You've got a friend

Tapestry (with cat)

Tapestry (without cat)

Reading David Hepworth's riveting 1971 on the train to the Harrogate Literary Festival yeterday (to see David Hepworth and Mark Ellen speaking together), I was struck in an early chapter by just how pivotal Carole King's Tapestry album was to the history of rock music. Prior to 1971 precious few albums recorded by women had ever gone to the # 1 slot on Billboard - Janis Joplin and Bobbie Gentry being the notable exceptions, muscling their way in to what was a very testosterone fuelled environment. At its peak Tapestry was selling an eye watering 150,000 copies a week: every week for pretty much most of that year (it's now sold north of 25 million). And it soon became the bedrock of many a playlist on America's fledgling FM radio stations, where it hit the sweet spot - for men and women alike. It really did, and still does, sound like she was singing her intimate songs to you and to you alone. Especially 'You've Got a Friend'.

Often covered but never bettered - even when she gave the song to her good friend James Taylor who recorded it within days of King and with many of the same musicians.

My little town

At last night's Songwriters Circle one of our new recruits from outside the region commented on just how many songwriters there are in my little town. And she's got a point.
We then embarked on a sort of flashback episode where we counted all current and past members who have been coming to our group in the last five years or so - and it really is an impressive list. And it's funny how, despite the makeup of the group, we never get the same combination of musicians in any two back to back meetings. I'm hoping to do some Q&As with one or two of them on the blog (with links to their great songs) - so keep an eye out for a new mini-series.

Calling a spade a spade

Borrowing my friend Jane's turfing spade to form a new border (for Doris to sunbathe in) cost me dearly the other day. After inadvertently hitting rock, the tool buckled beneath the weight of my size nines and soon took on the appearance of a bizarre Uri Geller experiment.

Turns out the spade in question is a family heirloom dating back to the turn of the nineteenth century and was reputedly used to tend the gardens in nearby Castle Howard. Apparently you can't put a price on it. You can, however, put a price on a Spear and Jackson modern day replacement. Whether or not Jane ever speaks to me again, on the other hand, is anyone's guess.

Pick up a Penguin

That's six now. I may take a Penguin vacation and revisit them later. In the meantime, a couple of them are for sale over at Artfinder.

And if you can't see what you like there, feel free to get in touch via the comments box below.

Sun Readers

I'm pleased to report that 2014 has been a good year for The Sun Readers; you could say we're enjoying our second wind (we took a gap year in 2013). The little book group that meets regularly in The Sun have just had their Christmas bash at Medd Towers with an evening of poetry and recitals, informed discussion and a selection of cheese and wine that would have put Margot Leadbetter to shame. I was particularly moved by a reading taken from A Christmas Carol. Who couldn't be?  

Paul, our resident Prof., must have way too much time on his hands and has just produced some reader stats. I've always said there's nothing that can't be explained by means of a graph or a Pie Chart. Or, indeed, a Venn Diagram. A big thank you to all Sun Readers, past and present - see you all in The New Year.

Knees up

Pictured above are two significant women in my life. What you can't see in this photograph are their knees. Good job; no, they're not knobbly. Nor have they drawn smiley faces on them. But both pairs are, at this moment in time, not performing as they should. Normal service will, I'm sure, be resumed a soon as possible.

In the meantime I'd like to wish the young lady on the left a Happy Birthday.

Lundy

Lundy. You know the name from the Shipping Forecast (Lundy, Fastnet, variable 4 becoming cyclonic), but you probably haven't a clue where it is. If you had to stick a pin in a map you'd probably pitch it somewhere off the North East coast of Scotland heading for Norway.
It's a actually a tiny island in the Bristol Channel. With a population of only 28 you'd just about be able to man up two teams for a game of footie, with a ref, two linesmen, a fourth official and one man and a dog to watch. And don't forget the puffins: the literal translation of Lundy is Puffin Island. As commemorated by their coins and stamps. At the turn of the millennium the island's once enormous puffin population had been thinned down to just two breeding pairs. Now, thanks to island warden Phil Friend, who helped oversee the removal of the brown rat population from Lundy, that number has increased ten fold in ten years. Phil couldn't be happier - 'When I first came here you'd be lucky to see a single Puffin. Now they're everywhere.' His glamorous assistant, Jane, however, is not so sure - 'I don't know where they all come from. You turn your back for a minute and another one appears. It was never like this when we lived in Leeds.'

Well starred and signed

PP Woodlands is one of Leeds' finest exports. His songs combine a turn of phrase rooted in West Yorkshire with tunes that get under your skin and stay there. His recorded output, however, was limited to a debut platter from 1971 that should have kept him in hookers and gin without ever picking up a guitar again (Sugarman, anybody?) and a cassette only live album made three years later: Live at The Catweazle caught Woodlands at the peak of his powers. Recorded in front of no more than 100 people, you can hear the effect his songs had on a crowd who knew they were in the presence of a legend. Unfortunately I can no longer play the recording on my trusty Teac tape deck - the ferrous oxide has practically disintegrated.

Instead, I've paid homage to the great man and recorded a lo-fi version of the third track on the album. It's called Love Will and is obviously written about somebody very special in his life.

Leeds, 1972

Dave Mackay: not a big fan of Billy Bremner

Living in Leeds in 1972

If you didn't like Billy Bremner

There wasn't a lot to do

© John Medd 2014

With apologies to anyone out there who really did live in Leeds in 1972; not least my two favourite wessies, Phil and his glamorous assistant Jane. Anyway here's my rough and ready homage to the city that brought you Ernie Wise, Keith Waterhouse and Marks and Spencer. And contrary to repeated taunts in the 1970s, I'm assured it's very clean.

John Medd: Leeds, 1972

Pop-up

Beguiling cop, slightly menacing cop

Pop-up restaurants may be nothing new in London, but they are around here. We received a heavily disguised email earlier this week which indicated that a couple of local foodies were indeed 'popping-up' soon. A subsequent text arrived giving us a little under twenty four hours notice to slot it in our diaries, set the Sat-Nav and make sure we could acquiesce to their quirky dress code.

So on Friday night, after battling against unusually heavy traffic, we arrived in the nick of time at the covert eatery where we were greeted by, it appeared to me, the shopkeeper from Mr. Benn; we never did find out his name but he's the sort of person who would probably seek you out rather than the other way around; I was told, in no uncertain terms, that details of our evening were not to be broadcast to all and sundry. Which is why I'm under strict instructions not to divulge anything that could identify where we were - so the menu and wine list, I'm afraid, amazing as they both were, have to remain a closely guarded secret. I know, it's crazy isn't it? But it was that sort of night.

However, our bearded friend didn't say anything about the music that was playing while we devoured course after course. I can, therefore, tell you that we listened to a lot of this:

Ramblin' Man

Welcome to the Heffer Dome

Left to my own devices, and home alone, my default position is invariably sitting in a favourite chair with a glass of something and reading a book with a cat on my knee. But when the mood takes me I love to walk. Into the great wide open. And living where I do, the great wide open is nearer than it’s ever been.

On Saturday the Lady of the house went on a 48 hour smash and grab raid in search of shoes and handbags. I went rambling. And  I was joined by two wingmen. Well, one of them was a wingman – he sported a black beard and seemed to instinctively know where he was going. She was a vision in red ankle socks.

We rambled up hill and we rambled down dale. The views were stunning and the weather held. We swapped stories, cups of tea and chocolate bars. And we saw some cows, 12 to be precise. It was a figure of eight route with more follies, monuments and gargoyles than you could shake a shitty stick at.

Three hours later and we repaired to a hostelry for a well earned flagon of frothing ale. Note to self: I must do this more often.

Down at the doctors

'The guitar doctor will see you now Mr. Medd.' I couldn't make out the glamorous assistant's name badge, but then again, I was distracted by her beguiling smile. She told me to go up: three flights of stairs later and I found myself catching my breath on the threshold of what can only be described as a quite magical six-string emporium: guitars hanging on every square inch of wall space; some signed by his clients - I'm sure I saw Clapton's spider-like scrawl on the headstock of a '57 Strat.

'Take a seat John. I can call you John, can't I? Now, what appears to be the problem?' I pointed to my guitar case, whereupon the Doc slowly took my prized possession out of its cocoon. 'Mmm' he said, barely disguising his disdain, 'I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker.'  'I beg your pardon?' was all I could come back at him with.  'Your local priest should have read this...this instrument its last rites long ago.' I was crestfallen. 'But can you save her? She's all I've got.' I was desperate and he knew it. ' I'll try. I can't make any promises, but I'll try.'

I'm not at liberty to divulge what happened over the course of the next couple of hours, suffice it to say that copious amounts of lemon oil were used together with a Mr. Sheen type substance, phosphor bronze strings and, strangely, some winceyette pyjama off cuts. It was like watching Woody being fixed in Toy Story 2. I was nearly falling asleep when, a couple of minutes shy of midnight, my guitar almost sprang off the operating table like an instrument half its age. Like I say, what happened in that room stays in that room. No doubt the good doctor would forget about me the minute I was ushered off the premises. But I'll never forget him. Or his entrancing assistant.

Friends

You can say what you like about this Blog (and many do) but I try and keep personal issues on the other side of the office door when I write it and, to that end, it's not what you'd call a Dear Diary; obviously it's got my fingerprints all over it (as you'd expect) but I've never gone down the road of logging every bowel movement as some people out there are prone to doing. My friends will often get mentioned here - sometimes by name, sometimes not - and, for the most part, I write nice things about them.

Some friends are like stray cats: they come to us and, if they like what they see, they'll stay. Others just come round for a square meal and disappear, never to be seen again. Since our move last November we've befriended some real Friends: they moved in over the road on the same day as us. Phil is a great songwriter and laughs like Basil Brush and Jane makes Mary Berry's cakes look like roadkill. And she's got a most beguiling smile. I really hope they like it here and stay a while.