OCTOBER PLAYLIST

October is almost over and I’ve not done a playlist. So, more out of obligation than enthusiasm, here is half arsed collection of songs that have made me either happy or sad this month. I’ll spare you the flannel that normally accompanies them.

1. Doc Starkes and the Nightriders – “Women and Cadillacs” (1954)
2. Brenda Holloway – “Hey Fool” (1963)
3. Eddie and the Tropics – “Don’t Monkey With Another Monkey’s Monkey” (1965)
4. Little Anthony and the Imperials – “Hurt So Bad” (1965)
5. The Zombies – “Friends of Mine” (1968)
6. The Kinks – “Days” (1969)
7. The Cramps – “TV Set” (1980)
8. Spiritualized – “Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space” (1997)
9. Let’s Wrestle – “Tanks” (2009)
10. Box Elders – “Alice and Friends” (2009)

SMOKEY ROBINSON at the ROUNDHOUSE

Smokey Robinson’s songs have enriched my life and made the world a better place. I absolutely love him but it hasn’t always been that way.

As a twelve year old wannabe punk in the summer of ‘81 I hated him. “Being With You” was number one and the sight of him of Top Of The Tops mincing around that apartment, pretending to sniff flowers, coked off his noggin, and singing like a big girl was too much to take. And a red pool table. Who ever saw such a thing?

By the time of the Christmas school disco I’d switched allegiances to the Mod/2-Tone brigade and had perfected that hopping and kicking from foot to foot dance that all the in-crowd did to Madness records. We’d only dance to them, The Jam, and “Ghost Town”, which wasn’t an easy record to dance to, and sneer at the Adam and the Ants and Duran Duran nonsense.

There was a girl, Janet, that I fancied. We’d had a bit of history in primary school. I’d call for her in the mornings until her Mum started talking to me in Italian. I was so petrified I didn’t dare call again. We’d snog (that’s me and Janet, not me and her Mum) behind the gate in the playground and in the field opposite her house. She wrote me a letter saying how good I was at football and I bought her a necklace from the newsagent for Valentine’s Day. We split up and I tried to woo her back on the last day of school by going through all my copies of Shoot! to tear out all the Arsenal posters for her. It didn’t work. She looked at me like I was some sort of cretin. I can still picture her putting her chair on the table, walking out, and that was that.

We moved to secondary school and were in separate classes but she was at this school disco, stood over the right hand side of stage, and I’d been keeping my beady eye on her. She always looked different to other girls: petite, short boyish hair, red t-shirt with "Paris" on it and wearing a neckerchief – quite a sophisticated continental look for a twelve year old in 1981. The DJ played some smoochy number and I tried rustling up the courage to ask her to dance. I left it too long and thought if he plays another I’ll go for it. Cue that frigging horrible sax solo at the start of “Being With You”. Typical. Still, get in there my son. I asked her. She looked embarrassed and looked at the floor. Then looked at her mate. Then at me. She didn’t say anything. Time slowed right down. By now that cretinous feeling was creeping up on me again. Come on girl. More silence, more sideways glances. Go on. Smokey was hitting his stride, cooing away. Finally, after an eternity, she begrudgingly agreed. We walked to a spot on the dancefloor and the moment I put my arms around her, “Hey you! Don’t watch that, watch this! This is the heavy heavy monster sound, the nuttiest sound around”, comes booming out, “One step beyond!” and I’m swamped in a sea of manic moonstomping and never got my hands on her again.

Twenty eight years later and Smokey is in front of me singing that same bloody song, but I don’t care. He can sing whatever he wants, however he wants. He can even stick a sickly Spanish rap in the middle if he wants, and he does. He is Smokey Robinson. Nuff said.

TWIGGY: A LIFE IN PHOTOGRAPHS

If you happen to be feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square between now and March 2010 you might fancy popping in the National Portrait Gallery for five minutes to look at their Twiggy exhibition. I wouldn’t recommend making a special trip for it though.

It’s very small and the only pictures I was interested in were the first few when Twiggs was “The Face of 1966”. What’s striking is how quickly she was moved on from that short haired freckle faced urchin look by the times that were rapidly changing. Will folk be able to look at photography, films, fashion, listen to music from this decade in years to come and identify whether it was 2006, 2007 or 2008? 1966 and 1968 look worlds apart. But you know this. I’m only saying I’ve no interest in what Twiggy did beyond those first 18 months but if you have and want to read her gushing captions about how marvelous and fabulous so-and-so was to work with, then you can also buy the book that accompanies this show.

Twiggy: A Life In Photographs is at the National Portrait Gallery until March 2010, admission free. The book costs £20.

ONE FAST MOVE OR I'M GONE: KEROUAC'S BIG SUR

When I mentioned pulling a Kerouac book from the shelf the other day it was no coincidence I mentioned Big Sur first. Written during 1961 it charts the period shortly after the publication of On The Road and how Jack's new found fame accelerated his descent into drunken madness and paranoia with brutal honesty. It’s his last truly great work and very close to my favourite.

So imagine my delight to discover this week has seen the opening of One Fast Move Or I’m Gone: Kerouac’s Big Sur in selected US cinemas. The film uses readings of Kerouac’s text, interviews with some of those featured in the book (Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Carolyn Cassady, Joyce Johnson and Michael McClure) and new music and contributions from the likes of Tom Waits and Patti Smith.

No news on UK availability yet, but here’s the trailer:


www.kerouacfilms.com

THE WHO PHOTOGRAPHS by COLIN JONES

Derek Trotter’s judgment was famously suspect but he was right when it came to music. “I don’t care what they say” he said, “you can’t whack The Who”.

Del Boy would enjoy the great exhibition of early ‘Oo photos by Colin Jones, currently showing at the Proud Gallery. Some are established classics - Townshend in his flat with a collection of smashed Rickenbackers on the wall behind him and the pop art outfitted group cover shot for the Observer - but others are less familiar. Most date from the first few weeks of 1966 and show the band at home, in the studio, out shopping, and on the stage. It’s interesting to compare the home shots and how they reinforce their perceived personas: Townshend is serious and frowning, surrounded by recording equipment; Daltrey climbs out of bed as a young lady tends to her morning business with her hat hanging on the dresser; and Entwistle poses uncomfortably with his bass and tuba as his ma darns a cardie. Moon escapes the home visit but Jones catches both the wide-eyed Loon and the lesser-spotted quiet, contemplative Keith as he listens, silently, to a studio playback. If I had any wall space left – that would fill it.

Limited edition, numbered and signed prints are priced between £250 and £1000. Cushdy.

The Who: In The Beginning – Photographs by Colin Jones is at the Proud Central Gallery, 5 Buckingham Street, WC2 until 15 November 2009. Admission free.

JACK KEROUAC - 21st OCTOBER 1969

"I wrote the book because we're all gonna die".

Today marks the 40th anniversary of the death of Jack Kerouac.

Raise your glass, stick some Charlie Parker on the turntable, pull Big Sur, The Dharma Bums, On The Road, Desolation Angels or The Subterraneans from the shelf and pay tribute.

Or just watch this. "Go roll your bones".

NEW UNTOUCHABLES 12th ANNIVERSARY

Twelve years since the Untouchables became the New Untouchables and unlike the Avengers the addition of "New" hasn't spoilt a good thing.

I'll be hauling the record box across town straight from the Smokey Robinson gig on Saturday so expect a few Miracles movers in my sets. That sentence sort of looks like I'm DJing for Smokey. I'll leave it like that.