"It upsets me every time I hear it, isn't that ridiculous? Why do I get like this? Perhaps I need psychiatric help."
So said John Peel on his radio show on 24 December 2003. He was talking about the song Ian Prowse and his band Amsterdam released as a single 18 years ago. For the avoidance of doubt, Peel didn't need help; this blog is littered with songs that make me choke up. Does This Train Stop on Merseyside joins a long list of songs that catch me unawares; every time.
Seeing the Who at Charlton in 1976 as a young teenager was a big deal for me. A very big deal indeed. I wrote about it, briefly, here. Who knows, I may even get round to writing a proper (and somewhat belated) gig review; one day.
On that Bank Holiday 40+ years ago as well as the 'Oo, Alex Harvey, Little Feat and loads of other turns, there was a DJ on the bill - spinning discs between the bands and bouts of intense rain - Messrs. Daltrey, Townshend, Entwistle & Moon very nearly bailed that night such was the inclementness of the weather in south east London that night. His name was John Peel.
I can't remember a single record he played all day. Apart from this - the album version of Silver Star. I think the reason I remember it was it went on for bloody ages. And, on certain days, it's still one of my Desert Island Discs. All six minutes of it.
The Four Seasons* - Silver Star (1975)
* Though not sung by Frankie Valli. Valli was out of commission for much of the late seventies and never sang lead vocals on this, or December 63 (Oh What a Night): it was Four Seasons' drummer, Gerry Polci.
James and Janneke treated us to an exquisite lunch this Sunday just gone. It was followed by a totally impromptu boozy afternoon in one of Lincoln's finest drinking dens. I really do need to update my database of treasured pubs.
Apart from being surrounded by beautiful people and some some quite sensational beers, we were royally entertained by two old boys manning the Wheels of Steel. Each was sporting a trademark titfer - no surprise then that they went by the name of Hats & Decks - see what they did there? They opened proceedings with Midnight Rambler; what can I say? Not an obvious choice (Start Me Up is what most lazy jocks would have gone with), but it set the tone perfectly for the rest of the day: they didn't play a bad record all afternoon. Hats (or was it Decks, I can never tell them apart) let us do our own crate digging and for a good thirty minutes we held court. At some point (around the time of pint four or five) they played the tune that will forever remind me of listening to John Peel in my bedroom in the seventies. And no, it's not Teenage Kicks.
In 1977 you couldn't move for punk rockers. They'd taken over the country. They'd taken over our airwaves and they'd taken over our TV screens. It was wall to wall Clash, Sex Pistols and The Damned. It was Anarchy.
Maybe in a parallel universe the punks really did take over. In reality, apart from the aforementioned stalwarts, the UK punk and new wave scene was essentially John Peel's nocturnal Top Gear radio show and Billy Idol curling his top lip and miming on Top of the Pops. And Sounds on the newsstand every Thursday, of course.
Which is why, despite numerous attempts to rewrite music history (1976 - Ground Zero anyone?), much of the old guard carried on with business as usual. Not least Thin Lizzy. Their leader, Phil Lynott, like Pete Townshend, befriended many of the young upstarts and actually found a lot of common ground. Lynott would go on to front The Greedies with Steve Jones and Paul Cook from the rudderless Sex Pistols and play both Lizzy and Pistols favourites; you couldn't slide a cigarette paper between them.
In 1977, whilst the music industry was allegedly knee deep in gob, Thin Lizzy released Bad Reputation - one of their most commercial albums. And on it was one of the catchiest tunes put out as a single all year. It has finger clicking. It has a sax break. It positively sashays off the turntable; I swear Brian Downey, Lizzy's drummer, is using brushes. Dancing in the Moonlight has it all.
John Peel wasn't known for being a big fan of NWOBHM (to non-Sounds readers that's New Wave of British Heavy Metal) but in November 1979 he played the debut single by Girl. My Number was pressed on 7" clear vinyl, had the same track on both sides and cost 55p. Hearing this metal racket for the first time I was able to park up my punk and new wave credentials (I was secretly getting a little tired of three chord wonders) and actually dig what these (pretty - I would later find) boys were up to.
Three months later I'd played the hell out of their first album and had seen them play a couple of their residency gigs at The Marquee. I was hooked.
But I don't think Annie Nightingale was. Snotty cow.
When the band, inevitably, ran out of juice (and drummers) they split up and all went on to be famous rock stars. Guitarist Gerry Laffy would later become a very respectable artist: he even painted a beautiful canvas of my son when he too was a rock star.
Poring over The Times yesterday, I found The Rodfather adorning the front cover of their glossy Saturday magazine; not looking too dissimilar from the above Radio Times shoot, I guess both snaps must have been taken at the height of his mid 70s pomp; i.e. when Rod looked every inch the sultry babe magnet who'd found himself a rock and roll band.
Despite not being musically relevant for sometime, his 1993 Unplugged set was a masterclass in how to deliver a back catalogue; a feather cut swan song, if you will. The wilderness years were only escaped by his foray into the classic American crooner songbook - an insult to any self respecting Faces fan and can only be seen for the money grubbing exercise his accountant no doubt told him it would be. I'm guessing that Rod, in his newly published memoirs, probably doesn't see it that way; leggy leggy blondes and train sets will probably feature more heavily than Steampacket or those early John Peel sessions.
But I'm not bitter. We'll always have Python Lee Jackson:
I love the 70s as much as the next man. But it's only when you take a look in the rear view mirror that maybe, in the eyes of some, it was a wee bit overrated. Now, I'm only playing Devil's Advocate here: I know that this sort of heracy could get you locked up in certain quarters - but I give you the following evidence (taken from end of year NME polls - yeah, I know, I was a Sounds reader too) - so you can make your own mind up.
First up, Best New Group/Most Promising Arist:
1970. McGuinness Flint
1971. New Seekers
1972. Roxy Music (UK) Focus (World)
1973. Leo Sayer (UK) Golden Earring (World)
1974. Bad Company
1975. BeBop Deluxe (UK) Bruce Springsteen (World)
1976. Eddie & The Hot Rods
1977. Tom Robinson
1978. Public Image Limited
1979. The Specials
OK, so far so good. You can see the end of the old guard and the arrival of the new kids on the block. But what happened when the voting public were asked to take a punt on their fave guitarists? Let's take a look:
1972. Eric Clapton
1973. Eric Clapton
1974. Eric Clapton
No, my keyboard hasn't stuck. Though not that you'd know:
1975. Jimmy Page
1976. Jimmy Page
1977. Still bloody Jimmy Page
1978. Mick Jones
1979. Paul Weller.
You don't even want to see the bass players. Oh, you do?
1972. Paul McCartney
1973. Paul McCartney
1974. Paul McCartney
1975. Chris Squire
1976. Paul McCartney (1975 was probably a typo)
1977. Jean Jacques Burnel
1978. Bruce Foxton
1979. Bruce Foxton
Bruce's mum must have been on a roll: she went on to make sure little Bruce went on to win it again in 1980, 1981 and 1982.
Right then. What were we all watching on the little box in the corner of the room?
1970. Top Of The Pops
1971. Top Of The Pops
Then from 1972 thru 1977 we went all proggy as The Old Grey Whistle Test cleaned up six years on the bounce.
1978. Revolver*
1979. Fawlty Towers (what took the NME readership so long to discover Basil?)
No need to bore you with the Disc Jockey category. Apart from 1970 and 1971 (Jimmy Saville) and 1974 (Noel Edmonds?) Peely was, quite literally, the only show in town.
* What do you mean, you don't remember Revolver? Take it away Pete:
Just finished reading Phill Jupitus' Good Morning Nantwich (Adventures in Breakfast Radio) - the big man's intoxicating account of his 5 year tenure at BBC 6 Music. And a delightful read it is too. His love of radio, like a lot of us, goes back to the crackly pirates, swinging Radio 1, Terry Wogan and, no surprises here, John Peel. If Peel had ever dipped his toe into the torrent that is Breakfast Radio it wouldn't have sounded too dissimilar to Jupitus' morning output circa 2002-2007.
Interspersed with his recollections of the time (mostly good, if you discount his frequent run-ins with BBC top brass) he drops in a few playlists (mostly excellent) and even offers tips for anyone thinking of starting up their own DIY radio station.
Phill was kind enough to mention his memories of broadcasting his show from Medd Towers in July 2005:
''Next time out we were in Nottingham and in the company of the Medd family. Jenny and John with their tall son James who was fifteen and in a band and by now must be fending off the ladies with a shitty stick. They had cats, and we set up in their living room. Jenny made bacon sandwiches which really hit the spot.''
