Yabba Dabba Doo!

I love it when you hear a song on the radio and it automatically reminds you of another; let me explain. Marty Wheelan was broadcasting his RTÉ breakfast show live from Verona yesterday and so all the pieces of music he played were on an Italian theme. When he put on Frank Sinatra singing Three Coins in a Fountain I immediately shouted out "Flintstones, meet the Flinstones!"

Why? Well, if you saw Steve Martin and the late great John Candy trying desperately to cross America and get home in time for Thanksgiving in Planes, Trains & Automobiles then you'll know exactly why. And, for me, the icing on the cake comes in at 0:45 just as the external camera is shooting the bus at it goes across the Eads Bridge in St. Louis and John Candy yells "WILMA!"

John Candy sings The Flintstones (1987)

...

John Candy (1950-1994)

Bang Bang

Despite my advancing years I still like to latch onto new bands (new to me, I mean), take them to my heart and call them my all time favourite band ever; before 10 minutes later jettisoning them with nary a backwards glance, as I go in search of my next new shiny thing. 

This week I have mostly been listening to the Monophonics. They are, to borrow a quote from Craig Charles, two pounds of funk in a one pound bag. They sound like this. See what I mean? Btw, remind me to tell you about my friend Tom Wardle and his connection with the band. Next time.

But it was whilst listening to them in the car this week, and their spellbinding version of a Sonny Bono penned classic from 1966, I remembered just how good Nancy Sinatra's version was. Yes, better than Cher's (Sonny's ex) and yes, even better than Frank's - Nancy's dad. You don't believe me...

Nancy Sinatra: Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) - 1966

Anyway, back to those Monophonic boys. Here they are tearing up a little club in Athens in December, 2015. Enjoy...

The Monophonics: Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

Ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't've fallen in love with?

See 17.9

When I was seventeen:

17.1 - Jim Callaghan was Prime Minister and Labour wasn't working

17.2 - I was learning to drive in a Vauxhall Viva Rockbox

17.3 - I pretended I didn't like Emerson Lake and Palmer

17.4 - Ditto Neil Sedaka

17.5 - I was still trying to master the art of unclasping a girl’s bra with one hand

17.6 - I met Bob Geldof

17.7 - I convinced Simon Rigg that I had a sister

17.8 - I was wearing button down shirts, drainpipes and my trusty donkey jacket

Frank Sinatra - It Was A Very Good Year (When I was Seventeen)

17.9 - Debbie Harry was fit

17.10 - I thought that Blue Stratos was the last word in men’s toiletries

17.11 - I was growing tired of Top of the Pops

17.12 - I was making a date with John Peel every weekday night between 10 and 12

17.13 - I'd not long left school

17.14 - I didn't shower every day, but I was the proud owner of soap on a rope

17.15 - I was kidding myself that when I was stood at the bar of The Beehive I looked eighteen

17.16 - Paul McCartney got busted for drugs and John Lennon hadn't got much time left

17.17 - I went to see The Buzzcocks live for the first time. And they played this:

The Buzzcocks - Ever Fallen In Love

I'm just waiting on a friend

Steve's coming up on Friday for the weekend. It's been a while since we've seen each other, but we'll pick up where we left off - nothing's so sure. A lot of tunes to listen to. A lot of beer that'll need drinking. And we'll have a lot to talk about - we always do. All the usual stuff; there may even be some new items on the agenda. You know, the sort of things that creep into conversation in the wee small hours.

Frank Sinatra: In The Wee Small Hours

The Stones: Waiting On a Friend

Goatee

Every now and again I slip anchor from Even Monkeys Fall Out of Trees and scribble a few words for other like minded coves. Moonlighting, if you will. It never did Leo Sayer any harm. This week I put in a shift with The Rocking Vicar.
If you take a stroll over to the vicarage you'll see how the Angora goat joins the dots between jazz crooners and punks. That's right, this hillside roaming grass muncher is the missing link between Frank Sinatra and Johnny Rotten. Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd write.