John Medd

Dodgy colours

2012-02-18T08:48:00.001Z

Burnt Sienna

Vincent Wells, my old art teacher, was an eccentric old buffer. While his passion for art was never in question, his teaching methods were dubious to say the least. Lines, shapes, perspective and colour all passed me by. But one thing he said has remained with me to this day: burnt sienna.It was the way he said it; imagine a cross between Frank Muir and Brian Sewell and you won't be far off. If I can shoehorn the word into everyday parlance, I'm a happy man. Whether it be choosing a floor covering or a lacquer to paint the garden fence, dropping it in to conversation always makes me smile. As it did today when Matt Priest and Nigel Clark of Dodgy were describing the colour of their new album, Stand Upright In A Cool Place on The Word podcast. No, not the colour of the sleeve, the colour of the songs and the vibe. Brown and gold they said. Burnt Sienna I said out loud - to an empty room. And I grinned like an idiot.

Combining traditional folk songs with their trademark jangly, dreamy backdrop, the boys who stayed out for the Summer are now the men coming home for the Autumn. That's not my quote by the way. Anyway, have a listen to this and see if you agree with the livery of this cracking new tune.

Dodgy: What Became Of You

No catch

2012-02-15T13:57:00.000Z

The Number One Son recently celebrated his birthday; one year on from his 21 Gun Salute. And that's not the only cause for celebration. Together with his Fair Maiden, they're abandoning high rise living for an altogether more conventional (not to mention quieter) way of going on. They move at the end of the month to a new house: number 22.

Donnelly's

2012-02-13T21:03:00.001Z

They say that Giles Coren has been trying for weeks to get a table at Donnelly's. If the buzz has reached Kentish Town, then Londoner Steve Donnelly is obviously doing something right. Situated in the fashionable end of First Avenue, Donnelly and his head chef Rachel Macaleese are turning heads with their delightfully eclectic dishes whilst, very politely, sticking two fingers up at the food police. They don't give a flying f*ndue about gossip columns, Michelin stars and restaurant critics who get nosebleeds if they venture further than the North Circular.

When the GLW and I went along last week we were greeted by Steve in his typical gravelly tones; though he fled the capital ten years ago, his north London vowels are still much in evidence: 'Evening. Parky out there?' Aperitifs are served in the Railway Lounge where a log burner brings your body temperature back into double figures, in stark contrast to the driving snow that's piling up outside.

The gin is export and it's hitting the spot. We are told that the Culture Clash menu is on tonight; for those of you not in the know, The CC menu, is akin to The Holy Grail; many have heard about it, few have tasted it. I'm getting excited.

We go through to the dining area. Taking the table nearest the window, I pick my runners and riders. I decide to start with the Naum Bunchjop and for mains I stick a pin in the Honey Roast Wild Boar Sausages with Boston Baked Beans. When the Cambodian starter arrives I can't believe it; to call it a noodle soup is like saying that Picasso could paint a bit. Steve later tells me that Paul Simenon's mother gave him the recipe - Steve shared a Ladbroke Grove squat with The Clash's bass player in the mid 70s. By the time my bangers come my retinas have just about adjusted to the dimly lit surroundings - candle power is still the light of choice in this classy postcode; the wax he collects from them fuel the log burner and make rather fetching table decorations. Strong liquor is never more than 30 seconds from your glass and, before we leave, Steve lets us sit in on his Whisky Focus Group - a meeting of like minded coves who savour Single Malts from the Highlands and Islands; several of which taste like hospital corridors. Cost? He turned us out into the snow sometime after midnight before we had chance to square up. If he likes you, then you'll know to leave your wallet at home.

Sausages: 10
Lighting: 4
Single Malts: 9

Rating: 7.67

Reservations: Steve doesn't give out his 'phone number and very rarely checks his email - try and catch him in The Sun Inn. Tell him I sent you.

On the way out, as as he was filling my pockets with crabsticks, Steve told me he'd helped Joe Strummer write Train In Vain; he'd had a few by this point.

Live in the bus lane

2012-02-11T15:44:00.000Z

In April 1967, a good 18 months before The Who recorded it, The Pudding, a bunch of unknowns, released Magic Bus as a single on Decca. It sank without trace. The Who would go on to make it a live staple - Live At Leeds would have been all the poorer without it, where it propped up Side 2.

Who are The Eggmen?

2012-02-03T12:05:00.000Z

Dispelling the myth that the walrus was Paul

In my experience there's nothing that can't be represented with the aid of a simple Venn Diagram. From showing the sort of people who use social networking websites to precisely what Meat Loaf would do for love, it can all be demonstrated by drawing a few coloured circles on a piece of paper. And for that we must thank Mr. Venn

John Venn (1834-1923) was born in Kingston-upon-Hull. A philosopher and logician, he studied at Cambridge where he was elected to The Royal Society. He introduced the Venn Diagram in 1881 with the publication of one of his many books, Symbolic Logic. Venn used them to explain set theory, probability, logic and statistics; I prefer to use them in pubs when I'm banging on about beer, music and football. But that's just me.

The University of Hull has a building named after him, where you can see this rather fetching stained glass window.

John Otway: I Am The Walrus

Plaque of all trades

2012-01-26T00:37:00.000Z

Alan Hull: Guitars, Piano, Harmonium, Vocals, Guinness*

Alan Hull, songwriter, musician, poet, professional Geordie, Labour Party activist and humanist died in November 1995. He was just 50 years of age.

Hull had been the driving force behind influential Tyneside folk rockers Lindisfarne. He wrote many classic songs for the band, including We Can Swing Together, Lady Eleanor and Fog On The Tyne as well as persuing a successful solo career.

There's now a head of steam building for the top brass in the North East to commemorate his life with a blue plaque. You'd think it was the least they could do - to honour one of their own. If you can take five minutes out of your day and lend your support, that would be admirable.

Thank you.

Alan Hull: Breakfast

* From his 1973 album, Pipedream

The Rice Pudding Man

2012-01-22T10:07:00.001Z

Stainless steel offer you say?

Growing up in a small town it was compulsory to make your own entertainment; walking over zebra crossings pretending to be blind, teaching the parrot in the hardware shop to swear and seeing how far you could get on the bus without paying was all in a day's work before we went home to lust over Jenny Hanley on Magpie.

Then one day while we were throwing power balls at parked cars, The Prof said: 'Why don't we follow someone?' The word stalking hadn't yet entered the lexicon so we thought 'Why not?' We postponed our day on the railway line (flattening pennies could wait) and looked forward to a spot of covert surveillance. 'Who shall we trail?' asked Baz a little too keenly, I thought. The Prof deliberated whilst chewing the end of his Curly Wurly. 'That nutter who's always being chucked out of Woolies' he said. Before I could ask which one, nutters and Woolies would have made a rather large Venn Diagram, The Prof announced: 'Today we shall be following The Rice Pudding Man.'

The Rice Pudding Man. Just the mention of his name now is enough to bring me out in goosebumps. And before you ask, his moniker derived from the fact that he was always, and I mean always, carrying a see through plastic bag which only ever contained one item - a tin of Ambrosia's finest.

It was late morning and we were hiding behind a phone box on the Boots side of the high street. The other side, where F W Woolworth resided, was always known as, you've guessed it, the Woolies side, Just after midday we heard a commotion on the Woolies side: two burly store detectives were escorting a rather large and disheveled character off the premises. The RPM. The Prof looked at his watch and said to me and Baz 'The eagle has landed. Synchronise watches, it's 12.07pm. Commence Operation Search and Destroy.' Clearly he'd been watching too much Mission Impossible. And or Kojak. I looked at my battered Timex with its face all smashed in and Baz at the ink drawing of a watch he'd scribed on his arm; clearly this operation would not be sponsored by Accurist.

We walked miles that afternoon. Bloody miles. And what did we see, what did we discover? We saw a man who had an unhealthy interest in public litter bins, animal droppings and shouting at passing cars; par for the course if you're a vagrant/tramp.

So with the time fast approaching half past four we decided that we'd seen all we needed to see (bugger all) and that our foray into the world of private investigating would not be something we'd bother repeating. But then, just as we were about to traipse home, the RPM stopped dead in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. 'Oh God', I thought, we've been rumbled; well we had been following the bloke for the thick end of four hours. But he never clocked us. He looked all around - we were on the edge of the local arboretum - and then looked up at the sky.

What he did next was to reach into his inside pocket and pull out something sharp and shiny.

It was a Winfield gardening trowel. He then got down onto his haunches and started digging a hole. What was he doing? Burying something or retrieving something? We couldn't take our eyes off the scene unfolding before us. After twenty minutes the hole was about a foot square and it looked nearly eighteen inches deep. The RPM then tipped out the solitary tin of rice pudding from the carrier bag and proceeded to drop it into the hole.

Five minutes later he'd back-filled the hole, marked it with an old lolly stick and then, after looking up at the sky once more, ran away. At speed.

To be continued...

Ahead of his time

2012-01-18T15:00:00.000Z

Lieutenant Green: minus 29 today

Lt. Green. Born January 18th., 2041, Port of Spain, Trinidad. Unmarried - real name Seymour Griffiths. British Subject.

The severely underrated Barry Gray and his deft scores complimented Gerry Anderson's world of Supermarionation perfectly. This piece is no exception; I'd be very surprised if funkmeisters such as Craig Charles, those fine people at Blow Up or Mondo haven't played this to death at sometime or other.

Barry Gray: White As Snow

Going for a slash

2012-01-17T12:30:00.000Z

I love Radio 4. Always have done. Yes, I know it still carries the elitist tag and accusations of the station aiming at a certain demographic abound. However, I would argue that the programme makers and station managers have, pretty much, got the balance about right. But my point, if you can call it a point, has nothing to do with programme content or indeed anything to do with the BBC's mission statement. I'm here to take issue with something called the forward stroke.

As in: 'The details are on our website - www.bbc.co.uk forward stroke youandyours

In a world where the internet and emails have dislodged the self stamped addressed envelope and is used by everyone from the age of 4-104, this stubbornness against using the recognised slash is really beginning to grate. It's like referring to the capital as Londinium or still calling Zimbabwe, Rhodesia.

I feel a strongly worded letter coming on.

5.15

2012-01-05T09:00:00.000Z

I was lucky enough to see The 'Oo twice. The first time with Keith Moon (Charlton '76) and then again at Wembley in '79 with Kenney Jones. The Number One Son then picked up the baton in 2007 at his first (and last - he came back with trench-foot) Glastonbury when Ringo Jnr. was thumping the pagan skins.

Google will probably prove me wrong, but I'm (almost) certain they played this at all 3 gigs.

Have you got 4 together?

2012-01-04T02:30:00.000Z

If George Harrison was feeling mischievous when asked for his autograph he'd often sign not just his own moniker, but those of John, Paul and Ringo too.

I wonder if he did mine?

The number of the counting shall be 3

2012-01-03T09:00:00.000Z

When the late Stephane Grappelli recently turned up in EMI's vaults lurking on Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here, it was likened to finding The Holy Grail. Grappelli had been working in Abbey Road Studios at the same time as the Floyd and was asked to come in and play with the band. Upon the album's release they said he'd been lost in the mix; more likely Gilmour and Waters had a fight about whose idea it had been and then dropped the veteran jazzer's deft solo altogether. Shame it's taken over 35 years to resurface.

Pink Floyd (featuring Stephane Grappelli): Wish You Were Here

Grappelli comes in at 3:10

1972

2012-01-02T15:30:00.000Z

Brew?

In 1972 The Sweet came of age. Bubblegum was visible only through the rear view mirror and Glam was fast approaching. They fulfilled over 120 dates that year, not only in this country but many in mainland Europe; Germany, Holland and Sweden would prove to be very lucrative markets for Messrs. Connolly, Priest, Scott and Tucker.

So with a set list that still included Poppa Joe, Co-Co and Little Willy, the RCA recording stars were still trying to find a running order that combined the lightweight pop they were known for and the heavier stuff you'd find if you flipped any of their singles over. (Wig Wam Bam wouldn't be released 'til September). The perfect vehicle to bridge the two distinct elements of their set was a Who medley - My Generation would eventually turn up on Desolation Boulevard - giving Andy Scott the chance to emulate his guitar hero, Pete Townshend. In fact, were it not for Brian Connolly's antics a couple of years later, The Sweet would have supported The Who at Charlton in '74. But that's another story.

The Sweet: I Can't Explain (Live, 1972)

1.1

2012-01-01T23:30:00.000Z

It started at midnight; the first of the first. 2012 was a blank canvas. Only it's not anymore. It's just a snapshot in time. Already people have died, many more have been born and world events are skipping along at quite a pace. One may be the loneliest number. But not for long.

Aimee Mann: One

You can call me Bill

2011-12-27T20:05:00.002Z

My Uncle Bill sadly died over Christmas. Not strictly an uncle, what I really mean is that he was our next door neighbour when I lived in Hull in the 1960s. My parents still kept in touch when we moved away and exchanged Christmas cards with him up to and including this year. And even though we weren't related and his name wasn't Bill - it said Brian Ian Lambert on his passport - he was still a lovely man. A gentleman. And a well respected musician on the Hull music scene in the 60s and 70s.

But Brian wasn't called Bill because of his initials. Born in 1934 he was known by family and friends alike as Bri - until the week before his thirtieth birthday: because on 21 September 1964 he became part of Rock and Roll folklore.

The Rolling Stones had never been to Hull before. Their train pulled into Paragon Station just before midday on that late summer's morning; they were due to play two gigs at The ABC Cinema that day - an afternoon matinee and an evening performance. Whilst the road crew were setting up their equipment, Mick and the lads went to grab a bite to eat. With the afternoon gig scheduled for 2.30 they had plenty of time to get back for the show. But when lunch turned into an impromptu pub crawl it soon became clear that Bill Wyman was drinking two pints to everyone else's one.

They were half an hour late for the first show. Wyman, never one to move around much on stage at the best of times, planted himself next to his amp and looked like he'd just been dug up; between numbers he was throwing up into a hastily found bucket behind the stage curtain. He managed to complete the set but within five minutes of the curtain going down, the paralytic bass player was in his hotel bed. It was obvious he wouldn't be in any state to play the evening performance so the band's manager Andrew Loog Oldham was on the phone to find a stand-in. By 7.00 (an hour before show time) Oldham drew a blank. With everyone he knew back in London he'd have to look for a local musician. Ordering a drink in the hotel bar he asked the barman if he knew of anyone. 'I play a bit' said Bri.

Ten minutes later he was whisked to the venue to soundcheck with the rest of the band and learn a dozen or so songs he'd only ever heard briefly on Radio Luxembourg. Apparently Keith told him to 'do everything I do and you won't go far wrong.' It went well. Mick introduced him as 'our new Bill' and Brian said 'you're better than the old Bill.' So from that night on he was known as Bill. When I asked him many years later if he still dined out on the story, he replied 'What do you think?'

Time shifting

2011-12-19T23:24:00.005Z

Doing anything for Christmas? I'm time shifting. Wading through the Radio Times double ish is never easy at the best of times, but, once I've established what's on BBC Radio 4, 4X, 3, 6, 2, Ulster (Gerry Anderson) and Wales (Rhod Gilbert), I'll be able to sort out my holiday podcast listening. I shan't be bothering with the telly - too many box sets to wade through.

If I don't see you before, have a good one.

Sleigh bells ring

2011-12-13T12:48:00.000Z

Thankfully, The Sweet never released a Christmas single. I'm sure that back in the day the band's mentors, Messrs. Chinn & Chapman, would have moved Heaven and Earth so their charges could have followed the well trodden Slade, Wizzard and Mud path. However, in 1974 the intro to the group's own composition Own Up, Take A Look At Yourself (the B side of Chinnichap stomper Teenage Rampage) opens with some very evocative sleigh bells.

Spun Off

2011-12-07T23:59:00.002Z

Parker and Light Fingered Fred discuss going it alone

TV spin-offs generally fall into two camps. They're either runaway successes that leave the mothership without a backward glance. Or they fall flat on their arse with ensuing death threats to the writers and actors, even The Radio Times. We all know the good guys - Frasier (from Cheers), Knowing Me, Knowing You with Alan Partridge (The Day Today) Parsley (The Herbs) to name but three. And the baddies - Going Straight (Porridge - what were Clement and Le Frenais thinking?), Charles Endell Esq. (Budgie - probably the only time Keith Waterhouse took his eye off the ball), The Pebbles And Bam Bam Show (The Flinstones), Joey (Friends) and so the list goes on.

But I think the filing cabinet should have two more drawers; the writers (sometimes) give us a brief glimpse of what could have been: Matt Groening knew that Chief Wiggum could have gone the distance - we all remember The Simpsons Spin-Off Showcase and the all too brief Wiggum PI. And then there's the bottom drawer. Spin-offs that were only ever made in our heads. My candidates for this treatment would include the identically dressed Howard and Hilda from Ever Decreasing Circles who would often leave dinner parties early to listen to The Shipping Forecast. I'd also pluck the two hapless Detectives from The Beiderbecke Trilogy who, with the help of Alan Plater, were given some fabulous lines. But, if push came to shove, my first choice would be Light Fingered Fred - Parker's jailbird buddy from Thunderbirds. Gerry Anderson gave the blundering con enough pathos to guarantee ratings week in week out, if he'd have so wished. In fact I'd have put the pair on at The National in Waiting For Godot. Well they gave it to Rick and Vivian, didn't they? Sorry, Mayall and Edmondson; who were, in turn, spin offs themselves.

The third dimension

2011-12-02T16:15:00.001Z

For my sins, I still take a daily paper; I don't know why, the harbingers of doom are everywhere - Europe's falling apart, David Cameron's telling everyone he can fix it and Jeremy Clarkson is setting up his own branch of Dignitas. And the trade unions are cutting up rough - again. How I long for a world where our Prime Minister smoked a pipe, Desmond Carrington was a cutting edge DJ and we all wore hats to football. A world where Marilyn Monroe and her legendary hourglass figure could stop traffic with nothing more than a smile.

Today's edition of The Times reports that a set of 3-D images of Monroe have been made public for the first time. They're going to be auctioned in Los Angeles later in the month and are expected to fetch at least £50,000. I can only imagine (and I have a very vivid imagine) how astonishing the above photograph must look in 3-D. Perhaps if the successful bidder is reading this he may grant me a private viewing. Nurse! The screens!

Powers to the people

2011-12-01T18:33:00.001Z

Last week saw me bombing down to south London for the only UK gig by Kid Congo and The Pink Monkey Birds as part of their latest European tour. Playing underneath the arches at The Elephant and Castle, a more low key gig you'd struggle to find.

With an impressive CV including tenures with The Gun Club, The Cramps and The Bad Seeds, Kid Congo Powers is the go to guy if you like your guitar playing to tick psychobilly, punky blues, even jangly boxes. But Powers isn't a box ticker. His sweeping cinematic style, particularly on the band's many soaring instrumentals are a cross between Ennio Morricone and Link Wray. Thus his widescreen sound is layered, hypnotic and, above all, toe tapping.

He even mans his own 'merch stand.' How refreshing to meet a rockstar whose ego doesn't enter the room a full ten minutes before them.

Kid (right) and Kiki: Clunk Click!

Walking downstairs in unfeasibly high heels

2011-11-28T21:35:00.001Z

An occasional series

# 1 Noddy Holder

And Dave Hill too

1970-1977

2011-11-04T17:00:00.005Z

I never tire of looking at photographs of The Beatles, especially when I stumble across ones I've never seen (or can't remember seeing) before. Earlier today I found this little gem.

To the untrained eye you'd say it was lifted from the 1967-1970 Blue Album. But look again. It's obviously taken at Manchester Square in Marylebone (EMI's London offices), however, it's been taken from a diiferent angle and on a different day. I know it's a boy thing; if I was to show the picture to my GLW and say 'can't you see George is wearing a different jacket?' I'd get 'the look' and probably an audible sigh which, over the years, I've translated into English: it means 'grow up.'
Which is probably why I won't be showing her this photograph either.

Before they demolished EMI (the building*, not the label) another four piece combo had their mugshots taken from the bottom of the stairwell.

* I'm assured that the rail Macca is leaning on now resides in his office.

The lexicon of football

2011-10-25T13:50:00.001+01:00

I can't see John Terry turning up in Countdown's Dictionary Corner anytime soon.

This, from the back page of today's Times:

Terry's explanation is that he responded in an aggressive fashion to an accusation phrased in the form of a question from Ferdinand, "Did you just call me a f***ing black c***?" The England captain has told Chelsea officials that he reacted by shouting, "Oi! I never said f***ing black c*** you f***ing knobhead."

Fly Navy

2011-10-14T07:55:00.000+01:00

Fly/Navy: one of the many flight stickers adorning Fame's Hammond

Georgie Fame without his beloved Hammond organ? It's a contender for Rhod Gilbert's Celebrity Out Of Context Bingo, surely: Ant without Dec, A Chuckle Brother on his own, Jeremy Clarkson on a bus etc.

But when penning a jingle for a popular brand of petrol, Fame didn't have time in the studio to show his guitarist the chords. So he played it himself. And the song, which doesn't even mention petrol, went to Number One.

Lennon is dead, long live Lennon

2011-10-09T17:10:00.003+01:00

Neil Harrison doesn't believe in anti-ageing cream

After 31 years of aping John Lennon, head honcho of The Bootleg Beatles, Neil Harrison, is finally hanging up his Rickenbacker. During a gig in St. Albans earlier this year Bootleg John announced that he was leaving the group 'to bring the average age down a bit.' Harrison's mimicry has mesmerised audiences the world over - the refrain 'it's like he's in the room' has been echoing around Bootlegs' shows for so long that retirement probably won't come easy (the real Lennon would have been 71 today, and obviously for him retirement was never an option). So big shoes to fill then. Step forward Adam Hastings. Not surprisingly he's been headhunted from another Beatles tribute band.

Adam Hastings - they found him in Hamburg, you know

So now, instead of plying his trade in the lower leagues, the Blue Square if you will, he's now, quite literally, playing in Europe. How will audiences react? Will they they believe in the new Lennon just as they did the old? For what it's worth, I think there's another 30 years in the tank yet; a bit like The Harlem Globetrotters, or The Drifters, it's the name over the door the punters come to see.

I always get rebuffed

2011-10-05T15:30:00.001+01:00

At our last songwriters circle on Monday we got to talking about Bob Dylan's Sara. It was suggested that it was the only lyric to contain the word kelp. Would that it were. Looking at this list it would appear we are living in a kelp abundant world.

Likewise Jona Lewie's 'Kitchen at Parties.' I really did think that it was the only song to mention the word rebuffed. Wrong!

Jona Lewie: You'll always find me in the kitchen at parties

The number you have dialed has not been recognised

2011-10-04T23:59:00.000+01:00

We all remember different things from our childhood and adolescence. Some of the most memorable moments for me came from sitting in my bedroom in front of my very first portable TV (Black & White, of course). I say in front; when adjusting the aerial (nothing more than a glorified coat hanger) to obtain a better picture I was stood invariably to the side (and sometimes behind the damn thing) trying, in vain, to get rid of the permanent snow which blighted most programmes. Most programmes after 11 o'clock at night, that is. Which is when I saw 'La Cabina' (The Telephone Box). A foreign film with no dialogue, it left me with a permanent fear of using public telephones. Dating back to the early 70s I would probably have seen it around '74/'75. And then only the once. VHS/Betamax was just a pipe-dream so it was burned into my retinas where it's remained for 35+ years. Until today. I've finally found it; I can now uninstall it from my brain's hard drive.

Anyway, put the kettle on and pull up a chair - it's worth it.

Mk II

2011-10-01T23:11:00.004+01:00

I've had a cracking few days; in no particular order: newly found relatives coming miles out of their way to have lunch with us. Calling an old school friend long distance in California. I've acquired a new guitar. The weather, for once, has been something to write home about. And then my best friend and his GLW stopped with us a couple of days - and he played me this:

For Steve. And Riggsby

Small faces

2011-09-24T23:01:00.000+01:00

They're not pets, Susan

It's the stuff of B Movies: tiny people living unnoticed in big cities. London based street artist, known simply as Slinkachu, photographs - and then abandons - figurines (less than an inch high) in the capital; we are then left with thought provoking, and sometimes quite scary, scenarios where clusters of the dispossessed are left to their own devices.

You may just want to keep 'em peeled next time you're fetching a pint of milk or walking the dog. And, whatever you do, don't try to apprehend them.

Shangri La

2011-09-15T12:10:00.000+01:00

It's that time of year: the Medds are on tour. We're heading South by South West for a few days to catch the last of the rays, prop up a few bars and generally slip anchor. The location? That would be telling. Though if you Googled Shangri La you'd be getting warm.

Clock the video below for a very young looking Neil Innes; twenty years later he would put his Ron Nasty wig on, dust down this song and give it a Rutles makeover. And how's this for serendipity - when we get back, as soon as we've have unpacked the suitcases, it'll be straight out again for a night of Short Stories And Tall Songs with the man himself.

See you on the other side.

We lit a fire?

2011-09-10T20:49:00.000+01:00

If Beatles cover versions were motorways they would be strewn with pileups and fatalities. And hard shoulders nose to tail with breakdowns awaiting recovery. Cue Cilla Black: I don't think I've ever heard a cover version where the whole meaning of the song has been altered, nay butchered, by changing just a handful of words.

Not even the best drummer in The Monkees

2011-09-09T08:55:00.000+01:00

Pete, Mickey, Davy and...Ringo

Swann songs

2011-09-06T11:45:00.000+01:00

Since moving up here I've made a lot of good friends - many of them musicians; I'm still waiting, in vain, for some of their alchemy to rub off on me; when it comes to comes to describing my musical abilities I subscribe to the Rob Brydon school of music - 'I'm not a guitarist, I'm a man who owns a guitar.'

One such friend is David Swann: one of Ryedale's most engaging troubadours and all round good egg, he held a CD launch party for his latest bunch of songs on Saturday night. Chasing The Light, is his fifth album and, probably, his finest collection yet. Playing the album from start to finish (but not necessarily in the correct running order - much to the chagrin of David Illingworth his arranger & second guitarist) in the Harbour Suite of The Bridlington Spa, was the perfect backdrop to his sublime artistry. David's music is nothing short of inspiring and touches many of life's perennial bases - life, love and death. And trunk roads! - David has written his own homegrown response to America's famous Route 66. Get your kicks on the A64.

David Swann: A64

Here's another gem from from the new album: David performed it earlier in the year (with Boo Hewerdine), again at The Spa - this video also gives you an idea of the room's breathtaking vista.

Ticket to ride

2011-08-31T23:57:00.001+01:00

James Riggsby, Jim to his friends, drove Routemaster buses in London all his working life. He left school in 1929, aged sixteen, and after just three months of training, five weeks before his 17th birthday, became a conductor. Three months later London Transport put him in charge of his very own bus. He drove the 139 from Cricklewood to Oxford Circus, a route he made his own until he retired in 1978. Jim lived most of his life in Kilburn and, even on his days off, he could be seen outside his flat waiting for the 139 to Lord's for a day at the cricket. A busman's holiday, I guess.

He would joke with the staff at the nursing home where he lived for the last eight and a half years that, if he did make it to 100, he would expect Her Majesty The Queen to catch the bus from Buckingham Palace to Kilburn to deliver his card by hand. Unfortunately, Jim passed away earlier this year. He was 98.

Speaking to his son, Les, it would appear that his father kept a diary at work. He would fill it in each evening after his shift (or early morning, if he'd been driving the night bus) whilst having a cup of tea in the staff canteen. Apparently the book is jam packed full of anecdotes and reads like a real life version of On The Buses.

Jim even had a few celebrities on his bus including Max Bygraves, Michael Caine ('he was carrying a bunch of flowers and an attache case with a pair of socks poking out the top') and Princess Margaret ('she was hiding under a headscarf and was wearing dark glassss, but you can't hide royalty').

But it's the entry for 8 August 1969 which makes the most interesting reading: 'Driving down Abbey Road this morning and see a geezer in the middle of the road, in front of the zebra, standing on a pair of step ladders with a camera. Four long haired layabouts then cross over the road and then come back again. And then back again. Blooming traffic was queued right back. What was that all about then?'

Stop the world, I want to get off

2011-08-25T14:59:00.002+01:00

No caption required

It's been said many times, I know, but buying new albums these days is a very sterile affair. We just don't have the same emotional attachment to CDs as we did with shellac* and vinyl; the sanitised sound with all the goodness taken out, liner notes which can only be read with the aid of the Hubble telescope and, please, don't get me started on digital downloads - Artwork? What artwork? I'm just grateful that the great jazzers never lived to witness the iTunes phenomenon; coming home on the bus with a hallowed copy of Playboys under your arm is an experience that can't be replicated by hitting the 'Are you sure you want to buy and download Black Eyed Peas?' button on a laptop - where it will be dumped in your library and, almost certainly, languish unlistened to for the rest of time. Nurse! The screens!

OK, shellac was before my time, but it scans, alright?

Idling

2011-08-19T10:34:00.004+01:00

The biggest misconception people have about me is that I'm stupid.

Billy Idol recently tweeted that he's writing his memoirs. As coffee table books go it bears all the potential hallmarks of an interesting read; depending on how selective his memory is it should be a tad deeper than a copy of, let's say, Hello! magazine. I say should: he'll no doubt want to concentrate on the superstar years but I'm more interested in The Bromley Contingent, Chelsea, Generation X, playing darts with John Walters and whether or not he tuned his own guitar. His publisher, on the other hand, will probably insist that the early days are glossed over in the first chapter with the emphasis on White Wedding, motorbike crashes and his Hollywood Hills nubiles.

Either way, William Albert Broad and his chums in Generation X (Tony James, Derwood Andrews and Mark Laff) provided the back drop to one of the most memorable nights in the life of your humble narrator: on 2 December 1978 they played West Runton Pavilion on my best friend's 18th birthday. We spent the whole gig down the front dodging the gob. And flying beer cans. They were utterly brilliant. Unfortunately, no footage of the gig exists. Unlike the second time I saw Idol in the flesh nearly 30 years later at Nottingham's Rock City. I was covering the gig for the local paper and although I didn't quite do a hatchet job on him, I did receive hate mail from some of his adoring fans. He was quite clearly past his sell by date and, check my video (below) at 31 seconds, his microphone throwing* capabilities were not commensurate with those of a card carrying rock star. In fact, they were pretty sh*t.

I'll be interested to see if either of the above shows gets a mention. I shan't hold my breath.

* Roger, show Billy how it's done. Ah, maybe not.

Sticky fingers

2011-08-12T09:10:00.002+01:00

Spent the day with Number One Son in Manchester yesterday. Despite what you may have heard, the city centre wasn't overrun with Scallies burnin', lootin' and robbin'. They were probably all in front of the judge being given their seven week suspended sentences (that'll have them quaking in their recently acquired footwear).

But I did spot this secondhand bookshop selling used 'girly mags' from 40p. That's used girly mags.

Now that is wrong on soooo many levels.

For one afternoon only

2011-08-03T12:55:00.007+01:00

It's not often you can drop into conversation the fact that you're playing Earls Court. But that's precisely what I'm doing: tomorrow afternoon at 1.30, at the 40th Great British Beer Festival, I will be speaking with Sue Nowak at a tutored tasting, A Slice Of Real Ale, where I will be gabbing on about Medd's Bread. And, not unlike The Who, Pink Floyd and The Rolling Stones before me, it's sold out! I told you my bread would be world famous, didn't I?

I'll drink to that.

Where have all the good times gone?

2011-07-30T17:44:00.000+01:00

Dave & Megs

BBC 4 are showing a delightful documentary next week to mark the the 40th Anniversary of the 1971 Glastonbury Fayre. The trailer I saw was where they'd managed to find the first couple who came through the gates. Dave and Megs had only just met earlier that day at Blue Boar Services on the M1 and had hitched a lift in the back of a long wheel based Ford transit van to Pilton in Somerset. They'd both left behind partners who had no interest in music (or indeed free love) so they, independently, set out from their Midlands homes to the motorway and stuck their thumbs out.

Soon after gaining admission it wasn't long until Dave and festival organiser Michael Eavis struck up a lasting friendship (they still exchange Christmas cards). Dave immediately became known as 'The Milkman' when Eavis' plans to deliver fresh milk to everyone's tent first thing in the morning meant he'd need an extra pair of hands.

Megs, meanwhile, was busy decorating the hippy contingent with body paint. And it was while she was painting Dave's naked torso in the shadow of the Pyramid Stage on the Saturday afternoon that he proposed to her. Within the hour a local vicar had been summoned and David Bowie cut short his set to be the best man.

Fast forward forty years and Dave & Megs have just celebrated their Ruby wedding anniversary. Amongst the guests who attended their lavish party at Henley-on-Thames Rowing Club was, yes, you've guessed it, David Bowie.

Pure pop for white haired people

2011-07-27T23:59:00.002+01:00

It's the little things in life; I've just received an email telling me that if I pre-order Nick Lowe's new album, The Old Magic (out 13 September on yepROC), I'll receive a free Nick Lowe deck of cards. Yay, yay and thrice yay!

Here at Medd Towers, we have a soft spot for the one they call Basher. We've been lucky to see him a number of times: his capital gigs - at The Jazz Cafe, Queen Elizabeth Hall and Her Majesty's Theatre - are shows that stay fresh in the mind some 10+ years later.

I once interviewed him for a feature I was writing for Record Collector magazine. The interview was set up by another legend, Jake Riviera, and when we spoke on the telephone we ended up chatting for nearly an hour. From pub rock and punk to alt country and beyond, Mr Lowe has indeed got the tee shirt.

Tony Bennett aside, you'll be hard pushed to find another artist who just keeps on getting better despite the advancement of years. Is there anyone else still cutting a rug, and on an upward trajectory, in their dotage? Answers on a postcard to the usual address.

Game of cards, anyone?

Nick Lowe: Faithless Lover

Besides

2011-07-19T15:50:00.013+01:00

Oh I do like to be beside the B-side

Over on S6 Radio tonight, Piley and Mondo will be bringing you another Sesame slice of peerless platters brought to you by the letter B. From what I can gather, Baby You're A Rich Man (originally) by The Beatles is getting an airing.

The original didn't get much of a look in back in the day; that's because it was a B-side. The A-side being All You Need Is Love (you may have heard of it).

So, let's hear it for B-sides. The tunes that don't get on the radio. The songs that bands often think aren't strong enough to stand on their own two feet and, by inference, don't make the cut when the album comes out; though Oasis did buck the trend in the mid 90s. How else could Queen's Roger 'I'm just the drummer' Taylor have amassed such a personal fortune if he hadn't persuaded the suits at EMI to put his, rather lame, I'm In Love With My Car on the B-side of multi-million selling BoRhap?

However, one of my favourite bands took B-sides very seriously. The Sweet's only shop window to show the world that they were serious musos and not just a bubblegum boy band (there's three more Bs!), was the B-side - it's where they put all their 'heavy stuff.' The darker side, if you will, to the manufactured Chinnichap choons (Need A Lot Of Lovin', Burning, Someone Else Will to name but three). So here's one of my all time favourites. And besides, any excuse to shoehorn The Sweet into my blog can only be a good thing. Can't it?

Here we go then, Burn (1) On The Flame by The Sweet fronted by Brian (2) Connolly, the B-side (3) of The Six Teens.

Burn On The Flame

The cat in the hat

2011-07-18T17:38:00.001+01:00

Jingo

My good friend Sarah has recently acquired a new kitten and a bowler hat. So I suppose the above photo has a certain inevitability about it.

I like a bowler, don't you? From Mr Benn and The Homepride Men to A Clockwork Orange and John Cleese's Ministry of Silly Walks, the bowler has been the titfer of choice throughout the ages for the great and the good. Here's a quartet who need no introduction...

Slade? Now you're talking

2011-07-14T13:55:00.005+01:00

Slade (l-r) Don, Nod, Jim and a BacoFoil Nun

Andy Kershaw's been through the wringer of late. I'm looking forward to reading his cathartic No Off Button. Never one to pull his punches (even Peely gets a kicking, apparently), I love his take on music:

The Beatles? Unexciting. Elvis Presley? Manifestly plastic. David Bowie? Self-important. Slade? Now you're talking...

Mama Weer All Crazee Now

Flash Bang Wallop!

2011-07-13T23:59:00.000+01:00

What a picture, what a photograph

I recently entered the BrewDog 2011 Photography Competition; I don't suppose I'll win, but, as you can see from the picture above, it combines two passions of mine. If you took either one away my life would not be complete. Don't get me wrong, I subscribe to the school of good food and good company - but, when push comes to shove, beer and music clock in at 1st and 2nd when it comes to the essentials of life; it's a good day's ride with fresh horses before you come to 3rd.

Tommy Steele: Flash Bang Wallop!

Friends for life

2011-07-11T14:00:00.000+01:00

Twin brothers Ronald and Ian Courtenay and their best friend David Finney were inseparable. They were born in the same street in Stradhoughton, went to the same school and, as kids, knocked around the same youth clubs and street corners. As young men their Friday night chat up lines delivered at The Roxy were legendary, so girl friends were never in short supply.

They even joined The Regiment on the same day. Separated from their family for the first time, the three Privates found themselves a long way from home and fighting for reasons they didn't fully understand. Long letters and postcards to loved ones revealed their innermost thoughts and in one particular letter from David to his mother he told of his feeling of isolation: 'At least Ron and Ian have each other but I feel lost out here. I want to come home.'

David never made it home. He was killed in action; a fierce battle saw him and eight of his mates gunned down in their prime. The eldest was 21, David was two weeks shy of his 20th birthday.

Ronald and Ian came back after three years changed men; as did many of their comrades. Until they left England for a life in Australia, they tended David's grave every week. And now, on the other side of the world, surrounded by children and grandchildren, on the anniversary of his death, they raise a glass to David and toast absent friends.

This is Pop

2011-06-29T16:10:00.001+01:00

I love old photographs. Who doesn't? But when my dad recently gave me a big brown envelope full of random 'family snaps' I was somewhat troubled by the fact that I hardly knew any of the protagonists. 'Go away and write on the back who, where and when,' I told him.

So that's what he did. Now it all begins to make sense. So, knowing how boring other people's photos can be, here's just a small selection. I've now got a photograph of my great great great grandmother.

My grandfather, aka Pop, doing a spot of parading.

A rather nice shot of him with my Nana on the promenade in Eastbourne in 1963; I love the way men used to wear shirts and ties when visiting the seaside.

And then, at the bottom of the envelope, came The Mystery Woman; my dad put a question mark on the back of her photograph. It would appear nobody in the family knows who she is. She's a flapper and no mistaking. Looks like I could be doing some detective work over the summer.

This post is dedicated to my Pop. John Richard Medd (whose name I share) was born December 29 1906. (my birthday is the 28th) and died December 1983. I think about him often.

Get Christie

2011-06-22T16:01:00.004+01:00

The tickets for last night's show* had been on the side of the fridge for what seemed like an eternity. The current Mrs M would often fill a lull in conversation with 'Tony Christie's on in (pick a number between 1 and 6) weeks' - Medd Towers had succumbed to Christie fever. And so we set off for the little Arts Centre where the Steel City belter, known to his mother as Anthony Fitzgerald, and his nine piece band (would there be room for them all on the compact stage?, we were thinking on the way) were playing the 41st night on a grueling 50 date tour; to mark the anniversary of his 50 years in the business.

Parking up and walking to the venue we saw what looked like several Wallace Arnold refugees heading in the same direction: 'Looks like we'll be the youngest ones in tonight' I said to the GLW. I wasn't wrong. In our seats with time to spare whoever was in charge of the sound-system had got it spot on: some laid back Hammond grooves even had the blue rinse brigade tapping their feet in anticipation.

And then the lights dimmed and the dulcet tones of Get Carter emerged; only it was Get Carter with a twist:

Tony Christie: Get Christie

The band (a nontet?) took up their positions before Christie entered stage left; sporting a stylish crumpled whistle and with his now trademark shock of silver hair, he clicked his fingers and the band launched into The Protectors Theme - better known as Avenues and Alleyways. Any doubts that the 68 year old wouldn't (or couldn't) hit all the notes were soon dispelled as his masterclass in how to deliver a back catalogue spanning five decades began.

All the hits were delivered (I Did What I Did For Maria, Las Vegas, Is This The Way To Amarillo - obviously) in a perfunctory manner, but, for me, it was his album tracks that stood out and really showed what the man's made of: when he tackles The Human League's Louise (from his Made In Sheffield album) and strips it down to just voice, piano and acoustic guitar you realise just what a set of lungs he still has. His inter-song banter is very self deprecating and must surely herald an autobiography sometime soon. Christie's wilderness years, spent practising his golf swing in Spain, are described with such pathos that when he gets rediscovered (three times: by Jarvis Cocker, Peter Kay and Richard Hawley) you breath a sigh of relief knowing that he's finally got the recognition he deserves.

Much of the evening was spent plugging, and playing selections from, his new record, Now's The Time, and rightly so: with a bit of luck and some Radio 2 airplay, Tony Christie may well have a contender for Album Of The Year on his hands.

From the merch stand!

* It was definitely a show, not a gig

Magic Carpets

2011-06-16T12:00:00.003+01:00

Yesterday on BBC Radio London the venerable Danny Baker was looking for custodians of various modes of transport. Thanks to The Candyman I am now in charge of Magic Carpets. Will this mean letters after my name? Will it get me a table in exclusive fancy dan restaurants? Probably not. Though a badge would be nice.

So what will I do during my tenure? Well, for starters, a recent song of mine, Magic Carpet, will be dedicated to the Danster. Along with three more Johnny Medd originals I've been road-testing in local folk clubs, it'll be on a little EP I'll be putting out later in the Summer; with the knob twiddling expertise of The Number One Son, we'll shortly be spending a couple of days in his new Manchester studios.

Creeping around in brothels

2011-06-14T08:25:00.003+01:00

You can do anything...

We went to see Barry Cryer last night; so if you've got a problem with this gag, please take it up with him.

A woman went into a pet shop and said she wanted to buy a parrot. The chap behind the counter showed her some and she chose one she liked - but he pointed out that it tended to use bad language as it had lived in a brothel previously. It was only £20 so she decided to take a risk and bought him.

When she got home she took the cover off the cage and the parrot said 'Nice place.'

Her two daughters came in and it said 'Lovely girls.'

Then her husband came home and the parrot said 'Hello Keith!'

Do you like my shoes btw? We were at a 60s themed evening at a local restaurant over the weekend (fish fingers, coq au vin, Black Forest gateaux - you get the picture) and these were my brothel creepers of choice. I wore them to my step daughter's wedding a few years back and they've been in the box ever since.

Here's some classic footage of Barry Cryer fronting Jokers Wild; ever wonder where they got the format for Mock The Week?

Here's Johnny

2011-06-08T17:01:00.003+01:00

This used to be me

When I was a young boy (not the silver ball playing variety, alas), I was invariably known as Johnny; at school, youth clubs, parties and in pubs it was the name I responded to. But for the last 25+ years I've just been John. Don't ask me when I lost my ny, my second syllable if you will; one day it was there, the next...it was gone. I'm sure David Essex, and any number of men of a certain age, have the same feelings about their once flowing locks. Or teeth.

And then twitter came along. @JohnMedd was taken (who are you btw and why do you not tweet?) and then old friends started resurfacing on Facebook. So now Johnny's back - muscling in on my virtual world - but I'm still John in the real (some might argue the only) world. And anyway, that's what it says on my birth certificate.

That picture in full

Radio Radio!

2011-06-03T13:41:00.001+01:00

Not since the heady days of 2005, when Phill Jupitus broadcast his breakfast show from my house, has there been so much radio activity at Medd Towers. Let me explain. While we were north of the border a couple of weeks ago, staying in a forty two room Scottish Castle, we met Edwyn Newman - jazz buff, raconteur and a presenter on Edinburgh based community radio station Leith FM. It was while playing snooker with Edwyn that I asked him if he'd play Corner Pocket on his next show. And, sure enough, he did.

Fast forward 48 hours and my good friend Mondo and his partner in crime, Piley, are at the controls for their first live broadcast on S6 Radio. The Medds were huddled round the wireless in true nuclear family style and, next thing I know, Mondo's name-checking me. Nice one Mondo! If he gets time maybe he can fit this into his tight schedule next Tuesday when Show #2 has a numbers theme.

Edwyn Newman's Jazz programme, Sunday evenings 6.00 - 8.00pm - Leith FM

Mondo & Piley's Podrophenia, Tuesday nights 9.00 - 10.00pm - S6 Radio

I made it to The Top

2011-06-02T13:12:00.002+01:00

A recent visit to the West End found me walking down Wardour Street past the site of The Marquee. To any young 'uns reading this, the legendary London was torn down in the early 90s. The only reminder that 90 Wardour Street W1 once played host to some of rock and roll's most famous, and infamous, luminaries is the blue plaque name-checking Keith Moon.

I have many happy memories of nights spent in the tiny Soho club. Anyone who's been (and if you were there, like me, you really must be a dinosaur) will remember the corridor from the main doors leading to the bar on the left. Once in the bar, through the glazed wall/window you could see when the support band were about to pack up and vacate the stage in readiness for the main turn. That's when everyone would pile in and form a scrum in front of the stage. A blind eye would be turned when it came to fire regulations, so despite the venue having an official capacity of 700, there would often be 1000+ sweaty bodies in there. And there certainly was in October 1983 when ZZ Top (even then, a stadium act in the States) came to town. As a warm up gig for their Eliminator tour, the Texan beardies descended on The Marquee - a venue so small that the band would have played in places with dressing rooms bigger than it (and what they would have made of the broom cupboard where they got changed is probably unprintable). Here's my ticket.

I've got a button badge somewhere in the loft with the strapline 'I made it to The Top.' I don't know what ' be in your seats by 7.45' meant...it was strictly standing only. Looking back, three things stand out when I think about that night: seeing Thomas the Vance in the bar, being close to tears when they played La Grange and chatting with Garry Bushell who was reviewing it for Sounds; my music paper of choice. Good times.

Pickin' on Tush!

Burning issues

2011-05-27T17:35:00.000+01:00

Hands up if you still do compilation CDs for your friends. Thought so. If you fancy taking it one stage further (go on, you know you want to) then why not join the good people over at Summer Burn 2011.

And don't forgot to tell your friends.

If you're (un)lucky enough to get a disc from me, this'll probably be Track 1.

World Party: Sunshine

33s and 45s

2011-05-16T20:52:00.003+01:00

It's been said that talking about music is like dancing about architecture. That being the case I'd best dig out my tap shoes: a week on Wednesday my local is having a vinyl show and tell evening. With a proper Dansette turntable promised, I've got just over a week to dig out some platters and put forward a case for my choices. On the surface you'd think selecting your favourite records would be like shooting fish in a barrel, but when you've got a collection with hundreds of singles (7" and 12") EPs, albums, double albums, triple albums (step forward Paul McCartney), just getting a shortlist together will probably mean several evenings of burning the midnight oil.

It promises to be a great night and not just because of the top choons which will no doubt be played at full tilt. I'm also looking forward to the stories that go with them. I know that most of my hits and misses will have a back story: how I discovered that artist, have I seen them live, where I bought the record, how much it cost, the label it came out on, the bag it came in (or is that just me!), whether or not it got taken to parties - each record has it's own unique DNA. It's early days to tell you what I'll be taking but I'd be very surprised if there wasn't some early 70s glam rock, some classic 60s 'B' sides (Beatles, Who, Stones, Kinks, Hollies) maybe some Northern Soul. Or it may just be Never Mind The Bollocks. Sides 1 and 2.

I'll report back with my final runners and riders next week.

In the meantime, feel free to let me know what you'd pick - and why.

Wreckless Eric: 33s & 45s

Not the retiring type

2011-05-14T11:59:00.000+01:00

It's hard to imagine that Ron Sexsmith was thinking of calling it a day before the release of Long Player Late Bloomer, his latest album. Whether or not Radio 2 ubiquity will prove to be his artistic lifejacket remains to be seen. All I know is that the current music landscape would be a poorer place without the cherubic Canadian.

Here's a little toe tapper he premiered on BBC 4's Songwriting Circle from Bush Hall in west London. Funnily enough he played the same song on Later a couple of weeks back; I saw him many moons ago when he shared the stage with Jools' playground chums Difford and Tilbrook where he all but upstaged the pair.

Don't reach for the Werther's Originals just yet Ron.

You can call me Jöhn

2011-05-07T21:53:00.000+01:00

It's the little things in life. Today, I discovered the umlaut key on my Mac keyboard. What joy! You may wonder how this will make me a more upright and rounded individual. And you wouldn't be in a party of one. But it now means that I can type the names of many bands (most, though not all, from the metal fraternity) with their correct handle. You know the ones: Motörhead, Blue Öyster Cult, Maxïmo Park. It also means that I can wind my good friend Löst Jimmy up by telling him I really enjoyed Goblin's difficult third album: Teäsmade.

Before I get my coat, I'll leave you with this tïmeless clässic:

The squeezed middle

2011-04-27T23:59:00.002+01:00

I don't watch News at 10 anymore: too much bad news before bedtime has the same side effects as a late night cheese sandwich - too many bad dreams starring Huw Edwards. But I still take a daily paper (for the crossword and Caitlin Moran, mainly) and I will always listen to the Today programme despite the irritating Thought For The Day and patronising weather bulletins.

So I keep up to speed with 'events of the day' and try and second guess what Cameron's Crazy Coalition will come up with next. But I, and many others it seems, struggle with the new lexicon that has suddenly sprung up. Big Society, AV, double dips, super injunctions. What does it all mean? And here's the latest meaningless flummery: the squeezed middle. Eh? You mean the poor saps who don't own their own home and haven't got a pot to piss in? Or the poor saps who do own their own home and still haven't got a pot to piss in?

Anyway, here's two choons that sum it all up; they may be separated by a quarter of a century but the message remains the same.

Best thing since sliced bread

2011-04-15T16:40:00.002+01:00

If this blog was a tabloid newspaper, the banner headline above would read something like this:"'BAKING BREAD KEPT ME SANE,' SAYS EX-TOWNIE." The truth is a little less prosaic; when I was getting my head round my (by now) much documented move, I read an article in a recent CAMRA magazine about the bond between beer and bread. When adding beer to the flour, yeast and water 'alchemy is unleashed.' So said writer and broadcaster Sue Nowak who's article 'Thorough Bread' ignited my passion.

To cut a long story short I'm now getting the ullage from my local pub and am baking dozens of loaves every week. My unique bread (each loaf is different, depending on the ale I use) is, for better or worse, the talk of the town. Well, alright, the talk of The Sun Inn! I recently spoke to Sue Nowak on the phone - we talked at length about about beer & bread and pubs, the upshot being that she's coming over to The Sun, next Tuesday evening, to see us all and sample the pub's excellent cask beers. And my (soon to be world famous) bread. Cheers!

Going solo

2011-04-11T22:45:00.002+01:00

Joe Solo

Regular readers will know that six months ago I left my city boy life behind, dropped down a couple of gears and pitched up in the country to a spot 100 miles north (and five degrees colder). After what I can only describe as a kangaroo start, I think I'm beginning to embrace rural life: I ramble (as in walking, I've always done the other sort), bake bread, prop up the bar of our local, I'm thinking of joining the local bellringers and I tut like a native when the flatlanders start arriving with their bloody caravans.

We still have culture, you just have to look for it in different places; concert halls and clubs have given way to village halls and backrooms in pubs. Much more civilized. Saturday night being a case in point.

It's only a hop, skip and a jump to the Memorial Hall where, playing to a near sell out crowd (it must have been nudging three figures), an all star bill gave of their time freely to play a charity gig in aid of MacMillan Cancer Support. David Quinn, Pick-a-String, David Swann, Four Quarters (well, One Quarter, to be precise, owing to illness), Sarah Dean and Anna Shannon performed with great aplomb and ensured they'll all be back by popular demand next time.

But the star turn, for me, was a veteran of the Hull music scene - Joe Solo. Once head honcho of Lithium Joe (John Peel used to play them in the mid '90s), he now plays, well, solo. These days he can be heard on Radio 2's folk programme where Mike Harding plays selections from his new album, If Peel Street Could Talk. His demeanor is a cross between Woody Guthrie and Joe Strummer, while his left wing credentials and anti-war material are pure Billy Bragg. But then Bragg never wrote anything as poignant as The Twelfth Of November: a song directed at war mongering politicians about burying the dead on the battlefield after peace has been declared - when he sang it, the room was deathly quiet. It's taken from his Potter's Field album which follows characters caught up in The First World War - he's also written an accompanying book, Stories From Potter's Field. He only played a brief twenty minute set but I could have listened to him all night.

This is from Peel Street.

A big thank you to Martin and Penny Robertson, without whom etc. etc.

The lights go down

2011-04-06T12:40:00.004+01:00

Hull's finest: Ken Wagstaff & Chris Chilton*

You don't have to be a fan of Hull City to read this post. You don't even have to be a fan of football. Here's the back-story: Boothferry Park was the home of Hull City from 1946-2002. They've never been a fashionable club. And until recently they've never been a particularly successful club; they plied their trade in the lower leagues for many years in front of a faithful following - many arriving at the ground by train. That's right, by train. The platform being at the back of the East Stand.

But then they moved. Not far, but they left Boothferry Park. To a shiny new stadium (as Boothferry Park itself must have been once upon a time) that looks like any other shiny new stadium; soulless and characterless. And what became of Boothferry Park? Look away now if you well up easily. This film was made in 2006.

The story as you've probably gathered doesn't have a happy ending. The final three floodlights came down last Saturday; now there's no visible evidence that football was ever played there. Again, those with a weak heart are advised not to click here unless they get a kick out watching three short clips depicting the decline (quite literally) of each remaining pylon.

I'm so glad my father doesn't have access to the internet. We were both born in Hull and it was my dad who took me to see my first game of football at Boothferry Park in 1969. It would break his heart.

* I politely refrained from calling them Hull's leading lights

Germany calling

2011-04-04T23:20:00.000+01:00

It appears that these days everything looks like Hitler: cats, houses, even babies. Remember when Bowie was caught on film at London's Victoria Station in '76 doing his now infamous Nazi salute? I suppose when you decamp to the Fatherland and record three back to back albums that are referred to as the Berlin trilogy, it must be tempting to try a sneaky Sieg Heil.

Then again, he did have previous.

Poetry please

2011-03-30T22:15:00.000+01:00

Having succeeded in escaping from his Desert Island, Ian McMillan, The Bard of Barnsley, has put out a disc of his own - Homing In. It's the second album he's recorded with his fabulous orchestra and combines McMillan's unique verse with some dazzling roots music for accompaniment. You can read my review here.

Along with James Mason, Bill Nighy and Kevin McCloud, McMillan has a timbre to his voice that would bring the phone book to life; I guess the modern day equivalent is being asked to do a Sat-Nav voice-over; well, if Brian Blessed can do it...

Here's a taster:

The Ian McMillan Orchestra: Ten Forgotten Moments From History

Mint

2011-03-24T18:50:00.005Z

These days the (not so little) box in the corner of the room is very rarely used to watch live television; along with much of the populus I'm a box set addict - 24, Sopranos, Lost, Deadwood - and so it goes. But every now and again the BBC will put out a series that demands my attention. That means watching it once week and then waiting seven whole days to watch the next installment; virtually impossible when getting up close and personal with Jack Bauer during one of his bad days.

The Boat That Guy Built is the antithesis of your average HBO blockbuster. No one gets clipped, everybody keeps their kit on and the nearest you get to a profanity is a 'by heck.' TBTGB is fronted by TT Racer and tea junkie Guy Martin. On the inside he's 50% Jack Hargreaves, 50 % Fred Dibnah. And to look at him he could moonlight in a Mungo Jerry tribute band, such are the dimensions of his mutton chops. What about the plot? Well, it's a man on a narrow boat. Drinking tea and calling everyone chief. Drinking more tea and referring to everything as mint. Join the dots and it goes something like this: 'Any chance of a brew chief? Mint!' Did I say that it's narrated by Liza Tarbuck? I'm hooked.

I'm on Twitter

2011-03-22T09:00:00.002Z

Er, that's it really. So, if you follow this blog and would like more of the same (well, 140 characters - so it's actually less), you can find me @JohnnyMedd

Smoke and mirrors

2011-03-17T12:30:00.001Z

Don't worry, I'm not getting bent out of shape over this; but when Kate Moss lit up a Benson & Hedges on the cat walk last week (on National No Smoking Day) it started a chain of events, the aftershock of which will be felt by the medical profession for years to come: in the same way her throwaway comment 'nothing tastes like skinny feels' encouraged gullible young models to starve themselves so they can fit into size zero frocks, so the take up of impressionable girls starting the habit seems set to rise.

As the above photo demonstrates, Moss is already taking on board the smokers 'long paper round' look. It won't be long 'til she looks in the mirror and sees this staring back at her. Pretty scary, huh?

I prefer to remember Bardot this way

Dapper Dans

2011-03-13T20:30:00.002Z

Prompted by Pete Paphides, aka Mr. Caitlin Mora n, I've dug out these examples of sartorial elegance from the back pages of Melody Maker. It's from January 20, 1973 (priced at 8 new pence, or 50 cents if, per chance, you were buying it in the USA) and has Eric Clapton on the cover pictured at his comeback gig at London's Rainbow Theatre the previous Saturday.

Looking rather fetching in his white suit, a look also favoured by Messrs. Presley, Lennon and Hopkirk, Clapton would have been looking out at a crowd not sporting Cream or Blind Faith tee shirts (back then rock and roll merchandising was still in short trousers) and nor would his disciples have been wearing anything with a designer label. No, what Clapton would have seen was three thousand guys and gals dressed in garments like these:

Or, more likely, these (note the subliminal cigarette advertising):

Just as well the term fashion victim hadn't been coined back then; there are two pages full of embroidered loons, velvet loon jackets, Danish clogs, male clogs, brushed denim dungarees, genuine RAF overcoats, shaggy pile jackets, cavalry boots, velvet caps, square neck vests...I could go on, but I think you get the picture. As Paphides says, these are historical documents. If you want to know what was going on (or to see what the natives used to wear) during a particular time frame, look no further than back issues of the British music press.

Lost in the supermarket

2011-03-09T08:40:00.005Z

Yesterday morning I bit the bullet and made the short expedition to my local soul sapping Sainsbury's (other supermarkets are available). Within minutes of arrival I'd already taken a wrong turning and soon found myself in uncharted waters - namely the soft drink aisle.
All the usual suspects were there: Coke & Pepsi (in fat ba**ard and diet formats), own brand Cola (just like Coke or Pepsi but with added sh*te), Dr. Pepper (?), Lucozade (now re-branded as an 'energy drink' - its hospital bedside ubiquity long gone) and, of course, good old dandelion and burdock (just what is a burdock exactly?) And then I saw it: 'Good God', I must have mumbled under my breath, 'do they still make this stuff?' I refer to Shandy Bass - a beverage I'd not seen since the scorching Summer of 1975 (or was it '76?). They said at school that even if you drank twenty cans in one sitting you'd never get drunk; not that that stopped us from trying. Maybe somebody should have explained that to the boys in blue at Leicestershire Police.

And while I'm on the subject, can you remember Shandy Bass' main rival? I'll give you a clue: Kurt Cobain (allegedly) demanded three cans as a rider when Nirvana came over to Blighty and performed on The Word; if I was a conspiracy theorist I'd think it was a hell of a coincidence that Top Deck was withdrawn shortly thereafter.

The Martin Kitcher Band: Shandy Bass (Westcliff on Sea)

Hey, hey, we're (not) The Beatles

2011-03-04T11:10:00.009Z

Boy bands. Don't you just love them? Who do you reckon was the first? The fact that such an accolade is often bandied around when talking about The Monkees is to totally rewrite history. It also airbrushes barbershop, doo-wop and harmony groups from pop's rich tapestry: The Ink Spots, anyone? But, in as much as they predated The Osmonds and The Jackson 5, Messrs. Dolenz, Nesmith, Tork and Jones were certainly among the first guests to arrive at the party.

Back in 1966 the moguls at Screen Gems decided to manufacture a group to rival The Beatles. And, as befits such a manoeuvre, it was all done very tongue in cheek; giving four unknown actors (that's right, actors not musicians) a 'zany' script, hiring in some professional songwriters (and a house band) and then pump out the resulting mix on prime-time coast to coast television - and seeing what happens.

And what happened was a massive TV show, numerous Top Ten hits including three Billboard No.1s (I'm A Believer, Last Train To Clarksville and Daydream Believer), an iconic logo that still makes me smile and (though it would take many years) a grudging acceptance by the public that at least half (if not two thirds) of the band did prove themselves as bona fide musos. Sorry Davy, you should have stuck with Coronation Street.

But were they ever a serious threat to Beatlemania? No, of course not, don't be silly. Have they left a lasting legacy? Well, yes they have actually; whether it be the rich seam of catchy singles, the critically acclaimed Headquarters album or Head, their cinematic wig out with Jack Nicholson, The Monkees place in rock and roll history is assured. Oh, and don't forget Robert Wyatt's blinding cover of I'm A Believer.

During their heyday comparisons with our own moptops were rife. But in as much as a Skoda and an Aston Martin both have four wheels and an engine, there the similarity ends. However, as the photographs of Micky Dolenz, Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork testify, they did get to meet their Liverpudlian counterparts though it's doubtful they joined forces in any songwriting circles. If they had, maybe they would have beaten Go Home Productions to this:

Pretty pointless

2011-02-28T12:50:00.008Z

Spot the difference

I may be wrong (it wouldn't be the first time), but here's a new album (Beady Eye: Different Gear, Still Speeding) that I definitely don't need to hear before I pass judgment; Liam Gallagher has decided that he can make an Oasis record without his big brother. Oh dear. What was he thinking? Couldn't he have just channeled his efforts into being the (new) Man at C&A? And if there was any doubt before then look at the promo picture above to confirm that Gallagher really does think he's John Lennon. I can't wait for Noel's verdict: wrong gear, handbrake still on?

Spot the difference: Even when it comes to album art parody The Monkees wipe the floor with Beady Eyeasis

Going up!

2011-02-25T16:30:00.003Z

I was having a few scoops with an old friend of mine the other night. We'd not seen each other for a while so our conversation was peppered with obligatory bouts of 'catching up.' It transpires that Brian's wife is soon to be working at the newly refurbished Arts Tower at Sheffield University. Upon hearing this news I blurted 'Paternoster!'

If you're not familiar with Paternoster lifts, then you must take a look at the above link; it's long been an ambition of mine to 'ride' one of these behemoths. However, due to the nanny state and all things Health and Safety ('A lift without doors? What do you mean it doesn't stop? Are you mad?'), there aren't many still in commission in the UK - the one in Sheffield being only one of a handful left. Looks like I'll be paying a visit to Steel City in the not too distant.

Not a kid anymore

2011-02-21T13:10:00.008Z

Football on a Sunday afternoon still doesn't feel right; then again having the FA Cup sponsored by a German energy service provider doesn't sit right with me either. But in the same way I felt obliged to make the short journey from my house to Meadow Lane every other Saturday when I lived in Nottingham, I now feel equally compelled to turn on the TV every time Notts County have the cameras trained on them. Yesterday's fourth round replay against Man City was, depending on which paper you read, David v Goliath or the paupers up against the millionaires. I won't bore you with the match details (Adrian Chiles and his ITV cohorts did plenty of that with their humourless quips and lazy research), suffice it to say that if you'd had a tenner on Man City thumping us 5-0 the drinks would have been on you last night.

But as good as the game was (and it was, the scoreline really did flatter the foreigners) the reason for this post is not to bitch about the result. Nor is it to wonder what possesses grown men to wear snoods: I'll leave that to people who are far more qualified than me. No, this little offering concerns Manchester City's No.2 - when the third goal went in and the Notts faithful were praying for a miracle, my thoughts turned to Brian Kidd.

Any seasoned campaigner will know Brian Kidd's track record. He was a hero at Old Trafford between 1963 and 1974 (including winning the European Cup on his 19th birthday) and then went on to further playing success at Arsenal, Manchester City and Everton before playing exhibition soccer in the States with Fort Lauderdale Strikers in the 80s. His return to Blighty has seen him coach and manage numerous clubs, most memorably his stint as the switch on Alex Ferguson's hairdryer (1991-1997).

Even his illustrious past, however, is not the reason I was thinking about Mr Kidd. Watching him on the bench (which at Eastlands means individual Parker Knoll recliners) I could only think that he must have a picture of Dorian Gray in his attic: the man never seems to get any older. Time, and the ageing process, seems to have stood still for Brian Kidd. Maybe he uses the same moisturiser as Cliff Richard. Maybe he goes into stasis every night. Or maybe he has sold his soul to The Devil.

The name's Harrison, not Lennon

2011-02-15T16:40:00.005Z

Anyone who's been on the receiving end of one of my CD compilations will know this power pop quartet from Austin, Texas; Cotton Mather were once tipped for great things by Noel and Liam and opened for Oasis on a couple of Manc whistle-stop tours of the US. Despite making four albums in their all too brief incarnation (including the critically acclaimed Kon Tiki) they somehow failed to get off the bottom rung. Frontman Robert Harrison - the brains behind the operation - had an uncanny knack of sounding more like John Lennon than John Lennon* but never became a total slave (unlike Oasis) to The Beatles Ltd. They called it a day in 2003, though Harrison is still trading under the moniker Future Clouds And Radar.

Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be John Lennon. From Kon Tiki:

Cotton Mather: Homefront Cameo

This little nugget would suggest that Harrison's menage a trois with Revolver and Rubber Soul is still flourishing. Dr. No is evidence, indeed, that he's still fishing tunes out of the post Beatles, post Cotton Mather backwaters where he now resides.

* Note to Christopher Eccleston: too nasal, too Lily Savage.

It was fifty years ago today

2011-02-14T21:20:00.002Z

It's probably an age thing, but I that find going to gigs these days can be very traumatic; if it's not some f**kwits behind me talking throughout it'll be some clown in front of me with a camera phone who'd rather watch the entire gig through a viewfinder (why exactly, to watch it virtually in their bedroom on a computer screen when they get home?) than watch it unfold live in what I still like to call real life.

Until the advent of this micro technology it was a rare sight indeed to see anyone filming bands on stage. Imagine, then, the stir this piece of footage caused when it was unearthed at the end of the last century; it might only be a few seconds of silent 8mm cine film (shot on February 14 1961 at The Casanova Club in Liverpool) - but it's pretty amazing nonetheless. Then again it is The Beatles and it's in colour. It was only five days earlier they'd played The Cavern for the first time.

This is the oldest known live footage of the Fabs, though some Beatles academics are still undecided if it was from Valentine's night 1961 or February 10 1962 when they tore up the Church Hall in Birkenhead.

Labour Of Lust

2011-02-12T16:45:00.004Z

The latest installment in Nick Lowe's back catalogue re-release campaign continues apace with the remastered Labour Of Lust (originally released in 1979). Recorded simultaneously with his Rockpile compadre Dave Edmunds' Repeat When Necessary (they shared the same studio and power combo) it's lost none of its vim in the thirty plus years since it was first committed to vinyl. The peerless Cruel To Be Kind (which, interestingly, shares the same chord progressions and harmonies as The Love I Lost by Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes) opens proceedings and within the first few seconds you can see why they opened for Blondie in the States at a time when powerpop was dominating American FM radio.

Cracking Up follows (another song that was lifted as a single) and a perfect vehicle to highlight the harmonies of Lowe, Edmunds and the often overlooked Billy Bremner. It's nice to see the inclusion of American Squirm which didn't make the album first time around; originally a single he recorded with The Attractions it's quite at home here in it's new surroundings. You Make Me finds Lowe dropping down a couple of octaves and with just his acoustic guitar it's reminiscent of Lowe's later output (it predates his Impossible Bird/Dig My Mood/The Convincer trilogy by nearly fifteen years). The Mickey Jupp penned Swithboard Susan still fizzes and Endless Grey Ribbon tugs at the heart strings and then it's one of Lowe's many signature tunes: Without Love, sounding like a Johnny Cash cover, was every inch a Lowe original but was later adopted by his one time father-in-law and took up permanent residency on Cash's set-list. Dose of You and Love So Fine combine punchy prose and jangly guitars before the mournful and touching Basing Street (another welcome bonus on this re-release) wraps up this delightful snapshot in time from one of Britain's greatest living songwriters.

The promo video for Cruel To Be Kind also, bizarrely, doubled up as Nick Lowe and Carlene Carter's wedding album:

Fans of Barney Bubbles will know the artwork for Labour Of Lust was the work of the late Barney. A recent exhibition in London was attended by many artists who'd experienced the Bubbles treatment.

And finally, the album's illuminating liner notes come courtesy of Will Birch.

Dark side of the Sun

2011-02-09T17:05:00.003Z

The Harbingers of Doom are back rattling their sabers again. Not that they ever went away; only now there appears to be some momentum behind the world will end in 2012 brigade. And it's entered the mainstream - kicking and screaming; if you search on Amazon you will find over 40,000 tomes predicting the destruction of Earth on December 21 2012 - that's 21.12.12 local time, 12.21.12 Eastern and Pacific.

Apparently it all goes back to the Mayan race who lived umpteen thousand years ago and, without the aid of telescopes, detected a tenth planet, beyond Pluto, lurking behind the Sun. Planet X, as we must call it (in true sci-fi style), reaches the end of some cycle or other and will reveal itself the year after next - before coming crashing down on us all on December 21 (I hope my Dad's reading this: it'll be his 77th birthday - Dad, I probably won't bother posting a card).

Don't say you haven't been warned.

Then again, when it is time for the final curtain call, I think this scenario is probably more credible:

21 Gun Salute

2011-02-08T08:40:00.000Z

The Number One Son comes of age today. The last 21 years have gone by seemingly faster than a speeding locomotive, but, luckily, and despite what the rest of the family may think, my memory is still (almost) in full working order; therefore the good times (which account for 99% of the time and for that we feel blessed) are forever etched into my mental hard-drive and, hopefully, can never be un-installed. And I'm so glad that for the last two and a bit decades I always had a camera on hand; James' height chart, for example, comprised a row of photographs in a frame of him and me all taken outside Mr. Music in Totnes (many, many Devon holidays) from the age of three until he was seventeen.

Happy Birthday James.

The excellent cake was made by Elaine Honey and is based on James' beloved Nord keyboard.

And here's a clip of his folk combo Frozen Gin.

Mark Saber

2011-02-07T20:35:00.001Z

I'd never heard of Mark Saber until very recently. Saber was a one armed private eye who spoke in that clipped English accent you always heard on the BBC during the post-war years and beyond. He was actually played by a South African actor by the name of Donald Gray (who had lost an arm during WW2) and Saber (later Saber of London) ran for 155 episodes in the UK from 1955-1961.

But it is for Captain Scarlet that Gray is probably best known - he was the voice of both Colonel White and Captain Black and The Mysterons. Like fellow actors Francis Matthews, Ed Bishop and Cy Grant (Captain Scarlet, Captain Blue and Lieutenant Green respectively) two weeks of instantly forgettable voice-over work in 1967 for Gerry Anderson would live with them for the rest of their lives. Although Gray died in 1978, according to my Spectrum passport, Colonel White hasn't even been born yet! Charles Gray (coincidentally the name Donald Gray would adopt later in his acting career) will be born July 14 2017 in London!

Stick around.

Support for the support

2011-02-05T11:10:00.003Z

Bearded cove on sofa: Barrington aka Gary Cole

Some might say the only good thing to come out of Derby is the A52 to Nottingham (now rechristened Brian Clough Way); I couldn't possibly comment. Anyway, when flying back to the fair city of Nottingham to interview Dodgy and pull in their gig at The Central, a young bearded cove, from Derby support band WhiteMoor, thrust a CD into my hand and said 'give this a listen.' And you know what, it's cracking little record that's fair bristling with charm and a personality a million miles removed from any Indie Landfill you may have been subjected to on 6 Music recently. You can read my review here.

This gem is what we used to call Side 1, Track 1. I do believe they had the good sense to release it as a single (remember them?) Oh, and their guitarist calls himself Barrington.

WhiteMoor: Three Words

Pretty in pink

2011-02-04T18:30:00.000Z

There's something about neon lighting. Whether it be a sleazy motel sign off Route 66 (see Andrew Wood's film below) or the full in your face overkill they call Vegas - it can't fail to catch the eye. For me it practically says put down what you're doing and look at me. Over the years I've seen plenty of examples in this country too. Here's just a couple: the first one I used to see regularly when working in London many years ago - it was just off The North Circular and at night would glow like some sort of garish lighthouse. I never went to the track itself but, on a couple of occasions, found myself driving into the car-park just to stare at the neon. Of course, like so much of London, it's not there anymore.

And this one always felt reassuring. Pulling in to Loughborough station on winter evenings, with St. Pancras a safe distance behind me, this sign meant I was nearly home. Often, waiting for passengers to get on the train and the signal to turn green, I'd get a note pad out of my bag and try to capture it with an HB pencil.

Mother London

2011-02-03T17:05:00.000Z

I must thank Lost Jimmy for putting me onto Mother London by Michael Moorcock. It's on the pile to be read next and, coincidentally, will be my third novel on the bounce set in the capital. I'm currently (re) reading Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The Sign Of Four' and before that it was Patrick Hamilton's Midnight Bell; set forty years apart (Doyle late 1890s, Hamilton early 1930s) both portray London warts and all and pull no punches when getting to grips with the city's underclass. Of course Holmes always gets his man, while the outcome for Bob, Hamilton's anti-hero, was far from satisfactory.

I've used this clip before, but cut me some slack, it's Ray Davies.

Art for art's sake

2011-02-01T13:15:00.001Z

Try and get along to John S tezaker's new exhibition. It's like an artier version of Sleeveface.

Barry, John

2011-01-31T16:10:00.007Z

(Yes, I know it's Barry John)

With today's news of the sad passing of John Barry (fast forward to Brother Mondo's boutique blog), now is probably a good a time as any to finally give Barry his proper dues for writing that theme; the theme his sparring partner Monty Norman took all the credit for. The roots of the James Bond ident can be traced back to The John Barry Seven and the soundtrack he was commissioned to write for the Beat Girl movie in 1960: featuring the evocative sound of Vic Flick (of whom more later in the year) on guitar. Listen to this and tell me what it reminds you of.

The John Barry Seven: Beat Girl

Barry and Monty Norman tussled in the High Court many times over paternity of the 007 theme, and its associated riches, but Norman's legal team shaded it on points. And anyway, if Norman had written the bloody thing, why was he never asked to contribute to any more Bond movies? As you can read here (if you've got a couple of hours to spare), the studio probably weren't happy with Norman's final offering and got Barry to do a total rewrite.

Bond aside, John Barry's legacy will be with us for generations to come. Composers and musicians alike love to reference and name-check him; not least The Special Agents who, along with the afore mentioned Vic Flick, supplied the soundtrack to spoof spy movie Wilson Chance in 2005.

The Special Agents: Wilson Chance Theme

Pint-sized Grappelli

2011-01-30T15:00:00.000Z

Stephane Grappelli (1908-1997)

(Oil on canvas, Merryl Jaye)

When was the last time you walked into a pub and asked for a pint of Stephane Grappelli? Mmm, thought so. Well, thanks to those fine people at The Crown Brewery in Sheffield, I've been able to step up to the bar in my local and do just that. As you can see their jazz range has already included, among others, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington and Jimmy Smith. And what a nice drop Stephane Grappelli is too - a rather tasty blonde beer weighing in at 4.5 OG. Martin Robertson, new owner of The Sun Inn, Pickering, is passionate about beer. So much so that he felt the only way to guarantee a perfect pint of real ale to the highest quality (from the start of the barrel to the end) and still give value for money, was to buy his own pub. So that's what he did. It's a bit like me wanting to see Paul McCartney live but because I don't like going to the big sheds and soulless aircraft hangers he insists on playing in these days, booking him privately to perform in my back garden. In fact, Paul, if you're reading this, why not come and play in The Sun's back garden this summer (they're always looking for new turns between 4 and 7 on Sunday afternoons) and we can kill two birds with one stone?

Hey Keith, Aaaaagh!

2011-01-28T15:10:00.006Z

John Lydon and Keith Emerson 2006

Depending on which side of the prog fence you reside, the chances are you have an opinion on the merits, or otherwise, of Emerson Lake and Palmer. You'll either be scratching your head in wonderment that, once again, they missed out in the Queen's New Year Honours list, or you'll have filed them away in the furthest recesses of your brain under T for tossers. And reading Keith Emerson's candid biography Pictures of an Exhibitionist would only reinforce one or other of those schools of thought. Yes, of course they were overblown. Yes, of course they were one of the reasons why punk had to happen. But in their defence they did record Brain Salad Surgery. OK, we'll pretend that whole Jim Davidson thing never happened, shall we?

However, and thank you to Sid Smith for lighting the blue touch paper, even if you despised ELP and all the pomp and circumstance they crammed into their audacious career, you can't help but tip your hat to Emerson for his elegant one night stand in 1976 with jazz legend Oscar Peterson. That Peterson saw fit to have him on his highly prestigious show in the first place speaks volumes; that and the fact that Peterson was often heard bigging Emerson up to his friend Count Basie. And praise doesn't come much higher than that in my book.

Look out for a 'heavily disguised' Carl Palmer behind the drum kit.

tar

Cathedral Mountain

2011-01-25T11:35:00.001Z

This album turned up, quite unexpectedly, for my birthday a couple of weeks back. I'd never heard of Dave Jackson before but knew John Head through Shack (with his brother Michael). I don't often plug records but you really should go and beg, steal or borrow a copy. I've likened it to pulling out an old jacket from the back of the wardrobe and finding a tenner in one of the pockets: yes, it really is that good.

Messin' with the kid

2011-01-18T14:55:00.003Z

An album I keep coming back to time and again is Rory Gallagher's eponymous solo outing from 1971. And as any self respecting, chin stroking, rock buff will tell you - step forward David Hepworth - 1971 was a vintage year for classic albums that's (probably) never been bettered.

After experiencing considerable success with Taste (frequent comparisons were made at the time to Hendrix's combo) the lad from Ballshannon who had started out (as indeed had most young Irish musicians before him) on the showbands circuit, went solo.

He enjoyed considerable success on his home turf, in the UK and in mainland Europe. His gigs were invariably sell outs and often went on into the wee hours. Shows in excess of three hours were not uncommon - you just couldn't get him off the stage.

I won't dwell on his untimely end but instead give you an idea of just how high his stock was in the mid 70s. When Mick Taylor left The Rolling Stones it appeared that William Rory Gallagher was in the frame to plug the gap. Rory's brother, Donal, picks up the story.

"At the end of 1974, Mick left the band and Keith and Mick had to look for a replacement. In January 1975, I got a phone call from The Stones management wondering if Rory might be interested, because Mick saw a lot in Rory. That was the case and of course it also made my mouth water. The auditions took place in The Hague, in The Netherlands. Rory went there on his own, and to this day I regret that. He was put up in a hotel, jammed a bit with the band, but no decision was forthcoming. Even then The Rolling Stones were an unassailable mega act and could have everything they wanted and keep everybody waiting. Rory on the other hand had a tour of Japan in his agenda and those dates kept getting closer. The Stones’ management knew that, but probably thought that Rory would cancel it. However they didn't count on Rory’s stubbornness, as well as his loyalty to his fans. He kept waiting to the end, but finally packed his bags and left a note at the reception: "If you still want me then I will hear from you" and he left for Japan. If I had been there I would have tied him to his chair if I had to. I wonder sometimes: what would have become of him if he had become a member. Would he be alive still? There was never any word from The Stones. They were probably offended to death by his perceived impertinence."

Listen to Laundromat (Side 1, Track 1 from Rory Gallagher) and tell me that Mr Wood was the right man for the job. No offence Ronnie, but what the Stones needed back then (and probably still do) was someone who could bring something new to the table; not a Keef clone.

Rory Gallagher: Laundromat

Rolling Stone

2011-01-12T15:20:00.001Z

I must thank my friend Riggsby for sending a bag of goodies all the way from San Diego. Riggsby's one of my oldest school friends now residing in California. I always look forward to his parcels landing on the doormat; in amongst the pot pouri of cultural gems was December's issue of Rolling Stone magazine: it was their round up of the year just gone and it's always good to see what our American cousins rate and hate. Also, it makes a refreshing change from the often stilted and predictable UK music monthlies - Word magazine excepted.

One platter they were gushing about was, I must admit, an album that passed me by entirely - Brothers by The Black Keys. What's refreshing here is that they've clearly dispensed with the minimalist guitar and drum dirge and augmented their sound with (crikey) a bass player and keyboards. Here's a belter from it entitled Howlin' For You: I particularly like the way they pay homage to Gary Glitter's Rock and Roll.

The Olyphant in the room

2011-01-11T23:59:00.001Z

A new year always brings with it a plethora of shiny new box sets (having a birthday between Crimbo and New Year does have its advantages sometimes) and so 2011 has proven to be no different - those winter nights in front of the log burner will positively fly by with the help of Spin City, Thunderbirds (all 32 episodes on 9 DVDs - in Supermarionation) and more Morse than you can shake a shitty stick at. However, currently at Medd Towers, we're filling our boots with Season 1 of (the quite superb) Justified. To all disciples of pulp fiction this latest transformation of one of Elmore Leonard's short stories will need no introduction. But to those of you out there who aren't yet in the loop and would like your appetite whetting, here's a wee sample:

Timothy Olyphant plays the role of US Marshal Raylan Givens with every ounce of subtlety his creator surely intended. When the other guy gets shot - as happens on a regular basis - Givens' response is invariably 'he drew first.' He was justified.

Any Deadwood fans out there will know Olyphant from his role as Sheriff Bullock. With an fpm count exceeding that of any American show (Sopranos included) that's ever seen the light of day, here's a classic encounter between Olyphant and the actor formerly known as Lovejoy.

And yes, you've got to admit it, Olyphant can carry a hat.

Dodgy

2011-01-08T08:00:00.004Z

Apologies for the delay in starting 2011, but I've not been well. Like you wouldn't believe: I think I did Christmas and New Year on autopilot - however, normal service has now been resumed. And for that I can't thank my very own Florence Nightingale enough for being there when it mattered (I guess that's what they mean by that whole 'for better or worse' malarkey).

Anyway, just got time to say that we've now got tix for the first gig of the new year. Dodgy (Nottingham Central Fri 21 Jan), it must be said, probably released the most consistently fab grooves of all the Britpop movers and shakers of the time. If you want three essential albums of the early 90s you can forget Oasis and Blur; The Dodgy Album, Homegrown and Free Peace Sweet capture the (don't worry, I'm not going to say the z word) very spirit of that whole TFI Friday buzz that defined the fag end of the last century. Bostin.

I interviewed Nigel Clark a few years back and remember telling him that this was the best song he'd ever written. He didn't disagree.

Dodgy: Grand Old English Oak Tree

The feline models at the top of the page btw are our very own Tom and Doris, who proudly posed for Phill Jupitus' Pets In Band Tee Shirts gallery.

The Box

2010-12-30T13:03:00.006Z

That's all it is: a box. Oh, and a cat.

The Odd Couple

2010-12-20T15:45:00.005Z

With the Number One Son home on University shore leave it's time to break the seal on the Quality Street and dig out the classic films which have to be viewed every Christmas. First up, The Odd Couple. Neil Simon caught Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau at the top of their game for the 1968 big screen adaptation of the classic stage play; we know all the lines by heart but that only makes watching this film more engaging year on year. On the couple of occasions we've rented an apartment in Manhattan I've always wondered if it would be suitable to hold poker nights with Oscar fixing drinks and Felix disinfecting the cards. The Medds have been known to try and recreate such sessions taking in a few hands of Rummy, with beer from the liquor store and pizza from Ray's on 5th Avenue.

Ear Worms

2010-12-13T10:00:00.007Z

I was following a thread on The Word blog recently about those pesky tunes that get lodged in your brain and steadfastly refuse to leave. And it's an affliction for which there is no cure. Even deafness wouldn't get rid of them - once they're in, that's it. I have many pieces of music (sometimes only brief snippets) that nudge their way from the deep recesses of my brain and take centre stage. This is one I share with Quentin Cooper of Radio 4's Material World: despite not having heard it since I was a nipper, I still know it note for note.

Quentin ran a feature on Ear Worms and the feedback the following week was fascinating. Musical memories from our childhood right through to music played at funerals, pulling in hits of the day, muzak, radio jingles, cheesy advert music and (most interestingly) tunes you can't abide - they all find a way into our heads and take up residency. Play School aside, here's another one that gets regular airplay, creeping up on me when I least expect it:

Middle Of The Road's Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep was a massive hit in the summer of 1971 and coincided with the Medds' first ever European jaunt to Spain. And at the tender age of nine I was aware that it wasn't only us Brits who were getting off on bubblegum pop: every cafe, diner and bar my parents took me to during the hottest fortnight I'd ever experienced, all I could hear was Chirpy Bloody Cheep Cheep. On the flight back something strange happened - I'd got a window seat and was trying to sleep with my head leaning against the window when, all of a sudden, the tune started playing; it wasn't coming out over the tannoy and there was nobody next to me with a transistor radio jammed to their lug hole. No, what I was experiencing was my own, very primitive, 'in-flight entertainment.' Forty tears later and I still can't find the off button.

100 not out

2010-12-07T14:45:00.000Z

Whilst all the talk this week, starting tomorrow certainly, will centre around the anniversary of Lennon's assassination, I've not seen many people pick up on Edmundo Ros' 100th birthday today.

Born in Port of Spain, Trinidad 7 December 1910, Ros made his name in London from the 1940s onwards as bandleader, arranger and vocalist with his own samba and Latin American orchestras. With residencies at The Coconut Grove and The Bagatelle, his gigs were often a Who's Who of the current stars and starlets of the day. Even a very young Princess Elizabeth was known to throw a few shapes on the floor before taking on her current job.

Ros played his last show in 1994 but remains in relatively good health enjoying his Spanish retirement.

Edmundo Ros: Football Calypso

The time is Nighy

2010-12-06T17:20:00.003Z

It's true what they say: the best pictures really are on the radio. Everything from Paul Temple, The Goons, The Man In Black, to Start The Week and (even) The Archers work, and work brilliantly, because the listener is creating his or her own unique images to the soundtrack laid out before them. And so it was with Radio 4's recent dramatisation of Simon Brett's wonderful series of Charles Paris stories.

Paris is a struggling actor (and some say a cad) with a penchant for the bottle and pretty women. He also has a knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when various coves around him get bumped off - time then to don his sleuthing hat and, before you can say Hercule Poirot, the murderer is singing like a canary. It could all get silly and out of hand (think Diagnosis Murder) but with the ubiquitous Bill Nighy at the helm it maintains its dignity and skips along at quite a pace. Nighy, as you would expect, brings years of experience to the party and carries the listener almost single handedly through the 30 minute scripts. Though, like reading Fleming, when rereading the old stories it's virtually impossible not to see and hear Nighy in your mind's eye: I can live with that. If Mrs M is reading this, here's a Crimbo present link.

Village life

2010-11-29T16:30:00.002Z

I pulled a couple of old novels down from the bookcase over the weekend and in doing so rediscovered a favourite author of mine. Guy Bellamy's A Village Called Sin is, to use that oft used cliche, a cracking read from start to finish. Published in 1991 (and also when I first bought it in hardback - back then Bellamy was one of the few writers I couldn't wait to come out in paperback) it succeeded in getting under the skin of a disparate bunch of village dwellers fifty minutes from London: Compton Sinbury, known affectionately by the locals as Sin, is a hotbed of red-braced money-grabbing bankers and property developers together with struggling actors, over sexed odd job men and the ubiquitous village idiot. There's even a comely wench. Set at a time when there was barely a mobile phone in sight we are treated to some superbly paced conversations and well written set pieces - mostly emanating from the pub on the idylic village green. The Fox is a hostelry we've all been in and when snatches of dialogue are heard waiting to be seved at the bar, as Bellamy himself must, we've all been tempted to try the material out elsewhere. A couple of one-liners that I particularly like: 'the hardest part of running a marathon is the last twenty six miles.' And, 'the only woman who knows where her husband is twenty four hours of the day is a widow.' It's up there with Groucho Marx.

I ought to do this more. After all, isn't that why we collect books - so that we can read and re-read them at our leisure? But we rarely do. And after twenty years, while we may remember the synopsis, we've all but forgotten who did what to who and when. The new paperbacks waiting by my bed might just have to wait a little bit longer.

Incredible String Blonde

2010-11-18T18:10:00.007Z

After another busy day at Medd Towers (making tea for tradesmen from 7.30am is taking its toll on me and the kettle) it was time for another walk down to the acoustic night at The Bay Horse. Little bit different this week - we had a guest, harpist Sarah Dean, doing two 20 minute sets either side of half time. It was a well attended night with players and bystanders alike just enjoying making and listening to music. I'd been persuaded to bring my guitar out of hibernation to entertain the troops. Suffice it to say I'd been dusting off my 3 chord trick book all week and reckoned I could go ten rounds with anything from Johnny Cash's back catalogue, maybe even a couple of Dylan's simpler tunes or, hell, just belt out Louie Louie for three minutes and beat everyone into submission. I didn't have to in the end: in the first half I played a fast and furious version of The Young Ones. I think It went down well - we even found an extra verse from somewhere. Prior to my slot we'd been royally entertained with jigs and reels, blues, Trumpet Voluntary on the violin(!) and an a cappella reading of the Quo's In The Army Now (you had to be there).

Then Sarah took to the stage (well, the front of the room) and completely mesmerised us all. Not only a very gifted musician (hailing from York and known on the circuit as The Incredible String Blonde) but she also has a nice line in inter-song banter - the bit a lot of musicians often get wrong.

She opened with this:

She played a couple more before a well earned beer refill, sandwich and the ubiquitous raffle. We managed to snaffle a nice bottle of red.

My second 'number' was something I've been wanting to do for a while. I left the guitar in its case for this one. I read Hovis Presley's I Rely On You. You can't go wrong with a bit of Hovis.

Sarah's second set mixed up more of her own material with a couple of tasteful covers chucked in for good measure: have you ever heard a harp version of Walking On The Moon? Thought not.

They're a good bunch up here and have really made me and Mrs M feel very welcome. Back again in a couple of weeks, hopefully.

I have a list

2010-11-15T14:00:00.010Z

I love the 70s as much as the next man. But it's only when you take a look in the rear view mirror that maybe, in the eyes of some, it was a wee bit overrated. Now, I'm only playing Devil's Advocate here: I know that this sort of heracy could get you locked up in certain quarters - but I give you the following evidence (taken from end of year NME polls - yeah, I know, I was a Sounds reader too) - so you can make your own mind up.

First up, Best New Group/Most Promising Arist:

1970. McGuinness Flint
1971. New Seekers
1972. Roxy Music (UK) Focus (World)
1973. Leo Sayer (UK) Golden Earring (World)
1974. Bad Company
1975. BeBop Deluxe (UK) Bruce Springsteen (World)
1976. Eddie & The Hot Rods
1977. Tom Robinson
1978. Public Image Limited
1979. The Specials

OK, so far so good. You can see the end of the old guard and the arrival of the new kids on the block. But what happened when the voting public were asked to take a punt on their fave guitarists? Let's take a look:

1972. Eric Clapton
1973. Eric Clapton
1974. Eric Clapton
No, my keyboard hasn't stuck. Though not that you'd know:
1975. Jimmy Page
1976. Jimmy Page
1977. Still bloody Jimmy Page
1978. Mick Jones
1979. Paul Weller.

You don't even want to see the bass players. Oh, you do?

1972. Paul McCartney
1973. Paul McCartney
1974. Paul McCartney
1975. Chris Squire
1976. Paul McCartney (1975 was probably a typo)
1977. Jean Jacques Burnel
1978. Bruce Foxton
1979. Bruce Foxton
Bruce's mum must have been on a roll: she went on to make sure little Bruce went on to win it again in 1980, 1981 and 1982.

Right then. What were we all watching on the little box in the corner of the room?

1970. Top Of The Pops
1971. Top Of The Pops
Then from 1972 thru 1977 we went all proggy as The Old Grey Whistle Test cleaned up six years on the bounce.
1978. Revolver*
1979. Fawlty Towers (what took the NME readership so long to discover Basil?)

No need to bore you with the Disc Jockey category. Apart from 1970 and 1971 (Jimmy Saville) and 1974 (Noel Edmonds?) Peely was, quite literally, the only show in town.

* What do you mean, you don't remember Revolver? Take it away Pete:

Great expectations

2010-11-11T15:15:00.001Z

I don't know why the football cognoscenti were up in arms after last night's bore draw in Manchester. Have they not heard Don't Believe The Hype? Everything from The Stone Roses' second album to any number of Dylan live shows have been bigged up to breaking point only to disappoint massively. I know we all want to look forward to something on the horizon, only for the eventual, some might say predictable, let down. That's what makes getting out of bed every day such a lottery.

And then, occasionally, we do actually get what we want: a Christmas not ruined by family feuds or cremated food, a Summer holiday that sticks in your memory as if digitally downloaded, maybe a blockbuster sequel that was actually better than the original. Which is why we're all wandering 'round living in hope. Most of us, anyway.

Gimme some truth

2010-11-06T17:30:00.002Z

I remember reading the story of Tory MP Nadine Dorries a couple of weeks ago and thinking: this can't be right. Don't get me wrong, politicians telling fibs is hardly front page stuff, but still - it just doesn't sit right with me. This is the quote I find most offensive:

According to documents published by the Standards and Privileges Committee, Ms Dorries responded: "My blog is 70% fiction and 30% fact. It is written as a tool to enable my constituents to know me better and to reassure them of my commitment to Mid Bedfordshire. I rely heavily on poetic license and frequently replace one place name/event/fact with another."

Quite. Especially when it comes to where you live. Or, more precisely, where you get paid to live. But surely, when you are reading a politician's outpourings (or anyone else's for that matter) you assume that they've been able to get to grips with the subject matter and what you are reading (give or take the odd Lib Dem swerve ball) reflects what they feel about the particular topic under the hammer. If you don't know from the outset that it is nothing more than a yarn and is proffered as a work of fiction, then the boundary between truth and lies is nothing more than an optical illusion.

Unlike Nadine Dorries I am not answerable to thousands of constituents (I answer only to the current Mrs Medd) so what you read here on these pages may be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But then again...

Generation X: Gimme Some Truth

We've arrived (and to prove it we're here)

2010-11-01T08:55:00.000Z

So, we're at the 'new place.' It feels good and it feels right. Apart from the last tearful look 'round to make sure we'd left nothing behind (and the equally tearful goodbyes to friends and neighbours) the whole moving process went pretty much like clockwork; unlike many things in life these days.

Thanks to the Number One Son and his fair maiden we're all broadbanded up and are now looking forward to the mammoth task of getting straight. Last night saw me handling cooking duties (rustic meatballs, since you ask) with Mrs M looking beautiful and toasting our new future. Meanwhile Tom and Doris were doing that exploring thing that all cats do when they've been beamed up to a new planet.

I like it here.