A Yorkshireman of a certain age who likes most genres of music and most makes of old car. Travel is a joy, not least to escape the British winter. Travel by bicycle is bliss and if I’m not lost in music then I’m lost in a daydream about a hot day, tens of miles to cover and the promise of a great campsite and a beer. I like to think I’m always learning and becoming wiser. However, on the latter point evidence is in short supply.
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Ted Russell Kamp’s latest release is a joy. This was recorded mainly in his ‘Den’ in LA. The album set off to have a soul feel; in general it’s mission accomplished if you grant him a licence for adding a heavenly slug of rock. To lift the vernacular of the accompanying PR, his day job is “holding down the bottom end for bands as diverse as Shooter Jennings, Jessi Colter, Whitey Morgan, and others”. However, it’s clear he’s a lot more talented than a bass player for hire; this is his 12th solo release. Throughout the songs are interesting, varied and provide a platform for his virtuosity: bass, acoustic guitar, dobro, keys, trombone, trumpet and banjo.
The arrangements and voice have a soulful sway with a rhythm that’ll move your feet. He’s invited friends to share duets including Shooter Jennings on the opener “Home Sweet Hollywood” and Kirsten Profitt on “Take My Song With You”. John Schreffler’s electric guitar lights up many of the tracks. “Word For Word” and “Saint Severin” are memorable for some fluid solos. “Waste A Little Time” heads further south than Tennessee with a Shinyribs’ vibe. A honky tonk piano and horns ignite this nicely; even the words display a certain NOLA insouciance. “Hobo Nickel” stays in Louisiana with some delightful Dixieland trumpet and trombone from Dave Richards.
The full band tracks are top class but when stripped down his ear for a tune and arrangement are outstanding – “Rainy Day Valentine” is a voice over bass melody that Lowell George would have been glad to call his own. “Only Son” is a gentle ballad and starts with Kamp accompanied by his acoustic guitar before the band joins in and the melody is driven by Dan Wistrom’s pedal steel.
This is a very consistent 14-track release engaging throughout and exuding craft and melody. The only negative is that he’s having far too much fun: maybe he’s the antidote to 2020?
If you’ve been making music for as long as septuagenarian Marshall Chapman has, you have earned the right to pick someone else’s songs and make them you own. The South Carolinian released her first album in 1977 and is respected in her own right as a songwriter. Here she visits classics by Leonard Cohen, Bob Seger, Carole King, Elvis Presley and others. On the first listen Betty LaVette came to mind: a careworn voice that is perfectly matched to the selection. It’s redolent with all life’s experience, carrying authority and never to be hurried. Both these ladies bless each cover with a new interpretation and poignancy that makes them convulse with gravitas that simply arrests you.
Neilson Hubbard’s production is terrific. He understands her talents and the essence of each cover to pitch it perfectly. Her voice is set atop a sparse and atmospheric acoustic sound with Will Kimbrough adding deft but important flourishes on electric guitar. She starts with Leonard Cohen’s “Tower Of Song”, only a person of a certain age can sing “Well, my friends are gone and my hair is grey / I ache in the places where I used to play”. Bobby Charles’ masterpiece “Tennessee Blues” is faithfully reproduced, which didn’t need any adaptation; it fits her like a glove. Given her Southern heritage and laid back groove any JJ Cale song would fit, and she picks “After Midnight”.
Arguably the least promising songs deliver the most pleasure – “Don’t Be Cruel” swings. Dan Mitchells’ honky-tonk piano bolted to Hubbard’s snare brushes is uplifting and managed to purge The King’s version from my mind after a few listens. “He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands” reminds me of my youth and maybe the odd campfire and tambourine as it does Chapman who recounts her love of the song starting when she was 8 years old. This last song includes a spoken passage that is homely and delightful over a gospel backing. A fabulous exit from a fabulous album. After only nine tracks may we have volume two, please.
As industries get back to work after the Covid-19 lockdown Moores find themselves on Yorkshire’s local BBC news programme – ‘Look North’. Through my pension trustee responsibilities I know Steve Parkin (and I knew Doug Gough when he used to be in short trousers!) Absolutely terrific to see them back in the public eye after all the lean years.
I suppose apart from the mundane there hasn’t been a great deal to write up due to the restrictions of lockdown. (Yes, that hasn’t been a barrier to posting a blog in the past).
Like most homeowners stuck at home our garden has never looked as good. I was unable to avoid that long and tedious job of repairing the pointing on the paving around the house. That was a restoration job but we also were removing things and had four trees cut down on the property boundary. The initial quote came in at £1,600. After a bit of shoe gazing the tree surgeon said £1,400. We said we’d think about it and promised to ring him. Funnily enough at this point it became £1,200. It’s not a great feeling to ever take down trees but they were forming some form of hazard to the neighbours and always needed expensive maintenance.
A beautiful walk with the present Mrs Ives amongst the rhododendrons
As a Yorkshireman I can find spending money a painful initiative. Nevertheless the coffers have recently been depleted by paying the daughters’ student loans paid off and I bought a new bike. It was my first new bike in eight years. Given my annual cycling mileage of between 4,000 and 6,000 miles this means my other bikes regularly get rebuilt. I’m now quietly thrilled at owning a Cannondale Synapse Disc with Di2. Which brings me onto cycling. After the rude interruption to my trip up Australia I have continued to ride around our beautiful county. One of the changes has been getting used to the new cyclists who clutter the roads around us.
These are the folks who have discovered two wheels as part of their daily exercise regime. There is good and bad with this. The good is that they don’t realise that as regular cyclists that cheery waves and greetings are completely verboten. A steely forward stare is the approach of most Yorkshire lycra clad cyclists as they fret over losing a few seconds by turning to wave. If that’s the nice bit then the absence of helmets still freaks me out: the first part of the body to hit the tarmac will be their head when they come off. Also I’m appalled at some of the major roads that parents lure their small offspring onto. Children shouldn’t be dealing with trucks and speeding cars.
God rode a bicycle
Pilates still forms part of the weekly schedule. The present Mrs Ives would do it every morning. I can generate enthusiasm for a couple of days. This in turn has led to other core strength demonstration challenges e.g. can you get over the stiles, we encounter on a walk, without needing to hold onto the rails? As Anna doesn’t read my blogs I can admit she’s better at this than me and I’m nursing an injury where I hit the stile so hard with one knee I’m surprised it is still standing.
As regards anything other than leisure I had one morning on Microsoft Teams as a pension trustee. I was shocked at how dressed down all the other attendees were. I maybe didn’t expect suits but the look was casual. It’s probably not surprising that if you let actuaries pick their own wardrobe outside of a suit it is likely to be the kind of stuff Alan Partridge would call ‘smart casual’ circa 1987. I was also hoping they’d be sat in front of an interesting bookcase where you can try and read the spines of the books they have on the shelf behind them – no such luck here.
“Now she’s doing horse, it’s June”
Sadly of late events are focussed around Margaret, my mother-in-law’s passing in May.
She had trouble with a second replacement hip and was scheduled for another operation prior to the hospitals’ prioritising Covid-19. This delay left her surviving on morphine and being unable to sleep in a bed. From the start of the lockdown conversations were held through her care home’s window on the mobile. Assessing how she was coping was difficult during this strange, cold and brief audience. When the local hospital felt they could now entertain some elective surgeries she was top of the list. She was delighted. However, given her advanced years, 89, she had a number of other health challenges that brought a risk with any operation. The surgeon was explicit about this. She knew and accepted this. A successful operation had her up and walking in the hospital but in a matter of 11 days she had a stroke and then pneumonia. These were battles she couldn’t win.
The hateful coronavirus didn’t take her but it did mean that it was March since her three daughters had had proper contact with her. In the end one daughter had an unsatisfactory telephone conversation with her post operation. Then Anna had the opportunity to formally break the lockdown constraints and enter the ward for a last ‘end of life’ visit. Unfortunately Margaret to all intents and purpose had slipped away at this time; she got to hold her hand and talk to her. Heart breaking. No words.
Of course the funeral had restricted Covid-19 attendance rules. I had known Margaret for 35 years but was left outside avoiding the rain and hailstones. (I accept all Covid-19 restrictions, no complaints).
It seems hard not to acknowledge the turbulent world around us in this blog as I write. The USA appears to be on fire and in London rent-a-mob hooligans are wheeling bicycles into Police horses or defacing monuments of national heroes. I certainly long to be packing up a tent and thinking about a day ahead in a foreign country with nothing to worry about other than finding a coffee as soon as possible and hoping the sun shines.
As I researched Grelle’s latest release, the difficulties for artists making a living in these lockdown days became apparent. My searches often uncover interviews with major outlets and acres of copy for me to sort the wheat from the chaff to try and understand the person and their music. Not in this case. I found myself watching Grelle’s Facebook Live Post. You’ll see a bewhiskered bloke sat in a box room in front of various signs. These are links for making payments. In the meanwhile he intersperses songs from his latest excellent release by waving T shirts around at tempting prices. It’s not easy out there.
Despite the penury I can find a positive: it enables Grelle to observe the realities around him. He produces four-minute documentaries like “It Ain’t Workin”: a tale about occupants of a run down house with limited access to healthcare or decent accommodation. The earlier, now prosperous, generation has clambered out of this area but don’t appreciate the lot of the folk whose journey they once shared. The lachrymose delivery could be John Prine or Loudon Wainwright III. The song is performedover a picked acoustic guitar until violins, viola and a cello join and make this into one of my tracks of the year. No lectures here just a request that you reflect on those less fortunate.
However, it’s not all profound and he directs his fragile and unique voice to the thorny matter of love. “To Be That Someone” is a passive courtship where he tells her “Don’t you know I’d walk with you anytime. Doesn’t matter how far. And I’d be happy to be that someone”. I’m sure we’ve all been here. Half the 10 album tracks are with a band and the electricity lifts the pace and energy. “Space and Time” hits an irresistible Creedence Clearwater Revival or Stones groove and Josh Cochran, on electric lead, adds some 70s fascination. Similarly “Mess Of Love” with its ska rhythm could have you up and dancing as he ruminates on the couples’ ineptitude in the art de l’amour.
So if we’re back to the T-shirts then Grelle has worn it, seen the movie and written the book. There’s a wisdom that you’ll find alluring: he’s lived every part of these stories. It’s a care worn voice bolted onto a variety of sounds that can be beautiful ballads or hearty rockers with, on occasion, interesting time signature changes. It’s four years since his last release; let’s hope it’s not so long before the next.
Jason Isbell is an artist who can do no wrong. His mantelpiece is probably buckled from the weight of industry trophies. He’s the current involuntary torchbearer of Americana with qualifying credentials which include a catalogue of some fine music, peer worship, an apprenticeship in the Drive-By Truckers and the ‘correct’ political views. In the US media and record industry this combination generally creates an unstoppable, unthinking, commercial momentum and fawning reviews. With such a malaise I’d usually distance myself, however, his seventh release confirms the garlands around his neck are hard won and worthy.
There are no dramatic shifts in sound from his other four releases of original material since 2013. He still captivates with music and lyrics that cover a wide breadth of topics. The topics are usually introspective and acutely personal. Dave Cobb produces again. I like this album for its consistency more than his other three releases.
“What Have I Done To Help” is a fine opening with a bass that underpins a lighter acoustic topping with Isbell self-flagellating over his apparent lack of action to help those he has the ability to help. It’s a recurrent theme for Isbell who laments those less fortunate. He believes either his skin colour or status isolate him from their cruel realities. On this album his guitar gets more fluid and adopts many sounds. Here it wails seductively under a repetitive, yet satisfying chorus. “Be Afraid” turns on his fellow artists who fail to speak out about social issues: their self pre-occupation displays an acute lack of self-awareness. The song is 80s rock with a loping snare drum beat and an anthemic chorus with lots of REM guitar reverb. Terrific.
In the same way “Overseas” hits a heavy rock groove. An insistent and thudding beat eventually gives over to an electric solo guaranteed to sell a few million air guitars. Apparently there are two angles to the story; it was initially spawned out of separation from his musician wife (Amanda Shires) when she embarked on a solo tour. The first opening bars of “Running With Our Eyes Closed” has you again back in the 80s with a Mark Knopfler guitar sound, however, the song broadens out to generic FM Radio rock. All the time Isbell can pick a deft phrase or riff. The voice is uniquely mellifluous; the words, melody, arrangements are perfect throughout.
Isbell can be an open book and his life and family providing fertile predicaments to plunder. He’s been an alcoholic and throughout his recordings he never runs from the struggle. “It Gets Easier” sums up his daily battle “It gets easier but it never gets easy / I can say it’s all worth it, but you won’t believe me”. Likewise he visits the joy and responsibilities of fatherhood on “Letting You Go”. Like Brandi Carlile’s “The Mother”, it’s a song of wonderment and slight awe at this prized possession. Over a slow beat with occasional slide guitar moments he delivers a beautiful tune. Here he moves the timeline along to her eventual flight to lead her own adult life. Touching and articulate.
I said ‘hard won’ because you don’t release such albums without a lot of reflection, graft and inspiration. From the first listen you know you’re in the presence of something important. Wisdom and reflection pour from each song; wrapped up in the most delicate and economic wordsmithery. He now has a run of releases that justify the genuflection. I’m on one knee as I write this.
Anna (first wife) has acquired entry into her seventh decade on Planet Earth. She had a lockdown birthday at the end of April but we tried to make a fuss. A number of her friends did pop round with flowers whilst keeping the mandatory distance. Gals (sorry Favourite Eldest Daughter for this lapse into political incorrectness) are all very social and it was hard for her to let this landmark slip by so tamely especially with the daughters in Manchester. I hope when it is all over we can celebrate it properly. An observation about her cards was how many had a ‘60’ on them, mostly from the women! What happened to being eternally 39?
She’s also been a star shopping for some of the more elderly residents on the street. I have been making a couple of meals for one chap and was able to sell a Black & Decker Jig Saw on eBay for another chap. He had no idea what to do. I was worried after volunteering a selling price that it would fall short. Fortunately it did a lot better. On handing across the dosh he wanted to give us a tenner. That’s not the point of doing all this is it?
These marooned residents need food but they also need company. A long conversation is a kindness and they happily chatter away (even to me!). The chap who’s suffering my meals worked for The National Coal Board. This life of being down the pit now seems too dangerous to contemplate. Health and safety in the 70s and 80s isn’t what it is today. He was telling a story of his interesting life as an engineer when he recounted working at one pit for an awful manager with some stories of his bullying and intimidating behaviour. It sounded Dickensian. I did leave him reflecting on some of my personal experiences…
I was never very good a Physics at school. I’d dropped it by the time I had to pick my O Levels or it dropped me. My recollection of the subject, other than bimetallic strips, was that it could occasionally approximate to maths with homework that involved equations and the like. The day we had to present our efforts involved the master, David Welch, walking around the classroom checking the answers. The seating meant that mine was the first work he inspected.
I made a game attempt at the task but usually came up with the wrong answer. For this I would get hit around the back of my head. The Geography teacher, Mr Hartley, could also deal out corporal punishment for wrong answers. Barbaric really and useless as regards the learning experience. Welcome to the 60s and 70s.
With all this limited movement I’m still driving the Morgan. I pop out for the shopping and make rare excursions in it. I half expected to get flagged down by Plod to justify why I’m out in it! To keep fit I obviously ride my bike, as before, but in addition to walking we do some Pilates classes. (These are configurations of exercises we’ve learned and can remember from a class with an instructor). Anna was introduced to Pilates last year and loves rolling around on the floor. I started about eight years ago and am a lot less keen! It is a good thing to do and keeps us moving and free from some muscular aches and pains. I’m one of the oddities at our weekly class (during normal times) being male. More men ought to do it. I like to think I provide the girls with a little eye candy in what must be their humdrum lives.
Other exercise has seen us walking around the local area. On one such ramble we came across a lady carrying a Nikon camera with a long lens. This native finds locations to perch, mainly in the undergrowth, and then take some exquisite images of the wildlife. She then posts her images onto Twitter. (She can be found at @Natwalk101). The breadth of life she finds near us is a surprise. The biggest draw are the deer who run around a forest nearby. We’ve got a bit blasé about them but I may venture out with my proper camera shortly.
Lund is from farming stock in Alberta, Canada. His continuing foothold in a working life makes his lyrics authentic and authoritative; many are fashioned into stories with pathos or wisdom and others are simply hilarious with fabulous wordplay. His version of modern Western, rockabilly and Alt-Country is a unique sound that’s crafted by a band that has been behind him for over 15 years. The sound is always bordering on live, raw and propelled by Brady Valgardson’s drumming which gives all his releases energy that make you reach to turn the volume up. His 10th release of original material Agricultural Tragic is his strongest album for many years and has a level of consistency that makes it a compelling record.
I’m rather partial to the Braun family. There are four brothers who split into two bands. One is Reckless Kelly and the other is Micky & The Motor Cars. The latter’s Long Time Comin’ release was one of 2019’s strongest. Now in 2020 we get a double album from the older siblings – Willy and Cody. The sound is probably more country than rock and the themes they sing are the well used tropes– love, loss, homecoming and family all often involving cinematic sweeping vistas of the USA.
Willy Braun explains that American Jackpot was already recorded when he pulled the band together again to record American Girls. On both albums Willy wanted to talk about everyday American themes and in part the current political climate in the USA. At this point I might flinch but in fairness it has a light touch. “North American Jackpot” starts with a piano and rock introduction before Willy reflects on the changes in the USA over 300 years from the The Mayflower’s arrival (and America embracing newcomers) through to today where he “watches the fading lamplight that once lit the golden door”. Elegant words for his point of view, which goes onto to celebrate his country and what a fine place it is to live. Other more impactful social commentary comes on “Put On Your Brave Face Mary” where Willy laments, in a ballad, about the suicide rate of the military. Anthemic and impactful.
Ledger’s debut is a prize: pairing his languorous yet captivating voice and lyrics with T Bone Burnett’s production, Ledger’s delivered one of this year’s unexpected delights. The partnership drew this comment from Ledger – “I think we’re each attracted to the more sinister aspects of folk and roots music, and we each have a desire to keep music alive while finding a way to make something new out of it.” You get an album that seems at first listen, a near conventional traditional Country album, but starts revealing some shadowy corners and wider genre sensibilities as you become acquainted.
Burnett has let the voice do the talking and what a siren to follow. Over 11 songs the sound swings from straight Buck Owens (“Starlight”) through to 70s British pop with sci-fi images (“Electric Fantasy”). Burnett’s assembled band played the 2009 Grammy winning Raising Sand for Alison Kraus and Robert Plant. Their accomplished playing here is measured and varied.
Caudle’s distinctive voice harbours doom as the band chugs into life on “Better Hurry Up”. This steamy swamp rocker urges alacrity as time slips away with a message about your own personal journey. The simple song structure has a chanting chorus of voices including John Paul White and Elizabeth Cook. “Monte Carlo”, “Dirty Curtain” & “Reach Down” all have that New Orleans swamp vibe and provide a welcome breadth to the sounds on this album.
John Jackson (Jayhawks) handled production responsibilities. He brought a fabulous band and a ‘live’ sound, which enabled each song to have more impact. Much is made in the PR material that the recording was done at Cash Cabin Studios on Johnny Cash’s estate. If the location had a meaningful impact then this small and intimate setting clearly brought the best out of all the players.
In some ways ‘it’s a long time no speak’. Obviously my recent bike ride up Australia was followed by many of you but I suspect the majority didn’t follow my restless and fruitless search for a koala or (live) kangaroo on two wheels. I really not sure what to think about the four weeks after it’s premature end. Some great scenery, interesting communities, banter and the childish joy of riding a bike to come to mind but something was missing.
Since my evacuation from Down Under and re-integration into ‘lock down’ Britain it has been a mixture of experiences. The first was the reality that it hasn’t affected my diet, exercise regime, opportunity to listen to music or write.
However the limits on movement and the continued close supervisory presence of the first wife has been different. Evasion of various stipulated outstanding tasks, by her having better things to do with her talents, has been difficult. A protestation that glossing some yellow skirting boards due to a lack of masking tape saw her texting a neighbour who (at a discreet distance) turned up at the door with said product. I never did like him…
It was a blow to my tactics. Other things on the list included turning over the flower beds and weeding. Frankly, any budding fundamentalist terrorist flirting with the idea of Western destruction could have his fervour nipped in the bud with the threat of several days of standing, with a spade, on a hard clay soil complete with hiding toads to first dig into it and then remove various roots and weeds. Continue reading The Fear of clay, masking tape & scissors – Week 15 : 2020→
I thought I would split my post between a travelogue summary and then a cycling report. The travelogue summarises my thoughts about Australia and my cycling report includes some statistics and detail about the riding.
Travelogue
For whatever reason I never took to Melbourne; every one tells me it’s marvellous. Its an impressive city on the Yarra river and both the buildings and the water are tall or imposing. Like all cities it belongs to the under 30’s. They populate its streets and the food, shops and spaces belong to them. Melbourne is ethnically diverse. I well recollect Australians at the next table chatting away in Mandarin or Cantonese and I later heard that Melbourne is the largest Greek town after Athens. Diversity is the reality and future but it wasn’t the Australia I came to see. I wanted to see how it made a living, the life it’s non-urban communities lived, its landscapes and foibles.
I eventually put the city behind me and got into the Victoria countryside. Here were fields and animals. Everything was parched but this was the vista I expected. Small towns with a pub, a few shops, a fire truck building and a community centre were the norm and I ploughed north. After Wangaratta I deviated off the beaten track and ended up in Walla Walla. This was small town Australia. Hard working, no frills, a little bit down on its luck and miles from anywhere. I started to get the feel for the country and its people. Leaving Victoria was by the direct Hume Freeway a large artery of a dual carriageway heading north and then east toward Canberra and Sydney.
My luck ran out with the weather. When it rains it isn’t drizzle but hours of heavy falls. Riding beside this road with its spray and unnerving drafts from 34 wheel trucks made me climb off and catch a bus from Gundagai to Sydney. I hate to do this but I saw no point in suffering for the sake of it. Sydney was magnificent. Lots of history, fine architecture, a staggering harbour and sunshine. From here the ride north, in New South Wales, was hard but early morning games of school boy cricket and joggers or recreational cyclists on outside seating drinking coffee made me think there might be something to this life. Continue reading Australia Bike Ride – Epilogue→
After failing to eat properly the night before I was delighted to discover this seemingly ramshackle general store in Kin Kin was a top cafe.
When I turned up last night it seemed improbable that they could russle up this omelette:
This was a sight for sore eyes. I asked inside about my nocturnal American friend. Yes he was known. His name’s Jim Wonder. He lives about 4 miles out of town and has been caught stealing showers and water before. They knew of his conspiracy theories and pre-occupation with artefacts. I feel I may have ‘grassed him up’ after discussing his ablutions last night but he needs to stop creeping around like that.
Fortified I headed north. Within a few miles I spent 10 minutes pushing the bike up an 18% gradient. Whether a help or a worry my Garmin Sat Nav does provide guidance that these enormous climbs are coming:
Well in the first mile I had to push the bike twice up gradients too steep (to cycle) with a heavy bike. This was not a good start. The weather now seems hot and sunny, that was certainly more like it.
Beautiful infrastructure (in a few places)
The town planners had cobbled together some routes for cyclists in the north of the city: the usual hotch potch of dedicated paths, park shortcuts and pavement riding. After a gazillion traffic lights I made it to the Gympie Road heading north. Up until this point I’d spent more times waiting on pavements or on the road for traffic lights to turn green.
Good grief, if this is the state of his car would you let him near your arm with ink and a needle?“Aww mayte, my teeth are no laughing matter…”
After about 15 miles I was heading into the smaller suburban towns. I was not allowed on the Bruce Highway. This meant a very windy path north. Leaving my directions to my Sat Nav I could be going anywhere…
I was lost at this stage but the housing was distinctive!
Tony Ives’ Blog 