Month: December 2019

Happy New Year (Part 1)

I’ve always loved New Year’s Eve more than I loved Christmas.

For me, the two events are very different beasts: Christmas is a time for family, New Year is a time for friends.

Over the past few years, going out on New Year’s Eve has happened less and less frequently, to the point where I know that tonight I will be home alone, having a wee drink or seven, and trying to avoid watching the bloody Hootenanny (which I’m sure is very entertaining, but – recorded in October – it’s the last bastion for lonely folks as the year ends, not something I care to admit to: I’m alone but not lonely, thanks very much).

I’m perfectly happy with this, by the way. I’m in my 50s now, but for much of my 40s I really couldn’t be arsed with going out on New Year’s Eve anymore anyway: it’s too expensive, you have to wait an age to get served at the bar, and generally there’s nowhere to sit (fellow over 40s will appreciate this more than anything else), all the good seats having been snaffled up hours ago by those annoyingly young people and their seemingly unlimited disposable income.

Since I moved to That London just over eleven years ago now, my NYE nights have been predominantly spent alone – one night out in Camden in my ‘Freshers’ year (really enjoyable, but bloody rammed), a couple of nights at friend’s house parties, a house party that Hel and I threw which I wrote about here and indeed here (which, Hel tells me, was ten years ago tonight, which it must be, as Hel is wrong even less frequently than me, if such a thing is possible).

Being at home alone on New Year’s Eve means there’s no peer pressure: I can go to bed whenever I want, drink as much or as little (yeah, right) as I want, and I don’t have to pretend to be impressed or excited by fireworks. Tonight, for example, I will be continuing to unpack following my recent decanting from my flat. (Yes, I have been back almost a month. No, I haven’t finished yet. I’ve had a bad back. And a cold. Not forgetting I am, essentially, a lazy sod.)

What I’m trying to say is that I quite like being at home on New Year’s Eve, and if you are too, then welcome. You’re really not alone.

Of course things were different when I was younger, and I would often be met with bemused looks from friends when I announced that I preferred going out on New Year’s Eve to going out at Christmas.

There’s a few reasons for that; firstly, New Year’s Eve is unburdened by any religious connotations. Secondly, many will have been lounging arojnd at home for a few days, and will emerge, batteries recharged, and frankly desperate to get away from their families. And thirdly, back then there was the promise of a midnight snog.

The occasions where I didn’t get lucky far outweighed those when I did, of course.

I hope this doesn’t come across as creepy or spark a #MeToo movement against my blog, for I was (I hope) always a perfect gentleman – but this song pretty much sums things up:

LCD Soundsystem – Drunk Girls

More (very) soon.

It’s Chriiiiistmas!!!

Okay, I know you’re probably all sick of hearing this song by now, but hear me out.

Since I started writing this blog, every year on the 18th December I’ve posted something in memory of the late great Kirsty MacColl, that being the anniversary of her sad, horrific, death.

But this year time got the better of me, and I didn’t get round to writing anything.

And so here we are, posting a song which I had largely tried to avoid posting, so obvious a choice is it, so synonymous with her name.

But ask me what my favourite Christmas pop single is, and this will be the first title to spill from my gob, probably showering you in mince pie detritus.

Plus, today is Shane MacGowan’s birthday, so there’s double the reason to mention it.

About twenty years or so ago, my parents, having retired, bought a plot of land in Ireland and built a home for themselves. I would visit every Christmas, and they would pick me up from the nearest airport or ferry terminal.

On the drive home, we’d have the radio on, and this song would be played more than any other song I have ever heard; it was like it was the National Anthem and every radio station was obliged to play it at least once an hour.

It got to the point where when the opening bars started, we would groan and skip to a different channel, waiting until it was inevitably played again, at which point we would restart the process.

A few weeks ago, during my enforced stay at a Travelodge, I popped to see my parents for the weekend (they have moved back to the UK). On the car journey back from the train station, it came on the radio and my Dad, instead of changing channels, turned it up.

He spotted my knowing look and simply said: “You can’t deny that it’s a good record, can you?”

So, with absolutely no apologies for posting something so obvious, here you go. Happy Christmas.

The Pogues feat. Kirsty MacColl – Fairytale of New York

And that’s me done for another year. There might be another post around New Year’s Eve, we’ll see if inspiration strikes.

But in the meantime, whether you’ve stumbled upon this place for the first time today, or regularly revisit, a very Merry Christmas to you and yours.

More soon.

It’s Chriiiiistmas!!!

There aren’t many Christmas tunes about getting a train back to your family, so, since that is my preferred method of transport today (with a replacement bus or two tossed in for good measure) I’ll have to make do with this, glorious and kitsch as one would expect:

Saint Etienne – Driving Home for Christmas

I’m not sure that Lady Cracknell has ever sounded so warm and seductive as she does there.

Ahem. Best have a quick cold shower before I head off.

More soon.

Sunday Morning Coming Down (It’s Chriiiiistmas!!! edition)

Oh so many Country artists have squeezed a Christmas album or two out in their time, where should the focus fall this year?

Right here.

John Prine is a legend of Country music, and in 1994 he released A John Prine Christmas, an album dominated by Prine original compositions, but I’ve picked one of the few cover versions from it for today.

Originally recorded by Jimmy Boyd back in the 1950s, this has been covered more times, and more famously, by many others, but here’s Prine’s take:

John Prine – I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

More soon.

Late Night Stargazing

On Tuesday, at work, we had a department conference, followed by a ‘Christmas’ meal (it was in a local Turkish restaurant, so whilst delicious, it wasn’t especially Christmassy) and then a few of us went for a pint afterwards.

At some point during the day, someone said something which caused a penny to drop: shit! It’s Christmas next week!!

Somehow, as I’ve got older, I’ve become a bit more organised. Christmas is always spent at my parents, so all I have to do is turn up with presents, and maybe some booze. The presents aspect I had locked down months ago, so I genuinely hadn’t realised how close the day was.

And so my first thought was not about what I needed to buy, but rather this: bloody hell, I haven’t posted any Christmas songs yet!

And, strictly speaking, that isn’t going to change now, because this isn’t really a Christmas song, but it does always make me feel kinda Christmassy, in a good-will-to-all-men kinda way:

Freiheit – Keeping the Dream Alive

Mullets and other bad 80s hair-do’s: now that‘s what I call Christmassy.

More soon.

50 Ways to Prove I’m Rubbish #25

A couple of weekends ago, I had the pleasure of an afternoon and evening in the company of my old mate Richie, conkers deep in all things Wedding Present.

For a start, we drove over to The Crouch End Picturehouse to watch Something Left Behind, the really rather wonderful documentary about the genesis of the band and the making of their still-great-after-all-these-years debut album George Best.

That was followed by a Q&A session with none other than Wedding Present main man David Lewis Gedge himself and the documentary’s director Andrew Jezard.

Then we hot-footed it over to Kentish Town to watch the band perform as part of the 30th anniversary celebrations of their second album Bizarro.

But more of this another time, for what I know you’re all thinking is this: Jez, we all know that George Best came out in 1987 and that you were super cool by then and bought it straightaway, so what are you doing banging on about The Wedding Present here, in your series where you talk about your failures, the songs you didn’t appreciate at the time?

Good question.

Well as Richie and I stood supping our drinks, chatting and catching up, the interlude mixtape ringing in our ears, when today’s song came on.

“I love this record,” I said. “Hated it when it came out, mind.”

“You’re going to write about this, aren’t you?” Richie gently prodded.

“Probably,” I replied, “and if I do, then I’ll attribute to me anything amusing you might say about it now, of course.”

“But of course.”

Of course, today’s record also falls into that age-old category “it has no guitars on it” category, but I don’t think that’s the reason I failed to fall for it’s charms back then.

No: today’s record came out in May 1979, and I think I was probably just a bit too young to “get it”. I was 9 at the time, and frankly I was more interested in novelty pop records, Shakin’ Stevens and Boney M (I say that like they weren’t novelty pop acts) to be even remotely bothered with this.

At the time I was friends with a lad that I think must have moved away from the area shortly afterwards; certainly he didn’t go to the same secondary school as me and the rest my peers went to, and I never heard from him again.

His name was Steve Corrie, and for a summer holiday or two we spent our time riding around the local estate on our bikes. And when we weren’t doing that, he was telling me how amazing Gary Numan and Tubeway Army were, and I was looking at him blankly, utterly non-plussed.

A few years later, I had joined the ranks of Smash Hits readers; by now, apart from the odd duet with some bloke out of equally unfashionable Shakatak, the hits had dried up for Numan. He only got a mention in the pages of the Hits because he was a horrible Tory, who painted his face white, died his hair purple and wore purple lipstick, and had a pilot’s licence.

“He wasn’t even the most famous person with a pilot’s licence at the time; imagine being outdone by Noel Edmonds…!” Richie definitely didn’t say, he was too busy nodding sagely as I did.

Anyway, here’s the tune, and it is, to use what I believe is young person’s vernacular, an absolute banger:

Gary Numan & Tubeway Army – Are Friends Electric?

Although it came along many, many years later, by which time my resistance had already thawed, this, an absolute staple of the last hour of a night out at Cardiff’s Cool House club night, definitely wore down any remaining barriers.

Tip: play this loud and, as the saying goes, dance like nobody’s looking:

Feel Alive – Pure Orange feat. Shane Nelson

Choon!

More soon.

Tuesday Short Song

Inspired by some of my blogging peers (Walter at A Few Good Times In My Life, Martin at New Amusements, Swiss Adam at Bagging Area and apologies to anyone else I may have missed) who every Monday post a long song, I thought I’d do something to compliment their work, by posting a short song every Tuesday.

So from here until I run out of songs to post (as is usual, I’ve not planned ahead so this may be a very, appropriately, short series) I’ll be posting songs which clock in at under two minutes.

And I can’t think of a finer way to kick the series off than this, one of the greatest record ever, partly because it’s so brief. It, like all the other songs in this series (I hope) does what it needs to do and then fucks off:

Primal Scream – Velocity Girl

A reminder: that song, now recognised as being so pivotal, was only deemed worthy of being a B-Side.

And one more thing: whenever I hear this song, I think of me and Tony, sitting opposite each other, cross-legged on a table at a sixth form party, singing it with each other, regardless of what the DJ was playing at the time (which was undoubtedly shite).

Happy days.

More soon.

Late Night Stargazing

Many years ago, Danny Baker had a late night chat show on BBC1. Y’know, back on one of the days they decided that they liked him.

There was one edition that I’ll always remember, but sadly can find no evidence of.

One of the guests was Jimmy Tarbuck. Another was Shane MacGowan.

MacGowan, at the peak of his drinking years – which I appreciate doesn’t narrow it down much – turned up so slurry and inebriated, you could hear members of the audience gasp, laugh, in incredulity, thinking this was some kind of comedy character, a spoof.

And Tarbuck stepped in, chastising the audience, telling them to be respectful for they were in the presence of genius.

And they were, because MacGowan wrote things like this:

The Pogues – Lullaby of London

More soon.