Cocktails and Records

‘Sunset drive-in, Amarillo, Texas, 1974,’ by Stephen Shore

To celebrate the credit crunch, I have indulged  myself and bought a copy of American photographer Stephen Shore’s ’seminal’ work Uncommon Places, a book I have been lusting after for years. The book was originally published in 1982 and collects together the colour photography Shore took on his road trips across the States in the 70s.

This image of the already rundown looking ‘Sunset drive-in’ in early 70s Amarillo set me off on a bit of a reverie. I’d almost forgotten that such a thing as a drive-in ever existed.

We had a drive-in in the town where I grew up and my parents took us there every now and again. Although I’ve long forgotten the films, I clearly remember the excitement of the huge, huge screen, the novelty of sitting in the car and the fact that you could wander around between the darkened cars during the boring bits. If you were lucky you could see couples kissing. [Errghh... yuck] I also remember being disappointed that we were never served popcorn by glamorous girls on rollerskates.

The drive-in’s glory days were long over by the time of our visits in the early 80s and in retrospect, I’m suprised that it didn’t close earlier. When the drive-in finally did shut in the mid-80s I remember going past the desolate grounds and feeling sorry for it and its abandoned cinema dreams. Wonder what’s there now.

As much as I love this country, I have to admit that Britain has let me down on occasion. One of the things I’ve found particularly disappointing is the quite frankly boring ideas that pass for pop compilation titles and covers. I know they do as it says on the tin, but Now That’s What I Call Music 1 – eternity, Top of the Pops, The Hits, Hits, Hits Scene etc. etc. just don’t cut it.

Let me show you how it’s done, Australian style, with some favourites from my personal collection.

Ripper ‘76

This was the second in a series of Ripper albums on Polystar with similarly themed covers. I think we can guess why these might have been popular…

Cocktails’ choice cuts:

1. Howzat – Sherbert
2. Right Back Where we Started From – Maxine Nightingale
3. Late Last Night – Split Enz
4. I Like It Both Ways – Supernaut
5. Convoy – C.W. McCall

Bullseye

Another Polystar favourite, this time from 1979, containing some corking tracks – none of which are even remotely related to darts.

Cocktails’ choice cuts:

1. Hot Summer Nights – Night
2. Let’s Go – The Cars
3. Get Used It – Roger Voudouris
4. Halfway Hotel – Voyager
5. Are ‘Friends’ Electric – Tubeway Army
6. He’s the Greatest Dancer – Sister Sledge
7. Sunburn – Graham Gouldman

Bacon and Eggs: The Album

Similarly, if there is any correlation between the songs below and fried breakfasts, I’ve yet to find it.

Cocktails’ choice cuts:

1. Knock on Wood – Amii Stewart
2. Chiquitita – ABBA
3. Shooting Star – Dollar
4. Lost in Love – Air Supply
5. On the Inside – Lynne Hamilton

Thru the Roof ‘83

This was one of the first records I ever bought with my own money. It was pink, had a top song about skipping and a strangely feminine sounding bloke on it called Mike Oldfield singing a song about a shadow – perfect for an 8 year old.

Cocktails’ choice cuts:

1. Moonlight Shadow – Mike Oldfield
2. Maxine – Sharon O’Neill
3. Double Dutch – Malcolm McLaren
4. Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’- Michael Jackson

1984 Shakin’

This mid-80s crayon cover art belies a great album of Australian pop gems (and Cliff Richard).

Cocktails’ choice cuts:

1. Pseudo Echo – Listening
2. Daryl Hall & John Oates – Say It Isn’t So
3. Kids in the Kitchen – Change in Mood
4. Pat Benatar – Love is a Battlefield
5. QED  – Everywhere I go
6. Hoodoo Gurus – My Girl

With thanks to the K-Tel blog for the images

We found ourselves in the Berkshire town of Beaconsfield this weekend. We were there to visit Bekonscot, a model village built by a bored London accountant in 1929 to entertain his friends. The folly started off as a few houses in his garden but wound up as a series of 6 inter-connected model villages over 1½ acres.

By some strange co-incidence we discovered whilst there that Beaconsfield was noneother than the home of Enid Blyton. And what a perfect coupling. Like Enid Blyton, Bekonscot Model Village seeks to ‘depict an idealised view of life in the 1930s’ – in other words the kind of England where the people who voted for Enid Blyton as their favourite author might aspire to live.

The England where:

1. Everyone lives in thatched roof cottages (even if they are fire prone)



2. Happy families pose by their Aston Martins



3. Fox hunting is fine way to spend a weekend



4. Evangelical missionaries can be found converting the villagers



5. Morris dancers are given free reign in the traffic-less town square

To be fair though, Bekonscot Model Village does have a colliery – its tucked away in the corner on the way out, just past the cable car…

I’m sorry to be getting all angsty this past week, but what is wrong with this country at the moment?

It was only earlier this week that I was bemoaning the fact that nearly half of the British population allegedly believe that the BBC isn’t good value for money. Now I discover that the nation’s favourite author is Enid Blyton.

Now, I’ve nothing against Enid Blyton. I devoured her books when I was a child and there will always be a very firm place in my heart for the faraway tree, the wishing chair, Mr Meddle, Mr Pink Whistle, the naughtiest girl in the school, Julian, Dick and Anne, George and Timmy the dog et. al.

Enid taught me all about the mysterious ‘English’ world of ginger beer, school monitors, lacrosse, conkers, bluebell woods, secret passwords and hidden passageways, wobbling blancmanges, sugar mice, moors, mists and marshes and outsmarting smugglers  – but I would never say that she was my favourite author.

Although I loved her imagination and her alternate world where fairies bake ‘pop biscuits’ and children are always right, even as a child I knew that Enid’s stories were simplistic, repetitive and churned out at a rate of knots.

Citing Enid Blyton (or indeed Roald Dahl and JK Rowling, second and third on the list respectively) as your favourite author when you’re over the age of 12 is more than just longing wistfully for some nostalgic past that never existed, it’s a refusal to engage with adult issues full stop. Surely the people who voted for her don’t still read about the adventures of the Secret Seven with a torch under the blankets? Haven’t they moved on?

On the positive side, it’s nice that people don’t have to pretend that they love Chaucer or Shakespeare; they can unashamedly state that their favourite author is the woman behind the ghastly Noddy…

Rant over. Normal service (i.e. boring anecdotes about public transport etc.) will resume next week.

After a meeting there this afternoon, I happened to find myself wandering around the collections of the Museum of Childhood in Bethnal Green, East London.

I was only amongst the exhibitions for about half an hour, but then again, I think I could only actually take 30 minutes. Talk about instant nostalgia. There, trapped behind glass display panels were various remnants from the childhoods of myself, my family and my friends.

• Strawberry Shortcake dolls (in their orginal boxes!)
• Those sets of slides you used to get with pictures of Star Wars characters etc.
• Crayola crayon caddies
• proper train sets
• Smurfs
• Fisher price Little People
• Slinkys
• Barbie, Ken and Sindy
• Pound puppies
• Spirographs
• Holly Hobbie mini cooking sets
• Hot Wheels race tracks

etc. etc.

Of course memories came flooding back, but they were kept in check by the fact that they were in a museum – I’m not nearly old enough to have my childhood toys in a museum!

Even more disturbingly, what I really found myself missing from the exhibition was Fuzzy Felt. We had the farmyard set, and I just can’t explain this, but it kept me amused for hours. Yes, sticking bits of felt in the shape of animals, barns and fences on to a flocked board…

How boring can you get?

For reasons still only known to them, my parents hardly ever let me watch TV when I was a small child. However, despite their aversion to nasty American cartoons I was still allowed to watch Sesame Street. Thank God – how I loved Sesame Street!

It didn’t bother me that Cookie Monster encouraged gluttony and binge eating of sugary snacks, that Super Grover’s stunts defied health and safety regulations or that some people thought that Ernie and Bert living together was a tad suspect. No, I loved the diverse mix of people and muppets who populated the show and attempted to teach me about ‘co-operation’ and ’sharing’.

But for me, the best thing about Sesame Street was the music. Disguising education in the form of a funky tune worked a treat on me, and some have stayed with me forever. Here are two of my favourites.

‘Days of the Week’ from My Name is Roosevelt Franklin, 1971/1974

I’ve had this LP in my collection for as long as I can remember and it is still one of the funkiest records I own. Roosevelt Franklin was one of the few Black American muppets on Sesame Street between 1970 and 1975, but was apparently dumped for being too feisty/naughty and setting a bad example to children. Here though, he sets a good example by singing about, um, the days of the week: ‘I go to school five days a week, ‘cos I get five times smarter that way’.

‘Days of the Week’ from My Name is Roosevelt Franklin (2.56 MB)

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‘Pinball Number Count’, around 1976/77

This supremely funky tune was recorded especially by the Pointer Sisters to accompany a scarily pychedelic animation. For more (lots more) info check the muppet wiki.

I am currently reading the Chinese literary classic from the 16th century, Journey to the West, by Wu Ch’eng-en. The book is probably better known to people of a certain age in the form of 70s Japanese TV show Monkey which, along with The Goodies, seemed to be on constant rotation on the ABC (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) throughout the late 70s/ 80s.

A side effect of reading the book is that my head is constantly plagued by the deliriously catchy, funky theme tune. So I thought I’d share the joy (and the requisite Monkey wisdom – “But the phoenix can fly only when its feathers are grown”) with you.

Sometimes I just don’t know how I am related to my parents. Of course, I am – I share my father’s cynical pessimism and my mother’s liberal hand-wringing – but when it comes to music, particularly the ‘classic rock canon’ which constitutes a fair chunk of my record collection, I do wonder.

The records below, now liberated from my parents apathy and in my possession, illustrate my concerns.

Example 1: With the Beatles


Amongst my father’s record collection are the first three Beatles albums. These records came into his possession when he stole them from an ex-girlfriend in 1964 as payback for scratching his Duane Eddy LP. They then lay dormant, unloved and unplayed, for almost 20 years until I announced aged 6 or 7 that I loved the Beatles and wanted, no needed, some of their music. They remain firm favourites.

Example 2: The White album

My mother has a mint pressing of The Beatle’s White album (and I mean mint – it’s pristine and perfectly preserved, including the set of four individual Beatles portraits which came with it). She received it for her birthday in early 1969, listened to the first side, decided it was rubbish, and never played it again. And side 1 is the good side with ‘Dear Prudence’ and ‘While my Guitar Gently Weeps’ on it. Thank God she didn’t start with side 4 and ‘Revolution no. 9′.

Example 3: Highway 61 Revisited

When I was about 14 I discovered a immaculately kept original copy of Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited in my parents record collection. ‘Who’s is this?’ I innocently enquired. My parents proceeded to have an argument about who didn’t own it:

‘It’s not mine. I can’t stand the man.’
‘Well, it’s certainly not mine. Do you think I would ever have bought something as bad as that?’
‘You must have because I would never listen to that talentless man.’
‘I tell you it’s not mine. I hate Bob Dylan more than you do.’
etc. etc. etc.

Meanwhile, I decide that ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ is quite possibly the best song ever.

Example 4: George Bean / The Rolling Stones

Again in my early teens, I was rifling through my parents collection when I found a 7″ titled ‘Will you be my lover tonight?’ by someone called George Bean. As a young music obesessive, I naturally ask my father who George Bean is.

‘Oh, some guy I used to know’ says Dad absent-mindedly.
‘Really!‘ I exclaim ‘Both sides are written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, and it’s produced by Andrew Loog Oldham! You used to know someone who recorded songs written by the Rolling Stones??!!‘
‘Yes.‘ Dad looks positively bored. ‘I saw them play a few times, met them once or twice through George.‘
‘What were they like?’ I am practically beside myself now.
‘Crap’ says Dad ‘like that single.’

‘Will you be my lover tonight?’ George Bean (2.49MB)

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‘Will you be my lover tonight?’ is the first single apparently written by the Jagger/Richards combo for someone other than the Stones and was released on Decca in 1964. Sounds like they’ve all been listening to a bit too much Phil Spector for their own good…

When I’m not reading children’s books and listening to jazz-funk, I like to go to the cinema…

This week I’ve been to see This Sceptred Isle, a package of holiday memories from the British Film Institute archives. The screening allowed me to wallow in nostalgia for long lost holidays I never had – coach tours around the B roads of Britain (c.1958), hop picking in Kent (c.1933), being blown along the Cornish Riviera with my long skirts and fancy parasol (c.1904) etc. etc.

But the place that I really want to be is Blackpool in 1957. Well, the Blackpool depicted in this fabulous film called Holiday made by British Transport Films. With its Chris Barber soundtrack, saturated colour and sheer gleefulness, Holiday is summer perfection. And they’ve got champagne on draught.

Excerpt from Holiday, 1957, BFI National Archive

Thanks to ishouldbeworking, I have been tagged for a meme that requires me to open the book I’m reading (I think) at page 123, skip the first five sentences, and then share the next three.

This is nice. It assumes that I:

1. Read books
2. Read books with more than 123 pages in them.

Sadly this is rarely the case and I’ve yet to read my first proper book this year. So instead, I offer page 23 of the most recent book I have actually read which is… [embarrassed, but still faintly nostalgic cough]… Flat Stanley and my grateful thanks to Valentine Suicide for reminding me of its existence in this post.

Actually, it’ll have to be page 22 because there is a picture of Stanley getting out of an envelope on page 23.

The next day Mr and Mrs Lambchop slid Stanley into his envelope, along with the egg-salad sandwich and the cigarette case full of milk, and mailed him from the box on the corner. The envelope had to be folded to fit through the slot, but Stanley was a limber boy and inside the box he straightened up again. Mrs Lambchop was nervous because Stanley had never been away from home alone before.

For once in my life I’m going to embrace the spirit of these things, and pass this on to my two favourite serial commenters Planet Mondo and Ill Man (in the hope that they come up with some seriously obscure music facts or works of literary genius) and also my old friend Alison because I think she might like this one.