Category: Hard-to-find

Double Nugget, Hard-to-find

Keeping Up With The Joneses

Craig McAllister

Edgar Jones is a dude. Variously, he’s been a pipe-cleaner thin, bowl-headed 60s revivalist, Paul Weller’s bassman of choice, an Andrew Oldhamesque pop svengali, even a Merseyside Duke Ellington. He’ s had his long fingers in many a musical pie and I can guarantee you that anything he’s been involved in has been (and will be) boss, la.

20 or so years ago you would usually find me hanging about at Shabby Road Studios in Kilmarnock, home to chart non-botherers the Trash Can Sinatras (3 words in those days) and a handful of local bands with one half-cocked eye on the prize and no chance of getting it. The band I played in had a rehearsal room there and as I worked in Kilmarnock I was usually first to rehearsal. Often, I’d pop upstairs for a cup of tea and a chat with some of the Trash Cans and whoever else was about. Seemingly, Go! Discs advance had all been spent on the studio itself and some rattly old vintage Vox amps because they never, NEVER! had any milk for the tea. Over the course of my time as a (and I use this term loosely) musician I met a fair few coulda beens, shoulda beens and also rans, as well as the odd bona fide gin-u-wine chart success (Hello, Chas Smash) in the kitchen at Shabby Road and it was during one of these milkless tea breaks that I met Edgar Jones and his mop-topped, mono-obsessed band of merry men that comprised The Stairs.

The Stairs were recording some stuff for Go! Discs at Shabby Road. But rather than use the studio’s own desk, they had brought with them a handful of dusty old bits ‘ n bobs straight outta the 60s as well as their own 4 track recorder. From downstairs in my rehearsal room they sounded great. They were brilliant musicians. They only needed 3 chords and had a garage swagger that I was still to recognise as being Nuggety. One of them (the ginger one in the middle) had broken a guitar string and came into the kitchen looking for one, to no avail. “I’ve got one!” I said and ran downstairs to get it. I’m sure he’d have said something like “Ta la!” but I can’t remember. He was thankful though, for the next night he popped into the kitchen to give me a 7″ copy of the Weed Bus ep.

Borrowing the Bo Diddley beat from The Who’s Magic Bus and welding on the riff from the Stones The Last Time, Weed Bus sings of the joys of smoking on the top deck of the bus. And I don’t think they mean Silk Cut, if you know where I’m at. “It’s the 147 and you know you’re in hevuhn!” barks Edgar.

Second single Woman Gone And Say Goodbye came complete with a Stax house band riff, cowbells and the faint whiff of Hendrix. It‘s a belter. And in case you missed any of their wee reefer references, by the time the Mexican R’n’B album had came out, they were writing Glitter Band stomping songs like Mary Joanna “You are always on my mind“. It was so good they released it as their third single, to little fanfare anywhere other than my head. The 7″ even came with a free bit of sandpaper stickered with the legend ‘Stairtex Record Cleaner‘.

‘The use of new STAIRTEX provides an effective means of ensuring groove cleanliness essential to good reproduction. Its regular use will lengthen the life of the record and reduce the static charge. Destroys all compact discs. Available from (record) dealers. This side LPs. Other side CDs’

And then The Stairs disappeared. Their withdrawn 2nd LP finally saw the light of day only a couple of years ago. Edgar went on to various things (see first paragraph) and still operates on the periphery today. I last saw him at King Tuts about 3 years ago where he was playing (brilliant) bass in Candie Payne’s band – another of those shoulda been, coulda been acts. He’s the real deal, in music for all the right reasons. He’s worth looking up if you get the chance. In the meantime, enjoy the three slices of The Stairs that I’ve made available to you. And check your pennies then check eBay for the long out of print Mexican R’n’B album.

I once played football in the ‘garden’ at Shabby Road with Half Man Half Biscuit. But that’s another story.

Cover Versions, Football, Hard-to-find, Most downloaded tracks

Ramble On

Craig McAllister

One of the greatest pleasures in this blogger’s life is the daily digestion of blog stats. At any given time I can see who’s visited here, where they’re from and what the most popular posts and downloads are (currently the Jake Holmes/Led Zeppelin one). I can also see who’s Googled what and arrived at Plain Or Pan either by sheer good luck or misfortunate malapropos. Current visitors include those looking for What Brand Of Cigarettes Does Keith Richards Smoke?, Pain or Fantasy and my favourite, African Jungle Horse Sex. I can just about understand why trouser arouser browsers looking for Teenage Fanny are directed here. I just hope the sad old bastards leave with a new-found appreciation of the Bellshill Beach Boys chiming guitars and honey-coated harmonies. But don’t stand anywhere near me at the next TFC gig, or you might just get a punch in the face. OK? I wrote something about the Stone Roses a wee while ago that said the bassline on Something’s Burning sounded like it came from the heart of Africa itself. And a long while ago I wrote about Johnny Wakelin’s In Zaire being total jungle funk, but how Google pointed a slevvering sexual deviant looking for quirky equestrian delights towards this mighty fine site four times in one day is beyond me.

Off course, there’s an underlying seriousness to all this. Clearly, people are using the internet for purposes other than tracking down obscure records by musicians only a handful of people have heard of. Whodathunkit, eh?

On a lighter note, the football transfer window closed at midnight on Tuesday night. This is a nerve-wracking time for fans of any club, but especially for fans of the less-fashionable, poorer clubs. As a Kilmarnock fan I’ve had to endure the pain of seeing our star players being snatched away from us at the stroke of midnight by ‘Sir’ Walter Smith and his satanic promises of first team football and the chance to wear the badge of the team they’ve “always supported since I was a wee boy“. To be fair to my club, the last time this happened they held out spectacularly for a decent sum (£2 million I think) for Steven Naismith. But this was only after failing miserably to command a fee any greater than £400,000 (to be paid in instalements, not even in the one go) for the services of Kris Boyd the season previously, a player who went on to score about 17 gazillion goals over the next few seasons (many against us), helped his team to a European final and cemented his place in the Scotland team, before getting his dream move to a bigger club. That’s Middlesborough, if you didn’t know.

The internet was buzzing on Tuesday night. Fans forums were in meltdown as everyone logged on trying to find the truth amongst the rumours, the rubbish and the rest. This year’s big worry was whether or not our star midfielder and captain, Craig Bryson, would be off to join up with recently departed Killie boss Jim Jefferies at Hearts. The rumour mills were in over-drive. At various points leading up to midnight he was at Tynecastle undergoing a medical, he was being sold for £400,000, he was being sold for £200,000 plus a player in return. At one point he was even off to Ipswich. Truth is, none of this was correct. By midnight, Hearts had had a couple of cheeky bids knocked back and Bryson remained with us.

Amongst all the Bryson rumours was a rumour about another player joining Hearts. Every team has fans’ favourites. Maybe not the most technically gifted set of legs in the team, but the one with the biggest heart, worn on the sleeve with pride. The player who’s first to question the referee’s authority whenever he feels a sense of injustice. The player who’ll give away the ‘clever’ foul and take the ‘clever’ booking for the team. The player who kisses the badge unironically cos he means it (maaaan), the player who, when a goal is scored, is the first to run to the crowd and not his teammates to celebrate, a player who can whip up a frenzy of excitement on the terracing by the sheer mention of his name.

At Killie, Manuel Pascali is that player. A tough, no-nonsene pro he breaks down attacks with a crunching tackle before distributing the ball wisely to a team mate. Not wisely distributing. That would infer that he’s incapable of anything other than giving the ball to a teammate to do the hard bit. No. I mean distributing the ball wisely, whereby at lightning speed he assesses the situation and from all his options picks out the best pass that’ll put his team on the offensive. He’s a bit like one of those Dutch or Spanish holding midfielders that slugged it out in that tetchy World Cup final a couple of months ago. Only not as good, or he’d be at a bigger club. Which takes me back to transfer deadline day and stupid rumours. Not only was Bryson going to Hearts, Pascali was off too! In fact, he was currently undergoing a medical and was about to put pen to paper. Noooooo! This was a disaster! While we were getting all hot under the collar about our star midfielder, our old manager had only gone and thrown a cat amongst the pigeons by pinching Pascali from right under our blue and white noses. Manu! How could you? Except, of course, he hadn’t. As all this drama was unfolding on the football part of the internet, over on the social networking section my close personal Facebook friend Manu Pascali was exclusively revealing we were  not to worry, that he was sitting “at home watching a DVD” and that he was “Killie Til I Die!” Heroes, eh? Dontcha just love ’em?

Also over on Facebook, another friend had posted a video of lost Talking Heads‘ classic This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody). I’ve got Arcade Fire doing that I said. What, with their quirky nature and choice of instrumentation, it’s a song that suits them perfectly. So, for you, Mr Big Stuff and any other Arcade Fire fans (and there must be a fair few, given that they’re currently (ahem, cough) burning up the charts, here’s some rare Arcade Fire.

This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) (taken from a 2004 CBC Radio 3 Studio Session)

Cold Wind (from the Six Feet Under TV series soundtrack)

No Cars Go (from the 2003 and re-released in 2005 Arcade Fire ep)

Poupee de Cire, Poupee de Son (Serge Gainsbourg cover, released on one side of a joint tour 7″ single with LCD Soundsystem. Sung in French. Or is that French Canadian?)

And if you haven’t done so already, you need to try this. Arcade Fire video +  Google earth images of your address + some animated birds = pretty fantastic viewing experience. Warning – takes a wee bit to load. But it’s worth the wait.


demo, Gone but not forgotten, Hard-to-find

Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby!!!!

Craig McAllister

Think of a classic album. Go on! Just one! In fact, name two! Two universally accepted classic albums! Don’t tell me yet! You could probably name three, eh? Go on then! In fact, make it ten! Still easy isn’t it? I bet you were thinking about Rubber Soul? Revolver? Blonde On Blonde? The Dark side of the Moon? Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars? London Calling? Pet Sounds? Born to Run? Nevermind The Bollocks? The Velvet Underground & Nico? Yeah, yeah, yeah and yeah! I knew it. Take the standard Mojo/Word/Uncut/Guardian/Times list of da greats with you down to your local record shop (remember them?) splash the cash and hey presto! Instant cred in your record collection. But outta that list, you’ve got them all anyway, eh? Or at least the ones you like. Maybe even also the ones you know you should like but never actually play. I know, I know, I’m guilty of that too.

Bet you didn’t think of Sunflower though. Sunflower. Nope, not Paul Weller’s rockin’ and rollin’ clarion call from ’93 (I’m back! I’m back! Check out me Patrick Cox’s while you listen!) I’m talking about The Beach Boys Sunflower, released one week short of 40 years ago today on August 31st 1970. You’re all people of good taste. I expect you’ll have heard of it. No doubt some of you will have actually heard it. If so, sorry for the condescending tone. If not, sorry for the condescending tone, but what exactly have you been using those ears of yours for all this time? Sunflower is the best Beach Boys album In The World….Ever. Forget any one of those cars ‘n girls ‘n surf compilations that turn up every time the sun pokes it’s stupid head from out behind a big fat rain cloud. Forget (gulp!) Pet Sounds. Honestly! Forget it! It’s good. OK, it’s great. But it’s not even up there with Surfs Up. As a proper bona fide studio album, Sunflower knocks spots off of all of them.

Demoed mainly in the summer of ’69 (howdy Bryan Adams) the songs that make up the final, released version (like gazillions of albums before and since, it went through a series of tracklist changes) really benefit from the shared songwriting talents of Brian Wilson, Dennis Wilson and Bruce Johnston. Brian’s songs make up the lion’s share of the album, but for me, it’s the Dennis songs that sparkle just that bit more.

Listen to Forever. Here’s a guy who’s a major player, a bit of a shagger as they say round here, and he’s writing love songs as tender and romantic as anything Paul McCartney’s ever came up with, with the added bonus of none of the sickly sweet gloop that McCartney can sometimes be guilty of plopping all over his best tunes. We all know guys like Dennis and if any of them wrote a line as brilliant as

If every word I said could make you laugh I’d talk forever…

if the song I sing to you could fill your heart with joy I’d sing forever

they’d get a kicking. Dennis, surf dude and man’s man must’ve had some nerve to bring those words out his brain, onto paper and ultimately onto vinyl. What a guy. What an absolute guy. (That’s a quote from the best film ever made). The words, the music, the arrangement, the na na na na na coda make Forever my favourite Beach Boys song bar none. Easy. Even Mike Love gets in on the act. Granted, not the Beach Boy most BB fans warm to the most, his vocals on All I Wanna Do are superb. On top of one of thee classic Brian Wilson chord progressions, they’re slightly far away sounding and as sunkissed as I can only imagine Malibu Beach to be. They help make this track one of the standouts on Sunflower. By proxy, this makes it one of the best Beach Boys tracks you’ve quite possibly never heard. Do yourself a favour, eh?

Elsewhere on the album you’ll hear snatches of melodies from the abandoned Smile album (Cool, Cool Water), top notch production and the best Californian session musicianship that Reprise Records’ money could buy. Belle and Sebastian would wet their beds if they could come up with an album approaching this amount of class. Misguided twonks like Richard Ashcroft think they’re making albums as good as this today (he really does hahahaha!). Most people consider the Beach Boys to be a singles band (see also Madness and Blur) but truly, Sunflower stands head and shoulders above everything the Beach Boys ever put their name too.  Buy it at your usual vendor of choice. Now!

*Bonus tracks

Everyone knows that Charles Manson became bezzy mates with Dennis Wilson for a wee while at the tail end of the 60s. He thought Dennis could get him a record deal. Instead, Dennis pissed him off by knicking one of his songs, changing some of the lyrics and sticking it on the Beach Boys 20/20 album. Silly move! Contrast and compare…

Charles Manson Cease To Exist

Beach Boys Never Learn Not To Love

Cover Versions, Dylanish, Hard-to-find

Meet The Folkers

Craig McAllister

A quick history lesson. Sit still at the back!

The Marymass Festival in Irvine is an annual event that dates back to the Middle Ages, although the Marymass festival that Irvinites are familiar with has been going in its current guise since only 1920. The Festival celebrates the time when Mary Queen of Scots stopped off briefly with her entourage of maids-in-waiting at Seagate Castle in (what is now) the town centre. In the lead up to Marymass, a group of voted-in dignitaries go around the local schools and select a 15 year old Queen and four Marys who’s job it is to sit in a couple of wee carriages and get drawn around the corners of the town as the centre piece of a parade. It’s all very serious stuff to those involved.

The parade appears to get smaller every year but always features a dazzling array of dancers, drunks and dandies. Horse-drawn floats dressed up in the themes du jour (this year will no doubt feature a Toy Story float) follow pipe bands who follow twirling majorettes who follow somersaulting seven year olds in leotards trying hopelessly to avoid the horse shit on the road.

The crowds love it. Sunburnt, tattooed and dressed in their Old Firm finery (and that’s just the women), they follow the parade as it progresses out towards The Moor on what was once the outskirts of the town. Ever since a drunk councillor pissed on the sacred, crumbling walls of Seagate Castle a few years ago, public drinking has been banned at Marymass. The pubs open ridiculously long hours on Marymass Saturday, but if you’re caught drinking outwith the walls of The Turf or The Porthead or any local hostelry, you can expect a clip roon the ear from the polis.

Glugging Buckfast from craftily disguised Cola bottles, the throng make their way to the greasy pole to watch as teams of young men (usually from the same family) make a human ladder up the pole to get to the top and remove a giant ham that awaits them. There can be only winner – it’s generally accepted that the ham is always won by the baddest boys from school’s big brothers and that all other teams are there merely to add to the spectacle. And it really is a spectacle. Horse racing, the shows (that’s a funfair, if you’re reading daan sarf) and any number of attractions, the whole of Irvine will be out on the streets this Saturday. Dontcha dare miss it now.

The music bit.

As part of Marymass, there’s an annual folk festival. Held over 5 days around Marymass, I think I’m right in saying it’s the oldest surviving folk festival in the world. This year is its 43rd year. It’s healthy, self-sustaining and plays to a small but fanatical crowd. When Billy Connolly plonked his big banana feet onto the bottom rung of showbusiness, he played the festival. Nowadays, there’s a hardy mix of locals, Irish, American, Scandinavian and Antipodeans who get together to swap stories and song.

Last night saw the annual ‘Open stage’ event and I was there. Judges from Living Tradition magazine put on their  Simon Cowell masks and select an appropriate winner, judging performers on choice of song, musicianship, vocal ability, you know the sort of stuff. The act that won it were head and shoulders above all others, and I say that not because 2 of  the trio were my parents, but because they really were the best. Pause. Pause again. Aye. You read that correctly. My parents. Way back before I was born, they were regulars on the folk scene, playing on the same bill as Billy Connolly, railing against the government with a handful of protest songs and a couple of cheap guitars. All this fell by the wayside when 3 children arrived, but they’ve picked it all up again and with a fanatacism that’s hard to beat.

Lou Reed? Joe Strummer? Him from Glasvegas?

One of the acts last night did a song that sounded like Greenwich Village folkie Fred Neil‘s The Dolphins. But it wasn’t. However, it gives me a good excuse to stick up some versions of The Dolphins, a spot-on brilliant song that’s been covered countless times by countless artists.

Tim Buckley‘s version

Beth Orton‘s version. Features Terry Callier on backing vocals.

A youthful sounding Trashcan Sinatras version.

Taken from a hissy radio session in February 1991.

Cover Versions, Gone but not forgotten, Hard-to-find

King Curtis (part 2)

Craig McAllister

Everybody listen up! Everybody! All you laydees an’ Gen’lmen! All you foxes an’ fellas! All you fellas wishin’ they was foxes an’ all you foxes wishin’ they was fellas! Tonight’s contest sees some of the greatest soul records ever made* slug it out in this here ring for the crown of Best Version Of a Curtis Mayfield Song….Ever! In the black corner we have our tag-team challengers, the mysterious and little-heard of 16 year old wonder, Miss Patti Jo and, fresh from touring the World and beyond with The Jackson 5, the delicious Sisters Love. And in the black corner we have the Undisputed! Genius! Of Soul! Funk! R&B! Gospel! And stack-heeled boots! Thee Heavyweight Champion of the World, Mr Cuurrttiiss Maayyffiieelldd!

Seconds out, Round1!

By 1973, Curtis Mayfield had penned an astounding 44 Top 50 US R&B chart hits for other artists. His version of the sublime Make Me Believe In You appeared on 74s Sweet Exorcist album, but by then it had been recorded by Patti Jo. Little is known of Patti Jo. I do know she was only 16 when she recorded her version. No amount of GoogleWiki sheds any light on her at all. I don’t know what else she recorded, what she looked like, where she lived. I don’t know anything about her at all. But I do know that her version of Make Me Believe In You is a reliable standard in Pete Wiggs’ (St Etienne) DJ box whenever he gets the chance to spin the wheels of steel. Vinyl pops ‘n crackles ‘n all, this is the harder-to-find full length version, not the edited one that usually crops up on yer more trainspottery soul compilations. Flute solo included, it knocks Curtis’ original into submission by the first minute, if you ask me.

Seconds out, Round 2!

Curtis put his version of Give Me Your Love on the soundtrack to Superfly. Scroll down a wee bit from here and you’ll find a live YouTube video of it. It is Blaxploitation personified. Lush, sweeping strings, hypnotic 4 note bass riff, stabbing brass, the ubiquitous wah-wah, by the time the vocals come in I find myself struttin’ the room like a velvet-adorned Harlem pimp. A look that doesn’t go down particularly well in this exclusive part of Ayrshire, even at Halloween. Snoop Dogg liked it so much he knicked it for the opening track of Doggystyle. But you knew that already. Or maybe you didn’t? Hear here.

In contrast, 73’s version by Sisters Love turns the original’s man-coming-on-to-woman on it’s sweet soul head, giving it an empowering pro-feminist love ’em and leave em twist. Or something like that. Either way, it‘s a bona fide, stone-cold underground funk/disco classic. Does that genre even exist? It does now, brothers and sisters. Punch for punch and pound for pound, Curtis takes this one for me.

That’s one round each. Patti Jo takes the first. Curtis batters Sisters Love in the second. Who wins? It’ll go to points. Listen, score them and post your winners in the comments section below. Ciao, soul brothers and sisters!

*mid 70s only

Cover Versions, Hard-to-find, Live!

I Love Led Zeppelin But…

Craig McAllister

..they didn’t half present themselves as the Artful Dodgers of rock music throughout their tenure as global-shagging rock gods. With a cheeky grin, a sly wink and mutterings of “public domain“, Jimmy Page was something of a sticky-fingered riff lifter. I’ve written about this before and I’m sure you know anyway, but any old blues tune that happened to catch his ear would be lifted in whole before being coated in volume, augmented by a slick bit of frettery and re-packaged as the big new thing. “I got those West Bromwich blues“, as Robert Plant moaned on one of those fantastic BBC sessions. Not that Robert Plant is entirely innocent in the whole thing either…

Jake Holmes. Not exactly a household name, but in the late 60s he was a regular of the Greenwich Village folk scene. In fact, in 1967  The Yardbirds caught him at the Village Theater where they watched him play the tracks that made up his debut album, ‘The Above Ground Sound Of Jake Holmes’. As Holmes put it in 2001,

“and that was the infamous moment of my life when ‘Dazed & Confused’ fell into the loving arms and hands of Jimmy Page.”

If you were being kind you could say that a keen-eared Page took the paranoid scratchy folk of the original and transformed it into a much bigger, more frightening rock song. If you were being honest though, you’d have to say that Page lifted it all, from those wee pinged harmonics at the start, to the descending riff and the whole sense of impending doom. Even Robert Plant got in on the act. His quietly sung vocals at the start are a carbon copy of the original’s. Did Holmes get credited when the track surfaced on Led Zeppelin I? Nope! Just like Howlin Wolf, Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, Albert King et al before him, he was conveniently un-acknowledged and forced to watch from the sides as his tune made someone else lots and lots of money.

The one thing Page did add to the original was the bowed guitar section, where he scraped a violin bow across the top of his heavily-echoed strings. But even this trick wasn’t original! Mod pop outfit The Creation had been doing this in their stage show since the mid 60s. Watch 1966’s Painter Man for proof….

This is a hot topic right now. 5 weeks ago, Jake Holmes began legal proceedings against Jimmy Page, claiming original copyright on the song. It’ll be interesting to see how this pans out. Poor Jake certainly neeeds to see things set to right. Sadly for him though, legalities mean that, if successful, he’ll be allowed to claim back just 3 years of royalties. That should be a decent sum, but peanuts compared to what his rightful share should be.  

Go Compare dot com:

Dazed & Confused (Jake Holmes)

Dazed & Confused (Led Zeppelin)

Dazed & Confused (Led Zeppelin, live Paris Theatre, London, April Fool’s day 1971. 18+ minutes. Can you handle it?)

*Footnote

When writing this piece, I was checking my facts and figures online when I stumbled across this fantastic site. All of the above, bar the quote from Jake Holmes is my work, out of my own head and arranged accordingly by me me me, but credit where it’s due and all that. I don’t want Perfect Sound Forever chasing me for royalties in 40 years time.

Rubber Plant

Cover Versions, demo, Hard-to-find, Sampled

Stone Soul Picnic

Craig McAllister

There was a brilliant piece in Mojo a few months back where a Dutch writer tracked down Sly Stone and managed to get him to ruminate on his life and music. Currently living between low-rent hotels and a minibus, Sly is crippled financially by the double whammy of huge medical bills and the ongoing saga of not receiving royalties from any of his Family Stone material. It seems that the Michael Jackson Estate holds all his copyright and since Jackson’s unexpected death Sly has been trying somewhat unsuccessfully to have his songs (and royalties) returned to him. All this won’t matter though, if the new album he has ready to go puts him back in the big time. Hmmmm.

Sly Stone 2009. Do not adjust your set.

Sly took a lot of drugs in the 70s. But you knew that already. He famously invited girls back to his studio, offering them the chance to sing on his records if they in return took care of his more immediate needs. Deed duly done, he would simply wipe their vocals from the session, ready to be replaced by the next naive hopeful the following day. Listen to There’s A Riot Goin’ On. Fantastically dark, druggy album, yeah? But a bit muddy sounding? That’s due to all the tape wiping that went on. By the time the record was finished the mastertape was almost unusable. I don’t know if he could get away with that today in the era of ProTools, but I’m sure if there’s a will there’s a way. He ain’t called Sly for nuthin’.

Classic Sly. Waiting for a backing singer.

You will all be familiar with Sly’s greatest hits ‘n bits of music. The focus for now is on those little-heard gems from his extraordinary back catalogue. One of his least-praised albums is 1974’s Small Talk. The last Sly album to feature the original Family Stone, it was released just after Sly married Kathleen Silva on the stage at Madison Square Garden. A mellower and downbeat affair (surprisingly given he’d just been wed), Small Talk relied heavily on pitter-pattering drum machines for the back beat. You won’t find anything approaching Dance To The Music-style hysterics on here, but you will find Time For Livin’. Have a listen to Time For Livin’ early version. Now go and compare it with The Charlatans‘ excellent wah wah and beat-heavy cover, taken from 1995’s charity ‘Help‘ compilation. I like the way Tim Burgess sings ‘fook‘. I had been unaware Sly swore on his version until hearing the cover and backtracking, ears ablaze and eyes a-popppin’. You probably know that the Beastie Boys do a thrash skate punk version on Check Your Head, but you’ll also know how far removed it is from Sly’s original that it’s almost impossible to count it as a cover version.

“I do!”

Although one or two band members appeared on it, Sly dropped the Family Stone moniker for his next outing, ’75’s High On You. None of its singles managed to crack the US Top 40, something Sly wasn’t used to at all. One of the better tracks is Crossword Puzzle. You might recognise the trumpet break from it. De La Soul sampled it to good effect on Say No Go. Here’s the harder-to-find Say No Go (Dope Mix). I’ve posted some stuff about De La Soul before, the records they sampled to make The Magic Number and suchlike. I don’t think the mp3 links will still work, but you can read about it if you’d like. Listen too to this, a trumpet-free take of Crossword Puzzle (early version). Demoed, sampled, looped and covered. That should be enough to keep you going for a few days.

Sly at Woodstock. That frantic, scratching sound you can hear in the background is the sound of Prince and Lenny Kravitz and (insert your own) scribbling down notes as they try to keep up with the master.

 

Cover Versions, Hard-to-find

Roky III

Craig McAllister

I must admit, I was very late to the party. I first heard of the 13th Floor Elevators when Primal Scream covered Slip Inside This House on the epoch-defining Screamadelica. A couple of years later I first heard what they sounded like via the original Nuggets album. You’re Gonna Miss Me sounded like The Who’s Can’t Explain sung half in menace, half in mayhem by a singer clearly over the moon and under the influence (the more canny amongst you may well spot that reference). The Nuggets albums opened a whole new musical world to me and I’ve soaked up everything from them ever since. So, better late than never, a few short years ago I finally bought The Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators.

Roky I (2nd right)

Re. Ve. Lay. Shun! They say there’s two types of music; music you’ve heard and music you haven’t. Where had this band been all my life? What were they up to now? The answer to the first question was obvious – they had always been there, I just hadn’t been looking. What they were up to now was a bit harder to ascertain. Lead singer Roky Erickson had spent large chunks of his time in psychiatric institutions. The 13th Floor Elevators’ music wasn’t psychedelic for nothing y’know. Their name was inspired by the fact that most buildings rarely had a 13th floor – hotel floors typically went 11, 12, 14, 15 and so on. The 13th letter of the alphabet is ‘M’. As in ‘mescaline‘ or ‘marijuana‘. If you wanted to reach both the 13th floor and previously uncharted levels of consciousness, Roky reckoned you had to get high and to listen to his music. Being a champion of LSD, mescaline, marijuana etc etc had turned poor Roky into the lysergically-laced groovy uncle of Julian Cope and he was, quite frankly, off his tits.

Roky II

Roky has since returned to some form of normality and some form of music. Now under the legal custody of his brother, he is being looked after and given the medical care that he needs. In 2007 he played at both Coachella and in London. In 2008 he appeared on Mogwai’s Batcat ep. This year he has released an album, True Love Cast Out All Evil, backed by fellow Texans Okkervil River. What I’ve heard of it is (disappointingly) a million miles away from the Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators, but it’s better this than nothing at all, eh? Aye, I’m looking at you Lee Mavers. And you too Barrett, even if you are dead. You had plenty of time to do something, anything.

A portrait of the artist as a young man

Roky also releases albums online via his Roky Erickson CD Club. One of those albums has been that debut 13th Floor Elevators album recast in mono. In mono! Oh yeah! The Monodelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators comes at you like a train, relentless and unforgiving. It sounds fantastic. Here’s 3 tracks for you. If you’ve never heard the 13th Floor Elevators before, this is as good a place to start as any. Remember, it’s never too late.

You’re Gonna Miss Me

Reverberation

Fire Engine

Bonus stuff.

Here‘s Primal Scream‘s Slip Inside This House. Though if you haven’t got it/heard it by now, I’m surprised you’re even reading this. Now compare with the original, from the Elevators’ Easter Everywhere album. I love Primal Scream’s version. Druggy, fuggy and right on the button. With the programmed bassline and rinky dink pianos it sounds contemporary and fresh, but I like that they’ve used the percussion to try and recreate the bonkers jug band blues of the original. Any comments?

demo, Gone but not forgotten, Hard-to-find, studio outtakes

King Curtis (part 1)

Craig McAllister

If such a thing as a Definitive List of Legends In Music existed you can bet your life the usual suspects of DylanLennonMcCartneyJagger’nthat would be on it. Some may argue for the inclusion of WonderBowieMarley(insertyerown) too, but I doubt that many people would immediately add Curtis Mayfield to the list.

Poor Curtis hasn’t had it easy in the ‘legend‘ stakes. You want socio-political commentary? You’ve got Stevie Wonder. You want a string-swept soul? You’ve got Marvin Gaye. You want the funk? You’ve got James Brown. Curtis Mayfield did all this and more. With The Impressions he was there at the birth of soul music. He’s written for others. He’s produced others. He had his own publishing compnay. He had his own record companies. Yeah, that’s companies, plural. He was the complete package, yet in the grand scheme of things he rarely gets spoken about in the same reverential tones as those contemporaries mentioned above. Plain and simply, the genius of Curtis Mayfield has been too often overlooked.

Genius is a word banded about willy-nilly these days. If you must, listen to Fearne Cotton or Dermot O’ Leary or any of those radio presenters and I can guarantee that within 5 minutes you’ll hear them attribute the word ‘genius‘ to whatever is currently the pick of the pops. Go on, I dare you. The dictionary defines genius as, “A person of extraordinary intellect and talent.” So, Fearne ‘n Dermot, you’re wrong about Plan B and Kasabian and Beyonce (although, Kasabian excepted surely, they might have their moments.) Use the word wisely, or not at all, that’s all I’m saying. 

“One is not born a genius, one becomes a genius.” Simone de Beauvoir said that. But you knew that already. Over time, Curtis most certainly did become genius. From doo-wop, gospel inflected beginnings, via straight ahead soul, he arrived at this, 8 minutes of bona fide soul genius (yes!) It’s called (Don’t Worry) If There’s Hell Below We’re all Gonna Go, it is extraordinary and it is the first track on the album pictured above. Seek it out, you’ll like it. With Curtis, you’re never too far from a wocka-wocka-wocka wah-wah guitar and he’s seen no reason to change that winning formula here. Taking his cue from the Book Of Revelations and underpinned by the sleaziest, meanest fuzz bass you’ll ever hear, strings sweep and brass blows as Curtis adds his heavily echoed sweet falsetto to the mix. It’s a fantastic arrangement. Brian Wilson always gets the ‘Legend‘ status when it comes to arranging, but (Don’t Worry)… proves that Mayfield is right up there with him. He must’ve known too when he was recording it that he was making such a monumental track. Listen to this, takes 1 and 2 of the backing tracks. No vocals, just the music in all it’s glory. You can imagine everyone gathered round the speakers in the control room as it plays, Curtis nodding his head in quiet satisfaction. Dig it, Brothers and Sisters!

Bonus Track

As you well know, Curtis Mayfield did the soundtrack to Superfly. Here‘s the demo of opening track, Little Child Runnin’ Wild, known as Ghetto Child at the demo stage.

…and here’s Curtis doing the Snoop Dogg-sampling Give me Your Love, live somewhere, sometime in ’72.

(Listen to the Bathtub intro section on Doggystyle)

Gone but not forgotten, Hard-to-find, Live!

The Tie’s The Limit

Craig McAllister

Listening to the radio whilst driving up combinations of the M5, M6 and M74 yesterday on a gruelling 9 hour trip from the sunny South of England I was reminded hourly of the sad death of Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins. As I drove home I wrote in my head the words here that fire forth from my fingers.

The Hurricane

Like many people in the 80s, I was gripped by the TV spectacle that was the snooker. Not snooker. That was something else. No, ‘the’ snooker. That’s how we referred to it. A game brought back from the dead-end of the working man’s club and the seedier side of life was arguably as big then as the English Premiership is nowadays. Instead of your Rooneys and John Terrrys, it was your Reardons and Terry Griffiths that were the household names in those days. Alex Higgins was different to his contemporaries in every way. Rough, ready and rakish, he brought punk attitude to the tables. He refused to wear a bow tie (de rigeur in those days) as he claimed it itched his neck. He  head butted a judge when asked to provide a urine sample. He took drugs. He smoked at the side of the tables. He drank like the ubiquitous fish and he played fast. Very fast. Hence the ‘Hurricane’ nickname.

The Hurricane came out the traps like a bolt of electricity. You know those short, short gaps between the songs in a Ramones live set?  He could muster up a double figure break in roughly the same time. Remember too, that this was the era of table bores like Steve Davis. A Rick Wakeman keyboard solo could’ve passed in the time it took Davis to consider all possibilities and all angles before lining up one of his defensive shots. Higgins was all about death or glory. If he was a rock star, he’d have been like Keith Richards or The Clash or Them the New York Dolls or any of those bands who meant it 100%. His life was snooker and snooker was his life. He earned and spent an estimated £4 million in his liftetime. Spent the lot. Drugs, drink, gambling, you name it. This time last week he was living in sheltered housing, penniless, toothless and 6 stones in weight, snooker cue-thin. A tragic waste of a life. Look at the picture above and remember him like that, eh?

The Music Bit

Here‘s Neil Young doing a live verson of Like A Hurricane. Taken from the excellent Rock ‘n Roll Cowboy 4 Cd bootleg, I’m not sure where it was recorded, but it’s a cracker. Neil Young, Crazy Horse and a million amps turned up to 11.