Same Title, Different Song

I’m not sure the shower has quite done the trick. I think I need to hear some unquestionably wonderful records to cleanse my soul of that last post.

Luckily, I have just the thing, one of the greatest, if not the greatest, 02:40 ever committed to vinyl:


The Ronettes – Be My Baby

Not a song title to be messed with, you’d think. And you’d be right.

Unless you happened to be banging Lenny Kravitz and getting him to write songs for you at the same time. Well, maybe not at exactly the same time, that’d just be impractical. And messy. Probably end up with a lot more “oohs” and “aahs” in the lyrics too.

And even then, frankly you’d be taking a bit of a punt.

Now, I don’t have much time for Mr Kravitz. He’s made a couple of decent tunes, sure, but not quite enough to deserve the cool cat tag he seems to have.

But this is without doubt the best thing he ever had a hand in (the record, not the soon-to-be-Mrs Johnny Depp, you foul minded folk):


Vanessa Paradis – Be My Baby

More soon.

How Not To Do a Cover Version

Following on from my earlier post where I talked about how my listening habits had changed, I’ve realised that sometimes I really don’t help myself.

One of the reasons I listen to music almost entirely on shuffle these days is because that way every now and then my iPod throws up a little golden nugget, or the idea of what to write about next on here.

Recently, I have *ahem* come to own the first 75 albums in the “Now That’s What I Call Music!” series, which I’m currently in the process of uploading onto my iPod.

Masochist that I apparently am, I decided that rather than be selective about what to add, I would simply upload each and every one and see which ones were chosen for my aural delectation.

The plus side of this is that my memory has been jogged about certain records that I had forgotten all about (Kenny Thomas, anyone?), or I’m intrigued about some that I knew nothing about in the first place (just who were 2wo Third3 and what made them think spelling their name like that was in any way a good idea??).

Actually, now I’ve written that, I’m not so sure either of those can be considered plus points.

On the down side (as if that wasn’t bad enough) I now own far more Tina Turner songs from her late 80s/early 90s period than I ever care to hear.

In short, I have turned my iPod into a revolver in a game of musical Russian Roulette, only there are bullets in 5 of the 6 chambers, not just 1.

I’m already wondering if this was a good idea.

Yesterday, this experiment bore its first fruits, and wouldn’t you just know it, it’s getting used in this section, where I post fucking terrible cover versions of great records.

There’s been several covers over the years of today’s choice, but none so arse-clenchingly awful as this. Brace yourselves. I’m about to type three words I never thought I would.

Here’s Samantha Fox:


Samantha Fox – I Only Wanna Be With You

And yes, that’s our old friends PWL at the helm, sucking the life out of the original, replacing it with their own special brand of bland.

Quick, nurse! He’s out of bed again! We need the original!


Dusty Springfield – I Only Want To Be With You

Too late. I need to shower and wash the PWL stink off.

More, better, soon.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

More Country this week; I hope you trust me with these by now.

Today’s choice comes from one of the most culturally important Country recording stars ever, and it just so happens to have been his 82nd birthday last Friday. (It’s on occasions like this that I really miss the excellent and sadly missed blog “Jim McLean’s Rabbit”. Those that used to visit will understand.)

Country music is often referred to as “the white man’s blues”, and a cursory look through the history books pretty much confirms it to be a white male dominated music scene.

That was until this chap came along:


Charley Pride – Is Anybody Goin’ To San Antone?

Happy (belated) birthday, Charley.

More soon.


Late Night Stargazing

Much as I hate to admit it, the way I listen to music these days has changed.

When I was younger, I would buy an album or a single, return home and play it straight away.

But no longer. Now, when I download an album, if I’m lucky I’ll listen to one, maybe two songs at best. Hearing the rest of the album will be left in the lap of the great God Shuffle.

It’s been going that way for a while, I suppose. When I first got hooked up to the internet, I was determined that I wouldn’t crumble and start to buy mp3s, that I’d remain faithful to CDs in exactly the same way I had pledged I would stick with vinyl a few years earlier (and had completely failed to so). To prove this – to whom, I have no idea – I started to bid for and buy CDs on ebay, but I got  a little bit hooked on that. Rarely would there be a day that I would return home from work when there wasn’t two or three “new” CDs waiting on the doormat for me. Often, I would buy things just because I liked the name of the band: to this day, sitting amongst my CD collection is an unlistened to album by a band called “Fannypack” that I bought simply because I thought their name sounded a bit funny. Part of the humour I derived from it was realising that the UK equivalent would be a band called “Bumbag”.

Similarly, I used to spend hours picking through the shelves of a local “Cash Generator” store; CDs were £2.00 each, but since they had so many – mostly compilation albums given away with monthly magazines – they had a permanent offer of 10 CDs for £5.00, just to try and clear some of the bloody things. The problem was that often I could only find 7 or 8 that I actually wanted, which meant I could either suck it up and pay £16.00 for 8, or just pick another 2 that I didn’t really want so I could get them all cheap. That’s my excuse for having an unlistened to copy of a Lene Marlin (no, not Laura Marling) album anyway, and I’m sticking to it.

Those two albums, I know, I will never listen to, and I get a perverse enjoyment from knowing that I own them and I choose not to listen to them. I’m almost tempted to buy something by Kasabian just so I can make a point of never listening to it. Almost, but not quite.

Some people tackle the issue of neglecting their record collections in different ways. An ex-flatmate of mine has a very strange system for deciding what to listen to, which is a bit too methodical for my taste: he only ever listens to complete albums, but he selects them based on alphabetical order. I only learned this when we once got into a conversation about  Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine and I said he was welcome to borrow my Greatest Hits compilation album if he wanted. His response was that there was no point in borrowing it as he was only on “G” so it’d be a good year or so before he got back round to “C”.

He also doesn’t ever listen to the lyrics, which I find a bit odd too, and told him so one drunken night. Bit of a frosty atmosphere after that conversation, as it goes.

So, while it annoys me that I don’t seem to spend enough time actually listening to new additions to my collection, I suppose I’m fairly happy with the serendipitous way I allow my iPod to decide for me.

And the reason for that is that every now and then, something will come on which I’ve never heard before, or that I’d forgotten I own, or both, and which just blows me away.

Such is the case with tonight’s choice. I was in the queue of my local Pound-stretchers the other day, waiting to buy some clothes hangars (a little glimpse into the exciting life I lead there) when this came on:


Jane Weaver – Argent (Tom Furse Extrapolation)

Hope you enjoy that as much as I did.

More soon.