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Posts from the ‘Pop music’ Category

Mar 25

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The other Fab Four

Between 1965 and 1968, the Lovin’ Spoonful were the nearest America came to producing a Beatles of their very own. Their string of hits took in irresistibly winsome folk-rock jingle-jangle (“Do You Believe in Magic”, “Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind”, “Younger Girl”, “You Didn’t Have to Be So Nice”), wistful sunshine pop (“Daydream”, “Rain on the Roof”), a brilliant homage to then-unfashionable country pickers (“Nashville Cats”), and a widescreen urban anthem that lives with the finest and most ambitious 45s of the mid-’60s (“Summer in the City”).

Where the Beatles came from skiffle, the Spoonful took their initial inspiration from jug bands. But they shared an inquisitive spirit and a breadth of range that made their early albums, released on the newly formed Kama Sutra label, full of pleasant surprises. Unlike the Beatles, at that stage they only had one main songwriter: John Sebastian, who was always rather more than the tie-dyed cartoon figure of Woodstock legend. It was Sebastian who laced his songs with lines such as “It’s like trying to tell a stranger about rock and roll”, “You didn’t have to be so nice / I would have liked you anyway” and “The more I see, the more I see there is to see”, and could come up with the entire brilliant lyric of “Nashville Cats”.

They also had an eccentric in the ranks: Zal Yanovsky, the Canadian lead guitarist with the goofy Ringo-type presence who blotted his copybook in 1966 after he and Steve Boone, the bass guitarist, had been busted for marijuana possession. Threatened with deportation, he co-operated with the police. The fact that it happened in San Francisco, headquarters of the counter-culture, only deepened the disfavour into which the group as a whole suddenly fell with the influential alternative press. They were from New York, too, which probably didn’t help.

For a while they pressed ahead with soundtracks to two movies by young directors, Woody Allen’s What’s Up, Tiger Lily? and Francis Ford Coppola’s You’re a Big Boy Now, the latter including two classics in Sebastian’s swooning “Darling Be Home Soon” and the title song, with its interludes of Michel Legrand-style orchestration. And there was a brilliant third album, Hums of the Lovin’ Spoonful, on which Joe Butler, the drummer, stepped forward to take the lead vocal on a power-pop classic called “Full Measure”, which ended up on the B-side of “Nashville Cats”. But Yanovsky soon left, to be replaced by Jerry Yester, formerly of the Modern Folk Quartet, an old associate who had actually played piano on theie first hit, “Do You Believe in Magic”.

With Yester on board, they recorded a fourth album, called Everything Playing, that sank without trace on its release at the end of 1967 despite being crammed with absolute gems, including Sebastian’s “She Is Still a Mystery”, “Six O’Clock”, “Younger Generation” and “Money”, Boone’s lovely “Forever”, Butler’s poignant “Old Folks”, Sebastian and Yester’s “Close Your Eyes” and, most impressive of all, Butler and Yester’s “Only Pretty, What a Pity”. If Hums was their Rubber Soul, this was their Revolver. But it had been a year since their last album, the bad smell from the bust lingered, and soon Sebastian was gone, claiming that his experience of the group had been “two glorious years and a tedious one.”

All that remained was Yanovsky’s wacky solo album, titled Alive and Well in Argentina and full of psychedelic whimsy, and a strange effort called Revelation Revolution ’69 by “the Lovin’ Spoonful featuring Joe Butler”, which included a powerful anti-war sound collage called “War Games” and a gorgeously lush version of “Me About You”, written by Garry Bonner and Alan Gordon (of “Happy Together” fame), which outdoes other treatments of the ballad by the Turtles, Jackie DeShannon, the Mojo Men, the Walker Brothers and others.

All of this and more — including the four tracks they recorded as a kind of audition tape for Elektra in 1965, and which got released the following year alongside tracks by Paul Butterfield, Eric Clapton, Al Kooper and Tom Rush on an album titled What’s Shakin’ — can be found in a new seven-CD box set called What a Day for a Daydream: The Complete Recordings 1965-69. Not the least of the set’s merits is a thorough sleeve note by Mojo‘s Lois Wilson. If you’ve forgotten about the Lovin’ Spoonful, or never really got beyond the hits, I can’t recommend it too highly.

* The Lovin’ Spoonful’s What a Day for a Daydream box set is on Strawberry Records. The photo of the original group — (from left) Yanovsky, Butler, Sebastian and Boone — was taken in 1965 by Henry Diltz.

Mar 18

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Ready for his close-up

Baz Luhrmann’s Elvis, a biopic released in 2022, was something I felt I could do without. What turned up during the research process, however, was something else: a cache of film shot in Las Vegas and elsewhere soon after Presley’s comeback in 1969. Hitherto unseen, it consisted of unedited footage devoted not just to recording his performances but to rehearsal and backstage scenes. Here was Luhrmann’s goldmine, and he spent a couple of years turning it into EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert, a 97-minute documentary which I saw at the BFI’s IMAX cinema in London this week.

There are things about the film that I’m not so fond of, such as the flash-cut montages that race through various aspects of Elvis’s life amd career: the looks, the screen kisses, and so on. It’s a way of bringing younger audiences up to speed, I suppose, and the 60-images-in-60-seconds approach probably seems perfectly normal to them. I found it a bit trashy — but of course there was something a bit trashy about Elvis, as there is about Luhrmann’s work. Neither of them, one imagines, would be averse to a ride in a gold Cadillac.

More seriously, the film is stuffed with passages that succeed in telling us more about Elvis than we already knew. Where Luhrman’s approach works, against all odds, is in eliding several performances of a single song, from rehearsal to Vegas showroom, creating a single unit of music containing several perspectives. Sounds a bit meretricious? Works beautifully on songs like “Burnin’ Love” (where we appear to be shown the first band rehearsal of Dennis Linde’s composition), Tony Joe White’s “Polk Salad Annie” and the majestic “How Great Thou Art” (although it does suggest that Elvis’s gospel chops have deteriorated since he made his first gospel album, His Hand in Mine, in 1960).

But to see him working with his rhythm section and singers is to understand how much he loved music. You can’t sing Joe South’s “Walk a Mile in My Shoes” the way he does without real commitment to the material. Or the quite fantastic medley of “Little Sister” and “Get Back”. You hate medleys? Try this one, which brings the best out of the guitarist James Burton and the drummer Ronnie Tutt — making me all the more angry that the closing credits don’t list any of the members of the rhythm section or the backing singers, all of whom are clearly having a ball working with the King. I’d heard that medley before, but to see it performed, with such skill and enthusiasm, is something special.

A couple of moments caught me cold. One is when the director isolates Elvis murmuring “All my trials… soon be over,” from the traditional song Mickey Newbury incorporated into his “American Trilogy”. Another is a snatch of Presley singing as if to himself: “I feel my light come shining / From the west down to the east / Any day now, any day now, I shall be released.” He repeats it, and then, as an aside, says the name “Dylan”. I felt I’d heard it before, and I had: it’s taken from a week of all- night sessions with his band in 1971, released in 2021 on a four-CD set called Back in Nashville.

It makes you wish he’d recorded it properly, and then it makes you think about all the great songs he should have recorded, in the best possible circumstances. Instead, as he admits in contemporaneous interview footage, he wasted the ’60s making terrible Hollywood movies at the insistence of his manager, Colonel Parker, who lurks around the fringes of this documentary in a way that tells you very clearly what Luhrmann thinks of him. Elvis also expresses regret and puzzlement at not having appeared in places like Europe and Japan — anywhere outside the USA, in fact — and we know who was to blame for that.

One or two other things: the shots of the various audiences are fascinating, particularly one wide-angle view from the back of the stage at the Las Vegas International showroom. And there’s a glimpse of Elvis in a car with the Memphis Mafia, giving you a hint of their special kind of camaraderie.

In all of this footage, which I guess is from 1970-71, Elvis is in good shape — a little fuller in the face, but not in the figure. He’s lithe and agile. In good spirits, too: always ready for a goofy laugh, or to change a lyric during rehearsals to include something mildly filthy. I know that such a documentary is the director’s construct, telling the story he wants you to know. But I really did come out of it feeling warmer about Elvis the human being, and even more regretful about the opportunities he missed.

Feb 25

Doing the Nouvelle Vague

If you’re going to see Richard Linklater’s reconstruction of the making of Jean-Luc Godard’s A bout de souffle — and you should, because it’s not just meticulous in its accuracy but enormous fun — then my advice is to stay to the end, all the way through the credits. At that point you’ll hear a 1959 hit by Richard Anthony which borrowed the name of the new movement in French cinema, from which Linklater also took the title of his film: Nouvelle Vague.

Like many French chart records of the time, Anthony’s “Nouvelle Vague” was a French-language cover of an American hit (he also covered “Peggy Sue”, “Let’s Twist Again”, “The Locomotion” and “Hit the Road, Jack”). In this case he took on the Coasters’ “Three Cool Cats”, written and produced three years earlier by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller. With his producer/arranger, Christian Chevallier, Anthony kept Stoller’s tune and riffed in French on the idea of Leiber’s lyric.

The basic scenario is the same. A group of male teenagers are sitting in a car, hanging out, nothing much going on. With the Coasters, it was a beat-up car on a streetcorner in LA. But this is France. Our bunch of copains are in a little MG, illuminated by a streetlight, when three girls walk by, singing an Elvis Presley song. They get together: “On boit, on cause, on rit, on danse.” We drink, we chat, we laugh, we dance. But don’t forget: “Faut garder l’independence de la…nouvelle vague.” In other words, stay cool.

Jan 26

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RIP Margaret Ross

The Cookies: Earl-Jean McRea, Dorothy Jones and Margaret Ross

Margaret Ross was still in high school when she joined her cousin Dorothy Jones and their friend Earl-Jean McRea in the Cookies, a vocal group from Coney Island who became the favourites of the hit-making songwriters in Aldon Music’s Brill Building offices in the early ’60s. They sang on countless demos and provided backup on many hits by other artists.

On their own records, such as “Chains”, “Don’t Say Nothing Bad About My Baby” and “Girls Grow Up (Faster Than Boys)”, they shared the lead vocals between them. But in 1964 it was Margaret who sang lead on the sublime “I Never Dreamed”, a song written by Gerry Goffin and Russ Titelman, one of my three all-time favourite records in the beloved girl-group genre. Arranged by Carole King, it was produced by Goffin, King’s then-husband, and Titelman.

I saw the news of her death at the age of 83 today on Titelman’s Facebook page, which shows how long some old loyalties last. In the same year as “I Never Dreamed”, Margaret also sang lead on two almost equally fine records released under the fictitious name of the Cinderellas: “Baby Baby (I Still Love You)” and “Please Don’t Wake Me”, both written by Titelman with Cynthia Weil, and produced by Titelman with Barry Mann, Weil’s husband and usual writing partner.

Who were the greatest of all the girl-group lead singers? For me it’s Shirley Owens of the Shirelles and Judy Craig of the Chiffons. But Margaret Ross had something special: she could capture the innocence that people like Goffin, Weil and Ellie Greenwich wrote into their stories of young love. She, above all, sounds like a teenager singing on behalf of other teenagers — but with a fine vocal technique that, when matched with the other members of the group, explained their popularity with the writers. “Their ears were so good,” said Neil Sedaka, for whom they sang the background to “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do”.

That day Sedaka took them from Coney Island to the session at RCA studios on East 24th Street in a taxicab. As Ross told Laura Flam and Emily Sieu Liebowitz, the authors of But Will You Love Me Tomorrow?, an oral history of the girl groups: “We learned the song in the taxi. Only took a few minutes to put it together, and once we got in the studio, naturally that’s how it came out.”

It was the Beatles who called time on the girl-group era — ironically, because Lennon and McCartney had been inspired and influenced by those very records, and they covered “Chains”, along with the Shirelles’ “Baby It’s You”, on their first album. Ross was not pleased. “We were furious. Oh, we were mad. I mean, they came over here and they just took over and they pushed us out. And that’s when everything slowed down. They just knocked all of us out.”

She left the music business, got married, had two children, and went to work for the New York City Health Department until her retirement in 1998. In her later years she performed sometimes with a new group of Cookies and sometimes with Louise Murray of the Jaynetts, Lillian Walker-Moss from the Exciters, Beverly Warren from the Raindrops and Nanette Licari from Reparata and the Delrons.

“I love to sing,” Margaret told Flam and Liebowitz. But the schoolgirl could not have imagined, as “I Never Dreamed” went on to the tape in 1964, that she was singing her way into a kind of immortality.

* But Will You Love Me Tomorrow? was published in 2023 by Hachette Books. The Cookies: Chains / The Dimension Links 1962-64 was issued in 2009 on RPM Records and contains their important recordings, under the group name and those of the Cinderellas, Earl-Jean, the Palisades, Darlene McRea and the Honey Bees.

Dec 21

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At Blackheath Halls

Yesterday, the eve of the winter solstice, turned out to be a good one for music. Looking for a Christmas present, I found myself in a clothes shop where the sound system was playing Al Green’s version of Kris Kristofferson’s “For the Good Times”, making me wonder for a moment if there had ever been a finer performance by a soul singer of a country ballad. Then, while I was having a cup of coffee, the café’s playlist surprised me by including Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans’ soaring “The Bells of St Mary”, from Phil Spector’s Christmas Album, a piece of art which seems — unlike Gesualdo’s madrigals and Caravaggio’s paintings — to have been widely cancelled in the present era.

In the evening I took myself to Blackheath Halls, a really splendid venue for music, to hear The Westbrook Blake, a suite of pieces which has been in constant evolution since in 1971, when Adrian Mitchell invited Mike Westbrook to provide musical settings for some of William Blake’s poems, as part of a piece for the National Theatre called Tyger.

I’ve written about it before, here and here, so I won’t repeat myself, except to say that it’s one of the glories of contemporary English music, and the chance to see any performance of it is to be grabbed with some urgency. Last night the two wonderfully expressive solo singers (as always, Kate Westbrook and Phil Minton) and the five-piece band were joined by the 30 or so singers of the Blackheath Halls Community Singers, directed by Paul Ayers.

While Mike Westbrook’s place at the piano was taken by the brilliant Matthew Bourne, the composer himself took the stage in a wheelchair, from which he recited a couple of Blake’s more trenchant poems with clarity and feeling. The spectacular solos from the accordion of Karen Street, the violin of Billy Thompson and the alto saxophone of Chris Biscoe were more than worthy of the spontaneous applause they drew. It was an evening of proper music-making, full of communal warmth, often thought-provoking, and generally good for the soul.

Oct 4

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Finding Lulu

Lulu was on a breakfast TV show the other day, talking about overcoming a drink problem that had its roots in her family background. She was engaging enough to make me want to read her newly published autobiography, If Only You Knew. Compiled with the help of a ghostwriter, Megan Lloyd Davies, it’s quite a surprise. Its 76 short chapters, plus prologue and epilogue, are not just extremely readable but full of interesting observations from a long career.

I was never a fan of her singing, but I’m a considerable fan of two of her songwriting efforts. They come from the opposite ends of the emotional spectrum. The first is “I Don’t Wanna Fight”, a hit for Tina Turner in 1993, a great pre-breakup song full of complex grown-up feelings — resignation, defiance — to which Tina could bring a sense of her own history. The second is “My Angel Is Here”, a track from Wynonna Judd’s 1996 album Revelations, a luminous love song of perfect simplicity.

Lulu didn’t write those songs alone. Her brother Billy Lawrie worked with her on both, with contributions from Steve DuBerry in the first case and Mark Stephen Cawley in the second. My guess is that, since she doesn’t play an instrument, her main contribution was to the lyrics. Anyway, they’re two of the best tracks of the ’90s, if you ask me.

What’s good about her book? Its candid descriptions of her Glasgow childhood, for a start, as Marie Lawrie, the oldest of four children of an alcoholic father; of her audition at Decca in 1963, when the power of her voice blew a microphone; of the resulting decision to move down to London, aged 14, with her band; of her experiences in the ’60s scene, when there the absence of a real division between “rock” and “pop” meant that Jimi Hendrix was a very memorable guest on her Saturday-night BBC TV show; of her short-lived involvement, musical and personal, with David Bowie in 1973. And of her inability to say no to the schemes dreamed up by her devoted manager, Marian Massey, who steered her resolutely towards light entertainment and mostly away from the stuff she wanted to sing, resulting in pantomime seasons and the Eurovision-winning “Boom Bang-a-Bang”, which she clearly detested.

For me, the most interesting section deals with her experiences with Atlantic Records, to whom she was signed by Jerry Wexler in 1970 and with whom she recorded two albums, New Routes and Melody Fair, at Muscle Shoals and Miami’s Criteria Studios respectively. She leaves no doubt about how much this meant to her, in terms of moving closer to the music she loved. Wexler choosing the songs, Arif Mardin doing the arrangements, Tom Dowd at the mixing desk, the Swampers and the Dixie Flyers laying down the tracks: it seemed like the answer to her prayers, a guaranteed escape from the middle of the road.

But it didn’t work out, and I was curious enough to listen to tracks from both albums to try and understand why. The song choices aren’t great, which is weird when you consider that Wexler would have had access to material from the finest country-soul writers of the time, people like Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham. But it’s a mish-mash. The real problem, however, is that although Lulu had her first hit with a raucous cover of the Isley Brothers’ “Shout”, she isn’t a soul singer. She’s a pop singer. For all her ability to add a rasp to her voice, she skates across the surface of the songs. It’s not hard to imagine Wexler concluded quite early on that he’d made a mistake. She wasn’t an Evie Sands or a Merrilee Rush, and this wasn’t going to be a repeat of Dusty in Memphis.

The book’s later episodes include a success with Richard Eyre’s Guys and Dolls, touring with Take That, guest-starring in Absolutely Fabulous, and a grim experience on Strictly Come Dancing. And gradually, coming in like layers of cloud, the drinking that took a grip as she went through middle age, finally taking her into six weeks of rehab in an American clinic at the age of 65.

Yes, it’s a bit showbizzy in places, because that’s partly who she is, but she’s honest about things like her two marriages, for instance, which both ended in divorce, and her looks (“some Botox and filler around my jaw, plus some kind of eye lift”). She also at pains not to bore us: she never dwells too long on anything, which keeps the narrative rolling along.

It’s not normally the sort of book I’d choose to spend time with, but I’m quite glad I did. I suppose I was most genuinely moved by the description of how, while still in her teens, she horrified her family and their neighbours by her appearance in a TV soap ad, speaking in a voice from which, after four years in London, all traces of Glasgow had been smoothed away. “I sounded as if I’d grown up somewhere between Cheltenham and Chelsea,” she writes. “The erasure of Marie Lawrie, on the outside at least, was complete.” But, as we discover, that was very much not the whole story.

* Lulu’s If Only You Knew is published by Hodder & Stoughton.

Aug 7

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Aces high in Camden Town

On the first floor at the Hawley Arms, a pub in Camden Town, Ted Carroll is spinning the discs. He’s started the session with the Bobbettes’ “Mr Lee”, a record that changed his life when he bought an original copy on the London label. He’ll go on to play Bo Diddley’s “Bo Diddley”, Inez and Charlie Foxx’s “Mockingbird” and other choice stuff before resuming his conversations with guests at last night’s 50th birthday celebration for Ace Records, which he and his co-founders, Roger Armstrong and Trevor Churchill, turned into the most prolific and consistently rewarding of reissue labels.

I used to visit Ted’s stall at the back of 93 Golborne Road, up at the then-untrendy north end of Portobello Road, soon after he opened it in 1971 with a stock built around 1,800 London 45s from the ’50s and ’60s. The equivalent of New York’s Village Oldies and House of Oldies, it attracted a clientele of people — some of them famous — looking for rare old R&B, rock and roll and doo-wop vinyl. He added a stall in Soho later in the decade before opening the Rock On shop on Kentish Town Road, next door to Camden Town tube station, from where he also ran the Chiswick label.

Ace began with the acquisition of Johnny Vincent’s label of the same name, out of Jackson, Mississippi. That was the first of many such deals made with some of the great American post-war record men, including Art Rupe of Specialty, Hy Weiss of Old Town and the Bihari brothers of Modern, a species now extinct. Carroll, Armstrong and Churchill had set off on their mission of creating high-class reissues of neglected music, assembled with love, care, and thousands of hours spent in tape vaults across the US. Among later additions would be the Fantasy group of labels, which included Stax/Volt, thus enabling Armstrong, as he told me last night, to stumble open-mouthed upon the session tapes of “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay”.

Personally, I’m profoundly grateful to such compilers as Mick Patrick, Ady Croasdell, Tony Rounce, John Broven, Dean Rudland and Alec Palao for the enthusiasm and scholarship behind dozens of wonderful CDs devoted to stuff I care about. There’s the imaginatively programmed songwriters’ and producers’ series, covering the works of Goffin & King, Leiber & Stoller, Greenwich & Barry, Mann & Weil, Jackie DeShannon, Randy Newman, Laura Nyro, P. F. Sloan & Steve Barri, Bob Gaudio, Dan Penn & Spooner Oldham, Bert Berns, Jerry Ragovoy, and others. There’s the four-volume Sue story, put together by Rob Finnis, and the epic five discs of the late Dave Godin’s Deep Soul Treasures. There’s Ady Croasdell’s beautiful Lou Johnson anthology, his two-volume This Is Lowrider Soul, and his compilation of Doré label tracks called L. A. Soul Sides, including Rita and the Tiaras’ magical “Gone With the Wind Is My Love”. There’s Mick Patrick’s collection of Teddy Randazzo’s great productions and, going back to 1984, Where the Girls Are, his first compilation and one of many devoted to the beloved girl-group genre.

That’s just scratching the surface. And whether pop, blues, R&B, Northern Soul, funk, gospel or jazz, the packaging of Ace’s releases has always been exemplary, thanks to the informative and enjoyable annotations and picture research by the compilers, and to intelligent artwork by designers including Neil Dell, who worked on many of the CDs I’ve mentioned.

The label was sold a couple of years ago. Its new owners, a Swedish company called Cosmos Music, seem committed to continuing on the same path, with the same managers and contributors. A lot of them were at last night’s very convivial party, which started well for me when I walked in to the sound of Dean Rudland playing Oscar Brown Jr’s “Work Song” off a French EP, followed by Ray Charles giving the Raelettes’ Margie Hendrix her finest hour — well, 16 bars — on “You Are My Sunshine”.

Ted, who followed Dean on the decks, now runs a new incarnation of Rock On in the lovely market town of Stamford in Lincolnshire, just off the A1; a bit different from Camden Town — where, as I walked back to the tube, a trio called Thistle were trying to convince their audience that the ground-floor room of the Elephants Head pub was CBGB, this was 1975, and the next band on the bill would be the Patti Smith Group.

Fifty years ago Ted, Roger, Trevor and their helpers did a great thing by starting Ace. When a label introduces you to such gems as Margaret Mandolph’s ” I Wanna Make You Happy” (on Croasdell’s Tears in My Eyes compilation from 1985) and the Vogues’ “Magic Town” (on Glitter and Gold, the first of Patrick’s two Mann & Weil CDs), you can only raise a glass to the work they’ve done and thank them for the happiness it continues to bring.

Jun 29

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Brian Wilson meets his fans (1988)

On September 24, 1988, at the parish hall of Our Lady of the Visitation in Greenford, a West London suburb, Brian Wilson paid an unannounced visit to the annual convention of Beach Boys Stomp, a UK fanzine founded a decade earlier. This is a photograph I took that afternoon, unearthed while I was looking through some boxes of old stuff recently.

Brian was in London to promote his first solo album, with his notorious shrink, Eugene Landy, by his side. Somehow the convention’s organisers, Mike Grant and Roy Gudge, persuaded him to attend their event, overriding Landy’s objections, while managing to keep it a secret from the 325 attendees until the curtains parted on the small stage to reveal him seated at a Yamaha DX7 keyboard.

The pandemonium and applause lasted several minutes. Brian absorbed it all with equanimity before giving us solo performances of three songs. Two of them, “Love and Mercy” and “Night Time”, were from the new album. The first, though, was “Surfer Girl”. Yes, really. “Surfer Girl”. The song he’d written and recorded in 1963. Later he claimed it was actually his first attempt at songwriting. The Beach Boys’ first hit ballad, it reached the top 10 in the US and became the title track of their third album. Its doowop-influenced coda gave a clue to the riches of harmony singing to come, with a repeated question — “Do you love me, do you, surfer girl?” — that could much later be read as a hint of insecurities beneath the sunkissed surface.

His voice was a little unsteady to start with, but the falsetto was still in working order. “Thought we’d give you a little surprise today,” he said after that opening song. The other two were performed with increasing confidence and, in the case of “Night Time”, the encouragement of a steady 4/4 handclap from the audience.

The photo tells the rest of the story. Physically in decent shape, far removed from the heavily bearded 300lb creature he had been, Brian shook many hands before making his departure. In a troubled life, in that humble setting, it seemed like an unexpected but real moment of grace.

May 24

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Songs for summer days and nights

I first got to know Philippe Auclair, a Frenchman living in London since 1986, as someone who wrote about football in both French and English with rigour, authority and elegance. His biographies of two celebrated fellow exiles, Eric Cantona and Thierry Henry, are unlikely to be bettered. The elegance I mentioned is the quality he brings to his other career as a musician, using the alias Louis Philippe.

The latest album by Louis Philippe & the Night Mail, The Road to the Sea, is a beauty. I’ve always known of his love for Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys, and that his past collaborators have included Sean O’Hagan of the High Lamas and Stuart Moxham of Young Marble Giants, which gives some idea of his orientation. So we have sunshine pop, chanson, a hint of the baroque (maybe with a nod to the Left Banke), and open ears in general, perhaps with a bit of Francis Lai and Paddy McAloon thrown in, but also with a strong enough personality to ensure freshness.

The strain of Beach Boys influence I get here is the period taking in Smiley Smile, Wild Honey and Friends, post-surf and mingling hippie serenity with a barely perceptible hint of unease. This isn’t retro music in any way — there are modern trimmings throughout, used sparingly — but Auclair’s carefully wrought arrangements sometimes throw in an unexpected tone or texture, like the sudden appearance of a Hammond organ on “Watching Your Sun Go Down”, a theremin effect on “All at Sea” and a melodica on “Always”.

Unfashionably, he writes chromatic melodies, like the shapely “Song for Paddy (Wings of Desire)”. Overall there’s a lightness of spirit that might represent the influence of Brazil, although perhaps I’m thinking that because I’m listening to “Where Did We Go Wrong”, which races along to a rapid samba rhythm.

His singing voice is calm and unaffected, sometimes rising effectively to the falsetto register; he could be the late Carl Wilson’s French penfriend. There are three songs in his native language, of which “Le Baiser” might well be the loveliest new song I’ll hear this year, with delicious, heartlifting background harmonies and an insouciant jazz piano playout. For sheer beauty, it’s almost matched by one of the English songs, “A Friend”.

The sun and the sea feature prominently in the lyrics, along with a feeling of life drifting along, as it can tend to do. As the days lengthen and June approaches, this is my album for summer days and summer nights.

* The Road to the Sea by Louis Philippe & the Night Train is released on the Tapete Records label: http://www.tapeterecords.com

Apr 24

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Everybody Loves a Train

About twenty years ago, my friend Charlie Gillett was compiling a series of themed CDs for a Polygram label called Debutante, under the aegis of the former Island A&R head Nick Stewart. Charlie asked me if I’d like to put one together, and if so, what the theme might be. “Trains,” I said, after about ten seconds’ thought, and then I went away to assemble a running order. It took a while, because I enjoyed the process so much.

Sadly, the series came to a sudden end before my contribution could see the light of day. But I’d edited together a disc of how I wanted it to go. I called it Everybody Loves a Train, after the song by Los Lobos. It has all sorts of songs, some of which speak to each other in ways that are obvious and not. I avoided the most obvious candidates, even when they perfectly expressed the feeling I was after (James Brown’s “Night Train” and Gladys Knight’s “Midnight Train to Georgia”) and instrumentals, too (see the footnote).

Every now and then I take it out and play it, as I did this week, with a sense of regret that it never reached fulfilment. Here it is, with a gentle warning: not all these trains are bound for glory. Remember, as Paul Simon observes, “Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance / Everybody thinks it’s true.”

  1. Unknown: “Calling Trains” (From Railroad Songs and Ballads, Rounder 1997) Forty-odd seconds of an unidentified former New Orleans station announcer, recorded at Parchman Farm, the Mississippi state penitentiary, in 1936, calling from memory the itinerary of the Illinois Central’s “Panama Limited” from New Orleans to Chicago: “…Ponchatoula, Hammond, Amite, Independence… Sardis, Memphis, Dyersburg, Fulton, Cairo, Carbondale…” American poetry.
  2. Rufus Thomas: “The Memphis Train” (Stax single, 1968) Co-written by Rufus with Mack Rice and Willie Sparks. Produced by Steve Cropper. Firebox stoked by Al Jackson Jr.
  3. Los Lobos: “Everybody Loves a Train” (from Colossal Head, 1996) “Steel whistle blowin’ a crazy sound / Jump on a car when she comes around.” Steve Berlin on baritone saxophone.
  4. Bob Dylan: “It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry” (from Highway 61 Revisited, 1965) “Don’t the brakeman look good, mama, flaggin’ down the Double E?”
  5. Joe Ely: “Boxcars” (from Honky Tonk Masquerade, 1978) A Butch Hancock song. Ponty Bone on accordion, Lloyd Maines on steel guitar.
  6. Counting Crows: “Ghost Train” (from August and Everything After, 1993) “She buys a ticket ’cause it’s cold where she comes from / She climbs aboard because she’s scared of getting older in the snow…”
  7. Rickie Lee Jones: “Night Train” (from Rickie Lee Jones, 1979) It was a plane she took from Chicago to LA to begin her new life in 1969, and an old yellow Chevy Vega she was driving before she cashed the 50K advance from Warner Bros ten years later. But, you know, trains.
  8. The Count Bishops: “Train, Train” (Chiswick 45, 1976) London rockabilly/pub rock/proto-punk. Written by guitarist/singer Xenon De Fleur, who died a couple of years later in a car crash, aged 28, on his way home from a gig at the Nashville Rooms. Note that comma. I like a punctuated title.
  9. Julien Clerc: “Le prochain train” (from Julien, 1997) My favourite modern chansonnier. Lyric by Laurent Chalumeau.
  10. Blind Willie McTell: “Broke Down Engine Blues” (Vocalion 78, 1931) Born blind in one eye, lost the sight in the other in childhood. Maybe he saw trains in time to carry their image with him as he travelled around Georgia with his 12-string guitar.
  11. Laura Nyro: “Been on a Train” (from Christmas and the Beads of Sweat, 1970) One song she didn’t do live, as far as I can tell. Too raw, probably.
  12. Chuck Berry: “The Downbound Train” (Chess B-side, 1956) When George Thorogood covered this song, he renamed it “Hellbound Train”. He didn’t need to do that. Chuck had already got there.
  13. Bruce Springsteen: “Downbound Train” (from Born in the USA, 1984) “The room was dark, the bed was empty / Then I heard that long whistle whine…”
  14. Dillard & Clark: “Train Leaves Here This Morning” (from The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard & Clark, 1968) Written by Gene Clark and Bernie Leadon: “1320 North Columbus was the address that I’d written on my sleeve / I don’t know just what she wanted, might have been that it was getting time to leave…”
  15. Little Feat: “Two Trains” (from Dixie Chicken, 1973) In which Lowell George extends the metaphor of Muddy Waters’ “Still a Fool (Two Trains Running)”: “Two trains runnin’ on that line / One train’s for me and the other’s a friend of mine…”
  16. B. B. King: “Hold That Train” (45, 1961) “Oh don’t stop this train, conductor, ’til Mississippi is out of sight / Well, I’m going to California, where I know my baby will treat me right”
  17. Paul Simon: “Train in the Distance” (from Hearts and Bones, 1983) Richard Tee on Fender Rhodes. “What is the point of this story? / What information pertains? / The thought that life could be better / Is woven indelibly into our hearts and our brains.”
  18. Vince Gill: “Jenny Dreams of Trains” (from High Lonesome Sound, 1996) Written by Gill with Guy Clark. Fiddle solo by Jeff Guernsey. Find me something more beautiful than this, if you can.
  19. Muddy Waters: “All Aboard” (Chess B-side, 1956) Duelling harmonicas: James Cotton on train whistle effects, Little Walter on chromatic.
  20. Darden Smith: “Midnight Train” (from Trouble No More, 1990) “And the years go by like the smoke and cinders, disappear from where they came…”
  21. The Blue Nile: “From a Late Night Train” (from Hats, 1989) For Paul Buchanan, the compartment becomes a confessional.
  22. Tom Waits: “Downtown Train” (from Rain Dogs, 1985) “All my dreams, they fall like rain / Oh baby, on a downtown train.” A New York song.

Closing music: Pat Metheny’s “Last Train Home” (from Still Life (Talking), 1987) to accompany the photo of the Birmingham Special crossing Bridge No 201 near Radford, Virginia in 1957 — taken, of course, by the great O. Winston Link. Other appropriate instrumentals: Booker T & the MGs’ “Big Train” (from Soul Dressing, 1962, a barely rewritten “My Babe”) and Big John Patton’s “The Silver Meter Pts 1 & 2” (Blue Note 45, 1963, a tune by the drummer Ben Dixon whose title is a misspelling of the Silver Meteor, a sleeper service running from New York to Miami).

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