‘A truly beautiful and original collection of Ramsden compositions, baroque and thirteenth century dance. It won praises from The Wire to BBC music magazine with a heartfelt ‘amazing’ from Nigel Kennedy along the way.’
Brian Blain Jazz UK
Another Facebook album cover challenge, from Charlotte Rodgers, artist and author of, among others, P for Prostitution (which is ace). I bought Jack Johnson aged 17, never tired of it. Rock’n’raunch. Ferocious bass and drum grooves. John McLaughlin channelling Hendrix, driving the soloists to climax after climax. His final solo is monstrous. Carnage.
There’s a blistering contribution by Herbie Hancock 20 mins in, not bad considering he just popped in to the studio while shopping. The second side is a sustained twilight trance, equally successful. Neat production touches throughout, trippy bits which haven’t aged.
The Miles pic was a pull out poster, maybe ‘pull out’ unfortunate in this context. Speaking of ‘Johnsons’ (American slang), the pic reminded me of Morecambe and Wise. “What about Rudolf Nureyev?’ ‘Didn’t you see it last week?’ ‘I’m sure everybody saw it last week.’”
Ahem. Probably the best rock, funk and jazz album. (Maybe the best funk, jazz and rock album would be ‘Headhunters’- both of them inspired by Sly Stone).
side 1 Right Off
There’s more of Jake Thackray’s unique fusion of Yorkshire folk and French Chanson? Fantastique! (And if this is cultural appropriation there’s nowt wrong with it, mon ami). Unreleased songs, some newly completed from material discovered while Mr Watterson was researching his forthcoming biography of Jake.
The vocals are very reminiscent of Jake Thackray. Paul Thompson has captured the guitar style and composed fresh music when only the original lyrics could be found. The music is flawless as are the expanded lyrics from short originals, perfect invisible mending. ‘You can’t see the join’ to quote another Northern genius.
Jake’s son Sam is pleased as are Ralph McTell, Neil Gaiman, Don Black and radio producer Victor Lewis Smith. So who cares if I like it? It’s more ‘who wouldn’t like it’?
Having recently heard Ted Hughes reading his Ovid (pretentious, moi?), couldn’t help seeing a connection: dark, handsome, manly men. The accent. Wordplay. Might be sacrilege but I prefer Jake Thackray. Maybe I was hexed by the Castleford Ladies Magic Circle.
Great project, perfectly realised. Attractively packaged, informative sleeve notes, flyer and introductory letter from Mr Watterson.
I’ve been enjoying Nicholson Baker’s Paul Chowder novels, which are the musings of a mid life poet, full of intriguing theories and literary gossip. There’s a little romance, the case for Quaker pacifism, and the incredible story of how a poet, Archibald Macleish, became one of the founders of the CIA, a man the Chicago Tribune called ‘the bald bard of balderdash’.
‘Archibald MacLeish was one of the original instigators and organizers of this bloated monstrosity of assassination and violent regime change and unaccountable underhanded ugliness and skullduggery. And drone warfare. Which is why Plato was right: poets should never get involved in politics.’
Baker, Nicholson. Travelling Sprinkler (p. 107). Profile Books. Kindle Edition.
Few people are as eclectic as this writer. Innovative erotica, reportage, experimental novels you can actually read: Mr Baker is one erudite, digressive gentleman. Can’t agree on Philip Larkin – ‘his acid is too corrosive’, but then cynicism hasn’t always served me well. Maybe I should have been more like Paul Chowder. If you ever need to accentuate the positive just read these informative, highly entertaining novels.
He is also a wonderful essayist. As an ex musician he has fascinating insights into, for instance, Debussy’s La Mer, some of which was written in Eastbourne.
Hear here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOCucJw7iT8
Debussy piece in The Way the World Works.
Nicholson Baker’s Paul Chowder novels are The Anthologist and Travelling Sprinkler – the latter on Serpent’s Tail, my old publisher. Although Mr Baker has fewer cadavers. And no kinky stuff.