Happy to oblige. Here’s Volume 4 of the monster that was the 4th part of the original mix, if that make sense.
Last week, I said this: “Volume 4 clocked in at 4:41 minutes, so to make it to a round hour, I either had to add 20 minutes or lose 41. You can guess which of the two won, I think.”
And this week you’ll see how those fruits are born, with a load of tunes which weren’t in the original 4:41 mix, but which – I think, I hope – sit just beautifully amongst it all.
For example, there’s Air, Robbie and the Pet Shop Boys at the top of the mix, and at the end a majestic Greg Wilson mash-up of Massive Attack, The Rolling Stones and Amerie’s 1 Thing, the latter of which is grossly overlooked because a) it happened to be released at roughly the same time as Beyonce’s Crazy in Love, and b) it sounds not entirely dissimilar to Beyonce’s Crazy in Love.
And yes, when I say Robbie I mean Robbie Williams – deal with it.
Back when I was a teenager, as I have written before, I joined Brittania Music, a mail order company who lured me in with an offer of three albums for a tenner, or something similar.
I used the service mostly to buy a load of Greatest Hits and Best Of albums by older acts I knew one or two songs by and craved more.
Consequently, I soon owned records that none of my peers did: Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and tonight’s artiste.
This isn’t my favourite song by her, but it was one of two that I knew and which drew me to her, and it is bloody magnificent:
If there’s one artiste, late at night, when I’m feeling reflective, sad, drunk, or all three, that I find myself turning to more than any other, it’s probably Dusty Springfield.
Here’s one of hers that’s probably not amongst her best known; I bloody love this:
I featured an album by today’s artist in my series about vinyl I’ve purchased recently which seemed to go down rather well, so I thought I’d share with you my favourite track by them this morning.
Sometimes songs come into your life by slightly unconventional means. I first remember hearing this song when it featured in TV drama Cracker, in a storyline where a lab technician always plays it whilst preparing to murder her unsuspecting student victims.
Personally, I think there’s something quite Scott Walker/Jacques Brel about it, which is rarely a bad thing in my book.
It also, since we both did a double-take when we each named this as our favourite Dusty record shortly after meeting, reminds me of one of my best friends. (Hello!)
Following on from last week’s post about Voice of the Beehive, we move back to 1964 and the first solo album by probably the most famous beehive wearer, marginally ahead of Amy Winehouse and Peggy Bundy.
I speak, of course, of Dusty Springfield.
‘A Girl Called Dusty’ is very much a showcase album; recorded shortly after The Springfields had split, and after, but oddly not featuring, her debut hit “I Only Want To Be With You”, it contains a mixture of pop songs, and marks her first collaboration with legendary song-writing duos Burt Bacharach and Hal David, and Gerry Goffin and Carole King.
Regular visitors to the shores of Dubious Taste will know that I compile these weekly Friday Night playlists based on a couple of tunes that I hear during my daily commute to and from work. Sometimes, my permanently-on-shuffle iPod will play me something which instantly makes me think of a theme for the week, or which reminds me of another song, or just gives me a couple of songs which sound good next together.
Sometimes, and it’s a rare event, the stars align and all three happen. Such was the case with this week’s playlist. Since I only had four days in work this week, this was an absolute blessing.
So, shall we get cracking?
Twice a year, the clocks change in the UK. The event is always preceded by many conversations of the “Wait – is that the good one or the bad one?” variety. People here in the UK will often complain when the clocks go forward (the “bad one”), moaning that they have an hour less in bed on Saturday night/Sunday morning. I’ve never understood this. Unless you have somewhere to be on a Sunday, why on earth would you change the clocks before you get out of bed on the Sunday? Just stay in bed until whatever time you like, get up, and then change the clocks. Lose an hour of your day instead of your night, if you like night so much.
And for those who are not in the UK and have no idea what I’m banging on about…I really can’t be bothered to explain why we change the time twice a year, other than because we can. Go Google it if you’re that interested.
Anyway, Tuesday morning started badly for me. I had gone to great lengths to remind all of my work colleagues that the clocks were to go forward on Easter Sunday, had done the same when visiting my parents over the weekend, and then wouldn’t you just know it, totally forgot to change my own alarm clock when I got home on Monday, which led me to over sleep on Tuesday morning. A mad scramble to shower and get to work if not on time, then not too late, followed. (Luckily my boss had done something similar, sending me a text to apologise as she was also running late, having missed her train.)
My iPod had me covered though. Here’s what it decided to play me:
When your day starts so badly that you’re still getting dressed as you’re waiting at the bus stop (my apologies to the neighbours: that wasn’t a wardrobe malfunction you witnessed, it was a life malfunction, like that makes it any better), the sound of Dusty breathing into your ears certainly settles the nerves.
Admittedly, not one of my favourites by The Fannies, but I sensed a certain neediness in my iPods selections, a sense which was only confirmed by the next choice:
I don’t feel I know him well enough to call him Pete.
Frampton first found fame in the late 1960s as a member of The Herd, where he was dubbed “the Face of 68” (that’s the year, not a slightly disappointing sexual position), which led to the band attracting a somewhat teen audience, which caused issues with the less pretty members of the band. (Also in the band: one Andy Bown, who has been an official member of The Quo ever since 1977. Read into that what you will).
They split shortly afterwards, and Frampton was recruited into Humble Pie, Steve Marriott’s first post-Small Faces project. Despite some modicum of success, Frampton quit in 1971 to go solo.
But despite his early success as part of the aforementioned bands, Frampton’s first three solo albums tanked, and it wasn’t until the release of “Frampton Comes Alive!” in 1976 that his fortunes finally changed. This is not the sort of career path that many artists take: I can’t think of another act who released three consecutive albums to an increasingly lukewarm reaction, and who then decided, with his record label’s blessing, the way to turn things round was to release a live album (although I do wonder if he’d signed a four album deal and this was just a way of fulfilling his contractual obligations).
But work it did, in no small part to his use of the “talk box” on today’s choice, that odd “wah-wah-wah-wah-wah” noise that forms the solo part of the song.
And yes, I know we’re all supposed to laugh at Frampton and poke fun at his records, but “Show Me The Way” fulfills one of the criteria which allows us to like such things, namely: has a band we all agree are cool done a cover version which is not seemingly ironic? The answer here is a resounding “yes”:
Anyway, by now, a theme for my playlist had been identified: being lost, needing help, and then getting advice, instructions or orders. I set about, as I always do, trying to think of songs which fit my self-imposed remit.
Which brings me on to the next track. A couple of weeks ago, I got sent one of those things on Facebook where someone asks you to name your favourite bands, songs, etc; this one was asking me to name 12 albums which had “stayed with me”, which I took to mean albums that meant as much to me now as when I bought them, rather than albums which have become like an unwelcome lodger, sleeping on the sofa, eating crisps, and leaving floaters in the toilet. Although, Lord knows I have plenty of records that fit that description.
I loved The Housemartins, and I’m slightly surprised this is the first song I’ve posted by them. Seriously, what’s not to love about a band who are modest enough to refer to themselves as “the fourth best band from Hull”, who had a penchant for wearing rather fetching cardigans, who were often asked in interviews about their collection of crisp packets, who spawned Fatboy Slim and The Beautiful South, and who also had a drummer who in 1993 was sentenced to spend six years at Her Majesty’s Pleasure for assaulting his former business associate with an axe and setting fire to his house. Three times.
Next up, from the days when 7″ singles didn’t even have picture sleeves, and when Smokey Robinson was still just Bill “Smokey” Robinson, and his band were still just The Miracles and not Smokey Robinson and The Miracles:
Dusty and Smokey in the same post. I spoil you, I really do. I may also have just invented two new hand puppets to go with Sooty and Sweep.
Moving back to the 1980s now, and an absolute classic, and one which had every kid at my school attempted to do both the rap and the rock parts at school discos:
By the time this came out, we were used to rap records sampling rock records, but this was the first time we had heard two acts from the different spheres actually performing together.
So, whilst we’re fusing musical styles in way that would make Richard Vranch jealous (obscure 1980s television reference for you there) here’s some folksters covering some rock:
For those of you not in the know, “A Mighty Wind” is a film brought to you by the same folks as one of the greatest, funniest movies ever: “This is Spinal Tap”. I doubt there is a single music blogger out there who doesn’t adore the endlessly quotable “…Spinal Tap” and “A Mighty Wind”, though less quotable than “…Spinal Tap” does for the world of folk what “…Spinal Tap” did for the world of rock: it affectionately mocks it.
Indeed, The Folksmen are none other Jerry Palter (played by Michael McKean, or David St Hubbins in “…Spinal Tap”), Alan Barrows (Christopher Guest/Nigel Tufnel) and Mark Shubb (Harry Shearer/Derek Smalls). If you haven’t watched it, I urge you to rectify that as soon as possible. I love it almost, but not quite, as much as I love “This is Spinal Tap”, which is bloody loads.
Next, a similarly folky sounding bunch who the internet seems to know very little about. From their one and only album, originally released in 1985 on Go! Discs, but recently picked up and re-released by Cherry Red (Gawd bless ’em) and available here, ladies and gents I give you The Boothill Foot-Tappers:
I remember reading about them in Smash Hits and being immediately intrigued, but found it difficult to actually track down anything by them. A couple of years later, after we had finished our shift in the motorway restaurant we both had the misfortune to work at, my boss Jane and I would often go to her house, have a couple of drinks, play some records and have a bit of a sing-song (anyone who has ever lived with me knows that this is one of my most basic pleasures in life, and actually is the conception of the Friday Night Music Club).
On one such occasion, I was flicking through her vinyl collection (not a euphemism) and found she had a copy of this album. We popped it on, and I immediately adored it. I left her flat clutching a copy on a C-90 cassette, along with her vinyl copy of Kate Bush’s “The Kick Inside” album, which she told me I could keep for reasons that I can’t quite recall. I still have them both to this day, though I haven’t seen or heard from Jane in about 20 years or so. Which tells you quite a bit about me, I guess.
For some reason, something tells me that Elvis Costello had something to do with them (producer…?), though I may be getting mixed up with his involvement with The Pogues’ “Rum Sodomy & The Lash” album, and being Mr Cait O’Riordan of early Pogues fame (although in 2008 she denied ever having been married to Costello, saying “We weren’t married…It was a kind of Muslim ‘I divorce you’ kind of thing.”)
Or maybe O’Riordan herself is the link, as in my attempts to find something, anything about them (other than numerous references to them being a cow-punk band who only ever released one album…thanks, knew that already!) I find that in 1983 Darryl Hunt intended to ask The Boothill’s Wendy May to join his jazz band “Pride of the Cross”, but when he mentioned this to O’Riordan she apparently laughed and told him that she ought to do it. I dunno. It’s a real head-scratcher and no mistake. Answers on a postcard please (or in the Comments Section would be better).
I digress. Let’s have another tune.
Some of you may recall that I’m in the process of adding the first 75 “Now…!” albums onto my iPod and the next choice was the first that it randomly gave me from the second volume:
Do you remember back in the 1980s, when Saturday morning television wasn’t an endless stream of cookery programmes, but were actually a load of shows aimed at keeping kids preoccupied for a couple of hours? Often, the shows would have pop stars of the day in the studio, and they would be subjected to a phone-in. This was revolutionary at the time, the first time that the general public had been allowed to interact with celebrities, a precursor to Twitter if you will.
People of a certain age will know exactly where I’m going with this:
Priceless.
There’s only one way to follow that, from the 9th “Now..!” volume:
Thought my earlier mention of Andy Bown was going to be the only Quo reference this week? Think again (with obligatory take-down busting mis-spelling):
Now, you can all laugh about my love of all things Quo, but it turns out even I have limits. In 2008, I found out just what those limits were: a duet with German techno outfit Scooter.
Jesus wept, I’d forgotten just how horrendous that is. If “Walk This Way” is the finest example of rock and rap working sublimely then that is the polar opposite. My ears, my ears! Is it possible to unhear something?
When I started seeking out songs which fitted this week’s theme I initially came up with about ten. As I started writing this post, loads more came to mind, far too many to cover in just one week. So, you lucky people, you get Part 2 next week. I actually prefer next week’s. That’s what I believe is known as “a teaser”, though having just posted the above video you could be forgiven for never darkening my doorstep again.
I can’t possibly leave you with that last monstrosity ringing in your ears, so this seems an appropriate record to finish on:
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.
A History of Dubious Taste 