Hole, writing a song about Yoko Ono is one of the most brilliantly predictable things that could have happened in 90s rock. The parallels between Ono and herself would have been ringing out loud and clear to Courtney Love as her husband’s band grew to become a globally recognised name, and Love would almost certainly have slapped down anyone who addressed her as being “only” Kurt’s wife. Like Ono, she was an artist in her own right and was married to a man who, in the eyes of many, transcended the label of “musician” and her reward was vilification. Other similarities include drug use and the early deaths of their husbands - via different means - to firearms.
Ultimately, what links Love and Ono is a steel and toughness; quiet and playful in Ono’s case, belligerent and angry in Love’s. What she makes clear in 20 Years in the Dakota, both to herself and the “riot grrrls” trying to bring her down is that Ono is the patron saint of them all, and that none of them will ever truly be able to repay the debt they owe to her. I do find myself wondering who The Fabulous Four would have been in Love’s case: Kurt, Krist, Dave and…..Butch?
At 1:34, the focus of the song shifts from Yoko to Courtney, touching on - among other things - motherhood (My waters break like turpentine), but more pertinently, a recognition of her husband’s developing death wish: The pee girl burns to be a bride/Your ever lovely suicide. Cobain’s heroin usage was growing to the extent that overdoses were becoming an almost normal occurrence for him. In contrast, Love was trying to clean up her health, perhaps shaken by a lengthy and expensive battle the Cobains had gone through with The Department of Family Services, which had seen a very real risk of their daughter, Frances, being taken into care.
In late spring [1993], [Love] hired a psychic to help her kick drugs. Kurt balked at paying the bills from the psychic and laughed at her advice that the couple needed to reject “all toxins”. Courtney took it seriously however; she attempted to stop smoking, began drinking fresh-squeezed juice every day and attended Narcotics Anonymous. Kurt taunted his wife at first, but then encouraged her to attend N.A. meetings if only so he had more free time to get loaded. (Charles R. Cross, Heavier Than Heaven, page 276, Sceptre, 2001)
At its conclusion, 20 Years in the Dakota features one final audacious touch, with the band working in a tribute to the end of Hey Jude, but replacing its choral enormity with a droopier, hazier feel as the lines I don’t remember, I forget fall away like someone nodding off into a drug induced stupor.
In the event, Ono spent 50 years in the Dakota, finally selling her apartment in 2023.
Video courtesy of David Rolfe’s Rock and Metal Channel
The Radio 1 Fun Computer has rather scrambled their names, unless one of them has a surname spelled K-v-b-o-m which I rather doubt - John Peel, introducing Nelories’ session on 9/4/93.
NOTE - The order of tracks on the show was different to the order on the video. It was originally broadcast to run as follows: Run Free > Trampoline > Neutral Blue > Garlic. This post will follow the order of tracks on the video.
On Sunday 14 March, 1993, Jun Kurihara and Kazmi Kubo took their guitars, drum machines and accordion into the BBC’s Maida Vale studios to record a Peel Session. It satisfied all the usual labels that can be attached to certain styles of Japanese pop music; veering from the catchily kitsch to the profoundly heartfelt, before ending in a manner that leaves this listener - and I hope other listeners who read this post - feeling warm, fuzzy and cosseted, which is quite an achievement considering that they were singing in a second language and with voices that walked the tightrope between soothing and adenoidal.
The jazzy Garlic follows in the spirit of their earlier Banana in using foodstuffs as pseudonyms for other things. If Banana dealt in sex, then Garlic deals in love as it appears to be the pet name for a lover, identified by their long blonde hair…blue blue eyes, which appear to make up for the earlier acknowledged absurd freaky smell. Given body odour once played a part in breaking up a relationship I was in, I wish Garlic could have passed on some tips to me about how to ensure that can be cancelled out in favour of one’s more positive qualities. Although, if the song is about a dog, it all becomes moot given that pets can be loved regardless of what they do. It’s the trade off for them not being able to enjoy alcohol and culture, I suppose.
When I first heard the 9/4/93 show, for some reason, I ended up leaving Neutral Blue off my list of inclusions from the session. I can only conclude that I was having a funny couple of minutes, because listening to it again on this video reveals it to be the highpoint of the session. My initial thoughts on it were that it was about repenting the breakup of a relationship with a steady but boring person, especially given that, in the slightly garbled lyrical language of Nelories, we learn that neutral blue was the colour of your talking. But subsequent listens have me wondering whether the song is more about mourning the death of its subject rather than breaking up with them. For it seems that the separation really is a permanent one and this comes home in the key line of the song: I’ve heard that loneliness and being alone don’t always mean the same. Also, Kubo’s guitar run from 6:22 to 6:32 sounds like someone desperately rummaging around to find a handkerchief to cry into. Brutal blue, indeed….
Run Free is another example of the way in which Nelories’s songs could work as advertising jingles. This one could either be promoting the benefits of holidays (You may go everywhere/Everywhere’s a destination), exercise (Let’s go for a run/We’re on the road to nowhere/I am sure to say that/We’ll feel a whole load better, loads better than miles) or mindfulness (Walk slowly, don’t hurry, you’ve got more things to see…slow down, don’t hurry). It’s a beautiful mix of the bizarre and the profound, which is only to be expected given that Kurihara was writing her lyrics in a second language. It’s testament to her skill that she gets more right than wrong in what she writes, though this Trouserpress overview of Nelories back catalogue highlights some of her more unusual lyrical non-sequiturs.
The theme of Trampoline appears to be much clearer. The title serves as a metaphor for the behaviour of the kind of charismatic, attractive, sexy man who has friends and lovers everywhere, but never takes the time to stay in one place too long. Any time a commitment is sought, they jump on their trampoline and spring off in another direction. Typically, Kurihara is in love with this gadabout, all while recognising his flaws: Maybe I cannot be his trampoline.
I’m feeling anxiously excited as I write this. Tonight, the greasepaint part of this blog becomes relevant to me for the first time in 6 years as it’s the first night of Here Comes a Chopper, a 1970 play in which Eugene Ionesco predicts COVID-19, 50 years before it happens. It’s meant the world to me to get back on a stage again over these last 8 weeks or so. I suspect my stomach will be going over and over around 7:25pm tonight as I’m faced with the prospect of acting in front of an audience again after so long, but the show is in good shape, and I wouldn’t swap it for anything.
I couldn’t let today go past without blogging. I’m aware that a number of recent posts have marked things I’ve been doing - see records by The Slickers and The Upsetters while I was on holiday in Saint Lucia.
I’m celebrating my return to the stage with a near 7 minute burst of Goan trance from Paul Jackson aka Voodoo People. While I can’t see Altitude replacing Paul Jones’s High Time as my choice of opening night music - a tradition I’ve maintained for 32 years now - it’s got enough energy and life to send me out into the spotlight again with my heart racing and the blood pumping. It also makes for a marginally better listen than the track which Peel misidentified Altitude as when he played it on this show, the slightly scratchier Love, Love American Style.
Sometimes, writing this blog allows me to consider alternative histories that I could have lived through, at least in terms of what my musical passions could have ended up being. All of the qualities that caused me to fall in love with Marion - surging guitars, vocals that mixed soul with passion - are to be found here in Offshore by Puressence. Had I been fully clued into contemporary British music, two years earlier than I chose to start buying the records, listening to the shows and reading the magazines and papers, I can well believe that I’d have fallen under Puressence’s spell under the belief that they had something which set them apart from the rest, just as I did with Marion in 1995/96. It opens up the distressing possibility that I’d have dismissed Marion as copyists, imagine! A world without This World and Body - ugh! - I have to take a lie down to dismiss the possibility. No, history takes care of itself for the right reasons, and I am grateful that, in this instance at least, it played out as it did. Apparently, the two groups toured together at one point. I wonder how many of the audience had to be carried out due to being overcome by emotion at those gigs.
My abiding memory of Puressence in the 90s is the way that the music press kept suggesting that achieving major success was only a question of time for them. Be patient, lads, stardom is coming - albeit in the manner of a bus service which ran once a day, every sixth Sunday. At least Puressence’s fans never had to wait too long for new material from them. Offshore was their third EP release inside a year on 2 Damn Loud, and their last before they signed to Island Records.
The title track here demonstrates how Puressence were still able to play their strongest cards, while sloughing off some of the bloated tendencies of their previous releases. For example, Offshore clocks in at 3 and a half minutes, whereas each of the tracks on their Petrol Skin EP were between 4 and 6 and a half minutes long, while seeming to want to fill every available second with James Mudriczki’s admittedly brilliant voice. Lyrically, Puressence mixed the agitational with the painterly. “Offshore” in this track alludes to a self-imposed wish to isolate oneself from others. Paranoia runs rampant, indeed Mudriczki’s vocals often sounded like someone trying to keep a panic attack under control. And yet running alongside that is the gorgeous, near-chorus of Underwater butterfly keeps so dry, it just bowls me over/Gazing through pathetic lies and I can’t keep down/Something’s got me going now.
And it’s this that was crucial in understanding why groups like Puressessnce and Marion inspired such devotion in their followers. They fully acknowledged the pressure of being alive and the pain it exposed us to, but they never gave into it. There was always reason to fight on and find your way back to shore. Whether you crawled up it or strode up it, Puressence weren’t about to let themselves or their listeners drown.
Bonus points are also awarded for them working mal de merinto the lyrics.
I had my doubts about including this, the second track on the PJ Harvey trio’s Rid of Me LP. My notes suggest that it’s the power of Missed’s closing minute which made it into a possible inclusion. It also helps that Harvey sounds recognisably like herself, rather than putting on the irritating faux-American drawl which served only to alienate me from some of her music in this period.
My problem with Missed when I first heard it was that the verses sounded rambly and unfocused. Harvey appears to be stating her love for someone in typically florid style: I put stars at your head/Put Mars at your feet. The mention of Mary felt creatively lazy, but I now see that the laziness was mine, and that Harvey has actually written something brilliantly poetic and evocative here. Once I looked at the lyrics it became clear to me that Missed is set during the period leading up to the resurrection of Jesus. The hesitant, wan feel of the opening minute reflects a mixture of feelings:
1) Unprocessed grief.
2) Anguish over the empty tomb and missing body (My son, where’s he been?/Don’t deny it and don’t you hide him.)
3) Sceptical astonishment at the prospect of the body being resurrected (Show yourself to me and I’d believe/I’d moan and I’d weep. Fall silent at your speak/I’d burst it, full to the brim.)
Harvey wisely decides that trying to write about the meeting between Mary and the resurrected Jesus might be a little too difficult to pull off, but the doubts and weariness of searching for the missing Saviour which are reflected in the final verse from 3:00 (No words, no sign etc) are underpinned by a whining guitar note which gives way to the final Ha! at 3:32, and as the band crash it in and full volume while Polly Jean repeatedly sings, Oh, I’ve missed him, it all comes together to sound like nothing less than Jesus descending to Earth in front of our eyes (or ears). A stunning piece of music and one of the highlights of the Rid of Me tracks which Peel had played to this point.
I’m still in St Lucia, so I’m still skipping through my selections from Peel’s 9/4/93 show to pick out any Caribbean influenced tracks that he played that night.
In comparison to Man Beware by The Slickers, Bucky Skank, a 1973 Lee Perry production with The Upsetters, is a trickier listen. Unlike Man Beware, I wouldn’t put this on at a party, unless I was hoping to hurry people home. Although it has a narrative running through it - the scolding of a wannabe bank robber (bucky meaning a home made gun in patois) - it’s really more of a mood piece than a sound system floor filler. The track seems afraid to draw attention to itself, almost afraid to blow its cover in the same way that its protagonist would be while preparing for a robbery.
With its plangent guitar notes and strikingly, strange vocalisations, the listener is taken into the jittery, disturbed mind of the track’s protagonist. I’ll be honest and admit that this is a borderline inclusion, but what carries it through is precisely that strange, almost nocturnal atmosphere that pervades the track.
I’m hoping to go to the weekly street party in Gros Islet tomorrow evening. I don’t expect to hear Bucky Skank played there, but I’ll let you know if it is.*
*It wasn’t.
Video courtesy of Rare Samples and Songs Oleg Tsoy.
I’m writing this while on holiday in St Lucia, so posting a rocksteady reggae track feels entirely appropriate. Man Beware was released in 1969 and was produced by Joe Gibbs. On this show, Peel dedicated the airing of Man Beware to John Downey of Lolworth, who had written in to assure Peel that the 1988 compilation album, Joe Gibbs & Friends - The Reggae Train 1968 - 1971 issued by Trojan Records was still available as he himself had recently bought a copy at Daddy Kool Records in London. That compilation not only featured Man Beware but other Peel show favourites such as Kimble and People Grudgeful.
Clocking in at Number 24 on the Phantom Fifty, I couldn’t understand how this track hadn’t secured a similar placing on the mainstream UK singles chart in late 1990/early 1991, given how terrific it was. Granted, it’s not the smoothest production in the world, falling three quarters of the way towards Hit the North, but it’s tight as a drum, catchy as hell and features Mark E. Smith’s ruminations on both the march of technology into people’s lives and the first stirrings of the property bubble, a phenomenon which led to our current cultural hellscape where seemingly every second television programme is either about converting properties or moving to new ones. High Tension Line is so good, I rate it as that rarest of beasts, at least to my ears, the repeatable Fall song. I could listen to it on a loop 4 or 5 times, I reckon.
It should have been a nailed on Top 40 hit at least, but it got nowhere near the charts. I suspect that its prospects were harmed by the dickish decision that the band made to film a video for the song in which they sat around in SS uniforms while ripping up magazines and newspapers. Book burning on a Woolworths budget was never likely to tickle the interest of Top of the Pops or The Chart Show. Smith attempted to brush off the controversy at the time, by claiming that the Fall were taking the piss out of “controversial” bands who played it safe. Remember, children, being a Northern contrarian means never having to admit when you’ve acted like a twat. Ultimately, a distracted record buying public and poor decision making meant that a splendid song fell down the cracks. It wasn’t even featured on the vinyl version of the Shift-Work album. Instead, if you had missed the single release, you had to buy the CD or cassette versions.
For more information on High Tension Line, including the avant-garde classical piece that inspired its title, I can only direct you to the recently deleted Annotated Fall website and hope, along with every other blogger out there, that The Internet Archive continues to hold that most precious of content safe.
When I saw The Manfreds play at the Riviera Centre in Torquay in late-1992, one piece of between song patter always stayed with me. Singer Paul Jones explained to the audience that although they were known for their hits such as Do Wah Diddy, Pretty Flamingo or The Mighty Quinn, if people wanted to know what the band were really like or what their true sound was, they should listen to the b-sides, as they captured the band as they saw themselves musically. And with this they launched into a rendition of I’m Your Kingpin. Anyone interested in hearing what this duality sounded like - at least over the first half of their career - is advised to buy Manfred Mann at Abbey Road 1963 to 1966.
In the same vein, I feel that if you want to get an idea of what I’m like as a musical curator, skip past whichever tune I’ve put at Number 1 in either of the Festive Fifties that I’ve compiled for the blog - this and this respectively - and instead listen to the Number 49 choices: Black Metallic by Catherine Wheel and, most relevantly to this post, Music by The Safehouse. Time hasn’t been kind to the former tune, if I had to choose which of the two to listen to on a loop, I’d go for Music everytime. It struck me as a tune that only I could love, it was warm and comforting, the aural equivalent of a cup of warm soup on a bitterly cold day.
But fast forward a year and The Safehouse turned up on Peel’s playlist with a track which sounded like they would now be more inclined to throw the cup into your face. Given the gnarly, squally quality of most of the sound on this track, the hardcore child of the title track appears to be going through the terrible twos. Any attempt to soothe the listener, by throwing in bursts of electric sitar for instance between 0:48 to 1:04 is overridden by more audio grumbles/teething and there’s an especially epic tantrum thrown between 2:05 and 2:28, which is followed by a duet between the sitar and a set of beats which sound like the child is smashing anything it can get its hands on. Tellingly, the sitar quickly retreats, and by the end, of the track, the child is left lying amidst the debris it has created.
That description might sound like an unappealing listen, but The Safehouse haven’t entirely lost their gift for melody here, and it’s much less abrasive than a similar idea would have been in the hands of, say, 70 Gwen Party.
Hardcore Child was the final track on The Safehouse’s Funkatronics 12-inch. The A-side of that record includes Out of My Body, which sounds like a copper-bottomed mainstream hit track, but it wasn’t. Instead, Hardcore Child was paired on the B-side with Screamer ll and stands as a final, defiant stand by The Safehouse, whose members, Mark Hailwood and Tommy Trainor, wound the project up after this release.
Hardcore Child won’t get to Number 49 when I do the 1993 Festive Fifty, indeed it won’t feature at all. But I’ll take that troubled child into my arms and give it a loving home on the metaphorical mixtape. I hope you will too.
Video courtesy of Bob Murray, and my thanks to him for making the video shareable here.
As Billy Connolly used to say, sometimes my mind sees pictures, and since I heard this short guitar instrumental, which was recorded as a b-side to Wild Jimmy Spruill’s 1964 single*, Country Boy, I’ve been picturing forming an unlikely Terry and Gerry type duo.
In the blue corner, Jimmy Yuill, an actor perhaps best known for his appearances in the Cornwall set police series, Wycliffe, as well his work with Kenneth Branagh, both on stage, on screen and on soundtrack. You can hear an example of this latter talent on Branagh’s short film of Swan Song by Anton Chekhov.
Spruill and Yuill certainly trips off the tongue as a name, but how well their respective styles - cigar box guitar r & b/classical acoustic guitar - would have melded together remains open to debate. I suspect alternating solos would have been the way to go. Plus, Spruill’s death in 1996 means that bringing them together will only ever remain one of my pipe dreams.
This blog will feature more mentions about Jimmy Yuill when we reach 1997, given that I worked as an extra on that year’s series of Wycliffe and was in the background of a number of his scenes in various episodes.
It’ll also feature more tracks of Jimmy Spruill’s if Peel continues to pull out pearls like Scratchin’. Once you get past the first 15 seconds, which sound like the theme tune for an unfunny radio sitcom, we’re into a short, sharp r&b workout that must have thrilled the young Jimi Hendrix, who borrowed a number of Spruill’s visual motifs (playing the guitar behind his head or with his teeth) for himself. The bouncy central riff and brass backing put me in mind of Lonnie Mack’s Sa-Ba-Hoola, which came out the same year. Mack is more of a virtuoso than Spruill, based on the evidence of the two records, but when Spruill cuts loose between 1:04 and 1:19, it sounds as though his guitar has burst into flames.
*Vim, the label that issued the Country Boy single, credited him as Jimmy “Wildman” Spruill, but as this appears to be the only one of his records issued under that name, I’ve chosen to go with his more widely known monicker.
Coming on as a stroppy hybrid of Huggy Bear and Mambo Taxi, Voodoo Queens were quite a fancy of Peel’s around this time. They recorded three sessions for him between January 1993 and February 1994. Peel may well have been taken both by their music and the fact that one of their guitarists shared a name with a track from one of Peel’s favourite albums.
The resemblance to Mambo Taxi isn’t a huge shock as both Ella Guru and Anjali Bhatia left that group in order to form Voodoo Queens. I have to compare Supermodel-Superficial to Mambo Taxi’s song, Prom Queen, which both Bhatia and Guru played on, and which I changed my mind on including on the metaphorical mixtape when making selections from Peel’s show from 30/1/93. Supermodel-Superficial is an improvement on Prom Queen, because its ire is better directed. While not being a direct attack on supermodels themselves, it instead tears to shreds the lifestyle orthodoxy that was forming around the cult of the supermodel and which was being pushed on to young girls as a desirable way of looking and living.
Whose role models do you really think you are?
Young girls that make themselves sick.
Feel guilty for being size 14
Living in their self hate.
This all slightly predates the size zero controversies - indeed my principal memory of 1990s supermodels is that they were slim rather than thin, though Kate Moss veered dangerously close - but Voodoo Queens can see the direction of travel that things are moving in and they call bullshit on it here.
It all makes me wish that Voodoo Queens had lived long enough to take on some of the things which that journey brought into our lives in subsequent years such as It girls, reality TV stars, influencers and OnlyFans.
I think that this may be the best song about money ever written. I’d wager that it isn’t the first track anyone would think of when asked to name a cash centred song, but, to use a Peelism, in a decently ordered society, Dollars by Bajja Jedd (Dwane Jarvis) would be a global anthem.
I appreciate that venerating a song with a title like Dollars in such a fashion may make you feel queasy if you haven’t heard it, but the great thing about it is that it manages to be both admirably practical about why money is important, but does so without ever succumbing to greed is good vulgarity. The song isn’t about materialism, but rather more about how money can improve the lives, hopes and chances of those in the ghetto and more widely. It takes in class, charity, how working the low paid job can offer a foundation to a better future (Remember where you coming from and where you’re going). It acknowledges that the pursuit of money can lead to crime and that the distribution of money is not an easy task, indeed the earliest lines acknowledge that if God made Man to be equal, then Man made money so as to divide the people into classes, where some have more than others.
Dollars speaks to those in the lower and middle classes, while reserving a few tart lines for those who have become rich and stopped caring. This is key to the theme of the track: the pursuit of money for the betterment both of the individual and society. Dollars ends up celebrating two dirty words - money and socialism.
Some of the sentiments here are not new, Money (That’s What I Want), recorded 34 years before Dollars made it clear that without money, love and community were not enough. But whereas Money always seemed like a tantrum track about not having enough and wanting more, RIGHT NOW, Dollars manages to be empathetic and aspirational. I suspect that first adjective is why no political party would ever go near it for use as a campaign song.
So far, The Werefrogs have provided me with my second favourite track played by Peel in 1992 and a requiem for an ailing great aunt. Had I known about them at the time, I’d have been championing them to anyone who listened, and I know that I would have been in a state of keen excitement when they released their album, Swing. I can only be grateful that I lived in ignorance back then, and didn’t have to suffer the realisation that this beguiling band were not going to survive beyond 1993.
Listening to Potvan, which like Nixie Concussion, had been released as a single from the album, albeit as Peel reported, on pink vinyl, you don’t hear a band seemingly coming to the end of its time. It could be though that they were trying to warn us not to get too upset should anything happen to them through the line, Wipe the tears off your shoulder, everyone which serves as the chorus line on Potvan.
The title appears to be a creation of its authors, as I can find no reference to what a potvan is. I suspect that it may be a hiding in plain sight drug reference given that the song contains wonderfully psychedelic lines like Ride all alone and the nowheres are on board/Lean out the window but I don’t know how to fly/ But it’s all on Dior(?) till he finds me once again/ And that sound in your eyes doesn’t tell me how to fly.
There’s more in the same vein in later verses, and lyrically, it comes off sounding like something which clearly made sense to whoever wrote it down at the moment they thought of it. No revisions, no second thoughts, just crank up the guitars and let Marc Wolf loose with a vocal set to “keening.” I like it, and it’s a nice tune, but the window dressing doesn’t disguise the fundamental vision of a stoned man driving at 5mph which seems to be the force that drove this song into being.
Formed as a side project by members of Steel Pole Bath Tub, Milk Cult released four albums of electronic-rock-avant garde music between 1992 and 2000. Peel approached their debut album, Love God with a degree of distance regarding it as strange as anything I’ve ever heard. He felt that Tuesday was the most accessible track on the album and given that most of it seems to take place within a Formula 1 pit lane, I can see why it appealed to him.
Tuesday will give you a flavour of what to expect from the Love God album: plenty of found sound, genuine industrial noise (engines starting etc), short bursts of rock and excursions into more atmospheric soundscapes. I’m thinking in particular of the two minute ghostly piano/melodica duet which starts at 1:20 and sounds like it’s being played in an abandoned factory. It’s all a bit of a hodge-podge but it hangs together surprisingly well.
Peel gave his listeners something of a potted review of the Love God album, talking in particular about its centrepiece: There’s a 38 minute track on there which I seriously doubt anyone will ever listen to in its entirety. He was was talking about the six-track suite called Clown Party which makes up the second half of the album. I took him up on the challenge and listened to the LP yesterday. I disagree with him that Tuesday was the most accessible track on the album, I think that the title track would be worth an airing, despite its near 11 minute running time. However, Peel was spot on about Clown Party, a title which conjures disturbing images of Pennywise and friends causing havoc, but which ends up being six tracks of repetitive tedium, albeit there are several moments where it sounds like the band are about to start playing Eye of the Tiger. Overall, on Love God, there’s nothing to frighten the horses, but there isn’t much to exhilarate anyone either.
Elements of Trance were a Los Angeles based techno duo made up of Justin King and Ian Rich. The C-Level mix of A Taste of Your Own Medicine puts me in mind of Date M by The Traveller, especially the street percussion. However, I think that the Flammable 6AM and Midi-Evil mixes are both better.
Up to now, all of the productions that this blog has soundtracked took place either in a school or college setting. The next year or two will see the soundtracking of the first production I did with a local amateur dramatics group.
Staging their first production in 1982, Falmouth’s Young Generation were formed as a youth-orientated offshoot of Falmouth Amateur Operatic Society - now known as Falmouth Theatre Company. They always staged one major musical in August of each year, though occasionally staged other productions at Christmas time and were open for any young person to join if they were aged between 10 & 20.
I had flirted with the idea of joining the Young Generation in the late 1980s, but it wasn’t until I was on a BTEC Performing Arts Course with a number of members of the group that I got involved with them. For the majority of those members, YG’s 1993 show, Guys and Dolls represented the opportunity of a last hurrah with the company as they were nearing the maximum age limit. I would be 17 when the show was staged, and felt I was now at the right age to get involved, with pre-teen shyness no longer an issue. It also presented itself as a great opportunity to continue socialising, not just with people that I knew, but to expand my circle of friends even further. It made sense from a drama standpoint too. Having done Shakespeare plays and a contemporary drama since my last musical, I was happy to do another one having had the opportunity to try some other types of production over the last year.
Throughout January and early February 1993, I attended the pre-audition meetings at which we were played and sang along to the various songs, and also read scenes from the script. Adapted from two short stories by Damon Runyon, Guys and Dolls is a tale of gamblers, religious missionaries, Broadway showgirls and gangsters. It’s packed with great songs and a snappy script, and within those first few pre-audition sessions I knew that I wanted to be part of this show, because I genuinely liked it. In subsequent years, there were a couple of YG shows which I did more for the beer and company than for the material, but Guys and Dolls still felt fresh, vital and fun, even 43 years after its first production. I was targeting the role of Nathan Detroit, who runs a floating craps game around New York City, but I wasn’t especially disappointed to be cast as one of his lieutenants, Benny Southstreet, which was a decent supporting role who was part of several songs including the title song.
If things had worked out as they were supposed to have done, this blog would now be soundtracking an original play called Echoing Steps. During the spring ‘93 term, those students on my performing arts course who were not involved in Equus or Top Girls, spent their time working on developing a community play about bygone Falmouth, which we were due to stage at Falmouth Arts Centre in June. I think around 6 people were working on it - 2 of whom genuinely could not stand each other. The Echoing Steps team, along with the cast of Top Girls, felt unsupported in their work by the course administrator. The college listened to these complaints and made two decisions which affected the balance of the course:
1) The administrator, David Gregg, was replaced as head of the course by the one of the senior tutors, Gerry Finch. This took place in April 1993.
2) With the college starting to take in applications for the next year of learners who were intending to join the BTEC course for two years from the start of the 1993/94 academic year, the whole course would be run out of the college campus in Pool, near Camborne, from September 1993. This made logistical sense because there was far more space there to be able to run classes for two years’ worth of students. There was also an in-built performance space at the campus called the Trevenson Theatre, though curiously, we still ended up doing our productions at Falmouth Arts Centre. As future posts will show, this was an arrangement which had some benefits to me when they first started, but it would soon pall very badly as time went on.
David Gregg wasn’t the only casualty of the upheaval, so was Echoing Steps. In large part this was due to several of the people involved in putting it together, dropping out of the course when the Summer term started. From a starting position of around 35 students in September 1992, around half that number had left by the 6 month mark. The people remaining who had been working on Echoing Steps admitted that they had nothing concrete to offer us to begin working on, and the course changed from one which incorporated classes looking at different aspects of drama running alongside work on end of term productions, to a course that was concerned purely with classes.
Echoing Steps in June ‘93, should have been followed by a pantomime in December ‘93 and then 2 shows chosen by the group for March ‘94 and June ‘94 respectively. All of that, except for the June ‘94 production, went out of the window with the restructuring of the course. It could have been excruciatingly boring for me, but thankfully I had the local drama scene to save me, and before Castaway Theatre Company next found itself on a stage, I had done 5 further productions including Broadway musicals, revue, Restoration comedy, pantomime and 20th Century historical adaptation. Those will form the basis of the next decade or so of this blog.
The first selection for Guys and Dolls comes at the end of a week in which Peel clocked up one of his highest number of on-air hours, since his days on The Perfumed Garden. Between his week of lunchtime cover for Jakki Brambles and his own shows on Friday 9 and Saturday 10 April, Peel spent just under 18 hours broadcasting on Radio 1.
He ended his 9/4/93 evening show by playing what may be the only non-country tinged track released by The International Submarine Band. Sum Up Broke was issued as a single in 1966 by the first iteration of the band and co-written by lead guitarist, John Nuese and future Byrd/Flying Burrito Brother, Gram Parsons. His future influence on The Byrds during his brief stint with them in 1968 is widely known*, but in 1966, they seemed to be influencing him and Nuese. The beefed up jangle in the guitars sounds like the ISB’s stab at raga rock, while the lyrics walk a line between general vacuity and Rolling Stones style kiss off to a girl whose time is up.
The single wasn’t a hit, and Parsons decided that he wanted to push the International Submarine Band exclusively towards a country sound. Nuese and himself hooked up with a new bassist and drummer, and Parsons would go on a lifetime’s musical journey over the course of the next seven years. It would cost him his life, but on the evidence of what followed, he did at least manage to produce compelling evidence of the “cosmic country music” he felt that he was put on earth to make.
*If you don’t know, read this and then start buying up every record on which Parsons played a substantial part, you won’t regret it.
