This afternoon I found myself listening to The Sounds of Jimmy Smith, his long player from 1957. I'm guessing a young Keith Emerson probably played this album a lot when Emerson Lake & Palmer were writing Brain Salad Surgery. The Fight predates prog by a good ten years and is almost certainly the template for ELP's Karn Evil 9; God knows what the jazzers made of this when it landed on their turntables.
Long before Planking (the lying down game) was invented, I took this photograph of a friend of mine: Simonjohn went in for a lot of that sort of thing. And as long as I had a camera about my person I never dissuaded him. On the contrary. I'm sure later that same day he lay down in front of a lifeboat on the slipway. Having not seen him for thirty years I can't categorically say that his planking days are behind him. But I'm guessing that along with liberating 'For Sale' boards from people's front gardens and storing them in his bedroom, it's a pastime that has been consigned to the history books. Probably.
I'd never seen this photograph until yesterday. Uncropped and away from its Rubber Soul context, it's just four men in the park. Standing in front of a bush. But what really jars with me is John Lennon's trousers: he's wearing jeans. Or denims as they were probably referred to at the time. Not a hangable offence by any stretch of the imagination; it just doesn't sit right with me. I realise that the matching suits had long gone and the Sergeant Pepper dressing up hamper wouldn't come out for at least another 18 months. But, I don't know, it's just not...right.
I've never written a fan letter. But there are two I wished I had penned. Too late now, both would be recipients are on the other side: George Harrison, a frequent cameo stalwart of this blog, and Keith Waterhouse. And who, to the best of my knowledge, never met.
Keith Waterhouse the Leeds born writer and (some would say) inventor of the liquid lunch was a wordsmith who could turn his typewriter to novels, short stories, screenplays, TV, newspaper columns and still be back in the pub for last orders.
If I had scribbled a few words to him I would told him that from the day his seminal Billy Liar appeared on our English Language O Level Sylabus I've never not had a book on the go. In fact, I'm currently rereading Office Life: a A Waterhouse novel from 1978 which, I'm sure Magnus Mills used as the template for his The Scheme For Full Employment. But he was so much more than Billy Liar (not that he needed me to tell him that); scriptwriter for The Frost Report, That Was The Week That Was and Whistle Down The Wind gained him serious credibility in the 60s. And, with his good friend and co-writer Willis Hall, came up with one of the 70s most memorable TV series - Budgie. Adam Faith brought their script alive and depicted a seedy and down at heel Soho while still giving its characters - Budgie Bird and Charlie Endell - and their surroundings a rich and multilayered veneer. Jeffrey Bernard Is Unwell proved he had lost none of his magic and later novels like Bimbo, Our Song and Palace Pier were among his best ever. The latter possibly being the finest depiction of Brighton after Patrick Hamilton's West Pier. Looking back, it's probably just as well I didn't write. It may have left one or both of us feeling a little foolish. Maybe I should have just bought him a drink instead. Cheers Keith.
Do you recognise the girl above? Would you be able to pick her out in an identity parade? Chances are that even if you couldn't your parents almost certainly would be able to tap her on the shoulder; though they probably wouldn't know what she was called.
Tina, her given name, was as ubiquitous as flock wallpaper in households during the 60s and beyond. She took pride of place, clutching that tree for dear life, above many a mantle up and down the land. Art? Sort of. Wall decoration? Most certainly.
She was the brainchild of artist J H Lynch who would conjure up these nymph photofits and fill a whole canvas with a pretty face, cascading hair and bare shoulders. Always on the right side of the prevailing decency and moral codes of the day, Lynch had discovered a winning formula and he stuck to it. These days Jack Vettriano ploughs a similar furrow.
