Those of you who've listened to yesterday's London playlist will have clocked Jan Wobble's presence on there with A13 - his love song to the arterial road that takes you from central London to the marshlands of Essex. With its motor factors, betting shops and launderettes it's the sort of stuff John Betjeman would be writing today if he was still with us. I'm kidding, I'm kidding.
Wobble's love of London transport and indeed London Transport extends way beyond his tube driver days. In 2022/23 when sitting on the top deck of several buses (to, thru and from south London) he was recording both the sights and sounds of his journey; amazing what you can do with yer phone these days. He'd fill in the gaps later with some monster bass lines and synth parts that, if you closed your eyes, you could picture yourself on that self same journey. The finished product is called, imaginatively, The Bus Routes of South London. And it really is one of his strongest albums in a long while.
I'm just putting the finishing touches to a London themed playlist. And no, the Clash aren't on it*. The capital is neither Burning nor Calling; not in this set, anyway. The Kinks are represented but there's no mention of sunsets. Werewolves don't get much of a look in either. And if you thought Ralph McTell would be a shoo-in, think again. The stuff that is on there probably wouldn't find its way into most people's gazeteers. And that's fine by me. If you're a Spotify user (Spotifician?) and would like a copy then let me know and I'll ping it to your phone/email. However, what I'd really like to have have done was spend a couple of days with my old tape deck and knocking out an old skool C90. Now that would be something. I could have used my Dymo machine and everything!
I'll leave you with this. It opens proceedings. An establishing shot, if you will.
K. Leimer - London Interiors (2021)
* Tho' Strummer is.
★
Postscript 11.10.24
And here it is. Give it a listen, why don't you. And tell me what you think. J x
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.
I'm excited, I don't mind telling you. Tomorrow I shall be jumping on the 9:50 to London St. Pancreas to spend some long overdue time in the capital. At 1pm, all being well, I should be 109 metres above the ground standing atop one of Battersea Power Station's iconic chimneys. BPS had been stood empty for many, many years yet has always been a pivotal part of London's ever changing landscape. It's been under construction, on and off, for the best part of 40 years, but is now, seemingly, the latest shiny new slab of real estate with a postcode to die for. And, no, I'm not expecting to see turbines in the grandeur of its once Art Deco Turbine Hall. I'm not quite sure what I will find in the space now occupying same - I shall have to report back. There will be pictures; heaps of pictures.
A midweek smash and grab raid on that London yesterday. Quality time spent in the company of Brother Mondo and Brother Steve. We zoned in on some of the West One Squares with Beatles and Bowie connections. And nearby pubs too. Obvs. First, the EMI Building in Manchester Square and, just around the corner, is where David Jones was snapped reading all about it. We volunteered a German passer by, showed her Bowie's pic and asked her to recreate same; despite a bit of camera shake, I think we just about get away with it.
Staying in the same zip code you then come across Montagu Square - it's actually a rectangle - and situated at No. 34 is where John Lennon holed up for most of '68. It's not Strawberry Fields, but it's got a blue plaque outside, nonetheless.
A huge thank you to the boys for another great trip to the capital. Let's do it again in the Summer.
Q. What have David Hepworth's latest book Nothing is Real (The Beatles Were Underrated and Other Sweeping Statements About Pop) and my friend Heidi's recent visit to London got in common?
A. As you can see Hepworth's latest tome (his third) once again comes with, like its predecessors 1971 and Uncommon People, a striking orange themed dust-jacket.
And when Heidi was in the capital this weekend she took this splendid photograph of a rather dapper individual on the tube; kitted out, from head to foot (quite literally) in, er, orange.
For exact colour matching purposes, I've included the RAL swatch for all your Orange needs.
Oops! - I don't do F**ebook, so when I was sent this tube photo I thought it was a photograph Heidi had taken; turns out it was Piley. Heidi/Piley; Piley/Heidi. See what I did there. Sorry both!
It's been a quiet day today. On days like this I usually post something along the lines of this. Or even this. Today I found a beautiful photograph on my Twitter feed. As the fella who posted it @stuarthumphryes said, it's got nothing whatsoever to do with Doctor Who. It was from a fashion shoot in the 1960s. London still had loads of these Police Boxes knocking around at the time - they were integral pieces of the capital's street furniture.
Time was when social media consisted of nothing more than a can of spray paint. If you had something to say then all you needed was a wall; or any surface at all, really.
Long before trending and hashtags it was thought by some in London that Eric Clapton's ability to play guitar had transcended that of a mere mortal, and so he was awarded god like status. Seemingly overnight the sort of graffiti pictured above started to appear all over the capital.
Clapton played it down at the time, but it certainly didn't do record or ticket sales any harm.
Eric Clapton - Badge (co-written by George Harrison)
I'm not at liberty to divulge where I took this photograph*
With recent talks regarding a possible Anglo-Scottish Blogger Summit currently residing in the long grass, it was good to get together with the original Blogfather for a few scoops.
Picking up where we left off last October, Mondo and I decided that Soho would be the next leg on our A-Z tour of the capital. And so it was that we began our jaunt around the West End in The Ship on Wardour Street. The Ship was always the meeting point, many moons ago, before the hop, skip and a jump to the Marquee Club two doors down. The only physical surviving memory of London's finest rock venue these days being a ridiculously high blue plaque on the side of No. 90.
The White Album was recorded here
Still open nightly
After blowing the froth off a couple, we then embarked upon the well trodden path around Dean Street, Greek Street, Berwick Street, Soho Square & the myriad of side streets that link them up (rabbit holes all). The area bordering W1 & WC2 is of course still mesmeric and manages to retain a charm that won't go away, despite creeping gentrification and sanitisation - the Italian coffee shops and clip joints may well have faded away but I can report the traditional London boozer is still thriving!
Marquee RIP
Highlights included meeting Suggs in the French House and a cracking late afternoon drink in Trisha's, a modern day Winchester Club tucked away where only those in the know can find it. A spot of banter with Tom Parker Bowles ("Oi! Parker Bowles! No!") in the Groucho Club* while we were still kinda sober, before bookending the day back at The Ship; anchored, you could say.
I set the coordinates for home via the new all singing, all dancing Tottenham Court Road Hub and despite falling asleep on the tube, the train and in the taxi, still made it back unscathed. All in a day's work.
Thanks for another great day Mondo. Where are we going next?
I treated myself on Tuesday. I let the train take the strain (1st. Class, obvs) and met my good friend Mondo. Bethnal Green at one o'clock we said; perfect for a spot of lunch at Pellicci's followed by a stroll down to Brick Lane.
I've said it before, but it's worth saying again anyway, without Mondo this blog would not have got off the ground; in 2008/2009 (when I first heard Mondo & Piley's Podrophenia podcast), after just a couple of emails I knew I was gonna get on with this fella. His passion for all things rock, and indeed roll, coupled with his guidance and encouragement helped me get this stuff out of my head and into the world we now call social media.
I went for the mixed grill and Mondo went for the chicken. Johnny Depp and Michael Gambon were no shows, but Dave Gorman was sitting next to us; not sure if he's already on their wall of fame.
To the Truman Gallery to see another mover and shaker, but not till we've shaken hands with half the East End - Mondo's treated like royalty in these parts. I just basked in his reflected glory.
The Pigeon Detectives
After conducting a four year Twitter relationship with Morgan Howell it was good to finally meet him on Monday. He was sharing the gallery with Chris Barton & Horace Panter, and together they were showing Cassette versus Vinyl; Morgan's Super Size record sleeves vied for wall space with mutant cassettes and gigantic 'button' badges.
I'd only ever seen his masterpieces on line and in Sunday supplements, so seeing them up close and personal was very special, to say the least. Morgan was very generous with his time and was great company. We talked about everything under the sun, including how to get rid of uninvited pigeons who fly into prestigious galleries.
Chris Barton was a nice fella too. He took the time to explain how he made the giant musicassettes and boxes. I wish the Number One Son had been with me at this point as laser cutters were thrown into the mix and I know James would have been all over him like a cheap suit.
Chris Barton carrying the Cash
Hunky, and indeed, Dory
A rather Special pigeon
Catch that pigeon
From the Truman Mondo then gave me a guided tour of Spitalfields pulling in a fair few hostelries. It transpires Mondo's old man was a contemporary of Ronnie and Reggie. He glossed over the finer details but, like Morgan, he painted a picture of a world that just doesn't exist anymore.
Glasses were charged and recharged, photos were taken of Spoons carpets and we swapped more rock and roll stories than you could shake a shitty stick at.
Around nine bells it was time to depart; to Liverpool St. - homeward bound. Until the next time.
Before I go, here's Mondo's latest squeeze. They're called Howling Black Soul. Check out their bass player.
One of the many reasons I'm moving back to the city (and there are many, believe me) is the myriad of public transport options that will be available and all the spin-offs these links offer. Living in a town with no taxis, buses less frequent than the daily stagecoach and trains still powered by steam has worn me down more than I can tell you.
Black cabs, mini cabs, trams and trains will join up my life and give me that feeling, once again, of being connected. I've spent so long off the grid - if I stay here much longer I fear I may end up pointing at aeroplanes. And I haven't even mentioned the buses. And buses that run after dark - that'll be a novelty: the last bus round here leaves before the Six O'Clock News. Talking about night buses, here's a book I found today - Nick Turpin's On the Night Bus is a stunning collection of nocturnal photographs taken over the last four London winters of, you've guessed it, passengers on night buses.
In the words of Rod Stewart: Every picture tells a story. Don't it?
