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I remember sitting at me Nan’s house in the late 1970s watching telly. She made me a cuppa and handed me a copy of the Daily Mail, pointing at the picture of a tramp-like figure, seemingly staggering down a city street somewhere.
I read the caption, it went something like: “Lost Lennon, a has-been in New York.” He was wearing a floppy hat, a long ragged trench coat, baggy trousers and a long, ‘Dr Who’ scarf.
At the time, my only images of the Beatles had been gathered from the front cover of ‘Please, Please, Me’: four young men gazing from an office-block staircase and ‘Help’ with four men dressed in blue skiing outfits making funny shapes to camera.
I’d also seen ‘Hard Days Night’, a black and white flick based on a train and hanging around a posh hotel room.
So the tramp picture didn’t really link up in my mind with The Beatles. It was just the picture of an old geezer (to a 10 year old boy) in a newspaper.
Then one day, a couple of years later, a kid from school that I didn’t know too well cycled past me while I was waiting for the bus home.
“Oi, mate. John Lennon’s been shot!” he said.
I don’t remember responding to him. He was a bit of a dick. But that photo from the paper came back to me and for some reason the fact that he was from The Beatles. It all seemed to tie up together in my mind. From that moment on I was a Beatles fanatic. It made sense.
Thinking back, it’s like John was always alive when I discovered how great The Beatles were. That they weren’t just some old group that me mum put on the record player while she was hovering on a Saturday. But he was dead and it was a long time ago. Doesn’t seem like it, but it was.
Then every morning, our local radio station would play 'Borrowed Time' from the posthumously cobbled together 'Milk and Honey' album. And so, in 1984, Lennon was kind of alive again...in a kind of sub-standard way.
At least we still had The Beatles.
Favourite Beatles song: (changes lots, but at the moment it’s a tie between ‘Flying’ from ‘Magical Mystery Tour’, ‘Good Morning’ from ‘Sgt Peppers’ and ‘Strawberry fields Forever’.
Favourite Lennon song: ‘Mind Games’ (this also regularly changes)
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Showing posts with label The Beatles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Beatles. Show all posts
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Journey to Beatlemania - although it's probably not about that at all...
Geoffrey decided to give them a lift, that’s Duggie, his mate and the cyclist - let’s forget about the Pike, he’s sleeping.
[“We always sleep with our eyes open,” said the Pike, “actually, we haven’t got any eyelids anyway.”]
Geoffrey had wanted to pop into town to pick up Zippy and George from the dry-cleaners [“What!” said the Cyclist, “I thought they were real!”]
Bungle was waiting outside the shop.
[“Blimey!” said Duggie, “I thought there was a man inside Bungle!”
“...err there is,” said Geoffrey, “he’s just a little bit weird.”]
This being 1982, they could only find cheese sandwiches with curled-up crusts for sale locally. The Greek newsagent imported them from Hounslow via Zaire and a dodgy deal at Heathrow Airport.
[“My cheese tastes like rubber!” said Duggies’s mate.
“No, that is rubber,” said the Greek, “you’re eating an inner-tube.”]
“Look,” said the Cyclist, “I need a pint. We might have been in a lager bubble, but I’ve finished all me Red Stripe!”
“What, you’ll be lucky,” said Geoffrey, “it’s arf-past 2!”
[One of the problems with time-travel is that you’re tuned into the culture and traditions of your time, not the time you’re travelling in. You’re lumbered with that. In this case, the culture and tradition of getting as rat-arsed as possible before closing time, in order to get through to 6 or maybe 7pm when the pub doors open again.]
“What am I gonna do? said the Cyclist, “is there a Tesco or something round here?”
“Hey, Cyclist,” said a man on the radio - a big ghetto blaster that they were walking past.
“Who me?” said the Cyclist.
“Yes you. It’s 1982, mate, you’ve got more chance of buying booze from Al Johnson in prohibition Chicago than you have getting a drink round here after closing time.”
“Thanks radio man!” said Duggie, “and by the way, you’re thinking of Al Capone, not Al Jolson!”
“You’re wrong Duggie-boy.” said the man on the radio, “I’m talking about Al Jolson who owns an ‘offie’ in Illinois.”
Geoffrey: “We can always try the garage off that new bypass, there’s a Russian guy in there. He’ll serve us.”
“I know the place,” said Duggie, “and you’re dead right he’ll serve us! He’s in 2010.”
“Oh, is he?” said Geoffrey, “so that’s why my newspaper’s got colour photos in it. And I never knew that Nat King Cole had a daughter called Cheryl.”
Bungle declined to come, said he had a picnic to attend in the woods.
Geoffrey turned on his car radio and - yeah you can guess it - the ‘man on the radio’ was broadcasting: “Ok you lot, I’m gonna guide you through the time tunnel. Don’t want you getting lost now. But that’s after this classic tune from the mighty Hair Tom: “Plastic - didn’t know - Jam”, their Beatles pastiche.
[Yes, Hair Tom got there first. In 1982, no one was bothered about The Beatles. This was before the obligatory ‘A’ Level in Beatles Studies was handed out to every budding guitar band.
Their work also pre-dated the ‘Tears for Fears’ travesty of a Beatles Pastiche - Sowing the Seeds of Love and the more memorable XTC Oranges and Lemons and Dukes of the Stratosfear stuff.]
“Beatles, did you say The Beatles,” said Duggie....
“The Beatles” Said Duggie’s mate, “ we haven’t talked about them yet.”
“Yet,” said Duggie.
And they both went all starry eyed and had silly grins on their faces as Geoffrey’s car chugged off to the petrol station in the 21st Century.
“Oi - wot’s going on?” said The Cyclist
[“Nah Cyclist,” said the pedant, “that’s Marvin Gaye, not The Beatles”]
“Wot about my cans of Red Stripe - never mind the bleedin’ Beatles.”
“Ho, ho, Zippy,” said George, curled up in sports bag in the boot, “this is exciting, isn’t it”
“No, George, it’s dark!” said Zippy.
[“We always sleep with our eyes open,” said the Pike, “actually, we haven’t got any eyelids anyway.”]
Geoffrey had wanted to pop into town to pick up Zippy and George from the dry-cleaners [“What!” said the Cyclist, “I thought they were real!”]
Bungle was waiting outside the shop.
[“Blimey!” said Duggie, “I thought there was a man inside Bungle!”
“...err there is,” said Geoffrey, “he’s just a little bit weird.”]
This being 1982, they could only find cheese sandwiches with curled-up crusts for sale locally. The Greek newsagent imported them from Hounslow via Zaire and a dodgy deal at Heathrow Airport.
[“My cheese tastes like rubber!” said Duggies’s mate.
“No, that is rubber,” said the Greek, “you’re eating an inner-tube.”]
“Look,” said the Cyclist, “I need a pint. We might have been in a lager bubble, but I’ve finished all me Red Stripe!”
“What, you’ll be lucky,” said Geoffrey, “it’s arf-past 2!”
[One of the problems with time-travel is that you’re tuned into the culture and traditions of your time, not the time you’re travelling in. You’re lumbered with that. In this case, the culture and tradition of getting as rat-arsed as possible before closing time, in order to get through to 6 or maybe 7pm when the pub doors open again.]
“What am I gonna do? said the Cyclist, “is there a Tesco or something round here?”
“Hey, Cyclist,” said a man on the radio - a big ghetto blaster that they were walking past.
“Who me?” said the Cyclist.
“Yes you. It’s 1982, mate, you’ve got more chance of buying booze from Al Johnson in prohibition Chicago than you have getting a drink round here after closing time.”
“Thanks radio man!” said Duggie, “and by the way, you’re thinking of Al Capone, not Al Jolson!”
“You’re wrong Duggie-boy.” said the man on the radio, “I’m talking about Al Jolson who owns an ‘offie’ in Illinois.”
Geoffrey: “We can always try the garage off that new bypass, there’s a Russian guy in there. He’ll serve us.”
“I know the place,” said Duggie, “and you’re dead right he’ll serve us! He’s in 2010.”
“Oh, is he?” said Geoffrey, “so that’s why my newspaper’s got colour photos in it. And I never knew that Nat King Cole had a daughter called Cheryl.”
Bungle declined to come, said he had a picnic to attend in the woods.
Geoffrey turned on his car radio and - yeah you can guess it - the ‘man on the radio’ was broadcasting: “Ok you lot, I’m gonna guide you through the time tunnel. Don’t want you getting lost now. But that’s after this classic tune from the mighty Hair Tom: “Plastic - didn’t know - Jam”, their Beatles pastiche.
[Yes, Hair Tom got there first. In 1982, no one was bothered about The Beatles. This was before the obligatory ‘A’ Level in Beatles Studies was handed out to every budding guitar band.
Their work also pre-dated the ‘Tears for Fears’ travesty of a Beatles Pastiche - Sowing the Seeds of Love and the more memorable XTC Oranges and Lemons and Dukes of the Stratosfear stuff.]
“Beatles, did you say The Beatles,” said Duggie....
“The Beatles” Said Duggie’s mate, “ we haven’t talked about them yet.”
“Yet,” said Duggie.
And they both went all starry eyed and had silly grins on their faces as Geoffrey’s car chugged off to the petrol station in the 21st Century.
“Oi - wot’s going on?” said The Cyclist
[“Nah Cyclist,” said the pedant, “that’s Marvin Gaye, not The Beatles”]
“Wot about my cans of Red Stripe - never mind the bleedin’ Beatles.”
“Ho, ho, Zippy,” said George, curled up in sports bag in the boot, “this is exciting, isn’t it”
“No, George, it’s dark!” said Zippy.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Nels: strong cider, spliff and The Hour of Bewilderbeast (Badly Drawn Boy, 2000)
“By 1982 it was all over for 'Hair Tom' really,” said Nels, soaking up the heat from the Inglenook like a black towel laid out on a summer beach, “Matt, you know, Matt Score, was being a right pratt.”
Matt. Pratt. She was aware of the rhyme, she liked choosing her words like that.
Guy, the guy she met on the bus (Nels liked that, too), who had bought her a nice cloudy cider said: “but you did your best stuff after '82, I mean, 'Illustrations of Gargoyle, 1985...”
“Shh!” said Nels, striking a kestrel-on-the-alert pose, “that's 'Badly Drawn Boy', isn't it?”
“Um, I'm sorry, I don't know any of the locals...” said Guy.
“No! The album, 'The Hour of Bewilderbeast' by Badly Drawn Boy. They're playing it. Thought I heard something that sounded like it on the way in. Must be playing the whole record,” said Nels, taking a large glug of the strong cider.
“Oh, yeah. They often play whole albums in here. I heard the complete 'White Album' once. Don't know much about this pop stuff,” said Guy.
Pop stuff! Thought Nels, conjuring up the image of a spliff in her mind - this album always did. She remembered, she was holed up in a flat on Brighton seafront when it came out, back in 2000, the year the computers didn't crash. Matt had been paranoid about his state-of-the-art digital mixing desk exploding or something for months. He was a bloody nightmare!
Yeah, the flat. Brighton seafront. Salt-lashed and crumbling, part of a kind of modern 1930s place that had gone to rack and ruin [it's been renovated now]. Full of illegal immigrants and squatters. Nels and Matt were squatting with the remnants of a festival group, a mix of Hawkwind session guys and some bloke who said he'd been in the Levellers, although must have been airbrushed out of the band's history, if indeed he was ever part of it.
Dope was constantly in the air during that time. Probably no need to smoke a joint in that flat, just inhale the ambience of the place.
So, one day, Nels had skinned up a nice, mellow, early-morning-slowly-wake-up joint. A hazy sun was enveloping the horizon, turning the sea apricot colour, when the flippy floppy riff that leads into 'Once Around The Block' came on.
Nels can't remember who put it on, probably Pauley, it was his kind of thing. He was crashed out on the balcony. “I'm fascinated by your style/your beauty will last for a while/feeling instead of being/the more I live on the inside the more that I give...” Yeah. What a track. Must be a cover, who did it first. That fantastic “dooby-do-wah” chorus and the inbuilt crackles. No. (she glanced at the cover) It's an original! What a song. What a writer. 'Hair Tom' and prog-rock seemed a neolithic age away. This was vital. “Take a left a sharp left and another left...” Even a little solo on the vibes [vibraphone] as the track fades out. Retro, yet soooo fresh. And then 'This Song', trips in like when 'Abbey Road' fades out to 'Her Majesty'. Hmmm.
Nels remembers placing the stylus on the first track, sparking up her spliff and listening to the whole thing, all the way through. It played like a patchwork of the best riffs, words and melodies that someone could come up with, jammed on a totally-full two sides of vinyl. There were even glam rock and sitar riffs on there - in the same song (check 'Bewilderbeast', opening track, side two). Respect. 'Hair Tom' could hardly fit one song on an entire album towards the end.
It's funny how music, like smells, can take you to a particular place in time. Not just anywhere, a certain somewhere. That record. That flat. That day. That spliff. It turned out that someone had switched Nels's gear. She was monged out for the rest of the day after her wake up smoke. Missed rehearsals. Matt spoke about commitment, professionalism, got pissed in the Zap Club and got off with an 18 year-old student. Just to get back at Nels.
Back in the pub and Nels eyes resembled a stained glass window to Guy: glazed over, animated by the pictures created in the dancing flames of the open fire.
She shook her head and swigged some cider, coming round. “Where was I?” she said, as Badly Drawn Boy warbled about “causing a rockslide”, through the pub speakers.
“I don't know,” said Guy, “somewhere else. I think.”
“Yeah,” said Nels, “that's where I am. Can I have some Pork Scratchings?”
Matt. Pratt. She was aware of the rhyme, she liked choosing her words like that.
Guy, the guy she met on the bus (Nels liked that, too), who had bought her a nice cloudy cider said: “but you did your best stuff after '82, I mean, 'Illustrations of Gargoyle, 1985...”
“Shh!” said Nels, striking a kestrel-on-the-alert pose, “that's 'Badly Drawn Boy', isn't it?”
“Um, I'm sorry, I don't know any of the locals...” said Guy.
“No! The album, 'The Hour of Bewilderbeast' by Badly Drawn Boy. They're playing it. Thought I heard something that sounded like it on the way in. Must be playing the whole record,” said Nels, taking a large glug of the strong cider.
“Oh, yeah. They often play whole albums in here. I heard the complete 'White Album' once. Don't know much about this pop stuff,” said Guy.
Pop stuff! Thought Nels, conjuring up the image of a spliff in her mind - this album always did. She remembered, she was holed up in a flat on Brighton seafront when it came out, back in 2000, the year the computers didn't crash. Matt had been paranoid about his state-of-the-art digital mixing desk exploding or something for months. He was a bloody nightmare!
Yeah, the flat. Brighton seafront. Salt-lashed and crumbling, part of a kind of modern 1930s place that had gone to rack and ruin [it's been renovated now]. Full of illegal immigrants and squatters. Nels and Matt were squatting with the remnants of a festival group, a mix of Hawkwind session guys and some bloke who said he'd been in the Levellers, although must have been airbrushed out of the band's history, if indeed he was ever part of it.
Dope was constantly in the air during that time. Probably no need to smoke a joint in that flat, just inhale the ambience of the place.
So, one day, Nels had skinned up a nice, mellow, early-morning-slowly-wake-up joint. A hazy sun was enveloping the horizon, turning the sea apricot colour, when the flippy floppy riff that leads into 'Once Around The Block' came on.
Nels can't remember who put it on, probably Pauley, it was his kind of thing. He was crashed out on the balcony. “I'm fascinated by your style/your beauty will last for a while/feeling instead of being/the more I live on the inside the more that I give...” Yeah. What a track. Must be a cover, who did it first. That fantastic “dooby-do-wah” chorus and the inbuilt crackles. No. (she glanced at the cover) It's an original! What a song. What a writer. 'Hair Tom' and prog-rock seemed a neolithic age away. This was vital. “Take a left a sharp left and another left...” Even a little solo on the vibes [vibraphone] as the track fades out. Retro, yet soooo fresh. And then 'This Song', trips in like when 'Abbey Road' fades out to 'Her Majesty'. Hmmm.
Nels remembers placing the stylus on the first track, sparking up her spliff and listening to the whole thing, all the way through. It played like a patchwork of the best riffs, words and melodies that someone could come up with, jammed on a totally-full two sides of vinyl. There were even glam rock and sitar riffs on there - in the same song (check 'Bewilderbeast', opening track, side two). Respect. 'Hair Tom' could hardly fit one song on an entire album towards the end.
It's funny how music, like smells, can take you to a particular place in time. Not just anywhere, a certain somewhere. That record. That flat. That day. That spliff. It turned out that someone had switched Nels's gear. She was monged out for the rest of the day after her wake up smoke. Missed rehearsals. Matt spoke about commitment, professionalism, got pissed in the Zap Club and got off with an 18 year-old student. Just to get back at Nels.
Back in the pub and Nels eyes resembled a stained glass window to Guy: glazed over, animated by the pictures created in the dancing flames of the open fire.
She shook her head and swigged some cider, coming round. “Where was I?” she said, as Badly Drawn Boy warbled about “causing a rockslide”, through the pub speakers.
“I don't know,” said Guy, “somewhere else. I think.”
“Yeah,” said Nels, “that's where I am. Can I have some Pork Scratchings?”
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