Music Review

Kid in the Digital World

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 21 Oct 2025 01:34:53 +0000

Kid in the Digital World Robert Cochrane October 20, 2025 - 21:34

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JOHN HOWARD: Kid In A Big World Prof Stoned Remaster (Bandcamp)

John Howard's auspicious debut, Kid In A Big World, has been around for fifty years and, as such, deserves some aspect of acknowledgement. A belated celebration cum reassessment in the form of an impeccable remastering via the diligent hands and vigilant ears of the redoubtable Prof Stoned, a man who can gild the most fragile and perfect of artifacts. Like a freshly repolished and reset gem, the album now glints and glitters in the fresh light of recent days.

It is salient to mention that for nigh on thirty years the LP was a dump-bin resident, rescued by the discerning on account of the stylish sleeve image of an immaculately attired young dude in a suitably sharp suit with its title and artist's name proclaimed by elegant typography. All that changed two decades ago when it was reissued to the kind of acclaim a forgotten artist might only ever dream longingly of, as a lost baroque late-glam masterpiece.

First time around, it had sold a respectable 15,000 units, but CBS rejected the follow-up, and its successor was recorded with the legendary Biddu as not being sufficiently commercial. A brace of eminently catchy singles, "Goodbye Suzie" and "Family Man," failed to find favour on the BBC playlists; the first was deemed too depressing for having suicide as a theme, whilst the second was considered anti-women. Both reasons are transparently and ridiculously spurious. Homophobia was rather trendy and acceptable in the seventies, and despite John Howard not creating the sort of antagonistic lavender wave his direct contemporary Jobriath had, and paid dearly for doing so, his mere appearance and style were easily read by the disapproving. With no hit single, his bigger splash dissipated, and despite staggering on for a few more years with several singles that went nowhere, Howard developed a successful career in A&R. His dreams of stardom were consigned to the attic of memory. Those trials and tribulations are readably and humorously annotated in three delightful volumes of autobiography.

But what of his fifty-year-old debut? It was and remains a perfect mission statement, a stylish and accomplished affair that promised much in the shape of itself and of things to come. Considered but never contrived. Poised but never precious, it has aged like a wine of exceptional vintage and betrays little of time having passed. What Prof Stoned has achieved is a form of digital Botox. A freshening up that gives greater clarity to the artistry within. There have always been the inevitable lazy comparisons to Elton John on account of his use of piano, but Howard never resorts to a faux American whine, his style being eloquently English with a nod and sly wink to the theatrical, just as Jobriath harnessed aspects of Old Hollywood and vaudeville. A cross between Laura Nyro in cahoots with Noel Coward, with an Aladdin Sane lightning bolt across his face, imbued with shades and tones of Hunk Dory, sets the sonic tone. As do the equally English delicacies of Philip Goodhand-Tait, or the American sentiments of Randy Newman.

Breathe in the exquisite and languid air of "Goodbye Suzie," indulge in the discreet decadence of 'Guess Who's Coming To Dinner' or the divine flights of ecstasy within "Missing Key," and you have entered a perfectly realised world curated and created by a supremely talented kid in his early twenties. From Palm Court effeteness to discreet Glam affections, this is a beautiful work from then that remains supremely relevant to now. A tremendous shame persists that it has yet to earn its rightful place in the pantheon of treasured musical accomplishments of the seventies and beyond.

Although only presently available as a download, this impeccable exercise in aural renovation deserves a vinyl release. I would love to see a gatefold affair that utilises the rejected photographs of John in a scarlet fedora, bookended by a beautiful pair of Afghan hounds. Those images caused the respectably suited and booted executives at CBS to clutch their imaginary pearls in outraged horror, banning their use, and then demanding that a more acceptable set of shots be undertaken.

The kid of those days has aged into the Walt Whitman of Glam with a glorious cascade of albums from the past two decades. A perfect maker-upper for the loss of lost time, but this return to the beginning is an absolute treat for the uninitiated and a timely enhancement for those already aware of the kid in the big world. It will prove to be a luxurious punishment of riches.

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Twelve Hours Before

Robert Cochrane — Mon, 25 Aug 2025 14:22:59 +0000

Twelve Hours Before Robert Cochrane August 25, 2025 - 10:22

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live music

Bridget St John - The Carlton Club

Manchester, England - 21^st August 2025

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE (A Poem for Bridget St John)

Twelve hours before

as night consigned that day

to where all days reside,

she'd stood alone in the spotlight

whilst diamonds from a glitterball

caressed her form,

embellishing her coloured cloak

as she sang afresh the songs

of brothers from her muse

she had outlived,

as love restored their words

from her crafted presence,

which time alone allows

to carve from within.

A voice of cello elegance,

resonant and unassumingly sublime,

stilled the room,

some gift from time.

Her own songs rose and swooped

as birds in evening do

between the light of day

and night's encroachment

and as her silence fell,

head bowed as indication of completion,

she left the stage beneath a rainfall of applause,

an emissary from another time

but of the now.

This morning as I wandered through

my local coffee shop

with its usual discretion of piped jazz

I spied her seated with a friend

which made me smile because

the evening had more punctuation

to extend into a Friday dawn.

As she walked by I said her name,

she smiled in gratitude

and whispered

'I remembered you from the dark last night'

as I thanked her for those songs,

but when I turned my head

a little later

her table had been cleared

concluding her brief vignette of reprise,

reclaimed by traffic noise,

the clatter of cups,

conversations heard,

but not discerned.

-------------------------

The Carlton Club lies tucked away in the leafy Manchester suburb of Whalley Range, mentioned and immortalised by Morrissey in his Smiths song "Miserable Lie:"

"What do we get for our trouble and pain?

Just a rented room in Whalley Range"

It played host the other evening to English export to New York, the legendary songstress Bridget St John, who captivated a considerable audience with an all-too-brief catalogue of her exquisite songs and those of those she'd known along the way, Michael Chapman, Nick Drake, and John Martyn. All sadly gone.

Her quartet of albums, three on John Peel's legendary Dandelion Records, beginning with Ask Me No Questions in 1969. Plus Jumble Queen on Chrysalis in 1974 marked her out as an innovator of English singer-songwriters, although she admits from the stage that the term "Folk" has never felt appropriate, nor accurately representative of her craft.

She was joined by her friend and occasional collaborator, Emma Tricca, who had proved a sublime support act, her own creations possessing gossamer-like elements, underlined by a profound certainty of tone. A talent of immense elegance, and one worthy of discovering if you wish to unearth a new repertoire of worthy gems, Aspirin Sun, her latest album, is a perfect place of modulated beauty to work backwards from.=

During her set, she had been assisted by Pete Greenwood, another remarkable and deceptively understated talent whose set of songs betrayed a deep intelligence and songcraft, aided manfully by his exceptional and refined guitar skills. His debut solo work, Sirens, from 2008 on Heavenly Records, remains a touchstone work that provides constant pleasure via its gently understated accomplishments.

It proved a magical evening, three individual talents under the same roof, something to cherish after the lights went out and the doors of the Carlton Club closed on its Victorian splendour.

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The OZ Man Cometh!

Gary Lucas — Wed, 23 Jul 2025 00:37:20 +0000

The OZ Man Cometh! Gary Lucas July 22, 2025 - 20:37

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John Michael "Ozzy" Osbourne (3 December 1948 – 22 July 2025)

I saw Black Sabbath’s second ever show in NYC at the Academy of Music on 14th Street, 10/22/71—a very late show, right after seeing the reformed Deep Purple at the Felt Forum. Jon Tiven, Christopher Chesnutt, and I took the subway from Madison Square Garden downtown into this Gehenna-like late-night scene in the plush old Academy.

They opened with their snappy little tune "War Pigs" and proceeded to bludgeon the midnight gawkers—most of them on downers, semi-comatose—into submission (as if they weren’t already soporifically altered/halfway there already). Hardly a sign of life from the crowd.

Ozzy presided over this necropolis with aplomb and gave it his all with that magnificent baying voice of his. Waving his hands and wiggling his hips at the end, trying to get the audience on their feet. Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler, and Bill Ward gamely pumped out their thick metallic sludge behind him—but the audience was not cooperating.

"Come on, everybody, clap your hands!!"

Crickets.

"Everybody on your feet!!"

Nada.

"AhhhHHHH, FUCK THIS!!"

Unable to get the crowd moving one muscle, despite his heroic exhortations, a frustrated, pissed-off, formerly Mr. Peace-and-Love Ozzy rapidly turned rabid.

He whirled around and grabbed one of the floor-toms off Bill Ward’s drum riser, and then hurled the whole fucking thing at the audience. Where it landed—SPLAT!—in the orchestra pit, missing the front row (but not by that much). Black Sabbath then stalked off the stage very quickly.

Unforgettable, total showmanship in the face of apparent audience indifference.

Blame it on the ‘ludes.

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The OTHER Lou

Gary Lucas — Fri, 11 Jul 2025 01:37:37 +0000

The OTHER Lou Gary Lucas July 10, 2025 - 21:37

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celebrity obit

R.I.P. Lou Christie (19 February 1943 - 18 June 2025)

Very sad to hear of the death of the great soft rock vocalist and teenage angst emoter for the ages, Lou Christie, born Lugee Alfredo Giovanni Sacco.

Lou’s mid-'60s AM radio anthems "Lightning Strikes" and my favorite "Rhapsody in the Rain" were odes to male priapic lust of the adolescent variety, enveloped in near-Spectorian productions which featured thunderous orchestrations, crooning dirty white girl group-type backup singers (kinda like The Angels) standing in for the objet d’amour in lyrical question who whispered, commented on, and answered Greek chorus-like Lou’s falsetto call of frustrated desire with encouraging yelps and screams, urging him on to GO ALL THE WAY!

Which he does on both of these singles.

Years ago, I appeared on the syndicated Joey Reynolds Radio Show with my pal Mitch Myers in support of his book The Boy Who Cried Freebird.

Joey’s other guests that night were the legendary Lou Christie himself and the late John "Cha Cha" Ciarcia, owner of the fantastic Italian pastry joint Cha Cha’s of Little Italy at 113 Mulberry Street. Caroline had cast Cha Cha in many a mob-related film (Mafia movies and TV series being just one of her specialties. She currently is casting FX’s Gravesend), so we got a little 3-way repartee going after I played some deep blues on my National steel:

Cha Cha: “I know his wife!”
Me: “But not in the Biblical sense!”
Joey: “Have to cut to a commercial now to pay those bills! Lift that barge, tote that bale!”

After a break for our sponsor, Joey interviewed Lou, who was sweet, gracious, and charmingly modest. After the show, I told him how much his music meant to me growing up, especially "Rhapsody in the Rain," the earworm follow-up to "Lightning Strikes."

Lou: “You know that?? We got banned all over the place with that record!”

But not in good old heavily Italian-American Syracuse, where I grew up.

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Too short a tribute. Good start though.

How about a little research? Why was the song banned? The opening lyrics.

"Baby, the raindrops play for me
A lonely rhapsody cause on our first date
We were making out in the rain
And in this car our love went much too far
It was exciting as thunder
Tonight
I wonder where you are?

The windshield wipers seemed to say
"Together, together, together, together"
And now they are saying
"Oh, never, never"
Ooh wee, ooh wee, baby"

MGM had Mr. Christie rerecord them.
As Wiki notes a "clean" version" was sidestep the ban.

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Ethereal Is Not A Dirty Word

Robert Cochrane — Thu, 05 Jun 2025 01:28:55 +0000

Ethereal Is Not A Dirty Word Robert Cochrane June 4, 2025 - 21:28

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singer songwriter

Ania: Secret Garden (AniaBmusic)

A strangely eclectic sensibility is evidenced on Ania Brzozowska's new album, Secret Garden, her second. Although Polish, a Celtic flavour pervades, a breath of Irish mellowness and charm with her delicate mastery of piano and violin. Assured and elegantly underscored, as though Tori Amos were in cahoots with Enya, you'll have an idea of the classicism at play. Not that Ania is a mere pastiche of both or either, she brings her distinctive grace and style to the ears of the listener. There's a flawlessly other-worldly feel to her music, but it remains grounded, earthed by sublime musicality. Her image is wrapped in floral motifs, and musical signatures sourced from other times, an approach of ancient modernity. Understated yet encompassing.

"Secret Garden" is a perfect opener, featuring a delicately picked harp. Shades of Caroline Lavelle echo and beguile this slow-burning epic. Ania's voice is subtle, never cloying on account of possession of an earnest earthiness. This haunting madrigal soothes the listener into her otherworldly vistas. If rolling piano motifs and subtle violin lines resonate, here is the perfect ticket with all its gifts of haunting refinement. Mannered but exquisitely accessible.

With "Another Day," there is a sparseness of piano, a lament that holds the delicate space it inhabits with a melancholy ambiance. As it builds, via a sadness of violin, the sense of restraint is palpable, as her vocals effortlessly glide, whilst underscoring and harnessing the fluidity of the song.

"Another week gone by

And not a minute too soon

Another passerby

Staring up at the moon."

"Reach My Shore" is a slow waltz imbued with a gossamer moodiness. A swirling of bells and piano, it broods and aches with gentle drama. A small slice of reflective perfection, perfectly judged and elegantly delivered. This aching beauty continues with "Autumn Leaves," a perfect capturing of longing, absence, and regret as winter draws in. An exercise in brevity, it has an icy warmth in all its piano-strummed ghostliness and sorrow.

"I see your lips, the summer kisses

The sun-burned hands I used to hold"

A brave song to cover arrives in the form of Chris Isaak's masterpiece of failure and fatalism, "Wicked Game," bedecked in baroque refinement with delicate violin lines, it weaves a hypnotic web upon the listener's heart. Stripped of its lyrics until the last few seconds, she allows it to exist as a classical piece, an astute departure that works intuitively and eloquently. '"Love Songs" possesses the timbre and ache of early Kate Bush. Measured yet gently soaring, neatly scored with piano in a dance with barely borne violin and swaying vocals.

"Sound Of Silence" is one of those songs you'd assume should be left untouched, especially given Disturbed and their manful reinvention of it in recent years. Ania takes it back to a more medieval feel—a sense of older, more innocent and magical times, but with a world-weary aspect. As the violin rises softly over the elegantly picked guitar, there is restraint within the longing expressed, those elements of profound sadness. Dramatic in an understated way, it saunters and sails to a conclusion of gentle resignation and decline—a minstrel in a gallery conceit.

"En Aranjuez Con Tu Amor" by the Spanish composer Rodrigo, from 1939, becomes an epic soundtrack of ambitious proportions, awash with cello and violin, and blessed with an exquisite vocal take. Ethereal yet supremely magnificent via a certain consideration of restraint, it swirls and cascades, slowly building without ever bursting forth till the entire affair gently slips away. A precise and elegant revisiting. It closes the vinyl version, which is a thing of elegant beauty in its splattered elegance. What closes the CD, the acoustic version of an earlier song, "Reach My Shore," proves a perfect exit piece of vulnerable simplicity that encases the eloquent concision of her voice. Ania is a singer who is not fearful of space because she knows exactly how to occupy and harness it, a trait she shares with Norwegian songstress Cecilie Anna. All seems effortless, which is an aspect of the magic involved.

Ania could be described as Pre-Raphaelite for modern times. An elegant soul with a sublime lightness of touch. Her visual presentation has a floral intensity that suits and complements her deceptively gentle sound. With this album, her secret garden should be a secret widely shared and poorly kept—a breeze from the past with modern times in mind.

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A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 20 May 2025 15:16:37 +0000

A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester Robert Cochrane May 20, 2025 - 11:16

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concert review

Gaelynn Lea and James Holt

The Band On The Wall, Manchester

17 May 2025

Manchester is the recipient of sunshine, not rain on a mid-May Saturday. The streets buzz with the clink and chatter of an almost European ambience, as people make the most of the driest stretch of days in many years. The Band On The Wall, however, maintains an inviting darkness despite the change in the weather.

Waiting to be served, I am approached by a small lady in a wheelchair as she glides past potential obstacles with an easy confidence. She smiles, "Are you the support act's father?" Just as I begin to explain that I'm not, the woman beside me announces that she's the mother of James Holt and introduces her husband, the true father sought in the question. Gaelynn Lea, in her motorised chair, immediately scoots across to them. This composer, violinist, and singer I've never seen live, but this almost introduction makes me relish the prospect of the afternoon's performance with an added frisson of anticipation.

The support act, the previously mentioned singer-songwriter James Holt, specialises in confessional, articulate pop maladies. An engagingly relaxed presence, his songcraft is immediately evident. There are shades of Dylan, Emitt Rhodes, and the cohesion of fellow Mancunian troubadour John Bramwell ( I Am Kloot). It's easy to discern why he's garnered admiring plaudits from many, including Brian Eno. The songs are reflective and complex, with sixties sway and swagger, and by his admission, they aren't always the happiest, but therein lies beauty. "The Wedding" fillets his sorrow over a failed love interest who marries another guy, a surprisingly up-tempo affair given the loss attendant in its subject matter. This elicits a playful heckle from Gaelynn, who is perched at the back of the venue, as she berates him for enjoying a good wallow in despair, which he manfully agrees is true. I would recommend his "Sanguine On The Rocks" release to those in search of new aural delights, a treat that will not disappoint, nor indeed will any of his work.

When Gaelynn takes the stage with her guitarist Richard Carter, there's a faint ripple of anticipation. Because of her small stature, she plays her violin like a cello. It is a perfect arrangement, an inspired compromise. Her sound builds via loops and pedals, and with a knowing nod to her accompanist, with whom she shares an eloquent rapport and fluency, the show begins. The songs are unique confections that enter the heart and haunt the soul. At times her voice fuses with the violin, as though it, the instrument, and she are as one. The sound has a gypsy baroque element, neither country or folk but a beguiling hybrid of both with a sense of refined classicism. An enchanting and mesmerising energy pervades. As she performs, an expressive reverie is present in her eyes. There's an element of Cyndi Lauper to her voice, along with the dedicated concentration of an artist in perfect fusion with her evocative creations.

Lea is promoting the music she wrote for Daniel Craig's Broadway portrayal of Macbeth, and introduces these pieces a little apprehensively on account of them being aired out of context, but she needn't have worried. They are beguiling and work above and beyond their initial purpose as incidental motifs to complement a revered drama. Their pathos and musicality become extraordinary. She expresses her disappointment that many of her favourite musical moments were cut from the play, but is grateful that she got to hear them, albeit once, from a Broadway stage, in an empty, darkened theatre.

Her haunting ballad "Some Day We'll Linger In The Sun," written about her husband, a beautiful gesture she only confessed to much later, is one of the afternoon's highlights. At times, I felt tears rise as the music soared and flowed. Later, she even whips the crowd into an audience participation sing-along. All too soon, the magical reverie is over, the moment flown. Her intrinsic artistry is slowly reaping the recognition her diligent efforts deserve. Collaborations with Low have raised the stakes in her favour, as did her Tiny Desk win (video at top) in 2016. Her first visit to the UK in several years, these shows are a timely reminder of her unique gifts. This Manchester gig is the Minnesota natives' first matinee performance, a uniqueness she is happy to experience and embrace.

Afterwards, Gaelynn mingles with her audience for a chat, a captivating soul with an infectious giggle. On the metro, I was deflated to realise her compact discs had slipped out of my not-quite-sealed rucksack. Beyond the initial sense of loss, a faint hope rose that they'd be found by someone who'd take them home and discover moments of grace from my lost tracts of musical delight. Perhaps matinees, though a thing of the past, might have a bright future. A new kind of afternoon delight in Manchester, Minnesota, and beyond.

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Gaelyn Lea revue

What a superb revue, totally captures what was a magical concert.

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In Space No One Can Hear You Scheme

Chet Kozlowski — Sun, 23 Mar 2025 20:13:56 +0000

In Space No One Can Hear You Scheme Chet Kozlowski March 23, 2025 - 16:13

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science fiction

I think of Elias Koteas as Canada's Robert DeNiro. He is similarly hardbitten, has the same twisted grin, and a suggestion of volatility. With almost a hundred film and TV shows to his credit, he's a sturdy character actor. I remember him best from Fincher's Zodiac, Cronenberg's Crash, and Malick's The Thin Red Line. It's good to catch up with him in The Silent Planet. He's older, more grizzled, but no less compelling.

Mr. Koteas plays Theodore, the sole inmate on a penal planet. Theodore's life is one of routine: he excavates the rocky wasteland, gets buzzed if he flags—"Back to work," intones an electronic voice—and has a sensor in his chest. At night in his space pod he stares out a small portal or watches a TV sitcom supplied by his captors, showing what life might be like if he'd gone straight. Theo is haunted by the vision of a lovely woman from his previous life. He is terminally ill.

One day a new pod suddenly arrives, carrying a young woman who is unaware of Theo's presence. She thinks she alone has been sent there. Theo is desperate for company. He stalks around her pod, playing hide and seek, until he makes himself known. The woman, Niyya, is a convicted terrorist, serving out a life sentence. But the two are the only ones there. So begins an unlikely comradeship.

Mr. Koteas at first plays Theodore as feeble in a way that belies the character's past and potential. Newcomer Briana Middleton is an able foil for him: athletic, with striking features and an air of a warrior princess. Both hold the screen well as their story ceases to resemble edgy domestic tranquility and more something like Bresson's Le Dernier Combat.

The two set up house. By day Theo schools Niyya in their barren environment: "Things just fly out of your mind here. It's like birds," he says. His hallucinations become more distinct and agonizing. Niyya, for her part, finds Theo familiar but just can't place from where. Her memories nag, until they reveal her true mission on this desolate planet.

The Silent Planet, intriguingly subtitled The Sad Dreams of Earthlings, is written and directed by Jeffrey St. Jules, whose previous films include Cinema of Sleep and Bang Bang Baby. Mr. St. Jules suspends our disbelief with spare terrain and lively exchanges in the pods.

The Silent Planet does a lot with a little. It's a suspenseful space opera on its own terms. Those coming to The Silent Planet for interplanetary fireworks will instead find a low-tech chamber piece, a two character show, not moody but not light either.

____________________________

The Silent Planet. Directed by Jeffrey St. Jules. 2024. From Quiver Distribution. Available on digital platforms. Runtime 95 minutes

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From A Whisper To A Scream

Robert Cochrane — Wed, 19 Mar 2025 18:49:38 +0000

From A Whisper To A Scream Robert Cochrane March 19, 2025 - 14:49

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Peter Farrelly 1949-2025

Peter Farrelly cut an elegant figure in the heady days of prog rock via his sensitively considered vocals, sophisticated bass lines, and somewhat foppish appearance. A striking character, he was the charismatic frontman of Fruupp, Northern Ireland's distinguished but sole contribution to the world of progressive rock. A strange entity to emerge in the murderous and bloody period of Irish turmoil, they simply didn't fit in. Needless to say, they moved to London to advance their chances of a career securing a record deal with Dawn Records in 1973.

Farrelly merited greater recognition for his sublime technique and could vocally rise from a whisper to a scream with effortless ease, as illustrated in the songs "Decision" and "Mystery Might," but though his days with Fruupp are his lynchpin to legacy, their sound has aged like a wine of fine vintage, they never, despite being constantly on tour, broke through to the higher echelons of fame. His delivery hovered between the jazziness of Cleo Laine and the deceptive casualness of Tim Hardin, although when required, he could "rock out" with the best, possessing a rare and subtle air of vocal understatement.

Fruupp's four albums have gained greater recognition in later years than were gifted on release. Peter's distinctive artwork graced their first two LP sleeves, Future Legends and Seven Secrets, and the early promotional posters and flyers via a curious mixture of Victorian children's illustrations and colorful seventies whimsy. The band's rigorous touring schedule ended his role as their visual merchandiser. He simply no longer had the time to execute another sleeve of such intricate detail, a loss of stylistic continuity that really should have been avoided.

Like most natural talents, he was humble about his own. A distinctive and strong visual centerpiece to the eclectic brilliance behind him, the classical keyboard flourishes of Stephen Houston, later the layered electronic washes of the late John Mason, Vincent McCusker's searingly dynamic guitar lines in tandem with Martin Foye's driven and inspired drum motifs. What made Farrelly unique was his ability to sing exquisitely whilst delivering throbbingly appropriate bass progressions. His instrument of choice had been the acoustic guitar, but the bass reigned supreme in his hands. It was a remarkable and unintentional transition, indicative of his innate talent.

Fruupp shared the bill with Genesis, Queen, Hawkwind, and Focus, to name but four. David Bowie and Angie, dressed in matching white suits, showed up at one of their London gigs. Eclectic and electric, it remains a mystery why their career stalled whilst lesser talents soared. Their final album, Modern Masquerades, was exquisitely produced by Ian McDonald from King Crimson, another band they'd previously toured with.

After Fruupp imploded in 1976, the advent of Punk rendered their contemplative sound instantly obsolete. Farrelly formed The Crowd, an inspired Doors/Stranglers "New Wave" hybrid, who, with a little more kindness from Lady Luck, could have broken through. Sadly, they disbanded without recording any material, though some live bootlegs of inferior audio quality apparently exist. After a few more short-lived bands, he gradually drifted away from the scene that had sustained him for a decade.

Though Peter Farrelly left music, the music never left him. He continued to write songs, developing an interest in the classical genre after taking up the piano. His talent will continue to bring delight and awe to those who know it already and those who've yet to discover the delicacy of his recorded work. After half a century, it still beguiles, remaining a tasteful legacy of elegance, refinement, and good grace. Understatement is a talent often easily dismissed or ignored, but he lived long enough to see his efforts reassessed and praised

He died peacefully at home in Belfast aged 76.

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Serendipity Far From Home

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 11 Mar 2025 20:13:41 +0000

Serendipity Far From Home Robert Cochrane March 11, 2025 - 16:13

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indie rock

CAROLA BAER - The Story Of Valerie (Concentric Circles)

Something inexplicable occasionally saves a piece of art from oblivion. Rarely can fate have been so perilously tempted, nor an edge as closely danced along, than Carola Baer's album The Story Of Valerie. It should have vanished and almost did, but for a final "thrift store" encounter where items are dumped in bins on the shop floor for the curious to peruse for a few hours before being gathered up and unceremoniously consigned to the local landfill in Portland, Oregon. Had local artist Natalie Ann Howard not been curious enough to purchase a homemade cassette, there would be no story, no album, nor a litany of connections and circumstances befitting a fable. No pathway towards remembrance,

Carola Baer was a young West London-based musician of Armenian lineage who, in 1987, arrived in San Francisco for a few days as she made her way to Australia. No flowers adorned her hair, but for the sake of the story, they may have done. She met a boy and fell in love, overstaying her original intention to the tune of two decades. The songs inspired by their affair, which he helped her record, were poignant and fresh. She'd create cassettes of these in the hope of involving others, but despite much effort, tapes were only being made when one was required; fate was not on her side. Carola eventually left San Francisco and returned to England, and her lovingly crafted efforts were subsumed by other memories and other songs. Like pages from a forgotten diary, they no longer mattered.

Though these works were created by primitive means, they fail to betray the humble nature of their origins—a 4-track tape, a Yamaha DX-7, a Casio CZ -101, and a primitive drum machine. They now survive via a vinyl release of 500 copies. What emerges from the grooves is quite extraordinarily fresh and engaging. There are elements of an unvarnished Cocteau Twins, early days of P.J. Harvey, and flashes of Bjork. The whole affair possesses an assured element of completeness, a vision realized. Earthy and organic, it does not provide any concession to time in its wordless vocalizations and ethnic melodies.

The madrigal-like "Maker Of Me" proves a perfect opener. An incantation, perhaps a prayer, it possesses the ethereal intimacy of This Mortal Coil and Miranda Sex Garden, whilst "Golden Boy" betrays unvarnished aspects of the Cocteau Twins with subsumed rasps of vocal and an insistent percussive theme that builds to a dervish-driven peak.

"Save Me" extolls a pervasive folksiness, elemental, like water over stones, the disembodied vocals, hypnotic and entrancing, via instrumental aspects of Japan and Talk Talk, a sonic texturing akin to Siouxsie and the Banshees. A poetic waifishness of Virginia Astley frosts "We Already Feel," a spoken word sequence of mesmeric grace, whilst "Springtime" evokes a call to prayer in its stark, alluring briefness. "Doors Talk" concludes the first side; we appropriately are exploring a vinyl-only affair, with a sense of church-like reverence, vespers, and whispers, slight gothic shades of Nico haunting its subtle dirge.

"Solemn Cattle" presents a casual piano motif and a vocal ghostliness of Vashti Bunyan, an ethnic jazziness implied by the percussion. "Nothing Left To Say" heralds a discreet piano riff that nods towards a gothic Enya in conversational song, though whilst it grows and builds, the tone becomes more edgy. "See The Lights Again" implies Liz Fraser or Dead Can Dance as a floating vocal rises aloft a keyboard cascade in dulcimer-like affectation. "Dreams" could have been lifted from a neglected sci-fi movie with poorly lit walkways and city nightscapes. Proceedings are concluded by "On Top Of The Mountain," which continues the dystopian theme, a sense of underground claustrophobia, trains stopping and stuttering by, drifting past to a tribal-like chant.

Impressionistic yet crafted and stylized, The Story Of Valerie presents as a consistently accomplished and eloquent creation. A casual self-assurance emerges from these grooves, which could have been created in any yesterday from the last forty years. Effortlessly timeless, its survival and arrival, a profound joy. This tapestry of sonic sophistication is never showy but shines as a lost gem, repolished and reset, something that Carola Baer can now enjoy as it gradually finds its rightful place in a world that didn't know nor care. Her current band, the appositely named, but unintentionally so, Quiet Wish.

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Beyond The Alley of the Dolls

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 04 Mar 2025 13:11:04 +0000

Beyond The Alley of the Dolls Robert Cochrane March 4, 2025 - 08:11

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David Johansen 1950 -2025

When the New York Dolls burst forth upon an unsuspecting public via the release of their eponymous album debut, they were draggy, druggy, and degenerate, resembling a team of transvestite hookers. Their startling appearance rattled a world of "Rock & Roll" that thought it had seen and been it all. Bob Harris described their appearance on his show The Old Grey Whistle Test as "Mock Rock," a slogan opportunity they should have stolen with a knowing wink. Raw and in your face in the way that The Velvet Underground and The Stooges were, the Dolls took no prisoners and startled all of the mostly empty horses. Fronted by the glamourous androgyny of David Johansen in high heels, who claimed he wanted to look like the French movie star Simone Signoret, he actually resembled Lauren Bacall in a beret, after many nights on cold and slippery, dirty tiles.

Cribbing their name from the building opposite where they used to rehearse, "The New York Dolls Hospital," where kids took their damaged dolls to be repaired, proved a strangely befitting choice. Their sound was loud, nasty, and aggressive, something that didn't go amiss when Todd Rundgren, a man known for his aural elegance, captured it, warts, rhinestones, and all, in the eight days that it took to record. Despite decent reviews it didn't sell. Their stripped-back angry energy was an unintentional rallying call for what would later become known as a Punk, but in those days, they stuck out like a bruised and throbbing sore thumb. Songs like "Personality Crisis," "Jet Boy," and "Trash" perfectly exemplify their ragged, jagged grace. Formed from the ashes of a Bronx-based band Actress whose members Johnny Thunders and Billy Murcia decided to create a new band. But when Thunders decided against being the frontman, David Johansen, who'd previously played in a few Staten Island garage bands, was recruited. He was born there in 1950. The original line-up, including Sylvain Sylvain and Arthur "Killer" Kane, performed their first gig on Christmas Eve at the Endicott Hotel, which was by then a shelter for the homeless.

Invited to the UK to support the Faces at Wembley in 1972 and to undertake a handful of shows, disaster befell the band when, at a party in London, Billy Murcia overdosed. Placed in the bath and fed coffee, he asphyxiated. The journalist Peter Burton (1945-2011), then Rod Stewart's P.A., remembered the party but had no idea till he heard the following morning what had transpired. "There were plenty of strung-out people there. A passed-out drummer in a bath didn't seem much of a cause for concern."

The tour was abandoned, and a teenage Stephen Patrick Morrissey never got to redeem his ticket for their canceled show at Manchester's Hard Rock. He'd ran their UK Fan Club. and penned an early book about them. The band returned to New York to consider their future, recruiting Jerry Nolan as Murcia's replacement, and secured a deal with Mercury Records.

In October 1973, they juddered an American viewing public via their appearance on The Midnight Special. Middle America dropped jaws and coffee cups and flipped channels in the days when the shock was both palpable and awesome. Eventually recording a second album, the gloriously monikered Too Much Too Soon, with the legendary Shadow Morton, on account of their adoration for the girl groups he'd worked with in the Sixties like the Shangri-La's. Again, the print reviews didn't translate into sales, but a legend was growing. Their divisive appeal was reflected in the fact that Creemmagazine awarded them Best Band of The Year and The Worst.

When burgeoning rock Svengali Malcolm MacLaren visited New York on a trip to sell his then-partner Vivienne Westwood's clothes designs, he tracked them down, became their manager, and dressed them in red leather. He claimed the new look was his idea, but Johansen later disputed that maintaining it was his. Either way, it didn't work since it effectively alienated their old fans whilst hardly attracting any new ones. There was a tour of Japan, but the drug use of Kane, Thunders, and Nolan exacerbated inner conflicts within the band. Dropped by Mercury Records in late 1975, the Dolls staggered on, more from reputation than industry support, finally bowing out at a post-Christmas gig in 1976 with Blondie at Max's Kansas City in New York.

Johansen, between 1978 and 1984, released a quartet of creatively strong but commercially underachieving albums. He successfully drifted into acting, appearing alongside Bill Murray as the Ghost of Christmas Past in Scrooged, (1988), Let It Ride with Richard Dreyfuss (1989), and Freejack with Mick Jagger and Emilio Estevez (1992)., a mere triptych of his many noteworthy screen appearances.

By the late eighties, he'd reinvented himself as Buster Poindexter, a vaudevillian persona, after the fashion of his glam contemporary Jobriath, who morphed into Cole Berlin, a gin-soaked lounge pianist. As Poindexter, he scored a modest but memorable hit with "Hot. Hot. Hot," a cover of a song by soca artist Arrow. Johansen later admitted that skirmish with success had become the bane of his life. He released Buster's Happy Hour, an album sourced and soaked in the subject of alcohol. Another followed as Buster Poindexter's Spanish Rocket Ship, rooted in salsa music. These albums were a long way from the flash and thrash of the New York Dolls.

In 2004 Morrissey was curating the Meltdown Festival at the Royal Festival Hall. His jewel in the crown was the reformation of the New York Dolls, or rather, the three left standing. Johnny Thunders died in a hotel room from a drug overdose in 1991, or a possible homicide, whilst Jerry Nolan succumbed to bacterial meningitis and a stroke, his life support being switched off in January 1992. The performance resulted in a vinyl album, a DVD, and a permanent return of the Dolls, although Arthur Kane's reprise was tragically brief. A mere twenty-two days after the glory of their reunion he died two hours after being diagnosed with leukemia and having gone to hospital in LA complaining of fatigue. He thought he'd caught flu whilst in London. Johansen and Sylvain Sylvain continued with the New York Dolls releasingthree further albums One Day It Will Please Us To Even Remember This(1996), Coz I Sez So (2009), and Dancing Backwards In High Heels (2011). It was a brave, concerted and credible comeback. They played their final gig in Scotland during a tour with Alice Cooper in 2011.

David Johansen was immortalized by Martin Scorsese in the documentary Personality Crisis: One Night Only, recordedmostly in 2020 at an intimate show at Cafe Carlyle. Released in 2023, it captures and encapsulates all his raw and ragged peacock glory, a perfect testament to an era already descending into the amber of memory and absence. His final years were beset with health issues, diligently cared for by his wife Mara Hennessey. He gradually faded from view but not from memory. In the documentary he recalls being arrested for impersonating a woman at the height of his Dollsiian notoriety. "I had to go to jail dressed like Liza Minnelli!" he drawled.

His will be a hard act to follow. There'd be little need for anyone to try since Johansen was uniquely unclassifiable, a source of inspiration and beguilement, a man for all seasons who deserves another addition. He died from cancer on the 28th of February, 2025, at his New York City home, holding hands with his wife and daughter Leah, surrounded by music, flowers, and love.