Do You Wanna Make Tea At The BBC ...

Today I applied to the BBC Drama Writer’s Workshop. If by some freak of fortune I get the gig, I estimate I will have had a different job for every year I’ve been on the planet. Which is rather a disheartening thought considering my main ambition at school was to be a lollipop man - mainly because you didn’t have to start work til you were sixty five. My idea of an ideal career at the age of sixteen was lounging about in a bed-sit playing the banjo and smoking copious amounts of homegrown weed. Which is hardly original, but it was an existence I felt I was ideally qualified for. Apart from the lack of musical talent and gardening skills that is. As Bukowski once observed, my ambition was hampered somewhat by laziness.

Personally, I have never understood the work ethic. It always seemed a bit of a con to me – breaking your neck to essentially make loads of coin for someone else. The eighties were an ideal time for someone of my limited aims. If you were surrounded by like-minded lollers you could easily scrape out an existence on the margins of society. I was on the dole for five years and I loved every single minute of it. It was mint. You could claim for all sorts then – cookers, carpets, fridges, false teeth, curtains, glass eyeballs. I just went without cookers and carpets and spent the money on the proper essentials, like cigarettes, guitar strings and daft hats. You could even claim you were incontinent and get extra money for rubber sheets. Marvellous times.

But I did get jobs, sometimes by accident. In those days the Nat King Cole would make you apply for jobs and if you didn’t play ball they’d stop your fortnightly cheque. The trick was to go through the motions of doing your best to be an upright citizen striving for the golden ticket, but at the same time drop subtle hints to any prospective employer that taking you on would result in their bankruptcy or on-going mental torment. Sometimes this could be done at the coalface itself, i.e., the dole office. One pal of mine, when challenged by the feller who signed him on to “apply for something today, here and now” picked up the phone on the desk, rang directory services, and asked to be put through to Yorkshire Television.

“Is that Emmerdale Farm? Yeah, I was wondering if you needed any extras? Acting experience? No not really, but I’m good at standing around in the background. I think I’d be ideal in the Woolpack. No? Oh, OK then, ta.”

Replaced the receiver and shrugged.

“They don’t need anyone”.

One interview I went for totally threw me for six. It was a job for HM Customs and Excise. The interrogation was a short one, and mainly involved me staring out of the window at a large trawler while an ageing chap in a dandruff dusted tweed jacket shuffled some papers and asked me what my hobbies were and if I’d ever been in trouble with the police. To my absolute astonishment he offered me the job there and then. Of course, I couldn’t decline else me green beer voucher would have been withheld, so I turned up the next morning on King George Dock East and was directed to a draughty pre-fabricated hut, where an obviously pissed up bloke with a nose like a burst blood orange outlined my duties.

“Right.. see these forms here? Split them up into three. Put a tick in that box there, that box there and that box there. Staple each of the three pieces to another three pieces of paper – a green ‘un, a white ‘un and a blue ‘un, here you are, in that box there, look. Then sign your name on the front of each one and put em in three separate files.”

And that was it. I lasted about six months until a mate of mine promised me half his Christmas tips on his window cleaning round. So I left a potentially glittering career in stapling and box ticking to spend freezing cold mornings barking me shins on a ladder and slopping lukewarm water down me sleeve, while foul mouthed Nana’s berated me for corners left un-cleaned

I was never a very good window cleaner, and when the festive season was over I gratefully handed me chamois leather back and resumed a life of blissful indolence.

I did hang on to me stapler though. I thought it best to keep at least one arrow in me quiver.  

Is There Anybody There?

I wrote a few sketches for a Tv show a couple of years ago. Here's one of the out-takes. 

Grandson enters Nan’s front room. There is a man sat on the sofa with a cup of tea balanced on his knee. A silver haired man in his late fifties, a touch of the “care in the community” about him.

Grandson  :  Hello Nan .. (to man, inquiringly) Hello?

Nan  :  (clearly excited) Oh you’re just in time … this is Dennis. Remember I told you about him? He’s got the gift … he can speak to the other side!

Grandson  :  Wow! You’re a psychic?

Dennis   :  I’ve heard voices since I was a child. I always say .. it can be a gift .. or a curse. But we do what we can.

Nan  :  He’s gonna get in touch with my Sidney for me!

Dennis   :   Well we shall try Mrs Taylor  … Remember, I can’t promise that we’ll get Sidney, we just have to make ourselves available to the spirit world and see what happens

Nan  :  Oh no, he’ll be here mark my words …… I can feel his presence already

Dennis :  OK, well, we need to create the right ambience to encourage the spirits .. could you draw the curtains while I start my music.

PUTS ON HIS TAPE – “WIND BENEATH MY WINGS” PLAYED ON PAN PIPES. DENNIS SITS DOWN, SIGHS, ROLLS HIS EYES AND RELAXES INTO A SLUMP

Grandson (whispering) What’s happening?

Nana  :  (whispering) Shaddap! He’s creating an ambleance!

Grandson  :  I think he’s stopped breathing.

Nan  :  He better not have done, this is costing me thirty quid

Grandson  :  Thirty pounds?

Nan  :  Shat yer marf! Ere, look!

Dennis stirs from his slumber and sits bolt upright – TAPE FADES OUT

Nan  :  Sydney? … Sydney, is that you love? 

DENNIS STARTS TALKING IN A SLOW DEEP AMERICAN DRAWL

Dennis  :  Howdy folks. Sure nice of y’all to ask me to join ya …

Nan  :  Oo the fack are you?!?!?!?

Dennis  :  Mah name is Silas Eugene Lewis The Third…

Nan  :  Lewis the third!?! What’s he talking about? Where’s Sidney?! (leans across to shake him) DENNIS! I THINK YOU GOT A CROSSED LINE LOVE!!! 

Grandson  :  Nan, don’t touch him! It might be dangerous! Here. Let me talk to him – (addresses him in a loud and deliberate tone) WHERE ARE YOU FROM?

Dennis  :  I was born and raised in Memphis Tenessee …

Grandson  :  WHAT – DID – YOU – DO – THERE?

Nan  :  What you talking like that for? He’s facking dead not deaf!

Dennis  :  I lived on the farm with mah mah and mah pah … and they raised me right, to act like a gentleman and to always work hard and pay mah way and

Grandson  :  Wow! Was you a cowboy?

Dennis  :  Well you could say that little feller. We had a few cattle, a little livestock. Ah worked on the farm all the hours of the day that God would send … corn …. Barley …. Wheat … squash

Nan  :  (who has been looking increasingly unimpressed) Ere, I got a question (adopts the same deliberate loud tone of grandson) Ere, gobshite – What - have - you - done – with - my – husband?

Grandson  :  Nan!

Nan  :  Well! I arsked him for Sidney and we get Jerry Lee Fackin Lewis!

DENNIS STIRS - HE COMES OUT OF THE TRANCE

Nan :  Ooh, hang about …

Dennis  :  (blinking his eyes open) Oh … Did Sidney come through Mrs Taylor? Did he speak to you?

Nan  :  Oh he did love! Clear as a bell! Wonderful it was, wonderful, oh you have made me so happy I can never thank you enough son …

Dennis  :  Oh I’m so glad because you know I did say I cant always control who comes through ..

Nan  :  Oh no it was my Sidney all right, don’t you worry about that … I couldn’t mistake that voice anywhere ….

Dennis  :  What did he say?

Nan  :  Oh, he said he was very happy and he said that heaven was wonderful and he’ll be  waiting up there for me when it’s my turn … oh it was wonderful Dennis, what an amazing experience

Dennis :  Oh I am so glad Mrs Taylor – well, I’ll best be off. It does take it out of you y’know, I think I’d best get back home and have a nice lie down..

Nan  : Yes you get back to the home love, you have nice rest … Here you go – (gets her purse, gives him a handful of tenners – he says his goodbyes and leaves)

(pause)

Nan  :  WHAT A FACKING LIBERTY! The cheating conniving twisting little charlatan! Psychic my old arse! He must think I fell off a facking Christmas tree! And you! You were no use – sitting there grinning like a  simpleton while THAT twisting robbing bastard takes advantage of a poor old pensioner! Oh I don’t think I’ll ever get over this!

Grandson  :  Come on Nan, don’t get upset …I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.

He goes into the kitchen and starts assembling cups, milk etc. We see Nan tip-toeing up behind, stifling a giggle.

Nan  :  “WOOOOOOOOHHHH!” (cackles manically) 

V Festival Guide Intro 2007

Hello. I’m Hugh Emlyn Hylands, Head of Hylands Estate, Seventh Earl of Chelmsford and World Renowned Wildlife Expert. Against all better judgement, I have agreed to host this years V Festival. Welcome to my land. This is mine – all of it. There may be some among you who are labouring under the hippy dippy notion that God owns all the land. Well, he may own some of it, or indeed most of it, but he certainly doesn’t own this bloody bit. And I have the correct legal deeds to prove it. Anyway, I won’t hide the fact that I know absolutely nothing about modern music, but I do know my wildlife. And having studied the landscape in advance, here is my invaluable guide to the some of the sights and sounds you may encounter this weekend:

Amy Winehouse Parrot – The outlandish plumage of the Amy Winehouse Parrot should make her easy to spot in the most shaded of solitary branches or the most packed of gatherings – wild, colourful, cock-a-hoop and exuberant, this wonderful bird is a born performer, especially when prompted with noodle soup and a mirror.  Although the Winehouse can utter a few rudimentary words when prompted, it is most noted for its deep-throated bluesy wail. Especially when jostling for position at the watering hole.

Foo Fighter Stallion– There can be no more awe-inspiring sight than the Foo Fighter Stallion in full hurtling mane-tossing flow. Like the theme to Black Beauty played on screaming Gibson Flying Vees. Marvelous. Tried to capture one in oils once. Failed miserably I’m afraid. So I shot it and had it mounted above the fireplace.

Basement Jaxx – The natural habitat of the Basement Jack is of course indoors, in a basement. However, when wheedled blinking and nervous into the outside world, these little chaps waste no time mounting a tiny plastic wheel, a pair of headphones welded to their heads, pedaling furiously to a mind bending mix of punk funk disco and house.

Happy Mondays Monkey – A word of caution – as you pass through the thickest part of the woodland watch out for the mischievous Happy Monday Monkeys. Usually to be found lurking playfully near their friend the skunk, these lolling lolloping simians seem cute and endearing enough at first, but approach with caution. On no account must you offer them food or try to play with them. The amount of times those little buggers have had my deerstalker off and then pelted me with beer cans! It’s enough to make my blue blood boil!

Lilly Allen Butterfly – Emerging gently, blinking and wide eyed from Her Space, the Lilly Allen Butterfly flitters around the landscape in a state of perpetual drunken giddy joy. The only sound is the gentle beating of her wings. And her gob.

Primal Scream Wolf  - If camping upon my land (57 acres), your evening may be punctured by the tortured howl of the Primal Scream Wolf. These hungry lean figures of the night gather in ragged packs and circle inviting campfire glow, eagerly seeking out any revelers foolish enough to stray. My advice is to ward the buggers off with fire. If that doesn’t work, try earplugs. Even if you do get dragged off and eaten alive, it should at least drown out the endless howling.

Damien Rice Owl – Blessed is the chap or young person that has the good fortune to have his evenings reverie suddenly sound-tracked by the mournful, haunting call of the Damien Rice Owl. Wise beyond its tender years, its anguished hoot offers a strangely stirring night song to the wistful dispossessed birds of the woodland. And all this from just two notes. Astonishing 

Babyshambles – If you happen to pass a hedgerow and your ear is caught by a gentle slurred low pitched mumbling, do not be alarmed. You may have inadvertently disturbed a snoozing Baby Shamble Porcupine from his summer slumbers. Simply lift the hapless little fellow carefully from his bed, re-adjust his safety blanket of moss and bracken and lay him gently back down again. Watch out for the needles.

 Anyway, that’s the local wildlife, in all its colourful cacophonous glory. Enjoy yourselves by all means, but don’t leave any mess behind for God’s sake. Have you any idea how much help costs these days? And don’t forget to shut the bloody gate behind you.

 

 

 

V Festival Guide Intro 2008

How do. My name is Selwyn Gumstaff and I’m the Groundsman and Head Gamekeeper of the Hylands Estate. Now usually my job is to keep degenerate riff raff like you off this land, but the Gentleman of The House has obviously had his head turned by some fancy London media type. Against all my words of warning, he has decided to throw open our gates to all you rock and roller hippy traveller types. Seeing as how most of you will be strangers to the courteous ways of the country, it is my duty to introduce you to some of the wildlife that inhabits our grounds. You may see and hear some or all of these creatures during the course of your weekend “rave up”.  These are your bedfellows for your weekend of ear splitting debauchery. Treat them with respect, and I wont fill you full of buckshot. Because mark my words, I will be watching you like a hawk. Oh yes. You wont see me. But I’ll see you.

KING LEON WOLF

Come nightfall, the King Leon Lupines can be heard howling mournfully at the moon in a heartfelt fraternal chorus. Although their mangy appearance may provoke pity in the casual visitor, do not be tempted to try and feed these undernourished canines. They may look like man’s best friend, but they’ll have your arm off and carry it away to a cave in the woods before you can say “Southern Fried Rock n Roll”

THE ASHCROFT OWL

Wise beyond his tender years, the Ashcroft Owl’s mournful hooting provides a yearning clarion call for the lost and disaffected wandering through the darkest glades of the modern urban landscape. This sage old bird has migrated from the festival scene many times, only to return when domesticity threatened to render his song mute and when he ran out of cig papers. 

HOT CHIP MEERKATS

Have you seen them dancing? Really dancing? These cute little fellows may have the coy and wide-eyed demeanour of a bunch of bookish rodents, but when it gets dark you can spot entire troops of these endearing little fellows strutting their stuff in formation, emitting strange beeps and bleeps from their scrawny little throats.

MUSEOSAURUS

Dinosaurs may be extinct in the rest of the natural world, but someone forgot to tell the Museosaurus. Lumbering relentlessly around the globe like a gigantic touring Godzilla, every thundering footstep laid down by this three headed behemoth sends symphonic shock waves around the planet. Probably the only surviving beast of the ancient Progrockacious Era, the Museosaurus thrives in the wide-open spaces of the festival environment.  

STEREOPHONIC PIT PONY

A trusty old work horse of the festival scene, the Stereophonic Pit Pony tends to trundle along in a trad rock furrow of it’s own distinct making. Unless of course it gets stung on the arse by a wasp, when it suddenly rears up into a flaming nostrilled stallion and goes galloping over the hillside in a screech of feedback and a thunder of hooves. 

LENNY KRAVITZ

Lenny the Lion has been a fixture on the rock n roll landscape since the year dot. Tossing his mane proudly as he struts to the watering hole, this regal old feller has lost none of his charm and pizzazz. He may be a tad lead legged when it comes to rutting lady lions these days, but when it comes to natural showmanship there are none dandier than Len. 

PEACH FACED GIRLS ALOUD LOVE BIRDS

Their delicate nature led many to believe that these gloriously plumaged birds would wither and fall from their perch in the harsh and unforgiving glare of the hardcore rock n roll woodland. Far from it – wherever a spotlight falls, these melodious songstresses positively flourish.

THE PRODIGY PEACOCK 

With it’s garish plumage, bristling stance and shrill piercing shriek, the Prodigy Peacock is a bird of both beauty and menace. It’s natural habitat is the open fields of South East England strutting manically to a repetitive beat whilst gurning at all and sundry. Breathtaking in full flight, but tends to frighten very young children.

KING BROWN MONKEY

His shuffling gait and heavy lidded demeanour may lull the casual observer into thinking the King Brown Monkey spends his days lolling around in trees and scratching his hairy belly whilst staring up at the sky. But underestimate him at your peril – he may smoke his own bodyweight in vegetation every morning, but the King Brown Monkey is a keen exponent of simian martial arts. One false move and he’ll chop your hands off. 

THE POGUE MAHONE PIG 

Imported from the rolling green pastures of rural Ireland, there is nothing this aged beast likes better than wallowing in a field full of mud and swill whilst banging a tin tray repeatedly against it’s skull. Has been sent to the butchers on several occasions to be chopped up into bits of breakfast, only to escape to the nearest boozer and spend the day swilling from the trough and shitting itself. 

Right, you’ve been warned. You might think you’re all hip and groovy, with your modern music and your “gear”, but remember – the countryside has a code. Break it at your peril. And if you or any of your bloody teepees are still here on Monday morning, I’ll set the bloody dogs on you.

 

 

When You Wake You're Still In A Dream

Ever had Sleep Paralysis? 

I've had two unhealthy doses. 

The first one was about twenty years ago. I’d got back from Glastonbury after a weekend of general over-indulgence and very little kip. At that time I lived on the attic floor of a big old house. I spent the evening watching the box then turned in about half nine. I was kipping on a double mattress slung on the floor, the room was in bathed in that weird summer half-dusk twilight and for some reason, despite me extreme fatigue, I was finding it hard to drop off. I think I was “beyond meself”, as they say. I managed a few fitful naps, kept jolting awake and drifting off again. I put this down to the remnants of the weekends revellery still rampaging round me bloodstream, a gradual winding down, last orders for me metabolism, so to speak. The landlord inside me head was shouting “can we have your glasses please, do yer talking while yer walking” etc etc. After a bit I realised I was staring up at the ceiling, fully awake, the room now fallen fairly dark. All sorts of random stuff was racing through me noggin. Then, for some reason – and I remember this very very clearly – I thought “Hhhmm, Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller – what a strange couple that was” And with that I felt this sudden massive crushing on me chest, like some big strong fucker had suddenly dropped down with both palms onto me and was pinning me to the deck. Me first and most obvious instinct was that some cunt had got into the room, which wasn’t entirely unlikely as it was a shared house with more than it’s fair share of itinerant weirdo’s. I tried to get up but this fucking thing rammed me down with renewed vigour, as though sensing me resistance. It felt exactly like big heavy hands across me chest and shoulders. Me second instinct was to open me eyes. An that’s when I properly shat meself, cos in a heartbeat I realised that my eyes were wide open, I wasn’t having a dream and there was fucking no-one there. No one. But could I fuck raise meself against this overwhelming weight. And as soon as I realised that I was shot through with a bolt of absolute pure terror. I mean stark raw fear the likes of which I have never ever experienced before, a terror that is virtually impossible to put into words. I felt as though I was in the presence of something absolutely unspeakably evil and it was hell-bent on ripping my heart out of my chest and feeding it to the fucking hounds of hell. Writing this is making me break out into a sweat, I can still almost taste the fear of this evil evil motherfucker. I tried to shout out, but the sound was frozen dead in me throat.

 

And then, as suddenly as it had dropped down on me, the weight was lifted. And then I started fucking floating towards the bastard ceiling. I clearly remember thinking “Oh Jesus, this is happening, this is actually fucking happening.” It was like I was utterly weightless, full of helium. I could see the artex on the apex of the ceiling getting closer and closer. I remember thinking, if I look round I’ll see me own body on the bed, so I looked round over me shoulder and saw an empty bed, every detail of the sweat soaked sheets below me. That’s when I started properly sobbing. I remember thinking, am I going to heaven? Is this being dead? The ceiling got close enough to touch so I reached out and touched it and then I woke up in me bed blathered in sweat and shrieking and crying like an infant.

 

I pelted down the stairs. There was no one in the gaff, everyone was out. I turned a radio on to hear a human voice, some normality to bring me back down but all I could get was white noise. The clock said twenty past eleven. All of this is etched onto me memory cos I kept thinking, “Is this real? Is this real?” I was in a right two and eight. Eventually I got radio 4 and calmed down enough to make a cup of tea and take stock.

 

Over the next few days I was jittery as fuck. Everyone who I spoke to about it either thought I was lying, on drugs, or had just had a nightmare. Eventually I went to the library and did some looking up and found a few articles like the ones above. Then I realised I hadn’t imagined it and I wasn’t insane. Which was a relief, but for a few weeks after I was still a bit wary of bedtime and what it might bring.

 

The next episode was a fucking pearler. Around a year or so later, I’d got me own flat and was seeing this bird. We tended to have big dramatic rows and without boring you with the details, one of these culminated in me spending a fitful night kipping in a car outside me own flat. When I eventually got into me own quarters, I was cream crackered and decided to go to bed for the day and get some proper sleep. I got into the scratcher, completely exhausted and fell straight into the land of nod.

 

Woke up again some time later, same thing, Giant fuckin Haystacks on me chest. Broad daylight outside. The same sickening dread in the guts, the presence of sheer evil in the room like an ominous stink. But this time I knew what was going on. “You’re asleep, you’re asleep” I kept saying in me head. Then the weight lifted and the door opened and in strolled this fucker with a top hat and a bone through his nose and his face all blacked up with boot polish. A bastard voodoo man with a crazy fixed grin and leering eyes and the cunt was there right in front of me, clear as day, as solid 3-D real as the rest of the room. There was me wardrobe, there was me clothes on the floor, there was the door and the window and there was a jauntily dressed demonic cunt with a topper and a bone through his bugle, boot polish about an inch thick on his boat race. (years later, when I saw that DAAAAVE out of League Of Gentlemen I had a brief but horrific flashback. Seriously thought someone was taking the piss)

Anyway, this dude strolled up to me bedside and I was sat up in bed too frozen too move. He came right up next to me and bent down to stare into my eyes. “You’re not real,” I said. “Oh aren’t I?” he grinned. “Well, that means I can’t do this then” And he reached down and grabbed me wrist and twisted with both hands, gave me a Chinese burn.

 I woke up shouting and screaming again, and I’d grabbed me own wrist and was twisting fuck out of it.

 I can only conclude two things from these two carry-ons: one, there is a strange land halfway between consciousness and sleep which is more powerful than anything else on hell, heaven or earth. And two, I never ever want to have sleep paralysis again. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

I’m knackered after recalling all that now. I’m off for a lie down. 

The Pen Is Mightier Than The Guitar

“I can make it longer if you like the style

I can change it round and I wanna be a paperback writer”

 

 

Macca may have been having a sly dig at his song writing partner for having literary leanings, but John Lennon wasn’t the only rock n roller to recognise the powerful connection between pen and guitar. As well as being a public mocking of Lennon’s pretensions, Paperback Writer was perhaps also a grudging acknowledgement of his pioneering achievement. Lennon’s two books “Spaniard In The Works” and “In His Own Write” were not just the indulgences of a bored rock star. Both are absorbing and enjoyable collections of Joycean Gobbledygook and Goonish surrealism, both credible to the Academy and, crucially, made accessible to a new generation of readers by virtue of the rock superstar status of their author. This in itself was another of The Beatles small but important acts of revolution. Because although it may be a curious notion from today’s perspective, where top 40 CD’s and Nick Hornby novels sit happily side by side on the Virgin Mega Store shelf, back in the day they occupied very opposite ends of the social spectrum.

     Back in the late fifties and early sixties, literature was supposed to be highbrow, intellectual, of the academy. Rock n roll’s triumph was to be the untutored scream from the street, the brazenly low-brow yelp that articulated a feeling wrenched up from the gut or groin. DH Lawrence never wrote a book called Tooty Frooty and Buddy Holly would never release a single called The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.

     Rock and roll and literature first came together in the public consciousness with Jack Kerouac’s beat generation epic “On The Road”. Although the book had been first drafted in the early fifties and took as it’s narrative time frame the be-bop jazz of the immediate post war years of the late forties, it’s publication in 1957 perfectly coincided with the massive impact of Elvis Presley and the emerging teenage pop culture in Britain and the USA. As far as the mass public was concerned, “On The Road”, with its fast cars, wild music and tales of juvenile delinquency was the very first rock n roll novel. Kerouac’s love of jazz phrasing directly influenced his writing style, crafting epically long stream of consciousness sentences that meandered across the page like the joyful exhalations of a Charlie Parker saxophone solo. This method of writing to the rhythms of the current music of the times was echoed forty years later when Irvine Welsh laid down the brutal lines of Trainspotting to the hard repetitive beats of acid house.

The other writers that made up the loose collective of the Beat Generation – most notably William Burroughs and Alan Ginsberg – were to play a huge influence after the first primal beats of rock n roll had echoed from the swamp of a post Hiroshima America and evolved into the musical counter-culture that reverberated into the sixties, seventies and beyond. Ginsberg’s “Howl” was a massive influence on the young Bob Dylan, who soaked up and spat back out its angry political energy and vivid freewheeling verbosity on his own incendiary early releases. His self penned album sleeves were writ heavy with the hand of the Beats, all anarchic imagery and amphetamine-fuelled synapse. By 1972 Dylan had took the next logical step and published his own Beat Novel, the largely incomprehensible “Tarantula”. Unfortunately hardly anyone read it, and of those who did only the most determinedly devoted Dylan follower pretended to know what it was about. Thankfully Bob abandoned his literary career and kept his lyrical energy cooped up where it worked best, in three or four minute bursts of melodic bile.

Over in New York City, Lou Reed and The Velvet Underground didn’t so much as wear their literary influences on their sleeve as drag them around on a dog collar and lead. They were named after an S&M themed pulp fiction novel and sang songs inspired by the Marquis De Sade and the poet Delmore Schwartz. During his later solo career, Lou Reed made explicit his debt to hard boiled realist writers such as Hubert Selby Jnr and Raymond Chandler in his tough bitten tales of New York street life.

Later on, Burroughs perfected the “cut-up” – a method of writing that involved slashing an established page of text to pieces and re-assembling it at random in the name of spontaneous juxtaposition. By using the cut-up, the artist absolves himself of any authorial responsibility and restrains his own ego from directing the narrative flow.

This was an approach that hugely appealed to David Bowie who at the time was pretending to be a cold-blooded alien from outer space. The idea of formulating song lyrics from such a coldly dispassionate process fitted right in with his then remote outsider stance. When applied to the actual sonic fabric of music itself, the cut-up theory later found it’s natural correlation in the art of sampling. Much of the early hip-hop and electro music that came out of New York in the late seventies and early eighties was the musical equivalent of a Burroughs collage, plundering bass lines and beats from such disparate sources as ancient soul records, UK bubble gum pop and early seventies Krautrock.

  After punk exploded, literature and rock music were locked in a loving embrace, never to be disentangled. Perhaps not surprisingly Irish and Anglo-Irish musicians have always dipped their pens in the deep inky tradition of their country’s lettermen and women, from The Pogues early Brendan Behan inspired suits, The Waterboys adaptation of WB Yeats poetry and Morrissey’s early insistence of being photographed with an Oscar Wilde Collection to hand. Other musicians noted for their lyrical prowess such as Nick Cave and Billy Bragg have took the next logical step and become credible published authors in their own right. The very best rock music and literature share much common ground – particularly the power to transport the human soul above the mundane. It’s a rich and fertile country. Someone should write a book about it. 

Does The Devil Have All The Best Tunes?

“The Devil Should Not Have All The Best Tunes” – The Reverend Rowland Hill, Pastor Of Surrey Chapel, London, 1884

 

Somewhere in the corner of heaven reserved for retired spokesmen, the ghost of an irate Reverend Hill must be stamping his cloud in fury. Over a hundred and twenty years since his earnest pulpit assertions, the Devil not only still has the best record collection, but he never even paid for it – he got it for free off Limewire. In Rock N Roll, bad equals good. The evidence is so overwhelming it hardly warrants repeating, but, just for the sake of argument, lets throw a couple of contrasting names into the cauldron:  a) Shaun Ryder – The King Leer of Voodoo Rhythms, former smack head, petty thief and hooligan; leader of one of the most original and imitated bands of the last twenty years. Exemplified a sound and attitude that continues to send dark tremors throughout the rock n roll landscape to this day. b) Cliff Richard – 50’s Elvis Impersonator. Satin jacketed roller skater. Drinker of Barley Water. About as rock n roll as a Readers Digest Convention in Skegness. And before the self-righteous Mistletoe and Wine lovers of miffed Middle England reach for their scented pads of Basildon Bond, yes Cliff may have had more Number One’s and Royal Command Performances than anyone else in existence - but don’t tell me that he wouldn’t have traded all those wet Wimbledon Sing-a-longs and establishment pats on the back for one, just one cheeky half hour in a King Size Jacuzzi with three Penthouse Pets and a bottle of heavy metal mouthwash. No, lets face the facts, pop fans - the tablets that contain the Commandments of Pious Pop are based on Thou Shalt Not, and the Stones of His Satanic Majesty are engraved firmly with Do Whatever The Damn Thou Likest. And it’s the former that informs the true (un) Holy Spirit of Rock N Roll.

     Ever since Robert Johnson handed his guitar over for re-tuning at that Mississippi Crossroads in 1936 to Potty Pete Docherty, Evil Pied Piper of the present day pop kids, the best music is always besmirched with the sticky stains of wickedness. Think Elvis’s banned Pelvis; Jimmy Page’s Crowley fixated pagan folk spells, Mick Jagger’s Samba Beat Sympathy, Johnny “I am the Anti-Christ!” Rotten, the crucifix kissing Miss Cicconne. The front pages of pop have always being plastered with lurid headlines of devilish outrage. SEX! DRUGS! ROCK N ROLL! It’s a heady and potent trinity, the beguiling magic of which is unlikely to be de-throned at this late stage of the game by the joys of staying in and having an early night with a good book and a mug of Horlicks.

    But hold on just one God fearing minute!! What about the power of good? Alright, ripping up the rulebook can be enormous fun, but what about the positive properties of music? Can a tune not heal as well as destroy? What about the Reverend Al Green’s heart-felt testifying, Aretha Franklin’s white-hot pleas for salvation, Van Morrison’s transcendental Inarticulate Speech Of The Heart, Elvis Presley dropping to his knees and proclaiming How Great Thou Art? Granted, the more teeth gritting extremes of Christian Rock may well be tedious, but then so is Norwegian Death Metal. So, in the name of fair play, lets hear the case for the good guys who are actually really good - and not just goody-goody. 

Well for a start, there’s Gospel music – the font in which all decent black music was baptised, and therefore most decent music full stop. Without the American Gospel Church as a training ground, modern popular music as we know it would simply not exist. Even the most sternly committed atheist could not deny the sheer emotional power of a gospel choir in full devotional flight. Richard Dawkins only wrote his book about the non-existence of God because he had never owned an album by the Voices Of East Harlem.

       U2 are probably the biggest and most successful band in the last thirty years who have managed to maintain at least some measure of artistic credibility without recourse to shock theatrics or devilish outrage. A thirty-year career of both thrilling stadiums and lobbying parliament, the Dublin four piece have never made any secret of their Christian beliefs and deeply held humanitarian impulse. Bono’s preacher man bluster may bring a grimace to the cynical, but it could be argued that more kids become members of Amnesty International because of the U2 front man’s on-stage hollerings than any politician. Yes he may come across as a pious prat in wrap around shades but in setting himself up as singing civil rights activist Bono has arguably changed more hearts and minds than any amount of government backed initiatives. When it would have surely been easier to stay in his mansion and count his hat collection. Plus, apart from a late eighties blip when they forgot their sense of humour and released the pompously bloated Rattle and Hum, U2 have consistently weaved a genuinely inspired and inspirational noise from the sum of their trad-rock parts.

           Heavy Metal is largely responsible for both placing the Devil centre stage in rock music and, ultimately, robbing him of his power to shock. Our forefathers in the seventies may well have genuinely believed that Black Sabbath had struck some sinister deal with Beelzebub in exchange for platinum album sales in America. But only the slackest jawed of fools could consider the present day Ozzy Ozbourne as being in league with the Devil. Unless of course you believe that the Devil’s present guise is that of a talent show judge. The Ozzy of 2008 has more in common with Dame Edna Everidge than the Prince Of Darkness. What seemed dark and dangerous thirty five years ago has now been stripped of virtually all it’s sinister mystique by reality TV and the over exposure of constant music channel rotation. Back then, it was easy to believe that a band like Led Zeppelin all lived together in a spooky castle and spent their evenings composing satanic incantations by firelight. Now we know full well that Marilyn Manson is actually a pantomime dame whose real name is Brian. Perhaps the final debunking of the Heavy Metal Devil Myth came in the Judas Priest 1987 trial in America, when the band were accused of disguising satanic messages in their music, encouraging their fans to commit suicide. As lead singer Rob Halford rightly pointed out from the witness stand, if they were going to place a subliminal message in their music it would be “Buy More Judas Priest Albums”. 

        At the end of the day, you can’t take any of it seriously. Not really. Mylo’s “Destroy Rock N Roll” features a sample of an enraged US Evangelist preacher reeling off a warning list of so-called “satanic” recording artists over an ominous house beat. These are meant to be the names to strike fear and dread into all pure and right thinking hearts. Around forty seconds into the track you’re rolling around on the floor in hysterics. Bonny Tyler? Huey Lewis and The News? Reo Speedwagon? The word “incredulous” springs to mind. There simply aren’t enough exclamation marks in existence. If the Devil has an iPod, he’s probably got Mylo on repeat. And he’s probably howling with satanic laughter.