My bestest most favouritest songs ever ever - part 2

When I first started seriously getting into music, it was all about the present.   I was in the moment, living it - why even consider the past?!  There seemed such a lot to be excited about in the late '70s and very early '80s that it simply didn't occur to me to investigate much else.  Other than one or two rare exceptions (e.g. Bowie, whose back catalogue seemed timeless enough to sit alongside the contemporary) I was only interested in what had just been released or was yet to be.  Truth is I was pretty dismissive of anything from the '60s, because it just sounded too 'old'...

And then something changed in the early to mid '80s, and 'old' became new - at least new to my ears.  A chance encounter with a various artists cassette, 'My Generation' introduced me to an alternative way of hearing things.

Still got it!

Tracks by the Yardbirds, Action and Tomorrow, for example, songs which wouldn't have registered with me before, started to sound exciting and different.  At the same time it seemed as if a new level (depth?) of bland had come to mainstream music - e.g in 1984 I was working in a record shop and the chart albums we had to play each Saturday were just getting more and more insipid (Paul Young: No Parlez / Lionel Richie: Can't Slow Down...ugh!); even the sharp edges of a lot of indie seemed softened compared to the punk and post-punk that I'd been so immersed in previously.  Yet now music from 15, maybe even 20, years earlier stood up well in the wake of such mediocrity.  Old was the new new - especially if it was relatively obscure.  There was a whole world of lesser known '60s psych, garage, beat and inventive pop being unearthed and it was so interesting and imaginative that it was as if a new scene was actually developing in real time (in a way it was, and had been for a couple of years, but that's for others to write about!)

Even better, working in the shop meant I was able to order, from the comfort of its back-room, albums full of  '60s underground gems being put out by labels such as Psycho, See For Miles and Bam Caruso, as well as imports of the US Pebbles and Nuggets series.  These compilations included so many songs that were unlike anything I'd heard before and I was utterly captivated.  One of the earliest of my new purchases at the time of its release in 1984 was 'The Psychedelic Snarl', a compilation from Bam Caruso.  Hearing the tracks on this for the first time was just completely enthralling, everything sounded so good.  Oh I could go on but I'll stop now - this long ramble is really just to explain a little background to the discovery of one of my all-time favourite tracks, as I first heard it on that album: the Open Mind's 'Magic Potion'.   It's the b-side to their second single 'Cast A Spell' (also included on 'The Psychedelic Snarl'), originally released in 1969.  It licks along right from the off...  I love that guitar, those drums... here it is:

The Open Mind: Magic Potion

By the way, according to Discogs, a copy of this single sold last November for £850.  I do not own a copy!

Es war im Sommer '69

It was the Summer of '69. I got my first real six-string, bought it at the five-and-dime.... no, no, NO! Begone with you, Bryan Adams, aarghh!

Where were we... ? The Summer of '69 and in my case, for three weeks anyway, in Germany. I've written a little here before, about travelling around in the back of a racing green Jaguar MkII and having a wobbly tooth in a thunderstorm. Today I stumbled across an old photo, the only one I have from that trip, of Micha and me reunited for a day. Micha and her family had been next door neighbours for a couple of years before they moved back to Germany. I loved Micha - she was my first, proper, best friend. When she left, she gave me her gold-painted bike 'Dobbin' and a little elasticated bracelet with pictures of alpine flowers on each of the white plastic links.

The lovely Micha on the left

It's funny what you remember, isn't it? For instance I don't remember a thing about the food on that trip, or much about the weather. My recollections are like sparse cuttings from a magazine, as if someone has gone through pages and pages full of detail and imagery but has only snipped round a few sentences and a handful of pictures, then stuck them in a scrapbook and thrown the rest away. Every time I flick through this mental album I see those same snippets, I see them clearly, but I can't fill in the blank spaces between them.

So I remembered about the wobbly tooth and the thunderstorm. I also remember staying in a house which had wooden shutters on the windows and I became briefly obsessed with them, “Mummy, can we put shutters on the windows at home? Can we? Please?” (Of course we never did...) I also loved the fairytale theme park in Ludwigsburg where they had a Rapunzel Tower. Rapunzel was my favourite story of all time, albeit that was only a six year lifetime in my case; still, it was magical. My Ladybird edition certainly was well loved.

Just as the Prince did in the fairytale, we had to call up, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” (“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, lass deinen Zopf herunter!”) and as I waited so excitedly, holding my breath in anticipation, a big plait of flaxen rope hair came down slowly from the one high window. It didn't come down quite far enough for anyone to actually grab it and climb up it, which was a little disappointing, but not so much so that it tainted the experience. I just imagined she'd need to grow her locks a little longer and then maybe I could go back one day and actually touch it when she had.

I remember my big sister getting a mosquito bite that flared up really badly and had everyone worried for days, and I remember feeling worried myself when looking down from the top of the Television Tower in Stuttgart – I really didn't like it at all. “Look at the tiny cars down there!” my sister exclaimed as we peered nervously over the edge. I have a vague memory of a trip to a musty old castle with lots of steps, and another of driving along the Autobahn and my parents arguing because my dad had missed the turn-off and my mum was supposed to be navigating. In a shop where we went to buy some souvenirs there were some toys with the laughable name 'Jobbies' - you always remember that kind of stuff, don't you? I didn't come home with a Jobby; instead I had a little doll with red hair dressed in a dirndl. You also never forget the holiday romances and it's true, I had a brief flirtation in a restaurant with a young German boy who seemed to have the hots for me. Sadly the only thing I was able to say to him, over and over again as I remember, was “Ich spreche kein Deutsch” (carefully taught parrot-fashion by my mum – at least I think that's what she'd helped me to say to him) but I still recall how nice his cheeky smiles made me feel, even then.

There were people, lots of people – friends of my parents who let us stay in their houses, took us to places, gave us presents, like Heidi, and Gudrun & Franz, and Theo and Rudolf.  And Micha. Micha who posted that photo to me in England on our return, with a little note on the back.

Inspired

                              Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy by David Hockney

I felt very uninspired and a little unwell yesterday which may explain why I spent over an hour trying to crack the expression on a dingo's face.  Say that last bit in an Australian accent and it sounds like a colourful euphemism, but I really was just struggling disproportionately with some animal drawings.  I decided to give up for a while and as I put (what's left of) my putty rubber in a home-made card box a memory came to me and I thought I'd come in and waste some time blogging instead.  So, just to bring some colour into these grey, bleak February days, here's something bright and retro, inspired by thinking about Aussies and boxes. (Not cricket!)

I was lucky enough to catch the temporary Ossie (ok it's tenuous!) Clark exhibition in the fashion section of the V&A ten years ago.  I love so many things in the V&A but the fashion exhibits are amongst my favourites and it was brilliant to see some of his striking original outfits from the '60s and '70s while I had the chance.  As a memento I bought these great little postcards of sketches by Ossie’s textile-designer wife, Celia Birtwell, from 1969.  I just love the drawings and her vibrant, graphic fabrics.

Celia and Ossie were part of the sixties 'Bohemian' set, living in Notting Hill and having close connections with many notable rock'n'roll names of the time.  There's something really compelling about the famous painting of them (and their cat) by David Hockney which is apparently thought to be the 'most-viewed' picture ever at the Tate (I make do with my tatty postcard of it, above).  Their clothes were worn by the Beatles, Stones, Hendrix, Twiggy and Marianne Faithfull amongst others.  Looking at the designs above they seem to epitomise the late '60s/early '70s - but Celia was particularly inspired by artists from other eras - such as Matisse, costume designer Leon Bakst (whose drawings I adore!) and Picasso.

I was really attracted to these designs, even though I suspect I could never have pulled off those dresses! - at least not without looking like an auditionee for 'Abigail's Party'... After that visit to the V&A, in homage to her, I made some boxes (I have a thing about boxes), put together very simply from stiff card, and painted her fabric patterns on them in acrylics.  All those years of watching Blue Peter as a kid must have paid off, although I can honestly say that no sticky-back-plastic was used here, nor were they ever intended for a hibernating tortoise.  They were only meant to be a bit of fun but I’ve been using them ever since and amazingly they haven't fallen apart yet.  I always need small containers for those easily-losable things but I rarely find ready-made ones in the right size; these one-offs do the job.  There's a selection of (what's left of) my putty rubbers in the bottom one.

It's ok, I'm not trying to pass the patterns off as originals - they are pure Celia Birtwell

and for my personal use only!  (I add paranoiacally)

And here’s Sandie Shaw wearing it.  The Ossie Clark/Celia Birtwell dress, I mean, not a hand-made box.  I came across this clip by accident and was strangely excited when I recognised the material of her outfit!  (If, like me, you really don't want to hear 'Puppet On A String' yet one more time, even - or especially - sung in German, then I recommend turning the sound off and imagining it's her version of 'Your Time Is Gonna Come').

Sitting here now in an old brown marl jumper I’m feeling so terribly drab…  Maybe I need to don a green and yellow maxi dress to help inspire, especially as I have to cogitate on a koala today.  I wish I could be as creative as Ms Birtwell.

UPDATE:  By pure coincidence I just found that there is this Ossie Clark exhibition going on right now!

Grace space race

Thanks to my Dad having a good job which involved some dealings overseas, I was lucky enough as a kid to spend three weeks travelling around Germany in the back of a Jaguar Mk II. 

It was the Summer of ’69 and I was coming up to six.  Dad bought the car specially for the trip as we needed something more spacious and comfortable than the Triumph Herald he used for work.

The Jaguar was racing green, with dark red leather upholstery and walnut trim.  I remember getting in the back of it for the first time and, although my interest in cars didn’t extend beyond my sister’s purple ‘Hot Wheels’ toy (with its bright orange track), I was very excited about our new vehicle.  It had a special smell, for a start.  The back seat, where I’d be spending a lot of time, felt like a luxurious sofa, and the best part was that there were these little flip-down, wooden, semi-circular ‘trays’ inserted into the back of the front seats, a bit like you have in aeroplanes.  These alone made me want to always eat in it, just for the pleasure of pulling them out and enjoying the novelty of a little James Bond-style gadget (or so it seemed).

So we drove all over Germany in this lovely, characterful car, staying in a variety of houses and hotels along the way.  I remember one old Bed & Breakfast place in the middle of a busy town, maybe it was Nuremberg, and it was the first time I’d slept under a continental quilt.  I missed my English sheets and blanket.  There was a thunderstorm and I had a wobbly tooth.  My sister scared me with tales of how some people tied one end of a piece of string around a loose tooth and the other to a door handle and then slammed the door to pull it out.  In the background, as she explained this horrific extraction method, the skies rumbled and the lightning lit up the room like a camera flashcube.  That night I had bad dreams about teeth and doors and suffocating under demonic Deutsch duvets.  But a few days later my tooth fell out naturally and painlessly - and, amazingly, it turned out there was such a thing as a German tooth fairy, who kindly left a pfennig under my pillow the following morning. I was most impressed.

Some time after the German road trip the car started to play up and wasn’t practical to drive any more.  My Dad left it at the end of the road with the intention of doing a bit of weekend tinkering to get it back to roadworthy standard, but… ahem… he never got round to it. (A similar fate befell a rotting boat, a stringless violin, a valve TV and numerous other objects.  Our home was like a shrine to unfinished projects.)  After some months - or maybe years -  the Mk II became home to spiders and ivy and probably several families of mice.  When bits of it started falling off and the neighbours threatened to petition for its removal, he finally advertised it for sale in the local paper. Soon a bald man in a sheepskin jacket came round to the house, gave him a crisp blue five pound note and towed the Jaguar away.  He was going to use it for Banger Racing, he said.  We didn’t mind the idea of our poor neglected car getting a new lease of life on a muddy race track, with black and white numbers painted on its bonnet; it seemed quite thrilling.

It never turned up on the Banger Racing circuit, though.  That autumn we saw it being driven proudly around town, all resprayed paintwork and shiny chrome, by a bald man in a sheepskin jacket.  I bet he loved those flip-down trays too.  Maybe he’d even drive it round Germany one day?  If ever there was a car for the Autobahn, it was that one.

Mind you, my Mum had kept something from the car as a memento before we parted with it.  She unscrewed the beautiful silver jaguar ornament from the long bonnet and replaced the traditional handle on the inside of our front door with it.  It stayed there for years and was a great conversation piece: “What an unusual door handle!  It looks like one of those bonnet ornaments from a Jaguar car!”  “Yes - that’s exactly what it is….”   Luckily it never got used for pulling teeth.

Herald Tribute

I’ve little interest in cars these days but in the late ‘80s/early ‘90s I was truly in love with my little jalopy – a 1969 Triumph Herald.  I loved it for the throaty rumble of its engine, its small but significant tail fins (like a baby cadillac!) and a stylish dashboard in glossy walnut veneer that looked as classy as a piece of elegant antique furniture.  Even its distinctive smell of leather and petrol was a heady mixture to me.  This feisty little motor could give cars 20 years its junior a run for their money (if you didn’t mind the vibrations almost making your teeth fall out).  It was famous for its tight turning circle which got me out of many a scrape, and its quirky front-opening bonnet which meant you could almost climb right inside the engine compartment if you really wanted to get down and dirty.  I loved its shiny chrome fittings and its massive steering wheel and I adored the fact that it was a classic ‘60s car.  It didn’t matter that there were no head-rests, only four gears and the wing mirrors felt like they were half a mile away on the bonnet.  I called it - perhaps I should make that “her” - Prudence. She was a sweetie. At least, that is, until her engine finally started to give up which meant I had to floor the accelerator pedal just to reach 20mph.  Then, sadly, she had to go (albeit, very slowly…)

As a little tribute to the Triumph Herald 13/60, my first car, here’s a nice ‘60s ad I recently found:

And here’s dear Prudence!  RIP.

Well it's 1969 ok...

(Honestly, it's not as naughty as it looks here!)

On early summer days like this, for some inexplicable reason (other than perhaps an association with fine weather) my mind drifts back to the sunny TV ads I grew up with in the ‘60s and ‘70s.  A beautiful blonde in a Sunsilk shampoo commercial was my idol for a while.  I lived at the top of a hill and I remember trying to run down it in, ahem, ‘slow motion’, with my long fair hair streaming behind me, convinced I looked just like her. Of course this must have been a ridiculous sight given that I was about seven, but in my mind it was real enough…  I recall too the international line-up in the Coca Cola advert where a chorus of attractive, multi-racial young things in traditional national costumes sang so jubilantly the song by the New Seekers: “I’d like to teach the world to sing…”  And I also remember the Cadbury’s Flake adverts which I didn’t fully appreciate until later on  - only when I was much older did I understand why they attracted so much attention and a nudge nudge wink wink reaction.  At the time, though, I just fancied a perfectly innocent, crumbly milk chocolate bar.  Just like that nice lady in the advert did.

1969 UK TV advert for Cadbury's flake

Oh Baby!

It’s quite strange to be reminded of what the world looked like to you when you were just a child and I think these snippets say quite a lot. They are the original (biro!) drawings for ‘Oh Baby Your Waisting Time’ (sic) from 1969.  The young author/illustrator was heavily influenced by the fashions of the time as seen on TV shows that year like ‘Top Of The Pops’ and in her older sister’s copies of ‘Jackie’ and ‘Honey’ magazine.  (Note the fringed jackets, choker and ringed belt and also the maxi coat and braided hair portrayed here which show the increasing popularity of more hippie styles.)  The language too is characteristic of the period; the word ‘baby’ as a term of endearment features frequently and one of the characters is named Cliff.

The  entire story (which is a bit lame to be honest) and its carefully drawn illustrations were completed in one day, after which the book’s creator probably sucked on an ice pop, watched an episode of ‘The Clangers’ and then retired to her bed after eating a tea of macaroni cheese and a rice crispie cake.   Later in life she went on to illustrate some real books, and found how to ‘waist’ time in numerous ways including blogging now and then too.