I stumbled across Teeside's Andrew Johnson on bandcamp a while back and was tempted by his annual subscription of £10 which got me access to his entire digital back catalogue (more than I'll ever get round to listening to, to be honest) plus new CD releases sent in the post and bonus items (most recently, this was an edition of a comic he wrote and drew as a much younger man). I'm not sure he can possibly make any profit on this, but I've already had more than my tenner's worth and I've only been subscribed for a few months. He makes music in a bunch of different styles, most notably indie/singer-songwritery (but occasionally off at wilder tangents) and there's something of the Stephen Duffy / Lilac Time to the best of his material, which is how I got hooked in.
I don't know how old Andrew is, but he appears to have been making music since the mid-90s when he was quite young, so I'm guessing he's at least ten years younger than me. It therefore feels unfair to call him a Grumpy Old Man, especially as much of his music has a wistful, yearning romanticism. However, the final track on one of his latest collections, Paper Ghosts, properly satisfies my GOM requirements, and it's definitely the best thing I've heard in the last 20 minutes. Worth my £10 subscription all on its own...
To be fair, that photo makes it look worse than it was.
You could still get a pushchair on there without scraping your arms.
You may recall the poison pen letter we received from one of
our friendly neighbours just
before Christmas, asking us to cut our hedge and stop dragging the neighbourhood
down.
The hedge in question is a Leylandi, and being that it’s
much taller than I am, we have to get a man in to cut it. I hesitate to call
him “our gardener”, though he did also put us a new patio down last year, so l’ll
refer to him as such for the purpose of this post. Anyway, he’s a very busy guy (he has
something to do with the Chelsea Flower Show and does the gardens for the Third
Earl of Somewhere), so we’re pretty low on his list of priorities. We have,
however, had him booked to come sort the hedge out for some time. Last Tuesday
was the date in the diary. We were very excited – after all, we’ve gone 6
months without any hate mail, and we knew it couldn’t last…
On the weekend before the gardener was due, we received a
letter from the council. Rather than send us anymore anonymous billet doux, it
turns out that our local GOG (grumpy old git) had instead reported us to “The
Trees Team”. Presumably The A Team were busy, otherwise we might have had B.A. Baracus
knocking on our door. “Get those trees cut down, sucker!”
There followed a lot of back and forth between Louise and
the council and a couple of sleepless nights. To be fair, the Trees Team lady
was very nice, happy that we already had a man booked and were taking care of
it ourselves, but as an official complaint had gone in, they had to insist on us
following the letter of the law rather than just “do as much as you can”. The
gardener, meanwhile, refused to cut it back too much in case it killed the
bushes and “damaged his reputation”… not to mention that there are birds
nesting inside it, which opens up a whole other can of worms.
Fortunately, the council were happy with the work we’ve had
done and signed off the job, meaning there can be no further comeback from Mr.
Grumpy. Meanwhile, our Number One Suspect was conveniently away on holiday that
week (in his caravan… just saying), though he’s back now. And much as I want to
put a brick through his window or smear Bertie’s dog poo all over his front door, I’m
going to be the better man and let it go. Though all this could have been
settled far more amicably if he’s just had the guts to come give us a knock...
Here is a lovely festive greeting we received from one of our neighbours just a few days before Christmas...
A few points of order...
1. They're 10+ feet tall leylandii. Which are rather useful at shielding our garden from the gale force winds that blow almost continually on the mountain top where we currently reside. However, we can't cut them ourselves. We have to get a man in. A man who charges an arm and a leg. And in the current economic climate...
2. They're not "overhanging the pavement by almost half". They're just a little bushy at the top.
3. We walk our dog on that pavement every day and have no difficultly at all. We often pass people with prams, again having no difficulty at all.
4. This letter was not written by a young mum with a pram and a dog. A young mum with a pram and a dog would have gone on Facebook to whinge. This letter was written by a grumpy old sod who lives across the road and doesn't have the guts to come and knock on our door. He did once: to complain that our builder's vans were parking outside his house. They weren't our builders. You can guess the rest. (He's our main suspect, anyway.)
5. "A polite reminder" doesn't then go on to insinuate that by our very presence, we're bringing down the tone of a once respectable neighbourhood. (Don't even start me on the patch of ground at the side of the garage [singular - the second garage belongs to our next door neighbour]).
6. Louise is currently walking round with a machete. Not to cut down the leylandii.
Various suggestions have already been offered by friends and colleagues about how we respond to the above. My favourite so far involves having a topiarist carve a one-fingered salute into the bushes. Other suggestions are welcome...
In the meantime, there was only one song to play today...
When I was in high school, I hated The Smiths. I didn’t properly embrace the band until I was at university, when I came to them on my own terms rather than being forced to listen to them by the high school taste-makers. I similarly rebelled against a number of other “cool” bands in the 80s, most of which I’ve made my peace with in the intervening years, many of which I’ve come to cherish. (The one exception is a band beloved by many of my blogging peers, who I never got then and still don’t get now… though there was also a particularly hurtful incident involving a friend’s betrayal that is inextricably linked to said band… and even after 35 years, I’m not sure I can write about that.)
Anyway, the ironic thing about my hatred of The Smiths is the reason I gave for not liking them. “They’re so miserable!” I would cry, before leaping into my clichéd Morrissey impression, which was the same as every other clichéd Morrissey impression you’ve ever heard: moany voice, lyrics about stubbing your toe or missing the bus or your toast going cold, capped off by repeated use of that word most associated with The Smiths, because Heaven Knows they are…
The irony mentioned above is that most of my schoolmates thought I was pretty miserable and that I should love The Smiths because of that. When I wasn’t playing the clown, I was moping around. Although I might have been laughing loud and hearty, deep inside I was blue.
I have very similar feelings about Charles Dickens. He’s a right miserable sod too. I remember having to read Hard Times in university, and it was the hardest time I had there. It made my Uni a Bleak House. It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera…
I managed to avoid having to deal with much Dickens for the first ten years of my teaching life, because I only taught English Language at The Bad Place, and when I did encounter him, it was usually only a page and a half of him wittering on about how terrible Victorian society was: the poor people, the poor prisoners, The Poor Law. But since starting my new job, I’m teaching more Literature, and one of the key texts still forced upon poor, poor teenagers is A Christmas Carol… a text I genuinely believe should only be taught during one month of the year, and mostly through watching the version featuring Michael Caine and The Muppets. But since when has anyone ever listened to my opinion on anything? (I also have a serious problem with the way Dickens tries to lighten the mood in his books through the use of comedy names like Bumblesnot and Pooptwizzle: that’s about as funny as Mrs. Brown’s Boys, Chuck – knock it off!)
I’ve yet to have an epiphany about Charles Dickens in the same way I did with The Smiths. And after all this time, I think a Road To Damascus moment is highly unlikely. However, my heart did warm to the following song from The Horrible Histories team when I stumbled across it for the first time earlier this week…
I lived a happy life ‘til I was ten years old When debt landed dad in prison and our country house was sold Lodged with a lady in her London flat so cold Worked at a boot polish factory, labelling jars quite dull be told Goodness only knows I was a miserable soul
In my life, felt ashamed about poverty in childhood Wrote about sadness, suffering, and fears Also wrote about people with funny names Bumble, Smallweed, Scrooge, Uriah Heep And Wackford Squeers
This is not Justin Currie’s first appearance as a Grumpy Old Man on this blog. I doubt it will be his last. From Nothing Ever Happens to No, Surrender, he’s consistently been near the top of the Grumpy Old Pops
throughout his career.
Following on from last year’s excellent Del Amitri comeback
album, Fatal Mistakes, the band have released a supplementary collection of
Outtakes & B-Sides, many of which are strong enough to have been included on the album itself… though I’m glad they did it this way, rather than
going down the dreaded Double Album route. Anyway, among this collection is
perhaps the happiest grumpiest song Mr. Currie has penned to date. In
these days of war, pestilence and incompetent politicians, this is two and a bit minutes of pure misanthropy that cheers me up greatly...
I'm gonna sing a happy song (everything is dying) So kick your feet and clap along (we're all going to hell) I'm gonna sing a happy song Throw it on the heap of shit you're choking on To the ever-growing hill of junk I'm gonna add another one I'm gonna let rip a whoop of joy (everything is burning) C'mon kill a girl, rape a boy (we're all going to hell) I'm gonna sing a happy song Don't give a fuck if you don't sing along Next year this will all be gone So hit the pedal bring it on Hurry up don't be late, the suicides start at eight Last one alive can take some pride In seeing the last one die I'm gonna sing a happy song (everything is dying) Happiness keeps us strong (we're all going to hell) I'm gonna sing a happy song Till my eyes bleed and hair is gone Main thing is to carry on into the pit Cos happiness is it
We were on holiday again last week. I realise as I type those words that it puts me in direct competition with Charity Chic for most holidays in one year, but all the others were just short breaks, I did turn 50, one of them was carried over from Covid, and one of them was just to get me and Sam out of the house for a few days as Louise works from home.
Anyway, this was our last one, and to be honest, it was a bit of an endurance test. May well have been the holiday that broke the camel's back. Nearly broke mine, for sure.
Norfolk is a very nice place, but it's at least a 4 hour journey (5 1/2 hours on the way back as they'd helpfully closed the main route and not put proper diversions in place) and we've never been there during the summer holidays before. There was a heatwave as we arrived, we couldn't get anywhere near a beach (except at sunset), we melted the oven in the holiday cottage on the first night (long story) and Louise ended the week with food poisoning. Those were the highlights.
Well, there were some nice bits too, but I certainly didn't come back feeling rested and relaxed. Good job I've still got another two weeks before I go back to work. (Insert "Bloody teachers!" comment here.)
We also met some very annoying people whilst away. Which put me in mind of this new, yet already classic, Grumpy Old Man song by Chuck Brodsky...
Half the people have gone crazy
The other half have all gone mad
And I could make a fortune selling bridges
If I hadn’t sold the last one that I had
Half the people have no idea
The other half, they haven’t got a clue
They’ll believe anything anyone’ll tell them
Unless it can be proven to be true
Half the people are just plain coo-coo
The other half are just plain loony toons
Bite your tongue, you can’t talk sense to any of ‘em
They hate you when you burst their balloons
Half the people are talking rubbish
The other half are all just talking crap
You’ve got to be careful and remind yourself
Not to take the bait and step into a trap
Half the people nowadays are bonkers
The other half have all gone insane
Everybody everywhere looks angry
And they need to blame somebody for their pain
(I'd like to point out that anyone reading this blog is naturally excluded from the above. You're all the exceptions that prove the rule. Thank you.)
It's exactly two months since I turned 50, and because I went into a lying in a dark room sulk for a couple of weeks straight after, I never posted my 50th birthday presents. Here they are, for posterity; photo taken in our cliff-top retreat. The Brit-Pop Top Trumps were from Ben. I was thinking of doing a series based around them, but I'd rather just fill this blog up with more existential whinging.
Here's another Grumpy Old Man who has featured here before, and will no doubt do so again. Todd Snider is the gift that keeps on giving, like The Dude if he'd followed Creedence's example and spent less time bowling and more time writing songs.
So many great lines in this song, I'm tempted to quote them all. Or you could just listen to it and discover them for yourselves. I'm not going to spoon-feed you!
Not just a Grumpy Old Man Song today, but the first legitimate 2022 contender: the new album from John Mellencamp ticks a number of boxes. Over the past few records, Mellencamp has slowly been morphing into Tom Waits, as his voice grows older and croakier, and on Strictly A One-Eyed Jack, that transformation appears complete. I'm not entirely sure why he's taken to dressing like a pirate, eye patch and all, but it's a welcome turn in a career I've followed almost from its outset.
There's no shortage of contenders when it comes to selecting a Grumpy Old Man Song either, from the opener I Always Lie To Strangers...
I always lie to strangers
I am a man of low degree
This world is run by men
Much more crooked than me
And as far as I can see
I don't trust you
And you shouldn't trust me
...to the stompy Waits-meets-Eels grouch-fest I Am A Man That Worries...
JM even ropes in a Grumpy Old Contemporary who's no stranger to these parts to help him out on a couple of tunes. They have worked together briefly in the past, but this feels like a fully-fledged collaboration, and the two aging heartland rockers fit together better now than they would have done at any earlier point in either of their illustrious careers. Hard to believe either of them could ever be accused of having Wasted Days though...
Actually, they're not really that old... they just like old sounds and sounding old.
Tom Smith & Andy Burrows have already cropped up on My Top Twenty-One of 2021, but did you know (do you care?) that they first collaborated ten years ago on a Christmas album, of all things?
I've been listening to it a lot in the Yuletide run-up, and I thought I'd recommend it as an alternative to the "same old songs" if you're already sick of them.
My favourite track, it goes without saying, is the one that references a famous Christmas song from New Jersey. Not that Bruce wrote it, or recorded the original version, but it's still hard for me to accept that the opening line on every single recording isn't "It's all cold down along the beach".
Smith & Burrows, being grumpy young men, take umbrage with the fact that we shouldn't really be singing "Santa Claus is coming to town" in the UK, since we're more likely to call the dude in red by another name. Then again guys, if you're avoiding the Americanisms, maybe you should have called your song "This Isn't New Jersey". Just saying.
Either way, it's a belter. And I don't think Bruce would object, since it's obviously done with love and respect. I mean, listen to that piano...
As someone who has been dubbed, and even self-applied, the moniker "Billy Nomates" at various times in his life, I was immediately interested to hear that a new punk-pop star had taken that name. Interested enough to give her debut album a try...
Imagine a Bristolian Patti Smith with a David Coverdale mullet and an old Dan Le Sac Vs. Scroobius Pip cassette in her glove box, and you're halfway to imagining Billy Nomates. She shouts (because "sings" doesn't really cut it) lyrics full of breadline chic for the disenfranchised of today... and though I can't really class myself in that category, I still enjoy the grubby window into her world.
I could have used the following song in my previous job... the closest thing you'll hear to Chip Taylor's Phoned In Dead this side of the JobCentre Plus. (And no, I'm not putting down anyone forced to frequent that particular establishment: I did my time there ten years ago, for my sins.)
One thing's for certain, Debbie: I'm not going in if Andy's working Friday.
I have to punch myself in the face to get myself out of bed
Hour after hour bombarded by lies
It’s a desecration of your mind
God bless Juliana Hatfield, bringing a little gender equality to the Grumpy Old stakes, and frankly, showing the blokes how to do it. Her new album Blood contains some fine songs, but my favourite at the moment is definitely Nightmary... which would be a great name for a superhero. Almost makes me want to write that comic.
I’m living in a nightmare and I can’t wake up
The whole world is controlled by fascist blood-sucking thugs
The isolation period has ended, and we all survived. I may share with you my covid diary at some point, or I may choose to let the whole sorry affair sink into obscurity. Thank you for your good wishes anyway.
Meanwhile, here's Todd Snider, a veteran of the Grumpy Old Man Songbook, mixing a little funky soul in with his usual cynical Americana vibe to terrific effect on his latest album, First Agnostic Church of Hope and Wonder. He's always been a master of the talky song too, and here he takes on the character of the titular agnostic preacher to hilarious effect...
Mainly though,
Everybody just wants to succeed at everything they try,
Live forever and never die.
That's it in a nutshell, really
Succeed at everything we try,
Live forever and never die.
That's the thing everyone agrees on.
Stick around for the last line, it's worth the wait.
I realise that my excitement over a new Del Amitri album probably won't be echoed by the majority of the blogosphere, but the prospect of their first album in 19 years is a glimmer of light amid the endless darkness.
I have a lot of time for Justin Currie. He's a romantic misanthrope. Or a misanthropic romantic. I know how that feels. And he's long been the very definition of a Grumpy Old Man, all the way back to the band's colossally cynical breakthrough hit...
Currie has been far from silent over the past two decades, ploughing his own furrow with some excellent solo albums, and very entertaining live shows. And the romisantichropy has been ever-present...
Now he's got the band back together though, and from what I've heard, they're sounding as good as they ever did.
As for the Grumpy Old Man Syndrome... well, check this out!
Here's a song for all those of us who long for simpler times... featured on a blog on the internet superhighway. Still, as Amy Rigby pointed out recently (via John), nobody writes blogs anymore. Except for us old dinosaurs. But look how long the dinosaurs lived!
Here's another song from one of my favourite Grumpy Old Men, the late Guy Clark.
Now she gets online out in the backyard Hangin' up her ol' blue jeans She's got all of the memory she can live with She really hates drum machines
Out in the garden she's got a website It sparkles in the mornin' dew Got a mouse in her pocket, she's got spam in a can What's an analog girl to do?
In the spirit of resurrecting old blog series to help me survive pass the time, we return you to the ever popular Grumpy Old Men thread, and one of my very favourite GOMs, Chip 'Wild Thing' Taylor.
Since discovering Chip's solo output a couple of years back, I'm astounded by just how much there is to enjoy. After forty plus years of musical digging, getting into Chip was like cracking a particularly rich seam of gold in the mine.
Here he is with another song from his 2012 masterpiece Fuck All The Perfect People, this one taking aim at record reviewers. Hopefully it'll bring a smile to your Friday. God knows we could all use one.
Imagine being "too dynamic". Chance would be a fine thing...
The good thing about old blog series is that they never really end... they just go on hold until you find the perfect song to bring them back. To wit, this one, which I heard for the first time last week... and realised I'd been waiting most of my life for it. (Or at least since I started driving at the grumpy old age of 18.)
The band is I See Hawks In LA, an alt-country combo who have been gradually sneaking their way onto my radar over the past few months. Their latest tune, recorded in lockdown, is pretty good too and I may well feature that here another day.
For now though, I give you Stop Driving Like An Asshole. If it isn't the greatest thing you've heard this week, then I want to know what else you've been listening to.
I almost didn't have a post today. I realise that's hardly the end of the world, and I've let days gone by without posts before, but this time was different. Because I had posts... only other people had already written then.
Originally I'd planned on doing a Grumpy Old Men / 2019 Contenders post about the new Specials album, but Rigid Digit and John Medd said pretty much everything I have to say about that at the moment (for the record, my opinion falls somewhere in between theirs - RD seems to like it a lot, while John Medd questions whether it's actually The Specials at all, more a reformed Funboy 3 who realised the name of their earlier band would make more headlines).All I can add to that is that while I enjoyed the record, I did feel there were times that it came across as a Guardian journalist's wet dream. The tracklist runs like a checklist of society's ills and sometimes the message seems more important than the music. I don't object to any of the songs on their own, but crammed together on one disc it does feel a bit like being lectured by a 6th former at times. Maybe it's the grumpy old man in me... that's probably why I like this track best of all.
With that idea abandoned, I thought about featuring another Long Song as last Monday morning... until I realised (I had to check!) that Drew had already featured both of them. (I'd already written one of them, but I'll spare you... go read Drew's instead.)
All of which led me to the Bahamas, a late musical discovery from 2018 that may have troubled my end of year countdown if I'd heard it sooner.
Canadian musician Afie Jurvanen, aka Bahamas, has been making records since 2009, but his fourth album, Earthtones, is the first one to be picked up on my radar. He obviously listened to a lot of Prince as a kid but also has a cheerfully tongue-in-cheek approach to his lyrics, reminiscent of John Grant or Father John Misty without the egomaniacal side. Hopefully it'll brighten up your Monday morning (what's left of it)...
When I featured Labi Siffre in Saturday Snapshots a few weeks ago, it occurred to me that I only really knew two of his songs - Something Inside (So Strong) and It Must Be Love (made more famous by Madness) - but that I liked them both a lot. Further investigation was obviously required, so I started listening to a Best Of (interestingly enough, it didn't feature Something Inside at all) which introduced me to some great tracks. It also revealed that, even back in his youth, Claudius Afolabi Siffre was capable of turning on the Grumpy Old Man on tracks like the tabloid-baiting Entertainment Value, and the anti-religion anthem Let's Pretend.
Best of all though is this, from his debut album, released in 1970 when Labi was a mere 25 years of age. I suspect tongue is firmly in cheek, but still...
I've got so many series on the go at the moment, I can't keep up with them all. So here's a Top Ten of Grumpy Old Men songs (aided and abetted by a few grumpy old women) based around the idea that things were much better when I was a lad. Y'know: strikes, power-cuts, the three day week, Margaret Thatcher, the Yorkshire Ripper, Kajagoogoo... I'm talking the good old days now!
(Nothing personal against Kajagoogoo. They just have a funny name.)
When I did a google image search on "things ain't what they used to be", the above image popped up and I felt it somehow appropriate.
One of those songs you pick up on an old Uncut or Mojo CD, burn to your record library, then never actually listen to until 20 years later when you come up with a random post idea and... not bad, actually.
Amazing that this is the first time Neil Young has featured in my Grumpy Old Men series...
Talk to me, my long lost friend, tell me how you are Are you happy with your circumstance, are you driving a new car? Does it get you where you want to go, with a seven year warranty? Or just another hundred thousand miles away From the days that used to be
Can we ever live up to what our parents' generation went through. Probably not...
Whoah-oh, story after story Of all your faded glory Is all I ever hope to live up to Whoah-oh, know as I get older I'm standing on your shoulders Trying to be just like you But they don't make 'em like they used to
Most things change, but some things stay the same...
There's a freeway where we played football in the fields Apartments on the pitch at Highbury There's a shed called Deer Creek Of which my one critique Is there's no creek now and it's all deer-free
There's a Walgreens where there was no wall, just greenery There's a theme park in a palace in Tennessee That tree there is a pylon But some things you can rely on There's a Starbucks where the Starbucks used to be
Considering Marvin wrote this heartfelt plea for the ecology back in 1971, you can imagine him turning in his grave every time Donald The Trump opens his mouth.
Wait, you say. Those aren't the lyrics to a Max Bygraves song! They're the lyrics to The Kinks' 1983 comeback single, Come Dancing. True enough, but I bet Ray was thinking of Max's big hit from 23 years earlier when he penned those lines... if you don't believe me, just listen to the opening lines of Fings Ain't Wot They Used T'Be.
Here's a proper grumpy old man song for you! Go on, Max!
