13 June 2012 Dr Sketchy Set List

/ The sublime Jayne Mansfield looking as understated as ever in Too Hot To Handle (1960) /

This Wednesday night Dr Sketchy at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern featured two Dr Sketchy doyennes: bad girl of cabaret emcee Ophelia Bitz and bump-and-grind artiste Cherry Shakewell. The outrageous Ophelia was on especially raunchy form. “I am and probably will Ophelia Bitz,” she introduced herself. Sporting an especially short micro mini-dress, she apologised in advance to the audience members by the front of the stage if they copped an eyeful of more than they bargained for. Truly, she is the Tallulah Bankhead du nos jours.

Cherry Shakewell’s act incorporated a bubble machine, and her spectacular green and gold outfit and headdress evoked an under-the-sea vibe, implying sexy mermaids, a Sea Queen or (as Cherry herself described it) Lady Neptune. (Unfortunately there was no one taking photos tonight, but Cherry looked a lot like this ... in fact, this tune was the cue for the bubble machine to start).



Ophelia used this as inspiration for suggesting themes when people drew Cherry. She paraphrased a line from a song in The Little Mermaid (“It’s better down where it’s wetter”) in a way that Disney almost certainly didn’t have in mind. Another of her suggestions was “Something Fishy, Starring Cherry Shakewell.”

I haven’t made any serious technical blunders in a while, so I guess I was overdue for one. There was a horrifying moment at the beginning of the night when I botched Ophelia’s music cue. Because there was just one model and burlesque performer this night, Ophelia treated the audience to a few songs from her cabaret repertoire. When she arrived and said her musical backing was on her iPhone rather than on a CD, my heart sank. I don’t have an iPhone myself so am panicky and unfamiliar with operating ‘em. And even at the best of times, I screw up musical cues (just ask poor long-suffering Claire Benjamin/Freuda Kahlo!). Ophelia quickly ran through with me what her musical cue would be but I still completely misunderstood it (I thought she was singing a song at the end of the night, not right after she introduced herself at the start!). So she stood there staring at me from the stage when her music was due to kick in, and I was staring back at her blankly before I realised, Oh! She means now! Luckily, Ophelia is such a seasoned and unruffled pro we quickly got back on track and she rocked the house with her first song.

Needless to say, we mostly get a great crowd at Dr Sketchy nights: fun, open, talented, smart, perhaps a bit drunk – and always respectful of the performers. Wednesday night we had a garrulous group of newbies (apparently some gals from the office on a night out) who were pounding back glasses of rosé or something and seemed not to be au fait with basic etiquette about not talking while a performer is singing (and bear in mind the RVT is a small venue, so it was right in Ophelia’s face). To her credit, Ophelia rose above it and handled it in her stride (well, she did tell them to shut up mid-song), but it made my blood boil. Obviously these are the same ilk of people who probably talk and text all through films, too. It’s unlikely any of them will read this, but seriously ladies – STFU!

Musically, it didn’t occur to me until midway through Cherry’s first pose I should try to play some underwater/sea-related music. Doh! I quickly remedied that by slapping on "Atlantis" by high emperor of Mondo Exotica, Les Baxter. Elsewhere, while she posed I cranked up cooing sex kitten tunes by Cherry’s platinum blonde spiritual predecessors like Mamie Van Doren, Brigitte Bardot, Jayne Mansfield and (token redhead) Ann-Margret. I decided long ago that “Cherry” by The Jive Bombers is Cherry’s unofficial theme song. For me Cherry’s 1960s go-go dancer look (tousled blonde mane, frosted pale lipstick, false eyelashes like thick black tarantulas) always suggests Nancy Sinatra and Russ Meyer’s sexploitation masterpiece (and what John Waters calls “beyond a doubt, the best movie ever made”) Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (Of the trio of homicidal, vengeful go-go dancers, Cherry most resembles the fun-loving blonde femme one, Billie).



I corralled some friends into coming to this Dr Sketchy: Christopher, Paul (these two used to be in art-punk band Matron together) and Ilana. (Ilana in fact won one of the main prizes at the end. Ophelia couldn’t decipher the signature scrawled at the bottom of Ilana’s sketch and announced her as “Lana”). After Dr Sketchy itself was pretty much over, I dashed outside where the three of them were standing smoking cigarettes like a bunch of delinquents. I said I’d just play one or two more songs to wind things up then I’d be free to join them. They had the nerve to say No, they’re going back in and they want to listen to me play more. So I continued DJ’ing for another 25 minutes or so for their pleasure while they drank beer. What can you do with people like that, huh?


Christopher and Paul photographed at the 2 November 2011 Cockabilly at The George and Dragon

Simba - Les Baxter
Run - Jeri Southern
Cocktail for Two - Cliff Duphiney
If I Love Ya Then I Need Ya, If I Need Ya Then I Wantcha Around - Eartha Kitt
Love is Comin' My Way - Myrna March
Trash Can - Ken Williams
Madness - The Rhythm Rockers
What Do You Think I Am? Ike and Tina Turner
Rompin' - Jerry Warren
Jim Dandy - Sara Lee and The Spades
Leave Married Women Alone - Jimmy Cavallo
I Want Your Love - The Cruisers
Good and Bad - The Gauchos
Pink Champagne - The Tyrones
Heartbreak Hotel - Buddy Love
Surfing Snow Matador - Mickey and Ludella
Shomblar - Sheriff and The Revels
Intoxica - The Centurions
Fever - Nancy Sit
It - The Regal-Aires
Scorpion - Jimmy McConville
Miss Irene - Ginny Kennedy
Night Scene - The Rumblers
Mambo Baby - Ruth Brown
I Learn a Merengue, Mama - Robert Mitchum
Wimoweh - Yma Sumac
Esquerita and the Voola - Esquerita
Delilah Jones - The Thunderbirds
Little Miss Understood - Connie Stevens
Beaver Shot - Hollywood Hurricanes
Drummin' Up a Storm - Sandy Nelson
Suey - Jayne Mansfield
Atlantis - Les Baxter
Boots - Nero and The Gladiators
Let Me Entertain You - Ann-Margret
Harlem Nocturne - The Viscounts
Handclapping Time - The Fabulous Raiders
Margaya - The Fender Four
Chop Suey Rock'n'Roll - The Instrumentals
Kruschev Twist - Melvin Gayle
Ain't That Loving You, Baby - The Earls of Suave
Comin' Home, Baby - The Delmonas
Peter Gunn Twist - The Jesters
Sweetie Pie - Eddie Cochran
Bombie - Johnnie Sharp and the Yellow Jackets
I Was Born to Cry - Johnny Thunders
Lucille - Little Richard
Tall Cool One - The Wailers
I Gotta Get Out of This Town - Nancy Sinatra
Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! The Bostweeds
Woman - Empress of Fur
Cherry - The Jive Bombers
Angel Face - Billy Fury
Je Me Donne A Qui Me Plait - Brigitte Bardot
Crawlin' - The Untouchables
The Girl Who Invented Rock'n'Roll - Mamie Van Doren
Beat Party - Ritchie and The Squires
Pass the Hatchet - Roger and The Gypsies
Vesuvius - The Revels
Beat Girl - Adam Faith
No Good Lover - Mickey and Sylvia
Breathless - Arlie Neaville
Torture Rock - Rockin' Belmarx
Drive, Daddy, Drive - Little Sylvia
Chicken Grabber - The Nite Hawks
The Chicken Scratch - The Commandos
Chicken Shack - Ike and Tina Turner

Punk's Dead by Simon Barker

/ Punk royalty: Jordan in front of one of Simon Barker's portraits of her. Picture © shapersofthe80s.com /

Over the recent Diamond Jubilee weekend I posted on Facebook a Youtube clip of archetypal punkette Jordan snarling / ineptly lip-synching her way through a a crotch-thrusting, panty-flashing performance of “Rule Britannia” from underground filmmaker Derek Jarman's 1978 cult art film Jubilee. “This is the closest I get to embracing the Jubilee spirit", I explained. Jarman’s nihilistic punk epic is pretty damn incomprehensible (and was loathed by most punks at the time), but has some vivid snatches and indelible images – the most memorable of which is probably Jordan (one of the true, pioneering movers and shakers of early UK punk, a muse to Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren as well as Jarman, and the original one-woman Sex Pistol) doing stripper squats in a novelty plastic union flag tabard, her white marshmallow thighs (think plump young Dietrich as Lola Lola in The Blue Angel) encased in green stockings.



Weirdly enough, just four days after posting that Facebook status update, I met Jordan herself at the launch party for Simon Barker’s exhibit and accompanying book, Punk’s Dead. For once in my life, I didn’t bring my bleedin’ digital camera, and I don’t have a smartphone – so there are no photos to document this historic encounter! But Jordan autographed a postcard for me. She turned me around and wrote it against my back, gripping my shoulder with her free hand – which melted my teenage punk heart! She’s 57-years old now, silver-haired, mumsy, looks a bit like Su Pollard and radiates unaffected charisma and easy-going, down to earth warmth. We only spoke briefly as she was surrounded by other admirers eager for her attention. I managed to ask her about the striking trademark Cubist mask of make-up she used to wear, saying it looked Picasso-esque. She smilingly explained that’s close, but her true inspiration was the painter Mondrian: she’d wanted to transform her face into a Mondrian painting. Simon Barker himself was in attendance (wearing an immaculate olive green Westwood suit), but the unofficial hostess seemed to be Jordan: everyone at the party gravitated towards her. Happy to stand in front of Barker’s smoldering portraits of her youthful self from 35 years earlier, pose for photos and sign autographs, you can see what would’ve entranced the likes of Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious in the 1970s. What a woman.

/ The postcard Jordan autographed for me. (No, I don't have a scanner) /

To briefly put her into context: If the 1970s London punk subculture had an “It girl”, it was Jordan. Born Pamela Rooke in 1955 in the seaside resort town of Seaford, East Sussex, her startling, idiosyncratic sense of style made her a natural employee selling kinky latex bondage wear at Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren’s outrageous boutique Sex on London’s King Road when they unleashed it in 1975. It was a perfect fit, as Jon Savage recalls in his definitive 1991 punk history England’s Dreaming. “(Jordan) was a living advertisement for the new shop, having turned her own body into an art object.” With her chalk-white face, no eyebrows, black raccoon-like eye liner, gravity-defying post-Bride of Frankenstein platinum blonde beehive and confrontational demeanour, Jordan was like the ethos of McLaren and Westwood’s Sex concept made voluptuous flesh. Amongst Barker’s photos are some stunning dual portraits of Jordan and Siouxsie Sioux together; by comparison, Jordan makes even stunning young ice princess Siouxsie look relatively normal. (The extremity of Jordan’s look is also almost Divine-like: I can remember John Waters admitting he used to keep a photo of Jordan pinned to the bulletin board above his writing desk for inspiration).

/ Punk pin-up Jordan (this photo not by Simon Barker) /

/ Bertie Berlin and Jordan by Simon Barker /

Sex was the epicenter of the emerging punk scene, from where McLaren engineered the creation of its “house band” the Sex Pistols. (Johnny Rotten famously auditioned for the band by caterwauling along to Alice Cooper’s “Eighteen” on the shop’s vintage jukebox). Jordan was virtually the fifth Pistol: at their riotous early gigs, her scantily-clad presence by the front of the stage attracted as much press attention as the band itself. From there, she parlayed her notoriety and striking appearance into roles in the Derek Jarman films Sebastian (1976) and Jubilee (1978). After a brief stint managing Adam and The Ants early in their career, Jordan then exiled herself from punk by the early 1980s, ultimately returning to her native South coast. (She’s been quoted as saying that punk died for her when The Pistols broke up). By then her niche as one of punk’s true fashion icons was already secure. (I hate the word "icon" and rarely use it, but it's fitting here). It was obviously a wise choice, as today Jordan exudes serenity and contentment. These days she works as a veterinary nurse and breeds Burmese cats. (I have friends who also breed pure-bred cats. They report Jordan is frequently sighted at cat shows).

About Simon Barker: As part of the Bromley Contingent, the early, stylish Sex Pistols acolytes who would take the train from the suburbs into central London to attend their gigs, Barker (then nick-named simply “Six”) was a key scene-maker and witness. Luckily for us he also took along his el cheapo, no-frills instant camera with him everywhere (mostly the St James Hotel in London, seemingly various grotty squats) documenting the embryonic punk milieu. At the time, Barker was simply taking shots of his friends at play. Seen today, the photos compiled in Punk’s Dead are compelling documents of the era and compare favourably with the portraits of Nan Goldin, or Billy Name’s 1960s shots of the Andy Warhol Superstars.

/ Mirror, mirror: Siouxsie by Simon Barker at the St James Hotel applying her trademark eye make-up /

Other faces from the party I recognized: Boy George (very aloof; he kept his dark sunglasses clamped on), Marco Pirroni from Adam and The Ants and fashion model Sara Stockbridge. (Stockbridge was pretty much the official “face” of Vivienne Westwood throughout the 1980s. She’s still strikingly beautiful all these years later, with legs like a race horse and punkily tousled pink hair. Read an interview with Stockwell and see some iconic photos of her modelling Westwood on this excellent fashion blog).

/ Photo by Antony Simpson: Simon Barker in the Westwood suit in the centre. That's me on the right texting my friends that they should be here /

Anyway, it was a great night: I drank PINTS of excellent free white wine (hey, I made some donations when I got a re-fill), Barker’s grainy and intimate photos are incredible artifacts (heaven in particular if you’re a hardcore Siouxsie and The Banshees fan like me) and the coffee table book itself is pretty damn covetable. Even better, my friend Antony Simpson was there telling me filthy insider gossip from back in the day. (And no, I’m not repeating it here!).

/ This guy looks too cheap to buy a book ... But now you know what to get me for Christmas this year. (Photo by Antony Simpson) /

Further reading: The official Punk's Dead website. Nice piece in The Independent. According to this great blog, Simon Barker was in a prickly and uncooperative mood. Punk antagonism lives on!

22 May 2012 Dr Sketchy Set List

This Dr Sketchy (at The Paradise in Kensal Green for the first time in ages) boasted vampirically elegant Dusty Limits as master of ceremonies and two models and burlesque performers, Kiki Kaboom and Frankie Von Flirter.

I hadn’t DJ’d at the Paradise in so long it was like I’d developed amnesia: I’d forgotten everything I ever knew about using the decks there! At one stage I couldn’t work out why I couldn’t get any audio out of my headphones and called a Paradise employee over. Of course it was a simple thing I’d forgotten which I really should know by now – boy, was my face red! Luckily I got back on track after that.

It was a blast to work with Kiki Kaboom (international sex kitten, showgirl deluxe, winner of London Cabaret Awards 2012: Best Burlesque Performer) again, albeit briefly (she split immediately afterwards, as she’s recuperating from laser eye surgery). Kiki’s a gal who appreciates a single entendre (who doesn’t?), so I made sure to drop in “My Pussy Belongs to Daddy” by queen of risqué songs, Faye Richmonde, during her pose (her other adult novelty “hits” include “Tony’s Got Hot Nuts” and “Where Can I Find a Cherry for My Banana Split?”).

Music for newcomer Frankie Von Flirter posed a bit more of a challenge: she did a drag king performance to a medley from the Top Gun soundtrack (1980s power ballads ahoy!). So for her poses, I went for a gender-fucked approach (songs about men by Denise Darcel, Mamie Van Doren and Lizabeth Scott; a military / sadomasochistic twist via Mildred Bailey’s “I’d Love to Take Orders from You”). Later on when Dusty was standing next to me in the DJ booth, he realised something was stuck to the bottom of his shoe -- it was Frankie's Tom Selleck-style fake moustache! How we laughed.

I have bad news about my own club night Lobotomy Room: it never happened, and it looks unlikely to happen at all now (at least for the foreseeable future). In a nutshell: the venue where it was supposed to happen had chronic licensing problems (no music licence and the local council seemed reluctant to issue them one), and my contact who wanted to put me on in the first place doesn’t work there anymore anyway! At some point I might think about approaching other venues, but for now, I’m putting the Lobotomy Room concept on mothballs and licking my wounds.

In the meantime, who doesn’t feel cheered up looking at photos of Jayne Mansfield? Like I’ve said before, Mansfield was the punk Marilyn Monroe who died for our sins. Check out At Home with Jayne Mansfield, in which we see a typical day (in 1956 when she was still on the ascent) in the life of a starlet. Her hectic schedule encompasses making breakfast (while pouting), kissing her pet Chihuahua on the lips, checking on her young daughter (whom she doesn't kiss), combing her platinum blonde hair, being interviewed, and then finally back in bed in her babydoll negligee answering fan mail and autographing photos. Phew! Exhausting.

More recommended reading: one of my all-time favourite blogs is Jim Linderman’s Vintage Sleaze. Read his haunting and melancholy account of the hard times of long-forgotten one-time Russ Meyer model and burlesque “lost girl” Lilly La Mont. “A slightly gap-toothed Half-Native American stripper, prostitute, model and B-girl from the 1950s ...”, La Mont declined into alcoholism and then seemingly vanished off the radar, a casualty of the glamour jungle. Hopefully someone will get in touch with Linderman and fill in the gaps with an update of whatever happened to Lilly La Mont. Maybe she’s someone’s grandma living happily in the suburbs. It seems more likely her days ended like an especially grim chapter of Hollywood Babylon or a James Ellroy novel.

Post modern tribute: pin-ups of Lilly La Mont as re-interpreted by Mexican tattooist and outsider artist Jeronimo Lopez Ramirez (aka Dr Lakra)

Voodoo Dreams / Voodoo - Les Baxter
Monkey Bird - The Revels
Babalu - Yma Sumac
Tequila - Stan Kenton and His Orchestra
I Learn a Merengue, Mama - Robert Mitchum
St Louis Blues - Eartha Kitt
Jungle Drums - Earl Bostic
Good and Bad - The Gauchos
It Ain't to Play with - Sheryl Crowley
House Party - The Instrumentals
You Can't Put Me Down - Esquerita
Whirlwind - Ray Morton and The Temp-Tones
Wine Spo-Li-Ol-Li - The 5 Strings
Can Your Hossie Do the Dog? Del Raney's Umbrellas
Work with It - Que Martin
When I Get Low, I Get High - Florence Joelle
One More Beer - The Earls of Suave
Yogi - The Bill Black Combo
Pink Champagne - The Tyrones
Intoxica - The Revels
The Flirt - Shirley and Lee
Margaya - The Fender Four
Makin' Out - Jody Reynolds
My Pussy Belongs to Daddy - Faye Richmonde
Crawlin' - The Untouchables
The Coo - Wayne Cochrane
Drive-In - The Jaguars
Give Me Love - Lena Horne
The Stripper - John Barry (Beat Girl soundtrack)
The Good Life - Ann-Margret
Baby, Baby All The Time - Julie London
Black Tarantula - Jody Reynolds
Jim Dandy - Sara Lee and The Spades
Chop Suey Rock - The Instrumentals
Drive Daddy Drive - Little Sylvia
Shomblar - Sheriff and The Ravels
Fever - Nancy Sit
Tall Cool One - The Wailers
Mondo Moodo - The Earls of Suave
I'd Love to Take Orders from You - Mildred Bailey
Drummin' Up a Storm - Sandy Nelson
Hand Clapping Time - The Fabulous Raiders
Every Man is a Stupid Man - Denise Darcel
Separate the Men from the Boys - Mamie Van Doren
Men - Lizabeth Scott
Love for Sale - Hildegard Knef
Boots - Nero and The Gladiators
Elle est terrible - Johnny Hallyday
The Girl Can't Help It - Little Richard
Sweetie Pie - Eddie Cochran
Beat Girl - Adam Faith
Devil in Disguise - Elvis Presley
Moi je joue - Brigitte Bardot

Introducing ... Baby Dorival!

Just got back from a typical Sunday afternoon chez my old friends Petra and Rob’s: Vintage French chanson records (Piaf, Juliette Greco, Gilbert Becaud) playing on the vintage record player. Ice-cold Cava served in vintage glasses (are you catching a theme here?). Three languid cats prowling around or drowsing. Except this time, there was a baby in the room!

Petra gave birth to a strapping, healthy 9 1b baby boy Dorival Lino Swanson on 25 April 2012, and this was my first chance to meet my new “nephew.” Before this, I’d only seen a few photos on Facebook. While I was there, Dorival (the name is Brazilian. Both Petra and Rob are crazy about Brazil, have travelled there pretty extensively and love Samba and bossa nova music) was a bit cranky and clingy (with both Petra and Rob) and also seemed ravenously hungry. I didn’t attempt to hold him on my lap this time, but I did manage to kiss him on his tiny pink sea shell-like ear. I can confirm he is the personification of “adorable” and fascinating to watch (even when he’s sleeping!). He has a thick thatch of jet black hair, dark blue eyes (although they’re liable to change colour in coming months; all babies are born with blue eyes) and a very cherubic face. So far he looks like his dark-eyed, dark-haired German mutti more than his British father, but that also could change as he gets older.


Dorival as a newborn still in the hospital


Dorival as a newborn with Mama Petra


Dorival as a newborn with vati Rob (these three photos swiped from Petra's Facebook profile!)

Rob was saying Dorival seems to find music soothing: when Rob strums bossa nova songs on his acoustic guitar, or spins French chanson on the stereo, Dorival stops fussing (maybe he likes the sound of accordions?). They intend for him to grow up fluent in English, German and Portuguese (and maybe even Spanish; his mother speaks these languages like a native), so Dorival is destined to be a true cosmopolitan, globe-trotting homme du monde at this rate.

With such chic parents, it’s not surprising that Dorival is already a stylish baby. His red and white-striped babygrow references the Breton-striped sailor / nautical look. Rob also suggests it makes him look like a convict in a striped uniform. Maybe we should call it his Jean Genet look?

Petra and Rob seem to be taking to parenthood completely naturally in their own serene and laidback way. Petra in particular is like a beatnik earth mother crossed with Morticia Addams (when I think of Petra and Rob as parents, my reference points are Gomez and Morticia Addams, or Fred and Lily Munster).


Dorival and Rob


Angelic: Dorival sleeping in his Moses basket


Finally! A shot of Dorival sitting up with his eyes open! Dorival and his beautiful mutti. The cloth on Petra's shoulder is because Dorival pukes a lot

Even the cats are coping with the traumatic arrival of a newborn baby surprisingly well. When his crying grows too shrill and annoying, they simply leave the room. Sometimes they have to be shooed out of Dorival’s Moses basket and pram, which they seem to find really inviting to curl up in. The volatile and sensitive Fernando (Petra rescued him as a stray from Spain years ago; he’s like a temperamental Spanish prince) seemed hungrier for affection than usual. He loves male attention, and jumped on Rob’s lap as soon as Dorival was off it. He was even sweet and cuddly with me (he can turn violent when I pet him too much. Last New Year’s Eve he gave me such a savage mauling it looked like I’d been self-mutilating!).


An atypically mellow Fernando snoozing on my leg

Anyway, I look forward to spending more time with my beautiful new nephew.

(Petra and Rob long ago reconciled themselves to the fact that I’m the Diane Arbus / Nan Goldin / Larry Clark figure in their lives, documenting everything with my digital camera. See many years worth of beatnik parties at their various flats over the years here. The fabulous Fernando (aka Fernandito) has his own album here)

12 May 2012 Dr Sketchy Set List

 / A strawberry blonde that's never existed in nature: Sex kitten extraordinaire Ann-Margret /

This Saturday afternoon Dr Sketchy at The Old Queen’s Head happened to coincide with my birthday. The reliably louche Dusty Limits was on emcee duties. Our burlesque performer and female model was the diminutive Amelie Soleil, who I’ve never worked with before. She has a circus school background and is a contortionist: she can do the splits as casually as most of cross our legs, and was able to hold the pose for an eye-watering length of time! She also incorporated fire-eating into her burlesque act – wow! You can read about Amelie’s pretty remarkable background in circus, cabaret and burlesque here. Our male model was the aptly-named Luscious Luke, who's recently been featured as a pin-up in Meat magazine (think of it as the UK equivalent of Butt).

   

/ Luke and Dusty topping up their fluid intake/

   

/ The ultra-bendy Amelie Soleil /

   

/ Amelie and Luke ensemble /

Because it was my birthday, I invited along some friends of mine: Angela (the sassy Scottish lassie who put the “ange” in “danger”), Paul (aka Johnny Cashpoint, formerly of art-punk band Matron – who should’ve made it big!), Derek and “Stuckist” artist and musician Ella Guru (formerly of the Voodoo Queens, currently in The Deptford Beach Babes). All of them were Dr Sketchy virgins, and really seemed to dig it.

   

/ My official birthday 2012 portrait: no photo of me is complete without my trademark sweat patch /

I’m still working in new material from CDs I bought at Amoeba Records in San Francisco in April. From Ain’t Love Grand, the much-maligned 1985 fifth album by the Los Angeles punk band X (a record that rocked my world as a teenager. It merits a whole blog to itself), I played the dramatic and bluesy torch song “My Goodness”, which seemed to make an impression. The punk-y and strange last few songs were just me clowning around because I was drunk by then and it was my birthday. I’ve also started introducing some tracks from a compilation CD entitled Good Girls Gone Bad I picked up at the wonderful Rooky Ricardo's Records in San Francisco. (God, how much do I love this store? I also bought some Ike and Tina Turner fridge magnets there. Imagine! Ike and Tina fridge magnets! I thought I’d died and gone to heaven). The compilation is a gem: I would call it an early 60s girl group anthology (it does feature some great obscure girl groups with names like The Tiaras, The Fortune Cookies and The Half-Sisters) but it mostly comprises tear-jerking laments by dimly-remembered wholesome white solo “girl singers” from that late 1950s-early 1960s post-army Elvis and pre-Beatles period that conventional baby boomer rock historians routinely condemn as some kind of cultural 

wasteland.  

/ Rooky Ricardo's Records on Haight Street /

Well, received wisdom sucks. Yes, the pop music of this era is often terminally un-hip, tame and neutered: think clean-cut teen idols like Tommy Sands, Connie Francis, Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello, think "Kookie, Kookie Lend Me Your Comb.". Yet because the music is so white bread, wholesome and square, there’s often an intriguing bat squeak of strangeness and kinkiness under its middle of the road veneer. Transgressive filmmakers like Kenneth Anger (think Scorpio Rising (1963); the Paris Sisters cooing “Dream Lover” in Kustom Kar Kommandos (1965) would comfortably fit on Good Girls Gone Bad) and David Lynch recognise this, returning again and again to the music of this period for their soundtracks. Lynch in particular: Bobby Vinton’s “Blue Velvet”, Connie Stevens’s “16 Reasons” and Linda Scott’s “I’ve Told Every Single Star” in Mulholland Drive (2001). The early 1960s is also the period John Waters came of age as a teen and which he lovingly evokes in Hairspray (1988).

   

"16 Reasons" in Mulholland Drive The Connie Stevens original (Better known as an actress, platinum blonde starlet Connie Stevens cut a few records in the early 60s, singing in a breathless little girl voice. Her "Little Miss Understood" is one of my highlights on Good Girls Gone Bad). Connie Stevens in her beehived glory When I bought the CD, the man who I assume to be Rooky Ricardo himself exclaimed, “Oh you’ll like this – it’s white girls with problems.” Corny as hell, the songs pack a fluffy kitsch period charm, but also throb with innocence and urgent teen drama. Good Girls Gone Girl Bad sketches out a soap opera realm in which tearful, passive-aggressive and needy girls next door pine for their “good-bad but not evil” leader of the pack-bad boys in heartbreak ballads. “Twenty four hours of loneliness / Twenty four hours of heartbreak / Every minute has been like this / How much more can I take?” Bonnie Lou demands, audibly at the end of her rope, while Joni Lymon’s “Happy Birthday Blue” is a variation on “It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To.” On “Call Him Back”, Donna Lewis argues with her boyfriend on the phone, hangs up on him and then goes batshit crazy regretting it. Things reach a fever pitch with “It Should Have Been Me”, in which the lead singer of the aforementioned Fortune Cookies turns deranged stalker, watching her ex’s wedding from a phone booth across the street. Her delivery makes you hope the newlyweds have taken out a restraining order. (It’s worth remembering that it was around this time (1960) that Ike Turner first unleashed on the world his tigress of a wife, the volcanic Tina. Consider her frankly sex-wracked scream on “A Fool in Love” and then consider the disparity between black rhythm and blues and white pop records of the time). The yearning lyrics and keening vocals on Good Girls Gone Bad bristle with the kind of dysfunctional "stand by your man" masochism whose DNA still pulses in the knowingly retro, noir-ish and David Lynch-ian music of ice princess Lana Del Rey today. “He can‘t be all bad / even though he’s got an awful lot of rebel in him ...” long-forgotten ingénue Cobey Carson simpers. “It’s no wonder he’s in trouble every day / No kind word ever comes his way ...And I’m glad he’s mine.” That’s precisely the kind of sentiment Del Rey (the only modern pop star who matters) explores in a more overtly troubled/troubling, potentially self-destructive way in songs like “Blue Jeans” and “Born to Die.” Of course one of the (many) things Del Rey takes so much flack for is being a poor feminist role model for her “irresponsible” lyrics (her intriguing 1950s good girl/bad girl mixed messages are older than Ann-Margret and Nancy Sinatra). Lana, oh, Lana: I understand you But masochistic themes of romantic despair are present in all great love songs – they’re the life force of pop itself. Think of the mid-century female masters of the art of heartbreak (Piaf longing for her legionnaire, the entire oeuvre of Billie Holiday, Dusty Springfield wailing “I Just Don’t Know What to Do with Myself”) and all the blues and Country & Western greats of both genders (an utterly defeated Hank Williams crying into his beer on “You Win Again”). Good Girls Gone Bad taps into this, and makes me shudder in ecstasy. Anyway, later that night I met up with Christopher and Lauren and went to The Hillbilly Hop (London’s best monthly rockabilly club; kudos to its promoter, Greaser Leo). From there, things got messy, but it was fun and worth the next day’s hangover. I quickly snapped a few drunken (brutally close-up) photos at the Hillbilly Hop. Consider them Nan Goldin-style portraits of my friends Lauren Christopher Danny Danny again Quiet Village - Martin Denny Run - Jeri Southern Laisse-moi tranquille - Serge Gainsbourg Wimoweh - Yma Sumac Mama Look A Boo Boo - Robert Mitchum Go Calypso - Mamie Van Doren De Castrow - Jaybee Wasden La Bamba - Eartha Kitt Vesuvius - The Revels I Want Your Love - The Cruisers Margaya - The Fender Four Jim Dandy - Sara Lee and The Spades You Can't Stop Her - Bobby Marchan Screwdriver - Luchi Chicken - The Spark Plugs Kruschev Twist - Melvin Gayle Chop Suey Rock - The Instrumentals Love Potion # 9 - Nancy Sit Fujiyama Mama - Annisteen Allen The Bee - The Sentinels Oo-Wee, Mr Jeff - Georgina Lane Tall Cool One - The Wailers Always True to You in My Fashion - Denise Darcel 8 Ball - The Hustlers Fever - Ann-Margret You're My Thrill - Chet Baker (instrumental) Mon coeur n'était pas fait pour ça - Juliette Greco Anasthasia - Bill Smith Combo Strolling After Dark - The Shades Womp Womp - Freddie and The Heartaches Hard Workin' Man - Captain Beefheart A Man What Takes His Time - Marlene Dietrich I Want a Boy - Connie Russell Handclapping Time - The Fabulous Raiders One Mint Julep - Sarah Vaughan Dragon Walk - The Noble Men Hurt Is All You Gave Me - Ike and Tina Turner This Thing Called Love - Esquerita That Makes It - Jayne Mansfield Beat Party - Ritchie and The Squires Boss - The Rumblers How Come You Do Me? Junior Thompson The Beast - Milt Buckner Do It Again - April Stevens Kiss - Marilyn Monroe My Goodness - X Mondo Moodo - Earls of Suave Lazy - The Nuns Crazy Vibrations - The Bikinis You're the Boss - Elvis Presley and Ann-Margret Bonnie and Clyde - Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot Love is Strange - Johnny Thunders and Patti Paladin Begin the Beguine - Billy Fury Mack the Knife - Hildegard Knef La Javanise - Juliette Greco The Girl Can't Help It - Little Richard Witchcraft - Elvis Presley Viens danser le twist - Johnny Hallyday Beat Girl - Adam Faith Little Miss Understood - Connie Stevens Big Girls Don't Cry - Edith Massey What's Wrong with Me? X What Do You Think I Am? Ike and Tina Turner

When Patti Smith Met Nico

/ Two punk heroines: Nico and Patti Smith in 1977 /

From Nico: The Life and Lies of an Icon, Richard Witts’s authoritative (and sadly long out of print) 1993 biography of the alienated, enigmatic Garbo of punk. In her own words, down on her luck Moon Goddess Nico (mired in heroin addiction and poverty) describes her late 1970s encounter with Patti Smith (then a young punk poetess-turned-rock singer on the ascent):

“I had met Patti in New York, when she was a young poet on the scene. She was a female Leonard Cohen, when she moved from writing to singing, and I liked her because she was thin but strong. John Cale produced her first album, which was about heroin (Horses, 1975). Then I met her in Paris, and got to know her better. I felt like she could be a sister, because anyway she was the double of Philippe Garrel (Nico’s French underground filmmaker/ lover/artistic collaborator of the time. They made several films together: Nico was the Marlene Dietrich to his Josef von Sternberg), and I liked to be together with her. But she has become boring now and married. She should have married John Cale and they could live in a gingerbread house and make gingerbread children.

“Patti was very kind to me. Early in 1978 my harmonium was stolen from me. I was without any money and now I couldn’t even earn a living playing without my organ. A friend of mine saw one with green bellows in an obscure shop, the only one in Paris. Patti bought it for me. I was so happy and ashamed. I said, “I’ll give you back the money when I get it”, but she insisted the organ was a present and I should forget about the money. I cried. I was ashamed she saw me without money.”

As far as I can tell Patti Smith has never spoken on the record about knowing Nico: in Smith's excellent 2010 memoirs Just Kids, for example, she makes no reference to them ever having met. To her credit, perhaps it's modesty, and Smith doesn't want to talk publicly about her generosity in helping a fellow artist in trouble? It would be fascinating to hear her version of this story.

/ Nico in San Francisco, 1979 /

All photos Via

The Triumphant Return of Bow Wow Wow!

Annabella Lwin of the mighty Bow Wow Wow in London. 30 April 2012

Was there ever a band as underrated or misunderstood as Bow Wow Wow? Suspicion about the anarcho-delinquents's “authenticity” (that tiresome preoccupation of rockist killjoys) dates all the way back to their origins as the band “manufactured” by Malcolm McLaren as his new post-Sex Pistols shock tactic. As their own Wikipedia page baldly states: “Bow Wow Wow are an English 1980s New Wave band created by Malcolm McLaren to promote his and business partner Vivienne Westwood's New Romantic fashion lines.” This is like waving a red rag to the kind of people who fret about “style over substance.” I would argue: to model Vivienne Westwood’s cutting-edge pirate and buccaneer range – what better reason to form a band?! But that’s just me.



Anyway, in 1981 the Situationist punk instigator lured the backing musicians away from Adam Ant’s band (Adam’s Ants, if you prefer) and installed as their front woman a nubile but musically inexperienced half-Burmese 14-year old ingénue discovered working at the local drycleaners. (Legend has it Annabella Lwin – real name: Myant Myant Aye - was overheard singing along to a Stevie Wonder song on the radio. In a fun pop footnote, Bow Wow Wow was initially meant to have two lead singers: punk Lolita Annabella plus a pre-Culture Club Boy George, then billed as Lieutenant Lush. He didn’t make the final cut). Eternal agent provocateur McLaren must have been doing something right if he’s still so reviled and divisive even in death (he died aged 64 in 2010). To me, the man was a truly Warholian figure, a conceptualist, and (like former partner Westwood) a genuine English eccentric. As a person, he was seemingly an amoral and disloyal prat, but he was also a twisted pop visionary. Anyone who dismisses his influence needs to read England’s Dreaming (Jon Savage’s definitive account of UK punk history, which gives a great warts-and- all appraisal of McLaren’s accomplishments).

And if McLaren was “guilty” of cynically contriving a band to score hits, Bow Wow Wow’s rowdy but adventurous left-field mixture of influences (thunderous “tribal" African Burundi drums, lacerating guitar that variously evokes surf, rockabilly, Ennio Morricone Spaghetti Western soundtracks and African/Latin sounds, all overlaid with an unpolished teenage punkette alternately ranting and cooing) was hardly a safe guaranteed commercial bet!



Another reason Bow Wow Wow might not have been taken as seriously as they merit becomes apparent when you compare them against their post-punk peers circa 1981. The stark likes of Siouxsie and The Banshees, Joy Division and Public Image Ltd were self-evidently serious, art-y and gloomy, and therefore instantly credible. With their riotously funny and sexy songs and Day Glo pop choruses, colourful modern-primitive Vivienne Westwood wardrobes, Mohawk haircuts and dodgy genesis, Bow Wow Wow were clearly an entirely different proposition.



Anyway, what does it matter when 1) Bow Wow Wow’s songs still sound strange, fresh, exotic and intoxicating a good thirty years later and 2) they were (and are) an absolutely ferocious live act onstage? I don’t know how many people under forty even know who Bow Wow Wow are, but for the most part they’re remembered with genuine affection, and Bow Wow Wow’s musical DNA is audible in the disparate likes of MIA, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, No Doubt, the Ting Tings and Vampire Weekend. Even Madonna’s recent (less than rapturously received) single "Give Me All Your Luvin'", with its spelled-out and chanted chorus and minimalist twang-y surf guitar sound, would appear to owe Bow Wow Wow a debt as much as Toni Basil’s “Hey Mickey”.

Bow Wow Wow’s existence was always tumultuous. The original line up formed in 1981 by McLaren split acrimoniously by 1983. Annabella (now residing in Los Angeles) and bassist Leigh Gorman reconciled and revived varying line-ups from 1997 onwards to hit the punk revival circuit, but only performing in the US. I never thought I’d get to see them here in the UK, where they hadn’t toured since their early 1980s heyday. So when this London “comeback” gig was announced, I leapt at the chance to see them – a band that had thrilled my punk heart as a teenager growing up in rural Quebec. For this UK tour, the only original members are Annabella and Gorman: Lanky Mohawked guitar genius Matthew Ashman tragically died of diabetes-related causes aged only 35 in 1995, and drummer David Barbarossa apparently declined to participate.

They opened with the storming “Giant Sized Baby Thing”, which starts with Gorman singing/rapping lead, allowing Annabella a delayed “star entrance” and creating a sense of building anticipation. When she finally shimmies onstage, raving like a female Mark E Smith of The Fall, everyone gasps and starts frantically snapping her picture with their camera phones (me included). To me, she’s always looked like one of the golden-skinned Tahitian girls from a Paul Gauguin painting given a radical punk make-over. At 46, Annabella is still exquisite (and because she started so young is a good decade younger than most of her punk peers). Obviously she grew-out her signature Mohawk long ago (did any woman ever look more beautiful with a Mohawk?). Radiantly smiling, tiny and more voluptuous these days, she’s gone heavy on the silver Cleopatra/Nina Hagen eyeliner winged all the way up her temples. It looked dramatic and punk-y, but her face is so delicately beautiful she could have easily gone without it.







Sorry to keep gushing about one of my teenage crushes, but Annabella is an utterly charismatic front woman and vastly underrated as a singer. Her truly beguiling voice is sometimes bratty, sometimes alluring (within the same song!) and worthy of comparison to Deborah Harry or Poly Styrene. And like Madonna, Annabella’s voice remains girlish and kittenish in middle age. Annabella is also still a whirling dervish onstage, with a different dance for every song (when they lash into “Uomo Sex Al Apache”, for example, she does a sexy Indian squaw rain dance).





The current line-up is killer (special kudos to the drummer for nailing the trademark galvanising Bow Wow Wow drum sound). My friend Lisa and I mosh and pogo by the very front of the stage. (You’d have to be dead not to dance to the likes of “Aphrodisiac” and “Go Wild in the Country”). The music is too vital and frantic for it to feel like a golden oldies nostalgia concert. A true punk gig, Bow Wow Wow plays for a tight hour, no flab, and return for a two song encore. Every song is a catchy bubblegum punk tantrum: Bow Wow Wow may not have scored that many chart hits, but they have more great sly, funny, cheeky and provocative songs than people give them credit for. So many in fact they tore through the old favourites (the only song that felt a bit rote was “I Want Candy”: I bet they secretly hate it but feel obligated to include it!), but still left out “Chihuahua”, for me their most melancholic and haunting moment. Perhaps Annabella is sick of singing the line “I’m a horrid little idiot in a band called Bow Wow Wow ...”







Setlist
Giant Sized Baby Thing
WORK
Louis Quatorze
Aphrodisiac
Baby Oh No
Sexy Eiffel Tower
Mile High Club
Sun, Sea and Piracy
Uomo Sex Al Apache
Elimination Dancing
Go Wild in the Country
C-30, C-60, C-90, Go!
I Want Candy
Encore:
Sinner, Sinner, Sinner
Baby on Mars

The reviews of Bow Wow Wow's UK tour have been pretty glowing so far: Louder Than War website reviewed their Southampton concert. Couldn't agree more with Simon Price of The Independent's assessment "Lwin delivers one of the most life-affirming, smile-inducing performances I've seen all year." The Guardian's critic was perhaps a bit dismissive, but they also ran a fascinating interview with them.

See the rest of my photos from the night here


Annabella Bites Back: Watch Annabella unleash the full punk sullen attitude on a smarmy TV host in 1982. You go, girl!