Blues - Don't Stop the Music

 

 

 

 

In my life, music soothes everything.  There’s a song for every occasion. Putting all the Christmas stuff away includes taking The Moody Blues ‘December’ album off the CD player. I will miss singing along to their version of In the Bleak Mid-Winter.  I got strange looks in church some years ago when it sounded like I’d made up my own descant.

Back to work, reasonably accepting that this is ‘my lot’ for a while longer, and hopefully just a little while.  I will do the best I can as we all do. We smile, we’re helpful, we care and not everyone appreciates us, but that’s life.  The other day was enough for me to remark that the season of goodwill was well and truly over and the chill of the waiting room was a result of the frostiness of the occupants. I’m speaking my mind, after all, being quiet hasn’t got me anywhere.

For those still carrying the winter blues, take a chill pill, put some music on and turn the volume up.

I’ve been listening to Tom Walker’s ‘What A Time To Be Alive’, a welcome Christmas gift. He’s more ‘indie pop/folk’ than ‘blues’, and younger than most musicians I listen to. My introduction to him was when he supported my favourite Moody Blues member, John Lodge on a solo tour a few years ago. You can be forgiven for thinking that I don’t move far from my favourite band, though my record and CD collection is eclectic.

It would seem that The Moody Blues have stopped touring as a band. No official announcement and so far, no farewell concerts, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been fortunate to travel all over the country to many concerts on umpteen UK tours and have lots of good memories, some which have been shared on here from time to time. It is decades since I watched and listened in awe to a schoolboy rock band practising ‘Nights In White Satin’ at youth club, or sang along to ‘Question’ on the juke box in our empty pub. It has been an eventful journey of wonderful music. Long may it continue with the soloists.

Aside from the Moody Blues, I like the Rolling Stones ‘Let It Bleed’ album for its great bluesy tracks. And just for the record, Tommy Steele’s ‘Singing the Blues’ is the best cover.

With a blog theme of ‘Blues’, how could I resist the Moodies? And if you know me, you’ll understand and possibly yawn. Sorry.

I wrote this poem after a night at the London O2. We were moved from ground floor seating to higher up, which I didn’t want but it turned out to be a good experience in watching the arena fill up and observing other fans having a great night.

 

 

The Concert.

 

The lights are lowered, silence fills the arena

As the minstrels move through darkness on to the stage.

This is the moment, breathless anticipation,

Travelling eternity road has been an age.

 

Then a flute’s haunting melody rises above

Twin guitar riffs to take lead of the symphony.

Slow, bass drum, and applause reaches a crescendo,

Orchestral rock and voices singing harmony.

 

On the threshold of ecstasy, keeping the faith,

We’ve made this pilgrimage so many times before,

To be rewarded with autographs and handshakes

After waiting patiently outside the stage door.

 

PMW

 

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I Woke Up This Morning...

I’ve always loved the Blues.  The music, that is, not the mood, which I’ve experienced enough to know it’s not a love of mine.

I’m not sure where my love of blues music stems from but I think it might have started at school.  The sixth form at my rather formal Grammar School was a bit of a revelation to me.  Suddenly, everything became much more relaxed and casual.  We were allowed to wear our own clothes, lads could grow their hair long, (this was the late sixties, after all), boys and girls could sit together and, best of all, we had a common room with coffee and a record player.   It was the height of sixties teen sophistication.

Having been brought up on Jim Reeves, Diana Ross and Shirley Bassey, with a side order of Paul Robson and Billy Cotton on a Sunday, I was unprepared for the haunting sounds that issued from that common room record player.  Nick and Bob, two of my long-haired fellow pupils (and quite sought after by the girls), were the fonts of all musical knowledge in 1968, and if they spun those old Blues discs then there had to be something in it.  Even the artists’ names held a kind of magic – Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Lead Belly, Memphis Slim, Billie Holiday……

Now, I roll them around my tongue, say them slowly out loud and my grandson laughs.  He doesn’t know – and why should he? –that these were people whose songs were born out of poverty and prejudice, a protest against bullying and slavery.  This music really did come from the heart – hearts broken and beaten but not yet defeated.

Nick and Bob didn’t just pay lip service to the Blues, they played them live.  Pretty well, I thought.  Lesson breaks, lunchtime, the odd evening event after school, Nick and Bob picked up their guitars and harmonicas, thought themselves into sombre moods and imitated that Ol’ Blues style that had obviously played a large part in shaping their musical experiences.

Fast forward a few years…..

I was at Art College when I met the young man who would eventually become my old man.  Here was someone with an extensive knowledge of – and enthusiasm for - music, and a formidable collection of LPs, EPs and singles.  Dave sealed the deal the first time he took me to a Blues concert.

Fast forward once again, another thirty years, to Blackpool and the Kite Club.  Every Friday evening Blues enthusiasts would gather in this hot, stuffy room above the Raikes Hotel, and wait for the bands to come shuffling onto the scuffed makeshift stage and transport us back to a land where times were more than hard and blessings were rare.  This was years before the smoking ban and the smell of cigarettes and weed will be forever linked in my senses with that ubiquitous opening line, “Well, I woke up this morning….. “  Haunting, low and slow….

One week we arrived a bit late (babysitter problems if I remember rightly). The band was in full Blues mode, and the audience suitably chilled.   We edged our way in and perched on a table at the back of the room.  This was my kind of music.  The Blues at its melancholy best.  I closed my eyes and let the music wash away the last thirty years, back to that sixth form common room, with its orange chairs and migraine inducing psychedelic cushions; Nick and Bob, expressions pained, giving it their seventeen year old all; the smell of cheap instant coffee; the sound of inane chatter; I was there, whispering and giggling with my best friend (who would go on to marry, then divorce Nick).  I never told her that I’d got a bit of a crush on Bob.

The music ended. I lazily opened my eyes, took a sip of cold beer and focused on the middle aged, bald and slightly tubby lead singer sitting on a chair at the front of the stage.  He smiled at the audience and introduced the next song as he tuned his guitar. I suddenly had a very strange feeling.  I turned to my husband,  “When that singer stands up,” I whispered, “if his legs are too short for his body, I know him.”

My husband gave me a look that was both puzzled and worried.

The singer stood up.  His legs were too short for his body.

It’s a very odd experience to unexpectedly meet someone after thirty odd years, two hundred miles away from where you last knew them, at a venue you frequent every week.  It’s even more odd when that someone has become relatively well known in the music world, formed a band, put on weight and lost all that lovely long hair.

We hugged, we laughed, we promised to keep in touch, but of course we didn’t.  That’s quite sad.

I'd like to think he wrote a song about it…..

Photo - Jill Reidy: Red Snapper Photography

Singing The Blues - Guy Mitchell 1956
Well, I never felt more like singin' the blues

'cause I never thought that I'd ever lose

Your love dear, why'd you do me this way?

Well, I never felt more like cryin' all night

'cause everythin's wrong, and nothin' ain't right

Without you, you got me singin' the blues.

The moon and stars no longer shine

The dream is gone I thought was mine

There's nothin' left for me to do

But cry-y-y-y over you (cry over you)

Well, I never felt more like runnin' away

But why should I go 'cause I couldn't stay

Without you, you got me singin' the blues.

Well, I never felt more like singin' the blues

'cause I never thought that I'd ever lose

Your love dear, why'd you do me this way?

Well, I never felt more like cryin' all night

'cause everythin's wrong, and nothin' ain't right

Without you, you got me singin' the blues.

The moon and stars no longer shine

The dream is gone I thought was mine

There's nothin' left for me to do

But cry-y-y-y over you (cry over you)

Well, I never felt more like runnin' away

But why should I go 'cause I couldn't stay

Without you, you got me singin' the blues.

 

Jill Reidy 

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Simple Blues

I must be suffering from Obsessive Blogging Disorder! It's just shy of midnight and I haven't had time to think, let alone write - but I don't want to shirk my duty to the Saturday Blog, so here's a token multi-media submission on the theme of Blues:

Quote of the day:
"Who would have thought supporting a football club could be so difficult?"

Image of the day:

Sea Of Hull Art Installation

Audiolink of the day: surprise fabs demo

Normal service will be resumed next week, S ;-)

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Blues - I have one connotation and need the other.

Blues noun

plural noun: the blues

1. 1.

   melancholic music of black American folk origin, typically in a twelve-bar sequence. It developed in the rural southern US towards the end of the 19th century, finding a wider audience in the 1940s, as blacks migrated to the cities. This urban blues gave rise to rhythm and blues and rock and roll.

   • a piece of blues music.
2. 2.

   Formal

   feelings of melancholy, sadness, or depression, .

   "she's got the blues"

   synonyms:

   depression, sadness, unhappiness, melancholy, misery, sorrow, gloominess, gloom, dejection, downheartedness, despondency, dispiritedness, low spirits, heavy-heartedness, glumness, moroseness, dismalness, despair;

   antonyms:

   happiness

Here comes the rain again.  This week I promised myself some sunshine but I had forgotten that Wimbledon is in its final week, hence intermittent showers will persist until at least Sunday. I ran around yesterday, like a headless chicken, tidying my garden in anticipation of the Thursday green bin collection. I have paid Wyre Council an extra £30 for this service and am so determined to put out a full load every two weeks, that I was still trimming privet as the light turned to rose. Despite a sky overloaded with black, tower-blocks of cloud, the twilight sky was awash with soft, delicate shades of pink.

I needed to do some gardening. I was getting the blues. Correction - I have been feeling more than a little blue for some time. I am in a low mood, although life is busy and that usually keeps the blues away, something has triggered bad feeling in me that I don't usually have when things are going reasonably well. So why do I feel so low;

• I have over 90% responsibility for my Mum's care. 
• I have been working behind the scenes on the #wearehere project - most Sundays and Wednesday evenings for the four weeks prior to 1st July - and although this has been an incredible experience - I haven't really had a 'day of rest' in a while.
• My family have all visited from all over the country, Spain and Canada. They all have wonderful lives and sun-tans. I haven't had any sunshine since last September.
• I have become a compulsive cleaner - really I can't go anywhere without cleaning. However, should you invite me round, out of the blue now that I have imparted this knowledge, I will know that you have an ulterior motive. I will not come round unless you promise to lock away all your cloths and cleaning products. 
• I need a Jazz fix.  It is a very long time since I went to any kind of Jazz scene event. This is terrible. Kula Shaker were great but I am a Jazz lady. Courtney Pine at Lancaster Jazz Festival was great - but eons ago. I need Jazz and I need it now.  
• My own baby girl is about to become a mother for the first (and she says, last) time.  Unfortunately I think that I have been so in love with her bump and so busy looking at Gran-Baby things that I may have been errant in my duties as her mother. You see she thinks that being pregnant is the difficult bit...
• My son and his girlfriend have been in Lanzarote this week. I seem to have been force-fed football, beer and pretzels. I do like a bit of footie - but four internationals in one week? I haven't had to watch so many matches since Egypt 2002, when England beat Germany and Argentina in the World Cup. Oh how I miss the heady days when we could actually kick a ball into the back of a net. I am writing this on Wednesday and will have to watch Wales annihilate Portugal this evening. (I had to come back and edit this - Portugal won 2-0). 

So there it is, in a rather protracted nutshell. The reason I am feeling, blue, depressed, melancholic, low, despondent and heavy-hearted is "all of the above."

Thinking about the tragic loss of twenty-thousand young men on the first day of the Battle of the Somme put my own woes perfectly into perspective. Last Friday I took a little time to encounter local lads, all volunteers, who paraded silently through Blackpool and Wyre streets in WW1 uniform.  They have spent eight weeks, sweating, rehearsing their tableaux every Wednesday night and all day most Sunday's, to help realise the vision of Turner prize winner Jeremy Deller's incredibly moving tribute to the soldiers who died that day, one hundred years ago.

We have all shared WW1 stories as part of the assimilation. Mum had photo's of her Uncle Bob who served in the Army Air Corps, (the fore-runner to the RAF), I shared them with the lads, to help them get their moustaches right for the period. I accompanied them to a mass rehearsal at the old Granada TV studios in Manchester. That day, I was lucky enough to meet Jeremy Deller and the very lovely Emily from The National Theatre . It has given me some insight into the choreography and the intended impact of the small,white cards, given to the public by the young actors, each bearing the name of a soldier who died on 1st July 1916.

This was to be a WW1 centenary that would connect with people during their morning commute, sitting having a coffee or walking in our nation's city centres.  People who were busy thinking about anything but the sacrifice made by our fore-fathers 100 years ago.  The effect of the piece, for anyone who encountered it on Friday, may have been immediate or perhaps they shared their feelings later, with friends or colleagues. Twitter went over the top that day.

I wasn't allowed to talk about the project, known as Octagon, under threat of excommunication and for a communicator and press officer that is a very big ask. During the away-day at Manchester, I did have a little time to sit in a corner of the floor and write. I emailed the poem to Jeremy last Thursday: my way of getting in early to thank him for his wonderful gift to our great nation. "Bless 'em all... the long and the short and the tall."

 

 

 

Passing On

Khaki and canvas kitted lads,

Caked in grease,

Bathed in terracotta clay,

Earth-worn knees and elbows

Kitted, booted, belted,

Tin hats at the ready

For another trench filled day.

This is not war,

This is loss.

Loss revisited on a bustling street.

Organic: Seamlessly spontaneous,

Mindfully rehearsed,

In studios,

In secret.

This is loss,

Encountered by a new generation.

A high gloss generation,

Eye-glued to technology,

Nails, hair, clothes,

Styled to perfection,

For another carefree day

On this first day of July,

Spirits of our war-dead

With the living intertwine.

Not in prescriptive poem,

Nor in a staged and scripted play,

Each of twenty thousand men

Are resurrected and remembered,

In an extraordinary way.

On this anniversary,

The soldiers of the Somme

Sit beside us, stand among us

As a century of barriers

To sharing unimaginable loss

Crumble into wind-blown dust.

A living, breathing,

Monument to Peace,

Engages us in voiceless volumes

And passes on.  

Adele V Robinson (for Jeremy Deller - 1st July 2016) 

 

Thank you for reading folks. Be kind to each other. Adele

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Games People Play

When I heard the announcement that Joe South had passed away, I felt personally bereaved. I remember the disbelief as I hurried to the radio at the end of my kitchen as if being in closer proximity to the source of information would change anything. It didn’t.

Joe South was an American songwriter and performer. His style has been described as country / soul. He wrote Lynn Anderson’s hit, ‘(I Never Promised You A) Rose Garden)’ but the song I hold him dear for is ‘Games People Play’. I couldn’t get enough of that guitar intro, so rich and deep, then repeating through the song. I wasn’t listening properly to the words, just singing along without paying attention. It was 1969 and I was waking up to the music of the time and developing my life-long love of the blues and progressive rock. ‘Games People Play’ I thought was very bluesy. It was the best thing on the juke-box in our public bar.

I was brought up in an assortment of pubs. My parents, grandparents and other family members were licensees. There was always music on, somewhere. I spent my childhood to mid- teens being drip-fed the ‘Hit Parade’ from juke-boxes, the wireless, as it was known, and my mother’s record collection. It’s a legacy I feel thankful and privileged for.  1969 was a year of significant changes for my family. Those memories are wrapped in the music, including ‘Games People Play’.

Fast-forward a few years. Living in a house instead of a pub felt weird, too quiet and too small. I was working in my first proper job, which didn’t involve washing glasses or filling shelves with Britvic or Schweppes bottles. Sunday afternoons were for lazing around, listening to the Dave Lee Travis request show on Radio 1. He played good stuff. I decided to join in, so using a Parker fountain pen filled with turquoise ink and bright orange paper and envelope, (this is the early ‘70s), I wrote a letter to DLT requesting ‘Games People Play’ and was thrilled when he gave me a mention and played the record. My name on the radio! It was like being famous. My favourite DJ played one of my favourite songs for me. What a shame there was only me to hear it and no ‘listen again’ facility in those days. It was a memorable, special moment, none the less.

That guitar riff still stops me in my tracks and takes me straight back to those happy days. I’ve learnt to understand the poetry of the lyrics and when news of his death came through in September, 2012, I cried.
 

With thanks to Joe South, for what his song means to me.

Games People Play

Oh the games people play now

Every night and every day now

Never meaning what they say now

Never saying what they mean

While they wile away the hours

In their ivory towers

Till they’re covered up with flowers

In the back of a black limousine

Chorus

La da da da da da da

La da da da da da de

Talking ‘bout you and me

And the games people play

Oh we make one another cry

Break a heart then we say goodbye

Cross our hearts and we hope to die

That the other was to blame

But neither one ever will give in

So we gaze at an eight by ten

Thinking ‘bout the things that might have been

And it’s a dirty rotten shame

Chorus

People walking up to you

Singing glory hallelujah

And they try to sock it to you

In the name of the Lord

They’re gonna teach you how to meditate

Read your horoscope, cheat your fate

And further more to hell with hate

Come on and get on board

Chorus

Look around tell me what you see

What’s happening to you and me

God grant me the serenity

To remember who I am

‘Cos you’ve given up your sanity

For your pride and your vanity

Turned your back on humanity

And you don’t give a da da da da da

Chorus

Joe South, 1940 - 2012

Thanks for reading - Pamela Winning

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