Another perfect jazz album for a summer’s morning. Miles has such a calming effect. He’s happy to take a back seat on many of the tracks and allow the piano to take over. But then he’s always lurking there behind the scenes, ready to interject and play his very understated part. It’s actually quite an emotional album without having any lyrics. That’s a pretty clever trick. Music to drink endless cups of tea to as the heat starts to build outside.
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I was pretty sure that I had this album but nope; I was pretty sure that I must know this album inside out but once again no. The lead track is something of a well-trodden path. Sure, it was recorded live but it would have sounded much better as a bedroom DIY effort than with all the whoops and hollers coming from the crowd.
Once you’ve skipped the crappy live opening track, then you’re in classic Neil Young territory. Old Shaky is obviously at his best when he’s doing the Old Shaky thing. This involves an understated vocal performance, bashing away on an old acoustic, and the general light touch all round. This album is also boosted by some breezy saxophone, which helps it swing a little. Decent.
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A crappy Insta ad for the Duran Duran gig as part of BST at Hyde Park cropped up in my feed far too early for me on Wednesday morning but it did kinda catch me. I was caught up in the early morning Wednesday Duran Duran vibes. I never knew such a thing existed.
I had little spare time as I slurped away on my endless morning cups of tea, pondering life and wondering at what time of the day it would be suitable to give up on the idea of doing the housework during a balmy heat wave.
I admit to getting sucked in ever so slightly down a Duran Duran rabbit hole. I never thought I would be spending my Wednesday mornings doing this.
My own Duran world never really get going with the first album, but I went in big time with Rio. I say big time, that phase probably lasted no more than a couple of months. That’s the pace at which the musical timeline operates when you have a young and eager musical mind, and £3.99 to indulge in vinyl each week.
I started scrolling, following the links, and generally being ushered into places in the Duran universe where I really didn’t want to be.
One of those portholes was Neurotic Outsiders. This was the supergroup that involved John Taylor, Steve Jones of the Pistols, and a couple of members of Guns and Roses. I thought I went to see this rabble back at the old LA2 club in Soho around 1996. What can the modern interweb provide me with here?
The gig itself was part of my different life when I was working in the crazy world of Rock and Roll. Every night was GIG NIGHT back in those days.
I rode the Britpop wave, blagging up all the freebies, seeing the most shitty, shitty Britpop bands in toilet venues, to then dining out with royalty at the major Britpop events.
Something such as Neurotic Outsiders didn’t really fit the times. They were an LA rock supergroup, very much out of kilter with the Cool Britannia vibe that was going off.
I have very vague memories of the evening. I remember it being bakingly hot. I have no idea what the set list was, and if I close my eyes I can just about visualise what I saw on the stage. I may have even left early.
I managed to stumble on an online review from some Pistols fanboy site. There’s no grainy YouTube footage of the LA2 gig, but there is of other Neurotic Outsiders gigs.
The set list surprised me. They opened that LA2 gig with Planet Earth. I’m sure I would have remembered that at the time? Some Pistol songs, as well as even a Clash cover, are in the set list. I was probably boozing, but I doubt if I was completely out of it.
This then got me thinking about all those gigs that I attended from around 1990 in Sunny Colch, a manic period of a year and a half or so of some truly classic early Britpop gigs at the Charlotte in Leicester, and then my two years of gigging and ligging it on the London music scene.
Tickets weren’t really a thing those days. Most of the gigs on the London circuit were either showcases or guest lists as part of my job. It was a pretty cool as fuck job to be honest.
I really would struggle to perhaps name possibly even a tenth of the gigs I went to during that period. I did have a long lost digital file of the artist I interviewed, but even that has somehow been lost in time.
I really wish blogging had been around back during that period. My archive would have been an absolute goldmine for me personally in trying to capture and remember many of those live performances.
I often whinge now seeing Young Boys and Girls Around Town trying to capture every single moment of live experiences on their phones; just live for the moment, etc.
Maybe that’s the approach I should take with my long lost years of Sunny Colch, Leicester and London gigging. I had some hit and miss moments, but the highs definitely outnumbered the lows. I’m sure they meant something special to me at the time.
Lesson learned: never fall down a Duran Duran rabbit hole at 6 a.m. on a Wednesday morning.
Oh - and something I do remember is interviewing part-time Duran guitarist Warren Cuccurullo in his Putney home during this period. It was another heatwave day. The front room was completely blacked out and he had an unhealthy collection of dildos on his mantelpiece.
Like I said, the crazy crazy world of rock and roll.
Blimey. Here’s a blast from the past: Blak Twang and So Rotton.
I heard this for the first time in around 30 years when it was dropped as part of a Radio 1 Drum and Bass mix. Yeah yeah, I know. As I speed towards my 60th birthday, I really should be listening to drum and bass. But I still love buzzing off me tits.
The D&B version of the track pinged my interest. I vaguely remember this, I thought.
Oh yes, I remember when Lamacq used to drop it frequently on the Evening session during the late 90s. It was an interesting time where the bloated Britpop had finally been killed off and Lamacq was dropping all sorts of top UK hip-hop tunes that were mashed up with elements of big beat style.
I’d rather listen to this UK incarnation of hip hop than any old West Coast. In fact there was some fella shooting some hoops on the court next to us whilst we were playing pickleball yesterday. He was blasting out the most mundane 90s West Coast crap. Give me Black Twang any time.
I’ve no idea who Black Twang are, or even were. I’m not really interested. But I do love being reminded of these blasts from the past and some of the messy memories from that late 90s period.
I thoroughly enjoyed Spielberg’s Disclosure Day at the Sunny Colch Odeon on Monday afternoon. I confess to having scrolled down the listings to see what our film of choice would be for yet another Monday cheapo cheapo £5 screening. Disclosure Day was the only option that didn’t deliver a Meh shared outcome.
We watched the trailer at home just to be sure. Even this was weird. The official trailer actually features Spielberg cutting himself into the action to describe what’s taking place. This hinted to me at a film that needed some explanation. I don’t like films that make me think too hard.
Disclosure Day had a plot that I could follow. Often I find myself sitting in the cinema not being able to keep up with the action, as I have to backtrack and try and cross reference some of the dialogue I’ve just heard.
Christ, I’m a bloody old man.
This of course also manifested itself in the usual Monday afternoon SHHHHH! moment.
The cheapo cheapo Monday afternoon Sunny Colch experience wouldn’t be complete without another couple insisting on talking throughout the entire fucking film. I really hate doing this, but from past experience a very abrupt SHHHHH! shuts them up for the rest of the afternoon.
The film itself was fantastic right from the start. You can watch the trailer yourself, or read all the spoilers that are out there. Basically it weaves together three different scenes and characters all related to the overall strand of trying to cover up - and also expose - evidence of aliens on Earth.
It’s really quite comical in places. The level of detail and symbolism in terms of clothing, colour, etc is quite intense. I really can’t be arsed to look for the online Easter eggs but I’m sure there’s some great explainers out there that would add more depth and understanding to my already high enjoyment of the film.
It gets really quite poignant as well towards the close. In these troubled times there’s a strong message to humanity. It strays ever so close to being rather twee from Spielberg, but the final end scene is delivered with what appears to be well-intentioned meanings.
I almost had to have a SHHHHH! moment to myself (spoiler alert) when Mr. Alien is actually a grown-up ET. At least there wasn’t anybody sitting in the cinema who was dumb as fuck to actually phone home during the screening.
It was a sweaty one as we made our way over to the sailing club for the Monday evening table tennis social. Thankfully the sailing club loft had a breeze corridor with the newly installed Velux windows open.
The usual warm-ups took place with the usual drills. We’re getting quite skilled now in TWATTING the ball from corner to corner at some pace. It then all falls apart when I start playing an actual scoring game.
Midway through the session and a newcomer arrived. It’s always good to play different opponents. You get to be surprised by their level of skill and choice of shots. Your own game needs to adapt around those.
We started off playing with a high tide and ended up with the plug having been pulled out on the water below us. In between our hour and a half or so of playing, we managed to witness from the balcony some dinghy racing as well as the Rowhedge gig heading downstream and then back.
We left the sailing club with skies darkening and a slightly cooler breeze breaking up all the humidity. It’s a pretty perfect place to play table tennis.
One of the best things about playing pickleball up at the university is that we then find ourselves with a couple of outdoor table tennis tables just begging us for a brief game. It’s always rude not to.
After a two-hour session playing pickleball inside, we headed to the Great Outdoors for a knock-up on the university table of dreams.
Although these look identical to our table of choice back in Weird Wiv, it actually plays a lot harder. There is a definite louder clanking of the ball when it hits the surface. It makes for a very speedy game.
Some of these shots get a little hit and miss. It helped on Monday that campus was deserted, with no students around to witness some of the wiff waff shots gone wrong.
I was experimenting a little when I then heard some shrieks of laughter. I turned around to see a whole coach load of secondary school kids being offered a tour of the campus. Taking in table tennis probably wasn’t on their agenda for the day.
The wind picked up a little. We felt for the nearby trees that have recently been felled down to around 10 m or so. It looks like the idea was to try and encourage growth. The lack of greenery and the rotting bark suggests this experiment has failed.
My belief in Mother Nature was restored slightly when a butterfly joined us for one final game. The little fella almost went back and forth with the ball, tracking it from one end of the table to the other.
If Mr. Butterfly was keeping score, he would have clocked up another 3-2 defeat for me.
We had a few net issues for the Monday morning pickleball social session up at the University. I walked up to the sports centre to find an army of sports centre staff, as well as seasoned pickleballers, trying to put a pickleball net together.
It came close to a Krypton Factor style test gone horribly wrong. Not only did we have too many poles, we also had far too many cooks. I took the strategic decision to step aside as the frustration was clear for all to see.
It also didn’t help that one of the sports centre staff trying - and failing - to erect a pickleball net was one of the lovely Rebels players. Never meet your idols, etc. It’s quite a stretch from cheering on the Rebs, week in week out, and then offering ineptitude advice as to how to assemble a pickleball net.
No worries, a compromise and a solution of sorts was found. We resorted to playing with the badminton nets and dropping these by a metre or so. Job’s a good ‘un.
Game on!
We had eight players - the perfect number for a couple of games of doubles, as winners stayed where they were and losers moved down the court. I found myself staying stationary rather than moving down.
I did find myself partnered up with a half-decent pickleball player for one particular game. We managed to actually pickle our opponents 11-0. I don’t think I actually touched the ball.
I somehow managed to blag myself a spot for the second hour despite not actually being booked in. We had four players remaining, leading to some very competitive games. My calf held up and didn’t ping.
I’m a sucker for this absolute slush. No Secrets is an album SO far removed from my own lifestyle. I think it’s the escapism in being transported to a time and place that I only experience in movies. I was surprised to read that the album was recorded in… London. It sounds like the West Coast rather than the West End. No Secrets is dreamy, airy and borderline early 70’s radio jingles territory. We’ll never return to that world. Happy happy joy joy.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Pleasant enough jazz by numbers for a summer’s morning. The guitar playing is of course immaculate, but I would rather have heard more from the trumpet. The blues crossover works well. It’s almost as if each track has two sides to the story, with the whole jazz / blues thing going off. Another half decent album in which to work along to.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐
