One way of life - and that's your own

On Friday I went to see the Levellers play an acoustic set at Buxton Opera House. I felt slightly regretful and guilty because I had been given their new album to review for Sloucher, and I hadn’t got round to it for a variety of domestic reasons. I could have been better prepared for a set of new material, but I needn’t have worried because all the old favourites were there too. The lovely Moulettes opened for them – and joined them on stage later. Accomplished musicians with great arrangements, they were very suited to the acoustics of the Opera House. For those of you not familiar with Buxton Opera House, it’s a little gem of a theatre designed by Frank Matcham. Ornate, intimate, gilded, it is home to opera festivals , Gilbert and Sullivan festivals, tribute bands, comedians, local theatre groups and the rest. I had seen the Levellers there in 2008, just before their massive Royal Albert Hall event. It was a wall of sound, with a sea of fans crashing against it. A bit of a shock to my system but very exciting. It’s the only time I have seen girls on the shoulders of boys on the shoulders of bigger boys! They reached up to the level of the circle. The Opera House staff seemed to cope without being heavy handed. Last Friday’s crowd weren’t quite as acrobatic, but they were certainly as enthusiastic. About three songs in there was a surge to the stage, mostly men of a certain age. Jim Morrison once drawled on a live recording something along the lines of “So this is New York – only the guys rush the stage’. I had seen something similar a few years ago when the Beat played Buxton – all those middle aged Ska boys dancing like there was no tomororow, and no yesterday. All the favourite songs were sung, the audience punched the air, sang along, dreadlocks flew and great time was had by all. It’s a mixed age audience too – children and parents – maybe even grandchildren. Perhaps it’s the influence of the festivals they have played at. I rediscovered the Levellers when my son Charlie came across them as a young teenager. Memories of the songs, their collective political stance and their support of the travellers in the late 80s and early 90s. I don’t know if they are still working as a collective, but I bought a t shirt from the incredible didgeridoo player at the interval! And he certainly blew a few cobwebs out of the carved woodwork and dusty velvet of the Opera House. It’s wild rebel music, raising the roof, ‘Out Demons Out’ as the Edgar Broughton Band would have screamed. I love the energy and enthusiasm. It’s not my tribe but it’s great to see their tribe in action. We were home in time for Jools Holland, but I couldn’t cope with seeing the Beach Boys and John Lydon. I saw the Beach Boys when ‘Good Vibrations’ was in the charts and I don’t want to think of the nasty behaviour that’s going on over a brand name. I missed the Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, tried to see them at Wigan Casino (and got picked up on suspicion of selling drugs – another story and we weren’t) and can only think of an advert for margarine when I see Mr Lydon now. Thank goodness the amazing film about George Harrison was on BBC4 again.

It's only rock 'n' roll but I like it

I was terrified. My hands were trembling as I tried to adjust the microphone and my knees were knocking under my fifties style skirt. Julian the junkie drummer had just fallen off the back of the stage, bringing the last number to a messy end. Now he was back in place, and the set list told me it was my solo. The Paris Sisters’ ‘I Love How You Love Me’. What on earth was I doing here? ‘Here’ was the cavernous Market Hall in Haverfordwest. For some reason our manager had booked us in on a tour of the outer reaches of Wales. We were a rock ‘n’ roll revival group in the early nineteen seventies. Two sax players, one on bass sax, three girl backing singers, a lead singer, lead and rhythm guitarists and a bass player. A nine piece band, all with alter egos, and stage names – Edsel Odeon, Rocco Lampone, Timmy Shirt, Leroy Cool, Pete L’Eau (guess what his real name was) and we were Peggy, Debbie and Jo-Anne, though we never worked out who was which. There was a slightly surreal aspect to playing Haverfordwest . Normally we played small clubs and student unions. Sha Na Na, Alvin Stardust, Shakin’ Stevens and Showaddywaddy were part of a popular fifties revival and we rode the wave. However in this part of Wales the fifties had never gone away, and there were authentic teddy boys in the crowd. I expected a rumble to break out and flick knives to appear at any minute, and we had already planned a quick get away. Unfortunately Julian the junkie drummer was the only drummer available for our tour, and he had already drawn some unwelcome attention. It all started when I moved back to Manchester to live in an infamous shared house. I’d dropped out of my first University course, and my parents had encouraged me not to return to the family home. I had Annie’s room, Annie having gone to live on a kibbutz, a rite of passage for several disaffected Catholic girls I knew. I therefore also inherited Annie’s place in the band. We rehearsed in a cellar lined with egg boxes for soundproofing. Pat and Cathy were the other two Rockettes, and Pat’s mother taught us the hand jive, ideal for such a confined space. We also choreographed dances more suited to the stage performances. We bought authentic fifties clothes in jumble sales and charity shops. We wore our hair in high ponytails. Us girls had day jobs, but the boys were serious about their music. Our manager was also very serious about music, and our material was authentically from the fifties, except for a couple of very convincing songs the boys had written for themselves. There were many adventures on the road in the two and half years the band stayed together. Important connections and friendships were made, many of which still exist, though the lead singer and the manager have joined that heavenly band of rock ‘n’ roll brothers. Ten years ago we reformed for Annie’s 50th birthday party. Almost as terrifying an experience as my first solo in Haverfordwest. There was always safety in numbers though, and the audience were very kind. After Annie’s 50th I discovered a singing class in the local programme of adult education classes, ‘Singing for the Terrified’. I joined, adding my trembling voice to others equally timid and I am still going. It’s now called something along the lines of ‘Singing for Pleasure’. It’s led by a well known harmony singer and song writer. There are no auditions, everyone’s welcome, it’s very informal and friendly. Two hours of harmony singing a week is great for the soul and for peace of mind. I was reminded of my singing past when I signed up last week, having just been to Annie’s 60th birthday party. Could it really be ten years since I nervously joined the class? Coincidentally last week there was also a lot of media publicity about a short video made in 1972 to welcome students to UMIST in Manchester. I saw a preview of the video on a big screen at a magazine launch at Manchester City Art Gallery. To my amazement, three minutes in was a shot of the Students’ Union noticeboard. There was a poster for Drive In Rock and the Rockettes, appearing at Manchester Polytechnic. Proof I hadn’t imagined it! I found my voice with Drive In Rock and the Rockettes. I’m still using it when I sing in harmony or write about my experiences .

Rock the Casbah

Last weekend was the Wirksworth Festival. The sun always seems to shine for the Art and Architecture trail - perhaps too much for my friend Maja's tiny wax houses in a south facing bakery window. It's a great place, perched on a hill, like a seaside town without the sea - though it was part of a tropical lagoon once, which is why the limestone quarried there is so special. There's too much to see and do in one day, but over the years I have learnt to go with the flow. On our way back to the car, we thought we would just pop in to the Moot Hall to catch Bill Aitchison's 'Vinyl' an interactive piece involving old records. When we got there he was playing the Staples Singers 'Come Go With Me' on a neat little record deck. There was a man with a box of singles, who had been visiting his daughter. We were invited to choose something from this box of vinyl treasures. The woman ahead of me chose Soft Cell's Tainted Love and then Bill interviewed her about her associations with it. Basically, she didn't like Soft Cell's version any more, but it reminded her of the record collection she had shared with her brother. Flicking through, I came across Rock the Casbah, and was reminded of my return from a year working in Casablanca back in 1981. I was completely changed by the experience. I had run away from Thatcher's Britain, the spectre of unemployment and the prospect of a miserable winter ( not to mention a break up with my boyfriend)and ended up getting a job teaching English in Morocco. There were many adventures whilst I was there, and loose ends to be tied up on my return. I'd heard stories of attempts on the King's life, and if you listen to the lyrics it tells the tale of one I knew about. Morocco had been the place to go in the hippy days, but by 1980 when I went it had lost some of its perceived glamour. I had loved it. I didn't expect to hear a band like the Clash sing about Morocco and its politics. It may not even be about Morocco and King Hassan Deux, but for me it was, and it revived and reinforced my memories.Thanks Bill.

A lazy bastard living in a suit

Lazy Bastard As I mentioned in my last post, I was going to see another poet who sings. You may have guessed that this was Leonard Cohen. We had booked tickets for Hop Farm, but the venue was changed. Thanks to my friend’s quick response to the news, we were able to get seats 11 rows back from the stage at Wembley. Not even far enough back to see the big screens! As the woman behind me said “I’ve waited 47 years for this!” I first heard Leonard Cohen on one of the Rock Machine albums back in the day, and his mournfully beautiful songs were the soundtrack to a period of teenage angst, whenever I needed to indulge in a bit of the old misery. I rediscovered him about 20 years ago with ‘I’m Your Man’ and grew to love the golden voice, the wry and regretful lyrics and the amazing musical arrangements of his new work. On Sunday night he literally hopped, skipped and jumped onto the stage, often kneeling to sing. The first time he did it, I felt a bit panicky that a man of his age (78 I’m told) might not be able to get back up, but like the Dalai Lama, he is very sprightly. He is more than sprightly – he is remarkable. It was a 3 hour performance with a half hour break. We needed the half hour to get through the queue for the Ladies – it seemed it was more for us than him. The musicians were amazing – have a look at the line up for the new album to follow them up. It was beautifully staged, with amazing lighting. Intriguing projections of two of his paintings during the intervals, and elegant draped curtains suffused with colours during the songs. The musicians could have been dwarfed by the height of the backdrop, but their silhouettes were dramatic as they crossed the stage and re grouped between numbers. Even the roadies wore homburgs! The backing singers were stunning, elegant in masculine suits, choreographed and graceful. The Webb sisters even did a synchronised cartwheel at one point! No end to their talents! Sharon Robinson’s solo ‘Alexandra Leaving’ was breathtaking. Old and new songs, all arranged and performed beautifully, elegantly. Leonard Cohen was measured, respectful of the songs, the audience and his fellow performers. It was curiously old fashioned, European, well mannered and respectful with more than a hint of the gypsy. No spitting, swearing or sweating here. It would have been my concert of the year if I hadn’t seen Patti Smith two days before. But I can’t turn back the clock and I am changed forever. ‘I love to speak with Leonard, he’s a sportsman and a shepherd, he’s a lazy bastard living in a suit’. No lazy bastard on stage on Sunday, and how strange that the image of a shepherd should come up in the lyrics of another poet who sings.

Because the Night

I’m going to start this post with a story. In the early nineteenth century there was a young woman who worked as a laundress, travelling from remote farmsteads to small hamlets, helping the housewives with their monthly wash. Her long fingered hands were raw from lye. Her arms were mottled and powerful from the scrubbing in cold water and the wringing of sheets. At one of these farms she met a young shepherd. “That’s the man I’m going to marry” she said to herself, and four years later she did. They ran on their own flock of hardy sheep on the mountain, and took on a smallholding. They had two children, a boy and a girl. Then her husband died. Now a young widow, she didn’t want to give up the only home her children had known. They could manage the smallholding and the flock if they worked together, and she was as capable as any man. She became a shepherd, not a delicate shepherdess, no Little Bo Peep. There was grace and strength in her movements. She wore her husband’s clothes - a waistcoat, his old flannel shirt, an over sized man’s jacket, even trousers tucked into his boots. Her hair grew long. The house was down a long track, remote in the beauty of the landscape that inspired the Romantic poets, absorbed into her being in every waking moment. She was rarely seen, but once a year she took her sheep to market, reminding the farmers and their wives of her story. Each year they were impressed by her courage and determination, and her ability to survive. On Friday night I went to see Patti Smith in Manchester. I had seen her interviewed by John Robb, at a lunchtime session at the tiny Library Theatre in Sheffield. Robert Mapplethorpe’s photos were on display in the Graves Gallery, and she was promoting her book ‘Just Kids’. She sang ‘Because the Night’ at the end of the interview, and we sang with her. She was charming, fascinating, intelligent, funny and thought provoking. It was an inspiring moment for me. One of my friends had seen her at a performance in Sheffield that same day. Another had seen her at the Apollo thirty five years before. This woman is a legend, and that raises expectations. So – how to describe her? Her androgynous beauty is still beyond compare. There were t-shirts for sale with Robert’s iconic image of her printed on them. Her beauty has become more solid, more earthy. With her long hair half plaited, wearing her signature jacket, waistcoat, t-shirt, jeans and boots, with her wedding ring on a chain round her neck, and a ring flashing on each hand, she redefines the sexual allure of rock n roll. I’m guessing it’s her wedding ring, because she held it whenever she spoke of her late husband, Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith. Sweating, spitting, snarling, swearing, smiling, she was totally engaged with her music, the band and the audience. A poet who can sing. A punk who is both a mother and a widow. A woman who can tease about practising her catwalk walk back on stage for the encore, but who moves with grace and fluidity, acting out her lyrics, throwing her arms wide to draw us in ‘Come, Come’, and then high to remind us that we have the power. She dances like a teenager. She has balls. Eye contact and a smile for the audience members. Then eyes closed, looking like the death mask of a Romantic poet. Song after song, old and new, supported by Lenny Kaye and a great band. When Lenny and the lads did their own songs, she came down to the front of the stage to connect with the audience. “Because the Night’ that hymn to passion, longing, lust and love was full of power. ‘I want your babies’ shouted a man in the audience. This is a woman in her mid – sixties.’ Age shall not wither her – nor should it wither any of us. And any woman who feels the pressure to become a commodity in the music business world should take a look at her. It was hot, and as she said, we were all ‘hot’. Beyond politics, beyond religion, she talked to us of freedom, ‘outside of society’. Becoming true, free, wise to being fooled and manipulated. ‘Work hard, stay clean’. Making her protests about so called friendly fire – the only weapon is a guitar, and sharing her support of the members of Pussy Riot. And why the story? Well she revealed that her ancestry was Cumbrian, Welsh and Irish, launderesses and shepherds. We started bleating. She called us her flock of black sheep, and she sang the nursery rhyme to us. We sang along. Past and present, childhood memories and future associations. New fans and old, those there because they thought they should be, those there because it had been a long time coming. We all shared the power, the beauty, the air, the breath, literally inspiration. Create or explode. We were speechless when we left. I managed to articulate, ‘I know where I’m going now’. By that I mean that I have rediscovered my tribe, my flock, my calling. And coincidentally I am going to see another poet who sings tonight. More of that later.