It's London, it's 1968, and a very nervous eighteen year old musician from America is auditioning in front of one half of the Beatles. James Taylor recalls being clinically nervous playing Something in the Way She Moves to Paul McCartney and George Harrison. They must have liked him - they signed him up to Apple there and then. George in particular liked the song, using it as the template for what would become the standout track on Abbey Road. Taylor has always been sanguine when asked about the 'lift'. After all, he'd borrowed flourishes from I Feel Fine in his song. What goes around comes around.
James Taylor - Something in the Way She Moves (1968)
Unless you've been living under a rock for the last week or so you can't fail to have heard the hullabaloo surrounding what some (OK, everyone) are calling the new (and, at the same time, last) Beatles record. And, as you' d expect, this four minute ditty has made some people deliriously happy whilst at the same time making others reach for their quills to pen strongly worded letters to, I don't know, Paul and Ringo, probably. Or Yoko. Yep, it was she, again, who'd found a 'discarded' C60 cassette in the attic with John's scratchy vocals and vamped piano chords all over it and decided it would make a great little trust fund; to go with all the other little trust funds she's acquired since that fateful December night in 1980 outside The Dakota building.
The thing is, it's not as if we haven't already heard the song before; the bootleg has been doing the round since forever (Lennon wrote Now & Then in 1978) and it was even given a 'McCartney Makeover' by one of my favourite John and Paul mimics, Claus Nielsen: his excellent 2017 versh of Now & Then was surely Macca's template for the song everyone's comparing to Imagine (imagine that) but which IMHO is a far superior composition; it really is.
In other Beatles related news, I was down in our nation's capital this weekend getting up to all sorts of high jinks. Not least when I stumbled upon St. Pancras Gardens where the Fabs posed for one of their most iconic photoshoots from their now legendary Mad Day Out in July 1968. The inscription on the bench (which I'm amazed is still there) is priceless.
Before Ian Gillan and Roger Glover plucked up courage to join the big boys in the playground and become two fifths of the classic Mk. 2 version of Deep Purple, they were peddling their wares in a bang average soul revue band who went by the name of Episode Six. Fame and fortune alluded them but, as The Episode, they did put out this rather delightful single on the MGM label. (Is it me or does the guitar riff that runs through it put you in mind of this? Answers on a postcard.)
In 1977 John Noakes, Blue Peter's most unlikely Action Man, was about to climb Nelson's Column in London's Trafalgar Square - without a safety harness and wearing nothing more than a car coat and a pair of flares. His mission - to help clean pigeon guano off Nelson's noggin.
I must confess I've been looking for an excuse to show this classic bit of footage for ages. And what better way to shoehorn it in to my blog than to include my actual Blue Peter badge - the one I received as a competition runner-up in 1968, c/w a signed letter from the show's producer, Biddy Baxter. It's been sitting in a 'badge box' (not to be confused with a badger box) full of all my old punk pins - Generation X, Buzzcocks, Radio Stars et al - for donkey's years. So I'm pleased to elevate it, finally, to treasured status. It is my fourth object. The non-Shep related quote below is taken from Noakes' IMDb page. It's from the commentary he overdubbed on to the film afterwards; as opposed to the ongoing nervous dialogue he's having with his appointed sherpa, and the BBC camera man during his assent (both of whom are also wearing precisely the same amount of PPE as Noakes i.e. bugger all).
"At this level, the plinth on which Nelson stands overhangs the column. I found myself literally hanging from the ladder with nothing at all beneath me."
I was deeply saddened when I heard about the recent passing of Peter Tork. Not since the news of Strummer, and Bowie I guess, has the death of a rocker affected me in quite the way this Monkee's demise has. It was while I was replying to another blogger about this I said that the iconic Monkees logo is a bit like a security blanket; wrap yourself in it and only good things happen. I'm hoping he's only nipped out to look for Davy Jones - maybe they'll both come back together in a little while with a crazy story, or two. This brief Q&A comes from The Monkees 1968 Annual: I picked it up in a charity shop ages ago. So, Peter Halsten Thorkelson, in your own words...
Since time immemorial Beatles fans and scholars alike have been debating (often heatedly) whether or not the White Album coulda/shoulda been released as a single album; trim the fat, ditch Revolution No.9 (the Emperor's new clothes, without doubt) and generally rid it of anything devoid of FABness. Pah! I hear you say. Even four sides isn't enough - we want six sides, eight even.
Blue Vinyl (1/1) - signed by Macca (rare as fuck)
Well, as you're probably aware, this month saw the majestic release of a whiter than white White Album with alternative takes, demo recordings made at George's house in Esher - complete with Harrison asking Macca how many sugars he wants in his tea - and is, essentially, the kitchen sink in vinyl format. Indeed, fetching it home from your local record shop would necessitate mechanical lifting machinery and, possibly, road closures.
Not for me, however. I fell in love with this album just the way it was intended way back when; and I've got all the Esher demos on bootlegs anyway.
But to go back to the double album/single album hot potato for a second - if you ever wondered what the perfect pared down track listing would have looked like (5 tracks on Side 1, five on Side 2) - then jazzer Ramsey Lewis has beaten you to it. By 50 years. That's right, Lewis went into the studio and recorded his White Album (he actually called it Mother Nature's Son) in December 1968 and released it later the same month: only a handful of weeks after the Beatles released theirs in the November. He didn't mess about did he? The world was still coming to terms with how utterly brilliant Lennon's Cry Baby Cry was, and here was Ramsey Lewis straight out of the traps giving us his sublime instrumental take. And, I have to say, almost edging it for me. Almost.
Just back from Liverpool where sleep was in short supply*. John Lennon wrote I'm So Tired whilst in India studying meditation with the Maharishi in 1968. After three weeks of quiet, and not so quiet, contemplation, it was driving him insane; to the point that he was plagued by insomnia. And it is a very John song. Every line is pure Lennon. Paul McCartney admits he had absolutely nothing to do with it.
This is for anyone who's having trouble getting to sleep tonight.
The Beatles - I'm So Tired
* Not getting to bed much before 5:00 a.m. probably didn't help
Maybe Jimmy Page has already been questioned by the authorities about having sex with underage girls in the 1970s; maybe he hasn't. One thing is certain though - Led Zeppelin weren't big on asking to see picture ID when young girls queued up to get back stage after gigs. Or when they made their way past hotel security and found which rooms the band were occupying. On the contrary, their manager, the notorious Peter Grant, actively encouraged the practice. Different times? Maybe. Different crimes? Well, no, actually.
Oh Lori
The notoriety surrounding similar events today are played out in the press as vile acts carried out by vile people. But in1972 Lori Maddox was a 13 year old virgin when David Bowie publicly bedded her on his Spiders from Mars tour. I say publicly: Bowie knew she was jail bait. His entourage knew she was jail bait, and so did every band, bartender & bellboy in Los Angeles where Maddox was part of a groupie inner circle that hung with any bunch of musicians knocking around Sunset Strip.
Led Zeppelin was one such bunch and, not long after Bowie's exploits with Maddox, Jimmy Page called her and had her chauffeured to his hotel suite. Lori was all of 14 at this point. Page knew this but wasn't remotely bothered. There's nothing more to add really; it's a salacious story that needs no further embellishing. It was Led Zeppelin and it was the 1970s. That seems to be the general consensus of opinion. Just read Hammer of the Gods, or indeed the new Page biography [*pictured poolside- above - by Danny Baker], where you're never more than ten pages from a juicy 'What happens on tour...' story. Only, these stories never stayed on tour.
I discovered this tune only recently on a Classic Rock station coming out of New York that doesn't play Rocky Mountain Way on the hour, every hour. Jimmy Page lends his guitar skills to this 1968 diamond in the rough from Donovan.
Got a favourite song, but haven't got a Scooby as to what it's all about? I've got a shed load of them, as I guess you do too. I've even been known to avoid reading the real words to incomprehensible songs and using my own which I think work better. I know, I need to get out more.
I could've told whoever wrote this about one of my top tunes that it's like nailing jelly to a wall. As much as I love Helplessly Hoping, and even though every word in it is as clear as a bell, I think its meaning changes every time I listen to it; none the worse for that. It keeps me on my toes, that much I do know. But right now I think I've sussed it - right time right place, perhaps. Though if I revisit this piece in six months it may be a different story.
They are one person
They are two alone
They are three together
They are for each other
And just like the last time I posted it, I have, perversely, chosen the most delicate of covers.
Jellywine - Helplessly Hoping(written by Steve Stills in 1968)
Today's Sunday Times magazine is marking the 50th Anniversary of a remarkable day in the life of the Fab Four. And, as you can see (below), they are really pushing the boat out with a quartet of collectable covers. Anyone familiar with the Beatles' Mad Day Out will know that, for a handful of hours on July 28th. 1968, John, Paul, George and Ringo took a day off recording songs for their White Album and instead, with a select bunch of toggies, slipped anchor and between them created some of the most iconic, and totally non-choreographed set of pictures ever taken of the group.
Their freewheeling adventure took them to some of the most, at the time, insalubrious parts of north and east London including St. Pancras Hospital, Wapping, Cable Street in Whitechapel, Tower Bridge, even Old Street roundabout.
Many of the photographs have probably appeared in this blog over the years, though this one is, I think, my personal favourite.
Bowie's The Jean Genie is nearly 45 years old. Can you believe it? It was released as a single in November 1972, before appearing on Aladdin Sane the following year.
'Make Me Your Baby' by Giorgio Moroder, meanwhile, will be 50 next year. Moroder, the man who gave us Chicory Tip's 'Son of My Father' and a ton of disco smashes including Donna Summers' orgasmic 'Love to Love', released this prototype for the Jean Genie in April 1968.
We've not done the Matthew Street Festival in Liverpool for a couple of years now; setting up base camp in the sweaty confines of The Cavern for two whole days and gorging ourselves on every eclectic variation on a Beatles tune you could ever wish for. Some turns even throw in solo stuff (though I don't recall ever hearing anyone brave enough to cover Back Off Boogaloo), even the odd Rutles homage.
That said, another gap in proceedings always seemed to be The White Album. For some reason 1968 doesn't loom large in Liverpool - if you gave me a pound for every time we heard a Bungalow Bill or a Martha My Dear we still wouldn't have had enough to buy a packet of crisps between us. I'm hoping if we go back next year the balance will be redressed.
I found this on Youtube (where else?) lurking in The Beatles aisle. I'd pay good money to see this fella. Maybe he'll be there in 2016. Nice hat btw.
Saturday afternoon. Mrs M's away on what she calls a girlie weekend, so I've got some time to myself. Well, I will have when I've worked through the list she's left me; how do you point a gable end? I walked into town this morning along the tow path (it must be Spring) where the only distractions were anglers (one dressed top to toe in army fatigues!), barges (why do folks on them wave?) and a couple of Canada geese (coming over here, taking all our fish). After a few errands it was too balmy not to walk back again - this time via The King Billy for a pint or two of gold (actually, Blue Monkey Amarillo). I was then reminded it was Grand National day so a few bob on King John's Castle and Eric's Charm and back to Medd Towers: where the order of the day is Yorkshire tea and maybe a couple of DVDs still in shrink wrap from Crimbo.
I feel like Homer when Marge and the kids go to Church and he wanders round in his briefs all day: 'I'm wizzing with the bathroom door open!'
This was the tune playing in my head as I walked back from the pub:
