Noble Truth

A break in my fallow blogging period to let you know about my latest project - a new EP under my Jonesidying pseudonym entitled: Noble Truth.

The EP is released as a digital download through the new label of my great friend Simon Hopkins: DGMFS Media. Below is the press release.

jonesisdying is the performance name of Christopher Jones, a South London resident who specialises in making guitars sound as little like guitars as possible and who takes inspiration from space rock, psych, krautrock, Norwegian jazz, classic country and much else besides. Using electronic processing, found sounds and post-production, Chris seeks to express concepts rooted in Buddhist meditation and other more esoteric traditions, as well as primal emotional states.

noble truth contains four ambient pieces originally commissioned for an abandoned project. The initial recordings were then rescued, overdubbed, remixed and re-mastered when Chris realised that the work contained a core that existed entirely free of any external motivations. 

Track list:

• truth 1 - suffering
• truth 2 - causes
• truth 3 - cessation
• truth 4 - path

 Credits:

• Electric & acoustic guitars, synthesizer and left wing musical box: Christopher Jones
• Produced by Christopher Jones
• Mastered by Simon Hopkins
• Cover image: Hans Dieter Beetroot & Mukmuk
• Cover design: Vera Brüggemann
•  For further information about jonesisdying, contact garuda.chris@gmail.com

The EP is available on iTunes and Amazon (it's a bargain!) and is also streaming on Spotify (link below).



Many thanks to Simon, Sarah, Vera, and everyone else who said nice things.
Enjoy!

Lousy Song, Great Solo #5

Famous bands' first guitarists: there’s possibly a book to be written there. You know: the ones that either left, lost their marbles or turned up at the studio to find that their gear was in a skip outside with no explanation (only to get a phone call from a roadie two months later) etc. etc.

From The Yardbirds onwards (Eric Clapton making way for the superior Jeff Beck) the ‘60s and ‘70s are littered with examples of groups who lost founding axe men only to finally make it big. Pink Floyd, of course, had Syd Barrett who, at least, had a few months working WITH his replacement, David (don’t call me ‘Dave’) Gilmour before he was ousted; The Moody Blues lost future Wings member, Denny Laine, but ended up with Justin Hayward (un)luckily for them; Thin Lizzy’s Eric Bell drank himself out of a job, only to find that his replacement of TWO guitarists would lead the Irish rockers to world domination; Jethro Tull replaced Mick Abrahams with Martin Barre; Genesis parted ways with Anthony Phillips due to his stage fright (which almost split the band up) before they opted for Steve Hackett; and Yes ejected Pete Banks after a brief power struggle (and a disagreement about the use of an orchestra on their second album, Time and a Word), meaning that they could employ boring old perfectionist, Steve Howe.

Which brings me to the subject of this episode of Lousy Song, Great Solo: David ‘Davy’ O’List, who had the honour of being in TWO bands who went on to greater things after he left them: The Nice and Roxy Music. The poor guy must have felt cursed.

Born in Barnet, and rising to prominence in London’s swinging sixties scene in a third rate bunch of psychedelic chancers known as The Attack (whose biggest claim to fame was that they recorded ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ a few days before Jeff Beck), he was nonetheless a gritty, suitably far-out guitarist who (not unlike Pete Banks in Yes) actually managed that most difficult of tricks: having a truly distinctive sound. Unfortunately (again, as with Banks) the ability to play is rarely enough when you’re in a band with some other erm… strong personalities. Fate was ultimately not kind to these men.

O’List was recruited to join the ensemble that had initially been put together as P.P. Arnold’s backing band by Immediate label boss, and industry manager/provocateur, Andrew Loog Oldham, The Nice. Of course the band already had one show-off in their ranks in the shape of organ-mutilator, Keith Emerson. However at this stage Emerson’s legendary stage high-jinks were tempered by a deft touch on the B3 which owed a lot to his jazz heroes (Jimmy Smith etc.). He had yet to meet Bob Moog and unleash the full force of progressive rock on an unsuspecting public. But along with the powerful and sprightly rhythm section of Brian Davison (drums) and Lee Jackson (bass and gruff vocalisation) The Nice were, in truth, true pioneers. Their sound was both muscular and psychedelic, matching sonic experimentation with classical chops and the ability to stretch out arrangements live. Add to this Emerson’s exhibitionism, such as his tendency to stab his Hammond organ with a Hitler Youth dagger (given to him by their roadie at the time, Lemmy Kilminster), and the band were all set to become one of THE bands to watch in the Summer of Love.

Equally adept at mauling respectable stuff by Bernstein (‘America’) or Bach (ahem… ‘Brandenburger’) as well as writing their own freak-friendly numbers, The Nice looked set for big things. But this was 1967 and show business had yet to understand how to handle or present such wild stuff. It’s here that O’List’s story not only crosses paths with Syd Barrett, but even comes to mirror it. The band were booked on a ‘package’ tour with what now seems like a dream ticket for anyone interested in the period. Stuffed low down on a bill that included The Jimi Hendrix Experience, The Move, Pink Floyd and Amen Corner, time constraints meant that each act played short sets which veered wildly in content and barely allowed for the full force of their stage craft. Remember, this was famously the period of misguided ‘commercialisation’ which was leading Syd Barrett to rapidly unravel. With a hit (‘See Emily Play’) on their hands and faced with screaming teenagers, such a tour didn’t sit well with the Floyd (or indeed many of these acts who were trying to break free of their ‘pop’ shackles in search of something loftier and more exploratory). Syd became more and more unreliable as the tour trundled on.

It’s interesting to note that Syd’s legendary instability actually led to O’List being drafted in at the last minute to sit in for the missing Madcap at a few shows. By all accounts he was more than up to the task. And yet, less than a year later, the strains of competing with an ego as large as Emerson’s had begun to take a similar toll on the guitarist. Well, either that or some kind of chemicals... Scant footage of the band (see below) shows O’List cowering in the background, unable to compete with the organist's flailing acrobatics. The camera barely registers his presence.

What’s more, some accounts paint O’List as suffering similar mental troubles to Barrett, but whatever the truth, he, himself, became unreliable, arriving late for gigs etc. and following a fateful gig at Croydon’s Fairfield Hall the axe fell.

It’s here that O’List’s destiny almost crosses paths with another of the guitarists mentioned above - Steve Howe - as it was he who was initially auditioned as a replacement. When he eventually turned down the job the band continued as a trendy power trio (in the mould of long-forgotten pioneers, Clouds), upped the classical pretensions and eventually imploded due to lack of success and Emerson’s longings to find a better vocalist (more of which later) and be taken seriously as a composer (stop sniggering at the back).

A couple of years drifting in rock limbo for O’List ended briefly when he placed an ad in the music press looking for a band to fill the void in his professional life. As it happened the person to answer was none other than Bryan Ferry who’d seen O’List in concert at Newcastle City hall in 1968 and had been impressed. And for half a year O’List helped Roxy Music gain shape, even up to the point of recording five numbers for John Peel’s Top Gear show, all of which would eventually turn up on the band’s debut album a year later. By all accounts (barring O’List’s – his own account makes for some mighty peculiar reading) the guitarist’s eccentricities quickly wore on the other members and with a young PhilipTargett-Adams (later to be renamed Manzanera) in the wings as their road manager, the writing was on the wall. Once more fame and fortune had eluded O’List.

This isn’t the end of his story, however. As the above linked interview recounts, O’List’s hasty ejection from Roxy seemed to have left Ferry feeling uncharacteristically guilty, and he was invited back to provide some guitar on Ferry’s second solo album, Another Time, Another Place. O’List’s claims to have played on the later hit, ‘Let’s Stick Together’ seem somewhat far-fetched, yet his contribution to Ferry’s ‘74 hit: a version of Dobie Grey’s mod classic, ‘The ‘In’ Crowd’, is an undeniable fact. I’d even considered picking this number as the subject for this LSGS. The wigged-out solo at the close of the track is just about the only thing that redeems its rather plodding approach. Attacking a soul classic with a rhythm section made up of not only Roxy’s Paul Thompson (never a subtle drummer) but also John Wetton on bass was never really going to suit the number, and Ferry’s delivery can only be described as dull.

But to return to the subject of this article: back in 1967 The Nice were signed to Immediate records and recording their debut album which went under the amusingly cod-serious title of The Thoughts of Emerlist Davjack (see what they did there?). This was to be The Nice at their most concise and approachable as well as their most psychedelic. The album, coupled with the single version of ‘America’ (which features a great solo by O’List at its core), would turn out to be one of the great defining documents of English psych. From the revved up re-tooling of Dave Brubeck’s ‘Blue Rondo A La Turk’ (here renamed ‘Rondo’) via the full-on baroque pop explosions of the title track and outtake (included on reissue), ‘Diamond Hard Blue Apples Of The Moon’ to the creepy experimentalism of tracks like ‘Dawn’; the album is actually a delightful product of its time. O’List is on fire throughout: just check out his explosive intro to ‘Bonny K’. However, also very much a product of its time are Lee Jackson’s hokey, jokey, florid lyrics.

While I can understand why Emerson would eventually tire of Jackson’s rasping, oft-shouted vocals, preferring the angelic pipes of Greg Lake as an accompaniment to his mock-symphonies, I have a bit of a soft spot for his voice. On later work, such as their take on Dylan’s ‘Country Pie’, I think his Geordie bluster fits the bill nicely. But there are times when it can grate terribly. One such moment is on the song chosen for this series: ‘The Cry Of Eugene’.

Closing the album, this track sums up just about everything both right and wrong with The Nice. Emerson’s delicate organ intro displays a sensitivity that runs counter to his usual, more outré approach (as on the bombastic piano ending to ‘Tantalizing Maggie’ which Alan ‘Fluff' Freeman used as a comedy jingle for years on his Radio 1 rock show) and promises far more than is delivered. O’List at this stage limits himself to a weird, overdriven viola-like accompaniment. Enter Jackson, burbling what can be only described as psychedelic drivel. The song’s dreamy atmosphere is completely broken by his barking delivery of lines like ‘’The cry of three plus two times nothing at all, splits all time’s mind asunder.’’ Please, if anyone has the foggiest idea what the song’s about, let me know. Here, the internet has failed me…*

Building in intensity the song reaches a histrionic zenith at the exact mid-point where a frankly wobbly cornet adds a touch of typical English baroque-ness accompanied by Emerson’s thumping Rachmaninov impersonations and all hope seems lost. But out of nowhere at 2’ 45’’ comes O’List playing an arpeggiated, fuzz-drenched six-note motif that rips open the feyness and forcefully shoves the song into its tortured climax. Six notes, played over and over but they all matter. It’s as if someone left the studio door open and the zombie ghost of Jeff Beck walked right in. From this point on all hell breaks loose. Beneath Jackson’s laboured delivery O’List goes positively APESHIT. I can still remember the first time I heard this as a teenager, and even then I recognised the greatness. And, if that weren’t enough, as a masterstroke, 20 seconds before the end of the track the motif reappears, devouring all before it until the song does the only thing it can: stop dead.

Nearly 50 years on, the track (and the album) remain favourites of mine, mainly for O’List’s manic attack. Jackson obviously felt offended by his bandmates’ treatment of the song as he re-recorded an insipid version on the debut album by his follow-up band, Jackson Heights. This version just emphasised how lousy the song was, and yet O’List’s solo remains a highlight of British ‘60s rock.

*Also, I have no idea if the use of the name Eugene had any influence whatsoever on The Pink Floyd's later 'Careful With That Axe Eugene'.

Lousy Song, Great Solo #4

By 1977 English art-pop perfectionists, 10cc, were in crisis. Actually, they weren’t just in a crisis, they were fucked. The only thing was: they didn’t know it. 

Famously 10cc were born from the ashes of nascent careers writing hits for the Hollies and Yardbirds (Graham Gouldman), paying dues with Wayne Fontana (Eric Stewart had actually sang lead on The Mindbenders' biggest hit, 'Groovy Kind Of Love') or just being jobbing session players and studio rats (Kevin Godley and Lol Creme). Following a reasonably lucrative period running Strawberry Studios in Stockport and masterminding other faux-bands' singles, as well as a minor hit as Hotlegs (with 'Neanderthal Man'), the band were signed to Jonathan King's UK label, given a questionable new name and they were off. 

The next four years had seen them put into effect what was almost a masterplan of pop strategy, moving them from cheeky chart contenders to album conceptualists. Their self-titled debut album's parodies laid their stall out with aplomb. It was full of 50's pastiches such as 'Johnny Don't Do It' or 'Donna' and the censor-baiting rockers such as 'Rubber Bullets' while displaying a fearsome grasp of studio trickery. Here was a band that not only had the ironic detachment of, say, Steely Dan (a band with whom 10cc are most often compared, both bands having learned their trade via the '60s equivalent of Tin Pan Alley on either side of the Atlantic) but also the smarts to make top 40 gold out of what was far more grown-up fare than that of contemporaries such as say, Slade or Gary Glitter. The following year's album, Sheet Music, saw the pastiches jettisoned and the band truly find their own sound. What was effectively a pair of duos combined Godley and Creme's cerebral love of art rock and musicals with Gouldman and Stewart's ear for an irresistible tune. sardonic, knowing hits 'Wall Street Shuffle' and 'Silly Love' rubbed shoulders with hilarious deconstructions of the ridiculous trade in which they worked such as 'The Worst Band In The Word' ('Never seen the van, leave it to the roadies, never seen the roadies, leave 'em in the van') or 'Old Wild Men' (possibly the first song to conceive of rock stars ageing), while third world politics and terrorism, were also fair game to these clever boys. 

Of course the following year's Original Soundtrack contained THAT SONG and the world now seemed theirs for the taking. However the cracks were beginning to show. The differing approaches of the two pairs was becoming more obvious with Godley and Creme's post-modernism ('The Film Of My Love' or the overlong tri-part 'Une Nuit A Paris') sounding at odds with Gouldman and Stewart's more straightforward rock and pop craftsmanship. It was still a fantastic album, however, and by 1976's How Dare You! these cracks seemed less apparent, to the point that the album could stand as their masterpiece, containing suites in miniature like 'I'm Mandy Fly Me', 'Art For Art's Sake' or 'Don't Hang Up'. But in the studio the four had reached breaking point and Godley and Creme headed for the hills (and a future in video pioneering) holding their art school credentials high and leaving the remaining duo to wonder whether to carry on as 5cc.

The unfortunate decision was to draft tour drummer, Paul Burgess as a full-time member, recruit some other fine session players and soldier on. The sense that Gouldman and Stewart did this just to show the quitters just how much they didn't need them is borne out by later interviews. Both parties now admit culpability with Godley and Creme admitting that maybe they could have gone off to make the overblown Consequences album (ostensibly a triple album vehicle to advertise their patented Gizmotron guitar tool which was hamstrung by a little too much self-indulgence and weed) and simply brought the resulting lessons learned back to be used by 10cc, Gouldman and Stewart meanwhile found it impossible to sanction any hiatus by the others while they were at the peak of their earning powers. Ah, foolish youth…

But be quiet, big boys don't cry; this lengthy back story serves as a scene setting for what came next: the truly awful Deceptive Bends album. Although by no means a total disaster (especially when compared to the following studio album, Bloody Tourists which contains 'Dreadlock Holiday'. The world's most racist hit? You tell me…). Obviously Graham and Eric weren't dunces, and their ear for a hit hadn't deserted them, but somehow without the worldly cynicism of Kevin and Lol they had to rely on their own more forced sense of humour. Deceptive Bends contains ten of the cleverest, most slickly produced cuts, but somehow it's a joyless affair. Just compare 'I'm Not In Love' from two years previously with 'The Things You Do For Love'. or 'People In Love'. The sly irony has vanished and instead it's replaced by something utterly impressive and yet lifeless.

But worst of all was the lead track which when released in 1977 made it to number 5 in the UK charts: 'Good Morning Judge'.

For starters, there are the lyrics, concerning what Allmusic describes as 'a career criminal'.  Let's have a look at the first verse: 

Well good morning Judge, how are you today?

I'm in trouble, please put me away

A pretty thing took a shine to me

I couldn't stop her, so I let it be (repeat three times) etc.

So in the very first verse our 'hero' is admitting to what exactly? It sounds suspiciously like an 'ironic' reference to either sexual assault or under age sex to me (good grief, what was I saying about Gary Glitter?), especially when you examine the following verse's reference to a car theft ('I found a car but I couldn't pay. I fell in love so I drove it away').

Nice!

Riding on a jaunty beat that  drives home the repeated refrain at the end of each verse, it also contains what by now had become the band's stock in trade, the doubling of lead vocal with a bass voice an octave underneath. In other words, with this, the first song of a post-split 10cc, the band have begun to parody themselves. If this isn't warning enough, the stand-in for a chorus ('I didn't do it, i wasn't there' etc…) sounds like the pair are making excuses for their own musical crimes.

And yet, at the end of each verse there's something strange happening. Eric's ultra-nimble slide guitar which had appeared in the middle section of the previous year's 'I'm Mandy, Fly Me' reappears to make a startling little interjection before droning up the fretboard and away. Clearly the chops hadn't deserted them. And, as if that wasn't frustrating enough, at the 1'31'' mark the slide returns to usher in perhaps Eric's finest moment: a solo that manages to combine Bakersfield with a call-and-response chickenwalk and blows your head away, all before the 1'58'' mark when it gives way to a bottom end riff (again, merely reiterating the band's superior earlier work) that signals a return to the laugh-free irony fest.   

It's doubly annoying here because not only is it a blinding solo - perhaps one of my top five of all time despite its brevity (or maybe because of it) - but also because it resides in a completely shit song that objectifies women, trivialises crime (Rubber Bullets at least knew it was springing from a tradition that included 'Cell Block Number Nine' or 'Jailhouse Rock') and, worst of all, was catchy as hell.

To be fair, at the age of 16/17 I thought it was very clever and loved it to death. But age, wisdom and a heavy heart now lead me to cringe every time I hear it. All except for those scant 25-odd seconds of six-string heaven in the middle...

Host (2014)

A couple of weeks back I posted about the new improved (?) Bandcamp site that I now have with new artwork, links and such, and also promised I’d write when my latest project was ready for public consumption.

Host is a multimedia project created initially for Auflage #1: an artist’s book fair hosted over two weekends at Galerie GUM, in Bielefeld, N. Germany and curated by Gabriele Undine Meyer and Vera Brueggemann. The original idea was to publish a book of photographs which would come with a CD of new material, but time constraints (and the lack of a decent printer) meant that the concept changed. Host is now a limited edition of ten signed box sets containing ten hand-written postcards (complete with neat space-themed stamps!) and a CD of ten new tracks.

The five boxes taken to Germany amazingly all sold and the few remaining copies (three at time of writing) are now available to buy on the Bandcamp site for £70. If all copies sell I will be creating a second edition before the end of the year.

 

The idea was a particularly neat solution for the problem of what I could confidently bring to such a gathering of talented people, mainly because it plays to my three main areas of interest, music, writing and photography. Each card (the images can be found on my photography blog here) depicts a landscape that somehow conveys an otherworldly quality (hence the stamps). Each short message/story may or may not relate to the image featured: the same being true for each of the ten pieces of music. The listener/reader can choose exactly how much meaning they wish to imprint onto these sets.

 

The music is also available separately as a digital download from the Bandcamp site.

The project has been a considerable amount of work over the last month or so, but I have to say I’ve been thrilled at how it seems to have turned out exactly as I envisaged it.

Thanks to everyone who encouraged me or bought the box, and especial thanks to Vera and Gabriele for being so generous with their time and their opinions.

Bugfix

A piece I've been working on for a while and then ran out of gas... maybe it's finished, who knows?

Rory Gallagher - Sinner Boy

I've been listening to a lot of Rory Gallagher recently. Before you start sniggering at the back there, this has (possibly) more to do with another conversation I recently had with a music producer/friend about the nature of 'true art'. Both of us agreed on one of the definitions as being that which is produced with NO thought for either fashion or even a prospective audience. In other words, something that comes directly from what may be termed 'the soul'. The boy from County Donegal, for whom a 'sense of style' amounted to a flannel shirt and baseball boots, had this in spades.

Yet, before we explore WHY Rory remains important, especially in this age of cookie-cutter 'authenticity', it's a good idea to begin by defining exactly what William Rory Gallagher wasn't. Aways regarded, even by detractors, as some kind of analogy for integrity, Gallagher - once you do a little bit of digging (both research-wise and  aurally) - turns out to be so much more. On the surface Rory's brand of integrity tends to be, well... dull. The world is full of 'purists', especially in the world of blues (however you define that). And how dull they are. Have a look at Rory's Wikipedia entry and there it is: 'an Irish blues-rock multi-instrumentalist, songwriter, and bandleader.' Gee... three chords and the truth.

Like everything on Wikipedia this tells a fraction of the story and the irony is that had Rory lived until the present day I think he'd now be expanding his audience through more collaborations and musical diversions. He just never had the chance. 

If there's one overriding reason why Gallagher's name is consigned to a cabal of blues-worshippers and not celebrated beyond is that his main body of work resided in the live arena - honed by night after night of doing what he was always most happy doing - playing to sweaty crowds. This is not to say that all of his recorded output is a failure. But the dedication to life on the road and a strange refusal (possibly born of his early dedication to his own, singular artistic path) to work with other producers means that if you want to really appreciate the man, you have to see him on stage.

Luckily we now have the treasure trove of Youtube to allow us to fully appreciate how special his talent for performing was. There are literally hundreds of hours of Rory on video - a cursory trawl resulted in the playlist below: all pre-1980 shows and each with its merits.

Of all of these concerts the most 'poetic' would be Tony Palmer's long-forgotten Irish Tour '74, immortalised on the brilliant live album of the same name (although strangely missing from his IMDb entry). On the accompanying record Rory explodes out of the traps on the opener, 'Cradle Rock' - it has to be one of the most visceral expressions of filthy, dirty rock ever recorded. But in the film - ostensibly a straightforward 'on the road' documentary of Gallagher on his home turf - Palmer starts with an almost genius stroke of an opening sequence, where the crashing waves off the rocky coastline of Western Ireland are slowly replaced by Gallagher's exquisite soloing on the middle section of 'Walk On Hot Coals': delicate, folksy arpeggios drenched in sweat, demonstrating his astonishing range from the off.

While there's a sense that maybe something darker drove Rory to endlessly tour (I well remember how in the mid-'70s the NME yearly reader's polls always half-jokingly gave him the 'Vasco Da Gama touring award' for sheer hard work on the road), not only did he almost single-handedly pave the way for Ireland's modern gigging circuit, but it's also possible that many a student union would have had far less to show if he hadn't been prepared to play over and over again. I myself only saw him once (in 1981 at Reading University, to a small faithful crowd - by then his star was well into the descendant), but he still gave it 110%.

In real life Rory did appear to be almost monomaniacal in his pursuit of the adrenaline rush that accompanied live playing - in one interview he explains how itchy he got when working at home or in the studio, undoubtedly explaining why many of his studio albums have a rather rushed two-dimensional feel. In a life filled with irony, the ultimate one was that this inability to lead a settled existence finally led to his death. Alcoholism combined with medication to combat a fear of flying led to unforeseen liver damage that seems inexcusable less than 20 years later.

To believers, the cliche is that Gallagher was far more influential than he's given credit for, but the cliche turns out to actually have a solid grounding. The evidence is pretty clear, especially for someone like me,whose years as a guitar beginner were indelibly marked by his work. As a youngster I only owned two Gallagher albums - Tattoo (bought on cassette in a W H Smith sale in Coventry) and Live in Europe. Actually I don't think I knew anyone at that time who didn't own Live in Europe. It was, after all, the first of his albums to truly capture the essence of what he stood for and a template for aspiring guitarists. Brian May is on record as saying that his own signature 'toppy' sound was derived from Gallagher's advice after a show on the use of treble boosters etc. In fact, Rory was renowned for taking the time to explain his techniques with young fans, so there are probably a whole lot more examples out there. Simply put, Rory was a giant among the players who defined what a 'rock guitarist' could be.

His early choice to work in the showbands that toured the clubs of his native Ireland in the '60s was regarded as a cop-out, until everyone realised that he was merely learning his stagecraft (as Jon Anderson would have it - ho ho). Not only that but (a little like Van Morrison) he was also getting a grounding in far more than rhythm and blues. By the late '60s he'd become the coolest kid on the block with the longest hair and the hottest licks. In Ireland at this point it almost equated to avant garde behaviour. His first band, Taste, were also far more than the usual Cream-alike power trio. Their repertoire included gutsy blues primitivism, folk, prog and even a fair amount of jazz. Check out their performance on Beat Club in 1970, and see Rory wail on the sax! He kept up the habit well into the '70s, as well.

By the band's legendary appearance at the Isle of Wight festival in the same year this was, in all but name, a solo act. Again, Rory's eyes-on-the-prize drive that led to a successful launch of a solo career the following year belies any simplistic take on the man and his muse.

Myth had it (when I was younger) that Rory was not the brightest bulb in the box - unconcerned with financial success as long as his brother/manager kept him in Guinness and enough money for strings and petrol for his car. I'm pretty sure that a huge quantity of this mythology stems from good old-fashioned racism. The fact is, if you watch the (rather excellent, if you ignore The Edge and Bob Geldof) documentary, Ghost Blues, you'll hear the story of a man who, from an early age just knew exactly what he wanted to do: play guitar and lead a band. If that single-mindedness led to Rory being branded stupid it was because people often mistake focus and dedication with a lack of imagination. It's true that in the biographies you do begin to sense that the interviewees - unable to expand on the man's personality other than he was 'generous' 'sweet' or 'nice' - are running out of synonyms for 'boring'. And this view has undoubtedly tainted the man's reputation. 

However, back in the early '70s this was a man who was touring the States as a support for every major act around (and regularly blowing them off stage), playing equally easily to stadium crowds as well as tiny clubs. When he began touring under his own name he was important enough to audition (and reject) Noel Redding and Mitch Mitchell for his new trio: a fact worth noting if you happen to (wrongly) believe that his eventual choices (Gerry McAvoy on bass and Wilgar Campbell) were 'hacks' as some journalists remarked at the time. Rory was never anything but driven and knew just what suited his style. 

Following the smoother approach of his eponymous debut album, Gallagher quickly realised that he needed to somehow bottle the live energy in a studio format. Deuce, the follow-up was rawer (and pretty close to the best he ever got in studio confines) yet, as stated, it wasn't until later that year that Live In Europe really set his star alight. So much so that, when Mick Taylor left the Stones, Rory was one of the guitarists auditioned to replace him. But Rory was a born leader, not follower, and he was wise enough to pass.

The replacement of Campbell by the less versatile Rod de'Ath on drums led to his trio expanding to a four-piece, with Lou Martin on keyboards to fill out the sound. To my ears Martin's rinky-dink electric piano always detracted from Gallagher's already top-end dynamic, and while he was undoubtedly accomplished one can only speculate how things may have gone if he'd found a more sonically compatible keyboardist. Still, the live shows of this period (as captured on Irish Tour '74) were blistering. With a voice that was both sweet and growling, and a brace of more than adequate songs, Rory was in his element: slaying the crowd, night after night after night... 

Another irony of his (supposed) back-to basics approach was the iconic effect it had on him and his image; or lack of it. Rory truly hated the idea of stardom and had no use for recognition or validation, yet the business (and his fans) kept trying to smother him in it. 

For starters, there's his legendary guitar. I'm aware that the fetishisation of axes amongst the more obsessive six-string enthusiasts can run amok, given the chance. Read any of the thousands of guitar magazines and you'll hear references to legendary instruments referred to by soubriquets that seem to approach the level of naming of weaponry in cheap sword and sorcery novels: Billy Gibbons' 'Miss Pearly Gates', BB King's 'Lucille' (of which there were apparently many), Eric Clapton's 'Blackie' and 'The Fool', Neil Young's 'Old Black' and even Willie Nelson's 'Trigger'. But visit the Rory Gallagher website and you can buy a POSTER of his guitar. A poster! Rory's '61 Strat was bought secondhand for £100 in 1963 (another indicator that Rory knew exactly what he wanted at an extremely early age) and, along with its pre-CBS buyout status, is most famous for being the most beaten up instrument on the rock stage at any time, before or since. The way in which the patina had worn was allegedly down to Rory's rare blood type which gave his sweat a high alkaline content that literally ate away at the varnish. 

Equally iconic was his lack of 'devices'. Despite the aforementioned treble booster, Rory was well known for eschewing the technical trappings of rock stardom. Not for him any wah-wah, fuzz or volume pedals that afflicted the post-Hendrix generation: he learned to use just tone and volume controls to achieve these effects along with a startling dexterity with harmonics. He even used an old aspirin bottle as a slide. The only downside of using less to achieve more is that his later work sounds horribly artificial as he finally started to use flangers and effects racks in the '80s.

People at the time equated this lack of flummery as a 'workmanlike' approach to his craft, yet if you watch his shows he frequently dazzles in a way that perhaps only Jeff Beck replicates, demonstrating a tonal mastery over the six strings that uses the guitar for its own ends. Yet, unlike Beck, his guitar isn't wielded like some phallic extension, but seems more like a third limb: no wonder his old Strat became so legendary, it was as much a part of him as his arms. But the same applies to his 1930s National Steel. Ragtime, country, etc etc. Rory really could play 'em all.

And on the  dodgy subject of rock and sexuality, it always seems fascinating that when he died tragically young at 47 he left no (acknowledged) partner or children. His style packs a masculine aggression born of years treading the boards in the roughest drinking establishments and yet how did such a handsome boy avoid the snares of the heart? A cursory glance at forums reveals the usual sexual stereotyping that comes with 'rock', desperate to disparage any hint of being gay in favour of the adages of 'life on the road' negating any long-term relationships, or even that he had a mysterious American girlfriend. In the end, who really cares? The fact remains that the musical seam he mined had more to do with hardship and bad luck than the pursuance of getting his rocks off. He's far more believable when singing of his time in Sing Sing on 'In Your Town' or despairing of the destructive power of sex vs spirituality on 'I Could've Had Religion'. He loved the mythology and the symbolism of the blues ('you're just born with it' he tells a German interviewer in one of the attached clips), and that included the hard-drinking lifestyle that was to be his downfall.

But above all Rory has, for me, become a symbol of artistic integrity that transcends genre or technical ability. On the second point it has to be stated that if you watch any of the videos on the playlist below you'll quickly surmise that Gallagher was an astounding guitarist who simply preferred to work within the more basic framework of the blues. Taste's earlier explorations in jazz (along with tracks such as 'They Don't Make Them Like You Anymore' on Tattoo) show that those years in a show band had given Rory the chops to deal with most other genres. What's more, his distinctive phrasing contains a huge dollop of Irish folk in its trills and flourishes. And in many ways that's what Rory's biggest legacy has been: putting Irish music on the world stage. 

Anyway - spend some time with Rory - and marvel again at the world's most self-effacing, genuine guitarist. Whatever that entails...

Ladies and gentlemen, watch Ruth...

A delayed posting and anyone not interested in erm, complicated jazz-rock of the mid ‘70s should probably wait until the next update on here for less esoteric ramblings.

But…

A couple of weeks ago I was pointed in the direction of… FINALLY… a release of the soundtrack which precedes (maybe) the official release of the film of the gigs which gave birth to one of FZ’s finest albums: namely, Roxy and Elsewhere.

Roxy by Proxy single-handedly demonstrates why the period of 1973-5 for Zappa (and the last incarnation of the Mothers) was his most fruitful and, conversely, what a godAWFUL organisation the ‘Zappa Family Trust’ are.  I may go into more detail on point number two at the end of this post, but, in the spirit of using this blog to pass on GOOD news rather than dwelling on negative emotions (man) let’s sort out why Roxy by Proxy is so wonderful, despite its suspect origins.

In December 1971 Zappa was attacked on stage at London’s Rainbow Theatre by a jealous fan who claimed that FZ was looking at his girlfriend. A fall into the concrete orchestra pit led to a six-month period confined to a wheelchair, a deeper voice (produced by a crushed larynx) and a lifetime of back pain. But more importantly, it was probably exactly what the progressive composer in FZ needed at that time: an extended period to come up with something more mature than the road tales and rock ‘n’ roll lineage of the Flo and Eddie incarnation of the Mothers.

The two subsequent albums, Waka Jawaka and The Grand Wazoo were ample evidence of FZ’s changing approach – both albums featuring two significant things – a bigger brass section lending the ensemble’s sound more towards jazz, and the more permanent addition of the mighty George Duke on keyboards (he’d already worked on Chunga’s Revenge on ’70 and the 200 Motels project in ’71). While every incarnation of Zappa’s bands has contained astounding musicians, this was the cusp of Frank’s entry into a level of playing that really took the purpose of ‘getting all the right notes on the tape’ seriously.

By 1973, with his full return to the stage, Zappa began to assemble what would, to any right thinking aficionado, become not only his greatest touring band, but pretty much THE BEST BAND YOU’LL EVER HEAR. This express train ride to superlative city is fully justified because, well… let me demonstrate.

Early incarnations of this more ‘serious’ line up at various times featured earlier cohorts such as Jeff Simmons and Ian Underwood as well as fusion fiddler, Jean Luc Ponty, whom George Duke had already played with on his Zappa-inspired King Kong album. As well as a live album featuring Duke’s own trio. Added to this was what would become the core of Zappa’s touring band for the next 18 months. This was Ruth Underwood (Ian’s wife at the time) on percussion, Napoleon Murphy Brock on flute, sax and vocals, Ralph Humphreys on drums, Chester Thompson on drums, Tom Fowler on bass and brothers Bruce Fowler on trombone and Walt on trumpet.

The earliest variant of this line up toured (with Ponty and without Thomspon or Murphy Brock) from February in 1973 to August, but by October both Ponty and Ian Underwood had gone and the Over-Nite Sensation album had been recorded.

The removal of non-American, Ponty (along with attendant ego clashes with Zappa) laid the way open for a band that not only had the fearsome chops to deal with Frank’s insanely complex material but also a shared an outlook and cultural reference points with which to combine political satire (Watergate was colouring all US events at the time) and the usual road humour that Zappa loved to feature in his work. But more importantly, this was a band that could play.

So it was, that by the end of 1973 the transitional line up which still featured Jeff Simmons on guitar and featured both Humphreys and Thomson on drums had convened in December at the Roxy on Sunset Boulevard for a six-night residency that gave birth to the Roxy and Elsewhere live double album; the ‘Elsewhere’ of the title being additionally recorded dates in Chicago and Pennsylvania, as well as the studio overdubs to add a little tweezer gleam to the proceedings.

By February of the following year the line up had settled into the more manageable six –piece without Simmons or Humphreys. The following studio album, Apostrophe (‘) – released under Frank’s own name with no ‘Mothers’ - dated from sessions which retained Ponty as well as various other luminaries (including Jack Bruce playing electric cello on the co-written title track – apparently he hated it) and continued. While both this and its predecessor are now considered FZ classics (possibly for the wrong reasons, containing as they do some of Frank’s more sexually dubious numbers) interestingly at the time his stock was critically low. Reactionary writers mourned the older versions of the Mothers and heard only the sardonic road tales while ignoring the amazing band that was evolving under the smut.  The fact was: while FZ was always a brilliant studio technician, this band had to be heard LIVE to really be appreciated. And a true representation of the finest live band that ever bestrode this earth (IMHO) had to wait until the later release of Roxy… and the following year’s One Size Fits All - arguably Zappa’s finest studio album – to really show what they could do.  And again, both of these albums were panned by the critics. Talk about cloth ears…

But forty years after the fact it’s pretty well accepted, both by fans, critics and the original band members that this really was where Frank reached some kind of  creative apotheosis. But why?

Well, the aforementioned accident/attack as mentioned had not only given him time to do some really serious writing for which he HAD to find the right combination of musicians to play. It was that complicated.

But if you investigate the usual ‘conceptual continuity’ clues that litter Zappa’s work, it’s easy to see why this version of the Mothers was the ultimate.  Here are four randomly picked reasons:

      1)   Percussion: FZ was originally a drummer and (as he later demonstrated with drum version of The Black Page’) he could write for drums. His initial love of Varese and Stravinsky had left him with a penchant for percussion and with the Roxy line up he had THREE world-class percussionists onboard. The Roxy By Proxy tapes feature a brilliant rhythm-only retooling of ‘Cheepnis’.

      2)   Voices: Frank’s newly lowered voice needed not only George to sing up, but also Napoleon Murphy Brock. This adds the sweetness that Zappa’s sardonic near monologues on numbers such as ‘Montana’ or ‘Stinkfoot’ can’t supply. The close harmonies that resulted allowed the requisite amount of greasy doo-wop into the mix. Just listen to the band’s sense of fun as they sing the final line to ‘Dickie’s Such An Asshole’: their tribute to the exiting President Nixon.

In several interviews Duke talks about how Frank wore away his muso snobbism about dumb, greasy rock ‘n’ roll as well as helping him accept a wider array of new electronic equipment and getting him to sing. Hold on… he never sang before he joined the Mothers?!? Just listen to his voice on ‘Inca Roads’ and marvel at the loveliness of his voice! And by the time, a year after leaving the Mothers, he recorded his own version of Frank’s anti-racism classic: ‘Uncle Remus’ on his  solo album, The Aura Will Prevail, his voice had become a thing of grace and power.

      3)   Versatility: watch any film of Frank at the helm in a live situation and you see the various visual cues and hand signals that could lead the band in one of several directions, often turning on a dime in the middle of a complex arrangement to include some private joke or incongruous flourish. Again, as George Duke said: this band was SO well-rehearsed and proficient as to almost know before Frank what was required. To listen to any of the recordings from the ’73-’74 band is an exercise in witnessing what can actually happen if musicians give themselves entirely to music.

      4)   Democracy: An odd one in the context of FZ: for years Frank was the ringmaster in his own circus of oddities, yet following a serious accident (as well as losing all of the band’s equipment in the notorious ‘Smoke on the Water’ hotel fire on lake Geneva and being involved in the legal wrangles of extricating himself from the managerial grip of Herb Cohen) even such an avowed workaholic could grow sick of having to nursemaid a band. Years of penury in the Mothers’ early years had meant that Frank had to constantly field the complaints of musicians who often went hungry. But with the Roxy band you can somehow sense that, maybe for the only time in his career, Frank was enjoying spending time with a bunch of players who were in every way his equal. Ultimately he’d never go as far as to hand over any control of the ban’s future to anyone else or claim that he was anything less than their paymaster (unlike the rather disingenuous way that, say Robert Fripp does with King Crimson, or David Bowie or Paul McCartney would with Tin Machine or Wings) – but if you watch any of the TV broadcast you can see the sheer joy that he’s getting by spending time with such outstanding musicians. This was more than just humour belonging in music, it was Frank truly getting his musical rocks off, and even learning from the conservatory-trained alumni around him. He may have lost his Ian Underwood, but he’d gained not one but six others in replacement. Which brings me to the jewel in the ’73-’74 Mothers’ crown: Ruth.

Ruth Komanoff/Underwood had witnessed Zappa’s important 1967 Garrick Theatre residence in New York where he’d learned his advanced stagecraft and absurdism. In later interviews she points out that, while they were revolutionary in their chaotic approach to what constitutes a ‘gig’ (involving members of the audience at various times), in the midst of the shenanigans were some exquisite tunes.

Ruth’s skills as a percussionist were to emphasize both the rhythmic and melodic heart of Zappa’s work. If George Duke provided the chordal backbone of the set-list, she injected intricacy and speed that beggars belief. In later years Captain Beefheart meanly suggested that FZ had used the lovely Ruth as mere window-dressing, but it’s obviously bullshit. Why else would Frank give his famous call to ‘Watch Ruth’ in the monstrously complex ‘Don’t You Ever Wash That Thing?’ This is Frank, the supposed misogynist, in awe of a woman as a key member of his band. He knows that he can put her on the spot, any time and she’ll deliver.

So, over the years I’ve tried to collect as many recordings of this band (or its variations) as I can. The mere attempts of an obsessive, you’d probably conclude. However, if I was the kind of classical music buff who sought legendary recordings of, say, Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, I’d be regarded as an aesthete. It’s the ‘rock’ label that adds the sneer. But IS this rock? I’d say not.

The Roxy band serves up a melange of funk, rock, jazz, doo-wop, modern experimental and improvisation, often in the space of one number. And it’s this last point that made me sit down and write this in the first place. For, on Roxy By Proxy, there’s a version of ‘Dupree’s Paradise’ that may, just may be the best recording of any live band ever committed to tape.

Don’t get me wrong: I know there are finer moments, arguably better playing, even better tunes, but for the reasons stated above as well as many others, this version of ‘Dupree’s Paradise’ represents an almost platonic form of what ‘live music’ should constitute.  Beginning with George Duke’s cute Fender Rhodes and synth extrapolations the band cruise into a funky-as-hell jam that then seamlessly segues into the lovely theme of the tune at the five-minute mark - an epitome of modern American music. From there we journey through a Tom Fowler bass solo that references ‘Montana’’s complexities and returns us to a scorching Zappa guitar solo before reprising the theme one last time. In construction it’s nothing special, but listening to it for the first time I was struck as how this one 15-minute track contains everything you need to know in order to appreciate why I love this band so fucking much.

If there was ever a disappointment with the original Roxy and Elsewhere album, it was that it wasn’t a true aural document of how astounding the band were live. It was the later release of volume two of You Can’t Do That On Stage Anymore - a complete Helsinki gig - which revealed that yes, they really, really could do all of that in real time! And now, after an eternity of waiting we finally get to hear the cream of one of the fabled nights unadorned on tape. Not only this, but a legitimised version of the full August 27, 1974 at KCET in Hollywood TV special* has been released as well as an earlier Road Tape of thePonty line up live in (again) Helsinki. It never rains etc.

The Roxy dates, of course, were filmed, and the resultant concert footage has, to any right-thinking Zappa fan, become a kind of holy grail. For years now the ZFT have taunted us with brief glimpses even allowing a 30-minute clip to appear on Youtube.  But, like all of the ZFT’s nefarious trading decisions, you can’t help feeling that any delays merely serve to jack up the price and extract the most capital from the deal. Unlike, say, King Crimson, whose website offers a plethora of reasonably priced live and rare treats for the obsessive fan who can be bothered to shell out for such stuff, the Zappa website is both poorly constructed, filled with faux Zappa-speak and littered with archive material that over the years has been bewilderingly random and unfocussed, despite some truly lovely stuff appearing (cf: Wazoo – a live recording of the big band’s seventh and last date in Boston). What’s more appalling are the prices that the ‘Trust’ has inflicted on fans. Who really expects to pay over 20 dollars for a download these days? It often seems that the legacy of Frank - who to be fair wasn’t anything but a self-avowed free market libertarian – has come to rest in the hands of someone more venal, controlling and grasping than Zappa, namely his wife, Gail. As I’ve stated before: the work that his son does often strikes me as being more of an excuse to claim a living from art that was made long ago by his dead father. How many Dweezil records have you bought recently? Exactly…

So it is with mixed feelings that I celebrate the final release of Roxy by Proxy (and the likely release of the film from which it is drawn). It reminds me of the way that Neil Young has toyed with fans who waited for years for his back catalogue and various rarities to be unleashed: but at least he’s alive and should be able to do what he likes with his archive, no matter how frustrating it can be to be unable to buy Time Fades Away. But while the market for Zappa rarities may be considerable on a worldwide scale, it seems like a poor excuse to make the faithful pay a premium. Personally I’d buy a shedload of the 73-74 band CDs should they become available. But not at inflated prices or from a website that can’t even be bothered to give full track details or provenance unless you buy on spec.

Luckily there are hundreds of sites and more obsessive fans out there who share, discuss and cherish this stuff beyond mere capital gain. After all music is the best. But I think I’ve already said too much…

Instead let’s have another look at the best band you DID ever hear in your life. Ladies and gentlemen, watch Ruth…

*It’s worth noting that by this point the band were possibly even more fearsome than at any other time, having been touring almost continually for a year. I urge anyone to watch this gig in its entirety.