May I?

Tempting as it maybe to chip in with my two penneth about the demise of civilisation all around me, I think I'll stick to writing about music and musicians from the 1970s; which was kind of this blog's modus operandi in the first place. So, hard as it may be - forget Covid. Forget Brexit. Forget Johnson & Cummings. And forget Trump. Yeah, right.

***

Since returning from a relaxing few days away (my Easter break had been put on ice for six months) I've immersed myself in artists and bands collectively known as the Canterbury Scene. I'm sure many of you know its origins - if not, here's a quick overview. The roster of musicians and artists that came to prominence in this magical period (straddling the late 60s/early 70s) and the albums they churned out was prolific. And like most genres, and indeed sub-genres, there was the good, the bad and the ugly. But, you know what, even the bad and the ugly make for compelling listening. And some of the the stories that came out of 'the scene' are now legendary. For instance, when Robert Wyatt was kicked out of the Soft Machine (his own band), he formed a rival group straight away. He called them Matching Mole - a pun on machine molle - the French translation for Soft Machine.

Which would lead you to think I'd plump for a Matching Mole track today. Well, as my mother used to say, you know what thought did. 

No, instead I've gone for a beautiful song from one of the most influential musicians of all time. And if you don't believe me, this is what rock critic Nick Kent once said about him:


"Kevin Ayers and Syd Barrett were the two most important people in British pop music. Everything that came after came from them."

Kevin Ayers - May I? (1970)

Kevin Ayers (1944-2013)

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: