Paul Kappa Mountains Of The Moon, The Kappa Band, and the Liverpool Connection

I guess I'd better start by explaining who this guy is. James Brown, the late and very great Godfather of Soul, was billed as 'The Hardest Working Man In Showbiz.' If that was indeed true then it is Paul Kappa who has surely stolen the mantle. Paul, of course, is extremely modest, and would probably squirm at the suggestion that he is in any sense 'showbiz'. For that, I apologise. This guy is the salt of the earth when it comes to hard-working musicians. He is a relentless live performer nation wide, both solo and with his fantastic three piece band 'Kappa' (featuring Martin Byrne on bass, and Vinnie Smith on drums), playing a variety of venues from pubs to clubs, music halls to castles, arenas to street stages. As a band they have no fear, and shy away from no opportunity to get the gear out and pull a crowd. They have for eight years now played a weekly residency in the world famous Cavern Pub, and, being based in Liverpool, gig furiously around the former capital of culture's many venues. In short, you've got to see it to believe it.

In 1994 Paul Kappa won the Liverpool Echo Arts Award for best newcomer when he was fronting his former band Cat Scratch Fever, at a time when the band were embarking on over 1600 shows in six years - a remarkable feat by anybody's standards. He has appeared at Glastonbury, Cropreddy, as well as featuring on MTV and many other European commercial TV and radio stations. He is one of Liverpool's most recognisable faces, combining virtuoso guitar playing with a robust and limitless vocal, and, as a friend of mine once commented during one of our alcohol soaked Saturday afternoon's down in the Cavern, "electrifying showmanship." It was also during one of these hazy afternoon sessions that I managed to get my hands on a copy of Paul's recently recorded solo album, Mountains Of The Moon. Now, I know I have previously dealt with Floyd, Weller, Hendrix, OCS etc in my reviews of life changing records. To me, it makes no difference. Paul Kappa is not a globally successful, multi-millionaire rock star - as much of a shame it is to admit. However, he is one hell of a songwriter and performer, and this album had such a profound affect on me that it merits writing about every inch as much as Dark Side or Stanley Rd.

Mountains Of The Moon (released 2007) is an acoustic album, which is a great part of the appeal for me since my heart lies, if I'm totally honest, with the pure acoustic sound. Afraid Of The Dark - the album's mellow and somewhat haunting opening track - has almost middle-eastern sounds drifting through the layers, creating a really interesting and curious sound. This becomes, actually, a feature of the entire record. The Midnight Sun, which follows, is a beautiful tale of lament smothered in glorious harmonies, and interjected by a simple but killer solo. When Paul sings "I just need someone to shine," with all the delicacy and sincerity he can muster, the record seems to stand still along with time itself. Lullaby Of Ra is moody, though somewhat comforting - almost like the light creeping through the blinds on a summer's morning, whereas The Most Beauty is a broad landscape of imagery, both musical and lyrical.

The Road To Memphis is, without trying to invent a paradox, a rather fervent acoustic blues, with the riff providing the driving beat. For a minute you are actually on that road, until Paul's inventive and slightly off-centre solo throws the track into a lofty and somewhat imaginative state of disquiet. Mountains Of The Moon - the album's title track - is a masterpiece in every way. There is an anxiety running throughout; beginning "I fly far above you / Looking down on these wings," Kappa maintains a sense of turmoil through genius chord changes and a breathtaking vocal. The song is, literally and metaphorically, a celestial journey through the clouds. The Kappa Band, on their live DVD Pacifika (recorded in Birkenhead's Pacific Road Arts Centre) perform a thrilling version of this track with a horn section and organ thrown into the mix. A song to transcend any band line-up, and always captivating regardless.

The Marion Square Dance is a lively and eccentric track, and one that you could have imagined entertaining a Pagan festival during the middle ages! There are visions of camp fires and dancers in the moonlight. It has a feverish hook and clever lyrics, and sounds like nothing I've ever heard written in contemporary music before. Nobody & Nothing is a fantastic declaration of unbreakable love: "Nobody and nothing gonna stop me loving you." It echoes Led Zeppelin's acoustic works in many ways, and triumphs towards the end with some delightful, hazy vocal effects. Feelin' Free, which has become one of Kappa's most popular live anthems, is testament to Paul's great songwriting abilities. The album closes with a raw, Neil Young-esque piano vocal called Glory Be Grace, which also nods at traditional soul and gospel music. It is a rousing end to a brilliant all-round record.

I take my hat off to the man for this album, I really do. It was written, performed, recorded, produced, mixed and mastered by Paul himself, who plays no fewer than six different instruments including a Turkish Saz and Mandolin. If I'm honest it is almost upsetting to think that this music isn't out there taking over the world; that people in the vast reaches who unfortunately wont ever get to hear of this great talent in their lifetimes, would probably love the fruits of his creative labours. That is the music business for you, although it is also important to remember that notoriety of any sort is achievement in plenty. I'm sure I'm not the only one who parted with a fiver at the end of one of Paul's gigs and staggered home pissed as a fart, only to find out that I had an absolute gem in my pocket the next morning.

Now Kappa are a phenomenon in these parts. They always pull a crowd, and quite simply ALWAYS deliver. They are a band way ahead of their time. Their interpretations of other bands' music is always raucous and exciting, and their impossible 40 minute medleys nothing but astounding. Martin Byrne is quite honestly the best bass player around without a shadow of a doubt, and Vinnie Smith the rock that never crumbles at the rear. Paul Kappa is the showman extraordinaire, playing seemingly absurd guitar parts (sometimes with his teeth, sometimes behind his head) over the top of a purely unique vocal. I can't believe I've actually seen them hundreds of times for free. It borders on criminal. I have even been lucky enough to share a stage with these guys in recent times, supporting them in my own guise of Little Wing, which has been an honour and a privilege. They are a band that I hope will roll on forever, and continue to entertain all those who know about music's best kept secret until the dawn descends.

Paul Kappa's Mountain's Of The Moon and live DVD Pacifika are available now online at www.kappaband.com, or live at his gigs - look out for them in your area! Other Kappa albums to look out for include Living At The End Of The World (2003) and Bok Rok (2009).

Ocean Colour Scene Moseley Shoals, Meetings, Gigs, and my mad mate Glenn

"I see double up ahead / Where the riverboat swayed beneath the sun /

Is where the river runs red........."

Ocean Colour Scene really are my band. If we are talking about a specific sound, a specific look, a certain style, and a definitive list of influences, these guys have always been on the same page as me. I'd have to list them as the band 'I grew up with.' Their music is melodic, guitar based Rock, drawing on the likes of The Who, The Small Faces, and Paul Weller. They were a vital part of the Britpop movement in the mid-nineties, and have managed longevity through the power of their anthemic songs. Steve Cradock, a long-time member of Paul Weller's touring and studio band, has somehow managed to pioneer his own wildest dreams. He has his own band of almost twenty years still making great records, and has become a close confidant of his own hero in Weller. It's a remarkable story, and one that I hope carries on for many years to come.

Ocean Colour Scene have seen several line-up changes since the making of their majestic album, Moseley Shoals, though this particular lineup - consisting of Simon Fowler, Steve Cradock, Oscar Harrison, and Damon Minchella - will always be considered their classic. Released in 1996, and named after the birthplace (Moseley) of Simon, Steve and Oscar, it went on to reach number 2 in the charts, and was voted the 33rd greatest album of all-time in a poll by Q Magazine in 1998. I first found the album after their name continually cropped up wherever Weller's did; thus I had no choice but to investigate. Also, to add to that already outstanding attribute, Chris Evans (who is in a lot of ways chiefly responsible for the band's eventual success) insisted on using The Riverboat Song as the theme tune to his hit TV programme TFI Friday, which propelled the band into the public domain. I vividly remember people at school constantly asking "who sings that song on TFI?" I suppose it was a cheats way in, but a way in all the time. God bless Chris Evans for his foresight.

I ordered Moseley Shoals through the mail order Britannia Music Club, which has a story of its own that I may one day tell, and I remember ripping the cardboard away on the night that I arrived home from school to find it lying in the porch. This was really cool shit - I'd be able to tell those people who asked the TFI question that I had the album, never mind knew who it was. Bravado aside, I had no idea the quality of the whole record that lay inside. The Riverboat Song is a thumping guitar riff of the same ilk as Satisfaction. It is what is - a great song to put on to get the adrenaline pumping before a night out, or equally as good to thrash about to when relieving some pent up, teenage frustration. The Day We Caught The Train is your typical singalong gig anthem - energetic and pumping, it confirms the album's upbeat, dynamic entrance. The Circle - which is more a songwriter's lament - is equally as commanding when sang live in the singalong sense. This band has a knack for writing songs designed for the live arena - although in that bracket, Moseley Shoals stands alone.

The beauty about this album is that there isn't a bad track in sight. Lining Your Pockets is a virtuous slow song in which Fowler sings charmingly. 40 Past Midnight is a belting, raunchy rocker. It's My Shadow demonstrates the band's alluring ability to find an enchanting chord sequence. Policemen & Pirates, which boasts superbly witty lyrics ("but it doesn't really matter / when the judgements are said / 'cos we all take our chances to find out romance is in some others bed") is sparkling and animated. The real gems in my opinion are, however, the fantastic, dreamy Fleeting Mind, which provides a platform for Cradock's ingenious guitar playing. Harrison also lays down a one-off drum track. There is also One For The Road; a moving account of a young death, and a testament to the human spirit in the aftermath. This is a tear jerker whilst filling you with a strange sense of hope. A true highlight.

The Downstream and You've Got It Bad are often overlooked, but are equally as subversive and spirited as the rest of the tracks on Moseley Shoals. The bluesy Get Away, featuring some sublime harmonica work by Fowler, is the rousing, ethereal, and in latter points crashing ending to a brilliant contemporary record. I say contemporary forgetting that it is in fact nearly fifteen years old, yet it still sounds fresh enough to have been released yesterday. Brendan Lynch, who contributed sleeve notes to the album, hinted at the power of OCS's live performance when he stated: "There's so much nuance in music, it's difficult to get it right with technology, capturing those moments that make something unique and exciting. Music is made to just go out into the air. . . . ." I have had the pleasure of seeing the band four times over the years, although to be honest they are a form band. My first experience was back in 2001 in Manchester Apollo Theatre on the mechanical wonder tour. We got drunk, sang our hearts out, bounced round in the moshpit at the front, crowd surfed, and had a thoroughly great night. The band were on fire, and I'll never forget the storming version of The Baker by The Small Faces that they ended with that night. A nod to their heroes as we nodded to ours. It was pure magic.

Our second meeting back in Sheffield City Hall in 2003 was less than impressive. Mind you, it didn't begin well when, as a young member of the student magazine, I arrived really early in search of an interview only to find Steve Cradock and Oscar Harrison wasted in the bar on Stella, arguing angrily with a security guard. Needless to say I avoided approaching them, and was less than impressed with their shabby, drunken performance. The third time I shared a room with them was five years later in 2008, again at the Manchester Apollo Theatre. This whole day became a story in itself. I went with two mates - Johnno, who can only be described as a drunk, and Glenn, who is as mad as a box of frogs, and, on the drunk front, even worse than Johnno. We arrived in Manchester very early that day - inevitably too early - and sat in the Apsley Cottage Pub next door to the Apollo ALL DAY. By tea-time we were all absolutely wrecked. Glenn was throwing ale down his neck like it was going out of fashion; me and Johnno just couldn't keep up, which is a position neither of us are used to. We had to resort to drinking shorts which fuelled the fires even more, so come 6pm we were a collective waste of space.

By this time the pub had filled full of OCS fans catching a beer before the gig, including the most disgustingly ugly, gobby bird I've ever had the displeasure of seeing in my life, who, on Glenn's rather loud and slurred instructions, decided to get her tits out in the middle of the pub. Then came 'George', the renowned, full-of-shit con artist who goes round befriending people and claiming he is collecting for a charity. He came over to tell us all how he used to be an ex-wrestler, but soon gave up when he realised we couldn't string a sentence together. Then, as if by magic, Steve Cradock himself rocked in for a pre-gig beer and ended up in a photograph with the three of us without any choice in the matter. I'd love to say the anecdotes end there, but I'm afraid not. After meeting two other mates, Rich and The Gingerbread Man, we entered the Apollo and carried on boozing heavily. At 8:50pm, ten minutes before OCS were due on stage, Glenn turned to me cross-eyed and said something like "I've no idea.....what the fuck......where am I?......I'm getting off," and preceded to zig-zag towards the exit through the crowd. I just about managed to regain my senses, stop him, and explain to him why we were there.

He must have listened because he stayed and OCS rocked the joint. A great gig, as was Steve and Simon's acoustic set in The Hard Rock Cafe, also in Manchester in 2009, where we got our memorable photo with Steve signed. The beauty is that we're all still here - Glenn included (just) - and that these nights will happen again I'm sure. Moseley Shoals is the type of record that will never lose its appeal - it is a formidable statement by a band at the height of their powers. Long may these third generation Mods reign supreme.

The Beatles Abbey Road - A mutual coming of age

How do you make a pedestrian crossing mega-famous and iconic? Well, you make four of the most famous people on the planet walk across it, take a picture, and use it as the front cover to the best album they'll ever record. Simple. Christ, if only life was as easy as that. . . . . .

The story is that The Beatles were supposed to be going to the Maldives to shoot the front cover of this 1969 classic, Abbey Road. Apparently they couldn't be arsed, so during a tea-break in recording they popped outside, crossed the road, and Bob's your uncle. The most famous album cover ever. Fuck all that travelling when you've got a pedestrain crossing outside. I write this having found out this weekend that Abbey Road Studios may soon cease to exist, which makes this review all the more poignant, not just because of The Beatles' classic album, but because of its history in general. Some of the all time classic albums have been recorded there by the likes of Pink Floyd and Kate Bush; it seems senseless that such a place is not listed. Chris Evans rightly pointed out in the press this week that The Beatles are like Shakespeare - essential to our culture and heritage as a nation, so how can Abbey Road be torn down? It would be like tearing The Bard's house down in Stratford Upon Avon. It's senseless and wrong. If Abbey Road the album isn't enough evidence to take into court then what is???

Now I'm kind of nervous about this blog. I mean, what do you say that hasn't already been said about The Beatles? The greatest band in the world for-all-time-ever-plus-a-bit-longer? The most talked about, frantically obsessed about, global phenomenon still, forty years after hanging up their boots. The answer to that is I don't know. All I can do is share my experience of growing up listening to them, sharing my every breath with their music as a soundtrack, and, in relation to this, their finest album in my opinion, my passion for their untouchable creativity. Four lads from Liverpool - a place so close to me I can smell it - who literally changed the face of the planet. It is quite unbelievable. A fairy tale nobody could ever have envisaged. A story too wild to consider telling. And yet it happened, and I'm about to document just a small part of it.

I was fourteen when I first got hold of a copy of Abbey Road. The cover was an obvious pull, although I was obsessed with George Harrison's ballad Something - once cruelly and mistakingly dubbed "my favourite Lennon / McCartney track" by Frank Sinatra when covered by Ol' Blue Eyes during a concert performance. As soon as I found out it was on this album it was a banker. However, Something is but a small part of this roller-coaster ride. Now, before I go on and break the album down I have a few things to say. Firstly, George Martin works absolute miracles on this record. If he wasn't already, this album secures him as the fifth Beatle. Secondly, McCartney's bass playing on this record is phenomenal. Again, he is seen in such a general light of greatness that his specific abilities remain often ignored, but he genuinely defines bass playing on much of this record. Totally awesome. Harrison, it must be said thirdly, contributes two of the best three songs, much to the suprise of most Lennon / McCartney fanatics. If his work had often been left in the shade before Abbey Road, it was simply impossible to ignore Something and Here Comes The Sun. Finally, I must comment on Ringo. John Lennon famously claimed that he wasn't even the best drummer in The Beatles, but boy, on Abbey Road his work is untouchable. I'd even go as far as suggesting this album would be a good listen if you listened to the drum parts alone. Well, maybe. . . . .

The album begins with the brooding Come Together, combining a genius McCartney bass line with sublimely executed drum rolls. Lennon's sneer throughout a world of almost incomprehensible lyrics provides just the controversial and warped entry that, you can certainly imagine, the fab four would have been looking for. Something somewhat calms the frenzy, and displays Harrison's underated craftsmanship. His voice is subtle and in parts beautiful, as are the impeccable harmonies by McCartney. Maxwell's Silver Hammer - arguably the only weak point on the album - is a nonsene story about a psychotic murderer, which at best is vaguely disturbing, or at worst an unwelcome distraction. I have never been a huge fan, though it pains me to say it. Oh! Darling is a song of angst, in which Paul screams his heart out for a lost love, Octopus's Garden the quirky, Ringo-penned singalong, and I Want You (She's So Heavy) a spiralling, fraught, helpless anti-love song. The madness that transpires through the tortured repetition is vital to the building atmosphere of The Beatles' most experimental record.

Here Comes The Sun - Harrison's second masterpiece on Abbey Road - wakes the listener up from the maddening longing in I Want You, placing us in a sun laden garden, relaxed, happy and optimistic. The guitar work is stunning, the harmonies unparalleled, and the melody exsquisite. The sort of song that will still be used in hundreds of years time without hesitation. Now how many songwriters can claim to have written something like that? George died on the morning of my 19th birthday - November 30th 2001 - and this was the first song I heard after discovering the news. It made me smile at a time I felt like crying.

Because, Sun King, and Golden Slumbers - all tracks on the second side - are concrete examples of Lennon / McCartney's extraordinary songwriting abilities. All are laid back, melodic and serene, providing the album with necessary but delighful breathing spaces in amongst the chaos. You Never Give Me Your Money is a three part opera, which has long been my favourite moment on the entire record. In its own way, this song set a precident for medley-style epic songs such as Bohemian Rhapsody et al. It is tongue in cheek but always sincere; an ability that The Beatles had over every other band. When McCartney sings "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven / All good children go to heaven," you can't help but believe the guy!

And then the famous medley. This, of course, is where George Martin plays his part like no other could. The combination of Mean Mr Mustard, Polythene Pam and She Came In Through The Bathroom Window is brave but brilliant. It is frantic, filled with humour, frenetic, energetic, and at all times coercive. A triumph of imagination. Carry That Weight continues the theme with verve, and The End - now a staple at the conclusion of McCartney's own solo performances - is a rousing and euphonious almost-end to a quite incredible record. Again, it could have only been The Beatles brave and silly enough to slip Her Majesty at the death - a cheeky yet enterprising laugh at The Queen's expense, though I'm sure, like everybody else, she took it in good spirits.

And so the end of a masterstroke in songwriting, playing, singing and engineering. It comes as a shattering disappointment when you hear the sound of the player grinding to a halt. Abbey Road was one of the first Beatles albums I got my hands on. I kind of did things backwards with regards to them, although if I'm brutally honest, it's the post Pepper period that interests me most anyway. Not to say, of course, that the early stuff isn't up to much - in fact, quite the opposite. I just really think the later stuff - Abbey Road being the defining moment - shows a band who were once boys turned into strong and masterful men. An aspiration I still have for myself one day. . . . . . . . .

The Jimi Hendrix Experience Electric Ladyland: Rock's Crazy High

When Jimi gentle asks "Have you ever been to Electric Ladyland?" at the beginning of this monumental 70 minute recording, the initial response is surely "no, Jimi, I haven't." In fact, on first listen, it is impossible to have a clue what he is actually asking us. As the album draws to a thumping close with Jimi's immortal signature number Voodoo Child (Slight Return), it kind of leaves you thinking "well, Jimi, I guess I just went, and you know what? I'd kill to go again..........."

I was at college when I first discovered Jimi. That seemed pretty late since I'd been listening to Floyd, Clapton, Dire Straits, The Stones etc since my early teens. If I remember rightly Voodoo Child was on an advert - and it is paining me to think what for, though I just don't remember. What I do remember is the first time I heard that searing and unforgettable guitar riff. In fact, it was so striking that it seemed like something or somebody superhuman was playing it. Turns out I wasn't far wrong on that count. Jimi was something else. Something that this world wasn't ready for. He took the guitar and quite literally turned it on its head. He was a genius and a revolutionary, a visionary and a freak. He did for guitar based Rock music what the Wright brothers did for the plane. In my opinion, that means pretty much invent it.



There was this guy at college who used to come in with Hendrix T-shirts on all the time. Great big pictures of Jimi's face splattered across his chest, with messages such as 'Guitar God' scrawled across them. I put two and two together, did the research, and found that this song I'd been hearing on the TV was on an album called Electric Ladyland. Needless to say I went straight to town and bought my copy. The front cover - a magnificent, fiery picture of Jimi in action - was, at first, captivating. I still believe it is one of the most powerful album covers ever. So simple and uncluttered, but at the same time saying so much. And the inner sleeve, declaring in bold type: HE SHALL NOT GROW OLD, AS SOME WHO ARE LEFT TO GROW OLD, was equally as exciting. Indeed the sentiment in the sleeve notes is perfectly agreeable - posterity has taken care of Jimi Hendrix, and the legend of this guitar virtuoso who died needlessly young will be forever protected by the wealth of genius he left behind. I find it unbelievable to think that I now share the age in which he died - 27 - and he had achieved so much. He probably managed to live and achieve more in that short life than most people could in a century.



And so, the album. It's an odd start - strangely subtle and delicate, like being ushered through the doorway by a kind and gentle host. Then the power of this magical three piece - featuring Noel Redding and Mitch Mitchell - crashes into the room with Crosstown Traffic. It is impossible to know what should come next, but equally as impossible to believe what does come. A scintillating 14 plus minute freak-out jam named Voodoo Chile featuring Steve Winwood on Organ, which simply has to be one of the greatest live studio recordings, if not the best, ever. It is dark and brooding, moody and bluesy, in parts spacious and utterly compelling. Parts of this song have the same effect as Led Zeppelin's Dazed and Confused - you sort of know deep down inside that it can't be right having a song of this length on a studio album, but you just can't help but love it all the same. Jimi's vocal is impeccable, which is a testament to his musicianship - he is all too often forgotten for his great voice, and heralded only for his guitar wizardry. Winwood's contribution is outstanding. He runs side by side with Hendrix throughout the whole fourteen minutes, trading licks and controlling the tempo with his expert subtlety. As for the guitar playing, it is thoroughly mesmeric. In parts soft, in others frantic, but always note perfect. A song of unimaginable brilliance, and in my opinion the highlight of the first side.



Little Miss Strange is a total departure from what has come before - Noel Redding sings it, and it adds a quirky feel to the record. Long Hot Summer Night is vibrant, as is Come On Baby (Let The Good Times Roll), though Hendrix excels most on Gypsy Eyes. It is a sexy song; driving, but strangely sensual. This period on the album displays his songwriting credentials; Burning Of The Midnight Lamp and Rainy Day, Dream Away are fantastic songs, superbly crafted, and wonderfully eclectic. This album can't be defined simply as an 'episode in guitar playing.' It is a journey through many styles and genres of music, and demonstrates a musician taking all the flavours of his influences and producing a cataclysmic sound encompassing the whole lot. The imagery is immediate; the sound is evocative and omni-present.



The highlight of the whole record for me comes in the form of 1983. . . (A Merman I Should Be). This was a pinnacle moment in my life when I first heard this song. I am like everybody else; I like a drink, I am very sociable, and have often, in my younger years, been enticed into the world of drug-taking. This song showed me why I'd never need to take drugs ever again in my life. Listening to this epic was, and still is, the greatest high. It is very trippy, at times lucid, and often confusing. - but immense all the same. In a nutshell, it is an acid trip without the acid. It is hard not to imagine yourself walking softly on marshmellows and soaking up life's light show as Jimi declares: "me and my love make love on the sand / to salute the last moment that we're on dry land."



Moon Turn The Tides. . . gently gently away is an extension of this mad trip, culminating in the instant turn-on of wha wha guitar in Still Raining, Still Dreaming. This is where Jimi truly makes his guitar sing. Mike Finnigan's organ contribution is also worthy of praise - a superb addition to a great song. House Burning Down is a stomper, in which Jimi cries "look at the sky burn a hellfire red/Lord, someone's house is burning down, down, down. . ." This album was the first, I can be sure, to turn my sky hellfire red. Then comes probably the greatest cover version of them all - All Along The Watchtower - in which Hendrix takes Dylan's song and blows it wide open. It is, along with Joe Cocker's take on With A Little Help From My Friends, the most inventive and powerful remake ever in my opinion. His passionate vocal and howling guitar solos are simply astounding. Dylan must have wondered what on earth he had helped create when he first heard it. I certainly did.



And to the aforementioned Voodoo Child (Slight Return). Probably an overplayed signature song, but one that will never lose its relevance or appeal. Hendrix's experimentation reaches a climax here, and when the six minutes are over, it, at first, left me feeling like I'd been thrown from an aircraft only to land heavily back on the ground, wondering where I'd just been for over an hour. Electric Ladyland is an incredible journey, which is still as fresh and as vibrant as it was the very first time. Hendrix is a well-worn icon these days, similar to Che Guevara or Lennon, or Jim Morrison for example. If you do, of course, subscribe to the commercial airing of his face then there is one thing I would expect from you: that you are, excuse the pun, 'experienced' in Electric Ladyland. If you're not: shame on you.

Pink Floyd Dark Side Of The Moon and the discovery. . . . . .

Looking back now it staggers me that I was fourteen when this record gripped me. I mean, what on earth would a relatively happy fourteen year old need from a progressive concept album made by a bunch of dinosaurs with a silly name, that, say, a Super Nintendo and a milkshake couldn't provide? The answer, my friends, is I still don't know. What I do know is this: Dark Side Of The Moon was like an alien spacecraft smashing through my roof in the dead of night, exploding into a kaleidoscope of colours, lights, images and feelings. It came from absolutely nowhere, and, to this day, is every inch as mesmerising as that first time I got my hands on it.

The night, if I remember rightly, was way back in 1997. I had gone to Tesco one evening with my Dad since it had begun opening late, and, as usual, buried myself in the CD isle, staring at the album covers and scanning the booklets. That was something I loved to do; I would regularly walk into town on a Saturday afternoon and jump from record shop to record shop staring in wide-eyed wonder at all of the names and faces on the record sleeves. Back then Southport was full of music orientated shops - Andy's Records, Market Records, MVC, Our Price - and Woolworths and WH Smiths also had extensive music departments. On this particular night my eye was drawn to the most fascinating record cover I think I'd ever seen - the now iconic prism of light that graces Dark Side. I picked it up and even then it felt like a piece of pure gold in my hand. Something inside told me I just had to have it. I harassed my Dad to buy it for me - needless to say he eventually gave in, and there I was, travelling home as the neon lights flashed by with one of the greatest albums ever made in my possession.



I knew nothing about Pink Floyd before I put the album into the player that night. Nothing at all. I had, of course, heard the name banded about, but had no idea what people were talking about. Little under an hour later I felt like I'd been sat in the studio with the band as they recorded it. That was how consuming this record was the first time I played it. I'd never heard anything like it in my life. From the emerging heartbeat at the beginning of the record to the dramatic, almost orchestral 'eclipse' at the end, I felt totally and utterly compelled. The concept - a man sinking into uncontrollable paranoia and depression - is not the ideal light relief one might command from a record. However, its sheer tenacity and alchemy is impossible to ignore. Somehow, somewhere inside my mind I felt like a door had been unlocked. I could breathe this music in - that's how powerful it seemed. Gilmour's guitar work on Breathe is quite simply immense. His vocal is equally as good. In fact, as the record progressed, I felt like I'd been taken on a journey through many different soundscapes and realms. On The Run and Time are both brilliantly inventive and experimental, whilst The Great Gig In The Sky - an adorable Rick Wright-penned piano piece - stands out as the album's defining moment. The ad-lib vocal solo by Clare Torry is, to this day (in my opinion) the greatest ever vocal recorded. It is beyond sublime. Many a night has passed by in which this song has eased the troubles at my door. It is purely magical.

Money - one of the few songs ever written in 7/4 time - is the perfect sequel to Torry's startling performance. It is a song that says so much about capitalist greed, selfishness, ego and paranoia. Waters excels himself with such superbly crafted lyrics. Us and Them is a haunting reminder of the initial concept, Brain Damage a terrifying account of mental breakdown, and Eclipse the perfect, manic crescendo at the end of a stunning forty odd minutes.

Several years later, when I went off to Sheffield to study for a degree in English, I found that many of my fellow students heralded this album in the same way that I did. Many a drunken and, admittedly, stoned night culminated with Dark Side at 4am. It provides the perfect escape from a world so cold and ruthless; a perfect escape from a life so often so bland. A defining moment in my life came in Hyde Park, London, a few years back when I saw Roger Waters perform Dark Side from start to finish with an all-star band - an evening I'll remember forever. David Gilmour, when interviewed in recent years, commented that he couldn't quite believe the monster they had created when he first listened to the record back. Well, David, I still can't believe it, and the chances are I never will.

Age

I went to meet a mate of mine on Sunday afternoon for a pint in Wetherspoons. As usual, I was running late, and he was half way through a pint of Carlsberg. "I got I.D'd for this," he told me in disgust as I approached the bar for one of my own. I suppose a small part of me thought this was my chance - after all these years this could finally be the time for someone to ask me if I was old enough to drink. I approached the bar, caught the eye of some 18-year old stunner, ordered my pint of Wobbly Bob then stood in wait. Needless to say, she gave me the pint, took the money, then fucked off up the other end of to serve another of the town's helpless drunks. "No good," I told my mate Brass, and threw a quid into the quiz machine. I knew then that I'd have to get used to the fact that my youth was pretty much over. And no, I didn't win anything.

"When people tell you how young you are looking, they are actually implying how old you actually are." (Cary Grant - Actor)

Now, age is a funny thing. I have friends of all ages - one in particular in his seventies whose company I adore, and the notion of age is, with him, always a great ice-breaker. "How are you doing," I'll ask him. "Well, I checked the obituaries in The Times this morning and I wasn't in there, so I guess I'm doing good." It is the likes of my mate Dave who makes me feel ashamed for complaining that I am getting on a bit at the ripe young age of twenty-seven. He makes a mockery of my grumbles. Though don't get me wrong, it's not all bad. I overheard a conversation on the bus the other day between two frustrated looking women in their late thirties in which one claimed that 'boys don't become real men until they turn twenty-seven.' I bounced off that bus looking down on any bloke I even suspected to be younger than me, feeling an exhalted sense of masculine pride. That, of course, until I saw countless numbers of spotty, skinny guys in their late teens and early twenties with gorgeous girls hanging off their arms. I figured it would nicer to be a boy with such luxuries than a man without.

Age, I guess, can be intimidating. I hate the fact that I can now say I left school over ten years ago. I still want to be that really young, scruffy, care-free adolescent scuffing my new shoes and kissing girls in the park; not a fully grown, scruffy, care-free adult scuffing my new shoes and not kissing girls in the park. I hate to think that my college days are a decade old. My mind is still there! And it genuinely is true when you are that age: you have no idea what you have got until it is gone. For some strange and unexplainable reason it is human nature for the young to crave to be older, and the older to crave to be young - except it is only the young that can win, since they will be older in time. Unfortunately, no amount of botox, liposuction or pretending can help anybody regain their youth.

I must admit that it is more the physical changes that have begun to alarm me. I used to hate being really skinny as a kid. I always wanted to have a bit more meat on me - maybe a bit more muscle. I used to get tired of the old 'more meat on a butcher's pencil' kind of crap. Of course, I was always very tall, and always a very athletic build, so I didn't look unusal with my skinniness. It's just that I always longed to grow some biceps to flash through my Beatles t-shirts, or some pecs to bust through my school shirts. Now, having rocketed from 11 and a half stone to 15 stone in the last year, I crave the days back when, if I turned sideways and stuck my tongue out I'd look like a zip. When I get into the shower now I do look like a more wholesome man. I can wobble the flesh around my chest. The problem is that I can wobble most bits these days. I have to be tactical now about what I wear; for example, there are certain shirts that used to double up as tents that I simply cannot put on before my socks, otherwise I can't physically stretch the material enough to get down there. Also, all of my 32 inch waist trousers have been made practically redundant, unless I'm feeling brave enough to breathe in for a full day. My t-shirts are more like vests, and for the first time in my life I seem to have aquired an alien second chin. "Oh, you're looking fullsome." "You look a lot healthier these days." "Gosh, haven't you filled out!" I feel like saying for fuck's sake, just call me a fat twat and be done with it.

Of course, I am exaggerating as usual. I don't look fat at all - though I guess being six feet three helps spread the wealth so that it's not so easy to identify. It's just that my body has changed dramatically, and I am the paranoid one that continues to notice. And then there's the face. Now, I have always had an older looking complexion, which is the most self-esteem preserving description that I can think of at this moment in time. I have, as you might have guessed from the opening, never been asked for I.D despite drinking round pubs, clubs and bars since the age of sixteen. My nose - probably my main feature - has, I believe, had much to do with that. Whilst riding home drunk with some friends in Australia several years back I was, shall we say, 'teased' regarding my rather large conk. I responded by telling them to fuck off, and explaining that I was proud of my nose - after all, I pointed out, it is Roman. At that point the taxi driver, who hadn't said a word throughout the entire journey, looked at me and said, in a typically irritating Aussie accent, "Yeah, mate, Roman all over your face."

Anyway, I've lost track. I loved it back then - being able to get away with looking older, that is. Now I can see the cons as well as the pros. Long hair doesn't help a young look, though that will be sacrificed for nothing. Sparrows feet, wrinkles and jowels are another story. I reckon it is around my age now - as we reach the late twenties - that all of these things start to ingrain themselves into our appearance. And fitness! My God, this is where it really does become shameful. Of course, the older you get, the more negative deposits (ok, I'll stop being so scientific - what I actually mean is kebabs, ale, pizzas etc) you collect. Plus, to free myself of TOTAL blame, I did snap my cruciate ligament playing cricket, closely followed by my ankle playing football - hence, both careers over. I play golf now, but the only time my heart races is when I have a par put, which to be honest isn't really that often. Therefore I am a shadow of the nervous little whippet I used to be. In fact, a rather larger, more rotund shadow at that. You see, if I wanted to be cynical I could, you know: i.e, exercise daily, eat wisely, die anyway. But that would just be sour grapes I suppose. . . . . . .

Anyway. The point of this little rant? I don't really know if I'm honest. Maybe I needed to get it off my chest, excuse the pun. Maybe it is a deep-rooted pyschological fear of mine to become fat. Or maybe, in an hour's time, I'll be embroiled in a drinking session that could very well go on all night long and include several saturated fat filled take-aways, and I just want to make myself feel better. The old 'let's go for a fag whilst we talk about quitting' mentality.

Yep. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to go with the latter.

Paul Weller's STANLEY ROAD and the birth of ME

It is impossible for me to explain the importance and influence of Paul Weller's seminal album Stanley Road on my own life. In fact, it has taken me fifteen years to even consider writing about it. Quite frankly, it is a record that has saved me. A record that has many times revived me. Given me hope. Thrilled me. Chilled me. Comforted me in the early hours. Put me in the mood before a big night out. It has been there for me at the lowest ebb, and still been there during the greatest highs. And yes, I know, it's just a record. But this is the wonderful power of art. The magnificent power of music. The power to connect. The power to stabilise your emotions, invade your soul, take a firm grip of your heart and mind. Stanley Road did all of these things. I didn't ask it to. I had no idea this was going to happen to me. I was just your average kid living an average life in an average Secondary School, just like everybody else, when this record came along to, seemingly, sing my whole life back to me.

The year was 1995, and I was thirteen years old. Admittedly, I'd always been a kid that had leaned towards music. At the age of five I won a dance competition impersonating Michael Jackson at a local social club. At the age of ten, I had a party to celebrate my birthday; mainly so that I could show off my brand new Alba turntable, and my still immaculate copy of the Beatles' Blue Album on double vinyl LP. At that time in life, coming towards the end of Primary School, a guy called Alan Price and myself often got into trouble for failing to return to lessons on time. We would always be discovered in some hidden corner of the schoolyard with a group around us singing Hey Jude or Eight Days A Week. It was, however, the incident in 1995 that would change things forever.

My parents had just recently purchased SKY TV. I suppose it made me feel pretty posh at the time, even though it was definitely the 'in thing' to have. My Dad and I had a particular interest in the Premiership football that was blossoming on SKY Sports; Soccer Sundays (which, incidentally enough, had Weller's Out Of The Sinking as its theme), and Monday Night Football with Martin Tyler and Andy Gray, which the whole world, at the time, seemed to be watching. However, I'd managed to have several plays with the space-age remote control and found all sorts of channels of all different kinds, most notably the music channels. My sister was watching MTV the night I came downstairs - the night that would change everything. When I looked at the TV I remember being mesmorised by what I saw and heard; a suited and booted, sharp looking guy in his mid-thirties with a Beatle-esque mop-top haircut, kravat, and what I would later discover to be pyschadelic 'pop-art' flashing past him in the background. The song, fittingly enough, was called The Changingman. "Who's this?" I asked my sister, thoroughly consumed by it all. "Paul Weller," she responded. "I've got his album on tape upstairs if you want it?" Needless to say I made her dig it out immediately - a cracked and dusty case, housing the album Stanley Road. That night I listened to it on repeat, putting the wheels in motion for what would be one of the most important discoveries of my life.

Now, school wasn't tough for me. I'm not going to pretend it was. I had plenty of friends, played in all of the sports teams, was lucky enough to be in all the top classes, and generally had a ball. I very often wake up today, at the age of 27, and wish I was back there without a care in the world or a thing to worry about. The nature of being that age, however, always brings its problems. Girls. Puberty. Rebellion. The discovery of drink. The inability to consider reason. I was no different to any other male entering adolescence. This, of course, was where Weller became so important to me. He, as a songwriter and musician, had become something I could believe in. He was someone that I could idolise. A kind of demi-God. His songs soothed me - took me away to some other place for the time that they were on, helping me escape the tumultuous emotions spinning around my head. I could laugh along to Stanley Road, cry when I needed to, do my homework, dance around my room, sing my heart out; it provided a release, a way out, a doorway to another realm. It gave me something I'd never felt I'd had before: freedom.

As time went on this album became more of a staple in my life. A day rarely went by without it passing through the player. I'd bought it on CD by then, of course, which meant I could read the booklet, dissect the lyrics, stare at the pictures, and imagine the world that Weller had envisaged whilst putting the record together. It was my interest in Stanley Road as a 'package' that triggered my obsession with record collecting - something that I still practice religiously to this day. Music had, all of a sudden, become 3-Dimensional in my life, and Weller was to blame. It wasn't long, of course, before I had discovered more of his stuff; Wild Wood, an album that had just as collateral an impact on me as Stanley Road did, and a little later on, Heavy Soul (1997), which was the first Weller record I actually bought on release - an occasion that brought me great excitement. I'd also taken a great interest in his influences too - mainly the whole Mod scene. The Beatles and The Stones, of course, but more specifically, The Who, The Kinks, and The Small Faces. It seemed like everywhere I looked I made another golden discovery. I had become Frodo Baggins starting my quest from the Shire to the heart of Rock'n'Roll, meeting all sorts of wierd and wonderful names and faces upon the way. The branches of the tree went on forever, and continue to still.

As my school years drew to a close, and my college years began, the Mod ethos had begun to grip me. I was, of course, a Weller devotee. I wanted to look like him, wanted to sing like him, wanted to play like him. I had taken up guitar and was progressing well. I just needed an image, and I loved everything that he and his contemporaries stood for. The clothes were cool, and the haircuts immense. I started to grow mine over my ears, and was concious of dressing snappy all the time. Female attention, as it does, began to interest me, which was when I truly began to realise the beauty of the song You Do Something To Me - in my humble opinion, the greatest song ever written. Over a decade later I still listen to that song regularly, and it still has the same magical effect on me. I also perform the song live too, since I am a working musician these days (probably, I might add, another thing I can blame Paul Weller for), and I never, ever get tired of singing it. It never fails to astonish me how audiences, whether young, old, or somewhere inbetween, melt when we begin to play it. It is beyond a masterpiece. Beyond just a song. It is a groundbreaking piece of art that has captured the hearts of generations who have the heart to be able to love. You'd have to be a stone-cold prehistoric not to, at least, appreciate the sentiment.

The rest of the album, in my opinion, is equally as strong. The Changingman, Broken Stones, and Out Of The Sinking - the other three singles on the album (along with You Do Something To Me), are all stunning and timeless records in their own right. Porcelain Gods and I Walk On Guilded Splinters provide a mesmorising, moody, and swirling medley in the early stages, and Woodcutter's Son is a driving, splintering, guitar-led stomper midway through. Time Passes is a whimsical, delicate ballad centered round memories of a past relationship. The title track Stanley Road is bouncing, piano-driven recollection of Weller's childhood, Pink On White Walls a medium paced thought-provoker, and Whirlpool's End a moving and tragic epic in which Weller's studio band excel themselves. It provides a perfect lead into the almost gospel and compelling Wings Of Speed, that can fill the heart with joy and the eyes with tears all at once. I'm no music journalist, and I'm not here to sell Stanley Road to anyone. This album is now part of me; part of who am and what I do, and so sooner or later my biopsy just had to come. It has taken me long enough to buck up the courage. Taken long enough to really consider the importance properly.

I first saw Paul Weller when I was 17 in Preston Guild Hall - a night that will live with me to my dying day. A night when my idol, for the first time, stood before me and delivered an electrifying education. I have travelled to see him over fifteen times since both in the UK and abroad, and will continue to do so until one of us ceases to exist. In fact, we share a room once again in May of this year - and a very prestigous room too; The Royal Albert Hall, London, for my first experience in this magnificent venue. I hope to share nights with this legend of popular music for many years to come, enjoy his records, and forever appreciate the impact that this man and his music has had on my life.

I thank you, Paul Weller, and, I love you Stanley Road.