Dancing Ledge

When the going gets tough the tough start blogging

When Henry the horse danced the waltz…

beatles 5.jpgIt was 50 years ago today that Sgt Pepper taught the band to play – well give or take a day or three. On Thursday 1st of June 1967 I was 16-years-old and like most of my schoolfriends made a beeline for the local record shop to hear The Beatles’ newly released album.  Little did we know at the start of what would become known as the Summer of Love that music, and indeed a whole bunch of other things, would never be quite the same again.

Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was not have been the greatest album ever recorded but it was one of the most innovative, inventive and influential. It was unlike anything anybody had ever heard before and it caught the spirit of the time perfectly. Listening now to the remastered 50th Anniversary edition I realise that it gave us a soundtrack to an era and, as the 1967 Summer of Love morphed into the 1968 Year of Protest, the album stayed with us.

One  needs to understand the historical context. Revolution really was in the air. In London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, San Francisco, Chicago and New York, social and political activists were gathering strength. A network of underground magazines and the word on the street kept everyone informed. Even those of us who still had to do our homework before we could pretend to possess any anarchic leanings were briefly convinced that we were going to stop the war in Vietnam, halt the ‘bread-heads’ in their tracks, feed the hungry, house the homeless, destroy racism and usher in an age of global peace, love and understanding.

Hopelessly naive perhaps but baby boomers, born during and just after the end of World War II, were a force to be reckoned with and determined that a change was gonna come.  Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was their music – a central part of the soundtrack of those heady, idealistic months.

In retrospect it seems strange that the album came to epitomise the spirit of youth internationally. It was after all extraordinarily British. It’s thematic rock, whimsical pop and lush arrangements were peppered (no pun intended) with unashamed references to English music hall, fairgrounds, traffic wardens, the popular BBC TV sit-com Meet the Wife, a well-known British cornflake advert and holidays on the Isle of Wight alongside a shimmering wash of psychedelia and a touch of Eastern mysticism.

It’s almost impossible all these years later to remember the initial impact of hearing astonishing tracks like A Day in the Life, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds and Being For the Benefit of Mr Kite but they were jaw-dropping in their aural imagery created by wizardry in the studio  that was breaking new ground. I do however recall, early on, marvelling at the sound that seemed to somehow get right inside your head. We had been primed of course. Earlier in the year the first two sessions from the Sgt Pepper recordings – Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane – had been released as a double A sided single. They never made it onto the final album but they were very much a part of the project.

The album had the distinct advantage of worrying the more paranoid parts of the establishment who seemed intent on finding it in some way subversive. Headlines about Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds being code for LSD started a frenzy of speculation about possible drug references in the lyrics. The Beatles looked on in bemusement and insisted that they were blameless. It was of course brilliant publicity and forever endeared both the band and the album to the counter-culture.

It’s easy to forget that the Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album may have become an album of choice for hippies, yippies and bedsit revolutionaries but it actually pre-dated the era of flying cobblestones and fighting in the streets by several months. It was rooted in a more innocent times and recorded during the first half of 1967, just a couple of years after John, Paul, George and Ringo first started shaking off the shackles of being a perennially mobbed mop-top boy band.

Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was and is an extraordinary recording which captured a special moment in the history of the 20th century, an era that in the UK at least, emerged blinking into the 1960s suffering from a bad case of arrested development. After two World Wars and major economic recession the nation was still run by politicians and captan’s of industry who were essentially still Edwardian in attitude and outlook. Something had to give. It was helped by the fact that compulsory military service ended in 1960, coinciding neatly with the first generation of teens and 20s to have money in their pockets.

The Beatles arrived just in time to offer a psychological springboard for a generation inspired by rock ’n’ roll and the glittering seemingly unreachable world of the American Dream. On the other side of the Atlantic lifestyles glimpsed through TV, the movies and magazines, looked more glamorous, cars were bigger, music was brasher. The new generation of Brits wanted some of the action. Fed up with playing second fiddle they soon realised that The Beatles were at the vanguard of a youth movement that would even impress the yanks.

The Fab Four couldn’t miss. The band were a perfect mix of talent and personalities that existed during a brief but highly creative moment in time. Having landed a recording contract with stuffy old EMI Records they were allocated a producer who had previously been responsible for comedy and novelty records.

As far as the rather haughty EMI bosses were concerned it was all this untamed beat-group from Liverpool deserved. It just so happened that George Martin was a creative thinker with a genius for sound design that had never been given full reign before. Add to that the quiet but determined counsel of manager Brian Epstein and the unique set of circumstances that led to the development of the experimentations that created the Sgt Pepper sound were in place. So many things about it were unique, from Peter Blake and Jann Howarth’s cover to the fact that it was the first pop album to have its song lyrics printed on the sleeve.

Sadly Brian Epstein died less than three months after Sgt Pepper’s release. He was just 32-years-old. Though Magical Mystery Tour, the White Album, Abbey Road and Let it Be were still to be recorded and released, Epstein’s death was the beginning of the end for The Beatles. It is astonishing that, half-a-century after its release, Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band remains unique in its ability to conjure up the feeling of a special moment in time. It doesn’t contain The Beatles best songs and as I’ve already said, it certainly isn’t their best album. That accolade, in my opinion, belongs to Revolver which was recorded and released a year earlier. But it is without doubt a landmark in both social and musical history. The fact that 50 years after its release we are analysing and reappraising its impact says it all.

25th May 1917 – the WWI air-raid that blasted Folkestone into a new age of violence

 

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My great grandfather William Henry Stokes one of 61 people killed in the Tontine Street air-raid

The date:  Friday 25th May 1917. The time: 6.22pm.

It was a beautiful early summer’s evening and for the people of Folkestone the start of a seaside holiday weekend. In bustling Tontine Street children were playing while their mothers chatted and queued outside Stokes Brothers the greengrocers. There had been wartime food shortages and a new delivery of potatoes had just arrived. A crowd had quickly gathered as news got around. Shopkeeper William Henry Stokes, my great grandfather, and his staff were doing brisk business.

The mood was surprisingly carefree. Despite the terrible death toll on the Western Front just a short distance across the English Channel, the actual violence of war had had little direct effect on the town. The sound of distant explosions caused scant concern to the shoppers outside the Stokes grocery store that evening. It was just the military practising at nearby Shorncliffe Camp. Or so they thought.

Suddenly there was a terrifying roar as a German aircraft swept out of the skies and dropped a massive 50 kilogram bomb onto the street beside the gathering throng. There was a flash of light, a deafening explosion and a moment of searing heat as the blast ripped through the queue, completely demolishing the Stokes Brothers shop and setting fire to a broken gas main.

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The Stokes Brothers shop before the bombing. My great grandfather is pictured centre right

In a moment the scene had changed from that of a peaceful, balmy evening in the summer sunshine to one of terror and unspeakable carnage. The shop was completely flattened. All that was left was a mass of splintered  wood and masonry. Inside William Stokes, lay dying in the rubble. His 14-year-old son Arthur (my great uncle) was terribly injured but still conscious and, though his legs were shredded by shrapnel, he  managed to crawl into the street. Arthur would die in hospital three days later after gangrene set into his wounds. Two members of staff, teenage book-keepers Florrie Rumsey and Edith Eales, were also fatally injured. They were both just 17-years-old. Also in the shop was William’s brother Fred (my great great uncle) who would never recover from his wounds and died 17 months later.

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The Stokes Brothers shop ready for reconstruction.

Outside, the street was strewn with the dead and dying. The eerie silence that had followed the explosion was soon broken by the moans and cries of the injured as survivors picked through the broken bodies, severed arms, legs and even heads looking for their loved ones. The police, fire brigade and ambulance service were soon on the scene tending to the injured, comforting the bereaved and helping those survivors whose lives had been shattered, utterly changed in an instant. Some would eventually find a way back to a semblance of normality. Others would be destined to live out their days physically and/or emotionally crippled. Sixty one people had been killed by that single bomb and many more injured. Both the attack and its effects were unprecedented. Folkestone had never experienced anything remotely  like it  before.

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My great great uncle Fred Stokes died from his injuries.

Although by 1917 it was a garrison town full of soldiers and the embarkation point for thousands of troops heading for the front-line, Folkestone’s civilian population was strangely complacent. The townsfolk were  largely convinced that they were safe. Quite how blasé  people were is perhaps underlined by a contemporaneous account by a Mrs Coxon who describes the “exquisite summer’s day” and how  interested she is in “a very large flight of about twenty aeroplanes circling and pirouetting over my head.” She talks of watching their “graceful antics” happy in the misconception that at last Britain was “up and doing”. The idea that they could possibly be enemy planes didn’t occur to her until a bomb dropped killing a woman walking along the road behind her.  The military had done little to protect the town. There were no anti-aircraft defences and no efficient warning systems. Previous attacks from the air had been by Zeppelin airships and had never specifically targeted the little Channel Port before. What’s more Zeppelins were easily shot down.

However the German High Command had a plan. They secretly developed long-range bombers and on 25th May 1917 a squadron of state-of-the art  Gotha GIV planes laden with bombs set off planning to attack London. The flyers made it to the capital but, discovering it shrouded in low-lying cloud, turned south and followed the South Eastern and Chatham railway line down to the coast, targeting the railway hub at Ashford and the Royal Military Canal near Hythe on the way. Fortunately air warfare was in its infancy, many of the bombs were duds and damage was limited. In Hythe for example 16 bombs were dropped but only two people died.

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My great uncle Arthur Stokes, 14, also died

But the last gasp attack on Folkestone as the 21 Gotha’s prepared to head back across the channel raised the eventual death toll to horrendous proportions. In all 97 people were killed – 79 civilians and 18 soldiers, mainly Canadians stationed at Shorncliffe camp. It changed the town forever. There was a tangible loss of innocence. Among the dead there were many children, 27 in Folkestone alone.  Terrible stories emerged of entire families destroyed. The youngest fatality was Walter Moss, just two months old, who died in Tontine Street from a terrible wound in the chest. His mother Jane also died. It is believed that her legs were torn off by the blast. They were the family of Private George Moss a Canadian soldier serving with the Labour Battalion. Poor George was a member of the Salvation Army and had ambitions to become a chaplain. He had signed up to fight the good fight in August 1914. By the end of the war he had lost four brothers, a cousin, his father-in-law and his wife and baby son .

Another child victim of the Tontine Street bomb was 10 month old William Norris who died alongside his mother Florence and his two-year-old sister also named Florence. Their father, a local mechanic, would return home to the incomprehensible news that a simple shopping trip had resulted in the loss of his entire family. There were other horrors too. As the clear-up operation began and police and volunteers literally scooped up body parts in buckets, the head of little girl was found on the doorstep of the Brewery Tap pub next-door to Stokes Brothers. For decades it was rumoured that, however much it was washed and scrubbed, the bloodstain could not be removed. A simple natural discolouration of the stone-work had been turned into a symbol of death and, by extension, a portent of doom. For years certain people crossed the road rather than walk past that door.

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My great grandmother Jane Stokes

Many had issues to deal with. My own great grandmother, William Stokes’ widow, Jane, lived to be 90-years-old, but went to her grave still racked with guilt over the fact that her husband had already come home that evening but had returned to the shop because his tea wasn’t ready. I can just remember my great grandmother as a very, very old lady who lived with my great aunt. She died shortly before my third birthday. She had also of course lost a brother-in-law and a grandson in that single raid. None of them  were meant to be at the shop at 6.22 that evening. The world of the survivors was haunted by so many ‘what ifs?’

Not surprising then that the bombing was rarely mentioned when I was growing up. In retrospect I realise there was almost a vow of silence  about the subject. I can only of course speak for my own family who, although the raid was commemorated with a memorial plaque and an event that was central to Folkestone’s recent history, approached the subject with a collective stiff upper lip, a survival technique that would no doubt horrify contemporary mental health experts. The struggle of the post First World War years hardened their resolve. As William’s granddaughter, my 90-year-old mother Joyce Miles, explained to me just the other day: “They had been through one dreadful war and knew there was probably another one coming. They wanted to get on with their lives rather than dwell on the horrors of the past.”

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My mum Joyce Miles. William Henry Stokes’ granddaughter. Photo March 2017

The Stokes Brothers shop was quickly rebuilt after the attack and the business continued with little said on the subject of the bombing. There we’re so many imponderables. My grandfather William Stokes Junior for example survived the Great War because he was serving with the Royal Engineers. Had he been at home selling potatoes it might have  been a very different story and of course I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.

The Stokes Brothers business continued trading until 1985 when an arsonist broke into the shop one night and set fire to both himself and the premises. He died and Stokes Brothers was razed to the ground. As News Editor on the town’s local paper I personally covered that story. At the time it felt as though the Stokes family business was in some way cursed but the empty site that has remained undeveloped ever since seems a curiously peaceful place. Maybe its demons have been laid to rest.

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Direct descendants of those killed in the air-raid gather at the new memorial

I am writing these words  just a few days after the victims of the 25th May 1917 air raid were remembered at a special centenary commemoration in Folkestone attended by descendants of those who were killed. This poignant event included a church service and the unveiling at 6.22pm – 100 years to the minute after the fateful bomb dropped on Tontine Street – of a commemorative plaque in the town’s Garden of Remembrance. Relatives young and old of those who were killed and injured came from all over the country.

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6.22pm the precise time the fatal bomb fell on Tontine Street

Sadly the commemoration was made even more thought-provoking because it took place just days after the murderous terrorist attack on Manchester Arena which, although a very different kind of bombing, also resulted in the death of a large number of children.

Many who were present will not realise that the centenary commemoration only happened thanks to the tireless efforts of Margaret Care – a distant cousin of mine, the great granddaughter of my great grandfather’s brother Fred Stokes. Crikey, that was a bit of a mouthful but I’m not sure there is any other way of saying it. I had never met Margaret before last week but we had exchanged emails over the past three years as she tracked down relatives and negotiated with the authorities over what form a commemoration could take.

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Me at the grave of my great grandfather William Henry Stokes and his son Arthur who were among the 97 who died on 25 May 1917

With the help of Folkestone historian Martin Easdown, bags of gentle enthusiasm and dogged determination, Margaret made it happen. She is a modest soul but I hope she gets the recognition she deserves. Organising the memorial event was a huge undertaking. I am proud that this thoughtful, caring, diligent woman is a relative.

Meeting Modernism at the Russell-Cotes

 

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A Dorset Landscape  by Leslie Moffat Ward (1930)  All images: Russell-Cotes Gallery & Museum

By Jeremy Miles

When Victorian art collector Sir Merton Russell-Cotes bequeathed his lavish cliff-top home, East Cliff Hall, and its huge collection of paintings and sculptures to the people of Bournemouth he created an intriguing problem. He was a fearfully hard act to follow. The collection that he and his wife Annie had spent decades acquiring was idiosyncratic and wide-ranging. Magnificent paintings shared wall space with those that were considered minor and mediocre, but somehow it all worked. It was a collection that reflected Sir Merton’s flamboyant style and generosity of spirit.

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Arthur Bradbury’s 1935 painting Pamela

But it also highlighted the fact that he had been a man of his age, born into the era of Empire. By the time of his death in 1921 the contemporary art world had moved on. Post First World War sensibilities were open to radical change and though public taste, as ever, lagged a few years behind the artistic vanguard, eventually the inevitable happened and Victorian art fell seriously out of fashion.

However Bournemouth was sitting on what was effectively a priceless time-capsule and the Russell-Cotes Art  Gallery and Museum  collection is now recognised as one of the finest complete Victorian collections in the world. That it is housed in its original home is a major bonus. Unfortunately none of this helped answer the problem of how to add to and develop the collection. The answer is found in Meeting Modernism: 20th Century Art in the Russell-Cotes Collection which runs at the museum’s galleries until 24th April.

It’s an interesting title. For modernism is generally considered to encompass such styles as impressionism, cubism, surrealism, futurism, abstract expressionism and so on. At a glance there is little of that in this nonetheless fascinating show although myriad influences from all manner of isms can be found without looking too hard.

The mid 20th century curators at the Russell-Cotes favoured, with understandable logicality, the work of locally based artists. Once again it mixed the marvellous wth the mundane and once again, given the passage of time, it works. Personal tastes and arts-world connections are obviously reflected in this exhibition which is drawn largely from the museum’s bulging vaults. There’s a particular focus for instance on works in tempera, a medium that was championed by Norman Sylvester, curator of the museum for 25 years up to 1957

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Sunday at Weymouth by Eustace Nash

There is much more of course including landscapes by local talents like Henry Lamb, Leslie Moffatt Ward and Maxwell Armfield and a significant collection of portraits and war art. Contributors include some big names like Stanley Spencer, Alfred Munnings, Graham Sutherland and John Piper.

It is clear that the Russell-Cotes museum acquired some very impressive works during these years. Undoubtedly many were the direct result of its close connection with the thriving and innovative Bournemouth Arts Club which had frequently exhibited works by artists like the aforementioned Sutherland, Paul Nash and Augustus John. It would later attract guest speakers like Sir John Betjeman, David Hockney and Sir Hugh Casson, all of  whom helped boost an already heightened interest in art.

The Meeting Modernism exhibition is, like the original Victorian collection, diverse in content. There are overtly local paintings as epitomised by the work of Leslie Ward and Eustace Nash, two close contemporaries who often sold work directly to the museum, particularly in the 40s and 50s and there are works by nationally recognised artists too.

Ward’s A Dorset Landscape is hardly a masterpiece but it’s certainly a crowd-pleaser. It’s a lovingly idealised study of a sweeping view across Worbarrow Bay with five hikers set against a patchwork of the Purbeck Hills. It’s an image that pre-dates Blyton’s Famous Five by more than a decade but you just know there would have been lashings of ginger beer at the end of that walk.

Nash meanwhile uses his skill as a commercial artist to colourfully evoke the fun of a seaside merry-go-round at Weymouth but adopts a darker palette to evoke the day to day reality of the local bus station. There are stylish nudes, commissioned portraits that offer thinly veiled displays of wealth and status and excursions into the spiritual world.

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Tank Landing Craft on Bridge at Dawn by Stephen Bone (1943)

There are bleak scenes from wartime too with Keith Henderson’s study of an RAF machine gunner and Stephen Bone’s tank landing craft. Graham Sutherland  meanwhile used his position as an  official wear artist to capture the furnaces at work for the war effort.

Elsewhere there are stylised portraits from between the wars like Arthur Bradbury’s 1930s painting Pamela and several studies that explore the work and leisure pursuits of the era like Joseph Southall’s Fishermen and Visitors.

Many, though certainly not all, of the paintings on show are quite lightweight in art history terms but, like forgotten snapshots rediscovered years after they were originally taken, they tell a fascinating story about a century that with two world wars and major economic depression suffered from a kind of arrested development before being catapulted at enormous speed into the 21st century.

One particularly fascinating painting, John Minton’s Artist and Model, offers a glimpse of society gradually shrugging of its shackles. It also points towards the Russell-Cotes next major exhibition in October which celebrates the area’s lesbian, gay, bi and trans community and marks the 50th anniversary of the decriminalisation of homosexuality.

Minton’s 1953 work is a self-portrait which sadly I can’t show here for copyright reasons. It  finds the artist capturing himself in the act of painting the object of his desires, the young actor Norman Bowler. Minton is caught in a mirror, reflecting one feels, on a love that he knows will remain unrequited. Bowler would go on to marry Minton’s friend Henrietta Moraes, a Soho character who was the sometime muse and model for both Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud. He would also become a well known TV actor and for years played Frank Tate in Emmerdale. John Minton meanwhile struggled with depression, became increasingly dependent on alcohol and eventually committed suicide in 1957, ten long years before homosexual acts in private between consenting adults became legal.

Like so many other paintings in this intriguing exhibition Artist and Model has several different stories to tell. It is well worth exploring.

*Meeting Modernism: 20th Century Art in the Russell-Cotes Collection isn on show at the Russell-Cotes Art Gallery and Museum in Bournemouth until 24th April, 2017. More info at http://www.russellcotes.com

Strictly Murder Review

Strictly Murder2.pngLara Lemon as Suzy and Gary Turner as Peter in Talking Scarlet’s production Strictly Murder

By Jeremy Miles

Strictly Murder – The Theatre, Lighthouse, Poole.

With its clunky title – full of murder mystery promise – and a plot that twists and turns with every scene, this classic stage thriller cannot fail to satisfy.

But then the man who wrote it is the late Brian Clemens, the mastermind behind such 1960s and 70s TV hits as The Avengers and The Professionals.

Strictly Murder is a good old fashioned stage thriller from the days when fictional killings (and real ones too) were not hampered by mobile phone technology, DNA analysis and state-of-the art forensics.

Clemens himself once described this as “the golden age of murder” and pointed out that not a single Agatha Christie story would survive if constrained by modern CSI techniques.

So it was that we were able to happily settle down to this production from the excellent Talking Scarlet theatre company without fear of anyone being nicked as a result of a remote criminal database scan halfway through Act One.

Strictly Murder is set in rural France in 1939 and tension is rising as  Europe braces itself for the outbreak of World War II. We find English couple Peter and Suzy living in a remote cottage in Provence and earning just enough to keep body and soul together. Their simple lives are thrown into turmoil when it is revealed that Peter (Gary Turner) is on the run. But who from and why?

Turner, best known as Carlos Diaz in Emmerdale, is excellent as Peter, full of barely concealed anxiety and burning on a short fuse, while Lara Lemon impresses as Suzy trying to work out what is troubling the man in her life.

But the real scene-stealer is Brian Capron (Richard Hillman from Coronation Street) as strange police inspector Ross who comes calling with alarming consequences.  Corinne Wicks – another familiar Emmerdale  face – plays a pushy murder squad superintendent and Andrew Fettes is a simple minded German vagrant with a gun and a head full of confused memories.

Eventually the tissue of lies, subterfuge and betrayal at the core of this story is revealed and so too is the savagery of the coming Nazi regime.

This production of Strictly Murder, directed by Samuel Clemens (Brian’s son) has a plot that never flags but I do take issues with the publicity that describes it as ‘fast-paced’. It is actually a bit of a slow-burner which is one of reasons it’s so enjoyable.

*Strictly Murder completes its run at Lighthouse with performances today (Thursday 16th March)  at 2.30pm and 7.45pm

Revisiting the punk revolution 40 years on

 

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Sex Pistols Oxford Street Glitterbest photosession – 1977 Photo: ©Adrian Boot

40 Years of Punk: Photographs by Adrian Boot 

 Proud Camden until 8th January 2017 

 

I have to confess that my memory of the events of 40 years ago is hazy but I can tell you with absolute certainty that something strange and wonderful happened. During the months that saw 1976 turn into 1977 punk rock arrived.

I was a 25-year-old writer and sometime music journalist and the effect seemed almost instant. My hair shortened, my trousers narrowed and my mind broadened. I was suddenly covering bands that were full of anger and energy and driven by a wonderfully unrefined commitment to change.

Beyond the superficialities demanded by newspaper and magazine editors – the safety pins, the spit, the bondage trousers, the green hair (all of which I was dispatched to write stories about at one point or another) – there was something unrelentingly real happening

Punk swept the complacency out of a bloated, self-satisfied music business. It blasted the clubs and airwaves with a refreshing new attitude and scared the living daylights out middle England. It challenged, head-on, a society in the grip of social tensions and rising unemployment. Punk was seriously exciting and very badly needed.

Among those on the front line to record the cultural revolution that kicked  music back to life was photographer Adrian Boot. His remarkable work documenting the rise of punk culture is on show at Proud Camden until 8th January.

His exhibition 40 Years of Punk celebrates the legacy and continuing influence of the movement that challenged the establishment and changed music forever. Boot captured many intimate moments during the rise of punk culture. His photographs show the influence on fashion, the defiant stance that fuelled a thousand tabloid headlines and the ragged-arsed arrogance that burned with creativity.

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Ian Dury and various Blockheads, 1979.  Photo: ©Adrian Boot

This exhibition offers a history lesson too. It’s worth remembering that punk initially emerged from the US as a by product of the ‘60s counterculture. By the early to mid 70s radical New York clubs like CBGB and Max’s Kansas City were staging gigs by bands like The Ramones, Blondie and the Patti Smith Group. Back home  British music fans  were reading about them in the NME and Melody Maker. It was only a matter of time before the New York scene came visiting. London was more than ready with bands like The Damned, The Sex Pistols and The Clash already beginning to ignite the imagination of a disenchanted youth. Others were waiting in the wings. Pub rockers like Kilburn and the High Roads straining at the leash to be reborn as Ian Dury and The Blockheads. Adrian Boot was on hand to capture it all.

Of course it was the Pistols who, through a chapter of accidents and some astute marketing by their manager and mentor Malcolm McLaren, managed to get themselves elevated to the position of public enemy number one. The jaundiced, shit-stirring eyes of the media had found the perfect target. All the outrage – the filth and the fury – could be focused on this one band. The Sex Pistols went through hell. They were mangled by the press, censored by the BBC, banned by local councils, attacked in the streets and hounded by the police. Strangely this unrelenting hostility was, briefly, the making of them. It gave  publicity that could not have been bought and chimed with an England that, though it may have been ‘dreaming’ was always a sucker for an underdog. It also provided handy cover for their brothers and sisters in struggle.

By the time the mainstream press started growing weary of tormenting them there were new punk bands appearing daily. They were in the charts, on radio and TV, touring the country and striking attitudes in magazines. Once it had gone mainstream the punk revolution was essentially over but its influence would be far reaching. It is perhaps only now, decades later and with the benefit of hindsight, that we can sift the reality from the nonesense and see what an important job punk-rock did. Most of the creative giants who were around in the 197os can dig out a fading snapshot displaying the punk pretensions of their youth.

Looking at Adrian Boot’s photographs you realise that they capture a very special moment in time. There’s some pleasing symmetry in this particular slice of cultural history too.  Among the images are some great shots of The Clash taken in 1977 at their infamous Rehearsal Rehearsals studio at Stables Market in Camden. Guess what? Those photographs have come home. For Stables Market is now home to Proud Camden – the very gallery showing these pictures that we’re born from light on emulsion in this exact location four decades ago.

This excellent exhibition of Adrian Boot’s photographs provides many a clue as to how and why punk had to happen. It captures the ethos and raw spirit of the punk heyday and the momentous cultural shift that it inspired.

40 Years of Punk:  Photographs by Adrian Boot  

Runs at Proud Camden until  8th January 2017.

More info at http://www.proud.co.uk

 

We have colour TV and we’ve been to the Moon but some things just never change

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Ralph McTell: Lighthouse, Poole.

Celebrating 50 years on the road, acoustic folk giant Ralph McTell was in understandably nostalgic mood for this wonderful concert. For a start he was returning to Poole where he spent the freezing winter of 1962-63 living in a beatnik crash pad in a fish-crate store over a bookies shop in the High Street. There have been a few changes since then. “There’s so much more traffic,” he murmured in wonderment. “We’ve got colour television… We’ve been to the moon!”

McTell has written a few songs too. Not least his greatest hit Streets of London which he slipped in as the penultimate number, with the audience singing along, in a set that had taken us on a remarkable journey through his life and career. He said he would have saved it for the very end of the show, done a medley of his big hits but, he observed wryly, “You need more than one to do that.”

It’s true that he’s never been much of a commercial prospect but Ralph McTell is a profoundly skilled songwriter and compelling storyteller. Equipped with a deep velvety voice and a guitar style that is without equal, he delivers songs that are often, though certainly not always, deeply autobiographical.And while the music business may tend too let him do his own thing, I think he’d agree that he hasn’t done too badly.

His opening numbers at Poole Walk Into The Morning and Nanna’s Song evoked memories of life as a young busker in Paris while Barges recalled days of innocent wonder and childhood games. There were observational songs too like Peppers and Tomatoes which he penned in response to the appalling ethnic cleansing as neighbour turned against neighbour in the former Yugoslavia. First and Last Man was inspired by a poster of a Native American Indian on the wall of his flat and Reverend Thunder told the story of blues legend, Rev Gary Davis, who even though he was blind, carried a gun to deter thieves.

Other prime influences on McTell included Woody Guthrie, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott and of course Bob Dylan. We were treated to the result of their distant tutelage and a few spin-offs too. A little bluesy ragtime here, a blast of Dylanesque harmonica there. It was joy. McTell insists that as both a songwriter and musician he’s still learning. At the age of 71 he sounds at the top of his game to me though one or two of the high notes he would have routinely included a few years back are now something of a challenge to his vocal abilities. It’s not a problem. His mastery of stagecraft and songmanship is a more than adequate compensatory factor.

He encored with West 4th and Jones, a song inspired by the cover of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, an album he recalled first seeing (and hearing)  when he was living in Poole, penniless but full of optimism for the future. McTell is of course right. There really have been a huge number of changes in the past five decades. Who’da thought back then that radical young vagabond folkie Dylan would go on to become a Nobel Laureate? We all know how well deserved that award was and Ralph McTell made a point of publicly adding his congratulations from the  Lighthouse stage. But back in 1963 such a notion really would have been unthinkable.

The decision to award Dylan’s the Nobel Prize for literature is proof positive that the times they are a changin’ Sadly one thing that has not changed in the past half century is our lack of compassion for the plight of many of the homeless, poor and mentally ill.  The pen-portraits that Ralph McTell used to describe the desperate, lonely and vulnerable in Streets of London are as pertinent now as they were on the day that he wrote the song.

Jeremy Miles

Footnote: I have long admired Ralph McTell. His 1974 album You Well Meaning Brought Me Here was the first I ever reviewed professionally. That was a turning point for me, discovering that people would give you free records and then you could get paid for writing about them. A dream come true at the time. Our paths have crossed a number of times since. I’ve interviewed him, chatted with him, seen many concerts and always admired his honesty and musical integrity. He’s one of the good guys.

Discovering the hidden secrets of a town that didn’t even exist until 200 years ago

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Hotter staff and bloggers with Hattie (third right). Can you guess which one’s me?

Where can you find the grave of Frankenstein author Mary Shelley and the charred remains of the heart of her husband, the romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley?  What about the birthplace of the man who wrote the music for the nation’s favourite hymn Jerusalem?

The answer is Bournemouth which may sound surprising but these are just two ‘hidden secrets’ from a town that most people regard as little more than a popular seaside resort. Appearances, and reputations, can be deceptive though. For a place that didn’t even exist until 200 years ago Bournemouth is home to an astonishing number of fascinating historical facts.

To prove the point photographer, social historian and walking guide Hattie Miles (who also happens to be my wife) has teamed up with Hotter Shoes to present a self-guided walk that reveals the town’s often hidden histories. Starting from the Hotter shop in Old Christchurch Road, the walk covers just a small area of the centre of town, takes around an hour but is extraordinarily rich in amazing stories from the recent and distant past._mg_5471

This week I joined a select group of bloggers to road-test the walk with Hattie reading from the script that normally provides the phone or tablet text for self-guided walkers. It was a real eye-opener shining a light on the history and heritage of this popular tourist destination.

The fact is  that Bournemouth probably wouldn’t even have existed had it not been for a romantic gesture by well-to-do army captain Lewis Tregonwell. He built the town’s first house in 1812  because his wife, grieving over the death of their child, loved the location by the sea.

Until then Bournemouth had been an area of largely untamed heathland on the road between the ancient borough’s of Christchurch and Poole. Tregonwell saw its potential and bought 8.5 acres of land in what is now the centre of town. He paid the princely sum of £179.11 shillings. Initially development was slow but the arrival of the railway and Bournemouth’s growing reputation as a health spa soon led to rapid expansion.

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Look up and there examples of changing times everywhere

Look above the shops to upper storey level and the evidence of past times and passing events from war-time bombings to multiple changes of use are plain to see. We found the smallest shop in town occupied by a man who has effectively run a thriving business from a cupboard under the stairs for the past 40 years. We discovered a stained glass window in the back of a clothes shop and the hidden mansion built as a home for the original Mr W.H.Smith. There was also a poignant moment for me as we took in the full art-deco grandeur of the purpose-built 1930s newspaper headquarters of the Bournemouth Echo. I worked there for more than 20 years and have many happy memories of news stories, features, good friends and great characters. It looks a little careworn these days but is still the paper’s headquarters. In its hey-day the building teemed with people – reporters, photographers, sub-editors, printers, plate-makers, advertising staff. Forty years ago its editorial staff included ITN’s Mark Austin, TV and radio presenter Anne Diamond and a young American sub-editor called Bill Bryson whose breakthrough book Notes From A Small Island would contain quite a lengthy description of life in Bournemouth and his memories of the Echo.  Times change and the newspaper office is a lot quieter now but the history remains.

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The Bournemouth Echo’s classic 1930s art-deco offices

Hattie knows her stuff. For 24 years she also worked on the Echo as a photographer. It’s the kind of job that gives you a front-seat view of historic changes as they happen. She’s put her knowledge to good use and for the past two years has run the town’s popular guided ‘walkingtalks’ tours. The Hotter shoes connection started a long time ago when she began wearing them for her photographic work. Comfortable and practical footwear is an essential part of the photographers kit, particularly when the job often requires you to be on your feet all day. Hattie found that Hotter shoes were not only comfortable, but supported her feet well. No surprise then that she still wears them for her guided walks.

We bloggers were also kitted out with Hotter shoes and, I promise this is not merely PR guff, I really liked mine.To be honest I had never considered wearing Hotter shoes before. I suppose I thought they just did slippers and comfy shoes for old folk with corns and bunions. What did I know? Things have moved on apace in recent years. They now not only do comfort but very stylish designs too. My Hotter walking shoes – named, rather alarmingly I felt, Thor, after the hammer-wielding Norse God of thunder and lightning – are light, strong, very comfortable, waterproofed with Gore-Tex and not only feel great but look good too. I can hardly believe I’m saying this. I sound like an advert but it’s absolutely true.

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A stained-glass gem at the back of a  shop

I am reminded of a sketch that the comedian Jasper Carrot used to do 25 odd years ago based on the observation that, on reaching a certain age, the average British bloke would be walking past a branch of Dunn & Co, the long-gone gentlemen’s outfitter that used to specialise in dull, sensible clothing, and find himself thinking: ‘You know what? That beige car-coat is really rather nice.’

Is my new found love of Hotter just a 2016 version of the Dunn & Co car-coat syndrome? I’ve looked very carefully and have worn my Thor shoes a number of times over the past week and I am certain they really are as good as I think.

Curiously our Bournemouth walk took us past the shop that 25 years ago was the Bournemouth branch of Dunn & Co. It’s now a flagship store for High Street cosmetics giant Lush, a company which was started locally by Mark and Mo Constantine.

They still live in nearby Poole, still own the business and have done rather well for themselves. Indeed they were listed  in last year’s  Sunday Times Rich List as the 28th richest husband-and-wife team in Britain, worth £205 million. There you go. Another fascinating fact.

You can find  Hattie’s circular self-guided walk from Hotter shoes in Bournemouth at www.hotter.com/blog/walk-with-hotter-and-discover-bournemouth/

Meanwhile there is plenty more information about her guided walkingtalks at  walkingtalks.wordpress.com

Jim Morrison idolised Jack Kerouac but it seems Kerouac’s mum was not impressed

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Jim Morrison’s grave in Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris in 1982. Photograph: Hattie Miles

Turn the clock back 34 years and you’ll find me standing in front of Jim Morrison’s grave in the Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris. I didn’t need a map to find it. I just followed the graffiti. Arrows with the word ‘Jim’ chalked on trees and monuments marked the way to the final resting place of the American rock star they called The Lizard King.  As I drew close the graffiti became more dominant and the air was filled with the smell of marijuana.

Lyrics from Jim’s most famous songs recorded with The Doors were scrawled without care or consideration on neighbouring graves.  ‘Father. Yes son? I want to kill you’ may not the most appropriate thing to have daubed on the side of your mausoleum but back then it was the price you paid for being the Père Lachaise neighbour of James Douglas Morrison – singer, poet, rock idol, and junky. To the fans this was the Lourdes of rock ’n’ roll.

In September 1982 Morrison had already been dead for 11 long years. There had been number of conspiracy theories and persistent rumours that he was still alive. However subsequent accounts of what happened on the night of his death had established that he almost certainly overdosed on a batch of rogue heroin and died of heart failure in the bath at his Paris apartment.

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Jim Morrison

Inevitably there remained a vocal minority who harboured doubts. The fact there had been a hastily issued death certificate, no autopsy and a very quick funeral had been more than enough to fuel hopes that Morrison was alive and in hiding. Which is why among the rag-taggle of Doors fans, hippies and latter-day Beats holding vigil at his graveside that late summer afternoon  there were a small group insistent that Jim had faked his own death to escape from the public eye. There was even a rumour going around that he was working incognito in a Los Angeles bank – an utterly bizarre suggestion.

The Morrison grave – which in those days featured a carved stone bust of the singer – was laden with flowers, messages of undying love, candles, incense and small tokens of devotion – a pebble, a shell, a packet of cigarettes. I noticed one man – older than the rest, maybe in his fifties – wearing a frayed sports jacket, scuffed baseball boots and beaten up jeans sitting, apparently meditating, at the side of the grave. A half-empty bottle of red wine leaned against his leg. A dog-eared copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road lay on his lap. To be honest he looked beat in every sense of the word. He exuded an air of grimy despair and exhaustion but though his eyes were tight shut there was look of unshakeable determination on his weather-beaten face.

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My 1972 edition of On The Road

It was a poignant sight – a traveller in life intent on showing respect to a kindred spirit from a younger generation. A traveller whose ideals were being dismissed and trashed by a thrusting and merciless new world, making one last attempt to find satori in Paris. I guess he knew he was on a hiding to nowhere in a society where money was worshipped beyond poetry, beyond jazz beyond friendship and love. The only ‘Howl’ to be heard in 1982 was that of the wolves gathering across the Atlantic in Wall Street. Even in Paris – city of art, city of love and so vital to the history of the Beat generation – corporate greed was endemic.

I’ve visited Père Lachaise on many occasions since that encounter and as well as visiting the graves of Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Proust, Piaf, Molière, Balzac and many more, I always drop in on Jim. The bust, made by Croatian sculptor Mladen Mikulin, is long gone. It was stolen by trophy hunters in May 1988. Whisked away on the back of a motorbike. In its place is a flat stone with a  bronze plaque bearing the Greek inscription: ΚΑΤΑ ΤΟΝ ΔΑΙΜΟΝΑ ΕΑΥΤΟΥ meaning ‘Follow your own daemon – true to your own spirit.’ Then spelling of the word daemon is important for in classical mythology a daemon is a good spirit unlike the modern demon which is invariably malevolent.

Sadly when I last visited a couple weeks ago the site was grubby, unkempt and strewn with rubble and bits of litter. It was clear that though flowers, candles, ribbons and messages still arrive almost daily most of the graffiti has gone and so has the marijuana. The cemetery authorities and the local gendarmerie have clamped down on the more excessive displays of affection and solidarity by hardcore fans. You can no longer find Jim by simply following your nose.

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The Doors with Jim Morrison (right) in a publicity shot c.1967

It’s not surprising perhaps as things really started to get out of hand with the release of Oliver Stone’s 1991 film The Doors which generated a mass of new fans just in time for the 20th anniversary of Morrison’s death on 3rd July 1991. Thousands of them headed for Père Lachaise to pay homage. Many were drunk and stoned and the authorities responded by closing the cemetery.

The wild party continued outside its walls and eventually the drunken crowd tried to smash its way through the gates. There’s a blog somewhere on the web in which Doors aficionado Michelle Chapman describes the near riot that ensued as the mob sang ‘break on through’ and ‘light my fire’ as they tried to crash and literally burn their way into the cemetery. The police responded with tear-gas as a stolen car was driven into the gates.

Jim – 20 years dead – was for a while considered an extremely bad posthumous influence. Anyone visiting his grave in the 90s did so under the watchful eye of regular police patrols. Morrison mania gradually died down and over the years the devotees have become noticeably less radical. Most are simply curious tourists. Many are in late middle-age which makes something of mockery of the three-foot high makeshift security barrier that keeps them from the actual shrine and bears a notice saying ‘Do Not Jump Over The Fence’. The people I saw a couple of weeks ago couldn’t have jumped the fence if you paid them. Half of them couldn’t even have climbed over it.

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Jeremy Miles at the Beat generation exhibition in Paris last month. Photograph: Hattie Miles

Although I am glad that the thoughtless desecration of neighbouring graves has been halted I am sad that Morrison’s memorial has been allowed to deteriorate to such an extent. Of course just 45 years after his death there are still plenty of people alive who remember what an awkward, drunken, pain in the arse he could be. His behaviour was no worse however than many of the other creative talents who lie revered in Père Lachaise. Certainly no worse than many leading members of the Beat generation currently being celebrated in a major exhibition at the Pompidou Centre less than three miles from Morrison’s grave.

I went to check out this show and, should you be in Paris, I urge you to visit before it ends on 3rd October.  As you would expect there is lots of Ginsberg, Burroughs, Kerouac, Cassidy and Corso. Robert Frank’s Pull My Daisy is just one movie running on a big screen and amid a magnificent mish-mash of Beat memorabilia and ephemera. Check out Jack’s old clothes, a Burroughs adding machine, old tapes, recorders and even telephones on which you can Dial-a-Poem. The act of passing the mantle to the next generation is represented by a huge video loop of a young Bob Dylan giving it his all with the famous  Subterranean Homesick Blues clip from DA Pennebaker’s Don’t Look Back. To the side of the screen a sage-like Allen Ginsberg is in conversation with Dylan’s friend, confidante and sometime road manager Bob Neuwirth. It was shot in an alley by the side of London’s Savoy Hotel – a rather un-Beat location.

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A young Jack Kerouac

There are memories too from Mexico, Tangier, California, New York and of course Paris and the Beat Hotel – the dirt-cheap boarding house on the Left Bank favoured by beat writers and artists which for six years, between 1957 and 1963, served as the ‘office’ from which many of their most enduring works were composed.

The Beat Hotel was at 9 Rue Gît-le-Cœur and never really a hotel at all but a a flop-house housing a spectacularly talented group of occasional residents and an indulgent concierge – Madame Rachou – who cheerily tolerated the bohemian ways of her charges. Ironically today, more than 50 years after Madame R shut up shop, the building really is a hotel – a boringly snotty boutique establishment whose only nod to its former existence is a small perspex covered notice listing some of the more prominent residents: Brion Gysin, Harold Norse, Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky, Ian Sommerville and William Burroughs.

In the Beat Generation exhibition Brion Gysin’s room – No. 25 – has been reconstructed. It was here that Gysin conducted experiments with his ‘Dreamachine’ – a supposed means to hallucination and enlightenment that he fashioned out of cardboard, a single 100 watt lightbulb and the motor from a record deck. A kind of bizarre hybrid drawing on the old What The Butler Saw machines and the kaleidoscope, it nonetheless fired the beats psychotropically fuelled imaginations.  It was also here that Gysin and Burroughs probed the literary potential of the cut-up technique.

On the face of it Room 25 looks a bit of dump but it was the Parisian mixing-pot for so much of the chaotic, haphazard and crazy artistic anarchy that emerged, promising a world full of hitherto undreamt of possibilities. A world that for the Americans in particular (Gysin was Anglo-Canadian and Sommerville was English) could help overcome the suffocating atmosphere of God (and commie) fearing puritanism that was so stifling at home.

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Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg

Indeed the exhibition helps pull into some kind of focus the full-blown post-war reaction of the Beats to the buttoned-up paranoia of McCarthy era America. Just as the dadaists and surrealists before them had reacted to the horrors of the First World War with a wild wave of creativity, the artists of the Beat generation searched for a new spirit of freedom in the 1950s and early 60s with literature, poetry, painting, film, photography and jazz.

Liberated by daring experimentation and fuelled by large quantities of booze and drugs, the Beats scandalised straight society and relished behaving badly. To the present day observer their attitudes can seem alarmingly misogynistic but viewed in context it can be seen that they were breaking free from an era with very different values to our own. Beyond their loutish, drunken escapades serious artistic inroads were being made.

The radical nature of what they were doing, particularly in their belief ( like the surrealists before them) that a kind of artistic purity and truth could be accessed through dreams and stream of consciousness thoughts, is laid bare in the Beat Generation show, perhaps epitomised by Kerouac’s 120 foot long On The Road type-scroll which is laid out across the full length of the exhibition hall. Written in 195, and not to find fully published form for another seven years, it was the result of a new working method that saw Kerouac using the steady rhythm of his fingers on the typewriter keys punctuated by  the carriage return to type in a near trance. It was he said  “an ecstatic experience”.  The exhibition notes quote him as saying: “I wrote it in one go, letting the subconscious express itself in its own way…hardly knowing what I was doing except that I was writing.”

Of course it’s well know that Jim Morrison idolised Kerouac and when he wrote: “I see myself as a huge fiery comet, a shooting star. Everyone stops, points up and gasps ‘Oh look at that!’ Then – whoosh, and I’m gone…and they’ll never see anything like it ever again… and they won’t be able to forget me – ever.” he was surely channeling the spirit of his unwitting mentor.

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Neal Cassady (right) with Jack Kerouac in 1952.

It clearly drew on Kerouac’s much quoted statement from On the Road: “…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centre light pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’”

As a teenager Morrison devoured the Beat writings of Jack Kerouac and would quote lengthy passages from On the Road. It seems however that whe  they eventually met Morrison was probably badly disillusioned. In his book Subterranean Kerouac, writer and editor Ellis Auburn relates a brief, sad tale of the long haired, leather-clad rock star travelling to Lowell, Massachusetts, in  1968  to seek out his literary hero. He would find the great Jack Kerouac, a broken alcoholic, living with his mother – a formidable woman  who made it abundantly clear that she had no time for damned hippies. She wouldn’t even let Morrison through the door “without a hairnet”. Kerouac himself was by this time a boorish, bloated drunk. He had become increasingly right wing and reactionary in his views and had alienated many of his friends. But then he had never been quite what he appeared. All that high-spirited travelling in On the Road was based on a couple of journeys in the passenger seat of his friend Neal Cassady’s car and various rides on the Greyhound bus network. Cassady – immortalised as the wild and free Dean Moriarty in On the Road – would later go on to drive the famous hippy bus for Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters. Neal was always more adventurous, volatile and dangerous than Jack.  The truth is that Kerouac never really managed live the life that he wrote about. He didn’t even acquire a driving licence until he was in his mid thirties.

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Jack Kerouac’s grave in Lowell, Massachusetts

Jack Kerouac would die from a massive haemorrhage caused by cirrhosis of the liver just a year after his strange encounter with Morrison. He was rushed to hospital throwing up blood but, despite a 30 pint transfusion, could not be saved. It’s ironic perhaps that the Beats were apt to quote William Blake’s mantra: “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom” They tended to forget the second part of the quote – “You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough.” Kerouac found out the hard way. Morrison too had already travelled far on the road to self-destruction when he sought out his doomed idol. One wonders if Kerouac’s tragic death at the age of 47 had rung any warning bells for Jim or if he just wanted to follow those ‘daemons’ and zoom into the afterlife like a fiery comet?

*The Beat Generation exhibition is at Centre Pompidou in Paris, until 3 October. For more information go to www.centrepompidou.fr  Père Lachaise cemetery is open seven days a week and can be  easily accessed from either the Père Llachaise or Gabetta Metro stations. More information at www.pere-lachaise.com

Superlungs: gig of a lifetime runs out of puff

Terry Reid.jpgTerry Reid, The Tivoli Theatre, Wimborne.

Terry Reid has never been lucky. He was first choice as vocalist for Led Zeppelin but, busy on tour, helpfully suggested they might like to check out a chap called Robert Plant instead. Extraordinarily the same thing happened when they wanted him to front Deep Purple. Reid was out on the road and it was Ian Gillan who got the call.

Hard gigging didn’t pay dividends either.  He toured with the Rolling Stones, became a hero of the underground music scene, was a star turn in Nic Roeg’s 1971 film documentary Glastonbury Fayre. None of it made any impact on mainstream music sensibilities. Reid moved to America and worked with the elite of Laurel Canyon. Yet, after 50 years in the music business he remains unknown to all but the cognoscenti.

As for the Tivoli gig? Well as I said Terry Reid has never been lucky. He bumbled onto the stage saying he was realising a lifetime’s ambition playing  this small but highly regarded theatre deep in the Dorset countryside. Sadly the show was a shambles. Reid used to be known as ‘Superlungs’ yet his voice – once his greatest asset – was shot through. Some kind of throat infection appeared to be the main culprit, though the medicinal whisky he was sipping on stage may have not have helped. “One lung or two?” yelled someone unhelpfully from the front row as he wheezed his way around the high notes that were once his trademark

Maybe this gig was a one-off disaster precipitated by illness.  He told us at length that he was only able to perform thanks to the ministrations of a private doctor. However a little more focus would have undoubtedly helped. When Reid was in his 20s he would appear on stage in a cloud of marijuana smoke and deliver a set that was achingly cool, hardwired to the hippy zeitgeist. At 66-years-of-age and straight from the ENT clinic, his ‘untogether’ schtick doesn’t quite convey the same message. The material remains very good, at times exceptional, but its delivery was disastrous.

Classics like Without ExpressionThe Frame, To Be Treated Rite and Seed of Memory are great songs and Reid is still capable of finding that special groove. At his best he remains hypnotically compelling but, taken as a whole, this concert offered no more than glimpses of his past genius.

He rambled amiably between songs without appearing to have any notion of his own shortcomings. We heard about living in the desert, his brief teenage foray into car theft  to get to Soho and the R&B Mecca that was the Marquee Club.  We even heard about his daughter’s forthcoming wedding at which, tellingly I felt, he’s been begged not to play. Several stories petered out without reaching any kind of conclusion. What happened with Nick Lowe at the Palladium? I need to know!  And, while we’re on the subject, what was that other thing he was going to tell us about Zak Starkey?

Reid chuntered on regardless, occasionally forgetting which guitar he was  going to use or which song was coming next though he did sort of mention the reason for the show – a new CD featuring out-takes and forgotten gems from his 1973 River sessions.

His accompanists, highly respected producer/musician Jennifer Maidman on bass and one time Level 42 founder Phil Gough on drums, looked bemused and occasionally mildly concerned but worked hard to hold things together as the wayward singer-songwriter meandered his way haphazardly through the show.

Reid returned for a solo encore – an excruciating rendition of Lady of the Island but not before telling us how he’d assisted at the very birth of the song, spending months co-writing with his friend Graham Nash. Guess what? The published version, featured on Crosby, Stills and Nash’s eponymously titled 1969 debut album, bears just one songwriting credit – Graham Nash. That’s the thing about Terry Reid. He’s never been lucky.

Jeremy Miles

Barry and the curse of the Pier Theatre

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By Jeremy Miles

I was saddened by the recent death of Barry Howard. I will remember him as a lovely man with a sparkle in his eye, a waspish wit and a talent that belied the glib ‘Hi-de-Hi actor’ label that accompanied almost all of his obituaries.

Not, I hasten to add, that there is anything wrong with being associated with the classic David Croft/Jimmy Perry sit-com. It’s just that Barry’s career encompassed a whole lot more than the character of Maplins Holiday Camp’s resident washed-up ballroom dancer Barry Stuart-Hargreaves. Though he was extremely grateful to have played the role of the supercilious dance instructor through seven series of a prime time TV show, he felt a little trapped by it in later years.

As he was laid to rest at a private funeral yesterday I reflected on this gentle, proud man who never really came to terms with the fact that he was loved and admired by so many. He often found life a bit of a battle and believed Hi-de-Hi had limited the roles he was offered, telling one journalist that he found it frustrating and rather boring to always be asked to play “similar limp-wristed, rather fey ‘is he or isn’t he?’ characters.”

Barry was 78-years-old when he died and had been suffering from cancer but until very recently he remained passionate about acting. For though the need to pay the bills meant that for many years summer seasons and pantomime – often as an Ugly Sister alongside the late John Inman – was his main source of regular work, Barry was first and foremost an actor who loved a new challenge.

A few years ago when I was a full-time entertainments writer I used to meet Barry for a coffee in the Bournemouth Pier cafe. Even when he wasn’t appearing at the adjacent theatre it was an almost daily destination for him – a good stopping off point after taking a morning stroll along the front from his nearby home in Branksome Park.

He was a great character: Good company a fount of showbiz knowledge and invariably ready with an eye-catching quote. Back in the days when newspapers were still fun, one of the joys of being the arts and entertainments editor on a major regional daily by the seaside was the licence it gave to hob-nob with the old-stagers and hear their stories about the glory days of variety and music hall.

I have memories of so many wonderful moments with Max Bygraves, the Beverley Sisters, Eric Sykes, Spike Milligan, Les Dawson, Cannon and Ball, Little and Large, Freddie Starr, Ken Dodd, Roy Hudd… the list goes on. To be honest these were people who would never have appeared on my radar had I been doing any other job. My principle interests were (and still are) the visual arts, serious drama and the kind of music played by Bob Dylan, Van Morrison and John Lee Hooker.

I suppose I was a bit of a snob and no one was more surprised than me when I found myself enjoying a good natter with a Beverley Sister or Max Bygraves. These people had been around. They were a walking lesson in show business history. I valued the time I spent with them. I have surreal snapshot memories which still make me smile. Danny La Rue asking me to look after his pet dog while he nipped to the loo with the immortal words: “Hold my Chinese Hairless, there’s a love.” Hanging on Max’s every word as he talked of his time in the USA in the 1950s working with Garland, partying with Sinatra and dining with Groucho Marx. Chatting with Britt Ekland as she spilled the beans about Peter Sellers and Rod Stewart. Sitting in a giant fairground teacup to interview Barry’s longtime panto ‘sister’ John Inman.

For many of these people there was a direct connection to an era when variety shows were huge. When summer season meant three months of packed houses.  The gradual decline of interest in traditional seaside entertainment shocked them. By the turn of the millennium it was clear that the Pier Theatre needed a change of direction. Barry Howard was a member of the cast of an ill-fated production of the farce No Sex Please We’re British. Once a classic end-of-the-pier romp, it died a death.  The show played to such poor houses that it was axed midway through its summer run. Barry was horrified.

It was one of a chapter of disasters for the theatre. In 2002 actor Gareth Hunt had to be rushed to hospital when he collapsed on the Pier Theatre stage after suffering a heart attack during a performance of the Alan Ayckbourn’s Absurd Person Singular. I was in the audience. What had originally been intended as a 250 word review was suddenly a front page story. As the stricken Hunt slumped groaning across a table and the curtain came down fellow cast member Robert Beck called desperately from the footlights “Is there a doctor in the house?” Sensing confusion in the audience, he added urgently: “I’m being VERY serious.”

Two years later Hunt – who would eventually die in 2007 from pancreatic cancer – was back at the ill-fated theatre in the Francis Durbridge thriller The Gentle Hook. He told me that getting back on the Pier stage had been a nerve-racking experience. “If it was any other theatre it wouldn’t be so bad but because it’s the same place… It’s like being on the top board and making a dive when your last one was a belly flop.”

He admitted that after his illness he had considered giving up the theatre completely. ”For a while I thought ‘that’s it.’ But you have to face the challenge.” More misfortune followed when Barry Howard’s old Hi-de-Hi co-star Ruth Madoc was taken ill days before the opening of a production of Sailor Beware.

Barry pondered on the grim situation and reached a conclusion guaranteed to make headlines: “It’s the curse of the Pier Theatre,” he pronounced gravely. He was only half joking. He had memories of the theatre going back to the early 1960s. His very first appearance was during a season marred by the comedian Freddie Frinton suffering a heart attack. He was also working at the Pier when comedy actor Richard Hearne aka Mr Pastry was rushed to hospital after being stricken by a vascular spasm. How Barry enjoyed emphasising those two words. His comic timing was impeccable!

There were others too who died alarmingly soon after appearing there, including Terry Scott, Les Dawson and Marti Caine. But the most deadly threat to the theatre in recent years was one that many people never even knew about. In August 1993 Bournemouth Pier was targeted in an IRA campaign and a huge bomb was strapped onto girders directly beneath the venue. The explosives would have been enough to destroy the theatre which was packed with 800 people watching Les Dennis, Su Pollard, Lionel Blair and Vicki Michelle appearing in a summer season production of Don’t Dress For Dinner. By sheer chance the detonator came loose and the device was safely defused by bomb disposal experts.

Some years later I reminded Les Dennis of the occasion. Astonishingly he said he’d forgotten all about it. I bet Barry Howard hadn’t.

Footnote: Sadly the Bournemouth Pier Theatre is no more. A couple years ago it was closed down and turned into the Rock Reef climbing wall and adventure activity centre. It’s a terrible shame. Curse or no curse we loved that theatre. It always drove some people up the wall but now that particular practise has become the essence of its continued existence. Of course when it was a theatre the powers that be bemoaned the fact that audiences could not be tempted along the pier in bad weather. Guess what? Potential wall climbers don’t much fancy turning out in the cold and wet either.

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