me-ac’s third random round-up…
WHAT IS THIS?
Be Kind, Rewind is intended to update on events since the previous five posts on me-ac. It offers clarifications, corrections (when necessary), additional notes and thoughts – not all madly relevant – as the whim takes us. It’s also an opportunity to ’fess up (as we must on this occasion) for any hysterical mishaps or ill-founded rants. And for the record, me-ac is happy to slap its own finely boned wrists when it errs – if only more supposedly dependable sources would be so bold.
Our first apology concerns our initial thoughts on Elton John’s proposed adoption. Somehow me-ac concluded that far from being a genuine, heartfelt attempt at do-gooding Elton was in fact using cute Ukraine tot Lev, and we quote, “as a pint-sized Trojan horse to bash Madonna”. It’s a good idea, possibly even sinister genius, but on reflection, and given the boy Dwight’s subsequent silence, me-ac has concluded that the Rocket Man simply put his foot in his mouth here.
It wouldn’t be the only time of late. The man Rod Stewart dubs ‘Sharon’ was back on the business pages on Wednesday, weighing in to the whole illegal downloading debate in a letter to Lord ‘Mandy’ Mandelson: “I am of the view that the unchecked proliferation of illegal downloading (even on a ‘non-commercial’ basis) will have a seriously detrimental effect on musicians, and particularly young musicians and those composers who are not performing artists,” he argued, possibly via a ghostwriter who hasn’t quite grasped Elt’s usual man-of-the-people way with words. And while me-ac supports his broader sentiments here – musicians do have a right to be paid for their work, not the quality of their T-shirts – the ridiculously draconian and practically unenforceable idea of cutting off offenders internet connections seems, well, just plain daft. It’s a big, messy and complicated debate – with implications across all the arts – and one me-ac will plough into in more depth another time.
ANY OLD ALLEN
While paying our respects to the culinary TV genius that was Keith Floyd, me-ac summarily dismissed Keith Allen, as a “celebrity irritant”. We stand by that in the same sense his autobiography Grow Up! seems to gleefully reinforce it, but for the sake of balance we’d also like to raise a two-fingered salute to a pair of the celebrity Fulham fan’s finest achievements beyond Fat Les (there may even be three, but we’ve yet to catch up with his apparently scabrous showing in Bodies). They are…
1. Whatever You Want
1982 Channel 4 show where Lily’s dad deployed some of the ribald tactics he was keen to stress he learnt from Floyd in Keith Meets Keith. This was an early, not unsuccessful, attempt at ‘yoof’ broadcasting, its memorable first episode opening with Allen sitting naked on a chair, and later (thankfully clothed) sneaking into the Leonard Hair Salon to interview Misses Holland, Bolivia and Gibraltar about beauty contests. Not unsurprisingly, his Glasto bosom buddy Joe Strummer turned up in a later episode too.
2. Jerry Arkwright
An early Allen character that featured on his series of cassettes (oh yes, and still in me-ac’s possession) for the fantasy Breakfast Pirate Radio channel. Clad in leather bondage gear, Arkwright was a soot-smudged self-styled minor-on-a-mission, as the opening words to his signature tune made clear: “You southern flash bastard/You cultural pig/I come with a tale from up north/I’m an industrial gay/And I like it that way/Fist-fucking on the firth of forth/The time has come for the north to rise/In a welter of leather and sweat/I’ve been down south looking for a big boy/And I haven’t met a big one yet…”
It may have been a bit remiss of us but amid the recent celebrity deaths we forgot to raise a glass, or even a leg, to that star of silver screen Patrick Swayze. It could be because me-ac is still inwardly seething at the disastrous double date turned debacle Dirty Dancing once wrought on us, something we’re endlessly reminded of whenever we hear She’s Like The Wind. Or maybe it was because we detested his next blockbuster Ghost (though, admittedly, we had an agenda by then) with every last grain of our semi-formed manhood.
Yet, somehow the man that, even if the face of crippling pancreatic cancer, referred to himself as Swayze Dog managed to invert our inveterate ire. It may have been an affectionate residue of early ’90s hip-hop slang – when anyone leaving the room would be ghost or Swayze – it may not. Either way, phat Pat sealed the deal with his self-mocking turn as oily motivational speaker Jim Cunningham in Donnie Darko. To go from zero to hero in the space of a movie is one thing, but only someone whose best friends are bathplugs could even contemplate this.
It’s rare that me-ac ever publicly apologises, yet here we go again in the space of a few hundred words. This time we’re eating humble pie (like Oscar is about to above) for our rather dashed-off and ill-thought post on the trial of Matthew Swift and Ross McKnight, the Manc teens accused of plotting the UK’s own Columbine massacre ten years after the fact. Why so sorry? Well we simply don’t want to disappoint me-ac’s legion of followers (four at the last count, though we’re averaging thousands of unique hits a day, honest guv) with sub-standard guff. And while we stand behind the bigger opinion expressed therein – in a line, don’t judge a book by its cover – we made it in redonkulously convoluted fashion (though we uphold its sentiments against Barbara Ellen’s views in The Observer – it’s hard to believe the ever-fragrant Babs has ever endured the ignominy of an impure thought or impulse!). There are mitigating factors: we were trying to locate a brain cell, compounded by the receipt of some grave news, but me-ac doesn’t swallow that either, and we’ll keep the post up as much as a lesson in self-flagellation as anything else.
One thing it did prove is that the infinite monkey theorem is in need of an urgent update for the blogosphere. Namely, if you leave a monkey hitting keys at random on a blog for at least 15 posts he’ll begin tapping out paranoid big-brother-is-watching-you rants and wittering some scaremongering second-hand garbage about the Illuminati, the New World Order and the world being controlled by giant lizards before you can say Jon Ronson. See, told you! That said, if you do have the time and the inclination, you should read this or this, which gives a rather different perspective on the whole Al-Megrahi case than the whipped-up furore of the time or Gordon Brown’s subsequent and still unconvincing denials.
Another omission. When rightly praising The Night Of The Hunter (the first of several potential entries from Film Club) we neglected to mention its scene-setting score by Walter Schumann. String laden and dramatic – such were the times – like the visuals it played with the form, veering off the beaten path with some off-beam expressionism that has apparently influenced everyone from Chumbawumba to The Pogues to Springsteen – not necessarily a good thing! But after his haunted version of Leaning On The Everlasting Arms me-ac is more preoccupied with about getting its lugs around some solo Robert Mitchum. Apparently the silver-tongued cavalier went calypso crazy while filming Heaven Knows, Mr Allison in Tobago in the late ’50s, and after meeting local artists like me-ac living legend Mighty Sparrow and Lord Invader went all-out and recorded his own full-length take, Calypso Is Like So, with the patois still intact.
AUTUMN ALMANAC
When we knocked up our seasonal compilation the other day we didn’t just cobble together the first 20 tracks with an autumn bent. No, we painstakingly selected the best from an admittedly shallow pot. So wither the rejects? Here’s a perfect ten of some of the ones that got away and why…
1. MAMAS AND THE PAPAS: CALIFORNIA DREAMING
Perhaps the most obvious omission but struck off for reasons of literal accuracy: “All the leaves are brown/And the sky is grey/I’ve been for a walk/On a winter’s day…” Maybe it will make the grade for our winter compilation – though competition for places is already intense – if so we’ll be plumping for the Bobby Womack version used to sterling effect in Fish Tank.
2. THE CURE: A FOREST
Shunted off at the death to accommodate The The, this still evokes frosty walks in the park and memories of finally being able to master one’s first bassline.
3. U2: OCTOBER
Almost the first rule of any compilation worth its salt – no U2, if only because Bono’s Napoleon complex has shot so far into orbit there’s no way back. One to ponder: does he share a cobbler with Sarkozy?
4. MAX EIDER: RAKING UP THE LEAVES
This gentle ode to remedial gardening from the Jazz Butcher’s erstwhile 12-fingered guitarist would have made it over Simon and Art if – and it’s a big if – we had The Greatest Kisser In The World in digital form. To be rectified.
5. THE KINKS: AUTUMN ALMANAC
Almost too blindingly obvious and ultimately not to our tastes; though me-ac gives fulsome, deserved praise for Ray Davies’ alternative take on the wisened rock biog.
6. REM: NIGHTSWIMMING
One recommended by Guardian readers back in 2005 and one me-ac rejects for the same basic rule as U2. Yes, we are cruel.
7. JUSTIN HAYWOOD: FOREVER AUTUMN
Solo Moody Blues action from Jeff Wayne’s overblown War Of The Worlds atrocity, we’d include it if we weren’t still haunted by David Essex’s later shouted exhortations: “We gotta make a new life where they'll never find us. You know where? Underground… What’s so bad about living underground eh? It’s not been so great living up here, if you want my opinion.” We don’t, so do one.
8. NEIL DIAMOND: SEPTEMBER MORN
Rick Rubin clearly believes Daimond is due a career resurrection. Cop this middling schmaltz and you may beg to differ.
9. ABBA: WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE
Abba gold in many ways, divorce is in the air “when the summer’s over and dark clouds hide the sun” for our Swedish quartet. Yet this lesson in sangfroid is still best consumed whole as part of its parent album, The Visitors.
10. MANIC STREET PREACHERS: AUTUMNSONG
me-ac prefers the version of the Manics story where they stick to their guns and split up after Generation Terrorists. Case in point.
AND FINALLY…
News has reached me-ac that ITV are remaking our absolutely favourite ’70s bed-hopping incest drama series Bouquet Of Barbed Wire. Normally this would send an indignant shudder down our spine and spark a furious letter to our local MP, but the fact Trevor Eve is to attempt to reprise the godlike Frank Finlay’s role as Peter Manson has us all a quiver. We won’t spoil Andrea Newman’s plot, except to recall Clive James original review in The Observer, where he noted, “by the end everybody had been to bed with everyone else except the baby”. And now, without further ado, we’re outta here, we’re ghost, we’re Swayze…
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