Reasons to be Cheerful - again!

Last night I went to Nottingham Playhouse to see a fantastic performance by Graeae Theatre Company. Ten of us went. Their marketing co-ordinator is my friends’ daughter, and we wanted to support her.
The show is called Reasons to be Cheerful, and as I write this, they will be warming up for their last performance of the run.
It’s a play based on Ian Dury and the Blockhead’s music.
There’s a story threaded through, set back in the late 70s. There’s a family coping with terminal illness, a desperate desire to get tickets to see Ian Dury and the Blockheads, and some late teen rites of passage.
Graeae Theatre Company are an inclusive theatre company, and this means some of their performers could be described as disabled.
Suspend your preconceptions about musicals. Suspend your preconceptions about what might be meant by disability.
This show is a message for our times, in spite of being set in the 70s. Politically we are all facing the same problems. And Ian Dury’s music, and the themes of the story resonate just as powerfully in 2012.
There is more to this show than a great back catalogue of songs threaded through a story, imaginatively and enthusiastically performed. The choreography incorporates signing. A character in the corner appears to be on an old payphone, but he’s describing the action on stage for those who can’t see it. There’s a screen that’s used for projections of the script as it’s spoken and some brilliantly chosen images and photographs to enhance the action. The main vocalist has Ian Dury’s jacket slung over the back of his wheelchair, given to him by the Blockheads in recognition of what they are all doing for Ian’s legacy.
Seeing the lyrics on screen makes you realise what an exceptional poet and wordsmith Ian Dury was. Every word, every little phrase expresses multiple meanings and conjures up images and connections. A rap artist, an artist, a performer, a poet, a vocalist. It’s very powerful. When I spoke to one of the signers after the show, he said the most difficult thing is to express the nuances and innuendoes – it’s a challenge to sign such clever and intricate wordplay.
They have played Hackney Empire, with the Blockheads in the front row. ‘Oi, Oi’.
It’s a celebration and a tribute. A rediscovery and an affirmation of everything he stood for.
‘Spasticus Autisticus’ was banned from airplay by the BBC, fearful of offending. It’s an anthem and a battle cry. Maybe they just didn’t want something so powerful broadcast far and wide. As the band on stage perform it, there’s a montage of images on the screen, all terrifyingly familiar from my youth. Collection boxes for cripples. Models of a boy in callipers, holding a collecting box for your loose change. They used to be on every counter and outside the high street shops with a conscience. And then you look at the people on stage, and you recall Ian Dury, white silk scarf, black leather glove, silver topped cane. Part teddy boy, part dandy, part Sweet Gene Vincent. Razorblade earring and slicked back dark curly hair. A beautiful, stylish and charismatic man by any standards.
I met him twice. Once backstage at an Edgar Broughton Band gig in London in 1973, and later at Les Prior’s funeral in Heptonstall. Les was in Alberto y los trios Paranoias, and died too soon of cancer. The Albertos were on Stiff records and they became close.
I saw Ian Dury and the Blockheads in 1977, when I went to see the Stiff tour in Rochdale. We weren’t encouraged to dance in the aisles back then, but last night I got my chance to leap up and dance for the joy of it all to Sex and Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll. It’s been a long wait. I felt privileged to see Ian back in ’77 and I feel privileged to have seen the show last night.

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone. Discuss

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone.
It’s a line from a W B Yeats poem, September 1913, put to music by the Waterboys.
“Love Songs R Us’ said Mike Scott last Friday night at Bridgewater Hall in Manchester. Not just love songs.
The first set started at a level of passion and energy that made me wonder how any group of musicians could begin a concert at such a pitch. By the end of the evening, I was wondering how they stepped down and back into reality. It was an intense experience as a member of the audience. I believe what happened to us all for the two and half hours we shared together helps maintain their stamina and creativity. It certainly inspired and energised me.
A back catalogue is both a blessing and a curse, especially nowadays when Radio 2 airplay could lead us to believe that songs like The Whole of the Moon and Fisherman’s Blues were part of the mainstream in their day. We all expected to hear old favourites, but once the concert began, it was clear that they were covering more than old ground.
Irish Rock and Soul. Flashes of Thin Lizzy, Rory Gallagher and O’Carolan. Traditional jigs and reels. Steve Wickham’s transcendent electric violin, Mike Scott’s distinctively powerful voice, and a powerhouse rhythm section.
Mythical, spiritual, channelling Van Morrison, ‘the healing has begun’. Conjuring up whirling dervishes and faerie folk. I felt like the faerie queen, watching from my vantage point at the back of the circle. And this was before they even started on the set of songs based on W B Yeats poems – the arch poet of Ireland, mystic and occultist, as Mike Scott described him. The Pan Within – swing your hips, loose your head, let it spin. I surrendered and discovered the still point that’s at the heart of all the energy on stage. Goosebumps. The silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun. Shamanism at its most powerful, through movement, words and music.
And that brings me to the historic part of this post.
Over the years, from 1973 until the late 1990s I went to see Van Morrison, religiously – and I use that word deliberately. Sometime in the 1980s I recognised him as a shaman in the unlikely surroundings of the Ardwick Apollo. (Maybe the clue was in Apollo!) No matter that he was grumpy, disengaged from his audience, a hard taskmaster (an old friend was part of his team of roadies for many years), and a perfectionist. He pulled no punches. The first time I saw him, Summer 1973 at the Free Trade Hall, he stormed off stage, having lashed the audience in the balcony with his microphone lead for daring to take photographs during the performance.
I am now inspired to venture into the mystic once more. I sleep with a piece of Connemara marble under my pillow, and a bhrat bhride tied to the bedhead, courtesy of my friend Nora in Ireland. I am not afraid to acknowledge my belief in the power of music.

Chicago Blues where you wouldn't expect it

This morning I visited my favourite local charity shop, and I found a Blues compilation CD that features Junior Wells and Buddy Guy. I bought it. Last Monday there was a programme on Radio 4 about the post war political situation in Sarawak, a country that is part of the island of Borneo. You would imagine that there could be no possible connection between the two.But there is.
In 1967 my parents went to live in Kuching, the capital of Sarawak. My sisters and I were sent to convent boarding school in Matlock, but we spent our Christmas and summer school holidays with them in the far east. It was really hard to explain to friends what it was like then. Now people go on gap years to look at the rainforest or rescue orang utans ( man of the forest in Malay). Back then it took a minimum of three days to fly there. The quickest route was via Copenhagen, Tashkent and Singapore, and then a local plane across to Kuching. There was a post colonial social scene for our parents , and a small group of teenagers, all released from their boarding school prisons would meet up in the holidays and write to one another in term time. I'm still in touch with some of them. My interest in music was encouraged there - the public school boys loved their prog rock, and Cream ( Disraeli Gears), Hendrix ( Are you experienced?) and the Stones ( Their Satanic Majesties). My dad, a civil engineer out there, was a big jazz and folk fan, with a particular passion for Bob Dylan. He had vinyl and reel to reel. I had a prototype portable record player, bought in Singapore. Imagine jungle at the bottom of the garden. On the other side of that strip of jungle lived my friend who was also a Pink Floyd fan. He would play Interstellar Overdrive very loud from his bedroom balcony so I could hear it in mine. It's never sounded so good. Also Steve Miller's Song for our Ancestors, with its strange foghorn intro. Many years later I arrived early for work one evening at the Hacienda, and was transported back to the jungle. Rob Gretton was playing it full volume on the club sound system! Not what you'd normally associate with Fac 51.
So, plenty of recorded music, but not much live going on. Until one Christmas my parents got tickets for Junior Wells Rhythm and Blues Band at the local school. Looking at the ticket, I imagine they had come out to SE Asia to entertain the troops, still in Vietnam. The United States Information Service sounds like some sort of PR/ cultural exchange exercise. I knew a bit about Chicago blues.I was into Electric Flag, and had even bought a copy of Long Time Comin', which I still have.
As you can see I also still have the ticket and their autographs - a miracle given how many times I have moved house, and how long ago it all was.

Friday on my Mind

Back in late 1966 I met my first proper boyfriend at a Small Faces concert in Manchester. My friend Wendy and I were huge Steve Marriott fans ( and he was such a tiny man!) They were on at the Odeon, on the edge of St Peter's Square. We had to walk back down Deansgate to get to Victoria bus station to catch our buses home. We were about 13. We soon realised that some lads who had been at the concert were following us, in a nice way, nothing creepy. We got talking, exchanged phone numbers and I arranged to meet 'mine' the following Saturday in town. I lived in Eccles, he lived in Dukinfield. This was long distance love. We had our first kiss ( my first snog ever!) in the alley that led to the Hollies' boutique, just near Albert Square and King St. He was very into music - we'd bonded over a love of the Small Faces, but he played guitar, sang, wrote songs and eventually became a pop star in Italy. His mother was Italian. We met up again at the Magic Village a few years later. But back then I remember we would have long phone conversations, and he would play me records down the phone - Cat Stevens' 'Matthew and Son' and the Easybeats 'Friday on my Mind'. Later we shared a passion for Love's Forever Changes. I can still recall the frantic call telling me to put the phone down and watch Hendrix on Top of the Pops! Now everyone can share most music from any era over the internet - it's amazing, but nothing can ever be the same as standing in the hall of my parents' house, with their red telephone, listening to Friday on my Mind down the wires.

These Days or Janitor of Lunacy

Sometimes I find the connections a bit too overwhelming. Six degrees of separation and all that. Back in the early 80s I had returned from working in Casablanca to Manchester, and I got involved in the music scene there again. I used to do the door at various venues for Alan Wise, a promoter and manager, and for Factory records. I was working on the door the night the Hacienda opened, though I don't appear in 24 Hour Party People. Alan Wise helped Nico rehabilitate her career whilst maintaining her habit, and I saw her play at Rafters on Oxford Rd. James Young documents the whole sad story in his book Songs They Never Play on the Radio. I am glad I saw her, even though she was a long way from her myth creating days with Velvet Underground.I identified with her deep and tuneless voice.I can do a Nico when I want to! Jackson Browne gave her These Days to record - 'don't confront me with my failures, I have not forgotten them.' He was about 17 when he wrote those lines. Even at my age, it's hard to utter them out loud - they are very powerful words. So I sing the song occasionally with my youngest son, a la Nico, for bit of fun, and only in the kitchen.
So when she played Rafters, with her portable harmonium and her Gothic gloom, we felt we were in the presence of a post-punk Valkyrie.
C P Lee describes a slightly more tragic, but ultimately amusing encounter in New York in 1980. Alberto y los Trios Paranoias were there rehearsing Sleak, and they were told that Nico and Anita Pallenberg were going to come and see them. Two sex goddesses by any standards, the stuff of dreams and fantasies. Two women they thought were bag ladies turned up, worn and haggard from the sex and drugs and rock n roll.You can read about this in C P Lee's brilliant memoir When We Were Thin.
Not long after I moved to Bakewell, I bought a copy of James Young's book for a knockdown price in the wonderful bookshop my friends Keith and Sue ran here. I hadn't really acknowledged my past life in Manchester. To all intents I was a single mother of three children living a quiet life in the Peak District. The book gave me a thread back to an old way of life - a view of events I'd half experienced and people I had once known. As my generation write their stories it has become more common for me to encounter my memories through the prism of another's .
Some years later, when my older son was about 16, he made a musical connection with Antony Hegarty, of Antony and the Johnsons. Quite an achievement for someone brought up in Bakewell! Antony had sung with Lou Reed. He was fascinated by Nico, who had been dead for some years of course. I saw him several times when he toured in England, and he very kindly put me and my family on the guest list. I wanted to give him my James Young book on Nico, but I was a bit reluctant to let it go. This was before the days of book buying on the internet. I really wanted to find another copy. On the outskirts of Bakewell was a big discount book shop, full of travel and cookery books. I parked there one day. I wasn't even planning to go in. Under the awning outside was a small book case, with just one book on it, priced at 99p. It was Songs They never Play on the Radio.
So Antony got his copy and I still have mine.

I'm a believer

I was really sad to hear of the death of Davy Jones, the Manchester Monkee. I never saw him or any of the Monkees live, but I did once have a conversation with his dad! The Monkees were at the height of their popularity with their TV show. Somehow my friend, Judy Stokoe, and I got hold of Davy Jones' home phone number in Manchester. It can't have been as simple as looking for a Jones in the Manchester phone book. We dared ourselves to make the call at her house one afternoon. The phone was answered, and one of us said 'Hello, is Davy in?' I think it must have been me, because I can recall the polite and patient response - 'No, I'm sorry. He's in America filming.' But if Judy wants to claim it was her, I'll believe her. No speaker phones in those days - maybe we were just very close to the earpiece!
And not only were phones different, but so was the whole TV experience - if you were a fan of the Monkees you had no choice but to be in front of your television early on a Saturday evening - no i player, no videos, no DVDs, no youtube - if you missed it, you missed it.You daren't miss it!
My sister told me a friend of the mother of her son's ex-fiancee ( nearly six degrees of separation there!) claimed to have been engaged to Davy before he left for the States. I'm sure she wasn't the only girl in Manchester to try and lay claim.

Starry starry night

Last night my son and his girlfriend saw the meteor that streaked across the sky. I am very envious. Several of their friends saw it too, but I had just got back from a long but inspiring day in London, visiting the Hockney exhibition and then the Courtauld Gallery. There I had seen Van Gogh's self portrait with bandaged ear - not the one where he is smoking his pipe, pretending everything is normal! I was settled in for the evening, with no plans to venture out again.So I missed the meteor.
Don McLean received a lifetime achievement award at this year's Radio 2 Folk Awards. Watching him perform, I was reminded of going to see him in concert in the heady days of Vincent and American Pie. He was on at the Odeon in Manchester, just off St Peter's Square. It seems an unlikely venue now, but I saw lots of groups there - many of them on package tours. The Herd, the Small Faces, Dave Dee etc etc, Roy Orbison, Gene Pitney, Helen Shapiro even - and the wonderful Walker Brothers. If I think back, I can sometimes remember where I was sitting, who I was with, and even what I was wearing. Is this a sign of getting older?
Don McLean was in concert - I still have the ticket stub somewhere. The audience were extremely enthusiastic - he was at the height of his commercial success. It was unthinkable to categorise him as a folk singer then! In one song, we started to clap to the beat. He stopped singing and sternly told us to stop - it was putting him off!
I never felt the same about him again.