MAD MAN MOON

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I found myself strangely affected by the death of Neil Armstrong.

Obviously with all this Werewolf stuff going on recently, I've been feeing kind of caught up with the moon.  Perhaps it's that. But also it's because I see the Thames everyday and the river's radical tidal shifts up and down in level bring the lunar influence into London right here and right now.

The first moon landing was such a wonderful and terrible thing wasn't it? Wonderful because it still seems such a technically crazy and dangerous thing to do and terrible because it definitively proved that the moon was not made of cheese.

In our steady march down the information superhighway, the old myths are being overtaken one by one - indeed I assume that there will be nothing mysterious at all left one day - just plain FACTS as  Dickens's Mr Gradgrind would have been pleased to note:

"What I want is: Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts"

But of course you can't really get rid of myths entirely and when Neil Armstrong made his one small step / one great leap, he actually became a myth himself.  True, he lived on quietly in relative obscurity in the American mid-West  but that didn't really matter. The old gods were gone, the new ones were here and they were made of The Right Stuff. They were lantern-jawed, techno-heros.  They were the new Olympians.
Well, for a while at any rate. 

And now Neil has made another final small step / giant leap. And he has beaten his deputy Buzz Aldrin to it - again. Whist I've not been particularly interested in reading about Armstrong's post-lunar life, that of Buzz Aldrin is fascinating, punctuated as it has been by mental illness, family trouble, depression and eccentricity.

Was it being second in line for such a world changing event that has grated for all these years and has slightly unhinged Buzz?  (I can completely understand and sympathise if this is so).  Or is it the moon's revenge - a kind of karmic lunacy, an inability to make sense of earthbound things after the greatest adventure it's possible to have was followed by the biggest come-down it's possible to have?

I wrote a song about him a few years back.  I always meant to finish it but I don't suppose I ever shall now. So here it is, rough and ready, cratered and crumbly.

There is something so dreamlike about the footage of them on the moon surface, looking back on the earth's blue beauty hanging there in space.  How would you ever get over such a vision?  It would shake you and take you right back to your deepest prehistoric root.

RIP Neil  - and Buzz too  - when it's time.

Video: Clive Painter

BEAUTY PRIZE

I was digging around in a trunk in the attic the other day, looking for something or other and I pulled out this. It was labelled 'rough mix' but I had a listen and  thought I would post it because if I don't it will get forgotten again.

I can't even remember why we didn't use it in the end.  It is an odd process putting together an album - even these days when albums aren't the way a lot of us listen to music anymore.  You go through all these tracks and versions,  remixing and re-editing, putting this next to that , choosing that one and leaving others behind. 

But his was one of the Tallulah songs from "The Last Werewolf" and as Glen Duncan's sequel "Tallulah Rising"  is now out, it seemed a nice one to dust down again.

It is definately a woman's song - here with Pinkie Maclure on wonderful form and a lovely string arrangement courtesy of Marcella Puppini.

And so of course, I couldn't think of a better person to illustrate it than Louise Brooks.

Take a deep breath, lie back and..

THE ANATOMY OF A CITY:

THE VESTRIS HAMS

Last week I had the good fortune to be given a little guided tour of the Garrick Club in Covent Garden. It is really gorgeous.  Despite, and in fact probably because of, its seven year waiting list, it has always seemed to be the most interesting of the old-style London clubs to join (plus for good measure, they turned down Jeremy Paxman).  

It was founded by theatre lovers and actors in the 19th century and is still generally thespian in character.  It has an amazing collection of theatrical books, ephemera and portraits. Whilst examining these, we were talking with Marcus the archivist about 'The Vestris Hams'.  If you're a treasure hunter or keep a list of lost arcane London ephemera as I do, you may want to add this item to it. 

Eliza Vestris was a very talented actress and later a rather astute theatre manager who was regarded as one of the most beautiful English women (and indeed men) of her day:

"two-thirds of Madame Vestris's notoriety has arisen from the facility with which she can un-sex herself, and the confident boldness with which she makes her bow to the audience in breeches."

These breeches encased her legs which were of international renown and generally regarded as being virtually divine:

"There is another particular in which Vestris is unrivalled, though, from the extraordinary notions of delicacy prevalent in the western hemisphere, I almost despair of making myself understood. I mean as regards the symetry of those portions of the human frame which are situated between the knees and ankles.. I think them, as far as my judgment goes, perfect in every point."

The fame of said legs alone was able to fill a theatre and such was their allure that a Mr Papera of Marylebone, an Italian plaster worker, made casts of them for one of her many wealthy gentleman-admirers.  The casts only extended to "a little above the knee, and included the foot' - rather modest by today's standards but they excited so much attention at the time that copies were made available to other wealthy fans in a strictly limited-edition.  In fact they were so valuable that Mr Papera took one of his apprentices to court for secretly making unapproved copies and selling them privately -  an early example of copyright infringement I suppose.

Sadly, none of the official orginals have survived - mainly because it is thought  they were were carressed to oblivion by their infatuated owners.  But, as is the way with these things, rumours have long circulated that certain of the, ahem, bootleg versions do still exist in the place they were secreted by their maker as future treasure trove before he was caught .  But if so they were either lost to him or he failed to leave a record before his death because their whereabouts are now unknown. 

So despite occasional reported sightings, 'the Vestris Hams' as they were called now remain objects only of desire.  But their erotic charge was rumoured to be so powerful that they would undoubtedly fetch a significant sum from todays connoisseurs of erotica and and aficionados of London obscura (see the image above).

The single leg found in a private collection at the end of the century was allegedly ground up and sold as an aphrodisiac and so was never able to be verified as genuine.  

This all put me in mind of the rather wonderful "The Girl with the Pre-Fabricated Heart" from The Real Tuesday Weld's 'Dreams That Money Can Buy' score featuring those other delightful hams David Piper and Cibelle
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It is still a favourite of mine and I trust they will perform it again very soon.

THE ULTIMATE CIGARETTE GIRL

The Crime Jazz Unit published its final bulletin today - the 26th installment in an epic series mixing some of the best noir and exotica sounds with a role call of law-abiding and law-breaking characters interviewed by the mysterious detective to 'provide a Soundtrack to the wrong doings against society' . It also included:

- Tips on how to commit a perfect crime or how to get on in prison should things go screwy
- The Texas Death Row weekly spotlight, highlighting last words and last meals
- Stupid laws and crimes
- Death Row recipes and much more

You can listen to it here - along with the other criminally good episodes. I am pleased to note that the very final song is a version of The Real Tuesday Weld's "Torched Song" with an arresting vocal by GG McEwan who served a short sentence with the band before managing to escape to freedom.

And here you can watch it to a selection from  Gustav Machaty's 1933 masterpiece "Ectsasy" for which I believe the band are now planning an alternative soundtrack.  It was made and set in the days when the smoking ban was just a distant joke and starred the incredibly luminous Hedy Lamarr who still has the power to heat us all up after all this time don't you think?

DAY-DREAMING IN WESTMINSTER

I went with friends to the Philip Glass marathon four-and-a-half hour "Einstein at the Beach" at the Barbican this week. It is a masterpiece of psychedelic minimalism, strange and lovely - and with absolutely no comedown. I confess I did drift off a few times - mainly because I was day-dreaming about how Einstein used to seem much cooler than Isaac Newton. I rather took against the latter in the old days because I found physics (or at least my physics master) very dull.  But also of course because my hero WIlliam Blake depicted Newton as the manifestation of repressive rationalism and the malign forces of anti-imagination (see the image here).

I have recently changed my mind - mainly because of my friend Rosella Black who curates the Westminster Arts Library just behind the National Gallery.  The library sits on the site of Newton's old house in St Martin's Lane - now long gone like so much of lost London.  I have been researching the house a little and reading more about the man. I particularly like the story of how he would often get up in the morning but only make it as far  the edge of his bed and remain there lost in some thought for hours whilst his toast went leathery and coffee got cold.  I occasionally do the same thing myself  - although, it has to be said, with far less productive results to show for it

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Newton.  Perhaps to facilitate dreaming by day and sky-watching by night, he built himself a little glass observatory on the roof of the house where he spent many happy hours.  This was obviously in the time before Leicester Square and Westminster was all lit up with neon.  Sometime after his death, the observatory was bought  by an American follower who presumably took it back to the States and re-erected it there.  I would be very interested to hear from any American friends or physicists who know of its whereabouts.  I also came across a curious obscure record claiming that the whole house was drawn, carefully taken down and put into storage somewhere.  Yet another holy grail for us seekers of London Arcana.  If you know where it is, do let me know.

Rosella and I will be hosting a regular London Salon at the library later this year.  More on that soon but in the meantime, if you are free, we will be playing a couple of songs there next Saturday May19th with a host of wonderful guests for the Arctic Circle 6th Birthday Party.   You can get a recording of last year's Christmas concert where we also played a couple of seasonal songs (and a load of other lovely things) here.

Arctic Circle was founded and is mainly run by champion day-dreamer Ben Eshmade.  I attended his own birthday party at Marine Ices the other week and witnessed him demolish a Newton's Observatory sized knickerbocker glory. It is difficult to know how to applaud him enough.  He has been putting on the most beautiful, magical gigs, events, radio shows and all manner of wonderful happenings working away against the odds, against the tide for the last six years.  There is really nothing like him, not even a penguin.  

I hope he  - and Arctic Circle  - get much older..

THE DREAM OF A LONDON SNAIL

I think I mentioned here that Waterloo Bridge was known as "The Bridge of Sighs" - mainly because of the many suicides that jumped from it in the 19th century. But also that that name suits its function as a romantic assignation point for lovers. And of course in a kind of psycho-geographical loop it helps foster the very things it has become associated with.








It is no surprise then that Don Brosnan's film "The Dream of a Snail" for The Real Tuesday Weld track "You're Going to Live", which was shot there, combines high romance and potentially suicidal action. Don made the film aided and abetted by GG McEwan at some considerable expense and risk as you will see. So prepare to be moved, amazed and amused by this "slow-motion rom-com road movie"..

BOWLED OVER BY LOVE

Sitting here in the dark listening to Loose Ends on Radio Four I was thinking of the pre-war British crooner Al Bowlly as earlier I walked past the Duke Street corner in St James where he met his peculiar and untimely end. I've long been a fan and in the late nineties  I had a very strong dream about him which, along with another about a certain American actress,  kick-started The Real Tuesday Weld.  

Al was in a way the first British pop star - although of course he was actually Mozambique born and discovered singing in a South Africam barbershop by an impressario whose hair he was cutting .  His extraordinary voice and swarthy good looks set him above the bandleaders who were usually the stars at the time.  He made a mind boggling number recordings and played countless show before his final appearance in HIgh Wycombe on the 17 April 1941. 

He died later that night when his apartment building was bombed and he ignored the Blitz warning.  In a surreal twist, it appears he was actually killed by his bedroom door which was blown off in the blast and knocked him over.  

Here he is singing Close Your Eyes.

I was talking about all this with Ned Sherrin who used to present Loose Ends one time we played it.  After the show Ned would take his guests to the nice pub round the corner from the BBC where he would have a lunch set up behind a roped off area.  It was always the same.  Ned wouldn't eat anything but he would have a bottle of champagne. The guests could eat and drink whatever they wanted -  apart from his champagne.  When he finished the bottle he would leave you to it and get a cab back to his home in Chelsea.

Before he left he told me that he knew a secret about Al Bowlly.  He didn't actually say I couldn't tell anybody and sadly he is dead now too so I don't suppose he, Al or anyone else would mind after all this time.  You see apparently in his youth Ned had a romantic liason with an older man (Johnny?) who told him he had been Al Bowlly's lover.  Apart from the fact that it would have been impossible to be publicly homosexual at the time, Al's career and reputation was based on him being a romantic ladies' man so this would have been a very private affair.  And of course he was married  - and twice  - although the first attempt only lasted two weeks after his bride was allegedly found in bed with another man on their wedding night. Wow.

Anyway, Ned told me that the older gentlemen had told him that the reason Al had not heeded the siren call to the shelter which would have saved him was that they were together that night and did not want to risk being exposed.  

I always found something haunting about the image of the doorway as a metaphor for death and particularly in this case which influenced the writing of The Real Tuesday Weld song "Bringing the Body Back Home'   -  for in a final poignant twist Ned told me that Al's lover had always kept the very door that killed him. I suppose it may still be out there somewhere - like Al.

HERE TODAY GONE TOMORROW

The Evil Empire is coming to south Clerkenwell.  The area has a long tradition of being home to scoundrels, robbers and ne'er -do-wells so Goldman Sachs or the 'Giant Vampire Squid on the face of humanity' as Rolling Stone described them are carrying on a long tradition.  They have got hold of the very large ex-telephone exchange at 70 Farringdon Street and will be using it as a centre for carrying on the toxic activities described in Greg Smith's recent resignation letter.

Most importantly though, the existing building, a rather drab modernist block houses the rather wonderful 1960s murals by Dorothy Annan celebrating the wonders of modern communication.  They are painted on ceramic panels in steel frames and were placed to enliven what would otherwise have been a very boring street-scape.

They are quite constructivist and have a sort of English Klee or Miro feel with abstracted imagery of teleprinters, aerials, switching gear, pylons, TVs and so on. Ironically Dorothy Annan was an unashamedly left wing artist.

 

Check them out soon if you can - the building will soon be demolished.  I don't mind that so much - it is fairly charmless although it is the place that the first international phone call from England was made in 1963. 


Thankfully the murals themselves have recently been listed and so will be saved but who knows where they will end up? As I mentioned here, the statues previously adorning the top of the Unilever building (which is also listed) disappeared into the CEO's Surrey garden during the renovation works so I wouldn't be surprised if these lovely things end up gracing Lloyd Blankfein's Mayfair pad now he knows they are valued.  


The bank had previously wished them destroyed.

SWEET THAMES SONG

 
Drifting back downstream, it is Tower Bridge is probably the bridge that most of us think of as representing London.  I actually find it rather camp but of course it has some rather tragic and morbid associations.   As well as 'Dead Man's Hole' the river mortuary on the north side, a few years back, there was the incident I wrote of here when 'Adam' a six year old Nigerian boy's body was discovered floating under the bridge.   He was a victim of the Yoruba cult.  I was reminded of this recently by the grim incident of the French boy murdered in London by his sister and her boyfriend who claimed he was possessed by an evil spirit (the un-selfconcious irony is mind boggling).

On a slightly lighter note, several people have come a cropper on Tower Bridge  - especially in the early days when, in an impulse that I completely understand, it was popular to try to leap across whilst the bridge was being opened. One of them, the famous Clerkenwell deep sea diver Benjamin Fuller, leapt in such a grand act of derring do that he ended up swimming with the fishes - a deep sea dive from which he sadly never surfaced.

I will now leave these tales of bodies and bridges despite there being many more to tell.  Here is Glen Duncan reading from the 'Sweet Thames' section of Eliot's The Waste Land.  

It was a piece we did a while ago. I forget why.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

It seems all of London's bridges are stained with blood.

If you had been catching a bus southward on Waterloo Bridge on 7th September 1978 you may have witnessed the murder of Georgi Markov.  He was on his way home after a day's work at Bush House in Aldwych - the home of the BBC's World service where he worked in the Bulgarian department.  LIke Roberto Calvi under Blackfriars Bridge (see 'A Hanging and a Haircut' below) he was assassinated - but this was classic cold war stuff.   Georgi was an outspoken critic of Bulgarian Communist Party Chairman Todor Zhivkov and ridiculed him mercilessly in his broadcasts via Radio Free Europe.  His death is thought to have been a birthday present to the Chairman from certain Soviet friends.

In some ways way it was also a very English Death.  The murder weapon was either an umbrella or a fountain pen and was delivered by a gentleman in a bowler hat (nationality uncertain). Markov felt a sharp pain in his leg and looked around to see the gentleman backing off apologising as though he had stumbled.  A few days later he was dead - fatally poisoned like Alexander Litvinenko a couple of years back - but in this case by the Ricin in the pellet shown above which his bowler-hatted assassin had injected into his thigh. 

I was thinking of all this as we were driving from Brussels after a show with The Real Tuesday Weld last weekend and passed a sign for Waterloo.  Waterloo bridge like the station is of course named after the famous battle when the Duke of Wellington defeated the French and about fifty thousand people died. Can you imagine their ghosts lining the bridge? I always thought using the name was rather tactless towards the French who arrived in London via the station.  (As too apparently did a French politician who asked that it be re-named.  That would have been unacceptable of course but is one of the reasons they moved the Eurostar arrival location to St Pancras Station).  

The modern bridge is rather elegant and without doubt has the best view of any of the Thames crossings in both directions.   In some ways it is also the most female.  It was built mainly by women in the second world war and for a long time previously was known as 'The Bridge of Sighs' because of all the female suicides that happened there (for a beautiful example, check out Vivien Leigh in the film "Waterloo Bridge").  The name works rather well for the romantic trysts for which is suited too - I notice that the British Film Institute which shelters beneath it has become the assignation place of choice for certain internet daters.  I often get approached when there alone with a hesitant "Are you William?", or a gentle cough and an enquiry like: "Is that Frank…?".  

Of course if you've seen Terence Stamp and Julie Christie crossing the bridge in "Waterloo Sunset" that makes perfect sense.

Speaking of which, apart from the perennially lovely Kinks track of the same name, the area and bridge are associated with a few very good songs. Some of my favourites are Abba's pneumatic Euro-salute 'Waterloo' and the very nice 'Waterloo Station' recently penned by Rufus Wainwright for Jane Birkin.   But the most moving by far has to be Gavin Bryars orchestrated loop of a tramp singing "Jesus Blood Never failed me Yet".

The area now occupied by the IMax cinema was for years a bleak submerged roundabout where many homeless people sheltered.  Gavin made the recording in the 1970s whilst involved in filming a documentary about them.  The tramp concerned, a war veteran, is long dead now but he has gained a kind of immortality through this beautiful piece - singing a song which keeps me just this side of Atheism and which is timeless enough to serve as a lament for all Waterloo's dead - whether they be in London or in Belgium, now or long ago.