A Lesson In Self-Respect.

Sometimes I wonder whether David Bowie can do no wrong.

Perhaps he has a lot to thank for his origins on a far away planet – from which he descended to brighten up our world in the late 60s – as they have served him well in avoiding any of the usual human slip-ups or falls from dignity and grace that many aging stars of his generation or later, seem unable to resist succumbing to.

With this observation, I seek not to clarify how amazing Bowie’s musical contributions are (for this is now as widely accepted as the laws of science), or indeed how the revolution he bestowed upon us in the 1970s continues to reverberate around the music and fashion industries with a deafening roar. No. Today what I hope to get across is that it’s the decisions that he has made since this time that make him so worthy of respect and admiration, whilst simultaneously ensuring that all that he achieved before seems even better.

As we are constantly made aware these days by musicians who are somewhat less dignified with their aging, the 21^st century is a time with temptation and empty promises around every corner, waiting to trap and lure the icons of yesteryear. I need only mention the names of Iggy Pop, Axl Rose and Joan Jett in order to paint an image of degrading advertisement deals, shameless flogging of a band that's been unrecognisable and irrelevant for twenty years and copious amounts of plastic surgery – paths all too often taken by the once adored, successfully undermining any reverence or respect that they once commanded.

It is at the opposite end of this spectrum that we find Bowie, holding music with the highest respect and refusing to let any foolish endeavours of later life tarnish the genius that we know of his younger years. This is a lesson that other aging musicians should definitely take heed of, for in their greedy desire to maintain a level of prominence, they could well be ruining their legacy in the process. I personally hold Iggy Pop as the prime example of this – his crimes being all the more hard to swallow due to how incredible he once was as the frontman of the protopunk movement. What is such a shame is that now, even though I herald ‘Lust For Life’ as one of the best albums of the 1970s, I can barely listen to it for fear of conjuring up terrifying images of a lost old man selling his soul, dignity and self-respect for £25 million under the slogan of “Get A Life”. An innovator of punk rock selling car insurance? What a disgusting and disgustingly modern state of affairs. Next we'll be seeing the man who once snarled down the camera shouting "God save the Queen, a fascist regime" dressed in tweed, proclaiming that we sell-out like him and buy 'Country Life' butter "because it tastes the best".

I don’t think it is necessary to point out that this is not something that you’d catch Iggy’s close friend David Bowie doing - his dignified silence over recent years speaking volumes. Gracing us with his presence on only a few occasions, usually in situations which serve to remind of his position at the forefront of all that is still cool in the music industry. His appearances onstage with Placebo, Arcade Fire and Moby have been a nod to the new generation of gifted and respected musicians. (A far cry from a special guest slot on ‘X Factor’, I think you’ll agree).

His complete and utter success in growing old gracefully and gloriously is prominent when one notes his absence from the chat show circuit, within which we find a continuous stream of autobiography-holding, greatest-hits-promoting, reunion-tour-plugging shadows. Instead we catch Bowie say, in a photo shoot for Q Magazine, Kate Moss dangled round his neck, looking as though the pleasure is all hers.What Bowie has succeeded in doing is creating the blue print for how people can not only grow old in a way that will give their previous achievements all the more respect and appreciation to new and old generations alike, but also how to live your life as fulfilled and content as possible. It is easy to see that Bowie is no longer hung up, unlike so many of the prime offenders in this category, on the power and money driven fame game. Releasing new albums only sporadically, often under the radar of the commercial market – holding artistic satisfaction as the main aim, and refraining from making anything at all if not suitably inspired.

Admiration for David Bowie in the year 2011 is as prominent as it has ever been, and rightfully so. Respect for himself has got him a long way, now enjoying retirement cuddled up to a supermodel wife and bringing up his young daughter in New York, undoubtedly able to look back on his extensive career with few regrets and much pride. This of course works both ways, for it is thanks to this self-respect and dignity that we – as fans – can continue to love and enjoy David Bowie’s artistic offerings, happy in the affirmation that he 100%, absolutely, positively and certifiably was and is as incredible and other-worldly as we ever believed him to be.

The Man Who Shot The Seventies.

One thing I am really and truly grateful for in the history of modern music is that Mick Rock was there to capture it all.

We owe a lot to Mick; for it is him who's responsible for permanently freezing Debbie Harry's flawless face in suspended motion, capturing Syd Barrett during an aesthetically pleasing pre-meltdown juncture and preserving Freddie Mercury's chiselled cheek bones far beyond his mortal years. Were it not for the enviable talents of Mick Rock within the visible spectrum, we may have never been certain of exactly how perfect, beautiful and glorious the 1970s were, or indeed the stars whose existence made it so.

Having made his name in the world of music photography by capturing David Bowie during the Ziggy Stardust era, it wasn't long before Mick Rock was the biggest and most revered name in the industry, being called upon to capture the most talked about stars of the day (often by their own request) and as a result, becoming the man behind some of the most easily recognisable photographs and iconic album covers in musical history.


For many years now, Mick Rock has been my favourite photographer - in part because he has the most enviable job one could dare to imagine, but also because he successfully manages to portray so much more than his beautiful subjects within each photo. He effortlessly manages to freeze a moment in time, a moment within which the excitement and promise of a budding career is forever suspended; along with all the beliefs of the world around it.


In short, Mick Rock is a genius because he managed to capture some of the greatest people in the exact moment that we wish them to remain, and thanks to his photographs they shall forever be immortalised as such.


Here are some of my favourite shots :

Bobby Gillespie, 2006

Debbie Harry, 1979

David Bowie, 1973

Lou Reed, 1975

Freddie Mercury, 1974

Iggy Pop, 1972

Joan Jett, 1981

Kate Moss, 2002

Syd Barrett, 1969

Michael Stipe, 2005

New Is Good Too.

Having spent the last few posts discussing and praising ways-of-old in the music industry, I would hate to give the impression that there is little to be excited about in 2011, as this would clearly be some dirty propaganda in my campaign to get everyone to revert the world to 1968 (and quite frankly, it just isn’t true).

There is an incredible amount of exciting and brilliant music around today, and one of the brightest, shiniest and most glittering stars – it has to be said – is Mr Patrick Wolf. Despite ten years having passed since his first album was released, the public – whose affections for the star seem to ebb and flow depending on the weather – appear to have half-heartedly climbed back on board for his latest album release; ‘Lupercalia’. It says a lot of Patrick Wolf that he can credibly be considered reminiscent of Bowie in various ways; including a penchant for avant-garde fashion endeavours, a sexual ambiguity that has kept people guessing and a voracious desire to repeatedly transform and redevelop a new sound for each new music offering – all the while maintaining something indefinable which renders them instantly recognisable. Perhaps their most striking resemblance however, is their possession of an unfathomable and almost otherworldly amount of talent, one which they almost seem to be channelling from galaxies invisible to us mere mortals.

  

From the cleanly tailored dove-white outfit on the album sleeve to the opening majors of the first track; ‘The City’, it is irrefutably apparent that this album is going to be a far cry from Wolf’s sinister and brooding 2009 offering – ‘The Bachelor’. An album full of songs laced with dark eccentricity, intricate ideas and observations of a world in turmoil; coated in a rich layer of organ, violin and any number of instruments that Wolf is able to turn his hand to. As such, it is hard to believe that ‘The Bachelor’ and ‘Lupercalia’ were ever intended to be a double album, unless released under a concept of polar opposites.

With each album that Wolf releases, it is easy to fall into the trap of believing that this will surely be the one that finally elevates him into the musical lap of the gods - rightfully claiming a place which has been reserved for years. However, while 'Lupercalia' may have shown promising signs of such a feat, it seems again to have mainly fallen on the ears of his loyal fan base, never quite making the leap to arena fodder, but ensuring packed theatres and small venues up and down the country whenever he honours them with his presence. While it is a crying shame that such a gifted and charismatic performer does not get to tread the boards of larger venues, it also makes him the nation’s best kept secret, providing his fans with an intimacy and relationship that serves Wolf very well.

With ‘Lupercalia’, we find Patrick Wolf back to his optimistic best, and upon listening to this album it is impossible not to rejoice in the happiness that he has clearly found in his own life over the past few years. Full of hearty defiance that love shall survive and conquer all, it would be hard to find a more positive and content set of lyrics, and indeed a more positive or content man; as one discovers when watching any performance on his accompanying tour. Bounding around a stage laden with harps and all manner of string instruments like a magical pixie, singing to raise the roof whilst parading the biggest and most genuine of smiles throughout the entire show, there is no doubt that this is a man with something to smile about.

Perhaps the most notable achievement of Patrick Wolf on this album, is his absolute triumph in writing the most optimistic and inspirational break-up song in the history of music. ‘Time Of My Life’ is incredible, and the positive spin which he places upon what is potentially one of the most depressing and difficult occurrences - the end of a relationship – is inspiring;

From the east to the south

I tongue the roof of my mouth 

To new days of doubt without you 

First gear, I face the trouble ahead 

Final word has been said 

Long distance spread between us 

I tell myself to 

Hold on, won’t be long 

Till I grow through this struggle

Time to wake up, find my soul

Happy without you 

We go on

Heart beats strong

Still whole 

Unbroken 

As we divide 

Our love goodbye 

Thanks for, the time 

Time of my life

This is undoubtedly a song that each and everyone should hold fast to in their arsenal of motivational and invigorating music for when things get tough, as before you know it, ‘Time Of My Life’ will have you, not just back on your feet, but dancing in the ambience of it’s infectious optimism.

The rest of the album carries on in much of the same vain, and even when Wolf threatens to show signs of a bleaker sound, such as the beginning of ‘Together’ or in ‘The Days’, it does not last long before we’re returned to the defiant, shouting-my-love-from-the-rooftops sounds of ‘Lupercalia’. Uplifting strings, thumping drums and delicate piano often revealing the warm sentiments, even in songs which could be considered more subdued.

While an album of brilliance certainly, I cannot pass without questioning whether forty-one minutes and three seconds of uplifting electro-pop provides the listener with enough of a well-rounded sensory experience. The consistency in emotion may be admirable, however what Wolf has failed to do here unlike his most comparable album to date – 2007’s ‘The Magic Position’ – is touch on the dizzying heights of euphoric contentment as well as the inevitable accompanying lows. This is perhaps why, despite the absolute joy that can be derived from witnessing Patrick Wolf as a beautifully at ease human being who has found happiness and inner peace in all that surrounds him, even as a true fan you find yourself thinking that all we need now is a break up album to get him back to his gutsy best (closely followed by a return to happiness, of course.)

Here is ‘Time Of My Life’ :

Patrick Wolf - Lupercalia

2011 Mercury Records

On The Back.

Following on from my previous post in which I discussed the loss of album artwork in the digital age - a time when all album covers are reduced to a thumbnail image and the back covers and sleevenotes are rendered obsolete - here are some brilliant back covers which will be a particularly sad loss to the mp3 audience :

The Libertines - The Libertines

David Bowie - Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars

Guns N' Roses - Appetite For Destruction

The Eagles - Hotel California

John Lennon - Double Fantasy

Oasis - Definitely Maybe

The Specials - The Specials

David Bowie - Space Oddity

The Lost Art.

Sometimes it is hard to deny that the old ways are the best. While this may be true of many things, there is a definite romanticism of a time gone by when - while it may or may not have been the case – there was a sense of quality, truth and simplistic beauty in the way people lived and the way that things were produced. This is certainly the way I feel about music, and while it may be a bit of a cliché to declare that the greatest albums were made prior to the turn of the 21^st century, if not long before, what I am mainly talking about here is the evolution of the physical (and digital) musical format and subsequent loss of album artwork.

The cover of a great album has shown itself to have the capacity to become as iconic as the music itself, with images such as The Dark Side of the Moon prism and the Abbey Road zebra crossing being forever etched on public conciseness – perhaps in these cases, even identifiable by those few who have not listened to the albums themselves. This is why I believe one of the most distressing things about the rise of the mp3 to be, aside from the ease at which we evade honouring an album by playing it in its entirety, that there is no longer the appreciation of album artwork.

Long have I fantasised about what it must have been like in the golden-age of vinyl, at which time you would leave your front door with enough money in your pocket to head down to the local music shop to purchase the latest album release by your favourite band. Racing down the aisles to the new release section and gripping that glorious physical 12 inch square piece of art in your hands for the first time, before racing home and devouring it with your eyes and ears as you pour over the sleeve and inserts within. Call me nostalgic, but that’s got to be better than a click of the mouse as £8.99 is removed from your bank account in exchange for an invisible musical concept.

While the ipod is a fantastic thing and fabulous in many ways, it is hard not to overlook the fact that all the wonderful artwork, new and old, is now being forgotten and overlooked thanks to the confides of a thumbnail image. Not only this, but it marks the death of the back cover (the qualities of which were often found in its ability to portray a brilliant photograph or image which never quite made the cut of the front). It is a real shame that album artwork isn’t getting the appreciation that it deserves these days, both in terms of the fantastic pieces that are still being produced, and also for those people who are currently discovering the wonderful music of the past fifty years, but yet not getting the whole sensory experience.

It might be worth arguing that at least with albums of the vinyl, and even CD eras, they have had their time and appreciation in larger formats, and the real crime is that brilliant new pieces are never escaping out of the confides of a 2.5 cm square. I was reminded of this most recently when I purchased Florence and The Machine’s album Lungs on vinyl, and was blown away by the richness and detail of an album cover which I already knew to be beautiful, but had never been able to appreciate it for its true splendour. Formatted in a gatefold, filled with stunning imagery and plentiful sleeve notes, it really takes a generous amount of time to take it all in - the only shame being that it won’t reach a wider audience.

As is the case with Lungs, it is great to see that artists and record companies are still producing vinyl copies of their albums, and this is due in part to the resurgence in popularity of old formats. I’m incredibly pleased that there is still a great passion and interest in these things, and that even those brought up in the digital age are keen to appreciate music as it was intended, and I really hope this trend continues.

Below I have included eight album covers; four pre-digital and four post, yet all equally brilliant and worthy of attention. Feel free to click on each of them to appreciate them in high resolution.

Patti Smith - Horses

Pink Floyd - Animals

Blondie - Parallel Lines

Suede - Dog Man Star

MGMT - Oracular Spectacular

Pete Doherty - Grace Wastelands

Florence and The Machine - Lungs

Biffy Clyro - Only Revolutions

Time Machine Wanted.

I would give my major organs for it to be the 1960s again.

A Day.

I really do love my life. My life, and Fleetwood Mac.

I realised this today, and it almost came to me as a simultaneous epiphany as I sat on a grassy knoll surveying the vast expanse of Bristol before me. Sure, one can consider that their life is wonderful on any number of occasions, and so they should. However, what made today so beautiful for me was that, by all intents and purposes; it was a right shitter. Without going into detail, I’d had about as much ill fortune and been faced with as much pointless paperwork as one could possibly handle, all before the clock stroked 11am. A tedious and stubborn illness which I have been pleading to leave my body for days, also had me scrabbling around on the scorching tarmac at one point, in a keen desperation, pleading that I should not faint or vomit in front of the pupils of a school at which I hope to work.

                
Not a great start admittedly. But, it served its purpose. I owe this morning a lot, for this afternoon, the memory of its ugly character allowed me to fully wallow in the glory that one is indeed, responsible for their own happiness – a happiness best served on a plate of simplicity. I found mine this afternoon, in a sunny park, accompanied by the soundtrack of Fleetwood Mac’s 80s masterpiece ‘Tango In The Night’. An album so powerful, that it inspired me to write a blog. When people think of Fleetwood Mac, they undoubtedly think of ‘Rumours’, copious amounts of cocaine consumption, incestuous affairs where every band member sleeps with every band member, and… Steve Nicks (perhaps concurrently). Despite being dismissed by critics as the product of an era where not even the cool people were cool anymore (Pink Floyd’s ‘Learning To Fly’ anyone?) ‘Tango in the Night’ has some of the happiest songs that take me to the crux of musical glee, and today this is something that I certainly felt the full effect of as I peacefully existed under the blue sky, with nothing else but a willingness to enjoy that moment. I suggest you listen to it too, perhaps it will take you there.

             
So, to end my opening blog – I feel I have sampled an appetizer for which the claws of addiction I can already feel clambering at my fingers and thoughts. I shall whittle on here about things, hopefully with some sort of musical inclination, possibly not. The underlying theme will always be in the joy of writing.

Also, on the subject of all things bright and beautiful, I would like to add that Alison Mosshart is the most magical and hypnotic female creature on the planet in the music industry right now. Marvel in her splendour: