As many of you will know, the blogging firmament shines a little less brightly this weekend after the combined talents behind the excellent When You Can't Remember Anything made the decision to hang up their hats last week. JC, the Blogfather, has the full story here.
While I fully respect the reasons Badger, SWC and KC decided to call it a day, I'll still miss their blog a lot... and I was a pretty recent convert, so I imagine those of you who have been following their adventures for longer will be even more devastated.
Anyway, I threw out an idle suggestion in the comments of my own last post and C encouraged me to run with it (so blame her for this, not me). My favourite WYCRA feature, and one of the few blog posts that ever caused me to get out of bed earlier on a weekend, was The Saturday Song Challenge. Here, the guys would select a word (usually one word, occasionally a phrase) and encourage people to suggest songs with that exact title. Then they'd give out points to the best guesses, both from the five they'd pre-selected and for any new ones they liked the sound of. To be fair, the scoring system all got a bit crazy, and the comments section became a competitive free-for-all, but it was one of the most fun series in the blogosphere... at least until Jez resurrects The Chain.
So, in tribute, I thought I'd do something similar. Just as a one off. And as it would be way too disrespectful to steal the WYCRA idea outright, I've adapted it slightly.
And so, I present to you... My Top Ten Goodbye Songs...
10.
9.
8.
7.
6.
5.
4.
3.
2.
1.
No, I haven't forgotten to fill in the titles and artists. I want you to do that. I have a list, and I will give out points. In a crazy, ramshackle way I'm sure the WYCRA people would appreciate.
1 point for every one of my songs you identify.
2 points if you can guess a song's position in my Top Ten.
1 bonus point if you suggest a song that's better than one in my Top Ten.
The only rule is, it's got to be called Goodbye... and nothing else. So no Goodbye To Love, Hello Goodbye or Goodbye Girl. Just Goodbye.
Special mentions to Question Mark & The Mysterians, Slash, The Parenthetical Girls and !!! (which is a contender for worst band name ever: how do you even pronounce that?).
Ranking Roger loved his Full Stops from the very first Beat single, of which this was double-A side with their more-played version of Tears of a Clown. The final full stop comes right at the end of the song though...
In legal documents and religious texts, punctuation is all-important. Thea proves that here...
‘Cause you see, I’ve got this theory that it’s only punctuation That separates the list from you to me And you can have your little war of full stops and meritings But the real power’s in parentheses
The ghetto boys are catcalling me As I pull my keys from my pocket I wonder if this method of courtship Has ever been effective Has any girl in history said Sure, you seem so nice, let's get it on Still, I always shock them when I answer Hi my name's Amanda And I'm not gonna live my life on one side of an ampersand
Wonder what Neil Gaiman makes of that philosophy? (Let's not ask him, his answers tend to go on for years without end, like his stories.)
So the Oxford Comma, if you don't know, is the optional comma you may sometimes use before the 'and' at the end of a list. Used properly, it can avoid confusion and comedy...
Vampire Weekend though, they don't give an f-bomb about it. Philistines.
1. Dan Baird - I Love You, Period
Top single from the former Georgia Satellite in which Dan's affair with his English teacher is curtailed by bad punctuation...
That's the problem with English teachers.They let pedantry get in the way of romance.
I've no idea how you'd do it nowadays. Thirty years ago though, the main route was via hospital radio. I did do some of that, and I'll talk about it another time, but it came AFTER I started working in the actual radio station where I'd spend a good 23 years of my life.
So how did I get that job? Ironically, since it was my preferred career choice, I got the radio job by being a writer!
From
listening to local radio, I'd noticed that the DJs often read out
amusing letters from listeners (some of them regular contributors), and
as I had experience of letter-writing from the world of comics (pick up a
stack of 80's Marvel or DC back issues, check their letter columns...
eventually you'll find my name), I decided to have a go at getting my words
read out on air. It turned out to be a doddle.
There was good
reason for this. Most jocks of the time were desperate for link fodder.
After they'd read the day's showbiz gossip and celebrity birthdays from
the Daily Star*, they'd grab at any half-witty wittering that came their
way... hell, it was better than having to think up anything funny for
themselves.**
Eventually I got my name known as the guy who
wrote those funny letters, a regular contributor, a loyal listener. In
return I'd get a few requests played***, and win a few cheapo
competitions - promo singles mostly, by the likes of The Rah Band,
Tiffany and Status Quo.****
Around this time, I'd been using my
comic book abilities at school, doing short cartoons about friends and
teachers. I wasn't a brilliant artist by any stretch, but the stories
and gags were mostly well received. (A friend, who was a much better
artist than I, but not as good a writer, started doing his own strip
too. I took my bat home. It never occurred to me that we might team up.
My teenage ego wouldn't allow it.) It was only a matter of time before I
transferred these skills to my budding radio career. Obviously, the
strips couldn't be read out on air, but I'd moved past the excitement of
hearing my name on the radio by now, and onto the next stage of my
grand plan. I got hold of a set of presenter photo cards, worked up some
crude caricatures, and began sending in comic strip adventures based on
the people who worked at the station. These were also well-received - though god knows why, because they were bloody awful.
Then, at the end of Fifth Year in school, those of
us staying on as Sixth Formers were told we'd have to arrange a regular
Work Experience posting to coincide with our 'A' Level studies. Having
laid the foundations over the last few months, I wrote to the radio
station and asked if there was a chance of me doing Work Experience
there. A few weeks later, I was offered a job (unpaid, naturally!)
answering the phones and making tea on their popular Saturday morning
show, 9 til noon, with the presenter who made that Roy Orbison gag I mentioned a couple of weeks back. (Shortly afterwards, a
new jock started in the slot before us, a young man named Culshaw
who was noted for his celebrity impressions. He still is.)
It was August
1988, and writing had helped me get my first job in radio. But it was only going to be a temporary thing. Just until my proper writing career took off...
12. Edwin Starr - H.A.P.P.Y. Radio
Edwin Starr's disco classic seems most appropriate here since I was never happier at work than during those first couple of years in radio. Of course, I was also chock miserable too because I was a teenager and I was me. But good memories are much stronger than bad ones. Good job too, I reckon.
*I
recently discovered a diary I kept late 80's, in preparation for my
future career, packed full of celebrity birthdays... ah, the days before
the internet!
**Back in those days, most jocks arrived in the
studio with a tub full of home-made jingles and sfx on cart, a stack of
scratchy LPs, and two or three old Tom O'Connor or Frank Carson joke
books they'd picked up from the Oxfam shop. Some even wrote dates next
to the jokes, so they knew when they'd last used them on air, and when
it'd be safe to use them again.
***My Top 3, played one
afternoon circa 1987... Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody, Yes - Owner Of A
Lonely Heart, and... I can't remember the third, but it would most
likely have been either The Isley Brothers - This Old Heart Of Mine (Is
Weak For You), The Real Thing - You To Me Are Everything, or Huey Lewis & The News - The Power Of Love. What a young romantic!
****I
soon found out how easy it was to win on-air competitions -
particularly write-in ones... entries rarely reached double figures.
My good friend Rob Wells has just had his first graphic novel published by Little Brown. It tells the uncomfortably hilarious story of his longtime fight with a variety of embarrassing ailments, and his struggle to find a member of the medical profession who would a) take him seriously and b) sort them out. It's a hugely entertaining read for anyone who's ever had an embarrassing illness and anyone who's ever tried in vain to find a sympathetic doctor. Or anyone who enjoys a witty tale about men's bits malfunctioning... and let's face it, who doesn't want to read that? (Squirm.) I'm really excited and pleased for Rob, having watched the project develop over a couple of years, seeing it accepted by a publisher, and finally getting my hands on a printed copy.
The shortest song on Love's eponymous debut album (but only one of them scraped past 3 minutes). As with most Arthur Lee songs, I have no idea what it's about. I suspect chemical assistance might be required...
I suspect this song might have also given its name to 70s Aussie rockers The Coloured Balls, but the interweb appears unable to confirm that for me.
So I went to New York City to see a doctor thinking maybe that he..
Would understand the state I was in.
He said: "I'd dearly love to help you son,
but you see the same thing's happened to me."
So now I'm home and I'm asking you just once more.
Please.
Oh can I have my balls back, please?
Can I have my balls back, please?
How am I gonna get through my life if you don't return them to me?
It appears that Amy Rigby can't help falling for bad boys. (Wonder if that's why she ended up with Wreckless Eric.)
You've got a lot of nerve to be calling here But I love your nerve You've got a lot of gall, you don't even care About me at all You've got a lot of balls, you don't even care Wish I could grow a pair...
1. Jerry Lee Lewis - Great Balls Of Fire
60 years old. Still as fresh and powerful as it ever was. Anyone who says the piano isn't a rock instrument hasn't ever listened to The Killer.
In which Jon King gets rather upset by the evening news...
How can I sit and eat my tea, with all that blood flowing from the television? At a quarter to six, I watch the news, Eating, eating all my food As I sit watching the red spot In the egg which looks like All the blood you don`t see on the television.
Post-Diana, Motown drafted in Jimmy Webb to work with The Supremes. Although the resulting album didn't set the charts alight, it contains some absolute gems. Let's face it: it's The Supremes and JIMMY WEBB. What's not to love?
How long have we been waiting for the light to change? Long enough to know that green is dubious Long enough to know that there's no sense to us And the line is pretty long, yeah
Your starter for ten: name another song which features the word 'dubious' in its lyrics. (It is possible.)
This is one of those Jam singles that I always forget... and forget how good it is.
From this window I've seen the whole world pass From dawn to dusk I've heard the last laugh laughed I've seen enough tears to wash away this street I've heard wedding bells chime and a funeral march When as one life finishes another one starts... Alright then, love, so I'll be off now It's back to the lunchbox and worker / management rows There's gotta be more to this old life than this Scrimping and saving and crossing off lists...
1. Julian Cope - 5 O'Clock World
Originally recorded in 1965 by The Vogues and covered by any number of people since (The Proclaimers, Hal Ketchum, Bowling For Soup, David McCallum... sadly I can't find that last one online, so please help me out if you have it). However, it's Lord Julian of Cope who gives the definitive reading, rewriting the lyrics to include 80's nuclear war paranoia and mixing in a little Petula Clark along the way.
Here's a quick story for you. I know I usually only do these once a month, but it seems most appropriate to post this now because it forms the perfect bridge between my last post, My Top Ten Five a.m. Songs and the next one... My Top Ten Five p.m. Songs. Its title was based on one of the songs in that countdown... well, this one:
Alan Jackson & Jimmy Buffet - It's Five O'Clock Somewhere
I love this song, even though I'm not the biggest Alan Jackson fan. A bit too Stetson-country, even for me, usually. But this is a great working man's hymn, made one hundred times better by the arrival of slacker king and Florida-country icon Jimmy Buffet. If you're one of those people who sits in the office all day waiting for the hands of the clock to hit five... or five thirty... this is the song for you.
What would Jimmy Buffet do?
It's Five O'Clock Nowhere
Sometimes it felt like even the second hand was fighting a
losing battle. Karl spent much of his working day scrutinising the clock on the
wall opposite his desk, and the more he watched it, the more it seemed like
every single tick was a struggle against the inevitable, some wild Canutian
battle to continue the forward progress of time when all around them – the
clock, and Karl - everything else was trapped in amber.
Now every day was indistinguishable from the ones that
surrounded it. The same unremitting routine. For Karl, it always began with
email. Five minutes for work (he deleted many of the office memos without
reading them, he’d been here long enough now to have read them all before), at
least half an hour for his own private hotmail account. A few games of
solitaire to get him in the mood, then, if he really felt like it, he might
breeze through a couple of reports. He took regular breaks to check certain
websites, monitor his eBay bidding, and to see if anyone new had poked him on
Facebook, then went for a stroll around the building on the pretext of doing
some photocopying or delivering a wrongly sorted item of mail or retrieving an
important document from the archive room in the basement. He liked it down
there in the archives, though the building work that was going on in adjacent
rooms meant it wasn’t as peaceful as it’d once been. Still, he liked the
snowflake pattern on the grill outside the windows, and how, if he got up on a
box, he could stare out into the street, a feet-level view of the carefree
world beyond. He liked to watch the people and wonder why they weren’t in work.
Disregarding the kids, pensioners, and housewives, many of the passers-by
remained unaccounted for. Deliverymen, council workers, window cleaners –
people whose jobs involved moving about the city from one place to another –
they made up another percentage, sure, but still not enough to answer for all
of them. Some of them, Karl realised, just didn’t have an excuse. They were
free, and that was all. Independently wealthy or dole-sponging layabouts, they
were one and the same in Karl’s mind. The lucky ones.
After lunch (eaten at his desk because Head Office frowned on
employees leaving the building in their lunch hour: what if there was a rush and
no-one was around to deal with it?), Karl’s afternoon began with a brief spate
of internal correspondence (some of it work-related, much of that deleted
unopened, though mostly it was gossip, and the forwarded jokes, pictures and
film clips that his colleagues had chanced upon over their sandwiches) before
he set into the internet proper. He usually left his favourite worksafe
websites ‘til the afternoon sag, the longest part of the day, when Karl needed
all the distraction he could get. But even after scanning through all his
various bookmarks – news sites, shops, blogs and games; even after downloading
and burning another CD’s worth of not-strictly-legal mp3s he’d probably never
get time to listen to; even after voting for all the new Hot Or Not girls and
wondering for the five hundred and seventy fifth consecutive workday just why
the plainer ones put themselves up for it (though he did always take this into
account when voting, marking up the mooses, and downgrading the dolly birds)…
even after all that: by 3pm, he still hit the flats.
The flats were when Karl had exhausted every possible
diversion the office had to offer, but there were still two hours left to kill.
By this point in the afternoon his biorhythms and blood sugar were low, his
exasperation and listlessness were high, and if Karl wasn’t careful,
moribundity could set in. Sometimes, if absolutely necessary, he’d do a little
work to distract himself. Take his mind off the incessant stain of his life,
the chronic howl of it all. Other times, if there wasn’t any work that couldn’t
be put off, he’d go back down to the archive room and stare out into the
street. Wish himself out there, among the foot-loose and fancy-free. A man of
means, or a man of no means. From this point in the afternoon, either seemed an
occupation devoutly to be wished for.
By four, he’d be back at his desk – and that was when the
serious clock-watching began. With only an hour to go, the atmosphere in the
office changed to an unusual mix of electricity and ennui. Postures slumped,
eyes drooped then blinked violently alert, but conversations turned to the
evening ahead. The drinks, the friends, the bars, the lovers. Films and music
and life. Release. By ten to the hour, Karl had his things packed and ready.
His final emails sent and websites browsed, he powered down his computer and
made ready for escape. This part of the day always reminded him of being back
at school, of waiting for the bell that launched everybody from their desks and
spewed them out into reality. The tougher teachers always made you wait. Made
you sit back down ‘til they’d finished their sentence, checked that you
understood the homework, drew out your pain as far as their power could reach.
But there were no teachers here, and middle management was just as eager to
blow this joint come five o’clock as everybody else. Most days, they were the
first ones out the door and into the carpark (unless somebody from Head Office
was visiting, in which case they’d mock up devotion and switch on their desk
lamps like there was a long night ahead).
Then finally, the silent bell rang. The notional whistle
blew. And for a few short hours, this irrelevant enterprise relinquished its
hold upon them. Time was no longer for frittering: it was for filling. That
most of them went straight home and zombied in front of a flickering box was
not the issue - the issue was that had they so wished it, they could have done
or gone or been anything else they pleased. At least until the second hand
(cracked from its amber, getting only green lights ‘til dawn)
double-quicked back to the 9am capture, where it all started
over again. Until then, they were free.
And then one Monday, on the twenty-third of a month like most
others, something changed. Karl noticed it first around lunchtime (potted beef,
Monster Munch, and a can of Diet Pepsi from the machine), a hiccough in the
daily routine of his workmates that became ever more pronounced as the
afternoon went on. He tried to distract himself with the usual medley of
myspace and minesweeper, but by three o’clock he could feel it in his guts and
his water and his chest, in a heartburn those chalky pocket Rennies couldn’t
assuage and an urgency in his bladder that usually only came in the middle of
the night, when sleep was disturbed by apprehension of the coming grind.
Something was different, and by correlation, something was wrong. Four o’clock
came and by now it was unquestionable, though part of him was too scared to
ask. Part of him didn’t want to know. Why everyone was behaving so strangely,
like it was still 10am or 2pm, not nearly 5. Why today there was no late
afternoon buzz, no pre-release expectancy, no excitement at all. The electric
was off, and the whole place was running on emergency generators only.
Then finally it happened. Or rather, it didn’t. Five o’clock
came and nobody moved. Karl, who’d been ready to spring for the last half hour,
picked up his things and looked around the office. Still nobody moved. Mice
clicked and eyes stared and feet shuffled and everything maintained. Karl
didn’t understand. He tapped his watch, but it told the same story as the clock
across from his desk, and he’d been watching that tick (like a lame man wading
through mud) through the hour. It couldn’t have stopped. He didn’t understand.
But neither did he care. He had places to go, even if they didn’t. He had
people to see, he had—
“Where’re you going?” asked Lena, looking up from her
Mah-jong with a curious pout.
“It’s five,” said Karl, with a tone that added, ‘where do you
think I’m going’.
“What?” said Lena. “Didn’t you get the memo? Don’t you watch
the news?”
And so she explained it. The new company policy. “In line
with recent government legislation, to help make us a more competitive force in the
international marketplace post-Brexit, and stave off the tide of outsourcing that’s driving
so much of our industry and so many of our jobs overseas, Head Office has
instituted a new twenty-four hour working day, commencing this morning at 9am.
They’re calculating a projected increase in productivity across the week of… I
think they said twenty-five per cent. I can’t quite remember now. God, Karl,
where have you been?”
“But, that’s… We can’t… I mean, when do we sleep?”
“Well, obviously, that’s been taken into account. If you need
more than a catnap at your desk, the company’s provided us with a comfortable
new dormitory in the basement. Though they are asking us to sign up to a rota
so that everybody isn’t trying to get in there at the same time – surely you
got that email?”
“But…”
“Look, if you don’t like it, you’re allowed to opt for
voluntary redundancy if you so… Go and take it up with Michael from HR. Just…
I’m very busy!”
Karl left her to her Mah-jong and returned to his desk. He
switched his computer back on and waited for it to boot up. He couldn’t just
quit – how would he pay off his mortgage? His car? His three grand overdraft
and five grand credit cards? Getting another job wouldn’t be that easy. Not one
as relaxed as this, with as much freedom to do as he pleased, with no-one
breathing down his neck, without the pressure of deadlines and paperwork and…
well, work. Sometimes it takes the threat of losing it to make you
realise how much of a good thing you’ve got going.
Back down in the archives, after filling in his name on the
dormitory rota, Karl climbed up on a box and stared out into the world. Late
evening sunlight fell through the grill, the pattern of the snowflakes warming
his skin. And though it was almost six o’clock, the street wasn’t any busier
now than it had been at eleven, or three. The rush hour was off. People just
carried on about their day as though the clock no longer held any dominion over
them. And in that respect, at least, now Karl was just as free as everybody
else.
So there I was, just a few weeks back, complaining about having to get up at 6am. I should have remembered that in the summer, when the wood pigeon outside my bedroom window gets up at 5 o'clock in the morning, 6am is a lie in...
Here's ten bleary-eyed tunes to celebrate the light mornings.
As with much of Parklife-era Blur, I loved Tracy Jacks at the time... but I find Damon's barking gets on my nerves these days. Still, for the good old days, it's worth pointing out that Tracy left home at 5 o'clock in the morning. And the bits where Damon sings rather than shouting are still quite nice.
From the same era (but aging slight better), I also offer Kenickie - 5 a.m.
In the early 80s, even The Village People had to accept that disco was dead. Their new wave change of direction (minus their signature costumes and camp) was greeted by derision (yeah, I know the idea of The Village People being treated with derision is hard to grasp) with one critic commenting the album was "simply an embarrassment that never should have seen the light of day." I've not heard the rest of the record, but I do like this song. Which only goes to prove that critics are... and I am... The video is brilliant.
You'd never guess that Charlotte was Serge and Jane's daughter. Not from watching this video, anyway. No siree. Maybe there was a mix-up on the maternity ward.
Sarcasm aside, you can pretty much imagine what she gets up to at 5:55. She's not doing the ironing.
Where do the French get their energy from? That's what I want to know.
Mark goes back to his Geordie roots. He will mostly be remembered as an axe-man. His lyrics deserve more attention.
The one armed bandit man Came north to fill his boots Came up from cockneyland E-type jags and flashy suits Put your money in Pull the levers Watch them spin Cash cows in all the pubs But he preferred the new nightclubs
A soul classic which is also a hilarious tale of hell having no fury like a woman scorned. When he gets home at five, his lady is all sweetness and light, even offering to make him some toast. Cut to the next verse...
Here am in the hospital Bandaged from fee to head In a state of shock Just that much from being dead Didn't think my woman would do something like this Didn't think my girl had the nerve Well, here I am I guess actions speak louder than words...
Apparently this was originally recorded by some obscure 60s combo: sadly I'm not enough of a muso to be familiar with their outfit and obviously their version couldn't have been as good as Billy and Cara's because it didn't even make the chart, unlike this smash hit Number One from 1988.
I'm sorry... Wet Wet Who?
1. Rialto - Monday Morning, 5.19
One of a clutch of classic Rialto singles from the Britpop era which has aged far better than Tracy Jacks. Heartbreaking too.
I know, I will go away soon, I promise. First though, I did mention that I was dropping the monthly top ten of what I'm listening to at the moment... but also that I'd come up with an idea of what to replace it with when I just wanted to write about something new. In keeping with this blog's ever-shackling Top Ten theme then, I'll now just title posts about new stuff as NEW ENTRY, and old stuff as RE-ENTRY (I haven't yet decided what to do with old stuff that's new to me). At least that way I won't have to do 10 of them a month (now I can do 15 if I want!). Anyway, there seems no more appropriate song to kick off with than this...
NEW ENTRY: THE INDELICATES - TOP OF THE POPS
The Indelicates remain my favourite band of the 21st Century. They are responsible for the most exciting single of the millennium so far (We Hate The Kids) and a series of albums that are always surprising, witty, literate and fun. They embrace a wide range of musical styles, from guitar pop to glam, embracing Brelian theatrical pomp and Jerry Lee Lewis piano. They're not afraid to admit to loving Jim Steinman. They're also indie in its most pure sense, having proudly resisted any kind of record deal since 2009, setting up their own label (Corporate Records) to promote their work and that of like-minded souls. They won't suck up to the music press (30 years ago, the NME would have been all over this band: the fact that they ignore them now is testament to what the NME has become) or radio (I'm always amazed that Lamacq doesn't support them). They are a cottage industry who rely on a loyal fanbase and word of mouth from the blogosphere to get their music heard... and I'm happy to play my (miniscule) part in helping promote their new record, Juniverbrechter. Because it's a record we need now more than any other.
I'll let Simon & Julia Indelicate explain why...
Lords and commons of England! Consider what nation it is whereof ye are!
It is one year since Brexit, half a year since Trump, stirrings abound - but the horrors persist and worsen!
England!
Cruel
and Ugly! Mr Punch in the boiler room! Savile in a postcard! There's
something wrong with Top Of The Pops. They cry hoorah for Daniel!
Everything's so lovely by the sea! The bins have not been taken!
We present this banishing ritual, to drive the demons from England!
Nous présentons ce hurlement en marge!
Unsere Damen, Herren und alle anderen! Wir präsentieren: JUNIVERBRECHER!
To find out more, visit The Indelicates website. Every time somebody clicks that link, an elitist scumbag loses their seat. (It might not be a parliamentary seat, it might just be a deck chair, rocking chair or chaise lounge. But every little helps.)
