Mondo Scripto

It was 44 years ago – or at least  it will be in January next year – that Bob Dylan released the album ‘Blood On The Tracks’.  Not quite a landmark anniversary, but now is the perfect time to take a fresh look at one of Dylan’s most celebrated works.

Next month, Columbia and Legacy Recordings release the 14th installment in the never-ending Bootleg Series featuring demos and alternate recording of songs from the album.  

Just as intriguing is a new exhibition at the Halcyon Gallery, 144 New Bond Street, London showcasing Dylan’s hand-written lyrics, artwork and sculptures.  The exhibition, which runs until 30 November, features hand written lyrics to 60 songs selected from across his career and illustrated by Dylan himself. 

Some of these illustrations, such as the line by line breakdown of ‘Forever Young’ are quite literal, others are as enigmatic as the lyrics themselves.  Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the exercise however is that Dylan has chosen to significantly re-write a number of lyrics, including several from ‘Blood On The Tracks’, for this exhibition.  It is never wise to pose the question ‘why?’ in considering any aspect of Dylan’s career; he has arguably spent his entire adult life constructing a character of his own devising.  Unlike for example David Bowie, who adopted and discarded persona across his career, Dylan seems simply to have added layer upon layer, with the purpose of obscuring the real Dylan, if such still exists.  There are few easily decipherable clues to be found in his recorded work to identify the man in the iron mask.

One exception is ‘Blood On The Tracks’.  At the time it was regarded as a return to form for Dylan, who had spent the previous 5 or 6 years embracing domesticity both in his personal life and in his music.  It is widely regarded as his most openly autobiographical work, an outworking of his thoughts on a failing marriage.  Typically of course the man denies this. The product of physical separation from his wife – she remained in California, he headed back to the east coast – these are songs of hurt, regret and rage.  There is also a degree of self-reflection which is unusual in Dylan’s work.   

Dylan plays with notions of time and place, projecting what seem to be personal experiences and emotions on to third party characters.  Arguably – and Keith Richards would agree - it outstrips the achievements of his mid-1960s work.

These are songs which mean a lot to his fans.  They clearly mean a lot to Dylan.  Several still feature regularly in his live shows today.  But he seems never to have come to terms with his public poring over these lyrics in search of the real Dylan. 

The Halcyon Gallery exhibition features five or six lyrics which have been re-written, often to the point of bearing little resemblance to the originally recorded song. There have been lyrical variations in performance before – Dylan regards his writing as a process and constantly in motion - but this appears to be a conscious effort on Dylan’s part to perhaps finally de-personalise some of his most personal work.

This seems not to have been casually done.  The exhibition catalogue, which is beautiful artifact in its own right and contains a fascinating interview with Dylan, contains yet further variations both on the lyrics and on the accompanying artworks.  The lyric to ‘You’re Gonna Make me Lonesome When You Go’ for example, seems to have undergone at least two distinct re-writes.

If you have even a passing interest in Dylan this is a must-see exhibition.  The Halcyon Gallery is a beautiful space which encourages a leisurely visit.  For the casual fan seeing the flip cards reproduced from the iconic ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ film will be a thrill; the more committed fan, or amateur code-breaker, might easily spend a morning comparing and analysing every lyric and drawing.

You may be tempted to pick up a limited edition signed print of your favourite lyric, but move quickly before Dylan decides to change it again.

MY NIGHT WITH ALICE COOPER

I have tickets in hand to see Alice Cooper later this year.  I saw him once before  ...

8 June 2011

The headliners I should say at the outset were Def Leppard. More later.

There was an early and thoroughly so-so opening set from Thin Lizzy, who appear intent on remaining their own tribute band despite an earlier showing this year which had left me wishing they would ditch the Phil Lynott backdrop and record some new. Someone from Snow Patrol who wasn’t Gary Lightbody - you know, the other one, whattsisname - joined them for ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ and threw some slightly fey and very unconvincing shapes. This was the highlight.

As the house lights went up roadies scurried across the stage setting up the rig for the second opening act, Alice Cooper. Not ordinary roadies I might say, but roadies dressed head to toe as skeletons. And indeed no ordinary rig. The backdrop is a decaying gothic castle, there are giant grey hospital screens behind which lurk who knows what. Life size dolls and strange blinking equipment apparently liberated from Dr Frankenstein’s laboratory are scattered across the stage. Finally a huge front cloth bearing Alice’s panda-eyed visage is hoisted into place. I came with no expectations, but this looks like fun ...

The lights go down ... and the voice of Vincent Price booms across the arena. A blatant rip-off from Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ surely, until you realise Alice recorded this in 1975. The curtain falls and the band kick into ‘Black Widow’. Three guitarists and a bass player strung out across the stage, but all eyes are on Alice Cooper singing from atop a giant black silk draped pulpit dressed as a giant spider.

There is no let up. ‘Billion Dollar Baby’ sees Alice stalk the catwalk scattering dollar bills from a rapier that he wields like an Olympic champion.

‘Cold Ethyl’ makes her appearance - a life size doll dragged across the floor, subjected to all manner of indignities but still faring better than the heroine of the song, killed, frozen and brought out for - ahem - special occasions.

A quick change into a white lab coat and, pausing only to fire up the lightning machine, ‘Feed My Frankenstein’ is the cue for a 15ft tall Alice/monster to emerge from the wings, swatting the guitarists like flies. ‘No More Mr Niceguy’ and ‘I’ll Bite Your Face Off’ need no explanation. ‘Poison’ is a reminder of what a great pop sensibility the man has, and allows an incredibly tight band to stretch out.

The skeleton roadies appear and from behind the screens pull ... the guillotine! Forced to kneel, Alice is publicly executed and the severed head paraded before the baying crowd before it is tossed carelessly into the wings.

But, he's not really dead! Returning in a sequined tail coat and top hat, he is the tacky politician seeking your vote to get ‘Elected’. Complemented by ticker tape and balloons the effect is a Primary Election Rally in a gay disco. “I know you have had your problems in Belfast! Frankly ... I don’t care!” he cries as he bursts the balloons with a handy rapier. It’s a refreshing change, to be honest.

And as any great showman knows, you save the best for last. A quick change into a demented Ken Dodd stove pipe hat and ‘Schools Out’ for summer. A seamless segue into ‘Another Brick In the Wall’ and back again brings the house down.

This is a big, dumb, poptastic rock show. Old-style. No screens, no lasers, no auto-tune. Just great songs, a crack band, and props that I suspect wouldn’t have seemed high tech when Eisenhower was in the White House.

My only disappointment was that there was no sign of Alice Cooper’s snake. I am guessing he had trouble getting his python through customs, and which of us can say we’ve never had that problem?

Oh, yes, and Def Leppard? The chap beside me fell asleep. Enough said.

My Night In With Nick Kent (or The Worst Book I've Ever Read)

27 March 2010

I have read Nick Kent's 'Apathy For The Devil', so you don't have to.  You can thank me later, or send donations in lieu ...

"On the very eve of the 1970s, quite literally New Year’s Eve 1969, I kissed a girl for the first time. In Wales. It was a bit like Withnail and I actually. There was no sexual congress because I had to leave to speak to someone, although she did it later with a midget who had a beard. The next thing I knew I was living in London - the very fulcrum of the Zeitgeist pendulum - as it swung. As I once said to Jimmy Page, if you don’t live in London you’ll end up abandoning yourself to a world of small mindedness, bitterness and regret, churning out turgid prose in self serving autobiographies. As we shall see dear reader, as we shall see ...

As I said, it was 1971, and I loved music. How could I not, after all I’d seen the Rolling Stones in 1964, on the very cusp of the Zeitgeist. I loved to write, even though the interviewer at Oxford couldn’t see my potential. So I decided I would write about music. Because music isn’t just about the clothes, and the eyeliner and the drugs. Music is the now, or at least it was back then, before it all got crap. I still have the eyeliner though.

So anyway as I said, it was 1972, and I had just blagged a job with Friendz which used to be Rolling Stone, until the money ran out. To be honest it was a bit befuddled before I joined. But anyway Iggy Pop was my very best mate and I heard him and the Stooges sing lots of songs that no-one else has ever ever heard. Just me. And I decided to call it ‘punk rock’ for the new Zeitgeist. And I discovered Lou Reed was a bit fat and dull, but anyway I did proper cocaine with John Cale.

And then I took tablets just like the ones that Nick Drake took, but he died and I didn’t which means I’m better than him. I wrote that thought down on some paper and before anyone knew what was happening me and Porthos and Aramis were completely running the NME and raising the standards of rock journalism in a sort of Zeitgeist defining way. (I was D’Artagne, because he’s the pretty one, and David Bowie told me how pretty I was, before he became a coked up wreck). Before us the NME  was really all very befuddled. And everyone from before actually hated music and they all went mad eventually, a bit like Syd Barrett, who I also know.

And then I saw Can do their first UK show and they would later give me some heroin and then it was 1973. Except I went to Detroit and had some sexual congress, and some drugs. As well as being a bit fat Lou Reed isn’t very nice, he once made Lester Bangs cry, and Lester was really nice man. Then I went to L.A. and discovered that Brian Wilson is even fatter that Lou Reed!

And Iggy had changed; he was now called Jim. He could have been really really big if he had listened to me but he went off to Berlin with David Bowie and was never heard of again.

Chrisse Hynde was my girlfriend, and she was on the NME, because I gave her a leg up.  And the clap. But she ended up just working in a shop or something. When it became clear how better I was at writing stuff nobody at the NME liked me any more. But anyway they all lived in proper houses and not in squats with loads of guitars like me so it didn’t matter.

Music is all about the now but it’s also a lot about hair - the rooster-haired Rod the Mod, the pineapple-haired Ronnie Wood, and the electric-shock haired Richard Hell. My hair is a bit lank, but in a cool way so rock stars tend to like me a lot. Mick Jagger is not as bad as everyone says. People often ask Keith Richards what I’m like, but how would he know? It must be 20 years since I dropped him, and anyway he looks a cross between like Ray Reardon and a human fork that’s a bit dirty.

Then it was 1974 and I saw CSNY and they were rubbish. And that Joni Mitchell is well snooty; and anyway it’s not as if I even wanted to talk to her at that party.

So it was 1975 and Martin Chambers - or maybe Chrissie Hynde - begged me to get back together with him on the floor of Malcolm Maclaren’s shop. But I wouldn’t and there was a fight and although it is all a bit befuddled I do remember that I ended up starting the Sex Pistols. All they wanted to do was record Billy Fury songs so I left. Johnny Rotten really like Can. And Malcolm put my name on a list of bad people but mainly because I had better hair and knew Brian Eno.

Then in 1976 Bob Marley looked at me funny in a toilet which wasn’t very nice.

In 1977 I introduced Sid Vicious to his heroin dealer, because I’m the sort of a guy who will do anyone a good turn. Nancy wasn’t very nice though.

And then suddenly it was not the 1970’s anymore, mainly because Keith Moon and John Bonham died. Although I am glad to say that I had had the foresight to teach Paul Morely everything he knows, and he went on to become really huge on the TV and everything. So - in a way - I sort of set the tone for the Zeitgeist of the 1980s.

Oh, and I saw Bob Dylan and and the Hawks in 1966 too. 

And you didn't.

MY NIGHT WITH DANIEL JOHNSTON

5 April 2012

Last night I took a taxi to The Empire, a dark, heavily panelled, former church in the University area of Belfast.  It attracts an arty student set. And me.

I should at the outset make clear that I am not a fan of Daniel Johnston. I have never made it to the end of one of his albums, and I gave up halfway through watching ‘The Devil & Daniel Johnston’.

The venue is packed - largely the expected young, trendy set. Beautiful girls in silk scarves and silver Berber jewellery, squired by bearded young men with their trousers tucked into their boots. And me.

Without any preamble a grey haired, overweight man in grey tracksuit bottoms and a grey and blue striped sweat shirt shuffles on to the stage. He sets a book of lyrics on a music stand and his fingers begin to shape hesitant chords on a small guitar with no headstock. The crowd, after a single loud cheer, is silent and reverential.

Daniel – and as I learn we must call him just Daniel – sings in a high cracked voice against the raggedly strummed guitar. His head is bowed and he makes no eye contact with the audience, staring at his music stand. The lyric is very much of the ‘bad/ sad / mad’ variety, and embarrassingly self deprecating. Initially I want to laugh. By the end of the second song I had become convinced I was listening to a very early Neil Young demo playing loudly from another room. This is a very good thing.  

Then I begin to feel increasingly uncomfortable, as if participating in some cruel prank perpetrated on an unsuspecting innocent. And me.

Three more songs follow, each to rapturous applause. Then Daniel looks up for the first time: “We’ll be back shortly with the band. Thank you for coming out to the show. Thank you, London. No, Ireland … you’re Ireland”. I’m fairly sure this wasn’t a joke. He shuffles off stage.

Ten minutes later Daniel returns backed by Cashier No.9. Self consciously preening, local indie boys, the percussionist wears a Sun Records t-shirt and a brown Derby hat. This is a very bad thing. 

There follows a thirty minute set during which the band overwhelm Daniels’ fragile vocals, although he seems to be enjoying himself.

It doesn’t do to over think these things but I am left feeling conflicted about the entire event. From my initial discomfort in watching someone whose medication appears to be either slowly wearing off or slowly kicking in; to being entranced by the fragile solo performance; then irritated by the slightly heavy handed indie backing band whom I suspect are simply keen to have some of the cool rub off on them.

Ten minutes pass and the crowd has long since turned to the bar when Daniel emerges again and sings ‘Devil Town’ accompanied only by the beautiful young things in the crowd. It is a poignant sign off, after which he exits uncertainly into the wings for the last time.

Ultimately it is a confused, slightly out of place, grey haired old man who shuffles off into the night. I have no idea how Daniel felt.

MY NIGHT IN WITH LADY PENELOPE

March 2012

As a good uncle should I have been attending to the musical education of my niece (almost 5) and nephew (almost 3). Inevitably, given my own almost 40 year obsession with the Beatles, this has focused largely on the usual beginners’ favourites: Yellow Submarine, All Together Now, Rocky Raccoon etc.

This coincides with my sister’s determination that they should also be introduced to classic 60s and 70s children’s television. So they are already big fans of ‘Bagpuss’, ‘Stingray’ and ‘The Banana Splits’. Sadly ‘Hector’s House’ has been adjudged “really boring” and the DVD has been dispatched to the charity shop.

The big smash hit however has been ‘Thunderbirds’. I’m here to tell you it has everything for the modern audience ... rockets and cars for the younger boys, Lady Penelope’s fabulous pink outfits and the Alan / TinTin love interest for the older girls, while Parker’s popularity transcends age and gender. Even better, the stories are interesting enough for the adults and bear repeated viewing. Highly recommended. Lady Penelope and the boys frequently having a gasper on the go with a martini in the other hand, is an hilarious reminder of the conventions of the time - like a mini-’Mad Men’ filmed in Supermarionation.

The three of us were watching ‘Operation Crash-Dive’ at the weekend, in which a plane has to be retrieved from the seabed after sinister saboteurs have done their worst. (I won’t spoil the ending). Suddenly, out of nowhere my niece asked a question that I could not answer; a question that had never occurred to me; and one which frankly made a mockery of my claim to be a reasonably knowledgeable fan of the Fab Four. “Uncle Steven”, she said, “is Thunderbird 4 the same yellow submarine that the Beatles live in?”

I had never heard such a thing suggested before, but I said I would find out ...

And so I ask you ... was it?

Well ... Thunderbird 4 first appeared quite some way into the first series in an episode originally aired in the UK on 30th December 1965. That first series ended on 30th March 1966.

Ian McDonald in 'Revolution In The Head' has Paul writing the song in bed one night in early May 1966, with the recording beginning later that month.

So, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, and on behalf of my niece, I should like to formally put forward the theory that ‘Yellow Submarine’ was inspired by Paul having watched Thunderbirds - I’ll explain to her in a decade or so what he might have been smoking at the time.

Until someone can convince me otherwise I shall also be adding this to my list of 'interesting Beatles facts'. Perhaps you might do the same, and we can prompt some proper scholarly investigation. 

Mr Lewishon, are you reading this?

I have tickets to see Bob Dylan in Dublin in three weeks.  The last time I saw him live was in 2011 ...  

MY NIGHT WITH BOB DYLAN

26 October 2011

A few months ago ads began appearing for a series of concerts by Bob Dylan and Mark Knopfler.

Now, there was a time when, to a generation of Golf-driving estate agents with rolled up Top Shop sleeves, this may have seemed like a dream ticket. That was however some 30 years ago – when Knopfler was dividing his time between fronting Dire Straits and assisting Bob Dylan to record “his best album since Blood On The Tracks”.™

In the intervening decades Dire Straits have become a guilty pleasure; the ‘Brothers In Arms’ CD, said to reside in almost every household, hidden behind an unread copy of 'A Brief History of Time’, a cracked Rubik’s cube and ‘The Lovers Guide’ on VHS.

For the record, I have never owned a copy of ‘Brothers in Arms’.

Dylan meanwhile has receded into and emerged from cultdom at least twice, and continues to tour to the delight of fans and the consternation of critics. I fall squarely into the former category. That said, I have seen some dreadful Dylan gigs in my time; but I also know that he has, at least as recently as 2009, remained capable of greatness on stage. His two Dublin gigs in 2009 were amongst the best of his shows that I have seen.

Did I really want to risk one more gig that might undo the memory of those 2009 highlights? Needless to say, I was on Ticketmaster faster than Oprah on a baked ham.

As arenas go, the O2 in Dublin is pretty great; and if it weren’t for the price of the beer I might actually live there. Our seats were in the stand, directly centre stage and in front of the sound desk. With very little fanfare Mark Knopfler and his band sauntered on to the stage, sauntered through a selection of dull fare set to a country jog beat, and sauntered off. It was, in the words of Pat Carty of this parish, an unholy snooze-fest. Knopfler comes across as a very rich man with no remaining ambitions, pursuing music as a hobby. His voice is a monotonous drone, and his band - slick and soulless - cannot seem to rise above the professional session men that they are.

To the visible dismay of the greying estate agents in their Designer at Debenhams™ blazers, who have given £20 to a man in a hat outside to keep an eye on their Audis parked on a vacant building site, there is not one song from his former band’s back catalogue. On the plus side there was no encore.

A quick turnaround and Dylan and his band take to the stage. Bob is stage left standing behind the keyboard which has been a feature of recent gigs. The opening song is a rocking version of ‘Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat’ with Charlie Sexton peeling off rockabilly riffs. Dylan remains behind the keyboard for ‘Don’t Think Twice’ which is pitched somewhere between a Cajun two-step and reggae light.

The first revelation is on ‘Things Have Changed’. The song is taken at a furious pace, Dylan out front dressed in a black skinny suit, wide brimmed white hat, and spats! Striking poses against the mic after every line, he resembles an aging negative of Michael Jackson. His voice is strong and clear and the sound is amazing.

The setlist is a balance of old and new. Staying centre stage for ‘Tangled Up In Blue’ Dylan rephrases each line to break up the rhythm and shamelessly plays to the crowd.

Picking up an electric guitar for ‘Spirit On The Water’, Bob delivers a truly dreadful solo that doesn’t stop; then heads back behind the keyboard for inspired readings of ‘Desolation Row’ and ‘Highway 61’ his organ fills are great and Charlie Sexton plays off each riff.

On ‘Forgetful Heart’ Dylan’s voice is in fine form – perhaps because this is still early in the tour – and it is a genuinely moving performance. This is a great band and a great singer.

The final three songs – Ballad of a Thin Man’, ‘Rolling Stone’ and ‘Watchtower’ - are the usual romp home. Interestingly, and in my recollection uniquely, on ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’ there is echo on the refrain ... “Do ya! … (ya) … (ya) … Mr Jones?”

Thankfully there is no re-appearance from Mark Knopfler. I’d like to think he was standing in the wings, watching and learning but he was probably already back at the Travelodge, sipping Newcastle Brown Ale from a champagne flute and leafing through a copy of ‘Fret Fanciers Weekly’.

MY NIGHT WITH ROGER WATERS

14 May 2011

The O2 ‘Dome’ is a strange thing. A monument to ego and vanity, now re-tooled and re-made for a new century and a new purpose, it is a fitting venue for the presentation of Roger Water’s grand statement ...

Deliberately having chosen seats at the back of the floor seating, the better to take in the scale of what was about to happen, we are not disappointed. At each side of the venue there are partially built sections of the wall, with the customary Pink Floyd circular screen suspended above centre stage. The lights go down and the ‘I am Spartacus’ dialogue fills the arena. Whatever is about to happen, the declared intention is that we are all in this together.

The slow mournful opening refrain is shattered by the crushing riff of 'In The Flesh' as fireworks explode against a black and red imperial backdrop worthy of Albert Speer. As the song reaches a climax the stage is strafed with pyrotechnics, the sound of gunfire swirls around the audience and a Stuka crashes in to the wall taking out the top righthand section in a ball of flame.

A picture of Waters’ father fills the circular screen accompanied by brief biographical details: date of birth, occupation, date of death. The image fades and another takes its place, and another ... victims of other conflicts, an arab woman “activist”, a child killed in Iraq, a 911 firefighter, Jean Charles de Menezes - “civilian”. Slowly each brick in the wall is filled with the face of a casualty - a giant montage spanning the stage.

This opening section serves as a taster for all that follows. The original concept has been re-worked and expanded to take in the anti-war, anti-corporate themes that have run through all of Waters’ work since 1980.

In ‘Mother’ - sung by Waters as a duet with his younger self - the lyric ‘should I trust the government?’ is answered by the giant graffiti “No fucking way!” scrawled in Gerald Scarfe’s distinctive hand. The inflatable pig that drifts slowly overhead is defaced with anti-consumerist slogans. The Banksy inspired projections take a clear swipe at Apple; and Shell & Mercedes logos substitute for the falling bombs.

A children’s choir arrives onstage for Another Brick In The Wall, as does a giant inflatable teacher. The performance is memorable not for the panto-style sing-a-long but for the crowd rising as one, craning their necks at the first note of the guitar solo ... but it’s not HIM. Everyone sits.

The projections are simply astonishing. Graphics flow and merge into one another, sections of the wall seem to disappear, the wall itself appears to twist and distort. I have never seen a show as impressively staged.

‘Goodbye Cruel World’ closes the first half, as the final brick slips into place. During the intermission the wall is filled with the photographs of victims of conflict - each donated by friends or relatives.

Everyone knows that the big will-he-won’t-he moment is coming with ‘Comfortably Numb’. Waters is standing at the base of the giant towering wall and sure enough, as the chorus arrives, the spotlights pick out a balding man in a black T shirt standing on the top of wall. Ladies and gentlemen, David Gilmour is in the house. It is a truly spine-tingling moment. Fittingly, the solo is accompanied by the most impressive visual effect of the evening as Waters turns and punches a hole in the wall.

It is a hard act to follow, and the original Gerald Scarfe animations make an appearance during The Trial section. (Is there any more thankless task in rock that being Roger Waters’ mother?) Now dated, by comparison with what has gone before these animations reinforce the impression that technology has at last caught up sufficiently to allow Roger Waters to realise his original vision.

Ironically the physical tearing down of the wall itself can only be anti-climactic after the dazzling display of projections and lighting effects that precede it. Nevertheless the enthusiasm of the crowd is not affected. We know what should come next - a simple acoustic marching-band reprise of that opening theme amidst the rubble. Instead Rog walks alone to the centre of the stage to acknowledge the applause, to thank David Gilmour for ‘honouring’ him by appearing tonight and to invite him back on to the stage. The entire crowd are on their feet.

As Gilmour, mandolin in hand, walks out on to the stage there is more drama in Waters leaning in to embrace him than in anything we have seen earlier. For a brief moment, in that heady atmosphere, the rubble surrounding these two smiling men seems to take on yet another meaning. Then Waters mentions that there is ‘another remnant of our old band’ in the house and Nick Mason, clutching a tambourine, joins the two onstage. Around me middle-aged men seem to have something in their collective eye.

And in the end Waters makes his peace ... with one hand on Gilmour’s shoulder he acknowledges that 30 years ago when they made The Wall, he was a grumpy, disaffected bugger, “as young David can attest”, but expresses his happiness at being on this stage with this former bandmates.

The musicians slowly file from stage playing that refrain, leaving the three survivors to take their final bow.