Our Lips Are Sealed

What made me think of the Go-Go’s, somehow I got there via Jane Wiedlin and before her The Bangles cover of Hazy Shade of Winter. Which sort of started with Simon and Garfunkel, who recorded that song and Scarborough Fair.



This is one of those trawls through youtube. When fishing, you have the big nets that let the smaller fish go, and the little – that catch everything. I was using the little net, its holes are small, and so nothing gets through.
I started with Scarborough Fair, and because of that. Here’s Simon, Garfunkel and Andy Williams doing that song:







The Go-Go’s song is a love song about a break-up. Jane Wiedlin had a brief affair with Terry Hall of the Specials – so far back in the 80s it’s almost Neolithic. Terry sent Jane some lyrics, and she composed the song. And going by the lyrics there must have been a lot of talk about the
two and their liaison. Terry also recorded his version, which is worth a spin too !

Scarborough Fair bookends (sorry Simon & Garfunkel pun) the Go-Go’s song, because it’s also about a break-up. And it’s poignant, because it featured in a brief but significant meltdown of my current relationship.

During a dark night of the soul I sent my (then former) girl a link to Scarborough Fair. And I’m certain she was perplexed (it may have been a clip from the Graduate that accompanied the song); but she gave me the benefit of the doubt. And despite Simon or Garfunkel, she sent me an e-mail.

The rest as they say is history ……………………

Blown’ in the Wind

This is not really about America. It’s got nothing to do with the dust bowl. Except maybe, in Economic terms, that’s where we are heading. Because with an austerity budget, I see dust bowls in a lot of places.

And because were not America, and because just at the backend of the City there are no areas where homeless people push shopping carts full of their possessions. And because there is now a £400 cap on Housing Benefit, which translates in London as a three bedroom flat, we have a hell of a lot of people squeezed into tiny spaces.

Just the other day I was told that my waiting time for my hospital appointment was guaranteed. There was no more waiting for hours to be seen. And I was glad, because I had a dole appointment in the afternoon.


So the new budget removes targets for waiting times at doctors, interesting. So what is blown’ in the wind is a hell of a lot of waiting, maybe until you die. Well unless you’re privileged, and so can bypass all of the waiting.


I was never a fan of a lot of the New Labour targets; the educational ones were nonsensical, because learning happens in such an un-empirical fashion. And some of the hospital targets just encouraged a slap dash approach to patient care – get them in, get them out. But waiting around, that’s concrete and manageable. Just get a good appointments system and don’t let those loudmouths (I’ve seen it happen) jump the queue.

So you’ve got what you voted for. I do really wonder if those Tory voters (in the South, because every where else people voted Labour) wanted all their luxury goods to rise by another 5%. Ah well I suppose they can afford 20% VAT. But ask a poor person the next time they pay their BT bill (expect the toffs don’t think a phone/internet is necessary for the poor!)

I’m still trying to figure out what the true Liberal Democrats are thinking, because their boys in power appear to be Tory lapdogs.

The answer my friend is (truly) blowing in the wind.

Paper Sun

Paper Sun is a Traffic song. It’s got a tenuous, link to my day; it’s a terrific sitar driven piece of pop psycadellia; and it’s got Jim Capaldi playing drums – who I will come to later.


Today was one of those big days, an appointment with the Cardiologist in the morning, an appointment with the dole in the afternoon. Both with the potential to pull me under like the undertow (thanks John Irving).

I decide to run to the Royal Free, because it gets me there quicker and sandwiches in a bit of exercise. I’m early, sweating like Jabba the Hut, but sitting outside a toilet with ample supplies of paper towels. In twenty minutes I’m dry, and not really that smelly.

The Cardiologist goes like a dream. He takes me off one of my pills, decides not to increase the dose of another. He says I can go back to the way I was before; run a marathon if my body says so. He hands me a discharge note that means I don’t have to go back and move among the sick.

I throw him a curve ball on leaving, telling him a story about a couple of Pharmacology professors I once worked with, who took beta-blockers before making speeches. But he misses the point, and says there great for people with heart disease. What I meant was they were perfectly healthy and taking them like a sedative. Suppose I was a little high.

Appointment two is even sweeter. I talk about my one day’s consultancy work, and my possibility of working in Europe. And I’m being truthful, because sometime next week I will get paid my first wage in more than a year. But I do give it a lot of spin, so all the usual stuff that constitutes my monthly interview is dispensed with in a flash.

And now I’m so high I almost punch the air leaving the dole office. There’s the lyric of a terrible Chris De Burgh song (which Word for some reason has in its dictionary) going round in my head. All rolled up jacket sleeve and pleading voice. I’m high high on emotion he’s singing; and if I cackle I could almost be the psycho in American Psycho. But I’m getting carried away with myself.

Later in the evening I watch a documentary about Steve Windwood (now he’s not in the Word dictionary) on BBC4. There’s a lot about his time with Traffic; hence the inclusion of Paper Sun in this blog. And there’s lots about Jim Capaldi who drummed/sang/composed with Steve Windwood in Traffic. And for those who don’t know much about Traffic, they were a quintessentially English pop/rock psychedelic band; formed in the late 60s and active into the 70s.

After the programme was over, I watched the video attached to this blog. And I thought about an afternoon during the last recession. I was unemployed, doing a little work for the Brother-in-law on the side. At the time he was successful in the property business and friendly with a few celebrities of the day. One happened to be a famous Chef.

So one Sunday we go south of the Thames to eat at his restaurant. The idea being, my accounting skills are going to be pitched at the chef; who is looking for someone to do his books.

But when we arrive, we are made to wait, just like ordinary customers. We wait a while, and while we wait my Brother-in-law focuses his attention on a man sitting next to us. He’s middle aged and decked out in outlandish cowboy regalia. He sports an El Gringo style moustache, and my memory assures me he was wearing silver spurs.

El Gringo amuses my Brother-in-law no end. He was the type of man who liked to mock people, and I suppose it distracted from his loss of face. Big important men aren’t supposed to be kept waiting. Except his friend the Celebrity Chef had an ego the size of Luxemburg, and liked to keep people waiting.

Eventually we ate, I had part of a Pigs Head – it was pretty cutting edge back during the old recession (before every man and his uncle copied the Celebrity Chef). And at the end of service, the Celebrity Chef joined our table. We spoke for a while; the job was mentioned, but not exactly discussed.

By this stage most regular diners had left. The Chef then asked if his friend could join our table. Brother-in-law obliged, and ordered another bottle of wine. He showed no surprise when El Gringo sat down, and no recognition of the mans name when he was introduced as Jim Capaldi.


I knew who he was, even remembered the name of his solo hit. But by this stage the wine was kicking in, so I kept quiet. Celebrity Chef encouraged Jim to do a couple of party tricks. Keeping time with a spoon, while playing a different melody on a glass.

And I would be a liar if I recalled much more than a blurred impression of that afternoon. And I would be a liar if I said I got the job. But I did meet Jim Capaldi, one Sunday afternoon in South London, and shared a few glasses of wine with him. And I’d like to think we talked about his song Paper Sun, but I just can’t remember.

Deep in Vogue

You’re on the high seas, close to the Horn of Africa. On a Ship sailing under a flag of convenience. The ship is crammed to the rafters with the stuff your day-today life. It’s the end of the Eighties; a lot of things have happened – good – bad – terrible. But you have lived to tell the tale. The sky is a clear blue, the sea calm as bathwater. From the crows nest you look out, holding a powerful set of binoculars to your eyes.

A small black shape, no larger than a seagull appears in the distance. Like a desert mirage it floats in and out of focus.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, a party is being prepared. Men of various shapes and hues try on dresses; they pirouette in front of huge mirrors. Sea Shanties are conspicuous by there absence. They freeze from time to time, adopting the exaggerated pose of old-time Hollywood Film Stars.

The black shape moves closer and closer; until it’s revealed as a small skiff, no larger than a lifeboat. And although the African heat is stifling, you feel a chill run your spines length. But the vision has you mesmerised, frozen in a pose with the binoculars at your head.

Closer and closer it comes, buffeting up and down, riding the swell of your huge ship. You can now make out the shapes of people. From such a distance they are merely outlines and nothing else.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, music plays. It is mid-afternoon, but the party has begun. Small round tables ring the dance-floor, a DJ spins the latest tunes from New York. Cocaine, amphetamine, heroin and MDMA line the tables. Alcohol is served is small teacups, like a Twenties Speakeasy.

A top the crow’s nest, all you hear is the sound of a small outboard motor, put-put-puttering. Heading on a direct course to your ship.


Now the binoculars show detail. A heavily muscled forearm. The distinctive point of a rocket propelled grenade. Muzzles and the wooden stocks of AK47s. And there you stand, locked in the tractor beam of this tiny ship; unable to raise the alarm.


Through your magnified lenses, faces and bodies take shape. Black lycra body suits, diamante earrings and sculpted hair. In among the muscle and the broad-shouldered jackets; sits a small white woman. Her hair is short and bleached, in imitation of Jean Harlow. She wears a Jean Paul Gautier pointed bra; and a look of sullen determination. On her delicate shoulder hangs a ladies-sized sub machine gun.

In the hour that follows, the small lady has assumed control of your ship. She has changed its course and is heading towards the mainstream. In a few days, your ship will be stripped of it’s contents; and condemned to float like the Marie Celeste. The continuous click of a play-out groove accompanying it’s progress.

I went in search of Malcolm McLaren’s grave, with my daughter, during the School Half Term. But the girl working in Highgate Cemetery had no idea where he was buried. But he’s there somewhere, and I imagine buried with him are all the ideas he borrowed from somebody else. The Marxism he used for the New York Dolls, the nihilism taken from Iggy and the Stooges. Early New York Hip Hop, and late Eighties Ball Culture.

But his kleptomania was entertaining, and like a true pioneer, he rarely profited from his discoveries. His pirate’s chest was systematically plundered by those with better and bigger business brains. So his take on the Eighties Transvestite/Transsexual Ball Culture remains a footnote, released a full year before the all-conquering Vogue by Miss Ciccone. He even had the gall to name check some of the real people from that long dead scene.

And I’d like to imagine Mclaren having a ball down there in Highgate, with his fellow inter-ees: Karl Marx, Douglas Adams and Max Wall. And the funny thing is those skin tight black leggings featuring in the Deep in Vogue video, remind me of Max Wall.

Harvest for the World – a blog in two parts

Part 1 - The Isley Brothers

I read the other day, Marvin Isley had died. The first song that came into my head was Summer Breeze; it’s one I managed to reproduce on the guitar (in a halting fashion). The second song that came into my head was Harvest for the World. And while searching for Summer Breeze on youtube, I was drawn back to Harvest.

Since it’s inception I’ve been a great fan of youtube, it’s not the process of watching a video of a song you know; or finding something you’ve heard about, but not listened to. No, it’s the musical journey you go on after the first click. This can be quite random, but ultimately there is logic. So Summer Breeze Connects to Harvest for the World, simply because it’s an Isley Brothers greatest hit.

But what I find is the journey is not that simple. Because when I’m listening to music on youtube I am also making connections in my brain. Memories will surface unexpectedly, because they are associated with a particular song. And these are not just factual snippets, they come back as smells and tastes and raw emotions.

I like to read the comments underneath the video, although I’ve never felt inclined to write one myself. Last week one particular comment stood out, it was underneath Susan Boyle’s cover of Wild Horses (my journey to that place is another story). The person posting said her version was beautiful, so beautiful that it had been used to send a loved one to their grave.

Something about this made me feel uneasy, and I do admit to entertaining the thought of my journey to the crematoria being accompanied by some song I would hate. The fact is, the dead man did not choose the song, it was a relative. And the relative chose the song because the voice sounded nice. Rather like the people who have used Sting’s stalking song (Every Breath You Take) as their wedding theme; the people who chose Wild Horses, misunderstood the sentiment of the song completely.

Ok the interpretation of lyrics is subjective. But wild horses is about pain, most probably sadomasochistic pain. It was written by two men hooked on Heroin, embroiled in some seriously dysfunctional relationships with women. One of them would OD and die, have his body stolen and burnt (in a pseudo Native American) ceremony at the Joshua Tree monument. Susan Boyle sings the song, and fails the song. Her voice rising, when it should be ragged and broken.


And it’s this lack of connection that makes its use at a funeral meaningless. Although I like the song, it’s not one (be it a Stones or Gram Parsons version) that has any relevance to me. Picture this, the curtain opening, the coffin rolling on its rollers. I’m dead, so I can’t see, feel or hear. But imagine, I’m alive for just one more second. In that second play me something that hit’s me in the guts.

Play me something like Harvest for the World, that has some meaning. That will take me back to a lazy afternoon in the mid seventies, when the sun was beating down, and school was over. And I was up in High Farm, playing in the fields with my friends, jumping on gigantic bales of hay.



Part 2 - The Style Council


Because this blog is a mirror of a youtube journey I have already taken; part two has to be the Style Council’s version of the same song.

I recall the group appearing on the Two Ronnie’s or a similar TV show. They formed a circle, taking turns to sing a particular section. I already liked the song, but this version knocked me out all over again.

This video is from another TV show, and visually is not as great. But I like its ramshackled presentation and the moment Paul Weller’s voice comes in just lifts the song to another level. So assuming I take a little longer to burn, cue this version up to follow the Isley Brothers. You will make a dead man very happy.