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.

Bakewell Music Festival - Acoustic once more

This was the third Bakewell Music Festival, formerly the Bakewell Acoustic Music Festival. A bit of history first. It was started in 2010 by Jonathan Rowland, something of a legend in Bakewell and beyond, as former manager of Rod Stewart and the man behind Captain Beaky. He got involved with the Bakewell Arts Festival in the early days, and brought Tim Rose in to perform a memorable concert. Jonathan is a great man for making connections, and he saw the opportunity offered by the chance to use the patrons’ marquee after the Bakewell Agricultural Show at the beginning of August. To those of us who live in Bakewell there is something slightly incongruous in seeing the rugby pitch and showground morphed into the venue for a music festival. I would love to know how it appears to the happy campers who have put this festival on the map. There are a few stalls and food tents, and Dave Kennedy from the fantastic Bakewell Music Shop moves across with his stock and his caravan for the duration. You can get a henna tattoo, a funny festival hat and a wood fired pizza. And the shops of Bakewell are a mere two minutes away. It’s odd living so close to the festival. It means that I have the comforts - and responsibilities - of home, and somehow fail to grasp the festival spirit. I have a feeling that it’s a very mixed spirit, due to the range of music represented. On Friday night the main band were from Sheffield – the Everly Pregnant Brothers. Spoof lyrics to well known songs, delivered with ukulele accompaniment and a Sheffield accent. The audience loved them, and most knew all the words. ‘No oven, no pie’ to the tune of Marley. It gave it a holiday camp feel. The wedding marquee with chandeliers and gold painted upholstered chairs added to this. Those Show patrons can show a festival crowd a thing or two about creature comforts. The ladies loos were a bit special too. On Saturday we went as a family to celebrate my mother’s birthday. My son, her grandson, is the singer in Neon Railroad. I told her not to wear her hearing aid, and I suspect she had cotton wool in her ears too. A great time was had by all – a fabulous home coming gig for the band. Dave Kennedy, their honorary manager (he doesn’t get paid) was moved to tears with pride, and so was I. In 2010 Charlie had appeared in the festival’s first Acoustic Idol competition, and Jonathan had told him to go and get experience in a band. He and the other members of Neon Railroad have done just that, and could hold their own at any festival. It was particularly sweet to see them on home ground. Sunday came round, and I was feeling slightly unfocussed about when to go down to the festival and who to see. I ended up watching String Driven Thing, with echoes of my past and the sensational Alex Harvey. It was good to see two generations on stage together, and the bass player had amazing stage presence. You will know what I mean if you were there. The timings were shifted and I missed Bo Walton because I needed to go home and make some tea – a case of responsibilities rather than home comforts, and a cause for regret. I resisted the temptation of the Olympics closing ceremony and headed back to the showground for the final acts. I met some friends and as we chatted we noticed the night drawing in – that’s August for you – but then we realised that all the power had gone off. No loos, no lights, no sound, no bar. The cry went up for an electrician in the house. One got up and disappeared into the gloom with the organisers. The last band had just arrived after a long and delayed drive from Bristol. They announced that they could do an acoustic set. Someone brought some solar powered fairy lights from their tent. A camping light was hung from the chandelier. Tables and chairs were moved into a circle. Their redundant keyboard player held a flashlight. Double bass, acoustic guitar, a simple drum and an electric guitar with a battery powered amp – and a singer with a beautiful, soulful voice. The Blitz spirit. It was a magical end to the festival. Triumph in adversity. ‘Intimate gone nuts’ as Yolanda said. The spookily named Phantom Limb had saved the day. At the end of their set they announced that Yolanda had been saving her voice – not that it showed – because they were recording a session for Bob Harris’ programme on Radio 2 the next day. I’d love to hear them at full power, but for those of us there I would say that their unplugged set will be a magical memory for the rest of our festival going lives. Then home for the megawatt spectacle that was the Olympics closing ceremony. I know which I preferred. And I saw the caravan of my dreamsand I didn’t know I even had a dream of a caravan – an Eriba Puck! Thanks Jonathan – looking forward to next year.

Reel to real

Reel to Real Last week I went to see Alisdair Roberts and friends in the Backroom at the Greystones pub in Sheffield. A venue with an interesting past and a lively present. This week my son is off to the Green Man festival at Crickhowell in the Brecon Beacons. We have seen Alisdair there twice – once as a very traditional Scottish folk singer on one of the small stages, and again as a bit of a rock god on the main stage. He has such a distinctive voice, and he appears to be unafraid of experimenting as a performer. The Backroom is a small space, and he was appearing with a traditional Gaelic singer and a puppet show. I had no idea what to expect. In those circumstances I should remember to expect the unexpected. The evening started with Gillebride Macmillan singing in Gaelic. For some strange reason we learnt traditional Gaelic songs at my Catholic grammar school in Salford. I was transported back to a concert we did, perhaps when I was 11 or 12 years old. I was also transported back to evenings spent in Kuching, Sarawak, where I spent my holidays from boarding school. A house on stilts, gekkoes climbing the walls, mosquito screens instead of windows. My father was a great fan of jazz and folk music. He had a Uher reel to reel tape recorder and a fantastic collection of tapes. Included in his collection was an evening’s worth of traditional Irish and Scottish gaelic songs by a variety of artists. He had another tape of poets reading their own works – Yeats, Eliot and Edith Sitwell stick in my memory. Jigs and reels, tales of love, longing and murder, and then freedom fighters’ songs – the political folk music of America. To round off the evening he’d play Joan Baez’s version of Farewell Angelina. Sometimes I fail to acknowledge the roots of my love of music, but I am recognising them now. Just as I was processing these memories, the Sokobauno Puppet Theatre started. Commissioned by the School of Scottish Studies , there were links I shared through my undergraduate degree at Leeds in the School of Folk Life and Dialect Studies. An inspired puppet version of a mummers play – ‘Galoshins’. Hard to describe but great fun to watch – Punch and Judy mayhem with a mummer’s twist and Scottish characters. Finally Alisdair did his own set. He had been performing all evening with the other artists, and it was great to hear his distinctive voice and pleasantly gloomy songs. Highly recommended as a evening’s entertainment.

How Sweet it is...

Last Friday I went to Chatsworth with my good friend Sheila, to an Ultimate Motown outdoor evening concert. I saw the Temptations ( or a group claiming to be them) at the CIS in Manchester back in the late 60s. I saw Smokey Robinson at the Bridgewater Hall about 5 years ago. I saw Junior Walker and the All Stars and Curtis Mayfield in Manchester in the early 80s. Sheila and I have been to a couple of good Motown tribute shows over the last few years.We weren't familiar with this particular version of the Motown back catalogue, and at first I wasn't sure if it was more Merseyside than Stateside. But it was a beautiful evening, they had great harmonies and slick moves. There were many people of a certain age there, revealing their misspent youth with Northern Soul moves and exuberant shapes. For me it was a collision of worlds - Chatsworth House as a backdrop, set in Capability Brown's apparently natural landscaping - I used to be a guide there. The skies were clear, and the moon had just turned from full. These were the songs of my youth,they helped me discover my love of dance through a youth club in Patricroft, and lunchtime record sessions at my Salford girls' school. Candles, lanterns and tablecloths, picnic baskets and champagne flutes, crisps and beer. A Lathkill Coaches bus full of a hen party.High heels and walking boots, sandals and wellies.Evening dresses, linen suits and panama hats, jeans and fleeces. Anything goes and anything went. And all on the Salisbury lawn, looking down towards the house, with the Cascade behind us. The same Salisbury lawn that couldn't be used for the Antony Gormley sculpture installation a few years ago, because of the possible presence of fungi. There were plenty of fun guys there on Friday night. The band used to back Edwin Starr. If you are interested they have a website and facebook page, and they get around all over the country on tour. Look them up as Ultimate Motown or How Sweet It Is. Go and relive your carefree youth.

Blog from the North Country ( with apologies to Mr Zimmerman)

This is slightly introspective, and not about music - this is a blog about aspects of the process of blogging. I have been writing the Historic Gig Guide for some time now - there's no shortage of material - memories, things I want to comment on and share, connections that leap out of the ether - everyday coincidences and occurences. A friend - who writes a blog as Wonderman, a man who wonders - told me about Blog North's events. The second get together was planned for August 4th at the Tate in Liverpool. So I looked and I booked, feeling more excited than nervous at the thought of being in the company of more than three bloggers at once! To get to Liverpool for 10am by train I left the house at 7am. An adventure in itself. The train passed through Widnes station - famous for being the place where Paul Simon wrote 'Homeward Bound' when he visited the folk clubs of England in the early sixties. Layers of meaning in unlikely places.Gazing at the engineering and back breaking work that had gone into creating a route through sandstone as the train pulled into Liverpool I remembered school history lessons - Stephenson's Rocket and the unfortunate death of Huskisson, the MP for Liverpool in the Rainhill trials.There was an amazing vertical wild garden set into the rock and dressed stone - grasses, buddleia, mosses, ferns and worts.Visible only to passengers who looked up. A white feather drifted slowly through a patch of sunlight. When I stepped out of Lime Street station I was momentarily overwhelmed by the sense of being at the seaside. A seagull's cry, and that quality of light you get in cities built on estuaries. I live as far inland as you can get, in the heart of the Peak District, so a visit to the coast is a treat. I usually visit Tate Liverpool two or three times a year. I recently visited the city for the Sea Odyssey - an unforgettably exciting event to witness. The Blog North event was great fun. Very inspirational, very exciting to be in a room of interesting and passionate people, and to realise that there is a spectrum of age, experience and practical application and I am somewhere in that mix. It gave me confidence in what I am already doing, and sparked lots of ideas for the future. It was fascinating to hear about developments in social media, and the joy of twitter. The food was good. The Monet/Turner/Twombly exhibition was amazing, and I will be back for another look. The views from the gallery windows were breathtaking on a day of sunshine and showers - weather blowing in from the Welsh mountains I guess.I got a press pass, but had no camera - oh well! The best aspect for me was the opportunity to share in person what we are all trying to do with our blogs - to educate, inspire, bear witness, provoke thoughts and test attitudes, promote our talents and ideas. I loved the presentation about the more arcane possibilities of phone apps - but if I'd had one of those clever ones that tell you who is where and whether they share your likes on facebook I wouldn't have had the added delight of bumping into an old friend at the event, and then two more friends from Derbyshire outside the gallery. Looking forward to Blog North 3.