"Totally Shuffled" extract-it's not all about music

Extracted from "Totally Shuffled-A Year of Listening to Music on a Broken iPod".

In this piece I completely went off topic and wrote about something other than music. I don't recall why; possible just because I couldn't think of anything else to write about.

Anyway, it's not always about music all the time...

 

June 16^th

Charlie Parker-The Bird Gets The Worm-Complete Savoy Recordings

Today, 16^th June is Bloomsday. 

This year Radio 4 have been running dramatisations of the novel all throughout the day and broadcast live from Dublin. 

This has prompted me to dig out from the back of the bookcase the copy of Ulysses that I bought a long time ago. Looking inside the front cover, I’ve written the date-July 1991. And I’ve still never read it. 

I think that I once read the very studious introduction and about half of the first page of the novel then gave up. I really must give it a proper go. As it’s about half way through the year, I should make this a sort of resolution-to read Ulysses before the end of 2012. 

It would be good if I could say that Ulysses is the only book that I’ve bought, but never got through. (Considering I’ve read some shit novels over the years and generally try to plough through to the end of any book, just in case it turns out to get better, the number of books I’ve given up on is small, but potentially significant). 

Glancing at the bookcase I can see two others, quite easily, that are sort of glaring at me. Like Ulysses, I bought them a long time ago and did start them before throwing in the towel. 

One of them-Remembrance of Things Past, a hefty tome, I even took on holiday with me. It was carted on a coach trip to Italy in 1988-the only book that was given the honour. I got about 30 pages into it before deciding that life was just too short. I did bring it back with me though. 

It has since sat on the bookshelf and moved between houses a number of times, unread and was joined at around the same time with War and Peace, which suffered a similar fate. Although Tolstoy never managed to join me on holiday I have picked it up on a number of occasions, put it in the car when embarking on a long journey with the full intention of actually giving it a proper go. I’ve driven back with it unread and it joined Proust and Joyce on the bookshelf. 

The graveyard of unread classics.  And for twenty years or so they’ve sat there gathering dust. 

The significant thing is that I’ve known they’ve been there all this time and they’re sitting there, challenging me, daring me even, to make a start. 

It has become a battle of wills in a literary sense. I can’t bring myself to throw them out-I’d never do that with a book anyway- and every time I read something “easier”, say Nick Hornby, I have a feeling that even if I’ve really enjoyed it, then I have taken the easy, lazy option. 

Then I feel a bit guilty, but instead of caving in, even if I read something more complex than Hornby say, DeLillo, then I still can’t win, because I feel that Joyce, Proust and Tolstoy (doesn’t that sound like an especially erudite firm of accountants or solicitors-Joyce, Proust & Tolstoy?) are sitting up there, whispering that I’ve still bottled it.

Even after all this time and the hundreds of books I’ve read in the intervening years, I’m still not up to reading them. It’s the fear of the first page I suppose.

Not writers block, but readers block.  

Get "Totally Shuffled" here as a Kindle book http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00CJYZ3CA
or here in paperback http://www.amazon.co.uk/Totally-Shuffled-Listening-Broken-iPod-/dp/149495687X    

Glastonbury Ticket Sale

With the ticket sale dates for Glastonbury 2015 just announced, here's an extract from my forthcoming book about going to Glastonbury in 2014.

At this point we were trying to get tickets...

We were all well-versed in what needed to be done on ticket sale day, which that Thursday found us in a slightly different place. Instead of the normal 9.00 a.m. Sunday kick off, on the Thursday 6.00 p.m. was the crucial time. An evening match therefore, to use a football analogy. And like an evening match, this required leaving work early as well as being distracted from work for the most of the day. 

That evening therefore I made sure that I was out of the door as soon as possible and picked up Thomas on the way home.  

Apart from that, it was business as usual. The coffee pot was on and filled. Registration numbers were checked and rechecked and blu-tacked up on the wall. Ashtrays were emptied and I had a new packet of ciggies ready to go. (Ticket sale day is not a day to give up smoking.) Phones were charged. 

Two laptops and Thomas’ iPad were set up. F5 buttons were primed. The TV was switched off. No distractions. It was a well-oiled machine.

With minutes to go, Thomas asked me if I thought we’d be successful. I was sure we would be; for once I was quite optimistic.

“There can’t be that many people wanting to do it like this,” I said. “They’ve got thousands of tickets for this and I bet loads of people don’t even know about it. Besides, a lot of people go by car so we’ll be fine. We’ll have our tickets sorted tonight.”

We all listened for the time signal on the radio at six and sprung into action as soon as the last pip faded away.

“This page cannot be displayed.”

Refresh.

“This page cannot be displayed.”

Refresh.

“This page cannot be displayed.”

I looked at Jackie and Thomas. “You getting anything?” I asked.

They shook their heads.

“Nothing.”

“Phones?”

“Currently a high demand for this service,” Jackie said.

I lit up a ciggie, tapped F5 and took a swig of coffee. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so easy after all, but we were only a few minutes in.

“Give it time,” I said, “Just let’s keep trying.”

Once it reached 6.20 things weren’t looking so good. Pages weren’t still loading and the phones were no good either.

“Maybe you can try on Sunday,” said Jackie. Thomas shook his head, a bit like Gary Lineker in the World Cup to Bobby Robson.

Then, all of sudden he shouted out. “I’ve got a page! Dad! Come on, you take over.” He stood up and passed me the laptop.

“Oh shit!”I said. “Jackie, shout out the numbers! Here we go!” 

What had been a well-oiled machine before had descended into a scene of panic.  We were all trying to move around the room at the same time and because of the shouting the dog had woken up and decided to bark and run around like a ferret on crack.

Jackie, as ever, steadied the ship. “Calm down. Here’s the numbers. Thomas, grab the dog. Are you ready?”

“Yes, go on.”

She read our registration numbers out and I typed them in, hands shaking. You’d have thought that I was launching nuclear missiles rather than buying tickets for a music festival. Maybe it was the effects of too much strong coffee.

“Oh, it’s asking me how many coach tickets we need,” I said. I was losing it.

“Two, of course,” said Jackie. “Just type it in.”

“From Liverpool? When? Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just type it in.”

“OK. Right. Oh, “Proceed”.” Another page came up. “They need the card details. Shout them out.”

Knowing that I was a bit slow in this regard, Jackie read the numbers out carefully enough for me to type them in correctly. Now was not the moment to transpose two digits.

“Expiry date?”

“Issue number?”

Done!

All in. Complete.

The usual “Do you want to proceed with this?“ message flashed up on screen.

I clicked on “Yes” and waited for the confirmation.

There was a slight pause, a slight hesitation in the internet, then an unexpected page came up.

“Tickets for Glastonbury 2014 have now all sold out.”

I looked at the screen in disbelief. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The message was still there.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?” they both said.

“Look!” I pointed at the screen. “It’s saying they’ve sold out!”

“Must just be a glitch,” Thomas said, “Try again.”

I took a deep breath and went back to the main page. “It’ll just come up with same thing,” I said, gloomily. But it didn’t. It came up with the get tickets page. I knew what I was doing this time; registration numbers in, bus tickets needed, card details-proceed, confirm…and… “Tickets all sold out.”

“Oh bollocks!”

“Try again. There must be some if it’s letting you reload the first page.”

 So I did. Three more times I tried and each time the same thing happened. The next time, the Glasto main page was telling me that all tickets were sold out. 

Out of desperation, I tried another couple of times but it was no use. 

They’d all gone. 

The new book from which this is taken from is yet unedited and unfinished but will be published by Christmas 2014 ( I promise!)

My previous two books in the trilogy, "Turn Left at the Womble" and "Left Again at the Womble" are availbale here as either Kindle e books or paperbacks http://www.amazon.co.uk/Turn-Left-The-Womble-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B0060YCKGW and http://www.amazon.co.uk/Left-Again-Womble-middle-aged-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B00IBK2V6M

 

Electric Light Orchestra-Totally Shuffled extract

December 3rd

Electric Light Orchestra-Mr Blue Sky-The Best of ELO  

ELO existed within a weird sort of other type music. Post-Glam. Pre-punk. Post punk. Prog. But not prog. Pop. But not really pop. Overblown album sleeves and mad art concepts from a bunch of old rockers from Birmingham. Birmingham, U.K., not Birmingham, Alabama. If any band was never hip or cool, then ELO was that band. Some prog bands, (such as ELP and Yes) and old hippies, (such as Fleetwood Mac) were rightly ridiculed and dismissed as old irrelevant dinosaurs by the advent of punk, but ELO remained unscathed. 

I don’t think that it was because there was an affinity between ELO and the new guard (not as new as it turns out- but that’s another question altogether). It was because that ELO were irrelevant in that good way. They were as relevant to the issue as say, a record by James Last. It’s not as if they were beneath contempt, but they didn’t seem to register as a worthwhile target.

But ELO were massively popular. Incredibly popular. They’ve sold over 50 million records worldwide, but I’ll bet you’ll never find anyone admitting to being a big fan of ELO. ELO were not just solely listened to by sales reps that drove Ford Granadas and only possessed albums on 8 track tapes. 

You may get a few people letting on that they’ve had a few ELO records, but no-one will ever say that they’re their favourite band. What’s more you’d never get any “serious” music aficionado giving ELO the time of day. There never seems to have been a retrospective of their work in any of the monthly music magazines: Mojo, Q, or even that odd one that deals with “Rock” with a capital R. 

ELO are still somewhere “out there” to this day, existing in a strange sort of parallel universe and not fitting neatly into any sort of category.

I’d guess, however that more than a few of those 50 million records were bought by lank-haired, great coat, flare-wearing fans of Yes and Led Zeppelin. And the same goes for fans of The Clash, The Pistols and rest of the scorched-earth safety pin brigade. Likewise with everyone else. 

All those deep and intense music critics such as Paul Morley, Julian Cope, everyone who writes for The Wire magazine and The Quietus will have an ELO record or two. 

I’ll wager that nestled close to Crass’ “Penis Envy” and The Fall’s “Perverted by Language” on someone’s shelves that there’s an ELO compilation. Mine.

I’ve got to be honest here. ELO aren’t one of my favourite bands either. Not even close. But I do love their singles. This one, “Evil Woman”, “Telephone Line”, “Wild West Hero”, and “Don’t Bring Me Down”-how can anyone not fail to love these songs? If any band was ever destined to deserve a “Best of” album, then ELO are that band.

A final thought. The Beatles were praised for being one of the first British bands to sing with a non-American accent. (I can’t really hear it myself). 

Listen to this track though. ELO sung with a Birmingham accent! How brilliant is that! 

And on the break in “Hold on Tight” they sang in French with a Brummie accent. Now that can’t be bettered. 

Extracted from "Totally Shuffled-A Year of Listening to Music on a Broken iPod"  Kindle book here:  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Totally-Shuffled-Listening-Music-Broken-ebook/dp/B00CJYZ3CA 

or as paperback here 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Totally-Shuffled-Listening-Broken-iPod-The/dp/149495687X

Totally Shuffled extract-Faron Young

extracted from "Totally Shuffled- A Year of Listening to Music on a Broken iPod"

April 17^th

Faron Young-Live Fast, Love Hard, Die Young- single

Prefab Sprout recorded a song called “Faron Young” on their 1985 “Steve Mc Queen” album. I didn’t realise at the time, and didn’t know for a long time afterwards, that Faron Young was the name of a country singer from the 1950’s. I didn’t know at all what Paddy McAloon was singing about; “You give me Faron Young, four in the morning.” Like all of Prefab Sprout’s work I loved the song-it was a single as well. 

Of course now, it would just be a matter of looking it up on the internet, but then I merely put it down to McAloon’s Geordie accent and heard it as, “you give me far on young, for in the morning.” (i.e. all separate words). What it meant I didn’t know, and it didn’t seem to matter. I assumed it was some typically cryptic Sproutian lyric. Would I have thought of the song differently if I’d known what it was about? (Faron Young’s song “It’s Four in the Morning” was the only record of his that made the U.K. charts (number 4 in 1975), though I must have missed it at the time, being preoccupied with the latest waxings from Slade, T-Rex and The Sweet).

This track however, stemmed from 1954. It’s quite ironic really. 

Faron Young, by all accounts, lived fairly fast. He grew up on a farm in Shreveport, Louisiana and practised singing by serenading assorted cows whilst sitting on a fence and strumming a guitar. Quite a picture. 

At just 19 years old he signed his first record contract and then had hit after hit. Elvis and Patsy Cline opened for him during their early careers, so I guess he must have been pretty successful. Faron even appeared in four low-budget films, including what must be the classic, “Daniel Boone, Trailblazer”. 

His film appearances even gave him the temporary nicknames, The Singing Sheriff and The Hillbilly Heartthrob. I’d love to see some of these films. I’ll have to keep my eyes peeled for them showing up on a Wednesday afternoon on TCM or Channel 5. 

Faron seemed to be a bit of a mercurial character. Although well known for being generous, even feckless with money, on the other hand he had a reputation as a master of the cruel, cutting remark and swung from one mood to another in the blink of an eye. Even in the hard drinking country world of the 50’s and 60’s, Faron had a reputation of, not putting too fine a point on it, being a drunk. 

By the late 60’s however, the good times were slowly slipping away and everything gradually went downhill for him. He ended up jumping off stage at a show and slapping a young girl in the audience because he thought she had spat at him. 

He tried to resurrect his career, over and over again to no avail and became increasingly bitter at the turn of events. He drank more and more, and by the early 1990’s he had developed emphysema. On 6^th December 1996 he shot himself with a ten gauge shotgun and died the next day, in Nashville. 

So he lived fast, loved hard (possibly) but didn’t die young. 

And, from the later photographs of him in the 80’s and 90’s, I suppose he didn’t leave a good looking corpse either.     

Get/see/read "Totally Shuffled" here as a Kindle book: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Totally-Shuffled-Listening-Music-Broken-ebook/dp/B00CJYZ3CA    and here in paperback http://www.amazon.co.uk/Totally-Shuffled-Listening-Broken-iPod-The/dp/149495687X