Living In The Past

Jethro Tull 50th Anniversary Concert, Royal Albert Hall, 17th April 2018

It’s all too easy to take the piss out off a Jethro Tull audience. Perhaps the gig would have been better called the Prostate Prom or even Too Old To Rock and Roll, Too Young to Die. For many it may have been a new day yesterday but it is certainly an old day now.

It is true that there were some members of the post baby boomer generation in the audience – I even saw a couple of children and thought about contacting Social Services – but even with a more severe haircut than normal I found myself in possession of more follicles than most of the males there. And you know that nature is telling you that your bohemian days are over when the queues to the male bogs are longer than those for the female equivalents and a couple of pints of Old Speckled Hen – lovely but so it should be at £6 a pint – means impromptu visits to the toilets by many to the general inconvenience of the rest of the row. Alas, the extended drum solo in Dharma for One – usually a signal for a mass exodus to the carsey – was too early in proceedings to serve its purpose.

I’m not a fan of the Royal Albert Hall. You could hardly call what Philomena Cunk deliciously described as the receptacle for Adolf Hitler’s missing bollock as an intimate venue. Sitting in the circle we were far away from the action and the sound in the early part of the concert was a bit muddy. Fortunately, either the engineers got the balance right as the show went on or my ears grew more accustomed to it all.

The band consisted of Dave Goodier on bass, John O’Hara on keyboards, Florian Opahle on lead guitar, Scott Hammond on drums and, of course, the only survivor of the original band, the septuagenarian Ian Anderson on flute, vocals, acoustic guitar and, occasionally, one leg. Anderson was helped out on vocals from time to time by virtual artists beamed up on the screen behind him, a triumph for timing, if nothing else. The video screen was also used to beam in messages from former members of the group – over the years Tull has had 37 members – and good wishes from some of the great and good of rock. While the band performed, we were treated to footage of the band in their heyday, considerably more hirsute than they are today, and fascinating as it was, I found it all a bit distracting.

Tull in the early 70s were probably the most exciting live act I had seen and, sensibly, Anderson chose to plunder his back catalogue from the first ten years of the band’s existence, ranging from the bluesy Mick Abrahams influenced numbers to the more folky rock numbers of the mid to late 70s. But their glory days were encapsulated by the albums I return to most, Aqualung and Thick As A Brick. My God, when the band is on form, as they were, there is nothing like Locomotive Breath, Cross-eyed Mary, Aqualung and a wonderful abridgement of Thick As A Brick to set what few hairs you have left standing on end. I could even forgive them a reprise of A Passion Play.

As I listened to the early numbers, I couldn’t help musing what sort of band Tull would have been if Abrahams had stayed. But there was never going to be room for two egos and look what happened to Blodwyn Pig.

Musically, it was a great night of nostalgia, featuring Tull, one of rock’s greatest survivors, at their best. Don’t tell TOWT but I have got her an early Christmas present – tickets for the Tull gig at Birmingham Cathedral in December. I wonder if they will play My God!


Gig Of The Week (3)

To the Anvil in Basingstoke on 27th October to see Richard Thompson on his Solo Tour. The show was aptly named as it featured just the guitarist, almost lost in the cavernous stage area armed with just a guitar and a table, playing from his vast back catalogue of numbers which, in his own words, span the full range of melancholy. So we were treated to a set ranging from fast rockers such as Valerie to the slower, more thoughtful numbers such as sensitive reading of mental health that is From Galway to Graceland. The set was peppered with his all-time favourites including I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight, the only one of his ditties which troubled the compilers of hit parades.

The evening was a joy for Thompson’s aficionados who were encouraged to let their hair down, if they had any, or else to rattle their jewellery. Celebrating 50 years in the business, Thompson has not lost many of his fans but, perhaps worryingly, not gained many new ones. TOWT and I seemed to be in the younger quartile of his audience.

Inevitably he doffed his beret to the Fairport era but his choice of song, Who Knows Where The Time Goes, was odd as Sandy Denny’s version is peerless and the impressive support act, Josienne Clark and Ben Walker, had already treated us to us to a stunning version of Reynardine. Perhaps, having reunited with some of the old Fairports in the summer, Thompson realised that the other person who made the group what it was in its heyday was Denny and this was his homage.

Josienne Clark has a stunning voice and a personality to match and is one to watch out for, her material outdoing Thompson in the melancholia stakes.

Very few artists can hold the audience for 100 minutes, solely through the power of his material and the virtuosity of his playing. Thompson undoubtedly is one of those.

Gig Of The Week (2)

The tragic death of guitarist, Michael Casswell, TOWT’s cousin, last September was a shock to his family. What was also a shock to them was how respected and loved he was in the music biz as he rather hid his light under a bushel.

On the hottest day in 40 years we went to the subterranean music venue that is the 100 Club in Oxford Street to attend the tribute concert put on by his friends and colleagues. It was a great evening with his band, East of Java, putting on a storming set.

There were cameos from the likes of Tony Hadley, Limhal – who had me dancing in the aisles – and the wonderful Marcus Malone band.

Check out tribute concert highlights

Check Malone out playing with Michael

The venue had smartened up since I was last there, some thirty-seven years ago, and the beer was considerably better – I had to have the BrewDog Punk IPA.

It was a great evening and one which did Michael proud.


Guitarist Of The Week


At my age it is a regrettable fact that I find myself going to funerals with increasing frequency – at least it is an opportunity to wear a whistle. It is even more tragic when the person who has died is younger than you and had immeasurably more talent.

Last Tuesday TOWT and I trekked out to the Badlands of Essex – Hainault – to attend the surprisingly uplifting Humanist funeral of her cousin, the rock guitarist, Michael Casswell who died in a tragic swimming accident aged just 53. The celebration was standing room only and as well as family and friends there were musos in attendance including Tony Hadley (Spandau Ballet) and Limahl (Kajagoogoo).

I only met Michael on a handful of occasions – usually funerals – but to use the cabbie’s vernacular I had him in my car once when I drove him to Stansted airport to fly off for a gig after his Dad’s funeral. We had a great chat about music, influences and styles.

As well as being an accomplished session musician, he had astonishing technical ability and was always keen to pass on his knowledge via his popular Licklibrary videos.

As Joni Mitchell sang, “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone”. Click the link to hear a track from his latest album, Complaints about the noise

Michael, rest in peace.

Book Corner – July 2016 (2)


1971 – Never A Dull Moment – David Hepworth

Ah, 1971. It was a year of transformation for me. I started the year aged 16 and turned 17 three-quarters of the way through. It was the year that I realised that there was more to life than parsing irregular Greek verbs and discovered the three Bs, booze, blow and birds. And the soundtrack to the year was pretty good with Who’s Next and the wonderful Baba O’Reilly, Led Zep IV with Stairway to Heaven, Lennon’s Imagine, Bowie’s Hunky Dory, Neil Young’s Harvest, the Stones’ Sticky Fingers, Joni Mitchell’s Blue and, if you must, Carole King’s Tapestry.

One of those topics for pub conversations when the only other option is to stare vacuously at each other is which was the best year for popular music. A very good friend of mine steadfastly refuses to believe anything good was produced after 1973, for him the year that music died – yes, Don McLean’s tiresome American Pie was released in 1971. Hepworth nails his colours firmly to the mast. Forget 1966, 1971 was the year that saw more influential albums released than any year before or since and was “the most febrile and creative time in the history of popular music”. TV was nowhere, the film industry was tanking, but music was vibrant.

This is the thesis behind Hepworth’s affectionate, sometimes irreverent and sometimes tongue-in-cheek survey of the music biz in 1971. The book is laid out chronologically with a chapter for each month of the year, from which Hepworth picks out some notable albums or artists who were emerging at the time. The problem with this approach is that the book rapidly descends into a muddy mix of thee thematic and chronological approaches and I can’t help thinking that a straight thematic approach would have served him better. Music doesn’t fit into neat chronological packages – there is the conception, the recording and then the release, all of which takes time. The subtitle to the book illustrates his problem. The Rod Stewart album of that name was actually released in 1972.

That aside, there is much in the book to think that there is something in what Hepworth has to say. It was the year that saw the first mega star charity bash, George Harrison’s concert for Bangladesh, a concert which he could only persuade Clapton to perform at in aid of starving children if he was supplied with his favourite heroin. It was also the concert at which Dylan took the unusual step of playing an oldie, Like A Rolling Stone  – one of the fascinating insights of the book is that until then bands touring, and they all toured prodigiously then, thought they had to play current or new tracks – a landmark event along with Elvis Presley’s residency at Vegas which persuaded groups that they could resuscitate their back catalogue and which launched what is now termed heritage rock.

Technology assisted rather than hindered the music, the synthesiser became established as a bona fide rock instrument and there were more family groups and fey singer songwriters than you could shake a stick at. The book’s finest chapter includes the pen pictures of three London lads, Cat Stevens. Marc Bolan and Rod Stewart. For me one of the endearing features of the book were the social insights – record stores with listening booths, scouring the music press, NME and Sounds, to gen up on the latest records and forming a sort of collective to share the burden of buying albums and swapping them, all of which I did.

This book won’t feature in the top 100 books of all time but Hepworth makes a fine case for 1971, although for me it set the pendulum swinging in a way that needed the punk uprising of 1976 to rectify.

Gig Of The Week


Fairport Convention – Camberley Theatre

The first band I ever saw live was Fairport Convention – on 6th August 1972 at the Rainbow Pavilion, Torquay, if my memory serves me well – and even then, they were a shadow of their former glory, having lost the likes of Sandy Denny and Richard Thompson along the way. Still, the legacy lives on and when I eventually heard they were playing at the under-publicised International Music Festival in Camberley, tickets were purchased.

The current band – Simon Nicol, Dave Pegg, Ric Sanders, Chris Leslie and Gerry Conway – ran through a selection from their latest album, Myths and Heroes, laced with a few from their extensive back catalogue. Portmeirion was as beautiful and haunting as ever and it was lovely to hear Crazy Man Michael again. The evening’s highlight, undoubtedly, was their send up of their erstwhile rivals, Steeleye Span’s Gaudete.

Walk Awhile was played with zest and to hear the old standard, Matty Groves, again is always a treat, although the acoustic version lacked the power of the original. The encore, inevitably Meet on the Ledge –  nailed on for my funeral – was poignant given the death of Dave Swarbrick a few days earlier. His ghost hung over the gig and I couldn’t help reflect that the current incarnation – technically proficient and entertaining as they are – are journeymen compared with the pioneers of folk rock.

On getting home I put on Liege and Lief to remind me of the mighty group they once were.

Time For Magic


The Source – Afro Celt Sound System

It’s been a long time a-coming, ten years since the last Afro Celt Sound System album, Anatomic, but the new thirteen track, seventy-seven minute album, The Source, has been well worth the wait. For this album, mixed from sessions recorded around Europe and the UK, Simon Emmerson has toned down the noodling and twiddling of the drum and bass of old and brought the sounds and instrumentation of West Africa to the fore along with the original Celtic mix. The result is a whirligig of sounds and sensations with so much to listen to and enjoy that you come across new twists and nuanes each listen.

The core of the band is Emmerson (guitar and cittern), Davy Spillane and Emer Maycock (uilleann pipe and whistles),Ronan Browne (uilleann pipes) and Moussa Sissoka (talking drums and djembe – a rope-tuned, skin covered goblet drum played with the hands. Added to the mix are singer, kora and balafon player, N’Faly Kouyate, and the wonderful dhol drummer, Johnny Kalsi. I had the experience of seeing him close up from the front of the house at an Imagined Village gig a year or so back and he is a truly talented and infectious individual.

Added to this impressive core are a host of guests including a five strong griot-speaking female group from Guinea, whose voices open the album, Robbie Harris on bodhran, Seane Davey on harp, Ged Lynch on drums, Richard Evans on bass and Gaelic vocalist and rapper – yes, rapper – Griogair Labhruid and Rioghnach Connolly on flute.

There are some bizarre ideas in the album. Some Gaelic psalm singing isn’t everyone’s bag, I’m sure, but when blended on A Higher Love, possibly the stand out track, with Kouyate’s soaring vocals, a heavy brass mix and strings, then it all kind of makes sense and creates a spell-binding track. And then we have Pal O Siadhail reading from his forthcoming book, Wonder and the Medicine Wheels, on Child of Wonder to the accompaniment of kora, harp and flutes with a blinding and mesmerising beat.

Where Two rivers Meet starts off with gentle kora and careful bodhran and then vocals and sensitive and jazzy uilleann piping before, halfway through the almost ten minute track, Irish and African strings kick in. Taladh features a beautiful duet between harp and kora and Kouyate gives full rein to his stunning vocals on The Soul of a Sister.

The album has a sense of fun and on some tracks has a live feel about it. Kalsi Breakbeat is a piece of joy and showcases Kalsi’s dhol style to good effect. And the wonderful Cascade is a breath-taking tour de force. Fusion often panders to the lowest common denominator but this album painstakingly allows all the various styles and instrumentation to shine. I will look forward to seeing them live.

The album is ethereal and uplifting and definitely one that will long remain on my personal play list. Perhaps its greater spirituality provided Emmerson with a place of refuge after he fell out with James McNally big time last year and the two sides are in a bitter dispute over rights to the ACSS name, a dispute that will only keep the lawyers happy. Emmerson has got his retaliation in first and what a retaliation it is too. If you don’t believe me, click the link and find out for yourself.