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Posts by Richard Williams

Aug 21

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Summer books 2: ‘Pledging My Time’

I don’t imagine I’m alone in sometimes glancing at a stack of books about (or by) Bob Dylan and thinking, OK, that’s enough now. The last two new volumes, bought hot off the press in the past couple of years, turned out to be expensive time-wasters, prompting the thought that maybe I’d be better off re-reading some of the old ones. Anthony Scaduto’s early biography, maybe, or Suze Rotolo’s memoir, or The Nightingale’s Code. Or even the one Patrick Humphries and the late John Bauldie published in 1990, called Oh No! Not Another Bob Dylan Book. But there’s always an exception, and one such is Pledging My Time by Ray Padgett, subtitled “Conversations with Bob Dylan band members”.

All I know about Padgett is that he has an erudite and entertaining email newsletter called Flagging Down the Double E’s, on which he discusses topics related to Dylan’s live performances. The book is an outgrowth of that newsletter, consisting of interviews with 40 people who have played with Dylan, either in his band or in briefer encounters, or, in a handful of cases, worked with him in slightly different capacities, such as Betsy Siggins, who ran a folk club in Cambridge, Massachusetts in the late ’50s and early ’60s, Chris O’Dell, the Rolling Thunder tour manager, and Keith Dirks, a sound engineer in the early stages of the Never Ending Tour.

You don’t want big names in a book such as this. Most of them have already told their stories many times. You want Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Happy Traum, David Mansfield, Spooner Oldham, Fred Tackett, Stan Lynch, Christopher Parker, Dickey Betts, Larry Campbell and Benmont Tench, whose impressions are not worn thin by overexposure. You want someone like Jim Keltner, with a lifetime of service to music and a deep love of how it feels to explore it in Dylan’s company: “The thing I love about Bob is his fearlessness. There’s a fearlessness from some artists that transmits to the musicians playing. When that happens, you get the best from the musicians, because the musicians are not worried about tempo or about whether they’re rushing or they’re dragging or whether they’re not in the pocket. It’s not about finding a pocket. It’s more about searching for the vibe, searching for the thing that makes the song live.”

Keltner is not the only one here who likens the experience of playing with Dylan to jazz. It’s not jazz, of course, but it shares some important characteristics. Gary Burke, who played percussion on the 1976 Rolling Thunder dates, says: “Dylan lived more in the present than most musicians I know. The most common question I get is, ‘What’s it like to play with Dylan?’ I say, ‘Oh, it was the greatest jazz gig I ever played.’ People look at me like I’m crazy. I don’t mean stylistically it was like a jazz gig, but in terms of the mindset. It was very spontaneous. You never know where he’s going to go. You weren’t given directions ahead of time.”

The pianist Alan Pasqua had played with the New Tony Williams Lifetime when he joined Dylan for the Street Legal sessions and the 1978 tour. “Bob was a great bandleader,” he says. “I was lucky enough to play with Tony Williams early on in my life. He learned from Miles Davis. Miles never told him what to play, but by how Miles played, he showed Tony what he needed to do. I found Bob to be quite a bit similar to Miles.” He adds: “I didn’t know at the time that Bob was a jazz fan.”

In 2017 Pasqua was asked, out of the blue, to provide piano music against which Dylan could read his Nobel Prize acceptance speech. And then, a couple of years later, he was invited to play on “Murder Most Foul”. “They were playing a demo. I heard it and I just couldn’t believe it. In rock music, things usually have a specific beat and pulse. This was free. The time was free. It was elastic. It wasn’t specific to a certain time, feel, or tempo. It just moved and flowed. When I was done listening to the track, I turned to Bob and I said, ‘My God, Bob, this sounds to me like A Love Supreme.’ He just stopped and looked at me.”

Sometimes other aspects of being Bob Dylan are sharply illuminated. Burke remembers the business that went on at the end of every gig, when Dylan’s security men took charge: “When we would leave a place on the tour, security would go into the room where he was staying and take everything out. Every piece of garbage, everything. They would put it in bags and take it with them so that nobody went in and tried to find the lost verse to ‘Tangled Up in Blue’ or something like that.” That’s a tough way to live, Padgett observes. “It is. You got the feeling he was rubbed raw by it all.”

To Billy Cross, who played guitar in the 1978 band, he seemed “very friendly and very warm. He was lovely, absolutely lovely, considering what he’d been subjected to through his life at that point. Everywhere he goes, someone thinks he’s got the answer that’s blowin’ in the wind. I thought it was unbelievable that he could be as normal and personable and pleasant as he was.”

Padgett is a marvellous interviewer: not just enthusiastic and sympathetic but alert and perceptive, equally good at prompting and just letting people talk. Of course, the testimony is mostly admiring. There’s nothing resembling the interview with the veteran soul singer Betty LaVette in the Daily Telegraph earlier this month, where she described her “contempt” for Dylan, five years after enjoying a warm reception for an excellent album of his songs titled Things Have Changed.

She was annoyed that he never told her how good it is, and to underline her irritation she mentioned an incident from several years earlier, when they encountered each other in Spain and “he ran over to me. He put my face in his hands and kissed me square in the mouth. I don’t offer Bob Dylan a kiss and I’m not a f—ing fan. I was not looking to be kissed. If he thinks I’m good enough to put his mouth on, then he should have opened it to say just one good word about my record. When you’re as big as he is, that can make a huge difference to sales.” She didn’t mention whether she’d ever got in touch to thank him for the songs.

More than most people, Bob Dylan presents himself to the world as a jigsaw puzzle, full of complexities and seeming contradictions and bits that are hard to fit together. Maybe some missing bits, too, and others that once fitted but no longer do. Each of us assembles the puzzle as best we can. The keyboards player Benmont Tench, who once found himself playing “Desolation Row” — which he had listened to “a million times” but never played — with its composer to a festival audience of tens of thousands, is among the most thoughtful interviewees in Padgett’s book. He’s allowed to close it with some words that seem to express the feelings of many who’ve worked with Dylan.

“You can read about Bob’s life,” he says, “and you can pay attention to what he says, and you can learn from it, but when you play music with somebody of that calibre, you learn something entirely different. It can only be passed on by that person. And those of us who have the opportunity to play with that person can pass on what we took away, but we only each take away a certain part of our experience with someone like that. Long may he live, because he’s something else.”

* Ray Padgett’s Pledging My Time is published in hardback and paperback by EWP Press. Padgett’s email newsletter is at dylanlive.substack.com

Aug 15

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Ronin at Ronnie’s

Nik Bärtsch’s Ronin at Ronnie Scott’s (photo: Robert Crowley)

Somewhere between an “oh!” and an “ow!”, the abrupt vocal command with which Nik Bärtsch cues his musicians for a shift in musical pattern is the polite zen-funk equivalent of James Brown’s exhortation to take it to the bridge. The reaction is immediate, the players switching from one polyrhythmic cell to another in perfect unison, reframing not just the abstract geometry of metre and tempo but the weight, tone and landscape of the music.

If you own any of the Swiss pianist-composer’s albums, on ECM or his own Ronin Rhythm label, you’ll know that his pieces all go under the bland title “Modul”: “Modul 17”, “Modul 44”, “Modul 55” and so on. I find it rather refreshing not to be primed to think about whether or not a particular piece is a successful portrayal of a nightingale singing in Soho Square. You can just get on and listen to the notes, free from baggage.

But although it may be programmed, there is nothing cold about it. Bärtsch’s music is sometimes attached to such categories and minimalism and systems music, but it’s too abundant to qualify for the former and too warm-blooded for the latter. Any superficial impression of austerity is profoundly misleading. To hear one of his bands live is to share an audience involvement that expresses itself at the end of each long and intense set in a roar of pure exhilaration.

That’s what happened when Bärtsch returned to Ronnie Scott’s Club last week with Ronin, currently a quartet with Jeremias Keller, a relative newcomer on bass guitar, joining the stalwarts Kaspar Rast on drums and Sha on bass clarinet and alto saxophone. Ronin was assembled in 2001 and plays every Monday night at Exil, Bärtsch’s club in Zurich, its members applying their virtuosity to perfecting what their leader calls “ritual groove music”.

I’ve heard Bärtsch’s music in several environments: with Ronin in churches in London and Bremen, solo (with a light artist) at the Barbican, with a horn section at Kings Place and with the Frankfurt Radio big band, orchestated by Jim McNeely, in Berlin. In the set I heard at Ronnie’s, they played the six pieces from their latest ECM album, Awase, blended together into two long sequences, plus an encore. Compared to those earlier performances, this sounded mellower, less edge-of-the-seat, a little more lyrical and reflective, particularly in something like the swooning chordal descent of one section of “Modul 36”.

Even in its gentler moments, however, it was still imbued with that characteristic sense of coiling and uncoiling while still held in tension. And the quality of the playing of all four was extraordinary, with Bärtsch delving into the grand piano’s innards to pluck, strum and damp strings, occasionally striking its frame with a stick, the devoted Sha in the role of Jimmy Lyons to his Cecil Taylor, Rast tireless in nailing down the complex metres and displaced beats, and Keller’s alertness and agility fitting in so well that he might have been with them since the beginning rather than a mere three years.

It was great to see a big crowd assembled to hear this music. Of course the majority of the audience knew exactly what they had come for and received their reward. But also it was interesting to watch the more casual type of customer, the sort who basically turn up for a night at a famous jazz club, as their initial scepticism turned to curiosity and then to intrigue and ultimately to delight, shared with the rest of us.

Aug 8

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The grain of sound

Between takes: the Blind Boys of Alabama in the studio (photo: Abraham Rowe)

The Blind Boys of Alabama’s new release is called Echoes of the South. In the time since they recorded it last year, two of their six members — Ben Moore and Paul Beasley — have died and one, the great James Carter, has retired. This album has time in its bones.

The group was founded in 1939 by a bunch of teenagers as the Happy Land Jubilee Singers, and is the embodiment of that old saying about a garden spade: as the years pass, you can replace the worn-down blade, the snapped shaft and the broken handle, and somehow it’s still the same spade. The lineage from the original members — Clarence Fountain, George Scott, Vel Bozman Traylor, Johnny Fields, Olice Thomas and J. T. Hutton — to this latest incarnation, completed by Ricky McKinnie, Joey Williams and the Rev. Julius Love, is unbroken.

The producers, Matt Rose-Spang, Ben Tanner and Charles Driebe, stay out of the way and let the voices do the talking over a skilled and supportive but unobtrusive rhythm section at Nuthouse Studios in Muscle Shoals, in the group’s home state. That’s just what’s needed to provide the right ambiance for a set of songs with which the singers sound completely comfortable, from the rousing opening of “Send It on Down” to the sober closing invocation of Stevie Wonder’s “Heaven Help Us All”.

The Staple Singers’ “The Last Time” has a special resonance: “This may be the last time we sing/shout/pray together,” they sing, over the sparest of backings. “Friendship”, by Homer Banks and Lester Snell, hitherto recorded by Norah Jones, Roebuck Staples and Mavis Staples, again shows itself to be a modern gospel classic. Curtis Mayfield’s “Keep on Pushin'” is slowed down, and the composer himself would appreciate the way the economy of string bass, brushes and electric piano is deployed to highlight the dignified ardour of the voices.

And those voices: the sense of grain in every one of them, of surfaces worn by use, but never worn down, with a warmth now even more effective for the measured restraint imposed by age, suffusing an album to play anywhere, at any time, in any mood, for any reason or none.

* Echoes of the South by the Blind Boys of Alabama is released on Single Lock Records on 8 September.

Aug 4

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Summer books 1: Henry Threadgill

As a primer on how to grow up amid communities of creative musicians while asserting and developing your own individuality, Henry Threadgill’s Easily Slip into Another World is exemplary. It also happens to belong, in my view, in the very highest rank of autobiographies by jazz musicians.

One of the great contemporary composers and bandleaders, Threadgill grew up amid the blues, the jazz and the black church music of Chicago in the 1950s, but with an ear open to European classical music. He’s old enough to remember the impact of the lynching of Emmett Till in 1955. Hearing the recordings of Charlie Parker made him want to play the saxophone.

He may be the only Chicago musician of his era to benefit from not having studied under Captain Walter Dyett, the venerated director of music at DuSable High School on the city’s South Side. Threadgill was enrolled at Englewood High, where he played in the school’s concert band but was constantly in trouble. Knowing that Dyett had taught so many of the people he really admired, such as Gene Ammons, Johnny Griffin and Wilbur Ware, he applied for a transfer. Dyett looked at his disciplinary record and turned him down flat. When Englewood let him back in, he resolved to change his ways. I suppose the clearest proof of his success came in 2016, when he became the third jazz musician (after Wynton Marsalis in 1997 and Ornette Coleman in 2005) to receive the Pulitzer Prize for Music, for his composition In for a Penny, In for a Pound.

“Being rejected is the best thing that can happen to you, if you know how to think laterally,” he observes. “I ended up getting a much broader and deeper education.” The scope and volume of his work over the years is astonishing. Many musicians would have made an entire career merely out of the projects he undertook with dancers. Others would have invented the hubkaphone, as he did in 1970 after seeing a display of shiny chrome car hubcaps laid out on a stall in the famous Maxwell Street market, and settled for renown as the creator of the American version of the gamelan orchestra.

He could have pursued a life as an R&B musician, after touring with the Dells and the Chi-Lites in the ’70s, or in Latin music after working with the trumpeter Mario Bauzá in New York. He could even have stayed safely within the circle of Chicago’s AACM. Instead he formed one band after another, following the instinct to push things further. The trio Air, with the bassist Fred Hopkins and the drummer Steve McCall, was followed by many, many others, usually with unorthodox line-ups (e.g. four reeds and four double basses) and sometimes with strange names, such as X-75, Very Very Circus, Zooid and the 14 or 15 Kestra. (Oddly, his latest album, titled The Other One, is by something called the Henry Threadgill Ensemble.)

With the aid of the writer and academic Brent Hayes Edwards, Threadgill tells his story at a relaxed pace and with a depth of detail that is always compelling and never tiresome. The Vietnam section is a serious addition to the literature on that terrible war, from an unusual perspective: about drafted in 1966, thinking he’d done a smart thing by volunteering as a musician, a year later he was the Central; Highlands with his clarinet in one hand and a rifle in the other, encountering the Montagnards and experiencing the African American version of the horror and squalor familiar to some extent from Michael Herr’s Dispatches but here described with even greater clarity and revulsion. “I didn’t shed my war experiences when I got off that plane from Vietnam… Vietnam stayed with me, and it took me to some dark and twisted places even once I returned to Chicago.” But he had survived, and eventually the trauma receded.

Back in the world, his surreal encounter with Duke Ellington in 1971 — with the suggestion that he might have been momentarily lined up as the next Billy Strayhorn — is a Murakami short story in itself. His description of a gig with Cecil Taylor is both hilarious and enlightening: “I was completely befuddled. I was standing there wondering why what we were playing didn’t sound like the piece I remembered rehearsing.” Eventually he discovers, on the stand at Fat Tuesday’s, that “to play Cecil’s music, you had to get to a place where you could let the pieces reconfigure themselves as you went along. It was disconcerting in the moment, but the experience with Cecil impacted the way I came to think about my own bands. It’s important to keep your people a little bit off balance.”

The four pages on his grandfather, Luther Pierce, who often took him to the Maxwell Street market, explain something about Threadgill. Pierce worked in a steel mill but was also the family’s self-taught, trial-and-error electrician, cobbler, plumber, tailor, barber, carpenter, bedbug exterminator and medicine man. “He was resourceful — or reckless — to a degree I have never encountered in any other human being,” his grandson writes. “The most amazing thing about it was his nerve. I think he would have been capable of performing open-heart surgery on one of us had he considered it necessary. Whatever it took, he was ready to do it: nothing was out of bounds. And I suspect that a little of his spirit of radical experimentation rubbed off on me.”

His theory of intervallic harmony was developed for Zooid in the mid-’90s during a stay in Goa, reading about “maths and physics and astronomy and warfare, studying philosophical treatises, reading books about various musical systems.” It resembles George Russell’s Lydian chromatic concept or Ornette Coleman’s harmolodic theory in that it clearly takes a lot of preparation for his musicians to become conversant with the new language, and — although there are several pages of explanation — it’s impervious to casual comprehension. But you’ll probably know it when you hear it.

Simultaneously, while reading Ulysses, he came up with the idea of a 1/4 metre: “James Brown used to talk about getting back to the one. He’d cajole his band, talking about it, calling for it, demanding it — stretching things out to build anticipation. That’s funk in a nutshell: that tantalising expectation of the downbeat. Here it is — and here it is again. With Zooid, the question is almost the opposite: what if you never get off the one? Everything is always the one.”

I’ve quoted at length from the book simply in order to give an idea of the richness contained within its 385 pages. Let’s finish with a piece of typical Threadgill wisdom, fashioned by the tools of thought and experience: “If you look at a book on the history of Western classical music, there’s centuries of background you can read about. Black music in America is relatively young. It’s still just the beginning. And it’s too soon to get upset and start making grand declarations about what you like and don’t like in terms of the directions the music is taking. You don’t have to like it all. What you have to recognise is that it’s not the end of the line. In another hundred years, assuming we’re still here, imagine how much more artistic information will have accumulated from Black music. And it’s not going to be the twelve-bar blues from now until the end of time.”

* Easily Slip into Another World: A Life by Music by Henry Threadgill and Brent Hayes Edwards is published by Alfred A. Knopf. The Other One by the Henry Threadgill Ensemble is out now on the Pi label.

Jul 31

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Randy Meisner 1946-2023

The first time I noticed Randy Meisner’s name was when Rick Nelson released his first album with the Stone Canyon Band, recorded live at the Troubadour in LA in 1969 and released the following year. Meisner was the band’s bass guitarist and sang harmonies. Nelson was trying to update himself, shedding the “y” at the end of his first name and embracing the arrival of country rock in an attempt to put some distance between the teen idol of “Poor Little Fool” and his adult self. The Troubadour album included signposts for his desired new direction in the shape of his versions of three Bob Dylan songs, including a particularly creditable version of “I Shall Be Released”. It also had a lovely version of Eric Anderson’s “Violets of Dawn”, a song completely redolent of its era, with Meisner contributing fluid bass lines and high harmonies.

When Nelson was putting the band together, Meisner — who had just left Poco after a brief stay — brought in the lead guitarist, Allen Kemp, and the drummer, Pat Shanahan, from another of his earlier bands, the Poor. The veteran steel guitarist Tom Brumley, a former member of Buck Owens’ Buckaroos, completed the line-up. Meisner was no longer there by the time their second studio album, Rudy the Fifth, was released in late 1971, containing a song he’d co-written with Kemp. He’d become a founder member of the Eagles, with whom he stayed until 1978, not always happily. He died last week, aged 77, and the final years were not easy ones, as Adam Sweeting recounts in an obituary of him in the Guardian. If you’d asked Randy Meisner to identify his finest hour, I don’t imagine “Violets of Dawn” would have crossed his mind. But it still sounds sweet.

Jul 27

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RIP Sinéad O’Connor

Document handed out to journalists covering the Bob Dylan 30th anniversary concert at Madison Square Garden, New York City, on 16 October 1992.

Jul 23

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Climate change

On an unseasonably cold, rainy late-July evening in East London, the trio known as Decoy — Alexander Hawkins on Hammond organ, John Edwards on double bass and Steve Noble on drums — and their regular guest, the indefatigable 83-year-old American saxophonist Joe McPhee, provided all the warmth the audience at Cafe Oto could need, and more.

That’s hardly surprising. Almost a decade and a half since their debut, Decoy + McPhee are the ultimate 21st century iteration of the hallowed organ-and-tenor combo, which at its finest — in such meetings as those of Gene Ammons and Richard “Groove” Holmes, Stanley Turrentine and Jimmy Smith, or Sam Rivers and Larry Young — provided an entire central heating system in itself.

The set I caught last night, the last of their four nights in Dalston, began with Noble marking out a fast 6/8, moving straight ahead, encouraging Hawkins to let rip with a rousing improvisation. McPhee entered with a splintered honk before the tempo slowed to a bluesy lope. A dislocated shuffle followed, powered by Edwards’ thrumming, then a modal section (with a tune I’m sure I know but couldn’t place), a fast Latin passage with chattering percussion, and a quiet gospel-tinged fade to a most elegant closure.

That’s a swift précis of 45 minutes of music full of spontaneous creativity and contrast, in which the freedom of any individual was a given. All four were astonishingly inventive, intuitive in their responses, shaping the parts and the whole with complete assurance. I was struck by the sight of a young woman amid the throng, dancing in the semi-ecstatic way people used to dance to, say, the Third Ear Band at rock festivals 50 years ago. Not something you see at many jazz gigs these days, but a pretty good sign.

The occasional bursts of B3-powered intensity reminded me of the first edition of Tony Williams’s Lifetime, a thought that led me to muse on what the classic John Coltrane Quartet might have sounded like had McCoy Tyner suddenly gone missing and been replaced for one night only by Larry Young, Lifetime’s organist, with instructions to go for it. A bit like Decoy with Joe McPhee, maybe. Anyway, the roar and the prolonged ovation at the end of the set said it all.

Jul 17

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Adieu, Jane B.

The obituaries of Jane Birkin in this morning’s British newspapers mentioned all the obvious stuff — the BBC ban, the handbags — while neglecting to record two salient features of her career in the public eye. One was her extensive campaigning on behalf of many important causes (including the rights of immigrants and refugees, AIDS, abortion rights and climate change). The other was her music.

She became a singer through her association with Serge Gainsbourg, who gave her many good songs to sing, filled with his love of daft, clever puns and adroit double entendre. She remained faithful to them long after she and Gainsbourg had ceased to be a couple, and five years after his death in 1991 she made an album called Versions Jane, the title indicating its theme: a desire to find her own approaches to his songs.

Since her light, funny, deceptively fragile English-girl-in-Paris voice never changes, the settings are always the key, and for the album’s 15 songs she chose 15 different approaches. It opens with “Ces petits riens”, beautifully sung against animated pizzicato strings arranged by Jean-Claude Vannier. The joviality of “La gadoue” is animated by the sparky ska of Les Negresses Vertes, an accordion playing the role of rhythm guitar, with a cheeky interpolation of the melody from “Je t’aime — moi non plus”. The concert harp of Catherine Michel is the only accompaniment to the haunting “Dépression au-dessus du jardin”. The trio of the veterans Joachim Kühn (piano), Jean-François Jenny Clark (bass) and Daniel Humair (drums) give “Ce mortel ennui” a suave swing reminiscent of a Left Bank jazz club — Le Chat qui pêche, say — in the 1950s.

And on it goes. A full orchestra, arranged by Philippe Delettrez, billows beneath the mad verbal gymnastics of “Exercice en forme de Z”, with its buzzing bestiary of “chimpanzés, gazelles, lézards, zébus buses et grizzli d’Asie.” A slinky electro backing by Bruno Maman and the drummer Patrick Goraguer (son of Gainsbourg’s old musical director) adds a glide to “L’anamour”. The heavy rock of Daren et les Chaises detonates the demureness of “Elisa”. The Hammond organ of Eddy Louiss, once a member of Stan Getz’s European band, chugs beneath “Elaeudanla Téïtéïa”. Swelling strings and a rock rhythm section make a disquieting Euro-pop aria of “Aux enfants de la chance”, Gainsbourg’s warning against angel dust, magic mushrooms, freebasing and dragon-chasing. “Ford Mustang”, the story of a fashionable couple who die (or that’s how I interpret it) while kissing at the wheel of their big American car and crashing into those sturdy plane trees that used to line French routes departmentales, is recited against Boom Bass’s mosaic of samples: free jazz saxophones, random voices, piano, stabs of strings.

Birkin’s travels in pursuit of her various campaigns are recalled by “Couleur Café”, recorded in Dakar, featuring the drumming of the Senegalese griot Doudou N’Diaye Rose, and “Comment te dire adieu”, in which the contribution of the Orkestar Salijević, recorded in a Serbian village, results in a wonky brass band version that Tom Waits would enjoy.

Of the whole collection, the one that has always stuck with me most vividly is “Sorry Angel”. A lover’s ambiguous farewell, its words are half sung, half whispered against the layered guitars of Sonny Landreth, the noted bottleneck exponent in whose Louisiana studio the track was recorded. Floating in a gentle haze between boulevard and bayou, it’s a four-minute movie — and a highlight of the album that perhaps conveys best of any she made the range of her own creative thought.

I knew her a bit around this time and came to understand something of the extent to which she was admired and loved in her adopted country. One evening in Paris I got back to my modest hotel to find the woman at the desk beaming with unusual warmth as she gave me a piece of paper along with my room key. Mme Birkin had dropped by from her house around the corner a little while earlier and left a note about meeting the following day. As the receptionist handed it over, she practically curtsied.

Jul 16

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Northern Soul at the Albert Hall

The spirits of Tobi Legend, Tony Clarke, Sandi Sheldon, Eddie Holman, Bobby Paris, Judy Street, Shane Martin, Dana Valery and other heroes of Northern Soul inhabited the Royal Albert Hall last night. Goodness knows what they would have made of the sight and sound of 5,000 people acclaiming performances of their songs in the second concert of the 2023 BBC Proms season.

To recreate 30 Northern Soul favourites with the BBC Concert Orchestra in such formal surroundings seemed like an endeavour fraught with risk. In fact it was an unmitigated triumph, for which enormous credit goes to the co-curators, the writer and broadcaster Stuart Maconie and the arranger Joe Duddell, as well as the half-dozen singers recruited to attempt the task.

The evening started with the ebullient Brendan Reilly delivering the MVPs’ “Turning My Heartbeat Up” and Dobie Gray’s “Out on the Floor”, setting the mood while reassuring the audience that the performances would both idiomatically accurate and true to the music’s spirit. It ended two hours later with all six singers taking turns to lead the audience in a wonderful version of Frank Wilson’s “Do I Love You (Deed I Do)”, the song that most perfectly captures the pure exhilaration of Northern Soul.

But there are many more shades to this music, as we heard as Frida Touray elegantly interpreted Rita and the Tiaras’ sublime “Gone With the Wind Is My Love” and Little Anthony and the Imperials’ sophisticated “Better Use Your Head”, in Nick Shirm’s elastic delivery of Shane Martin’s “I Need You”, Bobby Paris’s “Night Owl” and Jimmy Beaumont’s “I Never Loved Her Anyway”, in Natalie Palmer’s lively reading of Dana Valery’s “You Don’t Know Where Your Interest Lies” and Judy Street’s “What Can I Do”, in Darrell Smith’s stylish version of Ray Pollard’s “The Drifter”, and in Vula Malinga’s superb account of Gladys Knight’s gospel-driven “No One Can Love You More”. Reilly had just the voice for both the Trammps’ “Hold Back the Night” and the Carstairs’ “It Really Hurts Me Girl”.

As each singer took their solo turn, the others provided beautifully judged backing vocals. Gradually the orchestra, conducted by Edwin Outwater, came into its own, with Duddell and Fiona Brice providing the meticulously detailed arrangements: the strings soared, the brass and reeds thickened the sound. The rhythm section — Andy Vinter (piano), Alasdair Malloy (vibes), Pete Callard (guitar), Steve Pearce (bass guitar), Mike Smith (drums), Steve Whibley and Julian Poole (percussion) — provided the unstoppable momentum. Vibraphone and baritone saxophone, the keys to so many Motown-influenced Northern Soul favourites, were present and correct, while the guitarist chopped chords on the backbeat as the idiom demanded. The whole sound was mixed and balanced perfectly. A couple of times the singers stepped aside, allowing the orchestra to perform two of the backing tracks — “Sliced Tomatoes” and a magnificent “Exus Trek” — that were such an important part of the scene.

Darrell Smith, perfectly turned out in a brown Tonik suit, supplied soaring drama that stole the show late on with the Four Seasons’ “The Night”, the Albert Hall’s lighting technicians bathing the ecstatic throng in something approaching a mirror-ball effect. Then came the famous trio of songs with which the DJs at Wigan Casino closed their all-nighters: Dean Parrish’s “I’m on My Way”, Jimmy Radcliffe’s “Long After Tonight Is All Over” and Tobi Legend’s “Time Will Pass You By”, which between them summon all the emotions its audience continues to draw from this music: optimism and determination, but also the layer of aching sadness beneath the euphoria. All the complicated feelings of youth, captured in these seemingly disposable but resolutely enduring songs.

Maconie’s introduction had drawn cheers for his mentions of Manchester’s Twisted Wheel, Blackpool Mecca, Wigan Casino, Stoke’s Golden Torch and Bolton’s Va Va Club. This was a communal rite, a meeting of the clans, the reunion of a family in an alien setting that turned out to be a home from home. It was something very precious. I can’t begin to tell you how much I enjoyed it.

* You can hear BBC Prom 2: Northern Soul on BBC Sounds for the next 29 days. You can see it on BBC2 on 26 August and hear it again on BBC Radio 6 Music on 9 September.

Jul 14

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Coltrane & Dolphy on the record

When Uncut magazine invited me to review the newly discovered tapes of John Coltrane and Eric Dolphy at the Village Gate in the summer of 1961, which are released today on vinyl and CD, I went and dug out the 12 April, 1962 of issue of Down Beat. Its striking cover announced that the two musicians had given a joint interview defending themselves against the charge that what they were playing was “anti-jazz”. I was 15 years old when I bought this copy of the magazine and exhilarated by what I saw and read.

Down Beat, essentially a magazine of the jazz establishment, had given a platform to two revolutionaries. Interviewed by Don DeMichael, the publication’s editor, they provided long and fascinating responses to his questions, as you can see below. Their patience is exemplary. Much of what they had to say is as valuable today as it seemed 60 years ago.

The way the cover and the two inside spreads were designed somehow echoed the tone of the piece. Whoever “Roth” was, his charcoal portraits seemed to catch a quality of heroic iconoclasm, as did the extreme cropping of the photographic images (taken by Bill Abernathy of Chicago and the Stockholm-based Bengt H. Malmqvist, who later became Abba’s photographer) on the first inside page. The whole thing made an impression that has never faded.

* Evenings at the Village Gate by John Coltrane with Eric Dolphy is on the Impulse label. The September issue of Uncut is out now.

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