It was the arse end of 1976. Disco was big. Arguably, funk was even bigger. The Sweet - best known then (and now, not a lot changes) for earlier glam anthems like Block Buster!, Ballroom Blitz and Hellraiser - were in the wilderness and looking for a new direction. Aren't we all.
Inevitably, the new direction was no more than a wrong turn down a dead end street. They soon did a u-ey, came back and stuck to what they were good at. But not before they recorded something of a cult classic. Shortly after its release it was being played in hip New York clubs. Not rock clubs; clubs with red velvet ropes, mirror balls and everything.
The events of 1969 are currently looming very large. There are a number of monumental 50th anniversaries going on right now; not least Apollo 11 - a must see movie is on general release depicting just what Neil Armstrong and the real Buzz Lightyear got up to when they were floating in their tin can half a century ago. I remember Aldrin saying in Andrew Smith's Moondust that NASA were very candid with the crew when they signed up for the mission of all missions: their chances of coming back alive were given at no more than 50/50. This is one film I will not be missing. And Abbey Road. The Beatles' final recorded album (Let it Be, despite coming out in 1970, was already in the can before the Fabs entered EMI Studios in Abbey Rad for the last time). Beatles historian Mark Lewisohn is touring the country later in the year giving his unique take on the events that made Abbey Road, quite literally, The End. And he's coming to a venue near me, so I'm well chuffed.
Joey Ramone may have left this earth (as too have all the original Ramones), but he still looks down on New Yorkers: the sign for Joey Ramone Place, if you look high enough (it's been stolen so many times it's now been sited where it can only be reached by basketball players) is in the Bowery district, close to the site of a (long gone) club where he and the band played many of their 2,500+ gigs: CBGBs - the New York punk venue.
Anna and Marie. Marie and Anna. Best friends. For Life. They met when they were both nine. That's gotta be 25 years in anyone's language. They looked out for each other then, and they look out for each other now. I love them both.
They told me on Friday they're going to Ibiza. Fueled by gin, and both in charge of heels higher than your average skyscraper, it could get messy. I think they may need a chaperone - my rates are very competitive.
My friend Emma* has recently taken delivery of a new bicycle. She's loving the open road, but is scared stiff she can't see a thing behind her. 'Get a mirror' I said. You always need to know who's behind you. Always.
My sad excuse for a bike, on the other hand, is lurking at the back of the garage somewhere; unloved and unkempt, sporting two perished tyres and a rusty chain. I can't remember the last time I donned the yellow shirt, lycra bottoms and Day-Glo bike clips. Maybe this is the answer: draw a cartoon of myself on the window of a New York cab and roll the film.
How good is this btw?
*No, not that Emma - Em's far too busy being mummy to the most beautiful baby in the world. XTC - I'd Like That
When we first took the Number One Son across the pond to New York City we did all the usual touristy stuff - Times Square, Central Park, the Chrysler Building, Empire State, Greenwich Village and, of course, Liberty Island.
As a Beatles nut (like his old man), James was keen to recreate John Lennon's iconic photo shoot in front of the Statue of Liberty. Who was I to deny him?
What makes a painting a great painting? I guess it all comes down to personal taste; just because Sotheby's (other auction houses are available) have catalogues full of canvases with asking prices north of what you'd pay for a Lear jet, or even a small island in the Bahamas, doesn't make them great. With maybe a one or two exceptions.
Back in 2006 I cut loose on a family vacation in New York, left Jenny and James back at the apartment devouring waffles and American TV, and spent a morning at the Metropolitan. Therein I lost all track of time and just immersed myself in ART! In a museum bigger than the town I currently live in, I wandered through vast halls in what I can only describe as a heightened state. And then, maybe an hour in, I found what I was looking for. A visiting Edward Hopper exhibition was in town, and they'd brought the big one: despite having practically grown up with Nighthawks - on posters, prints and postcards - nothing prepares you for the sheer size of the thing as you approach it from the far end of the room.
The painting measures 60" x 33 1/8 " and hits you like a sledgehammer. It did me, anyway. I stood, just a couple of feet from it for a good thirty minutes. My eyes took in every square inch of canvas as I tried to memorise it. I wanted to shut my eyes and still see it. It worked. And it still works - as a mindfulness exercise, I can recommend it.
Hopper, who painted his masterpiece in 1942, was very vague about the inspiration behind the diner and where, and, indeed, if it existed. The clever money is on a little place in Greenwich Village that was later torn down, but nobody really knows. This picture (left) claims to be it, but isn't.
As with most great paintings it's been parodied more times than Downfall. Yet, as with most forms of imitation, a lot of them are very flattering. My favourites are the pixellated version, Star Trek and the one that hangs in Medd Towers - try and spot the game it's depicting. The fact that the diner is called Chalkies may give it away.
Here's a quirky little film bringing the painting alive:
In the summer of 1974 the rock behemoth that was Led Zeppelin retreated to the country and recorded a selection of tunes that would come to define them. The resulting album would be their Exile on Main Street, their White Album, if you will. That's right, an album so big in every sense of the word it would have to be released as a double album and housed in an all singing, all dancing, gatefold sleeve. Physical Graffiti, when it came out in February of the following year, would, at a stroke, put every rock album that had ever been released before it in the shade.
The sleeve depicts a pair of tenement blocks in New York and as men of a certain age (and women for that matter) will tell you, in the seventies you saw an album long before you ever heard it: the artwork was as crucial to the success of an album as the strength of its songs, the dexterity of the guitar solos or the dark art skills of the knob twiddlers.
And Physical Graffiti was no exception. From taking it out of the rack in the record shop, paying for it at the counter and bringing it home on the bus, you couldn't take your eyes off the cover. Where was the photograph taken? Who was that sat on the steps? What does it remind me of?
And, of course, the question we all asked ourselves: will it be as good as Houses of the Holy?
The answers I came up with: 96-98 St Mark's Place, Greenwich Village - where the basement is now home to Physical Graffitea. John Bonham. Jose Feliciano's Compartments (pictured above right) and, oh yes, it was as good as anything they would ever release.
A big thank you to the delightful Amy Rigby for letting me borrow her photograph of Nick Lowe, Wreckless Eric and Graham Parker taken in New York this summer. That three of the most influential movers in the UK pub rock, punk & new wave scene of the late 70s are still shakin' on the hill is testament to the fact these veterans are, 30+ years on, making some of the best records of their careers. But here at Medd Towers we have to ask - who got these men dressed?
Professional Bronxite Dion DiMucci surprised everyone in 1989, coming back after a long lay off, with a set of tunes produced by one of his biggest fans, Dave Edmunds. Yo Frankie gave the veteran Doo Wopper a more contemporary sound while still staying true to the early rock and roll singles he was churning out in the '50s with his band The Belmonts.
What didn't do it any harm either were the cameo appearances of two more fans, Lou Reed and Paul Simon; both of whom can be seen gurning at the camera in this promo video for Written on the Subway Wall.
In April 1973 John Lennon was fighting for his life: his American life. On 23 March he'd been served papers by the US Immigration Service giving him 60 days notice to leave the country. Or face deportation. His appeal was filed 3 April, but it would be another three years 'til Lennon got his Green Card.
His friend Neil Sedaka (pictured far right) wrote The Immigrant based on Lennon's lamentable
dealings with the authorities.
It was a frenetic time for the Lennons: April was also the month John and Yoko moved out of their apartment in Greenwich Village to the Dakota Building in Manhattan's Upper West Side. And we all know what horrors unfolded there in December 1980.
With the Number One Son home on University shore leave it's time to break the seal on the Quality Street and dig out the classic films which have to be viewed every Christmas. First up, The Odd Couple. Neil Simon caught Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau at the top of their game for the 1968 big screen adaptation of the classic stage play; we know all the lines by heart but that only makes watching this film more engaging year on year. On the couple of occasions we've rented an apartment in Manhattan I've always wondered if it would be suitable to hold poker nights with Oscar fixing drinks and Felix disinfecting the cards. The Medds have been known to try and recreate such sessions taking in a few hands of Rummy, with beer from the liquor store and pizza from Ray's on 5th Avenue.
It was the arse end of 1976. Disco was big. Arguably, funk was even bigger. The Sweet - best known then (and now, not a lot changes) for earlier glam anthems like Block Buster!, Ballroom Blitz and Hellraiser - were in the wilderness and looking for a new direction. Aren't we all.
