On Cycle, my duo album with Ed Woltil, we'd been fortunate enough to have XTC guitargonaut, Dave Gregory, on board for a trio of songs. On one of them (Elastic Man), Dave had sent over a lovely slide guitar track that made me think of George Harrison.
I've always loved George's slide playing, and I suppose there was something in both Dave's tone and the way he was playing, that to my ears, was reminiscent of the quiet Beatle. So, while working on the song, Quiet One - a fairly obvious nod to George - I knew I had to ask Dave if he might be interested in lending his formidable talents to it.
Thankfully, he was on board, and I have no qualms about admitting that when I first heard his playing on it, I got a little emotional*, choked up, even. I mean, I was chopping onions at the time, so who knows? (Ahem). Either way though, it sounds like he's channeling George to me, and it just makes me so happy.
* Yes, I do understand that admitting to getting emotional is akin to renouncing my British citizenship. So be it.
Well, it may have taken the better part of four years (five), but I’ve finally managed to put the finishing touches to my latest long player.
Swallowing The Sun began its long and torturous life in my old hometown of St Petersburg, FL, was interrupted by an out-of-state family relocation, and finally came to fruition here in my new hometown of Hendersonville, NC, in the Blue Ridge mountains. It wasn’t actually recorded in the mountains, of course; it was recorded in my house. I mean, I’m not John Denver.
Truth be told, I’d still be working on the bloody thing for another couple of excuse-filled years if not for the heroic efforts of my arse-kicking friend and co-producer, Ed Woltil. Aside from producing, mixing and musical hand holding, Ed’s instrumental prowess plays a major part in the proceedings and I'm perpetually indebted to him, both for his friendship, and for the fabulous and tasteful playing he contributed to this project.
So, what does it sound like? Well, it has a dizzy love song (Dizzy Love Song); an earnest love song (Proud of Our Love); a song about being in love with family and treasuring those times when you manage to just catch yourself living in the moment with them (Mr Empty Head); as well as a gentle Beatle-ish ode to quietism (Quiet One) that features a stunning George Harrisonesque slide guitar cameo from XTC's Dave Gregory that would probably elicit a wry smile from the quiet Beatle himself.
So it’s a sappy and contentedly happy album then? Er, not so fast...there are also morose lyrical references to drug addiction (Needle in The Red), a stinging rebuke of religious pretenders and fiery demagogues alike (Wild God) as well as sneering metaphorical allusions to overindulgence and feelings of disillusionment, depression and mental exhaustion (Skinful) just to even things out. Sounds like fun, right?
What? None of the usual sentimental and nostalgic hazy memory lane trips? Don’t be daft; of course there are... fish & chips, Gilbert O’Sullivan, Robertson’s jam jars, and the word, radiogramme are all included in just one song written about growing up in a northern English town in the 1970s (Milk & a Dash).
Parental Advisory: The aforementioned song features the phrase, “the smell of baked beans & spam”. A tough one to explain to the kids. Or anyone, come to that. Gluttons for punishment can listen to, and read more about the new record here at https://steverobinson.bandcamp.com
Note: Swallowing The Sun can also be streamed at Spotify, iTunes, Apple, Amazon, and all of the usual streaming sites that continue to pay a royalty rate that has been known to cause feelings of disillusionment, depression and mental exhaustion. Side effects also include depression, irregular heartbeat, fever, constipation, diarrhea, nausea, fear of heights, fear of plumbing emotional depths, unexplained rashes, the occasional gnashing of teeth, and an irrational fear of releasing records.
My overly talented friend and musical companion, Ed Woltil, recently released "One in My Tree". What is it? Just another collection of masterful and blissful pop, that's all. How beautiful is this song? Well, I'll tell you...it's beautiful enough that it almost scuppered my plans to release my own record. It's like Andy Partridge-level good, to my ears, and it made me feel more than a little insecure; like I should go back to the drawing board or something. Of course, I don't actually have a drawing board, but if I did, you can rest assured that I'd be going back to it real sharpish. Not that I'd be able to compete with this, so I'd probably just bang my head on it, but still...
Despite living very close to Tampa Bay, a friend of mine opted to stay
at his home during Hurricane Irma. His wife, son, daughter and one of
their dogs, stayed with us for the duration.
Sometime during Irma's
approach, he'd sent over a goofy little video he'd just recorded of
himself cradling their other dog and dancing to the strains of Julie
Andrews singing "The Sound Of Music". It was absurd, and probably a
little out of character for him, but it brought the house down, so to speak.
This daffy little clip was our response to him; his daughter, Alexandra
getting in on the action with a couple of blanket twirls for good
measure. Although it certainly gave us all a laugh, it's not really
comically absurd at all, so he bested us in the Pythonesque department.
Now, if we'd have had Julie Andrews involved somehow, it might have been
a different story.
As a young, pasty-faced teen, I discovered the Everly Brothers via our kindly neighbour, Pete Morris. Chock full of Elvis, Little Richard, Everly Brothers and Buddy Holly LPs, Pete's abundant record collection quickly betrayed his obsession with 50s American rock 'n roll, and fortunately for me, he was keen to share his wares.
One fateful day, he loaned my dad the Everly Brothers eponymous debut album, and despite the fact that the songs on it had all been recorded before I was even born, the pure sonic attack of their conjoined voices was a complete and utter revelation to me. I suppose it was the first time I became really aware of harmony singing, and I was hooked at first listen.
Looking back, it was a bit of an unlikely discovery for me. I mean, it was the early 70s after all, and being fully immersed in all things glam-rock, my time was spent fixated on Bowie and Bolan rather than Boudleaux and Bryant. At the time, the strains of those two-part bluegrass-inspired harmonies delivered by two quiffed brothers from Kentucky, were probably as alien to me as Ziggy Stardust and Electric Warrior were to my dad's generation. No matter though, hearing those impossibly crystalline voices ringing around our living room just left me wide-eyed, and it sort of re-shaped the way I heard music.
It's strange, I already had a guitar at that point - I couldn't really play it, but it did have lots of glitter glued to its body so I could look cool (daft) lip-syncing away to my T.Rex 45s - but I don't really remember ever trying to sing, prior to instinctively grasping for those Phil Everly harmony parts. Fortunately for me, my dad was quite a handy singer himself, and despite my mother's protestations, he and I would often try and emulate their singing. Some of my fondest memories involve the two of us having a go at "All I Have To Do Is Dream", "Wake Up Little Susie" and Bye-Bye Love" in our old living room. "Hey dad, you be Don and I'll be Phil!" (I'm embellishing; let me have this one, ok?)
Rose-tinted reminiscing notwithstanding, it is telling that the only time I've ever waited around for a post-show glimpse of any of my musical heroes was at an Everly Brothers show here in Florida back in the mid-90s. I'd gone prepared too; a reissued copy of that classic Everlys LP under one arm, and a sharpie in the other, and at the evening's close, I giddily left the venue with it signed by Phil and Don.
The following year, I returned to England for a brief visit, and the highlight of the trip for me just might have been seeing the look on the face of one Mr. Pete Morris when I knocked on his front door and handed him a belated thank-you note in the form of a signed copy of the album that he'd inadvertently schooled me with, some 25 years previous.
So here we are in 2017, and their music sounds as sublime as ever to me and much to my delight, my daughter seems to concur. Having her join me on this past Father's Day for a "Long Time Gone" singalong certainly brought a few of those fuzzy old memories of my dad and I singing together, into sharper focus.
Confession: It honestly didn't strike me until sometime during the writing of that last paragraph, that the album from whence this song came was actually titled, "Songs Our Daddy Taught Us". Given the backstory and the fortuitous Father's Day timing, it's probably way too cloyingly cute to mention it, but it's done now.
I always fancied having a go at a Faces song. Unfortunately for me and my lacklustre vocal range, the mighty Rod Stewart was their lead singer, so I steered well clear. Tackling a Rod vocal is akin to taking on a Paul Rodgers tune, or if you're really insane, a Steve Marriott one. Best not to attempt it and risk embarrassment or injury.
So, I took on Ooh La La, since it was the only Faces song that Ronnie Wood sang. I love Woody, of course, but vocally, he's no Rod Stewart. He's not even a Ronnie Lane, to be fair. Ah, I love 'em all though, and I always loved this song.
Actually, I shouldn't remotely have a go at Woody; I tried singing this song in the original key that he sang it in back in the day, and I couldn't remotely manage it. Came a cropper, actually, so I had to lower the key to a safer zone for me. Not only that, I messed up the words in the last verse when it came to singing it on the night. Well, it was supposed to be fun and impromptu like, but on reflection, it might have helped to rehearse it. Oh well, I wish I knew then, what I know now...etc.
During my last visit to old Blighty (shamefully, it was way back in 1994) I passed by a butcher's shop while walking down Scunthorpe High Street, and did a bit of a double take at the headless pig carcass hanging right there in the shop window. Of course, while growing up there, such a vision would have been an innocuous part of the local scenery, with nary an eyelid batted. But, I suppose I'd been over in the US long enough at that point to find it noteworthy, jarring even. Well, it's not a sight commonly seen in your local hyper-sanitized Publix supermarket is it?
Arriving back at my folks' house later that afternoon (at the bottom of the hill, natch), I scribbled down the words, "Headless pig in a window telling me I'm home; it doesn't matter where I go, this is where I'm from", with a view to building a song around them later on. I know, I know - they're daft lyrics, and a headless pig isn't likely to be telling anyone much of anything - but what's a little dramatic license between friends?
Tellingly, I could never make use of the phrase in a way that I liked. I tried a couple of different melodic approaches and chord progressions over the next couple of years, but wasn't thrilled with any of them, so I gave up on it and let it languish in the old lyric notebook.
Fast forward some 18 years or so, and I had this little folkish guitar riff in search of a lyric, and as I usually do, I set about leafing through the aforementioned notebook of scribbled lyric fragments for inspiration. When I saw the old "headless pig" snippet, I gave it a whirl, and to my pleasant surprise, after a little nip and tuck, it dropped in there quite nicely. The rest of the song came together quite quickly after that, as if making up for lost time.
I sent Ed an acoustic guitar and vocals recording of the resulting song for him to play with, assuming that its future lie in jangly folk-rocker land. Silly me. Ed turned it on its pig-less head, returning my song with ghostly, plinking piano parts, ominous-sounding drums and all manner of clanking percussion tracks that sounded downright medieval to me. I loved it.
From there, the song winged its way over to Swindon where XTC guitar maestro Dave Gregory had his way with it, sending us a slew of swooping backwards guitar phrases that gave the song the psychedelic nudge it needed to render it almost unrecognizable from the vision I originally had for it.
Then, it was up to Massachusetts where the fab Dave Mattacks breathed further life into it with his own swinging drums and percussion tracks. Like Ed, I'd been knocked out (still am, actually) when I'd heard the two Daves together on XTC's swoon-worthy Nonsuch album, and the fact that we had them both together again on one of our songs, no less, made Ed and I giggle like little schoolgirls. Not that it takes much...
Yes, this one has been around the block, as they say. I do love that aspect of collaborating with others, though. For better or worse, you end up with something that never would have happened with any one ingredient missing. It's just a thrilling adventure to me. Of course, it doesn't hurt when you're on board with musicians of the calibre of Woltil, Gregory and Mattacks. Even if they do sound a bit like a law firm, I'm a lucky boy indeed.
Funnily enough, this song's title harks back to my schooldays back in the 70s. I had a mate who lived in a nice detached house at the top of the hill up from where I lived. I resided in a dodgier area of terraced council houses at the bottom of the hill, and if his dad answered the phone whenever I'd call his house, I could often hear him say as he passed the phone, "It's for you... it's the boy from down the hill".
I'm not sure if his words were a variation on the classic "wrong side of the tracks" idiom, or whether he was just speaking geographically, but for the sake of the song, I'm going with the former. Besides, it hints deliciously at the great British tradition of class warfare and the mutual mistrust that can lurk therein which makes for a more interesting song. Either way though, I felt drawn to the phrase at first hearing and I hung on to it in hopes that I'd be able to make use of it someday. True to form, it only took me 40 years.
Scunthorpe footage courtesy of Steve Bird, and Capertain.
Still photos by Bob (The Boy From Up The Hill) Hinchcliffe
Despite the somewhat judgmental and political tone of the lyrics as they
stand today, Elastic Man began its life with me simply singing from the point
of view of someone who would do and say whatever (and even be whomever)
it takes to keep his significant other happy - bending over backwards,
as they say.
It was initially sung in the first person - "I'll try to be what you
want, do the best that I'm able; be the head of the restaurant or a
crumb at your table", but as the lyrics began to take on a more silly,
cartoonish vibe and the flip-flopping Elastic Man theme began to assert
itself, I began singing in the third person because, well, who doesn't
like pointing fingers and shaking their heads in bemusement at the
follies of phony politicos? On top of that, singing from the point of
view of a soulless, spineless, vacuous and opportunistic liar would come
across all creepy, like.
Although the majority of my songs are written on the acoustic guitar,
sometimes I like to write something on the piano. Since I am to piano
playing what Mike Tyson is to hand puppetry, this leads to lots of
uncertainty and errant chords. This is good, in that it throws you out
of your comfort zone and although much of what you play might be overly
simplistic and trite, occasionally one of those happy accidents comes
along to thrill you.
It happened almost right off the bat with this song. I was trying to
play a simple chord but missed it; my hands landing rather clumsily on
the wrong keys. I didn't really know what the resulting chord was, but I
knew that I liked it. It married with the melody in a far more
interesting fashion than the chord I'd actually tried to hit, and it
proved to be the kick in the pants I needed to continue on experimenting
with the song.
No such clumsiness from the rest of this song's contributors, though.
Snazzy drum tracks courtesy of our good friend Chuck Darling; acrobatic
(elastic, even!) bass part from Andy Irvine; sublime electric and slide
guitar playing supplied by Sir Dave Gregory; and the usual inspiring
aural fingerpainting from our Ed all conspire to make me feel like the
luckiest sod around. At the risk of sounding kinky, I'd bend over
backwards for the lot of them.
"No filler to be found here, overall its like a musical shot of happiness with the overall theme “Seize The Day”. Simply beautiful and very highly recommended." - Powerpopaholic "Full of clever twists and turns and knowing nods to a variety of pop styles, Cycle’s heartbeat is perhaps best demonstrated in the gorgeous. slightly trippy folk-pop number, “Elastic Man,” a sixties hug with echoes of Paul McCartney and Donovan that sounds like it’s enclosed in a Dukes of Stratosphear wrapper. The elegant “Wake Up Dreamin'” evokes images of a warm summer night that follows a sunny day that was chock full of surprise. The very English ballad “Little Regrets” conjures up images of Martin Newell as arranged by George Martin, a very good thing." - Alan Haber's Pure Pop Radio "Cycle finds veteran Florida folk-popsters (pop-folksters?) Steve Robinson and Ed Woltil teaming up for a collection of songs that’s a high water mark in each of their careers. In a music world full of self-conscious irony and angst (lots of angst), these slices of optimistic, classic 1960s influenced jangle are a refreshing alternative." - Rob Caldwell, No Depression "Remember when you heard one of those classic, timeless albums for the first time? One that, as soon as that needle hit the surface of that slab of vinyl,you just broke out into a smile? You couldn’t find a reason why it made you feel good to be alive; it just did. It would have you smiling one minute and the tears welling up the next just because it sounded so good. ‘Cycle’ is such an album." - Malcolm Carter, Penny Black Music "Tampa Bay's premier folk-poppers team up for one of 2015's best, a graceful and melodic collection of tunes that bring the pastoral side of XTC to mind." - Steve Ferra, Absolute Powerpop "Yeah, but are you selling any?" - Mrs Robinson
"Er... the Cycle CD by Steve Robinson & Ed Woltilis now incredibly available for purchase at: Bandcamp https://steverobinsonedwoltil.bandcamp.com/, at CDBaby (http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/steverobinsonedwoltil1) , and can be downloaded at the iTunes fortress (https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/cycle/id989681104)" - Steve R.
A couple of years back, Ed turned
me on to the aural delights of Ron Sexsmith's recordings. His earnestly
delivered songs really grabbed me. They seemed unrepentant in their
sweetness and melancholy and I loved them immediately. It was probably
due to listening to a fair bit of Ron's introspective, open hearted
confessionals that I ended up writing "Little Regrets".
I sent a simple piano/vocal recording of it to Ed, and as he so often
does, he transformed it into something quite grand, adding orchestral
touches aplenty and giving it a stateliness that I'd never have
conceived. He actually even rewrote a couple of lines, but I forgave him
quickly, and we moved forward.
Harmonies and counter melody vocals were subsequently added and Steve
Connelly kindly donated some lovely pedal steel flourishes. Actually, he
might have asked for them back if he'd known of my plans for the song's
coda. You see, for some reason I thought it might be a good idea to tie
in the vague Edith Piaf "Little Sparrow/No Regrets" reference in the
bridge by pretentiously singing a couple of lines in French towards the
end of the song. I even went to the trouble of writing more lyrics and
translating them into French. Of course, after I tried singing them, it
quickly became apparent that a vaguely northern English-inflected voice
singing in a half-arsed French accent is more comedic than dramatic, so I
promptly erased them. No regrets there.
I could kick myself
I’ve skipped so many towns.
They raced past my window so fast…
Thought I was glory bound. (I think I let them down)
Ugly city scenes,
Pretty village greens.
Little regrets behind a white fence
I could kick myself.
Sometimes I hate myself
for stupid things I’ve said.
They rolled off my tongue so fast
Me and my leaky head
Ill-tempered cries,
Well-mannered lies.
Little regrets grin down from the shelf
Sometimes I hate myself.
No big sweeping scenes or dreams of innocence
(How soon we forget)
Little sparrow shoots an arrow through my heart
when she sings her song, No Regrets…
I should forgive myself
or so I read somewhere. But the world keeps spinning so fast and we’re getting nowhere.
Give me belief,
and sweet release.
Little regrets come down from the shelf
I’ll forgive myself.
Little regrets behind a white fence
I forgive myself.
Little regrets like everyone else…
Credits:
Steve Robinson - Lead & background vocals, piano
Ed Woltil - Keyboards, programming, bass
Steve Connelly - Pedal steel guitar
Trying to express the joys, anxieties and sheer wonder that come with parenthood in a 3-minute pop song is an exercise in futility; you have to be a nutter to try it. So it was that I sat down with my guitar, looking for inspiration in some of the old crayon drawings gifted to me by my daughter during her childhood years, and attempted to capture in song, but a snippet of the awe she inspires in me.
Since Emma's pictures usually came adorned with gaily coloured hearts, flowers and butterflies, it's a no-brainer that the lyrics would be heavy on garden metaphors, so no apologies for the song title of Butterflies, giddy references to raindrops on petals, teardrops on cheeks, little children shooting up tall, and summery flowers reaching skyward. Sappy? Yep. All part and parcel, I'm afraid.
Well, kids are our little flowers aren't they? We try to nurture them as best we can, we watch them grow, take delight in their blooming, and spend an inordinate amount of time simply being dazzled by their beauty.
So here I am, several growing seasons on, and my little girl is blossoming into a lovely and talented young woman right in front of my eyes. I'm terribly proud of her of course, but as she eases into adulthood, I know that along with the attendant sense of joy and wonder, I'll also be dealing with a whole new set of worries and anxieties. There'll be car insurance deductibles to contemplate, college reconnaissance spying missions to initiate and dodgy prospective boyfriends to interrogate.
Butterflies? I still have them.
Flushed cheek and teardrop making my heart stop teaching me all I know Her face like thunder and innocent wonder see how her garden grows up very high to kiss the cloudy skies away She paints hearts and flowers in ivory towers See all the smiles they bring Delivered in whispers signs them with kisses see her she's pulling strings to hold me down or lift me off the ground At once to fly away then crashing down and I'm all butterflies and sunshine smiles enjoy the ride here we go... High, high, high! Petal and raindrop making my heart stop See how her garden grows...
Steve Robinson - Lead & background vocals, acoustic guitars
Ed Woltil - Background vocal, acoustic guitar, keyboards, programming
Hello Hello was written soon
after reconnecting with my old mate, Mark Pearson. Mark and I had been
bandmates back in the UK in the 70s, but we lost touch after I left for
the US and he moved down to London.
When you don't see someone for a couple of decades, and you happen to
live on different continents, catching up is a bit of a tall order.
While e-mail is easy and convenient, it doesn't really compare to a hug
and a couple of pints in the pub does it? With so much water under the
bridge, it's difficult to know where to start, and truth be told, we
barely did. Instead, our correspondence quickly resorted to the
familiar, trotting out old memories of rehearsals, gigs and, well, pints
in the pub.
We did, of course, exchange photographs of our kids, which in turn got
me to leafing through some dog-eared photographs from some of those
early gigs. I remember being a little shocked at how young and carefree
we looked in them. Well we would wouldn't we? We were young and carefree
after all; much like our own kids are now.
Mark was always someone I looked up to. He was only a year older than
the rest of us, but there was a charismatic self-assuredness about him
that we all lacked. Quicker-witted, more stylish (not a difficult task,
admittedly) and with a rather more diverse record collection, I suppose
he was the leader of the band. I mention this because one of the
aforementioned gig photographs seemed to capture a bit of that for me.
In it, I'm wearing Dunlop Green Flash plimsolls (don't ask), rolled-up
jeans, an old nylon pajama top (please don't ask) and a rather serious,
if slightly dazed expression (possibly second-guessing my choice of
attire). Mark, on the other hand, cuts an altogether more swaggering
figure, wearing an untucked white dress shirt and a pair of
zipped-at-the-ankles fencing trousers with matching scowl.
It made me smile; it made me reflect on the different paths our lives
took; and it made me want to use the term "fencing trousers" in a
song...
Look at me in this one
trying hard to be sincere
And look at you in fencing trousers
and your finest sneer
We were so young
and we were full of it,
fearless on the face of it
and not much underneath
to hold us back,
from taking all the chances,
never looking in,
and never needing answers
Look at how we lost ourselves
and found ourselves again
I pissed off to the USA
while you went down to London to find yourself
Guess I did the same
on different streets with different names
and different points of view
to fall into,
busy taking chances,
drinking it all in
and looking for the answers
Hello hello
Hello hello
Hello hello (we're back again)
And then your parents leave you
with no one to impress
Little children helping you
to make sense of this great big mess
of headlines, deadlines, white lines
by the book, take your time
and take a look at him
He looks a lot like you,
(it might be just as well)
Look at her upon a pedestal,
she's casting spells
They are so young
and they are full of it,
fearless on the face of it
and innocence beneath,
pure and easy
Living in the moment
drinking it all in
It's looking like the answer
Hello hello
Hello hello
Hello hello (we're back again)
{ EXCHANGE PLEASANTRIES }
It made me happy when we said hello
Ain't it funny how we sing about what we don't know?
It made me happy when we said hello
Ain't it funny how we talk about what we don't know?
Steve Robinson - Lead & background vocals, acoustic & electric guitars
Ed Woltil - Bass, keyboards
Aaron Kant - Drums & percussion
Steve Connelly - Lap steel & pedal steel guitars
Emma Robinson - Background vocals
Love Somebody started its life as
a rather dodgy albeit well-intentioned and affectionate Bob Dylan
parody. Purely for my own amusement, I'd strapped on my acoustic,
slipped a harmonica holder around my neck and barked out "You don't need
a therapist to show you how to love somebody; don't need to be a poet
or evangelist to love somebody true" in my best Bob impression.
Like most Dylan impressions out there, mine isn't very good and it soon
had the dogs suitably howling and running for cover, but I was quite enjoying myself and continued the stream of consciousness warbling
undeterred. Before I knew it, the lines, "You don't need to be a Beatle
or Bee Gee to love somebody; you don't need permission just to let it
be" popped out and although I was amused by the silly impudence of it
all, I also wondered if I hadn't stumbled on something that I could use.
On my Away For The Day CD, I'd done something similar with a Syd
Barrett-style goof that eventually became the song, Bright Side Of The
Moon, so I wondered if this too might have the germ of a decent song
beneath the goofiness.
So, I turned on my recorder to capture a hastily recorded snippet for
future reference and went about my business. In this case, my business
was coaxing the dogs out from beneath the furniture.
Upon subsequent review, I discovered that the lyrics and melody sat
quite well with me and set about fleshing it out a bit. I set up a
repeating drum machine pattern to play along to so that I could find
more of a groove for the song and it fell into place quite
quickly. To avoid running afoul of the local neighborhood association
(and possibly the SPCA), I dropped the mad, affected Zim-like vocal
sneer and wailing harmonica and sang it straight, so to speak.
A bridge section and some harmony parts later, it was starting to sound
quite promising to my ears. So, I had Ed come over with his trusty
Epiphone Casino and we went out to my old garage apartment where he
deftly added some lovely electric guitar parts. From there it was sent
to Dave Mattacks at his home in Massachusetts where he promptly gave the
song the feel and groove it needed. A bass track and a little dollop of
orchestration to taste (again, courtesy of Ed) and Bob's your uncle!
Wednesday, January 07, 2015
No nativity scenes? Ok. No public prayer? Meh. No taking the piss? Bollocks to that.
One of my fondest memories from my time with the Headlights boys was our mini sojourn at Willie Nelson's Pedernales recording studio, just outside of Austin, Texas. After winning a national battle of the bands contest that he'd co-sponsored, we received a kindly invite from the country outlaw himself to spend a week there recording some demos.
During the course of the stay we'd managed to score a pick-up gig at Austin's legendary dive bar, The Hole In The Wall, and sometime during the evening, Bobby Keys sauntered in. He ended up sharing a few stories and hanging out with us for a while. Of course, when I say "hanging out", I actually mean he downed a few beers and smiled affably while I gushed like a teenage girl and bowed and scraped at his feet, but bear with me. When he learned we were recording up at Willie's place he offered to come by and maybe add a little sax to a song.
Now, for a card-carrying Rolling Stones disciple who spent much of his formative years holed up in his tiny bedroom with his guitar, trying to find his musical way with Get Yer Ya Ya's Out, Exile on Main Street and Sticky Fingers as his guidebook, this was almost too much to take in. I mean, forget for a moment that Keys' brilliant and blustery style had graced John Lennon, George Harrison and Eric Clapton recordings, or that he played alongside Joe Ely, B.B. King and even Buddy Holly, for God's sake. This was the man whose barnstorming solos had elevated already sublime Rolling Stones tracks like Brown Sugar, Can't You Hear Me Knocking? and Rip This Joint to stratospheric status. Calling them classics doesn't really cut it for me; I just view them as monumental musical moments, and to this day they make the hairs on my neck stand to attention at every listen.
So, there we were, already feeling pretty good about things after a really fun set in front of an appreciative crowd, and Bobby Keys from Lubbock, Texas wants to know if this lummox from Scunthorpe would like him to drop by the studio with his sax. Mental. So, as I waited for my trousers to dry, we made plans for him to show up at the studio the next day.
As it is for many of us, I expect, some memories from the 80s are a little hazy. I've forgotten many of the venues we played; I have a little trouble recalling some of the songs from our setlists; and selective amnesiac that I am, I absolutely can't remember who drugged and then dragged me to that bloody Flock Of Seagulls concert. But one thing this girly fanboy remembers quite clearly is watching Bobby Keys opening up his sax case in Willie's studio that day and me asking him excitedly, "So, is that the one? You know, the one you played on Brown Sugar and Can't You Hear me Knocking?". He gave a quick wry smile and nodded, "That's her".
Other than the thrill of hearing him play, what I remember most about him was that he smiled. A lot. He just had this infectious, cheeky energy about him and despite us being a bunch of scallywags from Florida rather than the Rolling Stones, it still seemed like he just couldn't wait to play. I remember watching him from the control room and as the track played through his phones, he'd be intensely swaying with the music as if he was laying in wait for an opening to pounce on.
I never saw him again, but I still treasure the memory of that day, watching and listening to him ply his groovy trade on one of our songs. It's a day I'll not forget. It's amazing to think that he was a Stones sideman for some 40 years. Talk about sticking by your mates! A big-hearted man and a huge talent who'll surely be missed by music lovers worldwide and who leaves a big Texas-sized hole to fill on the Rolling Stones concert stage.
By the way, if you listen to "Can't You Hear Me Knockin?" (linked above) and it doesn't move you, then we're no longer friends. If we're not friends anyway, that might well be the reason. Just saying.
Today I spent the entire afternoon pretending to be a daring mountaineer. I didn't tell anyone. In fact, I never even left
the house, never mind climbed a mountain. That's ok; I don't do these
things for the attention you know.
Anyway, as I was busying
myself not climbing mountains, I got to thinking that some people form
bands and then scurry about trying to think of the perfect band name. I,
on the other hand, am more inclined to come up with band names that I
will never ever use, because I can't be remotely arsed to form a band these
days. I also try to avoid scurrying at all costs. It looks so ungainly, especially when you're carrying mountaineering equipment. Be that as it may,
here are a few band names that I'm quite partial to:
Ether Bunny
Tequila Mockingbird
Yeasty Belgians
Hitler's Sister
Marmoset Facial
The Irony Board
Tenderloink
Orifice Depot
Larding The Otter
Feel free to use any of them to delight or horrify your friends.
In 1’s and 0’s the data flows
this is how we roll.
In an endless freefall zone
I feel so alone with my old dumbphone
Many of us have been known to talk about the way that technological advancements intended to further our connectedness often seem to have the opposite effect. Sometimes we might even conduct such discussions on our smartphones or tablets, engaged with someone other than the person we're actually sitting with in the wi-fi hotspot that doubles as a coffee shop. Not that the other person minds of course; they're probably texting someone else about the coffee and pastry they could be enjoying right now if they had a couple of spare thumbs.
It's a bit of an awkward conversation to have, I suppose. Especially when so many of us seem to prefer blogging to snogging, or tweeting to eating. Oh, we may lament the way that our cyber-dependent, multitasking lives make it difficult to slow down and actually experience a moment rather than documenting it with a selfie, or how we'll paste thoughts to a Facebook page before we've even finished formulating them, but we'll probably do it via text. A sort of half-hearted SOS via SMS if you like.
My friend and label-mate Ed Woltil doesn't do that though. Oh no; if he's telling me the truth, his phone is an avocado-green rotary dial model with a long curly cord attachment that ends up wrapped tightly around his legs and torso during each phone call. This is good, since it encourages him to keep calls short and sweet and frees up the time necessary to craft little masterpieces like Hiding in Plain Sight. I just feel like I'm floating away, weightless, whenever I listen to this little beauty. It's a blissful ride alright, and I've never once been tempted to check my phone while listening to it.
Interestingly, Ed will be hiding in plain sight this Saturday evening (2/29) at his Paper Boats CD release party at The Hideaway in St. Petersburg. He'll be serenading all the lucky blighters in attendance with selections from his new release, as well as a few nuggets from his plump back catalogue. Word has it he'll be playing both solo and with his new 4-piece live outfit, Ed Woltil & The Loaded Question, and the admission price also gets you a copy of the fab new CD. For further details, you can always click here, and then text all your friends about it (while glancing at assorted flat-screens when you're dining out with your family). This is how we roll, apparently.
Using public conveniences is never pleasant is it? Fact is, there are going to be times when you have to visit them. When you do this, you can usually acquit yourself relatively painlessly as long as you abide by the number one unwritten rule of the public bathroom visit: No talking.
Sounds simple enough, and it usually is. Most sensible people quietly concur with this simple piece of urinal etiquette. Occasionally though, someone, in a moment of madness, will attempt to initiate a conversation.
Why they do this, I've no idea. No verbal exchange can rival this for awkwardness and stilted language. I don't know if it's some deep-rooted homophobia on my part, or simply an exaggerated sense of vulnerability during what should ideally be a private, er... function; all I know is that when it happens to me, it constitutes major trauma.
I mean, I'll gladly gab mindlessly with you after we leave the confines of the karsey, but for the love of God, let's just get on with the business at hand and get everybody out of there unscathed shall we? When we get outside we can exchange pleasantries and ask about each other's kids and wives and all that. Until then, it should be clenched jaws and eyes to the ground for all and sundry.
Let me get this straight: The Taliban were sufficiently threatened by this brave, beautiful child and her public advocation of women's access to education, that they actually sent gunmen to board a school bus in order to shoot her? Not only do they admit to this unthinkable atrocity, but they gleefully maintain that they will again come after her in the event that she recovers from her injuries.
I'm trying to think of something worthwhile and insightful to say about this horror story, but I'm honestly at a total loss. It's so far beyond my comprehension that all I can do is scream silently inside and hope to God (or perhaps to that oft-mentioned prophet whose name and image I'm hesitant to mention lest I use it inappropriately and get my own personal fatwa issued just in time for Christmas) that someone can offer me some little pearl of wisdom or a little spiritual guidance that might help me process this.
