I've never needed an excuse to post pictures of my friends on here. And today is no exception. Yvonne and her daughter Leoni, two of my dearest friends, came down for the weekend and I honestly don't think I've laughed so much in a 24 hour timeframe. (Just what I need right now - if you know, you know.) The diner where we went out for breakfast is directly opposite the Sherwood mural, so what better photo opportunity than directly in front of same. I also snapped Leoni in front of a random bush; she humoured me. She always does.
Those of you who've listened to yesterday's London playlist will have clocked Jan Wobble's presence on there with A13 - his love song to the arterial road that takes you from central London to the marshlands of Essex. With its motor factors, motor parts and launderettes it's the sort of stuff John Betjeman would be writing today if he was still with us. I'm kidding, I'm kidding.
Wobble's love of London transport and indeed London Transport extends way beyond his tube driver days. In 2022/23 when sitting on the top deck of several buses (to, thru and from south London) he was recording both the sights and sounds of his journey; amazing what you can do with yer phone these days. He'd fill in the gaps later with some monster bass lines and synth parts that, if you closed your eyes, you could picture yourself on that self same journey. The finished product is called, imaginatively, The Bus Routes of South London. And it really is one of his strongest albums in a long while.
I'm just putting the finishing touches to a London themed playlist. And no, the Clash aren't on it*. The capital is neither Burning nor Calling; Not in this set, anyway. The Kinks are represented but there's no mention of sunsets. Werewolves don't get much of a look in either. And if you thought Ralph McTell would be a shoo-in, think again. The stuff that is on there probably wouldn't find its way into most people's gazeteers. And that's fine by me. If you're a Spotify user (Spotifician?) and would like a copy then let me know and I'll ping it to your phone/email. However, what I'd really like to have have done was spend a couple of days with my old tape deck and knocking out an old skool C90. Now that would be something. I could have used my Dymo machine and everything!
I'll leave you with this. It opens proceedings. An establishing shot, if you will.
K. Leimer - London Interiors (2021)
* Tho' Strummer is.
★
Postscript 11.10.24
And here it is. Give it a listen, why don't you. And tell me what you think. J x
I talk a lot about the art of songwriting on this blog (and, of course, songwriters). I've also discussed at length how cover versions, if done 'correctly' (i.e. nothing at all like the source material), they can totally eclipse the original. And, if you trawl thru my back issues you'll also find many column inches given over to Paul Weller (who, I'm still hoping, I will be seeing live in a couple of weeks.)
So today's offering, I think, knits quite neatly all of the above into one mini featurette. When Paul Weller finally freed himself from the shackles of the Jam he let the world know that beneath that pent up angry persona (administering corporal punishment to his guitar night after night and railing into a microphone) was not just a brilliant songwriter, but an accomplished musician with a surprisingly plaintive voice. And so the Style Council (and a future solo career) was born.
A standout track from Cafe Bleu, their debut album, was this astute slice of social commentary wrapped around some beautiful jazzy chords. Here's Weller playing it on his tod. But not until he tells the audience to shut up.
Paul Weller - The Whole Point of No Return (1984)
In the late 90s Robert Wyatt released a splendid long player (his seventh solo album) called Shleep. Interestingly, Weller plays on a couple of tracks. But not this one. I could listen to Wyatt's version of Weller's song all day long; he brought something new to it. And that's kind of the whole point.
Robert Wyatt - The Whole Point of No Return (1997)
Since returning to Nottingham in 2017 an annual ritual of mine has been to pay a visit to Goose Fair. Just as the early Autumn light is fading I'll walk up to the bus stop at the top of the road and catch a No. 17 and, five minutes later, alight at the Forest Rec. This travelling fair, the largest in Europe, has been a regular fixture in Nottingham's calendar since 1284. Yep, those travelling showmen have been coming back for 740 years. Imagine all the loose change that's fallen down the back of the waltzers in that time.
Not that I go on the waltzers these days, or indeed any ride come to that. In the sixty minutes I give myself (thee's always a pint waiting at the Lincolnshire Poacher with my name on it), I've just got time to wade thru the hordes, reconnoiter the rim (Deadwood reference), dive into the middle at some point for mushy peas & mint sauce, whilst all the time pointing my camera at anything and anybody that interests me. And this year was no different...
