1970 (1/5)

It was Sandy Denny who asked the perennial question: Who knows where the time goes? And having recently compiled a photo book for James' 30th - a job that saw me rifling thru literally thousands of photographs, slides and digital images - I know. God, I know. But, like asking how they get the stripes into a tube of toothpaste - we all kinda pretend not to.

Which brings me to today's offering. Anyone still following me after all these years will know the glue that binds this whole shaky caravan together is four parts shooting from the hip, one part premeditated. Themes or lists (apart from annual roundups) happen when they happen, or, most likely, don't happen when they don't happen. But, for some unfathomable reason I have five songs in my head that were all released in 1970. And even those at the back of the class will know that that's 50 years ago in anyone's language.

So, rather than blurt them all out in one hit I'm going to release them into the ether one at a time.

First up, Slade. Long before Noddy Holder discovered mirrored top hats and indeed before Dave Hill found an alternative use for Bacofoil, Slade were a bunch of Black Country skinheads trying to catch a break. They obviously succeeeded, but not before dispensing with the Ben Shermans, Sta Press and 14 eye DMs (your mum probably called 'em bovver boots). And they sounded like this:

Slade: One Way Hotel (1970)

Different Drum

I''m really looking forward to reading the Michael Nesmith autobiography I've just ordered - Infinite Tuesday. Whilst I think all four Monkees are fascinating individuals, there's something about the one they call Nez that I can't quite put my finger on. And no, it's not his trademark wooly hat, though I will be hugely disappointed if I find his titfer hasn't been granted its own chapter.

As part of a research project I'm currently carrying out - putting the case for his 1972 album And the Hits Just Keep on Comin' being one of the greatest recordings of the 20th Century - it will, I'm sure, prove invaluable. In 1972 you won't be surprised to learn that I was still watching the Monkees syndicated TV reruns on our newly acquired Radio Rentals telly; I had no idea that Nesmith had already left the band, ditched the hat, grown a beard and single handedly invented Alt. Country. All I knew back in 1972 was that Last Train to Clarksville was a song I knew I would love for the rest of my life* and that I really wanted my dad to trade in his J reg. Hillman Hunter for a Monkeemobile**.

* I have
** He didn't

Michael Nesmith: Different Drum/Harmony Constant - 1972

Heaven Only Knows

In the ten years this blog has been in existence I can honestly say I've lost count of the number of truly great songs I've written about and shared. Just when you think - not for the first time - that all the gold has been mined, a nugget so big and so bright rises to the surface just begging to be heard.

Geraint Watkins, he of the Balham Alligators and Nick Lowe sidekick (to name but two senior positions he's held over the years) knows a thing or two about the art of songwriting. I think I said as much here. With Watkins there is no fat; no filler. Any excess will have been trimmed in the editing suite (if not before) so all that's left is a song in its purest form. Not a word (or indeed syllable) too many or too few set against a melody so achingly beautiful you wonder why more artists aren't covering his stuff.

This is from his latest long player, Rush of Blood, which came out last September. I can't stop playing it. And I can't stop loving it.

Geraint Watkins - Heaven Only Knows (2019)

"He's very clean"

John Junkin said it. John Lennon said it. "He's very clean" they both said. I know they were talking about Paul McCartney's grandfather, but my penchant for a bath most weekday nights, in addition to my daily morning shower and, well, I'm surprised sometimes I don't squeak. I'm hoping Carson Robison's theory that too much bathing will weaken you is not based in fact.

Hancock's Half Hour

Apparently NHS 111 is creaking: listening to James O'Brien on LBC this morning, concerned callers - who may or may not have Coronavirus - are, in some cases, taking over 30 minutes to get put through to a human being. I guess that shouldn't come as a surprise. Will the NHS be able to cope with a global pandemic? Systemic starvation of funding to our health service over the last decade was never going to end well, was it? Then again, when you look at the clown heading up the department, you'll wonder in amazement that the NHS is still 'a thing'. Given his (and his paymasters) way the whole kit and caboodle would be replaced in a trice by shiny stars & stripes, pay as you go, Recovery Hotels available only to those earning telephone number salaries.

But I digress. While you're at home self isolating and wondering if and when things will ever get back to normal*, you could listen to this:

Todd Rundgren - Influenza (1997)

* They won't