Tommy Ramone wanted a singalong song in the band's set: 'Something the Bay City Rollers might chant' he was quoted as saying. Blitzkrieg Bop came out in February 1976 and was their first single: punk was officially born. It was also, quite possibly, the final nail in the Rollers' coffin.
Quite fitting then that they love it north of the border: 'Hey, Ho, Glasgow!'
This year marks the 90th. anniversary of the birth of Stan Getz - one of the truly great tenor saxophonists & band leaders who worked his way up through the ranks to become (and if he were alive today he'd probably hate me for saying it) a by word in Bossa Nova and Samba: in 1964 he recorded the definitive version of The Girl from Ipanema with Astrud Gilberto.
He started out as a foot soldier in Jack Teagarden's band in the forties and later with Woody Herman and Stan Kenton, before branching out on his own. He would go on to make many career defining albums with other jazz luminariess including Chet Baker, Oscar Peterson and Gerry Mulligan.
Never one to be type cast, in 1990 he teamed up with Ben Watt and Tracey Thorn to lay down a beautiful solo on The Road, taken from Everything but the Girl's fifth album The Language of Life. Getz sadly died the following year aged just 64.
Amazon are currently selling an eight album, four CD box set for a little over seven quid. What's not to like? You really should take the plunge.
T Rex's Slider is 45 years old this year; last week, in fact. I know that because The Swede told me.
However, a more sobering anniversary is lying in wait just around the corner: this September will mark 40 years since Marc Bolan bought the farm.
Cut down in his prime, Bolan was on the up, as opposed to on his uppers. He'd been on the skids for a couple of years. But he was back. He was fit. He'd even got his own TV show. And he'd got a new band to take on the road. For support he hooked up with a bunch of young punks and let them open for him. The Damned didn't disappoint. And neither did Bolan.
Who knew what was round the corner - Bolan certainly didn't. Could he have been a contender again? I think he still had a trick or two left up those elfin sleeves of his.
I've nicked the idea for today's post from the magnificent Swede. I won't even pretend that I put an ounce of original thought into today's 250 word offering. Icouldn't even be arsed to come up with a different way of holding the sleeve up for the photo shoot; it's basically an original high quality Swede garment with the designer label ripped out and my own (inferior) brand stitched poorly into the back of the neck - the kind that'll make you itch like a man on a fuzzy tree.
So, the Sweet. What can I say about them that I haven't bored you all to death with a million times before? Suffice it to say that The Sweet's Biggest Hits was the first album I bought with my own money. And in 1972 that was a whole hill of beans, well £2.18 anyway. And I played it ten times a day. Minimum. Why wouldn't I? Unlike singles which needed flipping over every three minutes (a bit like pancakes) RCA Victor SF 8316 (I still remember the catalogue number) would play for nearly twenty whole minutes before I had to drag myself off the bed and put the needle on the other side.
And I love the way it's called Biggest. It stops at Wig Wam Bam: less than four weeks after its release they would put out Blockbuster (#1), closely followed by Hell Raiser (#2) and Ballroom Blitz (#2). Now they were big: combined sales of those three singles alone was in excess of 1,000,000 copies (and that's just the UK): monster big. Anyway, I'll be keeping an eye on Swede Towers and see if I can't recycle some more of his ideas and cut and paste them over here. Keep 'em peeled.
The irrepressible Johnny Vaughan has been playing the sh*t out of Kasabian's latest single God Bless This Acid House. But every time it comes charging out of the speakers, all I can hear is Juke Box Jive by the Rubettes. Seriously. I really think the next time the jesters from Leicester play it on whatever TV show passes for Top of the Pops these days, they should all sport matching white berets; you never know, if could catch on. Well, maybe not in Leicester. As infectious 45s go, it's almost up there with a cracking little debut single Dean Jackson on BBC Radio Nottingham has had on constant rotation all Summer. 24 Hours a Day by the Shades is a three minute montage of every pop record ever released, from (and including) Rock Around the Clock. Again, when I hear it I can pick out so many nods and winks to classic singles and artists of yore, not least the ghost of Billy Haley whose DNA is still trapped in its rock and roll amber. And it's driving me insane. See what you think:
Thank you to Charity Chic for making me delve back into my Charlie Rich collection. He was so much more than the Silver Fox. A bit like yours truly...
The late (and rather great) Charlie Rich had at least three careers: as a session musician he was a regular at Sun studios c.1957/58 when Elvis et al were banging out the hits. But Rich realised, maybe he was told, he didn't have the rock and roll chops to ride that particular train; though I for one would have to disagree, just take a listen to Whirlwind from the first disc on The Essential Charlie Rich Collection. Instead he used his not inconsiderable songwriting talents to supply the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison and Johnny Cash with quality material.
Rich spent much of the sixties on the periphery, playing more jazzy stuff - he was a fine pianist as well as being a huge vocal talent - and even turned out a couple of mod influenced hits: Mohair Sam and Big Boss Man can still be heard in any venue wherever you see a row of Lambrettas parked outside.
But it was in the early seventies when he was re-energised by country (just country, hold the western). In 1973 his hit album Behind Closed Doors spawned two absolutely colossal singles: The Most Beautiful Girl and, of course, the majestic title track. Rich suddenly found himself with gold discs coming out of his ears, very popular and, I guess, very rich.
However, he couldn't sustain this level of success and found himself once more in the wilderness. Though he would go on to make one more beautiful album: In 1992 he recorded and released one of his finest collection of songs, Pictures and Paintings. It's tinged with jazz & gospel and is sung from the heart. It's reflective. It's almost sorrowful. It's beautiful. And it's where you'll find this:
I've joined a club. They wanted me to join a little while ago, but I hesitated; you see I'm wary of clubs. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm not a joiner-inner (if that makes sense?). But, if you're not careful, clubs get taken over by odious little men. Odious little men with chips on their shoulders who turn nice little gatherings into cliques. To say they usually sport beards wouldn't be fair; but it's a truism. And they usually have a northern connection - Leeds, often.
But I digress. the good folk at Carrington Triangle don't do cliquey. They couldn't be any more inclusive if they tried. Just ask the 557 members who signed on the dotted before me. In fact, why don't you have a word with Paul Carbuncle - Paul straddles that line between folk & punk, snarling & sincere, Carrington & Dublin. Like the rest of us, he sings for his supper - a veggie curry during the half time interval when glasses are re-filled and parish notices are read out.
Looking at the who's who in their illustrious guest book reveals a plethora of superb artists who have trod the boards at the Gladstone Hotel - home to the Triangle. I'd be very surprised if Chris Sherburn and Denny Bartley hadn't played there at least once. If they haven't, I may have to put a polite request in to see if we can secure their services in the not too distant. Here they both are together with Emily Sanders - a natural trio, if not a triangle.
This track appeared on the latest Father's Day playlist from James - we've moved on from CD compilations (well, he has, not sure I ever will).
STRFKR (that's right, they've taken the vowels out - just like the Stones) make some rather beautiful noises. 'Never Ever' came out as a single (remember them?) last year and has got Summer writ large all over it. A perfect backdrop to days like today.
The ability to put one foot in front of the other is a skill, seemingly, some of my friends are fast losing (not that I can talk). I heard today that Vaughan suffered the ignominy of tripping over a discarded water bottle and, before you could say Evian, was being admitted to Lincoln County Hospital with mild concussion. He was discharged when he was able to count backwards from ten and promised doctors he'd look where he was going next time. Man up Vaughan.
This follows a very nasty fall my friend Adele had last week. Drink may have been taken and, yes, 'Liverpool Sandals' may or may not have played their part too, but Adele was also was rushed into hospital after she went arse over apex and smashed her face into the pavement. Ouch. Get well soon Adele x.
Can you look cool in a sleeveless Fairisle sweater? More to the point, can Paul McCartney? Let's face it, Macca's never been the most sartorial of Beatles. Could it be his choice of gansey was the reason why Magical Mystery Tour tanked? Answers on a postcard.
And even when he was sitting atop an actual tank he never really looked that convincing.
'Where the bloody hell's Ringo? He should be doing this!'
PS - 7.7.17
As a footnote to the piece, I really wanted to add this song by Ben Lane. I picked up his album a couple of years ago in a coffee shop in Scarborough, so I'm guessing Ben is a Scarborian. If he stumbles across this blog at anytime I'm sure he'll either confirm or deny. Either way, it's a very Macca type tune that, despite the annoying click-track, is the sort of thing he would have put out on a Wings B-side.
The last time I bought a new guitar I think at least three Beatles were still kicking a ball. It felt really good walking into Dave Mann's this morning knowing I'd be walking out with something new and shiny. Coincidentally it was the same guitar emporium where I'd bought its predecessor all those years ago; also on a Saturday morning, if memory serves.
I had the guitar in my sights within ten minutes of crossing the threshold and agreed a price a handful of minutes later. I bet it was was no more than twenty minutes after entering the shop with a dream in my head and a burning hole in my pocket that I was leaving with a gig bag over my shoulder and a much slimmer wallet.