Friday Night Music Club Vol 50

So, here we are, Volume 50. I’m not sure I believe I’ve done so many of these, especially when you take into account the Christmas, Easter and Halloween editions which haven’t gone towards the total, and that I split the first six playlists (apart from Vol 3, which has been forever wiped from the annals of history, unless any of you downloaded it) into 22 more palatable hour-long chunks.

What follows is, as I mentioned previously, essentially a Friday Night Music Club Greatest Hits compilation, with a few others thrown in just to keep it…well, interesting, I hope. In reality, it’s just a load of my favourite records, many of which just happen to have featured in this series before. And no, not all of them are in anyway cool, but then neither am I. They do, however, make grear sin-a-long records should you elect to take drink when listening to this (which is recommended). Anyway, if I just featured the achingly-hip here, I’d be betraying the No Such Thing as a Guilty Pleasure tagline I cling to.

My thanks to my old buddy Richie, who I bombarded with the first and second goes at this, to seek his opinion and feedback. His response? “Genuinely, really good…even the dance stuff I’d never heard before”. I’m sticking that on the promo posters.

I should add that I’ve had at least another two goes at it since then. New songs added, some dismissed. The thing is, I kept haring songs and thinking: “Well, that should be on there!” I’ve had to just stop, and add those that I’ve missed to future volumes.

Let’s crack on, shall we?

Friday Night Music Club Vol 50

Here’s your track-listing with, as promised/threatened (delete as applicable), sleeve notes:

1, Saint Etienne – Join Our Club

No, I don’t know how I’ve managed to avoid including this appropriate little beauty for so long either!

2. The Cardigans – My Favourite Game

Just to hammer home the favourite records theme, here’s a couple of tunes with Favourite in the title.

I will always remember a conversation with an old mate, following the release of the Manic Street Preachers’ Your Love Alone is Not Enough, which featured lead Cardigan Nina Persson, when they revealed they hated that single becaue they hated Nina’s voice. Now, I totally get that some people’s voices just grate (see Ed Sheeran as a good example of someone who can make me turn the radio off whenever one of his dreary yet bafflingly succesful tunes is aired). But Nina Persson’s????? I haven’t spoken to this old mate in at least 20 years, and proximity is only part of the reason for that.

3. The Wedding Present – My Favourite Dress

Favourite tune #2. You didn’t really think I’d get through this without Mr Gedge making an appearance, did you?

4. PJ Harvey – Dress

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I don’t post anywhere near enough Peej on here. Consider that partially rectified.

5. Buzzcocks – What Do I Get?

Back at college, I was in a band. Not a very good band, but a band nonethless. We mostly did covers of punk and new wave records: they were short, recognisable to the masses who flocked to our gigs (sense the tone), and most importantly, with barely more than three chords between them, piss-easy to learn. This was one of them: I even persuaded our lead singer to shout “Tricky guitar solo!” just as I’d seen Pete Shelley do on some old footage of the Buzzers (the Cocks?) do as that instrumental break hoved into view.

6. Super Furry Animals – God! Show Me Magic

You didn’t really think I’d get through this without Gruff and the boys making an appearance, did you? If this isn’t the greatest record ever to mention the lead singer’s hamster, then it has to be in the Top Ten at least.

7. Manic Street Preachers – Motown Junk

Just an absolute belter, with what would become standard Manic’s sloganeering (standard until Richie went missing. Did I ever mention I shared a cheese salad with him…? Yes I did.)

8. Half Man Half Biscuit – Joy Division Oven Gloves

Thanks to my brother, I own a pair. Best Christmas present ever. Apart from maybe the fake NME Brat Award he gave me for one of these mixes (true story).

9. Generation X – Dancing With Myself

Unlike the debunked theory that The Vapors’ Turning Japanese is about the joys of ononism, this probably is about exactly that. When I was in the aforementioned band, I wrote a song which referenced it – less subtly, it was called The Lonely Dance – and we used to dedicate it to someone we knew was in attendance whenever we played it. They felt cool because we’d name-checked them, everyone else would know we’d just called them a wanker.

10. Underworld – Cowgirl (Bedrock Mix)

You’ll have guessed from previous posts that I adore Underwold, so it’s a rare event when I hammer my flag to the mast and say: this is Underword’s finest moment and this is the finest mix of it.

11. LCD Soundsystem – All My Friends

Some years ago, my friend Matt and I were invited to provide the music for a mate’s 40th birthday, held in a little basement bar somewhere in That London. I went down the traditional route of preparing a mix, burning it on to a CD (I know? Imagine that!! So old fashioned…!) and handing it to the bar staff to play; Matt, who is much cooler than I am (I’m sure you’ll find that hard to believe) simply paired his phone to the speakers and DJ’d as he chatted, ate, drank and danced. He dropped this one, and the dancefloor emptied, leaving just me and him looking quizzically at each other as we continued to cut a mean rug between us. Where had everyone gone? Why weren’t they dancing?

Then someone approached Matt and, pointing upwards as if the speakers were in the sky, asked “What’s this? It’s ace!” (or words to that effect). And so, whilst we were baffled as to how nobody knew this absolute banger, we came to the conclusion: people around the 40 mark don’t like to dance in public to things they don’t know.

It is ace, mind.

12. Dizzee Rascal & Calvin Harris – Dance Wiv Me

I wish I could recall what Matt played next, but whatever it was it got everybody back on the dancefloor. I’ll say it was this. If not, Deee-Lite’s Groove is in the Heart (not featured here) is my go-to floorfiller.

13. Double Trouble & Rebel MC – Street Tuff (Scar Mix)

I’ve dropped this bon mot before I think, but many years ago I attended a house party in North London. Music was supposed to be provided by some DJ friends, but they had to drop out when they got an actual paid gig on the same night, the selfish sods. I was asked to help out and so I prepared 13 CDs, each an hour-or-so-long, numbered and to be played in numerical order, left them in a stack next to the CD player, so that if you were closest to the music box when one ended, you could just pop the next in the sequence in. They went from intro/welcome tunes to indie bangers to the-pills-should-be-kicking-in-by-now to comedown chillout tunes. This one featured somewhere in the middle, and a bloke I’d never met before or since approached me, hugged me, and thanked me for including it in my musical selection, before treating me to his break-dancing efforts, Which I really appreciated, obviously.

14. Lizzo – Juice

Shush! A rarity: something released in the last 10 years!

15. Girls Aloud – Love Machine

You didn’t really think I’d get through this without Sarah (RIP) and the girls making an appearance, did you? A song which will forever remind me of Llŷr, from when we played it in our guest DJ spot at a friend’s wedding, those attending went wild. Miss you bro, always.

16. Le Tigre – Hot Topic

At work team meetings, we now have a Hot Topic to discuss each month. I’ve suggested this as the theme tune to announce the start of the discussion. My suggestion has not yet been agreed.

17. Los Campesinos! – You! Me! Dancing!

Had any of them actually been Welsh, as opposed to having merely met and formed in Cardiff, then this would’ve featured in last week’s St David’s Day mix. But they aren’t, so it didn’t.

One of the many things I love about this record, is that bit towards the end, about it being a good idea to go paddling in a fountain on the way home from a night out. I know exactly which fountain they mean, and, as it was on my way home, the thought crossed my mind many times as I wobbled my way back home at 3am. And that’s because it really is a good idea. I was never brave/drunk/off my tits enough though. I feel like I’ve missed out, somehow.

18. Arctic Monkeys – I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor

Just wonderful. A piece to accompany the Dizzie Rascal tune which featured earlier, only with more Shakespeare references and much more sardonic intent.

19. Status Quo – Mystery Song

You didn’t really think I’d get through this without Francis and the boys making an appearance, did you?

This, from way back in 1976, just before they tipped over into cliche and parody of themselves, is unquestionably my favourite Quo song. It’s (RIP) Parfitt’s ode to a sex worker, set to a literally amphetimine-fuelled background. There’s a notorious story about how, one day in the studio, Rossi put a spoonful of speed into Parfitt’s tea, not expecting (he now says) him to drink it. But he did, and they left him in the studio, messing around with a riff – dink-dink-dink, dink-dink-de-dur-de-dink – and returned the next day to find Parfitt sitting exactly where they left him, playing the same riff – dink-dink-dink, dink-dink-de-dur-de-dink. Phew, rock’n’roll, eh?

20. Milltown Brothers – Janice Is Gone

An under-rated and generally unknown classic. The Janice in question is the much-missed DJ Janice Long, and you can read what I wrote when she passed away here, and here’s a post about an adventure I had with the band themselves, way back when (the download links are all dead on that one, let me know via the Comments if you want anything uploading again).

The only thing to add to that is a year or so later, the Milltown Brothers came round on the college circuit again. I said hello to them all post-gig, and one of them asked if we’d met before. I recounted the story about our last meeting, and, memories jogged, they plied me with booze and suspiciously constructed rollies. I passed out in the toilets, waking up after everyone had left the building, staggered home through the Welsh snow. I think I missed my train back home as a result; lawd knows what excuse I gave my parents (doubtless they will remind me if they’ve read this far).

21. Linda Rondstadt/The Stone Poneys – Different Drum

There are so many versions of this classic written by former Monkee Mike Nesmith out there – many of which have featured on these pages – but for my money this is the best, the absolute beauty, peerless.

22. Clout – Substitute

If ever there was one record that explained the “No Such Thing as a Guilty Pleasure” moniker under which this blog sits, it’s this one. I bought a compilation album called Guilty Pleasures Rides Again; this was on it and I couldn’t understand why anyone would feel guilty about liking it. I mean, it’s a stone cold banger, right? (Right!)

23. Billy Bragg – The Saturday Boy

In one of the first goes I had at doing this mix, Billy featured, but it wasn’t this tune, it was Sexuality, because it was much poppier than this. But that didn’t feel right, so I swapped it for this, Billy’s finest moment in my book. I’ve often said that, whilst his politics broadly chime with mine, it’s his love songs – or in this case, his unrequited love songs – which mostly hit the mark with me. I can never thank my old buddy Richie enough for pointing me in the direction of these songs from Billy’s back catalogue – albeit he played me The Man in the Iron Mask, and I was smitten – and since then, when I’ve wanted to persuade a mate of Billy’s relevance, this is my go-to song, because everyone has experienced the adolescent amourous rejection this song highlights.

24. The Go-Go’s – Our Lips Are Sealed

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: quite possibly the greatest pop song ever written…

25. The Waltones – She Looks Right Through Me

…although this pushes it pretty close. Pretty much the happiest night of my life was when, a few years ago, Richie and I saw The Waltones support The Chesterfields at the 100 Club in That London. After they’d played, I found myself standing next to lead singer James Knox; we discussed our ever burgeoning waistlines and our choice of t-shirt to either disguise or embrace it. He was wearing a shape-concealing black tee, I was wearing this:

…which, for the uninitiated is a reference to one of these bad boys:

26. The Chesterfields – Kiss Me Stupid

Since I’ve mentioned them, it seems somewhat churlish of me to not include something by them.

27. The Soup Dragons – Hang Ten!

Indie Banger. That is all.

28. The Smiths – William, It Was Really Nothing

Remember way back when we didn’t know Morrissey was a racist twat and could just enjoy the beauty of The Smiths’ records without feeling any guilt? Forget the current, live in the past for a few moments.

29. Kirsty MacColl – Free World

This is from 1989. You’d think things might have improved since then, wouldn’t you? But, nope: just as relevant now as it was 35 (yikes) years ago.

30. Johnny Boy – You Are The Generation That Bought More Shoes And You Get What You Deserve

Possibly the greatest song title ever. And the song’s not far off being one of the greatest anti-capitalist records ever.

31. Denim – Middle Of The Road

For my money, the song that properly kick-started the Britpop scene, and probably never bettered by any Union Jack wafting indie-kid underling. Surely, when it comes to unrecognised musical geniuses, Lawrence has to be at the front of the queue, right…?

32. Belinda Carlisle – Leave A Light On

Turns out the title of that Denim tune was an indicator to how we wrap things up here.

Apart from Johnny Marr (who I think appears on the Kirsty tune), Belinda is the only one to feature twice on this one. She was, of course, lead singer of The Go-Go’s, but it wasn’t until the band split and she went solo that Belinda became succesful on this side of the pond. I bloody love this song.

33. Dionne Warwick – Heartbreaker

Written by the Bee Gee boys, this seemingly effortless beauty is just one of the finest records ever.

34. Chas’n’Dave – Ain’t No Pleasing You

And to bring things to a close, this beauty.

Given their close association with Tottenham, I feel sorry for Arsenal fans, joyless vagrants that they are, for they can never admit to liking this.

And that’s your lot.

More soon.

A History of Dubious Taste – 1986

So much for me keeping on top of these; it seems to be three months since I posted one of these.

So, here’s the next record I (remember) buying back in 1986, and it’s one that stretches my very idea that there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure to its’ very limits.

I have no funny story or recollection to tell about this, I simply offer this up for your enjoyment or otherwise.

For this is not a record that I’m proud to announce to the world that I bought, but I did, so there you are.

Diana Ross – Chain Reaction

All I can say by way of a defence is that I was still a few months away from my musical epiphany and, at the time, I knew it was written by the Bee Gees (not that I’m particularly a fan of the brothers Gibb, but credit where credit’s due, they knew how to write a hit single), and they’d been responsible for a song which I still consider to be one of the finest singles ever released, and a “had a few drinks on a Friday night, sing-a-long” favourite of mine and Hel’s:

Dionne Warwick – Heartbreaker

So there.

More soon.

Glastonbury, So Much To Answer For (Part 4b)

And so to Saturday.

I am knackered from Friday night. Sadly, not from any late night dad-dancing into the small hours, but because the trudge back from the Park Stage was a real ball-ache. The rain, you see, the rain. Although it had stopped a few hours earlier, the damage was done, pathways churned up by 175,000 revellers desperate to get to Avalon, to Silver Hayes (the new name for the Dance Tents, though quite what was wrong with calling them the Dance Tents is beyond me. Maybe it was a bit too Ronseal. Perhaps in years to come the Pyramid Stage will be rechristened The Pointy Place) to The Glade, to Arcadia.

Arcadia is close to where we are camped, and the central feature is used as a reference point to guide us back to our tents. At night-time it’s easy to spot, a giant spidery thing which spurts fire, like this:

Fairly noticeable, right? But during the day, there it stands, sans flames, sans booming techno, sans massive throng of people. Every time I walk past it in the day time, cold and stationary, legs akimbo, it strikes me as being almost gynaecological, which reminds me I really must start my therapy again sometime. And phone my mother.

Anyway, Saturday, and I emerge from my tent to find the weather overcast and, without doing anything as sensible as either checking a) what effect the rain had actually had on the terrain, or b) the little book around my neck with the running order on it, I decide to return to my tent, in frankly a bit of a sulk.

I have it in my head that there’s nobody I want to see until Burt Bacharach on the Pyramid. I am wrong, and I am a twat. This assumption means I miss one of the acts I really wanted to see: Courtney Barnett. When I get home, I plough through all the BBC Glastonbury stuff I recorded, find this and I immediately regret not seeing her. There’s something about this, maybe the almost spoken delivery of the verses that reminds me of Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do” which is no bad thing in my book. (To add to my misery, when researching this post – and yes, I do research, though you’d be hard pushed to notice it – I find this duet with one of my heroes, Evan Dando and I’m even more gutted to have missed her.)

When I resurface, I find that I have managed to miss a couple of young lady guests that Andy has brought over to the camp site for a barbecue. I also find much hilarity ensuing at what Dean has brought to assist with the barbecues:

(With thanks to Chad for the photo and for reminding me about this).

I pull my wellies on and head to the Pyramid. The ground is firm. I curse my glass-half-empty thoughts about the state the terrain would be in, and pitch up to watch Burt Bacharach.

He is, and I hate to say this about a living legend, a wee bit disappointing. It’s not so much the fact that he doesn’t actually sing many of the songs himself: he’s never really been renowned for his singing prowess, and when he does venture to give his tonsils an airing it’s croakier than Kermit in need of a lozenge.

But I have a couple of other issues with his set. Firstly, we rarely get to hear a song all of the way through. This is kind of understandable, when you think about the vast back catalogue of classic songs he wrote or co-wrote with Hal David. Burt wants to appease each and every one of us by performing the one we like, and the only way to do that is to only perform a bit of each. And so, Pyramid becomes Medley-Central for the next hour.

The other problem is that we associate most of his songs with absolute classic, legendary singers: Aretha Franklin, Dusty Springfield, Dionne Warwick, Sandie Shaw, Tom Jones …er…Cilla Black…um……Christopher Cross… oh you know, classic, legendary singers.

But what we get are three singers performing snippets of these great, great songs who, whilst very good, are just a little bit cruise ship. They’re never going to do these wonderful songs justice and certainly aren’t going to really affect the on-looking crowd. It’s all just a bit….bland.

Anyway, here’s Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head (which would have been better had he played it on Friday evening) and the utterly schmaltzy That’s What Friends Are For.

Next up is Paloma Faith. I’ve always had a bit of a soft-spot for this bat-shit crazy flame haired Hackney-ite, mostly from her flirtatious appearances alongside Noel Fielding on “…Buzzcocks” and I quite like a couple of songs off her first album. (On the matter of Noel Fielding, if you’ve never heard him tell the story of the time he went missing from his own tour, and was found working in a second hand vintage clothing shop in Brighton, then listen to this: funny as fuck.)

I am totally unprepared for just how much of a show-woman she is; she looks amazing, puts on an utterly spellbinding set, and I don’t really mind that I only know one of her songs (putting aside her frankly inexplicable decision to cover Purple Haze), or that she wants to get off her chest something about a bad thing that the red-tops have written about her, of which most of us have no knowledge, but seems to be about her saying she hates Glastonbury. Paloma: we know The Sun is full of bollocks, there really is no need to clarify.

Anyway, she clearly doesn’t hate Glastonbury. She clearly loves it and has an absolute ball.

She has as much of a blast as we all do watching her. Here’s her doing “Only Love Can Hurt Like This” but the crowd goes uber-wild when she wheels on two blokes behind keyboards/decks; they are apparently called Sigma, they are more than adept at pretending they are actually doing something with their keyboards/decks other than pressing Play, and they rattle through “Changing“, the crowd going mental joining in the “Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh” chorus (they don’t write ’em like that anymore) and I have never felt older.

As Paloma finishes, I espy Chad, Llyr, Emily, Andrew and Cara wending their way through the crowd. I join them, and after much standing around (mostly trying to work out where Andy is – we know he has his magical alchemy vodka drinks and we therefore need him) we make our way down the slope to a decent clearing ready for the next act: Pharrell Williams. Located, Andy passes me a bottle full of chocolate vodka, a swig and all is right with the world.

Pharrell is essentially the warm up guy for Saturday night’s headliner, Kanye West. Emily has written “Kan” in lipstick on her right cheek, and “Yay!” on her left in anticipation of the main event, which could also be construed as a show of strength and unity: his booking has been massively criticised, an on-line petition against his appearance at the festival has attracted waaaaay to many signatories from reactionaries and racists, and its refreshing to see someone wear their heart on their, errr, cheeks.

To be honest, the Eavis’ need not have booked Kanye, for Pharrell utterly owns the Pyramid Stage for the next hour or so. He treats us not just to his solo stuff, but to just about every record he has ever been involved in (actually, that’s not true – we’d still be there if he did that), so we get treated to a barrage of Pharrell’s Greatest Hits: “Frontin‘“, “Marilyn Monroe“, “Hot in Herre” (yes, I have chosen the magnificently camp Tiga version over the Nelly one there); “Lap Dance“, “She Wants to Move“, “Hollaback Girl“, a triumphant and glorious version of “Get Lucky” and we even manage to cast our liberal outrage aside to dance and sing-a-long to misogynist sex-fest “Blurred Lines” on the strict proviso that he doesn’t wheel out misogynist sex-pest Robin Thicke to co-perform it.

Pharrell’s set is embellished by a group of highly gyratory dancers, and also by ushering on stage a load of your common-or-garden punters, the male section of which seem to be hurried off equally quickly, leaving a group of awkward but star-struck young ladies to frug their way through a couple of songs whilst Pharrell and his enclave direct us to watch a dancer literally standing on her head and spinning. If this is what spinning classes involve, then I’m glad I’ve avoided them (and anything else which vaguely resembles a gym class).

Pharrell’s set is book-ended by an intro and super-long crowd sing-a-long-a-climax of “Freedom“, complete with cute kids brought on stage to stand and look cute, and then he is off, taking his Adidas-arse-logoed jeans with him and allowing the BBC producers to breathe again without fear of allegations of product placement being launched against them.

Now then. The Big One. Kanye. It can’t have escaped your attention that his set was, shall we say, more than a little contentious. I have no intention watching him. But let me set my position straight: I have no issue with Kanye West headlining the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury. He’s not my cup of tea, so I won’t be joining in, but I appreciate that there’s a lot of people here who do want to see him, and I think he’s earned the right to be here. I had the same feeling about Jay-Z when he headlined a few years ago – I wasn’t there, probably wouldn’t have watched him if I had been, but those who did, fair play, enjoy!

The comparison between Jay-Z’s appearance and Glastonbury and Kanye’s is an interesting one. Both attracted quite the media storm when their appearances were announced (Noel: I think you’re often quite the amusing rent-a-mouth, but you just came across as a bit of a dick on the Jay-Z issue) but only one came away from their Saturday Night Glasto set with their integrity and standing intact, and it wasn’t Kanye. Why? Well, I watched the footage back when I got home, and it seemed to me the difference was that whilst Jay-Z was all charm personified, Kanye just seemed determined to prove himself to be a serious artiste.

Oh, and Jay-Z probably knows how Bohemian Rhapsody goes, and wouldn’t have attempted to ingratiate himself by singing it anyway.

And from what I gather from all those who stayed and watched him, and from the oh so many comments posted on social media, nobody else bought it either.

In short: Kanye bombed.

I later learn that Emily has changed the “Yay!” on her right cheek to “Nay!”, thereby earning herself some additional cool points which she really didn’t need, and effortlessly summing up the Saturday night headliner at the Pyramid.

As I said, I have decided not to watch Kanye. I am going to watch Suede. Suede are a band I was moderately obsessed with in the early 90s; I bought all of their early singles on the day they were released, along with the accompanying t-shirt of each, but somehow I have managed to never see them live. Well, not a full gig anyway. I have wandered past the Pyramid before and caught a snippet of them, but a full gig? Nosireebob.

As soon as Pharrell finishes, I announce I am off and I make my way to the John Peel stage. I am early and am delighted to catch the end of La Roux’s set. Her performance of “Bulletproof” is awesome and almost – but not  quite – gets these old bones a-dancing (they’re knackered from dancing to Pharell).

Getting inside the tent for Suede is a non-starter, so I position myself outside in my little fold-up chair, in front of a flag (so nobody could sneak up behind me and steal my chair/booze/etc), ciders a-ready for quaffing.

It turns out to be quite a wise decision: I can see the stage and one of the screens, and a bit more importantly I can hear perfectly, and Suede are just…awesome. Brett Anderson is on great form, a lithe prowling skinny narcissist, working the crowd like a true pro. Five songs in and I’m in heaven: we’ve had Pantomime Horse, Moving, Trash, Animal Nitrate, We Are The Pigs….Suede were well and truly tearing up the John Peel Stage. Watch it here, listen to it all here, or if you just want a couple of numbers, then here’s Beautiful Ones and glorious come-back single “It Starts and Ends With You”

Filled with Britpop joy, I head home, fall into my tent and lay there, listening to the world go by. I’m fairly close to a pathway, and at one point I hear two people walking past, discussing Kanye.

“I quite like him, actually”

“What, even now? Before and after?”

“Before: yes. After: No, he was shit. I’d defend him, but not that far!”

I realise I made the right decision and fall into snooze-mode.