Monday, 27 July 2020
Aaargh! Yet another writer relying on an over-used, sloppy trope. Here's an educated man who talks about the problems of musical labels such as "classical", yet is happy to classify a diverse group of people by their choice of career. It's surprising, since as a child, the "little branch library" was his "favorite place in the world", and he "didn't buy books" because he could borrow them from a library. As a poor student he manages to get hold of the score for Beethoven's Ninth from - you guessed it - the library. How did all that stuff get onto the shelves? How was it possible for a working-class lad to educate himself if he had a passion but no cash? It was because of a librarian! They come in all shapes and sizes, just like the musicians and music lovers that Jackson artfully portrays in his memoir.
There, I've got that off my chest, so what about the rest of the book? A Cure for Gravity only takes us as far as Joe Jackson aged 24, when he achieved success with his first album, Look Sharp!. I've been a fan since a friend introduced me to his album Beat Crazy. His writing style is engaging and he has some cracking descriptions, such as "Beethoven .... is like one of those inspired chefs who can just throw a tomato and an onion and a couple of herbs into a pan and somehow manage to produce, in a few minutes, something both original and utterly delicious. Brahms, by comparison, is the musical equivalent of jam-sweetened porridge." I enjoyed the book as much as I did Tracey Thorne's Bedsit Disco Queen and Mark Ellen's Rock Stars Stole My Life!. It brought back memories of my own brush with the music industry in the late 1980s; svengali managers, mad drummers, goth bands who were nice as pie, and smart young men who were rude, ungrateful and arrogant.
The book was published in 1999, before Simon Cowell decided that anyone with the right attitude could make it in the music industry. Jackson has experienced working as an independent musician in addition to as part of a promoted, industry-backed act, in the guise of Koffee 'n' Kreme, who came to fame on New Faces, a 70s precursor to The X Factor. His success came with the good fortune never to owe his record company money, which guaranteed that he could do pretty much whatever he liked. But that was the "culmination of a lifetime of struggle." His story is not about becoming a pop star, nor is it about fame. It's a warts and all exposé of the hard work that goes into making music and making money from it. Jackson concedes that there was a bit of luck in how he eventually "made it", but his book stresses the other elements of success: education, intelligence and hard work.
In the last chapter, Jackson muses on the future of music in a world where our cultural agenda is being shaped by "the bottom lines of big corporations who want to sell us stuff, and preferably stuff that’s easy to sell." He says, "if we want music to survive, we must teach kids to appreciate it." And so I'd like to end my review with a quote about learning, by one of the musicians that Joe Jackson admires. Frank Zappa said, "if you want to get laid, go to college. If you want an education, go to the library."
Sunday, 28 July 2019
The story begins in a hotel suite, where Rupert P., member of The Ruperts, is tied to a chair with a pair of tights. Four Strepurs, as fans of the band call themselves, are discussing what to do, and one of them, a self-confessed liar who is in therapy, narrates the story.
Labeled as a YA book, it's a very easy read, written in a casual and chatty style, with a lot of humour. There's a dark side too, raising questions about obsession, friendship and mental health. I found myself, early on, thinking if I would be chuckling quite so much if it were a bunch of teenage lads who had captured a female pop star.
You have to suspend disbelief at a couple of plot points, but overall it's a fast-moving, entertaining who-dunnit mystery.
As for David or Donny, you be the judge:
Saturday, 13 May 2017
I'd completely forgotten about Depeche Mode, and I didn't bother to refresh my memory because by the time I made enquiries about the gig at Nice's Stade Ehrmann it had sold out.
Mr Twisse wanted to see them. He said they were one of his favourite bands, and lucky for him, we got two tickets that were going spare because his mates' girlfriends decided they didn't want to go.
I wasn't sure I wanted to go either, so I did a bit of browsing to find out what the Essex band's top hits had been, and what their recent output was like. A YouTube search followed, to see if I recognized anything.
And the memories came flooding back…
New Life (1981) coincided with my first year at university. Dave Gahan looked impossibly young in his New Romantic baggy blouse and black leather trousers. Martin Gore had a ridiculous mop of blonde hair, and Andy Fletcher was, well, overshadowed by Vince Clarke. That year I bought my own ruffle-collared blouse and ra-ra skirt to dance along to Just Can't Get Enough at the Student Union's discos. Hearing those cute, plinkety-plonkety electronic sounds took me right back.
Thirty-six years later and there were plenty of old fogies like me in the audience on Friday night (12 May 2017). The forecasted storm never materialized and the clouds rolled back, allowing the stars to shine out. They couldn't match Dave Gahan's glittery jacket tho', which he discarded after the first couple of songs, revealing an even shinier waistcoat.
It took the first three songs for the band to really warm up and settle in, then Gahan's rich baritone voice rolled over the stadium and we started to enjoy ourselves. The set included tracks from the new album Spirit, the stand-out being Where's The Revolution. There was a great cover version of Bowie's Heroes, as well as some audience favourites: Stripped, a couple of slowies sung by Martin Gore, and the anthemic Personal Jesus that closed the gig.
The earliest track they performed was Everything Counts, which clearly divided the audience into the younger fans of the later, more rocky sound, and those who, like me, had grown up with the synthpop. There was to be no reprise of the early 80s Vince Clarke stuff, but hey, at least I remember Depeche Mode now.
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