I think this is quite clever.
Source is "The Guardian" from 2nd Feb 2006
(it's a pdf file - so make sure you can view it before clicking)
http://image.guardian.co.uk/sys-files/Guardian/documents/2006/02/02/underground5.pdf
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Another tale of the business almost killing the music
The Hit We Almost Missed
By SHAUN CONSIDINE
Published: NY Times December 3, 2004
It's official, I guess. Forty years after he recorded it, Bob Dylan's "Like a
Rolling Stone" was just named the greatest rock 'n' roll song of all time by
Rolling Stone magazine, a tribute it had previously been given by New Musical
Express, Britain's leading pop-music weekly. Quite an honor, considering that
the single was almost never released.
"Like a Rolling Stone" was recorded on June 15, 1965, in Studio A at 799
Seventh Avenue, then the New York headquarters of Columbia Records, where I worked
as the coordinator of new releases, scheduling every step of a record's
production. (On the top floor of the building, the modest studio had been used by
Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Barbra Streisand.) When the edited tape was
played a few days later for Mr. Dylan and his manager, the reaction was
unanimous: it would be a hit and should be released immediately.
But before that could happen, the song had to be presented at Columbia's
weekly singles meeting, and that's where the trouble began. Though just about
everyone from the A & R (artists and repertoire) and promotion departments loved
it, the sales and marketing people had a different opinion. And their opinion
mattered, for sales and marketing was the engine behind the label's success.
Their objection to the song came on two levels. The unstated reason was that
they just didn't like raucous rock 'n' roll. The sales and marketing people
had made Columbia a winner by selling mainstream American music - pop, jazz,
country, gospel, the best of Broadway and Hollywood. But rock? No way. It was
this thinking that had led the label to turn down Elvis Presley in 1955 and the
first American album by the Beatles in 1963.
Of course, none of this was raised at the meeting about "Like a Rolling
Stone." What did come up was the length of the song. In 1965, three minutes was the
average time for singles played on national radio. "Like a Rolling Stone"
clocked in at one second under six minutes. The solution? Cut the baby in half,
the wise Solomon of Sales decreed.
When presented with this edict, Bob Dylan refused, fully prepared to engage
in yet another fight with the giant, wholesome label. (In 1963, Mr. Dylan had
failed to persuade Columbia to release "Talkin' John Birch Society Blues.")
Except there was no one to fight with. The big guys were engaged in a more
important drama.
Columbia Records, which had always remained autonomous from its parent, CBS,
was moving into the corporation's new building on Sixth Avenue (soon to be
known as Black Rock), where our vice president of sales and marketing was taking
over the A & R department, and soon, it was rumored, the second-in-command
position, under our much beloved president, Goddard Lieberson. That vice
president and his staff had never expressed any great fondness or attached any future
importance to Mr. Dylan - who performed at one of their mammoth sales
conventions but never "mingled." With all the distraction over the move to CBS
headquarters and the intrigue of the executive power play, the matter of Mr. Dylan's
epic rock song was quickly taken care of. A memo was sent out saying that the
single was to be moved from an "immediate special" to an "unassigned release."
Translated, it was in limbo, soon to be dropped, no doubt, into the dark
graveyard of canceled releases.
After that, the tumult of the move to Black Rock filled our days. Decades of
memorabilia from 799 had to be discarded because the welcoming notice from CBS
clearly stated that clutter would not be allowed in the new building, a
temple to spare modernism.
During my last trek through what remained of the A & R department, I was
invited to sort through a stack of records and demos that were to be junked. Among
them I discovered a gem: a studio-cut acetate of "Like a Rolling Stone."
Carefully packing it into an empty LP jacket, I carried it home and that weekend
played it more than once in my apartment. The effect was the same as it had
been the first time I had experienced it. Exhilaration. Heart pounding. Body
rolling - followed by neighbors banging on the walls in protest. Then, on Sunday
evening, it came to me. I knew exactly where the song could be fully
appreciated.
At the time, the hottest new disco in Manhattan was a place called Arthur, on
East 54th Street. Sybil Burton, whose husband had run off with Elizabeth
Taylor a few years before, was the creator of the uniquely egalitarian club, which
was on the site of the old El Morocco. Some of Arthur's owners were famous -
Mike Nichols, Stephen Sondheim, Leonard Bernstein - and some weren't (me).
When it opened in May, no one except the fabulous Sybil expected that Arthur
would cause such a sensation, and that everyone would want to go there - including
Bob Dylan. Late in June, dressed in wine-stained, beer-splattered Army-Navy
store couture, he and his rowdy male friends had tried to get in. They were
turned away.
His rejected single had better luck. Perhaps because I was a "club member,"
the D.J. was very polite when asked if he would kindly play the acetate during
a free moment. Deliberately neglecting to mention the name of the singer, I
did say that the song was rather long and that he should feel free to stop it if
the dancers got bored or tired. At around 11 p.m., after a break, he played
the acetate. The effect was seismic. People jumped to their feet and took to
the floor, dancing the entire six minutes. Those who were seated stopped talking
and began to listen. "Who is it?" the D.J. yelled at one point, running
toward me. "Bob Dylan!" I shouted back. The name spread through the room, which
only encouraged the skeptics to insist that it be played again, straight through.
Sometime past midnight, as the grooves on the temporary dub wore out, the
needle began to skip. But not before the song had been heard by two important
guests. One was a D.J. at WABC, then the leading Top 40 radio station in
Manhattan. The other was a music programmer at the equally powerful WMCA. The next
morning both called Columbia Records and demanded to know where their copy of the
new Bob Dylan record was. Staff meetings were hastily called. Goddard
Lieberson, who had recently met with Mr. Dylan during his concert tour in England
(only to be chastised backstage by Mr. Dylan's protective former girlfriend, Joan
Baez, for allowing Columbia to "exploit and commercialize Bobby"), was
brought into the dispute over the length of the song. Standards and rules were
dandy, said "God," but they should never interfere with the evolution of an artist.
The release memo came shortly thereafter. On July 15, a month after it had
been recorded, "Like a Rolling Stone" shipped to stores and D.J.'s. The latter
were put on alert that this was a hot Columbia single, because it was pressed
on red vinyl. On side one of the red promotional disc, the label read: "Like a
Rolling Stone (Part 1). Timing 3:02." Side two said: "Part 2. Timing 3:02."
The song had been cut down the middle. Sales and marketing had struck again. But
they didn't win. Some D.J.'s simply recorded both sides of the disc on tape
and spliced the whole thing together and - voila! - came up with the complete
song (with five seconds added). The following week "Like a Rolling Stone," full
version, entered the Billboard charts. By August it was in the Top Ten,
rising to No. 2. Bob Dylan performed it live at the Newport Folk Festival (they
booed the rock 'n' roll half of the show) and at a concert in Forest Hills,
Queens (loud cheers). The electronic folk-rock revolution spread quickly after
that, and Bob Dylan began to dress accordingly - he was no longer the prince of
folk, but a rock 'n' roll star. Arriving at Arthur with the model Sara Lownds
(whom he would marry that November), the stylishly mod and extremely polite Bob
Dylan was promptly admitted. "Like a Rolling Stone" remained on the charts for
three months, carrying Columbia into what was then called "the New Rock."
(The music, not the building.) Our omnipotent vice president of sales, however,
did not lead that transition. Instead, a lawyer with no A & R training and no
claim to having "ears" was given the job of administrative vice president under
Goddard. His first task was to renew Bob Dylan's contract with Columbia. The
artist's demands exceeded those of the top Columbia stars, Andy Williams and
Barbra Streisand. His requests were met. Shaun Considine is writing a book
about New York and the creative revolutions of the mid-1960's.
By SHAUN CONSIDINE
Published: NY Times December 3, 2004
It's official, I guess. Forty years after he recorded it, Bob Dylan's "Like a
Rolling Stone" was just named the greatest rock 'n' roll song of all time by
Rolling Stone magazine, a tribute it had previously been given by New Musical
Express, Britain's leading pop-music weekly. Quite an honor, considering that
the single was almost never released.
"Like a Rolling Stone" was recorded on June 15, 1965, in Studio A at 799
Seventh Avenue, then the New York headquarters of Columbia Records, where I worked
as the coordinator of new releases, scheduling every step of a record's
production. (On the top floor of the building, the modest studio had been used by
Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Barbra Streisand.) When the edited tape was
played a few days later for Mr. Dylan and his manager, the reaction was
unanimous: it would be a hit and should be released immediately.
But before that could happen, the song had to be presented at Columbia's
weekly singles meeting, and that's where the trouble began. Though just about
everyone from the A & R (artists and repertoire) and promotion departments loved
it, the sales and marketing people had a different opinion. And their opinion
mattered, for sales and marketing was the engine behind the label's success.
Their objection to the song came on two levels. The unstated reason was that
they just didn't like raucous rock 'n' roll. The sales and marketing people
had made Columbia a winner by selling mainstream American music - pop, jazz,
country, gospel, the best of Broadway and Hollywood. But rock? No way. It was
this thinking that had led the label to turn down Elvis Presley in 1955 and the
first American album by the Beatles in 1963.
Of course, none of this was raised at the meeting about "Like a Rolling
Stone." What did come up was the length of the song. In 1965, three minutes was the
average time for singles played on national radio. "Like a Rolling Stone"
clocked in at one second under six minutes. The solution? Cut the baby in half,
the wise Solomon of Sales decreed.
When presented with this edict, Bob Dylan refused, fully prepared to engage
in yet another fight with the giant, wholesome label. (In 1963, Mr. Dylan had
failed to persuade Columbia to release "Talkin' John Birch Society Blues.")
Except there was no one to fight with. The big guys were engaged in a more
important drama.
Columbia Records, which had always remained autonomous from its parent, CBS,
was moving into the corporation's new building on Sixth Avenue (soon to be
known as Black Rock), where our vice president of sales and marketing was taking
over the A & R department, and soon, it was rumored, the second-in-command
position, under our much beloved president, Goddard Lieberson. That vice
president and his staff had never expressed any great fondness or attached any future
importance to Mr. Dylan - who performed at one of their mammoth sales
conventions but never "mingled." With all the distraction over the move to CBS
headquarters and the intrigue of the executive power play, the matter of Mr. Dylan's
epic rock song was quickly taken care of. A memo was sent out saying that the
single was to be moved from an "immediate special" to an "unassigned release."
Translated, it was in limbo, soon to be dropped, no doubt, into the dark
graveyard of canceled releases.
After that, the tumult of the move to Black Rock filled our days. Decades of
memorabilia from 799 had to be discarded because the welcoming notice from CBS
clearly stated that clutter would not be allowed in the new building, a
temple to spare modernism.
During my last trek through what remained of the A & R department, I was
invited to sort through a stack of records and demos that were to be junked. Among
them I discovered a gem: a studio-cut acetate of "Like a Rolling Stone."
Carefully packing it into an empty LP jacket, I carried it home and that weekend
played it more than once in my apartment. The effect was the same as it had
been the first time I had experienced it. Exhilaration. Heart pounding. Body
rolling - followed by neighbors banging on the walls in protest. Then, on Sunday
evening, it came to me. I knew exactly where the song could be fully
appreciated.
At the time, the hottest new disco in Manhattan was a place called Arthur, on
East 54th Street. Sybil Burton, whose husband had run off with Elizabeth
Taylor a few years before, was the creator of the uniquely egalitarian club, which
was on the site of the old El Morocco. Some of Arthur's owners were famous -
Mike Nichols, Stephen Sondheim, Leonard Bernstein - and some weren't (me).
When it opened in May, no one except the fabulous Sybil expected that Arthur
would cause such a sensation, and that everyone would want to go there - including
Bob Dylan. Late in June, dressed in wine-stained, beer-splattered Army-Navy
store couture, he and his rowdy male friends had tried to get in. They were
turned away.
His rejected single had better luck. Perhaps because I was a "club member,"
the D.J. was very polite when asked if he would kindly play the acetate during
a free moment. Deliberately neglecting to mention the name of the singer, I
did say that the song was rather long and that he should feel free to stop it if
the dancers got bored or tired. At around 11 p.m., after a break, he played
the acetate. The effect was seismic. People jumped to their feet and took to
the floor, dancing the entire six minutes. Those who were seated stopped talking
and began to listen. "Who is it?" the D.J. yelled at one point, running
toward me. "Bob Dylan!" I shouted back. The name spread through the room, which
only encouraged the skeptics to insist that it be played again, straight through.
Sometime past midnight, as the grooves on the temporary dub wore out, the
needle began to skip. But not before the song had been heard by two important
guests. One was a D.J. at WABC, then the leading Top 40 radio station in
Manhattan. The other was a music programmer at the equally powerful WMCA. The next
morning both called Columbia Records and demanded to know where their copy of the
new Bob Dylan record was. Staff meetings were hastily called. Goddard
Lieberson, who had recently met with Mr. Dylan during his concert tour in England
(only to be chastised backstage by Mr. Dylan's protective former girlfriend, Joan
Baez, for allowing Columbia to "exploit and commercialize Bobby"), was
brought into the dispute over the length of the song. Standards and rules were
dandy, said "God," but they should never interfere with the evolution of an artist.
The release memo came shortly thereafter. On July 15, a month after it had
been recorded, "Like a Rolling Stone" shipped to stores and D.J.'s. The latter
were put on alert that this was a hot Columbia single, because it was pressed
on red vinyl. On side one of the red promotional disc, the label read: "Like a
Rolling Stone (Part 1). Timing 3:02." Side two said: "Part 2. Timing 3:02."
The song had been cut down the middle. Sales and marketing had struck again. But
they didn't win. Some D.J.'s simply recorded both sides of the disc on tape
and spliced the whole thing together and - voila! - came up with the complete
song (with five seconds added). The following week "Like a Rolling Stone," full
version, entered the Billboard charts. By August it was in the Top Ten,
rising to No. 2. Bob Dylan performed it live at the Newport Folk Festival (they
booed the rock 'n' roll half of the show) and at a concert in Forest Hills,
Queens (loud cheers). The electronic folk-rock revolution spread quickly after
that, and Bob Dylan began to dress accordingly - he was no longer the prince of
folk, but a rock 'n' roll star. Arriving at Arthur with the model Sara Lownds
(whom he would marry that November), the stylishly mod and extremely polite Bob
Dylan was promptly admitted. "Like a Rolling Stone" remained on the charts for
three months, carrying Columbia into what was then called "the New Rock."
(The music, not the building.) Our omnipotent vice president of sales, however,
did not lead that transition. Instead, a lawyer with no A & R training and no
claim to having "ears" was given the job of administrative vice president under
Goddard. His first task was to renew Bob Dylan's contract with Columbia. The
artist's demands exceeded those of the top Columbia stars, Andy Williams and
Barbra Streisand. His requests were met. Shaun Considine is writing a book
about New York and the creative revolutions of the mid-1960's.
Can anybody out there play drums?
The Who
San Francisco, Cow Palace
20.11.1973
The band crashed into the song (Won't Get Fooled Again, K.J.), but after only a few bars,
Keith Moon slumped over his drums ...The roadies carried him backstage into the dressing room, where he was placed in a cold shower and revived ...
After another half-hour's delay, the Who once more hit the stage.
Moon proclaimed himself fit, and the rest of the band tried valiantly to pick up
where they'd left off.
But Moon was too weak to continue - he didn't even get through the first song.
He was taken backstage and then to the hospital ...
Meanwhile, Townshend was enraged that the beginning of the tour was so disastrous.
'Hey,' he shouted to the crowd. 'Can anybody out there play drums? I mean good.
Any takers come up here onstage.' Scott Halpin, a nineteen-year-old ...,
fought his way over to the security guards and tried to talk his way onstage...
'It all happened really quick,' Halpin told Rolling Stone.
'I didn't have time to think about it and get nervous.' Townshend introduced him (as 'Scott'), called for Naked Eye, giving Halpin the time signature, and they were off. The Who ran through two other songs, 'Magic Bus' and 'My Generation,' before finishing.
from "The story of The Who, Dave Marsh".
San Francisco, Cow Palace
20.11.1973
The band crashed into the song (Won't Get Fooled Again, K.J.), but after only a few bars,
Keith Moon slumped over his drums ...The roadies carried him backstage into the dressing room, where he was placed in a cold shower and revived ...
After another half-hour's delay, the Who once more hit the stage.
Moon proclaimed himself fit, and the rest of the band tried valiantly to pick up
where they'd left off.
But Moon was too weak to continue - he didn't even get through the first song.
He was taken backstage and then to the hospital ...
Meanwhile, Townshend was enraged that the beginning of the tour was so disastrous.
'Hey,' he shouted to the crowd. 'Can anybody out there play drums? I mean good.
Any takers come up here onstage.' Scott Halpin, a nineteen-year-old ...,
fought his way over to the security guards and tried to talk his way onstage...
'It all happened really quick,' Halpin told Rolling Stone.
'I didn't have time to think about it and get nervous.' Townshend introduced him (as 'Scott'), called for Naked Eye, giving Halpin the time signature, and they were off. The Who ran through two other songs, 'Magic Bus' and 'My Generation,' before finishing.
from "The story of The Who, Dave Marsh".
It may be based on an urban myth but it's still funny
Got to love this ad.
This Silva ad won a Bronze Lion at Cannes International Advertising Festival in 2004.
http://archives.canneslions.com/video/high/2004/2004_017_164_high.mov
This Silva ad won a Bronze Lion at Cannes International Advertising Festival in 2004.
http://archives.canneslions.com/video/high/2004/2004_017_164_high.mov
If you go down to the woods today...
Came across this story about stealth taping at a Joni Mitchell concert on a torrent site.
The chap who taped this and many other concerts at the Canadian National Exhibition (C.N.E.) had some really good but large recording equipment. So he got a big, 1-meter tall teddy bear, the kind you win at the midway (as the rides and amusements area is called), and stuffed it full of his recording gear and walked in with his girlfriend on one arm and the teddy on his shoulders. Imagine, behind those glazed teddy eyes was a Marantz PMD360, the arms contained a pair of shotgun mics, and up his arse was a Monfretto folding lighting stand and the requisite cables.
The chap who taped this and many other concerts at the Canadian National Exhibition (C.N.E.) had some really good but large recording equipment. So he got a big, 1-meter tall teddy bear, the kind you win at the midway (as the rides and amusements area is called), and stuffed it full of his recording gear and walked in with his girlfriend on one arm and the teddy on his shoulders. Imagine, behind those glazed teddy eyes was a Marantz PMD360, the arms contained a pair of shotgun mics, and up his arse was a Monfretto folding lighting stand and the requisite cables.
Pete on the Stones
Great interview with Pete Townshend of the 'oo. I love this bit about the Stones.
"I spoke to Mick Jagger on the phone the other day – the Stones were going into rehearsal in Boston. I said, 'How's it going?' and he said, 'Er, all right.' I said, 'How's Keith?' 'All right.' 'How's Ronnie?' 'All right.' And I said, 'So how are you?' And he said, 'Well, I'm still doing f***ing everything.' Mick does actually organise every little detail of the tour, while Ronnie and Keith just have to decide whether they're going to get drunk or not, that's the big decision of the day. Yet the Stones are Mick's gang, he's stuck with them.
The rest of this interview can be found here.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2006/12/14/bmpete114.xml
"I spoke to Mick Jagger on the phone the other day – the Stones were going into rehearsal in Boston. I said, 'How's it going?' and he said, 'Er, all right.' I said, 'How's Keith?' 'All right.' 'How's Ronnie?' 'All right.' And I said, 'So how are you?' And he said, 'Well, I'm still doing f***ing everything.' Mick does actually organise every little detail of the tour, while Ronnie and Keith just have to decide whether they're going to get drunk or not, that's the big decision of the day. Yet the Stones are Mick's gang, he's stuck with them.
The rest of this interview can be found here.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2006/12/14/bmpete114.xml
Japan take The Cure
I love this story as it demonstrates how success comes to some bands at the expense of others because of the nature of the music business and those who run the business.
There ar many cases of casualties in the history of the music business. Fortunately, in this particular case both groups managed to survive and achieve the success that both talented bands deserved.
The full story of the History of Japan where this was taken from is available here.
http://www.nightporter.co.uk/pages/historyo.htm
At the time, Hansa had come to the UK and were looking for fresh talent by means of a competition (there was a large advert with an impressive looking woman astride a motorcycle, stating "Wanna be a recording star? Get your ass up! Take your chance!"). Japan auditioned for Hansa at Morgan Studios on Friday 13th May 1977. The winners of the contest were The Cure, but in true Gareth Gates style Japan were also signed just 3 days later (May 23rd 1977) and given £1000 to buy new instruments - which was part of the advertised prize, although it has been denied that they had anything to do with the competition. The following information may make things a little clearer - information courtesy of Robert Smith:
- "There was a competition at the back of the Melody Maker. You had to send Hansa a tape and some photos. We ended up doing a three song performance for them in front of a video camera, and they signed us on the strength of what we looked like."
Mona Lisa Descending a Staircase
Mona Lisa Descending a Staircase won the Academy Award in 1993 for the best short animated film. It is a clay animation and features 30 famous paintings produced by Joan Gratz who invented the animation technique known as clay painting.
I picked it up on the Transbuddha site.
http://transbuddha.com/mediaHolder.php?id=2152
I picked it up on the Transbuddha site.
http://transbuddha.com/mediaHolder.php?id=2152
Lyrics that matter #1.
1st in an occasional series.
"when California slides into the ocean, like the mystics and statistics say it will. I predict this motel will be standing, until I pay my bill."
Warren Zevon - Desperados Under The Eaves
"Little old lady got mutilated late last night"
Warren Zevon - Werewolves of London
"the sunshine bores the daylights out of me"
The Stones - Rocks Off
"One good thing about music when it hits you feel no pain"
Bob Marley - Trenchtown Rock
"spending warm summer days indoors
writing frightening verse to a bucktoothed girl in Luxembourg"
The Smiths - Ask
"when California slides into the ocean, like the mystics and statistics say it will. I predict this motel will be standing, until I pay my bill."
Warren Zevon - Desperados Under The Eaves
"Little old lady got mutilated late last night"
Warren Zevon - Werewolves of London
"the sunshine bores the daylights out of me"
The Stones - Rocks Off
"One good thing about music when it hits you feel no pain"
Bob Marley - Trenchtown Rock
"spending warm summer days indoors
writing frightening verse to a bucktoothed girl in Luxembourg"
The Smiths - Ask
Monday, March 12, 2007
Richard Thompson - "Dad's gonna kill me"
Due for release soon. Here is a link to a track from Richard Thompson - another of the all time greats, on his official site- Beesweb. It is from his forthcoming album "Sweet Warrior". This song is very well put together a good take on the subject of the Iraq war. Link also includes an interesting "Cheat Sheet"
http://www.richardthompson-music.com/catch_of_the_day.asp?id=663
http://www.richardthompson-music.com/catch_of_the_day.asp?id=663
John Peel on Neil Young
Came across this article which was originally published in Sounds back in the day. I like it because it shows that John Peel had an appreciation of a relative mainstream artist albeit one of the all time greats. It is interesting also that Zuma was so highly rated by Peel. He also name checks Little Feat, another great band, while Lowell George was still with them.
A boy named Zuma?
Barcelona 0, Liverpool 1
I'M SORRY. I know this isn't a football paper. Now which of you typed that then? Come on, I'm not fooling with you. I want to know. You're not leaving the room until one of you owns up and that's that. Was it you, Vendrome? You, Frobisher? Erg-XL2? How about you, Gilhooly?
I'm serious, you know. Just because our boys go over to foreign parts and whack a posse of overblown strutters about rather severely, there's no cause for wasting valuable space that could be devoted to useful Kraan tour dates or an interview with Steve Harley.
Since we had all that trouble about saluting and standing to attention when I entered the room, I've not been into the Sounds offices. My copy is carried from my desk to the printers by a team of highly trained runners, and this system means that I don't actually have to socialise with the oafs and cutpurses who work for this great organ.
Unfortunately this also means that I often have no knowledge of what they have written about the major events of our time. For example, the appearance in the night skies over London last week of Neil Young and Crazy Horse.
Many years ago, when I was still King of Thrace and my armies ~ were pouring into Saxony, or, as it is known today,
Wolverhampton, I compared a certain concert at the Orange Hall (1 think that's what it was called. Something to do with citrus fruits anyway in San Bernardino. Are you still with me? Well, the stars of the night were the Byrds, who were so devastingly unpleasant that I still have difficulty in enjoying their work, and they were supported by the Dillards and yer Buffalo Springfield.
Anyway I recollect chattering away at young Neil Young (as he then was) for some minutes and being told that this was the first proper concert the band had played.
A few years later and back in London the very same Neil Young came round, propelled by a dynamic record company wallah, to Peel Acres, which was then sited on the edge of the capital city's faecal Regent's Park. They stayed for an hour, in the course of which Neil said not a word. I think he was impressed by me though.
Regardless of all of this, if you broke into my car - and I'd rather you didn't - you'd discover lying between the front seats a very battered 8-track of Neil's 'Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere' - one of the ten greatest LPs of all time. We used to have 'After The Goldrush' too but this vanished a year or so ago and we never replaced it.
Through 'Harvest', 'Journey Through The Past', 'Time Fades Away', and the various adventures with Crosby, Stills and Nash, our interest waned. Neil Young seemed to have become a Star and to be doing what Stars do.
But then, uh-uh, along came 'On The Beach' and we stirred lazily beneath the sun-lamp and took interest. So he's not dead, we thought to ourselves. That there was still life in the old feller was confirmed by 'Tonight's The Night', but none of this prepared us for the superiority of 'Zuma'.
Hell, if I didn't know that he'd get duffed up in school for it, I might call our next offspring Zuma. Well, you can't call a child 'Wish You Were Here', 'Five Live Yardbirds' or 'Desire' can you? '.
Although my brother Alan claims to be planning to call his next Flook, so I guess anything can happen.
Anyway, even the excellence of 'Zuma' was eclipsed by Neil Young and Crazy Horse live in Hammersmith. The first half, during which Neil played acoustic guitar, banjo, and looked as though he might keel over and expire right there on stage, was mainly interesting only. Some tried and true favourites engagingly sung, to be sure, but there was an atmosphere of impending doom about it all.
In the second half Neil looked a different man, not the decaying superstar on the verge of narcolepsy, not the money-spinner running through a few numbers for the benefit of serried ranks of accountants, but the devastatingly accomplished musician playing with people he knows and trusts, still slightly nervous of a big audience, still slightly abashed at demonstrating so publicly his special skills.
When Neil Young played guitar with Crazy Horse last Monday night you knew you were hearing something very special indeed - and if other people tell you differently then they're fools. I wrote 'devastatingly accomplished' up there somewhere. Devastated is how Pig and I felt as we walked away from the Odeon. Not since Little Feat at the Rainbow have I been so exhilarated by a performance.
John Peel - Sounds April 10, 1976
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