I've just acquired a pair of tickets to go and see Danny Baker later in the year on the final leg of his Good Time Charlie's Back! tour. I can't tell you how made up I am.
I spoke to him on the phone many moons ago when he was still doing the Morning Edition on Radio 5; of course he won't remember, but it's still locked in my memory bank all the same. That was when the BBC still let him play whatever damned records he liked. No playlist for him; oh no. Whether or not he ever played Lieutenant Pigeon's follow up single to Mouldy Old Dough is something I may have to ask him when I see him in September.
This is a story I'll definitely be coming back to later: ex Gen Xers Tony James and Billy Idol dropped a world exclusive on Jonesy's Jukebox yesterday - together with Steve Jones and Paul Cook from the Sex Pistols, they're gonna be getting together to play old Generation X and Pistols songs. I'm already very excited! I know, I should get out more. I love their little chat: it's like Spinal Tap meets Last of the Summer Wine. And when Billy and Tony talk about writing King Rocker in an afternoon to put a single on their Valley of the Dolls album, you can't not admire them.
You may have noticed that this blog has acquired a new mast head. I thought I'd put Even Monkeys Fall Out Of Trees out to pasture, along with the old JM logo. Like me, it was looking a bit tired. So, please welcome its shiny new replacement - Are We There Yet? will still carry on the well worn tradition of writing from the hip, with scant regard for its readership. Meet the new blog, same as the old blog.
But seriously, thanks to everyone who's rung my doorbell in the last eight years.
I've put a new battery in it now - so we should be good for another eight. At least.
Getting to Amsterdam these days is a piece of cake (no, not that sort of cake) - easier than London, almost: thirty minutes to the airport, a short hop to Schipol followed by a ten minute train ride to Dam Square. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Tim and I had both been before, but for some reason we'd never landed on Dutch soil together. Until Wednesday. Our trip had been planned for a while and was essentially a jolly-up to go and see Baxter Dury. Dury is a big deal in Europe and is treated like royalty in France, apparently. We'd got tickets to see him in the world famous (it really is) Paradiso Club: when the Stones played two semi-acoustic gigs there in '95 Keith Richards said they were the best shows the band had ever played; Keef probably says this a lot, however, recordings from both nights did end up on their Stripped album later that year.
The Paradiso is a converted church building and is equally as magnificent inside and out. It's virtually in the middle of the city and barely a five minute walk from our digs. So, bearing this in mind, coupled with the fact that we bought our tickets three months ago and bearing in mind also the fact that we'd been in town since lunchtime, there could be no excuse for rocking up late to this gig of all gigs. And you'd be right - no excuse whatsoever. Erm. Well, it's like this. Hang on a minute, I don't have to explain this to you.
"What time's he on?" The clue is on the ticket
Suffice it to say we only missed a couple of his early numbers - I blame strong liquor and pretty girls on bikes - and the set he turned in was immaculate. Baxter is a consummate front man. Like his old man before him, you can't take your eyes off the fella (well, maybe just for a second or two - to enjoy his rather lovely keyboard players standing either side of him).
When the show finished we could still hear music, so we padded up the stairs into the main auditorium and caught The Vamps playing to a room full (and I mean full) of teen girls screaming their bloody heads off. It was like Hard Day's Night meets Rollermania. And, yes, I know, apart from me and Tim, nobody in the room would get that reference. Not least the young kid who went down like a sack of spuds. The gig was temporarily halted, the houselights came up and the paramedics were in like Flynn (another obsolete reference, I know) administering mouth to mouth and, hey, back on with the show; our cue to leave.
A good night was had by all. I remember a lot of red lights and not much else. We emerged from our digs late the following morning for a classy breakfast in a classy joint (in a classy joint) followed by more Dutch beer, before saying goodbye to the city and a promise that we'd be back real soon.
Depending on your musical persuasion this little bit of tomfoolery will either leave you with a big smile on your face, or you'll be writing a stiffly worded letter to the CEO of Youtube complaining most bitterly that YouTube wasn't made for this sort of thing - "Stick to skateboarding cats and montages of Donald Trump offending all and sundry." Personally, I adore it. Although I don't have a Metallic bone in my body, the very idea that someone (Andy Rehfeldt) could see beyond Enter Sandman and turn it into a smooth jazz classic is genius. Pure genius. Let's clap it in.
I listen to Pete Paphides' Soho Radio show on Tuesdays. This week he laid down on the studio couch and bared his soul: "Black Coffee in Bed isn't really a Squeeze song", he said. "It just fell into the wrong hands. Everyone knows it's a Smokey Robinson song. Don't they?"
And so the floodgates opened: Somebody to Love was seemingly snatched from the Proclaimers at birth, and palmed out to Queen. Donald Fagen was just in the right place at the right time when Madness foisted Walk Between the Raindrops on him.
It's that kind of programme. I heartily recommend it.
I'll leave you with this:
In 1999, after posting flyers on telegraph poles that read "LOST SONG. GOES BY THE NAME OF BEAUTIFUL STRANGER", the Charlatans heard this coming out of their radio:
I've just acquired a pair of tickets to go and see Danny Baker later in the year on the final leg of his Good Time Charlie's Back! tour. I can't tell you how made up I am.
