Sandy Beds

"This new addition is ideal for the inner city motorist"

My first road atlas, the one that lived in most of my early cars, was the one I bought the first time I ever flew solo to London. Getting to, through and back out of, the capital was, for a seventeen year old rookie, nothing short of a herculean task. Planning the route in advance only got me so far; the live plotting of the journey with said atlas open on my knee whilst simultaneously navigating the contours of the Great North Road and dodging the wagons, was a skill that had to be learned pretty fast (and in London the atlas was replaced with my trusty A-Z); that and checking oil and water gauges every five minutes on my (not so) trusty Vauxhall Viva Rockbox, whose dodgy radiator would overheat so randomly it placed the driver in peril more times then I care to remember. (Please don't talk to me about 'the Biggleswade incident, I beg you.)

No clockwise. No anti-clockwise

So the A1 became my most travelled road. Long before it was turned into an eight lane autobahn it was full of, roundabouts, traffic lights, discarded cassette tape fluttering in hedges by the roadside and glimpses of towns like Stamford and Sandy; or Sandy Beds as I have to call it. Then the tortuous crawl through Hatfield long before the Galleria and the tunnel beneath and then  finally into London. To younger readers who can't remember a time when the M25 didn't circle London, I grew up in a world where the M25 was just a glint in a town planner's eye. To get south of the river meant crossing Tower Bridge. But, hey as our good friend Alyson would surely say now, this is a music blog not a 70s Top Gear repeat with William Woodard - where's the bloody tune?

Well, in the same way that Sandy is always Sandy Beds, so Aylesbury (not on the A1 I grant you, but close by) is always Aylesbury Bucks. Don't ask me why, it just is. I guess I still have some obscure misplaced affection for the town I only remember visiting the once a million years ago. Which in a roundabout (groan) way leads me nicely to one of this year's finest long players, I Thought I Was Better Than You, Baxter Dury's 8th album. This was the first single he lifted from it:

Baxter Dury - Aylesbury Boy (2023)

Flat White

The original face covering

This arrived in the post yesterday. It is utterly splendid. Being Baxter Dury it would be, wouldn't it? I'm particularly taken with the Jarvis Cocker remix on the flip side.
Talking of Jarvis, there's a track of his I really want to share - but I'll keep that up my sleeve till tomorrow, if that's alright with you.

Jarvis Cocker - Miami (2017)

Quite

No need to turn to page 26; he's a bit nearer than that

Baxter Dury was interviewed in 2005. The Beatles cropped up... 

"My old man rejected the Beatles and white rock'n'roll from England, he was pretty dismissive of it, so you grow up precociously being dismissive of it yourself. There is something I still hate about the Beatles, but when you're trying to write songs you're an idiot if you don't acknowledge them, 'cause they're brilliant."

Quite.

Baxter Dury - When I'm Sixty-Four (2012)

Halfway to Paradiso

Getting to Amsterdam these days is a piece of cake (no, not that sort of cake) - easier than London, almost: thirty minutes to the airport, a short hop to Schipol followed by a ten minute train ride to Dam Square. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Tim and I had both been before, but for some reason we'd never landed on Dutch soil together. Until Wednesday. Our trip had been planned for a while and was essentially a jolly-up to go and see Baxter Dury. Dury is a big deal in Europe and is treated like royalty in France, apparently. We'd got tickets to see him in the world famous (it really is) Paradiso Club: when the Stones played two semi-acoustic gigs there in '95 Keith Richards said they were the best shows the band had ever played; Keef probably says this a lot, however, recordings from both nights did end up on their Stripped album later that year.

The Paradiso is a converted church building and is equally as magnificent inside and out. It's virtually in the middle of the city and barely a five minute walk from our digs. So, bearing this in mind, coupled with the fact that we bought our tickets three months ago and bearing in mind also the fact that we'd been in town since lunchtime, there could be no excuse for rocking up late to this gig of all gigs. And you'd be right - no excuse whatsoever. Erm. Well, it's like this. Hang on a minute, I don't have to explain this to you.

"What time's he on?" The clue is on the ticket

Suffice it to say we only missed a couple of his early numbers - I blame strong liquor and pretty girls on bikes - and the set he turned in was immaculate. Baxter is a consummate front man. Like his old man before him, you can't take your eyes off the fella (well, maybe just for a second or two - to enjoy his rather lovely keyboard players standing either side of him).

When the show finished we could still hear music, so we padded up the stairs into the main auditorium and caught The Vamps playing to a room full (and I mean full) of teen girls screaming their bloody heads off. It was like Hard Day's Night meets Rollermania. And, yes, I know, apart from me and Tim, nobody in the room would get that reference. Not least the young kid who went down like a sack of spuds. The gig was temporarily halted, the houselights came up and the paramedics were in like Flynn (another obsolete reference, I know) administering mouth to mouth and, hey, back on with the show; our cue to leave.

A good night was had by all. I remember a lot of red lights and not much else. We emerged from our digs late the following morning for a classy breakfast in a classy joint (in a classy joint) followed by more Dutch beer, before saying goodbye to the city and a promise that we'd be back real soon.

It's his time

It can't be easy being Baxter Dury. His dad's legacy must follow him at every turn; when he releases a new record, goes to a party, or even when he just nips to the corner shop for a pint of milk. Until now, that is. I commented recently that with his latest release, The Prince of Tears, he's finally Baxter Dury. No longer Baxter Dury, son of Ian. The shoes that once seemed impossible to fill, fit perfectly now.
He goes out on tour in the Spring. Firstly under his own steam, and then opening for Noel Gallagher. I'm gonna try and get along. I think his time has finally come.


Here he is performing Whispered, Pleasure and Palm Trees from his 2014 album It's a Pleasure.

Lisbon

Eusébio, my friend JT, and Super Bock. There, that's about my sum knowledge of Portugal. Oh, and Baxter Dury (great Portugal reference - below). Maybe by the time I get back from Lisbon on Monday I'll know a bit more.