Last year, not long before I was hospitalised, I was particularly pleased with a playlist I'd put together simply titled 'London'. So much so I sent it hither and I sent it thither. Most people seemed to like it. One of the standout tracks on it, for my money anyway, was Brian Protheroe's (minor) hit Pinball from 1974. I think it's probably one of the best songs about the capital ever written. Paul Weller has obviously got a soft spot for it too. You'll find his take on it contained within his new long player, 'Find El Dorado'. It's also the B-side of his new single (with a rather fetching green Parlophone sleeve; very retro).
Paul Weller had been sitting on our ticket money for about nine months, we reckoned. That's a long enough gestation period. And so last night Tony and I finally swapped the QR codes on our phones for a pair of seats up in the gods. (I loathe all seater venues. Give me a sweaty rock club where I can stand down the front every day of the week.)
Was he worth the wait? I think so. A great setlist, don't get me wrong. But the man himself has zero charisma. What passes for inter-song banter is banality personified, but, hey, you're not gonna change this prickly 66 year old modernist. He was monosyllabic when he walked off the tour bus and not much chirpier on stage. But that's Weller. Deal with it, as they say.
And anyway, who else can write songs as good as this? (Well, Suggs, actually: one of many co-writes on his new album.)
I talk a lot about the art of songwriting on this blog (and, of course, songwriters). I've also discussed at length how cover versions, if done 'correctly' (i.e. nothing at all like the source material), they can totally eclipse the original. And, if you trawl thru my back issues you'll also find many column inches given over to Paul Weller (who, I'm still hoping, I will be seeing live in a couple of weeks.)
So today's offering, I think, knits quite neatly all of the above into one mini featurette. When Paul Weller finally freed himself from the shackles of the Jam he let the world know that beneath that pent up angry persona (administering corporal punishment to his guitar night after night and railing into a microphone) was not just a brilliant songwriter, but an accomplished musician with a surprisingly plaintive voice. And so the Style Council (and a future solo career) was born.
A standout track from Cafe Bleu, their debut album, was this astute slice of social commentary wrapped around some beautiful jazzy chords. Here's Weller playing it on his tod. But not until he tells the audience to shut up.
Paul Weller - The Whole Point of No Return (1984)
In the late 90s Robert Wyatt released a splendid long player (his seventh solo album) called Shleep. Interestingly, Weller plays on a couple of tracks. But not this one. I could listen to Wyatt's version of Weller's song all day long; he brought something new to it. And that's kind of the whole point.
Robert Wyatt - The Whole Point of No Return (1997)
Paul John Weller clocked up his 64th birthday last week. I wonder if he rented a cottage in the Isle of Wight - if it wasn't too dear, that is? I distinctively remember coming out of my local record shop in 1977 gleefully clutching my copy of the Jam's debut album In the City thinking that whilst Weller was hellava lot older than me I could relate to what he and his bandmates were railing against. Turns out Paul only had the jump on me by a couple of years (tho' back then that seemed like a massive gulf) and, despite being an angry young man, his first collection of two and a half minute punk workouts amounted to nothing more than being slightly miffed about living in Woking and not London. (A mere 31.2 miles from his front door to Wardour Street according to the RAC Route Planner.) He should have tried living a hundred miles up the A1 in Grantham; he really would have had something to be angry about then.
I've written before about Weller and his prickliness. Unless you're part of his inner circle he holds everyone at arms length. I can remember many moons ago interviewing his guitarist Steve Craddock about his gaffer's moodiness and you could almost see the wagons being circled. "He's a really funny guy" said Craddock. OK, whatever you say.
I wonder what Weller would make of today's selection? If he'd heard it in 1977 I'm sure he'd have hit the fucking roof; maybe not so today, who knows?
GospelbeacH - In the Desert (2019)
...
The thought of Weller mellowing is something I still can't grasp. I know he's not one, as a rule, to sit down on a stool with just a microphone and his acoustic guitar and bare his soul (with the odd exception), so the idea of him doing precisely that and revisiting and reinterpreting his earlier work would be an anathema. But I'd pay good money to hear him do something like this...
Boxing Day. A day to relax. A day to do precisely nothing; the square root of nothing, no less. There's even a formula for this prolonged bout of inactivity: e=√FA That said, I am reading a rather splendid book at the moment, whilst simultaneously demolishing nearly half a tin of Quality Street. Oh, and I've hung a few pictures this afternoon that have been leaning against walls for far too long. And I'm currently compiling a couple of playlists. Downtempo playlists, if you will; nothing too strenuous, nothing too upbeat. Not today. Not on Boxing Day.
Paul Weller bookends the first one with two different versions of My Ever Changing Moods - one of my fave Weller songs from his Style Council days. He did a rather tasty piano version 30+ years ago and then, last year I think, included it in a specially recorded BBC session - a version reflecting his now slightly reduced vocal range (Macca, a hero of Weller, does something very similar when he sings Beatles songs these days).
Paul Weller was in town this week. For some reason I didn't fancy it; I'm kicking myself now.
I wonder if he played anything off All Mod Cons? You're probably aware that this year marks its ruby anniversary. Christ, where did the last 40 years go? (I can remember clearly the day I bought my copy) - the worrying thing being that 40 years prior the Second World War hadn't yet broken out. Stop the world I want to get off.
Anyway, you can keep Down in the Tube Station at Midnight and 'A' Bomb in Wardour Street - if I'd been at the Arena on Tuesday night I'd have asked him, politely, to "play that silly little poem you wrote when you didn't know any better." The words are naff, obviously, but it has a certain charm nonetheless. Chances are he'd have probably pretended not to hear me, but I think Fly would make any Weller Top 10 (there he goes with the lists again), don't you?
Jack Vettriano is no Hopper. But then again he'd be the first to tell you that. And his work may well be panned by serious art critics (whoever the hell they are); indeed his portrayal of women has been portrayed as crass soft porn. Come on, really?
But when I was looking for an image that summed up just how bloody hot it was today, I didn't have to look further than Vettriano's Heatwave.
And a big thank you to the young lady who joined me for a couple of dust-cutters this evening. Here's to a long hot summer; cue the Style Council.
You don't often see Paul Weller drop his guard; but when he fluffs the intro to English Rose in the clip below, Weller actually breaks into a grin; there never were such times.
When he first put Rose on The Jam's All Mod Cons album he never even credited it on the sleeve; such was his aversion to (at that time) writing tender love songs. Also, back in 1978, Weller didn't know what dyed in the wool Jam fans would make of anything that didn't come thundering out of the speakers like a tube train emerging from a deafening tunnel.
I heard recently that Paul Weller has bought a pile just up the road from me; though I've yet to see him at the local supermarket or newsagents buying his twenty Benson.
Weller has a reputation for being one of the grumpiest coves in the business, so he should fit in well round here. I ruminated on this blog a while back that we should invite him to one of our acoustic nights. Now that he's one of us there's no excuse why he can't join our local Songwriters Circle. That said, he'd have to come along each month with a song every bit as good as one of these:
* Pretty Green
* English Rose
* That’s Entertainment
* The Bitterest Pill
* Butterfly Collector
* Brand New Start
* Moon On Your Pyjamas
* Wild Wood
And if he could pen something half as good as this, we'd award him God like status in a heartbeat: nothing's so sure.
When Paul Weller decided to cover Black is the Colour he strayed as far from his mod credentials as he'd ever done in his career; unfortunately he'd bought a return ticket. Imagine if he'd stayed in that folky netherworld and not come back. His voice really does suit ballads and dirges. A friend of mine has got his 'phone number - I'm very tempted to blag it and give The Bard of Woking a call: 'Paul, do you fancy coming up to our acoustic night and playing a few tunes? No, I'm perfectly serious. We're only a little club so we'd only be only to pay your petrol. But we've got a spare bed if you want to crash the night. Don't worry, you don't have to sing any shanties. Well, not unless you want to.'
On this day in 1977 Polydor Records signed up and coming Mod revivalists The Jam; whether or not the suits journeyed out to Woking to get the lads' signatures isn't documented. A handful of weeks later they recorded and released their debut single In The City; the album of the same name quickly followed with ten more amphetamine fuelled R'n'B nuggets. This footage shot at Manchester's Electric Circus captures them at precisely that time.
