T’s garage. Napalm Shakedown were barely there before they disappeared.

Or so, everyone thought. The gig had lasted barely 40 minutes. From the truth, a story emerged, from the story a myth, from the myth a legend, a legend which grew and grew. By the middle of August barely 2 months after the event, a small but devoted following had evolved. Rumours of a whole rehearsal session recorded on a simple cassette player circulated – the legendary Archery Tapes. 

Within a year Napalm Shakedown were being quoted as a major influence on bands as far away as East Kilbride and Truro, Norwich & Shrewsbury. Imagine a post-punk, proto-funk Velvet Underground and you would be somewhere near the mark – all without a Warholesque Svengali pulling the strings or a Nicoesque chanteuse adding a hint of Nordic glamour to the proceedings.

The NapShack (as they had swiftly become known) saga continued to dilute and regenerate throughout the decade. Even as the former band members joined different outfits and forged new careers, the NS (as they later became barely known) virus mutated more and more…

By Jack Nash

(from the forthcoming book - Whatever happened to Napalm Shakedown? - 

Due out late 2023 on Soul Bay Press subsidiary 'Clandestino'

Conspiracy theories - #31

The Missiles from Nowhere 1983...

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day. 

British troops, who had for the previous 16 months been patrolling South Armagh, were suddenly whisked back to the mainland for a little R&R (mainly fighting their way round Caterham) and then some serious training (fighting their way round Aldershot). To be honest, the real training that followed that set of melee’s was far more suited to confronting short range nuclear weapons rather than a 40 strong IRA Brigade that could slip silently from the Republic into the North and back again. 

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day. 

I’d been stationed in Washington for much of ’82 post my extraction from involvement with The Methodists (see theories - #23/28). Pen pushing, relationship wrecking & martini demolish
ing being at the top my agenda. Working for the Government Communications Bureau did have downsides too, namely; being in bed by 11 and being home before dawn. They were dark days and I just didn’t care. The world was accelerating towards the void. 

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day.

Anyway, my head of station had seen this stuff happen to bored operatives beforehand and he urged me to make more of an effort to get to know the opposition better. He posted me to New York to work out of the UN for a few months. It was there that I discovered that the general gossip I’d picked up in DC about possible conflict had moved from nondescript to deafening. The US were squeezing the Russians too hard. The Russians were not going to back down. Something must crack. 

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day.

I was working the solo nightshift in our poky office on 5^th Ave & 16^th St all that Christmas week. I preferred working at night, I preferred working alone. Not least because I could listen to the radio stations of my choice. The new sounds coming out of the Bronx were fascinating and to admit that the rest of the small team struggled to engage with the new phenomena would be a massive understatement. As new beats flew around the room, a whir of tape began and the teleprinter clattered into life. It was 23^rd December.

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day.

The build up of Soviet Bloc troops had been slow, laborious and deliberate. NATO had responded in kind (hence the move from the fields and lanes of the 6 counties to the fields and lanes of Braunschweig). Warnings had been issued, threats and counter-threats batted back/forth and clear lines had been drawn. Mutually assured destruction was the only possible outcome, if either side transgressed. And yet the overriding message was clear and obvious, the Soviet’s would wait until the NATO forces were safely tucked up in their barracks after a boisterous Christmas Eve and then they would surge across the border. 

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day.

So, what was this flurry of communications all about? First report came from the British Frontier Service. A platoon had come under rocket fire from over the border. A secondary report expanded on the initial claims. 5 missiles had been launched from East Germany into West Germany, 2 civilians and 2 BFS soldiers had been killed. I liaised with London and put a call in to Head of Station. I explained that the Soviet aggression had started. The final countdown to Armageddon had begun… My Station Head rang off to take a call from London. He would call me back. 

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day.

I’d fully expected to be contacted within minutes. The teleprinter continued to churn out various corroborating reports for the next 45 minutes until, a power cut kicked in. Manhattan was plunged into darkness. F’k me, this is it. Traffic horns blared as the streets snarled up. The radio played on (batteries) and the South-East Krush Krew continued to woo the ladies and rage against the Hoboken Five . Obviously, the Bronx still had power. 

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day.

I could see the canopy of missiles flying above the globe, I could see cities evaporated, fires enveloping towns, smoke & heat, devastation, the ultimate devastation. I kissed the world goodbye, my last thought was, what should my last words be? I then reminded myself (the curse of, as then un-diagnosed, ADHD) that I was responsible for triggering the small but very spiteful devices I had managed to secrete in the NY sewers underneath the East German and Yugoslavian Embassies. The Soviet’s were far too canny to fall for the old bomb in the drains trick. I switched on the torch.  I took the key out of my drawer and headed to the safe. I drew back the safe door. I pulled out a code book. 

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day.

 And then, the power came back on. The phone rang. The Deputy Head of Station was on the line. “False alarm, no missiles fired by Soviet side. Must have been one of ours gone rogue. Malfunction. Unfortunate accident. No need for retaliatory action. Stand by for further information”. I stared at the code book in my hand. I placed it back in the safe and shut the door. 

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day.

I replayed the Deputy’s words in my head. “False alarm, no missiles fired by Soviet side. Must have been one of ours gone rogue. Malfunction. Unfortunate accident. No need for retaliatory action…. no need for retaliatory action… …. no need for retaliatory action…”. I sat on the floor of the office as the South-East Krush Krew turned their attention to “young white boys, stealing our thing”. 

Everyone knew it was coming on Christmas Day.

Taken from: "Notes from a rather unconvincing source" - John Zéro - 

To be published sometime in 2023

 

 

Terry Hall - RIP

Terry Hall, lead singer in The Specials, Fun Boy Three, The Colourfield + numerous collaborations has
died after succumbing to cancer. His passing has come as a major shock to many people of my generation. He was only 63, only bloody 63. And whilst that relatively young age is one aspect of the surprise. I think the bigger one is that he was such an iconic/laconic figure who so many of us regarded with genuine love and affection.

His well-documented abuse at the hands of a teacher when he was 12, followed by a half-year spell on valium obviously shaped his outlook and reaction but it most definitely did not define him. On stage he was a magnetic presence, the eye of the 2-tone storm that raged around him. I was fortunate enough to see The Specials on that first tour and they were truly astonishing. 

Terry's dress sense was always impeccable during his Specials days and even on the day of his departure (after filming 'Ghost Town' on Top of the Pops) his silver tipped cane and pin-striped look was immaculate. The flip to more casual wear for the FB3 was carried off with aplomb. Throughout his life he managed to seem one step ahead. However, it wasn't just his dress sense it was his voice! 

His voice, whether covering 'We have all the time in the world' or singing 'M1/A1' with Gorillaz was unique. Soft yet hard, aggressive yet tuneful. His was a unique and genuine voice. His lyrics were intelligent, playful, tough but ultimately compassionate. His collaboration with Ian Broudie (The Lightning Seeds) 'Sense' is a perfect example of his rich talents. 

He will be sorely missed, just when he was getting going too...

“I’ve always thought I’d make my best music 

between the years 60 and 70.” 

- Terry Hall 

Falling out of love with professional football (1-20)

1. 
   The venal nature of this mid season World Cup
2. The infernal sponsors 
3. Ronaldo
4. The false humility 
5. The hypocrisy of the pundits 
6. The relentless alliteration of the over practiced commentators 
7. The tinkering with the rules for the sake of trying to remain somehow relevant 
8. The mind-numbing interviews
9. Referees with names on their shirts
10. Simon Jordan
11. Oil States buying up the top tier teams
12. Hedge funds buying up 2nd tier teams
13. Film stars buying up smaller teams
14. PR agencies and player agents just f'in things up
15. 24/7 coverage with nothing new to say
16. WAGS
17. The number of footballers currently on rape/sexual abuse charges
18. Ticket prices
19. Racist fans
20. Clubs hi-jacked by the wealthy outfits...
    

Honest Playlist - The Guardian

The first single I bought

As previously covered in 13 songs, I actually bought 2 singles the first time I went record buying, both 7’s were by T.Rex one was ‘20^th Century Boy’ and the other was ‘Solid Gold Easy Action’. Two fine slabs of glam and a perfect way to start a record collection. Sadly, both were lost in one of my numerous 1980’s house moves.

My karaoke go-to

Despite singing live in bands for years, I don’t really enjoy karaoke. However, ‘Avenues & Alleyways’ by Tony Christie is my nailed on go to track, solely because it was Ray Winstone’s character in “Love, Honour & Obey” choice of Karaoke number. Also, it has got a soaring aspect to it that even I struggle to suppress. 

I did have the distinct pleasure though of once singing in Tokyo Karaoke Club, whilst on holiday with my ex-wife. The song that time? ‘Anarchy in the UK’ of course!

The song I inexplicably know every lyric to

Well, hardly inexplicably, more inevitably. ‘Down in the Tube Station at Midnight’ is lodged well and truly on my mental hard drive. Weller’s classic tale of late-night violence on the London Underground is full of rich imagery and suburban misery. A beautiful prose poem set to a jagged rush post-punk groove. “… they smelt of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs and too many right-wing meetings”. Superb! 

Everyone in my school year knew the full lyrics. One enterprising pupil copied it lock, stock and barrel for his English O- level when challenged to write either an essay or a poem about a train or bus terminus. He got an A pass! 

The last song I streamed

Most probably Walking Home by my own band The Butterfly House. Not for any reasons of vanity I’m just determined to see if I can actually ever receive a single payment from Spotify or iTunes. After 3 years streaming, no luck yet!

The best song to play at a party

Either ‘Get up offa that thing’ by James Brown, ‘Long Shot Kick de Bucket’ by The Pioneers or ‘Al Capone’ by Prince Buster would be my first choices. You can’t really go wrong with the Godfather of Soul or indeed any Ska/BlueBeat. The infectious rhythm of Ska will make any party go! 

The song I’d want for my stadium entrance music

I have absolutely no desire for stadium entrance music, although if contractually obligated then it would most probably be one of the following: Henry Purcell’s Music for the funeral of Queen Mary (The title music from A Clockwork Orange) or The Blue Blue Third by Rip, Rig & Panic 

The songs I want played at my funeral

·       You only live twice - Nancy Sinatra

·       Au fond du Temple Saint – Bizet

·       Jerusalem – William Blake

·       Sweet Soul Music – Arthur Conley

·       Boy about town – The Jam

·       Plus plus….

The song I can’t help singing

I do have a very annoying tendency to sing gibberish songs but I often find myself coming back to ‘Guantanamera’, which is a very annoying earworm. Failing that ‘Bed & Breakfast Man’ by Madness is never too far from my lips.

The song I can’t stand

I’m not a fan of ‘We are the champions’, a ghastly pompous dirge and whilst I am fond of The Beatles, ‘Hey Jude’ bloody annoys me (most probably through too many listens). But neither of those two songs come anywhere near annoying me as much as the trad. folk song ‘Greensleeves’. 

I feel physically repulsed by it. It reminds me, even now, of late Sunday afternoon’s in Langney and the rogue ice cream van heralding the end of the weekend and the impending doom of the school week. Also, apparently it was possibly written by Henry VIII, which is certainly no recommendation. Even writing about it makes me feel sick. 

The song I pretend to hate that I secretly like

That’s a tough question because I wear my heart on my sleeve when it comes to music. I don’t pretend to hate stuff. It either resonates or it grates, It either elevates/inspires me or means nothing. 

I suppose this is the guilty pleasures question. I think we are all old enough now to be confident to say, “I love Miles Davis and Haircut 100 equally” and if you don’t like that, you have the problem not me. I reckon this is the best thing learned from the NME Penman/Morley/Errol years. When they championed Joy Division & Dollar in equal measure. That and never take Coke! 

So, can’t really answer this... And from that perspective the next two answers might be shorter than some. 

The song I tell people is my favourite

Waterloo Sunset by The Kinks (see 13 songs)

My actual favourite song

...

Featuring Andy Franks

Conspiracy theories - #22

Meet the Methodists...

I grew up on Burgh Island in Devon in the 1960’s. My parents were itinerant hippies and I mistrusted them from my earliest years. The final straw was when they left me at the first Glastonbury Festival in 1970. It took me 4 days to hitch home (aged 13) and them 6 days to realize that I had been missing and made it back. I was grateful when the school holidays ended and I was back as a boarder at St Cyprian’s whereupon I passed my exams and moved to ‘College’ and thence to ‘University’.

It didn’t take the service long to recognise that I was endowed with the right sort of temperament to undertake undercover work. So, back to the Hippy Underground it was. By now punk had blown through and hippies were figures of fun, that didn’t bother me – I just wanted revenge. I took up with a commune in St Pancras. It was all brown rice, sandals and anarcho-hippies. Scritti Politti were in the squat over the road, Skrewdriver (the white power neo-nazi band) were down the street and the ultimate DIY free jazz/punk/dub combo The State Agents were on the corner of the block. 

I took on a nom-de-squat ‘Zed’ and started to ingratiate myself in the Dope ‘n Dole world. I even ended up as a roadie for a couple of the bands. Strewth, they were bad! The Scrits made some steady headway (Peel sessions, touring with Gang of Four and The Mekons) and other bands tried to surf on their coat-tails.

Anyway, I ended up going out on tour with a couple of alright bands ‘The Forgotten Trees’ & ‘The Red Haunt’. Ostensibly to run the merch stand but really to keep tabs on a group of their mutual followers who called themselves ‘Methodists’. They were a hard-core, group of anarcho punks who had no obvious means of financial support but drove from venue to venue in a convoy of 3 Rolls-Royce Camargue’s (called Daisy, Lucy and Stan) and they always stayed at the nearest 5-star hotel to the venue. Meanwhile, the bands and us crew would kip on floors of the kindly local punters. 

After a couple of weeks the tour rolled into Plymouth – the tour was basically 9 days on, 3 days off (in order to allow everyone to get back to the Camden DHSS, sign on, hang around for a couple of days, cash the giro and then head back out to entertain the unwashed masses). This was the one town I wasn’t looking forward to. I was concerned that my parents Larry & Wanda might just rock up to take in the experimental new wave new age dub sounds of the The Haunt (as they were known) – it was just their cup of tea. 

After we’d got the band, the PA, the drums, the amps, the smoke machine (hippies alright!) and the lights on stage. I left the others to it, I mooched off to set up the merch stand. It didn’t take long, as every venue was contractually obligated to provide a trestle table, a chair, some gaffa tape and a bottle of Remy Martin (apparently, I was the only merchman ever to get drinks included on the rider – very undemocratic and decidedly rock ‘n roll – it upset the rest of the crew, but I didn’t care). I laid out the 3 different versions of t-shirt, stuck up some badly produced posters, flung a few badges around, scribbled prices on to bits of paper and then sat down to read this week’s NME and sip some of my richly deserved Brandy.

I was halfway through a genuinely hysterical letter on the letters page from Sam K. Ampong in response to a caustic review of the Tom Robinson Band by Paul Morley in the previous week’s edition. When I realised that it was nearly time the venue opened. No sooner had the front of house manager given the announcement via the FOH PA than the doors opened and a surge of beer, sweat, cigarettes and patchouli permeated the foyer and the punters surged in a second later. 

A few obviously underage fans headed in my direction to buy The Haunt’s most popular t-shirt “Where did I leave my revolver?”. Other older fans preferred to get their hands on the logo crest version. Unsurprisingly nobody was interested in The Forgotten Trees rather limp “Shape-shifter” offering, featuring as it did a rather dull graphic image of a triangle, a square, a circle and an X. What was that all about? Anyway, a steady stream of sales, a few swigs of Remy and before I knew it the 5-minute bell. The FOH manager came by and signalled time to shut up shop until the interval. 

I was just about to hide the cashbox under the table when Wanda strode up to me. She didn’t recognise me (it had been 7/8 years) and the skinny brown haired foppish prep-school boy I had been had turned into a 6ft 2in dude with rather a severe bleached flattop, wearing a bikers jacket, 501’s and a white Bundeswher vest. Annoyingly, just the sort of look Kirk bloody Brandon would borrow a few months later.

Wanda looked the same as ever, long red & purple dreads, a loose fitting, boob revealing top and flared crimson cords that had seen better days. Her battered moccasins surely couldn’t have been the same ones she had had when she had left me on Worthy Farm – although I suspected they must be. 

“How much for a revolver t-shirt?”. She asked.

I pointed at the very prominent price list. “15 Quid”. I snapped, my by now ingrained Cockney accent betraying no hint of my Devonian heritage. Not a glimmer from Wanda.

“What a rip-off!”. She offered, “Made in an Indian sweat-shop no doubt. I thought The Haunt had values!”

“Actually it’s made in Bolton by a local artisans collective”, I lied, having no idea where they’d come from. 

“Oh”, she took a half-step back and purposefully bent forward to open her bag. It was a move I’d seen a hundred times on this tour already. The flash of nipple for a discount move.

“Any chance of a discount?”

“No Wanda”.

Her head jolted. “What did you say?”

“No wonder artisan collectives are going under”. I replied deadpan.

She de-flustered as quick as a flash and handed three fivers over.

“Large?” I asked, spitefully.

She flushed, “Medium actually, I like things loose but not that loose”.

No reply from me. I gave her the t-shirt, pocketed the money and carried on closing down. She stared at me for a while and then headed over to a small group of much older anarcho-punks. 

I recognised the man she put her arms around. It was Paddy Neat, a nasty piece of work. Paddy Neat, a career criminal. Paddy Neat, who remarkably had never once spent a day in jail. Paddy Neat, the head of The Methodists. Paddy Neat, the man my ex-mother was obviously now sleeping with. Paddy Fuckin Neat!

 

Taken from: "Notes from a rather unconvincing source" - John Zéro - 

To be published sometime in 2023

 

6 Strings - Gretsch 6120EC

The Gretsch Eddie Cochran G6120 EC is a thing of rare beauty that plays as well as it looks. Whilst, as I"ve said before, I'm not Rockin', this guitar is too good to ignore.

Gretsch honours the legacy of rock 'n roll/rockabilly pioneer Eddie Cochran with this signature hollow body model, based on the distinctively modified guitar that ignited Cochran's highly influential and all too brief career.

Check out the rather excellent Darrel Higham talking in a far more knowledgeable way, than I could ever do, about this excellent guitar!

13 Songs – 13

 Northern Sky – Nick Drake

I once spent a most wonderful afternoon driving from Peterborough to Tanworth-in-Arden (having stopped off for a whistle-stop press pass at a Web-offset printer in Kidderminster). The reason for heading to Kidderminster was to oversee the printing of Match magazine. The reason to then divert from my journey home to North London (where, as part of the NL liberal media elite I was a leading member of the sinister Wokerati movement that controls every aspect of British life, I personally oversaw a huge influx of Tofu and illegal immigrants into the UK), was to visit the hometown and final resting place of singer-songwriter Nick Drake.

Drake’s ashes are buried in a beautiful spot under an Oak Tree in the graveyard of the Church of St Mary Magdelene, in Tanworth-in-Arden. On the occasion of my visit, the sun was dipping and a light purple (lilac?) mist was settling in the vale beyond the graveyard. His grave itself had a few handwritten notes and a single rose, a couple of dead roll-ups, a spent joint and an empty bottle of pale ale. The comparison between this and the hedonistic overload of Jim Morrison’s tomb at Pere Lachaise was noticeable, so fundamentally understated, so utterly English. The inscription on the reverse reading, ‘Now we rise, now we are everywhere’. It was a remarkably tranquil late afternoon by the time I left. 

On my way home the first song that came on was ‘Northern Sky’, a wave of pure contentment washed over me. I’d heard the song before but hadn’t listened. There was a purity about this song, that I hadn’t sensed, I hadn’t absorbed – it lifted me to a different place. Some songs that I love I play a lot, some that I love I almost try and ignore, until I really need it. It was only some 15 years or so later that I really needed this song. I was in love, with an English Girl but stuck. This song came on and we just knew…

I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons, knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my hand
Or felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree
But now you're here
Brighten my northern sky

I've been a long time that I'm waiting
Been a long that I'm blown
I've been a long time that I've wandered
Through the people I have known
Oh, if you would and you could
Straighten my new mind's eye

Would you love me for my money?
Would you love me for my head?
Would you love me through the winter?
Would you love me 'til I'm dead?
Oh, if you would and you could
Come blow your horn on high

I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons, knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my hand
Or felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree
But now you're here
Brighten my northern sky

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Nick Drake

Northern Sky lyrics © O/B/O Capasso, Reservoir Media Management Inc

13 Songs – 12

Medway Wheelers – The Buff Medways

To be fair if I was choosing my favourite tunes (and not just 13 songs to write about) I could have very easily chosen 13 songs just from the Medway towns. Any one of the following bands could have barged their way into this Baker’s Dozen (making it a Barker’s Dozen perhaps?): The Prisoners, The Solarflares, The Prime Movers, The Daggermen, Thee Headcoatees, Thee Headcoats, CTMF, Musicians of the British Empire, The Len Price3, The Galileo 7, The Milkshakes, JTQ, Theatre Royal, The Long Weekend, The Pop Rivets, The Masonics, The Wildebeests, The Chatham Singers, William Loveday Intention, Graham Day & The Gaolers, The Dentists, Planet, Thee Mighty Caesars, Holly Golightly, Billy Childish, Groovy Uncle, The Delmonas etc etc.

However, I settled on The Buff Medways and this track in particular because near the end of his life my Dad surprised me by saying, apropos of me mentioning this track, that he used to be in The Buff Medways. I was surprised, to say the least. I didn’t have him down as being a member of Billy Childish’s Mod/Punk combo. It was only when I repeated his claim that he stared at me with his black eyes smiling and said, “No, the Medway Wheelers”! He had indeed ridden with them after the war and when he passed on I even found a club pin badge to underline the point. 

Anyway, the thought of him thrashing away in the background in a Townsendesque fashion tickles me to this day. The song itself is a fantastic example of Childish’s innate ability to conjure up a time/place lyrically and musically juxtaposed but at the same time, so fundamentally right. His songs just fit! The notion of some sort of wilful amateurism is not borne out by the end result.

Medway Wheelers… Len Ganley… Clovelly… a cuppa tea…

13 Songs – 11

You’re my kind of climate – Rip, Rig & Panic

One of the more memorable gigs of my life was The Pop Group playing the CND rally at Trafalgar Sq, a rain-soaked, Tiger Beer fuelled, dancing in the streets, smash the system kind of gig. It was also the last time they played (until some 35 years later). Gareth Sager, guitarist and co-driver even left his other oppo Mark Stewart on stage before the end (to perform a sublime version of ‘Jerusalem’ that William Blake could never have imagined even in his wildest fever dreams. Stewart grooving along with the core of what would become The Maffia. Sager disappearing into the south Soho night. 

A few months later, Sager appeared on the front cover of the NME, fronting the wild beat ensemble ‘Rip, Rig & Panic’. Their first album was a splurge of wild improvisation, studio high jinks, jump ‘n jive rumblings and the sublime, ‘The Blue Blue Third’ piano piece – as if Eric Satie was being played somewhere near General Kurtz’s HQ. It was a remarkable collection and sent me off in search of Charlie Parker, John Coltrane & Pharaoh Sanders. The IPC scribes complained that they couldn’t imagine their postman whistling any of those ‘tunes’.

A few more months pass, a number of Rip, Rig & Panic gigs are attended (featuring a nutty Irish support band who smash their heads with beer trays and are called Pogue Mahone). A new LP is released, presaged by a stunning new 12” single, ”You’re my kind of climate”. It was/is the most joyous of tracks and leaps along with the true spirit of a different freer time. It became a stone-cold party, club, warehouse, discotheque, shebeen, dive bar classic. Even now it reminds me of ripped 501’s, Thunderbird Wine, checked shirts without sleeves, Paloma Picasso red lipstick and a girl with a platinum blonde flat-top…

You're my kind of climate
Swinging lost paradise
Your touch, your smell
Well you can tell
I ain't talking about heaven or hell
You're my kind of climate
Swinging lost paradise
Met a Mexican in the kitchen
Said rule your life by the dice

You've got a crazy disposition
And you always challenge tradition
Better to travel than ever arrive
Being together side by side
Lost in a catacomb loneliness
It's a crime of passion
A deep repression
Legacies whisper in my blood
The heat within rising

You're my kind of climate
Swinging lost paradise
Your touch, your smell
Well you can tell
I ain't talking about heaven or hell
You're my kind of climate
Swinging lost paradise
Met a Mexican in the kitchen
Said rule your life by the dice

I know you've got a butterfly heart
And when you fly we're never apart
Better to travel than ever arrive
Being together side by side
It's a mortal sin to be killed of love
And if it die I won't cry
Lose all fear of the unknown
Never ever worry about being alone

You're my kind of climate
Swinging lost paradise
Your touch, your smell
Well you can tell
I ain't talking about heaven or hell
You're my kind of climate
Swinging lost paradise
Met a Mexican in the kitchen
Said rule your life by the dice.

 

Words/Music: Sager, Springer, Oliver, Smith

13 Songs – 10

Night & Day – Everything but the girl

I was brought up in a Richard Burton reading ‘Under Milk Wood’, a Bizet’s ‘Au fond du temple saint’ and most importantly a Frank Sinatra singing anything household. The Chairman of the Board was never too far away from Mum’s turntable. And even though she was convinced he was vocally at his peak in his Columbia years, his phrasing was deemed unsurpassable throughout his whole career. However, I was never quite sure how he fitted into my expanding musical world. I mean ok The Pistols covered ‘My Way’ but that was shit. Joe Strummer never referenced him, nor did Weller or Pete Shelley. True Ian Curtis was urged to listen to him by Tony Wilson but overall Ol’ Blue Eyes was nowhere near the centre of the radar…

… Punk begat New Wave, New Wave split into Post-Punk, Mod, 2-tone/Ska, the hits and genre splits kept coming. All the while, staunch indie label Cherry Red had picked up two interesting solo artists, one male and one female, both of whom happen to be going to study at Hull University. The label hit on the idea of getting them to record a couple of tracks together as a way of cross promoting each other. So, Ben Watt & Tracey proceeded to record ‘Feeling Dizzy’ b/w ‘On my mind’. Their mix of folky pop with subtle jazz guitar was a good blend. Legend has it that they had a spare 15 minutes at the recording session, so they conjured up a minimalist version of the Cole Porter classic that Frank Sinatra had made his own ‘Night & Day’. The two originals were now a double B-side and a new A-side was ready to storm the charts.

Everything but the girl’s version took the sound of Sinatra from big band to bedsit and it worked a treat. The moment I heard it I was hooked, their almost forlorn rendition brought my musical worlds together (not for the first or last time) and ever since, I’ve held this version close to my heart. The fact that I even ended up buying a 1962 Gretsch Clipper (like Ben’s), in an effort to get that student digs jazz guitar sound is testimony a) to the songs enduring influence on me and b) to my misplaced sense of my own ability.

It's influence also shines through in my 2019 musical project The Butterfly House – ‘From the Wish Tower…’ to such an extent that I managed to shoehorn the part line “…traffic’s boom” into the very heavily EBTG influenced ‘Jazz Song’. (Still available here and via I-tunes, Spotify etc).

 

Night and day you are the one
Only you beneath the moon and under the sun
Whether near to me or far
No matter, darling, where you are
I think of you night and day
Day and night

Why is it so
That this longing for you follows wherever I go
In the roaring traffic's boom
In the silence of my lonely room
I think of you night and day

Night and day, deep in the heart of me
There's an oh such a hungry yearning burning inside of me
And this torment won't be through
'Til you let me spend my life making love to you
Day and night, night and day

Night and day, deep in the heart of me
There's an oh such a hungry yearning burning inside of me
And this torment won't be through
'Til you let me spend my life making love to you
Day and night (night and day)

This torment won't be through (night and day)
Until I spend my life with you (night and day)
Day and night (night and day)
Day and night (night and day)
Day and night (night and day)
Day and night

Source: Musixmatch

Songwriters: חוטר מיכל / Porter,cole

Night and Day lyrics © Wb Music Corp., Touch Music