Got Any Quo?

Croydon had loads of it at the start of the week and it was all contained within the concrete carbuncle of The Fairfield Halls. I shan't waffle on too much about Quo's performance other than they were the consumate professionals that you'd expect them to be after such longevity in the biz. Christ, they've been around for longer than I've walked this earth and I suppose that's one of the reasons why their audience 'has become more select', most of them having since died. Also, being shunned by lots of popular radio stations over the years since the late eighties certainly doesn't help matters when it comes to maintaining popularity.
They're an easy target for ridicule (much like Cliff Richard) and if it wasn't for their hardcore fanbase they'd be driving taxis for a living. What a lot of Quo ridiculistas fail to remember is that this lot are a good time party band. Let's face it, you must be one of life's miserable cunts if you fail to raise a smile when you see and hear these gents perform "Rockin' All Over The World" or "Down Down". No? Oh bugger off back to your Cocteau Twins and Leonard Cohen and draw the curtains on the world while you're at it. Quo provide the soundtrack for a shindig and unlike Jools bleedin' Holland, their boogie comes naturally. C'mon, live a little and let whatever hair you have down. Gawd bless 'em.
More pictures here.

Nostalgia For An Age That Never Existed

Back in the day...

Before the Internet...
Before semi-automatics and joyriders
Before SEGA or Super Nintendo...
Way back...
I'm talking about Hide and Seek in the park.
The corner shop.
Hopscotch.
Butterscotch.
Skipping.
Handstands.
KISS CHASE
Football with an old can.
Fingerbob.
Beano, Dandy, Buster, Twinkle and Dennis the Menace.
Roly Poly.
Hula Hoops, jumping the stream, building dams.
The smell of the sun and fresh cut grass.
Bazooka bubble gum.
Soda stream (get bizzy with the fizzy)
An ice cream cone on a warm summer night from the van that plays a tune.
Chocolate or vanilla or strawberry or maybe Neapolitan or perhaps screwball.
Wait...
Watching Saturday morning cartoons, short commercials or the flicks.
Red Hand Gang, Tomorrow People, Tiswas or Swapshop?, and 'Why Don't You'?

or staying up for Doctor Who.
When around the corner seemed far away and going into town seemed like going somewhere.
Earwigs, wasps, stinging nettles and bee stings.
Sticky fingers.
Playing Marbles. Ball bearings. Big 'uns and Little 'uns.
Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians.
Climbing trees.
Making igloos out of snow banks.
Walking to school, no matter what the weather.
Running till you were out of breath, laughing so hard that your stomach hurt.
Jumping on the bed. Pillow fights. Spinning around on roundabouts,
getting dizzy and falling down was cause for giggles. Being tired from playing...remember that?
The worst embarrassment was being picked last for a team.
Water balloons were the ultimate weapon.
Choppers and Grifters.
Eating raw jelly. Orange squash ice pops.
Vimto and Jubbly lollies
Remember when...
There were two types of trainers - girls and boys, and Dunlop Green Flash
The only time you wore them at School was for P.E.
And they were called gym shoes or if you are older, plimsoles or Daps.
You knew everyone in your street - and so did your parents.
It wasn't odd to have two or three 'best' friends.
You didn't sleep a wink on Christmas Eve.
When nobody owned a pure-bred dog.
When 25p was decent pocket money
Curly Wurlys. Space Dust. Toffo's, cola cubes.
When you'd reach into a muddy gutter for a penny.
When any parent could discipline any kid, or use him to carry groceries and nobody,

not even the kid, thought a thing of it.
When being sent to the head's office was nothing compared

to the fate that awaited a misbehaving pupil at home.

Basically, we were in fear for our lives but it wasn't because of drive-by shootings, gangs etc.
Remember when...
Decisions were made by going "Ip, Dip, Dog Sh*t"
Race issue" meant arguing about who ran the fastest.
Money issues were handled by whoever was the banker in Monopoly
The worst thing you could catch from the opposite sex was germs.
And the worst thing in your day was having to sit next to one.
It was unbelievable that 'British Bulldog 123' wasn't an Olympic event.
Having a weapon in school, meant being caught with a catapult.
Scrapes and bruises were kissed and made better.
Taking drugs meant orange-flavoured chewable aspirin.
Ice cream was considered a basic food group.
Getting a foot of snow was a dream come true.
Older siblings were the worst tormentors, but also the fiercest protectors.

Pass this on to anyone who may need a break from their grown up life...

COLON-CAST!

Colin Gillman is my guest on this podcast.
COL is ON this CAST.
COL-ON-CAST...geddit?!?

Oh, please yourselves.

To download this audio butt nugget, click here.

09.09.09 New Beatles Re-Releases!

Cor, blimey! I don't know about you lot, but I'm looking forward to hearing these re-mastered Beatles albums. Play.com are flogging 'em as a boxset for around £170. My mate Pedro Scrote (name changed to avoid criminal prosecution) will be passing me the whole gamut of songs in mp3ified glory!

And only then will I decide wether to invest in a corporate money making exercise.

"Would that be in mono or stereo, sir?"

Quick Update: Toby from Rock Til You Drop has done a show, listen here...

Old Wave

Revisiting nostalgia can either be a good or a bad thing depending on who you talk to (and how old they happen to be), so as soon as I heard that Magazine had reformed, I decided to pay them a visit at The Royal Festival Hall to see what all the fuss used to be about. I downloaded their first two albums just so that I'd be well versed with their songs only to be treated with a full rendition of 1980's The Correct Use Of Soap. Shite, I wasn't aware that album existed, not being a huge fan of the band an' all. I decided to sit this out politely which took us all the way to the interval.
An interval? At a rock gig?!? That's one of the things about the RFH that bugs me along with a distinct lack of ticket touts hanging about in a shifty way outside the building. This isn't your typical rock venue that's for sure, but an arts complex that seems purpose built for middle class Guardian reading trendies who say "ya mkay" a lot (so I'm isolating what audience I have left with that last remark. Get yourselves a sense of humour, you fake Commies). Not that it matters much once you've managed to get a few of their pricey Bourbon shots down your gullet in time for the polite notice announcing that "...the performance will be starting in ten minutes...".
Having been assigned seats slap bang in the middle of the rear stalls just above the mixing desk, I was actually delighted to find that this was the best sound I'd ever heard at this particular venue. Howard Devoto's vocals were clear, Dave Formula's synths were well balanced with guitar and drums although Barry Adamson's bass did get sporadically lost during the first half. After adjusting the overall sound to louder in the 'second act', we were treated to such marvels as "Permafrost" and "Rhythm Of Cruelty" amongst others. They returned for an encore of "Definitive Gaze" before finally buggering off after "Give Me Everything". The last track, being one of their stronger songs, was a sound inclusion but to play a full gig without "Shot By Both Sides" had the effect of a serious anti-climax. 7 out of 10.

How did I ever miss this?!? Last year, The Monochrome Set briefly reformed for the 30th anniversary of Cherry Red Records and gigged at a private party to celebrate the fact. Not that I would've been able to gatecrash the event although I would've tried my damned best to do so had anything been written on their MySpace site - bah! Still, those wonderful people at Cherry Red have filmed the event and even recorded a fifty minute interview with lead singer Bid (the latter being a must watch for hardcore M-Set fans).
If, after all that, you still have a hankering for all things Set, here's Iggy Pop's version of "He's Frank" recorded for The Brighton Port Authority album. Oh yes, even the mighty Iggy bows down to the cult status of Bid, Lester, Andy and co.

Les Paul R.I.P

More people were affected by Les Paul's inventions and all round talent than they realise. The inventor of multitrack recording and the innovator of one of the most beautiful guitars in history will be missed. Gawd bless his soul.

There's a better tribute to Les over at Planet Mondo's.

Gossip Columnists? I Shit 'Em

I started to write this post with a view to explaining why I haven't recently written anything when, on reading back it resembled something pathetically akin to Amanda Holden's new weekly diary column in Fabulous mag (free with The Screws of the World). I don't exactly know why I read it, in fact I don't even know why I watch a lot of the shite that's on telly nowadays - "Young, Dumb and Living With Mum" being a prime example - but I did. Time wasted that I shall never get back and only worthy of a sigh of despair.
Back to Amanda's column. Christ, this is exactly the type of drivel fit for its target audience, stuffed full of glamourous situations and name dropping. Name dropping is something Amanda does well. But what does she do apart from that? What's her particular talent? Should I be asking Simon Cowell? Should I ask the casting director of that hairdressing sitcom she was in? Or shall I just ask Les Dennis?
"I've just had dinner at the swanky Ivy Club", she writes "David Coulthard...Adrian Chiles and Christine Bleakley - my new best friend". She goes on to mention having dinner with Cowell, Bleakley and Piers Morgan at Number 10 with Sarah and Gordon. In other entries for her star-packed month of July she goes on to mention Katie Price and Mel B. All of the above in just 3 days.
Wow, wish I had her busy social life.
Good luck to her though, if that's what feeds her soul an' all. Mixing with VIPs is a natural tonic which soothes insecurities of being a nobody and you're nobody if you're not famous or know someone who is - it's what the current media fashionistas would have us all believe according to the content it peddles. And we suck it all in like ravenous Dysons. It gives us something to talk about, something to moan about, someone to praise, someone to slag off and we keep going back to this merry-go-round of puss, revisiting each other's own home made pavement pizzas like a dog going back to its own vomit.
Amanda Holden on autopilot, if you will.

So, here's why I've been away, but with extra added new-improved censured name dropping:

After being privy to a scorching showcase gig by hip young indie up-starts W**** M** K******* last month, I was personally informed that they were to be supporting vintage punk band T** S********* at a prestigeous venue on the I*** O* W****. Of course, I managed to procure tickets on the day of the gig thanks to my contacts and we headed south to P********* to catch the boat. Imagine my utter surprise at nearly bumping into bass player J*** J****** outside the ferry terminal building and that we'd actually be cruising on the same, actual boat!!! On arrival after our trip across T** S*****, we headed for the venue where I mingled with the plebs, er, I mean the valued roadies, while some lackey fetched my tickets. Afterwards, we secured ourselves a hotel room in a prime location in town which had a trendy Morroccan flavour to it (no *silly*...the hotel, not the town).
Of course, the concert was absolutely fab dahlings and we all retired back to the hotel bar for a nightcap or two and guess what? So did most of T** S*********! J*** J****** was quoffing beer with the best of 'em, B** W**** was attempting to chat up anything in a skirt and I congratulated D*** G********* on a marvellous performance. I like D***, he's like some sort of eternal smiley face.
Back on the mainland, I had an appointment with the talented M**** S*** (whose songs have been played all over Radio C*******) and they thrashed out an intimate performance in an exclusive club in W*** L*****. It was nice to catch up with all the boys, as well as T*** B*****, who just happens to be le grande fromage from R*** T** Y** D***. Oh, how we all laughed at what some of the audience were wearing...I mean, how did they even manage to get into the place?!? And then we realised she was the promoter! Cue much more raucous laughter.
And before we knew it, we simply had to go to V******* P*** to cheer on T** P***** (S**** singing sans teeth!) and M****** were simply devine and it seemed everyone who was anyone ended up on the stage for the encore including R**** and J****! Oh my G**, how utterly awesome was that?!?
Before I go, I must thank my dear friend C**** W*** for sending me his fantastic book which he personally signed for little old me. I've only just managed to find the time to start reading it. That A***** character seems a right card, doesn't he?
Anyway, I can't sit around gossiping as I've got to learn a gazillion songs by tomorrow. I'll be having a jam with L*****'s premier punk act T** S********** with the aim of being their next guitarist...
Must dash luvvies,
mwah - mwah.
Ister x

PS - Here's some more of A******* S***** with their song "Top International Celebrities":

An Appeal

Getting involved with Mick's recently released work reminded me of The Camodes' early effort "Wot U Lookin' At?" from seven years ago which was also a concept album. That thing was dodgier than an entire jammy dodger biscuit factory. The songs came first followed by the concept, which was a half-arsed attempt at stringing a few songs together into some kind of coherent tale. The narrative went something like this:

"...I remember him as a very curious fellow. His name was Jack Raffles and he was born in Wiltshire in the early seventies. Sometime during his teenage years, the whole family moved to the east end of London - not that he had any choice in the matter - his parents were getting more concerned that the local yokels of the village were starting to have a bad influence on a young and impressionable Jack. A clean break from those weird inbred antics was what they all needed.
As soon as Jack was old enough to leave school empty handed of any qualifications, he promptly enlisted into the army. That was the first of many mistakes that he would come to make in his adult life. He became a Gulf War veteran and contracted the syndrome that plagued some of the squaddies who had come back alive from Operation Desert Storm. But on his return Jack was still being bullied by his superior, a large meat-headed shit known to his privates as Corporal Bastard. The usual idiotic shenanigans of heads held down the toilet and flushed were de rigueur and it went on because the officers still turned a blind eye to that sort of entertainment.
Jack hatched a plan to escape. Had he lost his senses? After all, he could've waited for a medical discharge. But his suffering had brought on an urgent impatience which meant he was soon AWOL and on the run. Jack decided to seek refuge with an old forces' sweetheart, a comely middle-aged woman the lads knew as "Welcoming Wendy" who was no stranger to the barracks. However, Wendy had found herself another regular 'passenger' in the shape of Corporal Bastard. On discovering this abysmal news, Jack's temper erupted like an uncontrollable Vesuvius (he had actually caught the two of them in the act, you know...cavorting with each other!) and bursting at the seams with rage he killed them. In addition to this carnage, Jack accidentally murdered Wendy's mother who had only popped by to pick up the laundry. Great. On the run again, that's what falling head over heels in love does to you. Silly bugger. This time it was more difficult to remain invisible. Army, police and journalists were on his tail.
A chance meeting with Georgie, an illiterate scaffolder, seemed promising. One day, whilst working on the roof of the local Freemason's lodge, Georgie had ear-wigged in on a conversation involving a plan for a gold bullion heist. Having had previous experience of arson and on remembering the blabbermouths' illegal scheme, Georgie proceeded to set fire to the building with the would-be masonic robbers trapped inside. Surely this would be a win-win situation? Georgie, who was a few grapes short of a decent Beaujolais, had a general, carefree attitude but 'carefree' can go hand-in-hand with 'stupidity'. "Bollocks" he thought. Why sacrifice the rest of your life as someone else's donkey? Take a chance and do something worthwhile with it. Georgie thought he had a sure fire winner on his hands. "Get in there, my son".
It was now down to Jack, Georgie and a ragtag bunch of associates to swipe the gold that was en route by train to the smelting plant. The dream was to launder the booty into Spanish timeshare villas where they would retire comfortably in the arid and anonymous scrub land of the Andalusian mountains, though not too far from the coast.
And do you know what? To this day I've never found out whether they made it."

As you can see, the ending has been left open and it will soon be time to write the follow up. What do you think should happen to the characters (the ones that are alive)? Anything can happen, in fact, the more bizarre the storyline is, the better. But this time the story will be worked on fully before the music gets shat out. I did have an idea about a John Motson type character who time travelled back and forth in a banana shaped space ship to interact with the characters but I think that's already been done...

You can download the album free of charge below. God help you.

1. Morbid Corpse 2. H.S.P 3. Corn On The Cob 4. Muckabout 5. Sleeptalking

6. Today's Headlines 7. Fortune 8. At The Lodge 9. The Pyromaniac 10. Exile Express

Railway Safety Video

WARNING: Not for the squeamish! This is how us professional railway operatives are taught not to meddle with overhead lines, kids. It's a good job that I only have to step cautiously over third rails otherwise I'd get really confused...

Good Mourning Black Friday

Steven Wells
Sky Saxon
Farrah Fawcett
Michael Jackson

Anymore for anymore?

Slipknot 2 - Anvil 0

Let's face it; it was never going to be much of a competition between the two bands. Slipknot simply had to be the winners, dahling. To find out why and to hear what else was hot or not at this year's Donington festival, you can CLICK HERE to download the Download @ Donington depcast which was recorded with my mate Stu on the festival site last Monday (in the massive south car park, actually).

Pictures of the atmosphere can be found here.

Have a great weekend folks, we certainly did!

Mapletastic Metal

Rock fans have noted the numerous similarities between "This Is Spinal Tap" and "Anvil! The Story Of Anvil", the only difference to many being that Spinal Tap is the more famous of the two. While the first of these bands is a spoof heavy rock outfit, Anvil are a real ongoing concern who have been down on their luck since the late eighties - a factor that vocalist and lead guitarist Steve "Lips" Kudlow blames on shoddy production values and record companies who have been less than non-committal to their cause. Trying to fabricate their own lucky horseshoe was tough without a proper blacksmith (or manager) to guide them along the way.

The film introduces us to the Canadian demi-gods of maple leaf metal with a vintage clip of them in happier times playing a Japanese stadium rock festival on the same bill as Whitesnake and Bon Jovi in front of a large but far from sold out crowd. The dated stage outfits are hilarious, all spandex pants and bondage body harnesses which accompany arm-length fishnet gloves. The viewer is soon brought back to the present with soundbites from rock luminaries such as Slash, Lars Ulrich, Lemmy, Tom Araya and Scott Ian, all gushing buckets of respect and praise upon a group who are currently residing in the "where are they now?" file.A horrendously organised European tour by the second guitarist's fiancee (Anvil would go on to play at their wedding reception) sees the metal outsiders perform to audiences of thousands, diminishing to hundreds and eventually to no more than five people at one particular venue. It's at this point that you stop laughing at the band and you start sympathising with them and at what is a highly demoralising exercise in entertainment. How despairing it must feel to have a manager as useless as Ian Faith when your audience becomes "more selective".

But it's tough to distinguish whether this is an authentic portrayal of the group. Director and long term fan Sacha Gervasi has a passing resemblance to one of the film's larger than life characters, a telesales boss by the name of "Cut Loose" who gives Kudlow a job in his company in order for the band to raise the thirteen grand needed to record their next album. Not being a natural salesman, Kudlow fails to raise any interest whatsoever but is instead loaned the money by his loving sister in a very touching moment when he concludes that "...family is important shit, man". Indeed.
The Tapisms come at you thick and fast; the flavour of the cinematography and editing are all done in that familiar rockumentary style. The talking of utter bollocks (describing the first song they wrote together whilst being filmed in a restaurant), the disastrous gig promotion, the unsupportive record companies, the lukewarm water personality of the studio producer in between the two bickering original members who love each other like brothers, the visit to Stonehenge...I could go on. During all this adversity, Kudlow keeps true to his unwavering vision and strong belief in his band that it leaves the viewer wondering whether he's amazingly focused or just truly deluded. Best line comes from drummer Robb Reiner after a bad gig: "I'm doing everything right and I'm getting shit on".
The film successfully explores the social interaction around relationships between band and family members and how they stick together through rough times but beware, watching this could make you feel more gooey than maple syrup. I admired the comically heartwarming tone and as Anvil's adventures unravelled before me, feelings of mirth turned to compassion and support for these underdogs of thrash. Forget Slumdog Millionaire's feel good factor, this is far more enjoyable.
Anvil! The Story Of Anvil has its UK DVD release next Monday 15th June and they play the Download festival on Saturday 13th June.

More Porn

I'm at a loss of what to write about, so it's back to posting guitar porn filler, hurrah! So what've we got here then? A Dean VMNT Dave Mustaine "Rust In Peace" special. Nice graphics, shame it isn't a Jackson.

Apologies for the lack of blogging action, I've had a dodgy eye, itchy leg and I'm still a Sudafed junkie. I'm also addressing the ongoing links widget problem (to the right of this blog) - if I've left any of you from the list by mistake, please pop by and burn my lug'ole about it. Time at the internet cafe is at a premium and although having net access at home is convenient, I don't want to end up a slave to it like I have in the past. This way I can prioritise what I need to do and be more efficient as opposed to logging on and having a six hour YouTube fest. Never again.

It's not all crap though. Donington is upon us once more and I for one can't chuffing wait for it. I'm also considering a trip to Ullapool for Britain's most remote festival and I'm toying with the idea of Cornbury (recently described by someone as a "boutique festival", ie; fit for all those Daily Express reading middle class suburbanites and their 2.4 children) but the only decent bands that are playing at the latter are The Damned and Joe Jackson so I'm not sure that the ticket price would be justified for just two good acts. Had I been a fan of the Sugababes on the other hand...

Warning - Hippy Stuff

MICK O'ROURKE PRESENTS

It's a mini-album. Or a long EP. Mick prefers to call it a suite. It's anything you want it to be because it's free to download - which might make it disposable. Some call it folk, others might not. I do know this; it's available to you right now in all its 320kbps gory glory. The artwork is above (that's all you're getting - no front and back labels for CD burning - make your own) so download these scrummy audio vignettes to your mp3 player for your listening pleasure at your leisure. Forward your insults / complaints / gushing mumbles into the comments section.

1.Forest 2. Gathering 3. Hoofprints 4. Dorcas 1 5. Choir 1

6. Dorcas 2 7. Choir 2 8. Warning 9. Pan Has Gone

Backslaps All Round

The Noblisse Oblige Award
1) The Blogger manifests exemplary attitude, respecting the nuances that pervades amongst different cultures and beliefs.
2) The Blog contents inspire; strives to encourage and offers solutions.
3) There is a clear purpose of the blog; one that fosters a better understanding on Social, Political, Economic, the Arts, Culture and Sciences and Beliefs.
4) The Blog is refreshing and creative.
5) The Blogger promotes friendship and positive thinking.

The Blogger who receives this award will need to perform the following steps:

1) Create a post with a mention and a link to the person who presented the Noblisse Oblige Award.
2) The Award Conditions must be displayed at the Post.
3) Write a short article about what the blog has achieved - preferably citing one or more older pos(s) to support.
4) The Blogger must present the Noblisse Oblige Award in concurrence with the Award conditions.
5) Blogger must display the Award at any location at the Blog.

This award was presented to me by Savannah over at Savmarshmama. God knows why, but bless her heart, she's very kind. I think she likes my rough London accent whenever she listens to one of my podcasts, but then again, who wouldn't? Apart from that, this blog has two sides to it; music and football. When it comes to subject matter, I'd try being more diverse if I could but music and football is all I know and I'm no expert in either. That must make me a right jammy cunt when it comes to receiving this award, 'cos I know bugger-all about "Social, Political, Economic, the Arts, Culture, Sciences and Beliefs" etc...
Not sure as to the clear purpose of this blog, vanity publishing perhaps? Therefore I shall swiftly move on to passing the buck...er, I mean, baton to 5 bloggers who I think are far more deserving than me:

1) Joanne - I Have Seen The Whole of the Internet
This self-styled internet caretaker has proved herself to be an invaluable source of hilarity with her posts. Joanne sorts out the web wheat from the chaff so you don't have to! It's the ideal place to go for light relief everytime you feel bored of the net. Great entertainment and more wholesome than Bebo.

2) Dick Headley - The Voyage of...
Quality writing should come at a price, but Dick has very kindly given us hours and hours worth of reading pleasure for gratis. He is cultured, astute, well travelled and has a knowledge of sixties culture that I'm envious of. Better than Chuck Woww ;-)

3) Slaminsky - Slaminsky
The debate that this blogger generates is invaluable, from politics to clothes and although I don't always agree with certain viewpoints, most posts are thoroughly thought provoking as well as educational. Culture comes from her photography of east end street art, the stuff that you'd walk right past without noticing. But thanks to Slammers' eagle-eyed observation, this high-brow form of graffitti is available for everyone to see.

4) Dive - Small Glass Planet
Unfortunately for his readers, Dive has decided to post less frequently but he is enjoying his freedom from being chained to a PC and why shouldn't he? The summer is upon us and we have to make the most of our short-lived weather by venturing outdoors for some natural vitamin C and let's leave the laptops at home...sorry, I've gone off on one. Dive's posts are full of cultural joy; cooking, architecture, guitars. What more do you need?

5) Stray Photon - Spraying The Rays
My all time favourite blog and third time award winner. Stray has got a lot of mileage from Hull City AFC, following their trials and tribulations and presenting them to us in a well written and concise manner. I loved that post he wrote regarding Leeds United's relegation a few seasons ago and I'm sure he'll come up with something just as good very soon, he always does.

Thanks again to Savannah and thanks to everyone who has stopped by to read this blog.

Sailing The Seas Of Ska

8 out of 10 Specials' fans said they'd have preferred Jerry Dammers to be present, but it didn't stop the ska revival-revivalists from packing them in for five nights at the Brixton Academy. For some of the audience it was nostalgic, for others it was about having a great night out. Quality music provides the smokescreen that blocks out the treacherous stormy politics of internal band relationships.
Much has been speculated regarding Dammers' absence from this particular reunion, and Kent's finest wrote "...Dammers sensibly doesn't want anything to do with it" and went on to write that this was "chicken-in-a-basket circuit" entertainment. That's a very fair description and one that I agree with.
Dammers did turn up for two pre-tour get-together-see-how-things-go rehearsals which tells us he wanted to be part of it - as long as Captain Jerry had total control to steer his own vessel, that is. Sure, he was the founder and driving force behind 2-Tone and the band, but his authoritarian nature conflicted with a social democratic stance that fuelled the band's political idealism which, on this occasion, led to Dammers being out-voted by the other members. Any chance of a reconciliation between the organist and the rest of the band was hindered when Roddy Radiation's personal attacks towards their former band leader were published on his own forum. It seems that Radiation relished slagging Dammers off in public with any chance he got, an urge which should've been nipped in the bud at the start. A case of Roddy putting the "rude" into "rude boy" perhaps?
According to one report, Dammers allegedly wanted to do a couple of London shows and a one-off 30th anniversary gig at Coventry's Ricoh Arena, perhaps not a lucrative proposition as a multi-date tour could be (it wasn't always about the money with Jerry), but it was potentially disastrous for the fans. A country-wide tour conveniently enables a nation of ska enthusiasts to be able to attend different, suitable dates in more intimate venues. Five nights at the Brixton Academy? There's no excuse for Dammers not to be there, he lives in the same area. Not to worry, when it comes to reproducing the live keyboard sound, they can simply get someone else in. Being expendable and finding yourself out of a job hurts, more so if it's the result of mutinous behaviour.
Any more takers for the "chicken-in-a-basket" merry-go-round? Count me in but not because of Lily Allen's or Simon Jordan's involvement. Regular readers of this blog are well aware that I've written reviews for similar gigs. A Feargal-less Undertones knocking out "Teenage Kicks" to its middle-aged fans, a Hugh-less Stranglers firing "Tank" and "Nuclear Device" in Shepherd's Bush not to mention the many times I've seen The Damned. How those bleedin' comedy punx have the gall to play "New Rose" and "Neat Neat Neat" on stage without Brian James and Rat Scabies is beyond me. You could argue that they've had two singers (not including Gary Holton) if you compare Vanian's early vocal style to his faux Elvis crooner voice, the latter being far removed from the vibe of '76. Tut-tut. It's sacrilege.
Well, is it? Not really, it's evolution, baby! Is the existence of such bands more justified if they release new material once in a blue moon like The Stones do? A big ass horn section complete with pretty female backing singers onstage will never replace Brian Jones (yes alright, I know he's dead, but you know what I'm getting at). Yet thousands will turn up to see Jagger posture all over a stadium's floorboards and love it, while others will stay at home to avoid any embarrassment. Most people who attend such gigs mainly do so to hear the old songs - it's not the same, but no one should expect it to be after 30+ years. On the other hand, one could also argue that if original line-ups aren't important to us we might as well go and see tribute bands, ticket prices are cheaper too. Anyone for AB/CD? You have a choice between a tribute Bon Scott or a tribute Brian Johnson...aren't we forgetting Dave Evans? No, I'm just being pedantic. So, to last night in south London. Was it the same without Dammers? I can only compare it musically with live film and video footage of the band in their heyday and to be honest, it didn't make any difference. The keyboard player that stood in danced about in the same manner, played all the right notes and even the "skating rink" keyboard sound on "Do Nothing" was there. Electro-mechanical organs aren't as emotionally responsive as other instruments - you press down on a key and a sine wave is emitted so it's a lot easier to copy someone's individual playing style. Back in the day, The Specials' energy came from the drums and bass and nothing's changed 27 years down the line. Terry Hall had a brief moan about Lockets being crap but his voice stood up the whole night and Lynval's rhythm playing was bang on. The only problem I had was with Roddy Radiation's guitar sound which was bathed in too much echo allowing the notes to get lost. In fact, Roddy's playing got lost during "Longshot Kick De Bucket", he just couldn't keep up to speed. Highlights of the night were a haunting "Man From C & A", "Friday Night, Saturday Morning" and an amazing "Too Much, Too Young", the opening drum roll of the latter sending the entire audience into a dancing frenzy. It was the biggest party in Brixton.
After the gig, the venue lights came on and that's when I saw all the fat, middle-aged skins mopping their brows with their Fred Perry polo shirts which were already drenched in sweat to begin with. All of us were absolutely fucked from so much dancing but we all made our way home with silly, idiotic grins on our faces, the knowing type of grin that's displayed when you've had a fantastic time and you know you're alive. Scores on the doors for last night's entertainment? It has to be 6 out of 7, much better than watching them on Later With Jools which means I'll be boarding the good ship ska next week for another cruise to Nostalgialand.
More chicken-in-a-basket band reviews coming soon including Faith No More, Anvil, Magazine and Cliff Richard and The Shadows (without Jet Harris).
You think I'm joking, don't you?

I ♥ Seal Clubbing

I need a dream analyst.
A few nights ago, I dreamt that I was on an oil rig in the middle of what was a very calm sea. I turned to look out of one of the windows and saw a humungus tidal wave heading towards the rig. Not only did this powerful tidal wave engulf the structure but it knocked it sideways into the sea.
I managed to escape through one of the broken windows where I swam to a small island that was occupied entirely by seals. Thousands of them. Realising that I needed food to survive, I started looking for a broken tree branch which would enable me to kill one of the beasts before roasting it over a campfire.
Fortunately, a passing amphibious Citroen 2CV pulled over and offered me a lift to the mainland, which I greatly accepted. I had trouble clambering into the vehicle but just as I made myself comfortable, I woke up.
What does it mean?
I reckon I'm due for a massive heart attack.

Moving on from fears of cardiac arrest, I'd like to wish League Two Champions Brentford FC all the best for next season (coronary inducing pitch invasion celebratory pictures here) and I'd wish Palace even more but I can't muster any enthusiasm.
Something that did raise the spirits over the bank holiday weekend was the yearly but ever-so-humble Annual Beddington Fete. Lots of stalls selling bric-a-brac, raffle tickets, tombola, etc but the real attraction of all of this was the open day at the Wildlife Hospital. Set on the edge of Beddington Park, this "charidable" organisation helps restore the health of many animals that can be found in the nearby surroundings, such as foxes, pigeons, ducks and squirrels. They've rescued an albino squirrel from being beaten to death by the more common grey squirrels that infest the locality. I say infest, because to some folk they're classed as vermin. I was once told of an ancient law: if you capture a grey squirrel you are not supposed to let it go and you must kill it to stop the genetic spread of these creatures. I'll be sure to do that next time one of the little gits get into my vehicle through the open sunroof.
St Mary's of Beddington is a small, picturesque church which stands to the right of Carew Manor and had opened its doors to the local sight seers. The inside is decorated with beautiful medieval style biblical illustrations which cover the walls in a similar style to that of the classic eastern European icon painters. The bell tower was open, enabling us to see the bell ringers in action as well as being nearly deafened after we climbed the narrow steps further up into the belfry to hear the loud, clanging bells.
And then we went to Hastings. The place was crammed full of youngsters who had painted themselves green. Some were playing snare drums, some were throwing shoes. We didn't know what the significance of all this was, so we went in search of a fish'n'chip restaurant. The one we encountered served re-fried chips and I ate every one of them.
I reckon I'm due for a massive heart attack.

Rock The Vote

When was the last time you got involved in a Battle of the Bands style contest? Not as part of the band itself, but as a participating audience member or part of a musical electorate? Well why not give some moments of your time and get stuck in? West London types Magic Ship have been set against a Scouse band called The Fare Evaders (and you would too if you came from that neck of the woods). Anyway, I hear the latter are fans of Stevie Gerrard's team so I'll be voting for the band whose bass player's footy club will be collecting the cup as champions this Saturday afternoon. I'll be there to watch the glamour unfold at Griffin Park when the Mighty Bees will be awarded their much deserved cup. Anyone who votes for Magic Ship tonight and sees me at the ground tomorrow will be rewarded with a free drink. Editor's decision is usually final - so don't push your luck by saying you managed to vote more than once. This competition is being held by none other than the old fogeys' favourite hairy-arsed music magazine Classic Rock. If you have a heart, spare a few precious minutes from your hectic lifestyle and amble on over here to vote for the Magic Ship boys. Otherwise Rover (above) ends up as kebab meat.

If, however, you are a bit pressed for time you can simply register a vote for them by sending an email with the subject line ‘Magic’ to classicrock@futurenet.co.uk.

Luv'n'hugs,

I'mnotHowesysoI'llshutthehellup.

1950's Facebook Tech Shit

Thanks to Joanne for this:

And thanks to Col for finding this:

Sony Releases New Stupid Piece Of Shit That Doesn't Fucking Work

The Teddington To Beddington Tour De Farce

My crotch is fucked, but not in a way I'd like it to be. I'm talking about riding a bike. No, not that type of bike, but a push bike, as I tried to get to grips with a journey that perhaps, in hindsight, I could've done without.

It's a journey that has been succesfully completed a few times before, perhaps a couple of years ago but using a bike with a heavier steel frame and those clunky, knobbly, thick tyres that are often found on mountain bikes. The Shimano eight speed twist grip gear system was hardly used to its full extent, settling on just three settings that I referred to as 'uphill', 'downhill' and 'flat'. Carrying that beast up a flight of stairs at railway stations after a long slog - which resulted in "jellied legs syndrome" - proved tough going, although still better than feeling nauseous after a punishing session of physical exercise. But as I said before, all that happened a while ago.
Yesterday, after a few minutes of car-less journey planning (in which the main challenge was to get home after doing the twilight shift at work), I checked the weather forecast, which appeared favourable for cycling conditions and decided to pedal home. I kept reassuring myself that it would be easier than previous efforts, what with a different bike that had a lighter aluminium frame, a three speed hub and skinnier tyres - ideal for on-road handling.
Being very much the anti-athlete that I am with a weight problem that has more ups and downs than a whore's drawers, I welcomed the fresh mid-morning air at the start of the journey, it's nature's own cooling system. Decked out only in combat cargo pants, an Adidas polo shirt and Converse high tops, this would be a decent combination of clobber that would make me sweat less and avoid any premature physical burn-out. Or so I thought.
3.40am
I leave work with a resigned determination in the knowledge that what lies ahead can be done but will take some time to achieve. A ride of this calibre is a walk in the park for the likes of Lance Armstrong, but to me it's just a timely inconvenience. I've completed this trip in one hour and fifteen minutes in the past (including stopping for a 10 minute break around the half way point), but I wanted to see how my present heavier human frame would cope this time round. So off I go at a leisurely pace, making my way towards Teddington through the back roads. The only thing that helps me overcome the thought of the mammoth task ahead lies in the stillness of the streets, the relative quietness of minimal motorised traffic which is only spoiled by the boy racers that occasionally roar and charge down Sandy Lane. They be worryin' the deer in Bushey Park, the bastards.
4.00am
I'm feeling fine as I sail through the pedestrianised high street of Kingston-upon-Thames. Late night revellers haggle over prices with unlicensed minicab drivers as I weave around lone drunkards staggering home or trying to find a public bench to crash out on, whichever is the nearest. After passing a colleague cycling the other way into work, I smile and climb the slight hill of Cambridge Road that runs alongside the dodgy estate of the same name towards The Peel. The air is cruelly fresh, and I haven't even warmed myself up. I pass a gang of youths that seem to be pretend-fighting each other on the pavement and give them a wide berth, my advancing years automatically giving me a sense of self-preservation as I avoid anything that looks like dangerous confrontation. One of them looks at me and smirks.
4.20am
I arrive at New Malden roundabout and head straight for the A3 along Burlington Rd. There's an enormous new B&Q that has been erected, all three floors catering for the inner cowboy that is sometimes found within us. I zip under the A3's flyover at Beverley Way, pass what I think is a 24 hour Dunkin' Donuts shop. The smell of fresh donuts hits the cold air and tempts me to make a stop for a little snack-i-poo, which in the end is resisted as it would defeat the purpose. At West Barnes Lane, I get off the saddle, that bastard saddle, the one that remindes my forty year old arse that it's being laughed at by other road users. My bones creak with every step that I take as I carry the bike up a flight of stairs leading towards Bushey Road in Raynes Park. I get to the top and I'm rudely woken out of cycle mode by the flashing blue lights of an ambulance on its way to an important call out. Or maybe the paramedics are making their way to Dunkin' Donuts for a tea break? God knows.
4.30am
I still haven't warmed up, the bitter night air with its vice-like grip refuses to let go and the blubber around my stomach is of no help whatsoever. How do whales do it? My attention is soon diverted by a familiar landmark: Morden underground station, the southern most tip on the Northern line and I start to feel at home. I turn into Morden Hall Road where a motorist is routinely pulled over by a police patrol van. There are three coppers in the van and I start to wonder where they were on April 1st. I decide against a crafty shortcut towards Middleton Road that runs parallel to Tooting and Mitcham United's football ground (c'mon you Terrors!) and along the Wandle river's towpath because of the total absence of lighting. I choose Peterborough Road instead, much safer and probably much drier too. It's a road that's longer than it looks on the map, but soon I arrive at its end and glide into the Hackbridge morning mist.
4.50am
On passing Hackbridge station, I walk the bike up the railway bridge and once I reach the top, I sorely clamber back onto that unforgiving saddle and lazily coast my way into Beddington Park where the air gets spitefully colder. I glance at my watch and decide to set myself a deadline arrival of 5.00am. Fortunately I'm not too far from home and I start pedalling like a possessed maniac through the thick mist that has eerily settled in the park, floating menacingly above the grass like it does in any Hammer House of Horror film. The old graveyard surrounding St Mary's church looks equally as spooky but also welcoming as I hit the last 50 yards and suddenley I'm home, dead on five o'clock.
5.00am
Mission Accomplished. One hour and twenty minutes later of non-stop physical endurance and not a single bead of sweat has left a pore, I don't even stink of hard earned B.O. My body is still cold from the experience as I clamber under the duvet and thoughts of getting pneumonia fade away as a chirpy dawn chorus helps me fall asleep. Not that I ever needed much help after eleven, shivering miles.