Music

The first Division – Peter Hook’s Unknown Pleasures

A good book about popular music will always give you a new appreciation of the records. Joy Division bassist Peter Hook’s Unknown Pleasures, just published in paperback by Simon & Schuster, might do just that, though perhaps not in the way the author intended: Joy Division’s music, never an easy listen, becomes almost unbearably intense once you fully understand the mental and physical suffering endured by vocalist Ian Curtis during its creation. By the last few months of the group’s career, in 1980, Curtis was balancing band life with the demands of a wife and baby daughter, conducting an unconsummated affair with a Belgian journalist and frequently having epileptic fits on

Niall Ferguson’s enemies can’t accuse him of racism, so they hope the homophobe charge will work its poison.

Is it homophobic to argue that it’s mainly gay men who keep the flame of popular culture alive? If so, then Simon Napier Bell has some grovelling to do. Napier Bell, as I’m sure you all know, is the rock impresario who has managed everyone from the Yardbirds to Wham!, and who a few years ago wrote an excellent book on the music business called Black Vinyl, White Powder. At least I thought it was excellent at the time. What I realise with hindsight, though, is that the book was in fact deeply offensive in its reductive and stereotypical view of homosexual behaviour. It argued that gay men — unburdened

Rod Liddle

Drummers are living life to the full. That’s why I hate them so much

My copy of the Times on Tuesday this week kindly provided me with a list of things to do in order that I might ‘live life to the full’. I am not at all sure that I wish to live life to the full, having met many people for whom this is their guiding philosophy and having wanted very much to punch them. The rather banal list of impulsive stuff to do — try different kinds of food, ‘snog’ a stranger, buy some nice clothes, shoot a cat with a crossbow, take lots of holidays* — was appended to an interview with one of the country’s most famous scientists, that

Why do amateur performers still flourish?

Chesterfield is a medium-sized town just off the M1, near what were once the coalfields of north-eastern Derbyshire. Not without history (and a lovely old market square) and not without character (a church with a splendidly warped spire, positively Van Goghian, is its most famous feature), the town is nevertheless an unassuming, formerly industrial north Midlands community which earned its living until recently from a steelmaking and coal-mining regional economy. The posher parts of Derbyshire consider Chesterfield a spirited if sometimes hard-bitten place, a popular joke about the twisted spire being that it got stuck when, centuries ago, the spire saw a virgin entering the church to be married and

Gary Kemp on David Bowie, Margaret Thatcher, and joining the establishment

There was a funny gaffe on Radio 4 the other day, when the newsreader announced that Hitler’s favourite architect Albert Speer had been banged up in ‘Spandau Ballet’. Cue a lot of laughter across middle England. Gary Kemp, the founder of Spandau Ballet, the 1980s pop band (not the Berlin prison) was also rather amused, even if he’d heard it before. ‘When we first started,’ he recalls, ‘the inky press thought our name meant we were a new fascist movement in music, which was obviously nonsense.’ The real inspiration behind the Spandau name was David Bowie. ‘We were obsessed with Berlin, which had been validated by Bowie. We all went

Review: Mod! – A Very British Style, by Richard Weight

Doesn’t it all seem a long time ago? For years, the 1960s remained a key cultural reference, universally understood. But then, at some point, probably around the turn of the millennium, the Eighties took over and the Sixties began to fade into a psychedelic version of 1920s sepia. The two periods, separated by the shame and loon pants of the Seventies, were both about being young and “cool”. They were also about being bang up-to-date and liberated from “old” thinking. And, in the way of things, both have aged badly. The Mods of 1960s Britain were a social movement wrapped up in a fashion statement. Modernism, by contrast, is timeless.

If David Bowie really has returned to form, I’ll cry

I haven’t heard the David Bowie album yet, but the Amazon order is in and Postie has been alerted as to the importance of the delivery. How often these days do any of us feel so excited about an imminent release? The ten-year gap between Bowie albums might have something to do with it, but the 30-year gap between decent Bowie albums is probably more relevant. And all this is down to the excellence of the single. Gary Kemp of Spandau Ballet wept the first time he heard ‘Where Are We Now?’, and I was blubbing well into the song’s third or fourth week on Radio 2. Nostalgia for lost

Class prejudice is keeping talented children out of classical music

Musicians have always had an uncertain social status in England, the traditional reactions varying from amused condescension to mild repulsion. The former was the old class-based judgment on men who had chosen to take up a profession which at best was associated with society women and at worst seemed menial; the latter directed towards brass players from rough backgrounds whose lips juggled pint pots with mouthpieces and not much else. The most respectable practitioners were probably organists, often referred to as ‘funny little men’, but taken seriously. As evidence of the class-based comment, this was Lord Chesterfield’s advice to his son towards the end of the 18th century: ‘If you

Bigmouth Strikes Again

Johnny Marr’s at it again. ‘David Cameron is not allowed to like my music,’ he fumes. He revives his disgust for Cameron’s love of The Smiths at least once every three months. God knows why he bothers. A bid to get his once famous name back in the papers? Or perhaps he likes to madden Tories? Ever since Cameron appeared on  Desert Island Discs, Tories have winced at the furious and occasionally bemused response from musicians name-checked by Dave. Marr was, as we know, most put out to find ‘The Charming Man’ on the list; and Paul Weller of The Jam was lost as to why Cameron liked ‘Eton Rifles’. Weller memorably said: ‘Which part of

Trevor Grills: the terrible death of a Fisherman’s Friend

I first came to discover the beauty of the Cornish shanty singers Fisherman’s Friends when I was on holiday in the West Country last year. I was late to the game and had bought a copy of their CD at Port Isaac on a whim. I assumed it was a novelty record that I would play once or twice on the car stereo on the way home. But as soon I heard the first phrase of the first tune, ‘Shanty Man’, I was hooked, reeled in, netted by the passion of this singing. The whole family was. And we know that CD by heart. Of all the songs, some humorous,

Morrissey and Johnny Marr Explain Scottish Independence… – Spectator Blogs

There are only 600 or so days to go until Scotland has its referendum on independence. The excitement is almost palpable. Fortunately The Smiths back catalogue is all you need peruse to have a keen grip on the defining stramash de nos jours. Morrissey has always fancied himself, I think, as a kind of prophet. Johnny Marr wrote the tunes. Astonishing as it may seem, all sides in this rammy are, essentially, taking their cues from The Smiths. A Scottish independence playlist-dialogue might run something like this: Nationalist: Is It Really So Strange? Unionist: Barbarism Begins At Home. Nationalist:  London. Unionist:  Paint A Vulgar Picture. Nationalist: I Know It’s Over.

Alan Rusbridger’s new playmate

Steerpike is back in this week’s magazine. As ever, here is your preview: ‘While losses mount at the Guardian, the editor, Alan Rusbridger, has fallen in love. He keeps ordering the sub-editors to find space for articles about his new Fazioli piano. Cheeky responses have appeared on the website. ‘We always wondered how you filled your days and how you spent your fortune,’ wrote one indignant hack. ‘Now we know.’ Faziolis cost at least £50,000 and a friend at the Wigmore Hall tells me professionals won’t go near them. ‘They’re for loaded amateurs who think a pricy instrument will make up for clumsy fingerwork.’ Rusbridger recalls an early tryst with

Shelf Life: Kate Tempest

Kate Tempest started out as a 16-year-old rapper in London. Now she performs the spoken word, reading her poetry, rhymes and prose to stage audiences across the world. She has also written a play called ‘Wasted’, which toured Britain earlier this year. She is involved in a spoken word project at the Battersea Arts Centre. You can find more details by visiting her website, katetempest.co.uk. 1). What are you reading at the moment? I’m reading Robert Walser Selected Stories and a book of plays by Martin McDonagh. Also Christopher Logue’s War Music. 2). As a child, what did you read under the covers? The Wizard of Earthsea trilogy by Ursula Le Guin

A tale of two Smiths: Zadie Smith and The Smiths

It is lit-fiction season: that time of the year of when the premier novelists of the age dominate the market. Ian McEwan, Pat Barker, Zadie Smith, Sebastian Faulks and Rose Tremain all have new books out, and Salman Rushdie’s much anticipated memoirs are to be launched this week, so many newspapers are devoting themselves to regurgitating stale observations about The Satanic Verses ahead of the main and keenly guarded event. Of the new books, Zadie Smith’s NW is garnering the most plaudits, or at least that seems to be the case. Philip Hensher awarded the ‘rich and varied’ book 5 stars in his Telegraph review, marking the ‘virtuosity of Smith’s technique’

Team GB meets Team GQ

In what Bono described to me as ‘the best of the smaller ones’, the stars of Team GB stole the show at last night’s GQ Men of the Year awards. Presented with a special team award by Lord Coe, the A-list crowd were on their feet at the Royal Opera House for the Olympic contingent. Though seemingly dry, high-jump star Greg Rutherford and pommel-horser Louis Smith were amongst the last men standing at the after-party. Cyclist Bradley Wiggins is becoming something of fashion icon, though he might need to work on his people skills. Asked if he would like to meet Liam Gallagher, the cyclist said ‘Nah, I know him

Roger McGough interview

As Roger McGough approaches 75, his latest collection of poems As Far As I Know shows him writing with the same blend of mischievous word play, subversion of cliché and distinctive sense of humor that makes him one of Britain’s most popular poets. McGough became a prominent force in the late 1960s when his poems were included in ‘The Mersey Sound’: a Penguin anthology that has since sold over a million copies. To date, McGough has published over fifty collections of poetry for both adults and children. His work has always reached a wide audience due to its incredible accessibility. Along with Mike McGear and John Gorman, McGough, was a

Spicing up my life

I do not necessarily wish to imply I have the gift of prophecy. But this is either uncanny or part of some cosmic plan to aggravate me. Three years ago on an edition of Question Time, alongside the then Olympics minister Tessa Jowell, the panel was asked whether we regretted bidding for the Olympics (since a recession had come along afterwards). I said that I had never been terribly in favour of getting the Olympics, not because of the expense or because our athletes wouldn’t do our nation proud (as they more than have) but because of how bad we in Britain had become at selling ourselves as a culture.

Any Spice is too much

It’s actually happening. Leaked rehearsal snaps (via Twitter) confirm the very worst suspicions about the Olympic closing ceremony. Yes, that’s right – The Spice Girls are reforming and will take to the stage atop five black cabs. What have we done to deserve this? Wasn’t dancing NHS nurses and ‘sick’ children bouncing on trampoline beds enough punishment? With ‘Viva Forever’ the Spice girls musical opening in November, Mr Steerpike has a terrible feeling that we’re going to have endure the resurgence of one of the very worst aspects of the nineties. Come back Danny Boyle. All is forgiven.

Ferry and Marr dream team

Bryan Ferry CBE was on form last night, for his only UK appearance this year, at Guildford’s terribly middle-class Guilfest — the only festival I have ever seen that had a Pizza Express on site. The sixty six year old rocker still has it, even if he did have to ruin the look with a cashmere scarf after the sun went down. Mr Steerpike was not alone in wondering why the set had an edgier feel to it than the greying Roxy Music fans might have been used to. All was revealed toward the end when Ferry announced the extra guitarist with the badly dyed black hair, and the worst

Legally blonde

A touch of glamour at the High Court this morning as N-Dubz singer turned X-Factor judge Tulisa won an apology from her ex-boyfriend for leaking a rather intimate tape of the pair. Revealing a newly dyed blonde mop for her day, presumably in homage to Legally Blonde, she told the waiting pack that her leaky ex had messed with the wrong girl. ‘I’m just really happy that the truth is out. It’s a fresh start for me today after this, and it’s my birthday, and now, of course, I’m off to Ibiza.’ Of course. A happy ending you might say.