Let me tell you what it feels like.
It's like pulling on a favourite pair of shoes, of the snug, comfortable feel that putting your feet into that well worn leather sends through your nervous system.
It's like wearing that leather jacket that you've had for so long that when you put it on it feels like a second skin - warm, familiar and like, well, coming home.
So what is it that feel this way for me? What fills me with such a deep sense of peace, of contentment, that I can't help but take a satisfyingly deep breath and smile?
Rock music. That's what does it for me. Good old fashioned loud guitars, catchy hooks, driving rhythms and sing-a-long lyrics.
Yes, I love lots of other kinds of music. I adore electronica, being a life long fan of Gary Numan, Alphaville, and other classic bands like the Human League and Fad Gadget. I love what you might term easy listening, or folk, or country, or whatever you want to call it, bands like Counting Crows, artists like Newton Faulkener, Aimee Mann, and Tori Amos. I even dig certain rap artists, like Public Enemy, Cypress Hill, and Ice T (and yes, the true 'gangstas' among you may consider this rap-lite but fuck you, I like what I like).
And I love, love, love Nine Inch Nails, but my adoration of Trent Reznor's work borders on the religious so we'll deal with this another day.
None of these bands or genres really fires my soul up like rock music does, though.
As I write this I'm listening to a band called Junkyard who play hard rockin' blues, and I'm nodding my head and my fingers are itching to run into the conservatory and pick up my bass and just jam until my fingers bleed.
And you know what, I couldn't be happier. There's something about loud guitars that just pushes all the right buttons and I wouldn't change it for the world. Not even for a million dollars (or given the current exchange rate, English pounds).
People speculate on what heaven might be like. Heaven for me would be an eternal Friday night at Nottingham's Rock City circa 1989 (but with maybe better beer).
On that note, I'm going to go and turn it up just a little bit louder, at the risk of annoying the neighbours, and for the rest of the evening bask in my own piece of heaven.
Showing posts with label rock. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rock. Show all posts
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Skip To The Beat
I experienced two things of note today, one that's a reassuingly regular occurance, the other that I haven't experienced in a long, long time.
The first was the deep seated sense of satisfaction that washes over me when I rediscover a song that I haven't heard for an age, but which turns out to be every bit as good as I remember it.
The song in question today was by a rock band from nearly two decades ago called Company Of Wolves. This was a band that I discovered through the guitarist in the band I was in at the time, a decent chap called Sean Homer who I often think about despite having lost touch some ten years ago. Last I knew he was the manager at the Times Square branch of Virgin Records in New York, but when I first met him we were both working at WH Smiths on Wheelergate in Nottingham.
Sean was the guitarist in my first proper rock band, and was one of a couple of people I knew that were at one point closer to me than my own family. We never fell out, or argued about anything, which makes the fact, in retrospect, that we lost touch all the more sad.
Really good friends in this life are hard to come by, and to let them slip through your fingers, as I have done more than once, is stupid. I'm lucky in that I still have some friends from my youth, who have been there through thick and thin. Over the years we;ve reassured each other, supported each other, lied for each other and been there for each other, and I won't let those who I still know slip away, and I know they feel the same.
Now where was I? Oh yes, the song. The song is called Sacrifice Me, and it's a beautiful track played on a couple of steel guitars and with a delightfully raspy vocal. What really works, though, are the words.
It's one of those songs to be played in the dark, with a glass of red wine and a smoke. A song that is equal parts hope and despair. Equal parts elation and sorrow.
Which brings me to the second experience, that of the skipping of a needle on vinyl.
I haven't had a record player for years, and I actually downloaded the Company Of Wolves album because after searching high and low for years I'm convinced it doesn't exist on CD (and if it does, and you know where I can get it, please do let me know!).
While playing this song, though, which was clearly recorded digitally from vinyl, it skipped. Several times actually. While it's annoying in one way, it also kind of adds to the atmosphere and the memories that the song wells up in me.
So, a bittersweet discovery, perfect but flawed, much like me.
"Search for yourself, 'cause you're the hardest thing you're ever going to find."
Sacrifice Me, by Company Of Wolves
The first was the deep seated sense of satisfaction that washes over me when I rediscover a song that I haven't heard for an age, but which turns out to be every bit as good as I remember it.
The song in question today was by a rock band from nearly two decades ago called Company Of Wolves. This was a band that I discovered through the guitarist in the band I was in at the time, a decent chap called Sean Homer who I often think about despite having lost touch some ten years ago. Last I knew he was the manager at the Times Square branch of Virgin Records in New York, but when I first met him we were both working at WH Smiths on Wheelergate in Nottingham.
Sean was the guitarist in my first proper rock band, and was one of a couple of people I knew that were at one point closer to me than my own family. We never fell out, or argued about anything, which makes the fact, in retrospect, that we lost touch all the more sad.
Really good friends in this life are hard to come by, and to let them slip through your fingers, as I have done more than once, is stupid. I'm lucky in that I still have some friends from my youth, who have been there through thick and thin. Over the years we;ve reassured each other, supported each other, lied for each other and been there for each other, and I won't let those who I still know slip away, and I know they feel the same.
Now where was I? Oh yes, the song. The song is called Sacrifice Me, and it's a beautiful track played on a couple of steel guitars and with a delightfully raspy vocal. What really works, though, are the words.
It's one of those songs to be played in the dark, with a glass of red wine and a smoke. A song that is equal parts hope and despair. Equal parts elation and sorrow.
Which brings me to the second experience, that of the skipping of a needle on vinyl.
I haven't had a record player for years, and I actually downloaded the Company Of Wolves album because after searching high and low for years I'm convinced it doesn't exist on CD (and if it does, and you know where I can get it, please do let me know!).
While playing this song, though, which was clearly recorded digitally from vinyl, it skipped. Several times actually. While it's annoying in one way, it also kind of adds to the atmosphere and the memories that the song wells up in me.
So, a bittersweet discovery, perfect but flawed, much like me.
"Search for yourself, 'cause you're the hardest thing you're ever going to find."
Sacrifice Me, by Company Of Wolves
Wednesday, 6 February 2008
The 51st State
I've just had the most amazing revelation.
I was working on a chapter for my ongoing semi-autobiographical book about the rock scene in the 1980s, and was covering the bizarre story of ex-KISS man Vinnie Vincent's wife's disappearance in January 1998.
That's another story for another day, though, along with Motley Crue bassist Nikki Sixx's doppelganger, who claimed that he replaced him in the band for three years following a near fatal car crash. Seriously, you couldn't make this stuff up.
Anyway, my revelation came about when I was running the spell checker and aside from the usual transposed letters and my constant inability to spell focused correctly, my laptop suddenly informed me that I had spelt Conneticut incorrectly.
Now, the eagle-eyed among you will have noticed immediately that I have just deliberately misspelled it (and if you actually live in the state and didn't notice, shame on you), but I was literally stopped dead in my literary tracks because for my whole life I have been convinced that Connecticut was actually spelled Conneticut.
I sat looking at this strange new, yet clearly correct (I even checked with the state's official website), spelling and felt not unlike a small child having finally realised that the only fat guy in a suit that comes into your room on Christmas Eve is, well, let's not spoil that for any believers who may be reading.
I just couldn't comprehend that America's fourth most densely populated state looked as though it should be pronounced connect-i-cut, which for some unknown reason had my brain conjuring up images of the old Connect 4 game.
It started me wondering how many other things I have wilfully misinterpreted over the years, and reminded me of a story I read once about a holy man who had prayed in front of the same stained glass window for his whole life and when asked was certain that there were three panels, when in fact there were four. I wish I could find this story again, but sadly Google is not my friend on this occasion.
On the bright side, however, I now know how to spell Connecticut correctly, and thanks to my visiting the state website know more about it now than I ever did, including the fact that one George Walker Bush was born there.
Oh well, ever silver lining has a cloud, eh?
I was working on a chapter for my ongoing semi-autobiographical book about the rock scene in the 1980s, and was covering the bizarre story of ex-KISS man Vinnie Vincent's wife's disappearance in January 1998.
That's another story for another day, though, along with Motley Crue bassist Nikki Sixx's doppelganger, who claimed that he replaced him in the band for three years following a near fatal car crash. Seriously, you couldn't make this stuff up.
Anyway, my revelation came about when I was running the spell checker and aside from the usual transposed letters and my constant inability to spell focused correctly, my laptop suddenly informed me that I had spelt Conneticut incorrectly.
Now, the eagle-eyed among you will have noticed immediately that I have just deliberately misspelled it (and if you actually live in the state and didn't notice, shame on you), but I was literally stopped dead in my literary tracks because for my whole life I have been convinced that Connecticut was actually spelled Conneticut.
I sat looking at this strange new, yet clearly correct (I even checked with the state's official website), spelling and felt not unlike a small child having finally realised that the only fat guy in a suit that comes into your room on Christmas Eve is, well, let's not spoil that for any believers who may be reading.
I just couldn't comprehend that America's fourth most densely populated state looked as though it should be pronounced connect-i-cut, which for some unknown reason had my brain conjuring up images of the old Connect 4 game.
It started me wondering how many other things I have wilfully misinterpreted over the years, and reminded me of a story I read once about a holy man who had prayed in front of the same stained glass window for his whole life and when asked was certain that there were three panels, when in fact there were four. I wish I could find this story again, but sadly Google is not my friend on this occasion.
On the bright side, however, I now know how to spell Connecticut correctly, and thanks to my visiting the state website know more about it now than I ever did, including the fact that one George Walker Bush was born there.
Oh well, ever silver lining has a cloud, eh?
Sunday, 3 February 2008
A Rare Intimacy
As I mentioned a few days ago, we've got tickets to see Sheryl Crow at the Scala in London, a small, very intimate venue near Kings Cross.
I'm particularly pleased about this because I've wanted to see her live for years but I have an intense dislike of seeing bands and artists in the various aircraft hangers and enormodomes that the most popular artists are compelled to play these days in order to maximise their revenues, and to accomodate the sheer numbers of fans that are clamouring to see them.
It wasn't always this way, though, a fact I was reminded of when I was doing some research for my book on the rock scene in the late 80s / early 90s.
Back then, rather than play a single date at Wembley Stadium, bands like Iron Maiden or Def Leppard would instead book themselves in for multiple nights in the more intimate venues in the capital. For example, on their 1985 World Slavery Tour (so called because of their Powerslave album, as opposed to any apology-inducing references to our bad old English ways) they performed for six consecutive nights at the old Hammersmith Odeon, now called the Labatt's Apollo, not nearly as appealing a name, but that's corporate sponsorship for you.
Similarly Def Leppard played there for three nights on the first leg of their mammoth Hysteria tour, although by the time they returned the following year they were big enough to play multiple nights at Wembley Arena and Birmingham's NEC, but that first time around it was a fantastic opportunity for their fans to see them up close and personal, as it were.
Now, though, and I'm aware that I'm sounding like a curmudgeonly old moaner, it seems that the minute one of my favourite bands gets a sniff of success that they're booked in at some place where unless I'm queuing outside the venue at noon on the day of the performance then there's a good chance that I'll be in a different post code to the stage by the time I've grabbed a beer and made my way to my seat.
C'est la vie, I guess, and with the way the record industry is going more importance is going to be placed on live performance, and the corresponding revenue of course, so I'll just accept that unless I catch a band on the upswing, then I'll be herding myself into the country's cattle sheds to see them, and take comfort in the fact that every now and again someone will 'do a Sheryl' and play somewhere like the Scala.
I'm particularly pleased about this because I've wanted to see her live for years but I have an intense dislike of seeing bands and artists in the various aircraft hangers and enormodomes that the most popular artists are compelled to play these days in order to maximise their revenues, and to accomodate the sheer numbers of fans that are clamouring to see them.
It wasn't always this way, though, a fact I was reminded of when I was doing some research for my book on the rock scene in the late 80s / early 90s.
Back then, rather than play a single date at Wembley Stadium, bands like Iron Maiden or Def Leppard would instead book themselves in for multiple nights in the more intimate venues in the capital. For example, on their 1985 World Slavery Tour (so called because of their Powerslave album, as opposed to any apology-inducing references to our bad old English ways) they performed for six consecutive nights at the old Hammersmith Odeon, now called the Labatt's Apollo, not nearly as appealing a name, but that's corporate sponsorship for you.
Similarly Def Leppard played there for three nights on the first leg of their mammoth Hysteria tour, although by the time they returned the following year they were big enough to play multiple nights at Wembley Arena and Birmingham's NEC, but that first time around it was a fantastic opportunity for their fans to see them up close and personal, as it were.
Now, though, and I'm aware that I'm sounding like a curmudgeonly old moaner, it seems that the minute one of my favourite bands gets a sniff of success that they're booked in at some place where unless I'm queuing outside the venue at noon on the day of the performance then there's a good chance that I'll be in a different post code to the stage by the time I've grabbed a beer and made my way to my seat.
C'est la vie, I guess, and with the way the record industry is going more importance is going to be placed on live performance, and the corresponding revenue of course, so I'll just accept that unless I catch a band on the upswing, then I'll be herding myself into the country's cattle sheds to see them, and take comfort in the fact that every now and again someone will 'do a Sheryl' and play somewhere like the Scala.
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
From Hair to Eternity....
I'm currently writing a book on the 1980's rock scene, and in particular how if affected me as a teenager living in Nottingham, England (home of Robin Hood for those of you on foreign shores, but don't even think of mentioning Kevin Costner!).
This has been a long gestating project, some three or four years in the planning, during which time I've written something like 60,000 words of notes on various topics, and which I'm finding now that I'm actually about two-thirds of the way through the first draft, was an invaluable exercise.
So, how does one go about researching a book on rock music?
Well, for me it mainly involved revisiting some of the publications of my youth, most notably Kerrang! magazine which any rock fan brought up in the eighties will know was the holy grail of all things rock and roll in those days. Today it's still an OK magazine, but many of its writers have grown up, like me, and now write for Classic Rock magazine, and so I too have moved on to these more mature pastures, though I like to think that aside from retiring from the mosh pit several years ago after nearly crippling myself (don't ask!), I still rock every bit as hard as I used to. (Well, nearly....)
Wading through some hundred and fifty issues that the magical wallet-lightener known as eBay forced upon me (yeah, right), memories of the old days came flooding back - the first time I went to a genuine rock gig (Iron Maiden, 1986, Nottingham Royal Centre), the first time I saw Guns'n'Roses (1987, in a small club venue called Rock City, again in Nottingham), my first stage dive (not sure when, but I'm pretty sure it was at an Onslaught gig at Rock City) - I could go on (and frequently do, particularly when I get together with my old friends) but you can read all about it sometime later this year if all goes to plan.
The other grinding, tedious, boring task (Who am I kidding? It's been a blast) I put myself through was watching dozens of old rock videos on YouTube. For all its faults (like the world needs footage of another dumbass stapling a ten dollar bill to his forehead, or another teenager showing me just how much better at Guitar Hero III he is than I'll ever be), this is probably the greatest thing that YouTube has given my generation. The ability to dial up virtually any of the old school rock videos is so addicitive that just the other night I found myself glued to the screen for several hours as I played one after the other after the other.
However, to save you trouble of weeding through the hundreds on offer, I proudly present a list of five of my favourite hair metal clips for you to track down...... enjoy!
David Lee Roth - Just A Gigolo
Zodiac Mindwarp - Prime Mover
KISS - Let's Put The X In Sex
Twisted Sister - We're Not Gonna Take It
Poison - Nothin' But A Good Time
This has been a long gestating project, some three or four years in the planning, during which time I've written something like 60,000 words of notes on various topics, and which I'm finding now that I'm actually about two-thirds of the way through the first draft, was an invaluable exercise.
So, how does one go about researching a book on rock music?
Well, for me it mainly involved revisiting some of the publications of my youth, most notably Kerrang! magazine which any rock fan brought up in the eighties will know was the holy grail of all things rock and roll in those days. Today it's still an OK magazine, but many of its writers have grown up, like me, and now write for Classic Rock magazine, and so I too have moved on to these more mature pastures, though I like to think that aside from retiring from the mosh pit several years ago after nearly crippling myself (don't ask!), I still rock every bit as hard as I used to. (Well, nearly....)
Wading through some hundred and fifty issues that the magical wallet-lightener known as eBay forced upon me (yeah, right), memories of the old days came flooding back - the first time I went to a genuine rock gig (Iron Maiden, 1986, Nottingham Royal Centre), the first time I saw Guns'n'Roses (1987, in a small club venue called Rock City, again in Nottingham), my first stage dive (not sure when, but I'm pretty sure it was at an Onslaught gig at Rock City) - I could go on (and frequently do, particularly when I get together with my old friends) but you can read all about it sometime later this year if all goes to plan.
The other grinding, tedious, boring task (Who am I kidding? It's been a blast) I put myself through was watching dozens of old rock videos on YouTube. For all its faults (like the world needs footage of another dumbass stapling a ten dollar bill to his forehead, or another teenager showing me just how much better at Guitar Hero III he is than I'll ever be), this is probably the greatest thing that YouTube has given my generation. The ability to dial up virtually any of the old school rock videos is so addicitive that just the other night I found myself glued to the screen for several hours as I played one after the other after the other.
However, to save you trouble of weeding through the hundreds on offer, I proudly present a list of five of my favourite hair metal clips for you to track down...... enjoy!
David Lee Roth - Just A Gigolo
Zodiac Mindwarp - Prime Mover
KISS - Let's Put The X In Sex
Twisted Sister - We're Not Gonna Take It
Poison - Nothin' But A Good Time
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