oh, sorry to clog up the works,
but these were bits wot i wrote over the previous days,
and needed to find t'internet signal to post from assorted places
as we headed south.
and then some didn't...
gold: 'real men'
-one of those artists whose work i really appreciate,
but, like david hockney,as a person,
annoys the lungs out of me
by so actively espousing cigarette smoking
as to detract, in my eyes and innards
from their brilliance and from their work.
daft, i know, since i put up with not only quirky idiocycracies
amongst the 'artist' frater'n'soror'n'anypoint-inbetweenity
and, let's face it downright glaring personality flaws
(van morrison / miles davis / wagner...)
in my some of favouritest-of-all musicians.
but, joe, it leaves a passively received 'gggrrr' in the throat
when you winge on about the right to smoke
(hmmm, the tobacco lobby has probably been seeking
a packet of 20th amendment to allow for that right.
'hit me with that canceer stick!')...
rant over and back to the glories of mr jackson's music
and the track that strikes gold this week in my minefield.
i've followed his work since before the first album.
coming out of the maritime city of portsmouth,
just along the coast,
(apparently, like crystal palace,
us brightonians are supposed to hate portsmouth,
due to some football rivalry,
but bollocks to that.
plus, i went to college to get my professional doings there,
and, as a grammar school boy who trembles at their possible reemergence
under this new boss,
i was quite happy, thankyou, that it was then a polytechnic
and none of this universal wanna-be-a-university nonsense that came along
and was fairy-godmothered by a previous govt
joe used a format similar to evis c and the fab attractions,
in those early days
a whoosh of power pop sound,
often cynical, snaring lyrics,
but with, for me, more breadth and scope
that, as it might dilute an attack on aspects of humanity,
its foibles, personal, others' or universal,
also showed a compassion lacking in elvis.
(though there's a distinct overlap here with 'imperial bedroom',
which is, i think contemporaneous
and where ec used grander productions to suuround his songs.
not sure if i'm putting it in a way y'might understand
('now', i hear you say, 'there's a first,
he's trying to be comprehensible!),
but the pair shouldn't ever be lumped together
as 'the same' or 'which one's better'
(and, ok, that's the problem with this botb malarkey,
innit, in that it's, as advertised, adversarial...).
maybe ben folds is a nearer equivalent.
they all explore the same territory in overlapping fashion,
but are quite distinct.
i've bought just about all joe's albums
and seen some top top live performances by many different jackson lineups.
he'd bring his band along to sunny brighton.
and they were sometimes magnificent.
the reunion tour of that original lineup showed just what a great repertoire he so rapidly built.
his jumpin' jive band brought music i'd heard from my parents back to the fore.
and then the large group, with some gorgeous new york / latin sounds and fab percussion
there's also the instrumental piano stuff and the (hushed voice) 'serious' albums.
to contend with. shows his strengths both musically and arrangingly,
but, similarly, weaknesses.
but also teetering into near formula mawkishness a tad too often.
crikey, meandering again...
must concentrate on this song entry.
it's one that throws his observation,
awareness of failings and a sensitivity into the best light.
great vocal, fab arrangement and playing.
only bit i hesitate and am ambivalent about is
the 'oo-wow-o-wowo-wow-wow-oooo' belting out.
otherwise it's more than pretty dashed good.
and, as with the aztec camera track i posted below,
it eschews butchness and addresses the foibles and failings of men,
with a touch of the feminine side trickling through
all in a short song in the poular idiom.
but, there's still that question of fags....
but, it still, as i transpose this onto
the blue/green/whatever-colour-it's become board
it remains my toppermost choice this week.