Rolling Stones picked the perfect time to leave, before the ARIAs arrived

The Rolling Stones have left. It was over a month since they kicked off their tour down under amid much fuss. Last week, saw ‘em sign off from Auckland. I wonder if they flitted purposely before they had a chance of being handed a dubious invite to the ARIA music awards in Sydney in midweek. I’ve been having a gentle dig at the Stones but they would have been too cool by far to appear at such an overblown mish-mash of mediocrity. I thought I’d tune in to see what the modern generation were getting off on music-wise. I’m glad I did. At last I was able to put faces to the irritating tunes that come out of the car radio when Gabs is driving along. At least one of the few highlights of this TV marathon was Neil Finn and Paul Kelly playing a couple of songs. They saved the night for me. And Molly Meldrum was his genuine, humble, well-meaning, bumbling self. So no, the Stones weren’t there and neither would the final five acts I would rather have seen, been there either. In at number 6 of a list of live alternatives are Steely Dan. When I entered studentdom at Birmingham University in 1974 my musical horizons were broadened simply by listening to stuff that other people played on their stereos (it’s the Seventies, remember…) Lounging outside High Hall in summer ’75 when the sun shone (it did, honest) meant copious helpings of ‘Pretzel Logic’ by Steely Dan with Liz Clark, Dave Corcoran and others amid the chit-chat. That was my starting point for embracing a band of American cool dudes based around the studio perfection of Donald Becker and Dan Fegan. They had a timeless style and witty sarcastic slant on lyrics that made sure they survived the musical maelstrom of the times. Trouble is, just as I got into ‘em, they announced that were to become a studio band. No tours. And they kept this up right through to the 1990s, despite delivering a stream of killer albums, each with a totally different character. The nearest I got to seeing the Dan was to go to the Bull’s Head in Barnes by the Thames in my London days once a month in the mid-90s. There a covers band under the name of Stealing Dan and Don did just that. Stole the songs and performed them with astonishing accuracy. Steering this group of assorted accomplished musicians was another ex-Brummie refugee, Han Ferrao. Hans is a stylish jazz drummer and was a robust central defender with the English team aka (Leo) Nolan’s Nippers in the 70s. Downstairs at his then Streatham pad was a home-made studio. He worked from there. The Barnes nights were great gigs. Then in 1996 came the real thing. Steely Dan, in essence Becker and Fegan, had decided to hit the road again. So I finally got to see ‘em in the flesh. It was hardly an intimate venue – Wembley. But in a neat twist I went there with Hans. Since then I’ve seen ‘em again in London and had close seats in Adelaide with Gabs’ great mate and mad Dan fan Cathy “Macca’ McMillan. Coming in at Stones alternative number 7 is Kate Bush. I’m probably never gonna have the chance to see this warbling diva after her comeback gigs in London earlier this year. After just a few decades of doing nowt, Kate decided to hit the boards again. It would have been great to witness. Even John Lydon name-checks her. She has a voice like no one else and a no-nonsense attitude to match. Rushing along at number 8 come those Mancunian miserablists, The Smiths. Though again, I found Mozza, Johnny Marr and co just as amusing as sulky. They had their own slant on Northern life which Mozza didn’t seem to think much of. But anybody who can make National Health spectacles and bunches of gladioli hip is fine by me. I never managed to see The Smiths though my old mate Shaun Gill came across ‘em in some upstairs venue in Blackburn in their early incarnation, probably around 1983. Shaun summed the gig up very succinctly: “Utter crap”. Maybe they had had a bad night. I saw Morrissey live in later years in London. A crazy show at Battersea Power Station along with old Sunday Times mate Pete Watts. Then after a mad post-work dash to The Forum in Kentish Town. Both gigs were highly entertaining. At number 9, it was a battle between two maverick American guitarists and in the end Joe Walsh won out over Jimi Hendrix, simply cos he is still alive. Hendrix would have been 72 last Thursday (Nov 27) if he was still with us and probably still way too cool for the juvenile ARIAs. He passed away when I was just getting into music. I remember buying the picture-fold sleeve commemorative single ‘All Along the Watchtower’/’Hey Joe’ from Reidy’s Music shop in Blackburn in September 1970. It’s probably worth a fortune by now. Joe Walsh came to my attention when he was with the James Gang in the early 70s. Then he went solo as a musical outlaw before hitching a ride with the Eagles. Again, it was Brummie days when I was introduced to ‘The Smoker You Drink, the Player You Get’. Wry, twisted lyrics and amazing guitar. On ‘But Seriously Folks’, Joe didn’t even need to sing. ‘Theme From Boat Weirdos’ was the B side of Life’s Been Good and on the jukebox in the legendary Haymarket pub in Newcastle-on-Tyne during my Geordie days. It was the first track Mick Ramsey and me would put on during sunny Sunday lunchtime drinks in the summer of 1981 in between watching Botham-inspired England resurrect a seemingly doomed Ashes campaign. Funny how most trips down memory lane always involve sunshine. Even in England. It’s a bit like watching an episode of Midsomer Murders or Location, Location, Location. They are both set mainly in mainstream England and yet it never seems to rain. I did even see Joe live once. At Selina’s, Coogee Bay in the 80s when he was domiciled in Oz and performing with some improvised Aussie band called The Party Boys. Luckily Joe was ‘out there’ that night and took over proceedings with his stuff. Marvellous. Counting out the top 10 Stones live alternatives, I was gonna be self-indulgent and nominate a Blackburn combo from 77-78, The Wind, featuring Tony Woods, Phil Poole, Richard Bennett and Dave Rose. But I’ve had to push us out of the reckoning in favour of another Blackburn-influenced phenomenon. Fast-forward to Sydney late-80s. Magic Bus only played a handful of gigs as I recall. But I saw two of ‘em. One was in some dive in Kings Cross. The other was at the Marquee Club on Parramatta Road. The aforementioned Shaun Gill was the lyrical maestro alongside various Sydney chums, strutting the boards with a t-shirt that simply said: “Sex God”. Now I ‘m no expert in male beauty but I don’t think Shaun could have provided much competition for Mick Jagger. However, there were jangled rants into the microphone such as: “Jesus Christ thought he was the messiah cos he could walk on water, but I’m the true messiah cos I can drink seven pints of Thwaites Bitter and still walk straight.” My apologies to Shaun if the lyrics aren’t 100 per cent , and maybe the Catholic Church wouldn’t approve, but Magic Bus could have gone far. The Marquee Club offered ‘em a residency. But the lads turned it down cos they weren’t gonna get paid. Bad move. Word was already spreading. I know from my own experience how things can snowball with bands. They could have won a following and gone on from there. Who knows, today Magic Bus could have been support band for the Rolling Stones. Now that would have been a gig worth seeing. Thanks to Mick and the lads for making it down under. I will try to grab tickets if they can make it next time…

Trio of London bands who made capital out of live performances

The Rolling Stones tour has rolled on to New Zealand and it’s time for my light-hearted list of “10 other acts I’d rather see’ to stagger on to numbers three, four and five. All the bands I have seen and would love a repeat. That may happen but is likely to remain in the ‘highly unlikely’ category. They are all London lads. In no particular order, step forward The Who, the Sex Pistols and Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. Chronologically, The Who are peers of the Stones. We all know their history so there’s no need for me to go into all that. But whereas Jagger and his mates were so cocksure about everything, Pete Townshend’s lyrics betrayed lingering uncertainty despite his status as a rock legend. I was always appreciative but became semi-fanatical with Who’s Next in 1971. And I didn’t need to wear a parka or drive a scooter to equate with Pete’s lyrics telling the tale of a mixed-up, maxed-out teenager on Quadrophenia in 1973. I was 17 at the time. It still makes total sense even now. Play it loud. I didn’t manage to see The Who live until 1976. Keith Moon was still with us. It was everything I thought it would be at one of those gigs that everyone at later stages seemed to have said they were at. Put simply, it was Charlton Athletic FC, The Valley, May 1976. Listen to this line-up and drool: The Outlaws, Little Feat (cool musos from over the Atlantic), Streetwalkers, the Sensational Alex Harvey Band (yes, them…) and finally the ‘Oo. What a day. Me and my old Brum Uni mate Steve Barnes made it there. Where’s Steve now? Llandudno, I’m told. Roger Chapman in Streetwalkers had been a hero from Family days. I even got to shake the good man’s hand decades later when he played a manic set at the 100 Club on Oxford Street in London. Charlton was a great day. And The Who topped it off with a rousing display. After that, I saw ‘em in various guises – Newcastle City Hall in 1981, playing Quadrophenia in its entirety at Earls Court in the mid-90s then in little ol’ Adelaide only a few years ago. Being a Who devotee is a little like following a football team. My great Geordie mate Sime Malia has seen ‘em dozens of times. And Charlie Whebell, from Telegraph days, is a member of The Who fan club, who are offered tickets to the annual Christmas shows that the band play on home environs in downtown Shepherd Bush. Lucky sods. The Who were proper London lads unlike the Stones, who were suburban types. But Jagger was the one who got the lasses. Townshend was aware of the rivalry all down the years. In his recent autobiography Who I Am, Pete makes the bizarre admission of Jagger being the only bloke he ever fancied. He used another ‘’f’ word to describe the attraction. Calm down, Pete… Next in line come some other London geezers, the Sex Pistols. It’s hard to take in just what an impact these scruffy rascals from Finsbury Park had on not just the music scene in the UK but the whole social landscape. They turned outlooks upside down and inside out and the Establishment viewed them, a mere rock band, as a greater threat than Satan, the Soviet Bloc and your favourite serial killer combined. In 1977, they couldn’t even play gigs. They had to go on the road incognito as S.P.O.T.S – Sex Pistols on Tour. No wonder I never saw ‘em til Finsbury Park 1996. Home ground for them – and me. I was living there then, in a shoebox on the buzzing streets around Stroud Green Road. Me and my mucker Shaun Gill were engaged in an argument with a Burnley fan as John Lydon and co hit the stage that summer afternoon. “We’re fat, we’re 40, and we’re back!’ he snarled. Cue the world’s biggest ever pogo as the fields of Finsbury Park went mad due to “Bodies’ being blasted out. I saw Lydon many times as his alter-ego as front man with Public Image Ltd. He never disappointed. And he always had something to say. He once returned to London from his Los Angeles exile to receive some posh music award. At the press conference, a journalist tried to trip John up by querying his street cred. “When was the last time you walked round Finsbury Park, John?” he was asked. Quick as a flash John returned serve. “You don’t walk round Finsbury Park, you run. That is one mean muthafucker of a hellhole.” I think he meant it was quite a lively spot. My ol’ Telegraph mate, Stewie Jackson concurred with Lydon. “I dunno how you live there, Dave,” he once told me. “Every time I go there something bad happens – even if it’s only when I change buses.” Andy “Beamo” Turner loved the Finsbury Park aura on visits for Rovers games in London. Particularly when “Pond Life” were playing in the back room of the World’s End. That pub could have been twinned with the long-gone and greatly lamented Vulcan from its heyday in downtown Blackburn. Next up comes Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. Basically two lads from south of the Thames, Jim “Jim Bob” Morrison and Les “Fruitbat” Carter, who told tales about life as it was via frenetic tunes, drum machine beats and lyrics loaded with more dry asides than the Gobi desert and more puns than a weekend’s worth of headlines in The Sun. And a healthy helping of positive cynicism. Only Carter could make being delayed on the London Underground sound totally cool -“Stuck in a tunnel on the Hammersmith and City Line… OH YEAH!’ The first time I saw the lads was at the Big Day Out in Sydney in 1993. Major disappointment. Too much sunshine. Overdose of blue sky. Sometimes Australia can seem like the land of the bland. Carter didn’t fit in. Fast forward a few years to a packed sweatpit on Charing Cross Road. This was more like it. Carter were where they belonged. Bodies going overboard in the sardine-crammed madness as the cheeky chaps were all smiles and quips on stage. My dancing days are being me – no more Lodestar Shuffles for me. So I quietly took things in, miming every word leaning against the back wall with an overpriced can of warm, supposedly West Indian lager in my hand. I saw Jim Bob and Fruitbat numerous times around the capital. They never failed to make me happy and glowing inside. Sometimes, I even tapped my foot. And guess what – CUSM are having a last reunion gig on November 22 at Brixton Academy. A great standing, sloping venue, made for such events. Jeez, I wish I was there. Anyone got a time machine? Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine in Brixton or the Rolling Stones in Auckland on the same night? No contest… Next time I’ll rush through my final five Stones alternatives as a farewell abode to Mick and the lads.

Egg eccentrics a Seventies wacko band who would have been worth watching

The Rolling Stones are still with us in Australia. Just. They flit to New Zealand this week. Good luck to ‘em. And by all accounts the shows have been great. I respect them. But as I said, there are more bands that I would have clamoured to see down the years than Mick and the lads. Last time I mooted Alex Harvey and his Scottish cohorts as numero uno. I saw them many times. Onto number two who I never saw. In a word – Egg. A three-piece band who I stumbled upon in my youth by chance and who left a lasting impression. It was a rather highbrow Sunday morning show on BBC2 in 1971 called Anatomy of Pop where I was totally blown away by Dave Stewart, Mont Campbell and Clive Brooks. I was probably eating scrambled eggs on toast at the time when this crazed trio came onto the set. The program featured such names as Michael Parkinson, Frank Zappa and others rambling on about music. It was all rather serious. Like turning musical sounds into a chemistry experiment. But the whizz of Egg did it for me. Keyboards from Stewart whirling and swirling, Campbell’s deadpan vocal delivery. Brooks tapping away in time. Who were these weirdos? I found out that they had just released an album – the Polite Force. So underground it wasn’t even in the shops. I had to order it specially from Cowgill’s record section on Clitheroe’s King Street. How radical. Even now, the cover, which looks like semolina pudding mixed with curry, tells you that you were in for something slightly strange. The intro to “A Visit to Newport Hospital” l was worth the order. And the lyrics – “We spent our time avoiding skinheads and the law, it was a freedom that we never felt before…” Out there. Alas, I never saw ‘em live. I dunno if the Stones crowd would have been into ‘em much. But they were original. Watching the Stones must be like shopping at Woolworths or supporting Man United. Everybody does it. Yet I never saw Egg. I recall they supported fellow oddballs The Groundhogs but I never got there. Later when Stewart was part of Hatfield and the North, I did make it to see his band. At Barbarellas in Birmingham and a gig at the Free Trade Hall in Manchester. Great days. He even had a number one hit with Barbara Gaskin on a cover of “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.” From manic to mainstream. The early Seventies are too often portrayed as a musical wilderness with the good times only arriving with the ascent of punk in 76/77. But I disagree. It was the epicentre of eccentricity. True, Yes did go over the top with “Tales from Topographic Oceans” but elsewhere there were boundless examples of bands being jangled. Even the Stones were at the peak of their powers. Meanwhile in the album desk of Clitheroe Grammar School we were sharing listenings of such icons as Van der Graf Generator, some support band called Genesis, Gentle Giant, King Crimson, Tonto’s Expanding Head Band, Quatermass, Hawkwind and many more. Even the Germans got in on the act with wackos like Amon Duul, Tangerine Dream and Can. A glorious overlooked era. So Egg are my number two. I’ll do three, four and five next time – before the Stones depart completely. A clue – they are all Laaaaandon lads. Meanwhile, check out Egg.