Re-imagining The Beatles #7 - Zoot

The Beatles have long been my favourite band. Why wouldn't they be? If it's power pop, piano balladry, proto-heavy metal, musique concrète, psychedelic experimentation or childlike whimsy that I want to hear, the Fab Four can provide it all with a verve and vitality that remains unequalled. Why then it's taken me until 2015 to get myself to a Paul McCartney gig is a mystery - perhaps a fear that he might not live up to expectations, or perhaps the cost of tickets (£125 each on this tour) played a part - but I finally crossed Macca's name off my bucket-list last month at London's  O2.

Macca puts on a show

McCartney is 72 years old, but you wouldn't know it to see him perform. His nearly-three hour show features a set-list that ranges from the oddball electro-pop of Temporary Secretary, through the drama and bombast of Live And Let Die, to the tender regret of Yesterday, even managing to shoehorn in a guest appearance by Dave Grohl on I Saw Her Standing There. McCartney's peerless back catalogue, the surefootedness of the band that he's assembled around him and the enduring cultural significance of The Beatles made the O2 show an emotional and life affirming event. During the opening bars of Paperback Writer it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks that I was watching an ex-Beatle performing on stage and the emotional weight of the moment got the better of me and my bottom lip. Elsewhere in the set a faithful run-through of Eleanor Rigby got me thinking about some of the cover versions of this Revolver classic that I've enjoyed. And so, in honour of the godlike genius that is Paul McCartney, I figured it was time to revive my Re-imagining The Beatles feature. 

There have been numerous attempts by bands to stamp their own identity on this Beatles classic. Notable examples include those by Vanilla Fudge who turn in a typically waffling, overwrought performance which gets bogged down in its own pomposity and self-importance; The Ides Of March who add stabbing horns and fuzz guitar wailing to the mix; and Pure Food & Drug Act featuring the one-time Canned Heat guitarist Harvey Mandel in full-on extended jam mode sparring with the fiddle player from hell.

All seem to have ignored the lyrical themes of loneliness and regret that inform the wistful sonic texture of the Beatles original and have toughened up the sound considerably. If you can get over the incongruity between the tone of the lyrics and the muscular reworking of the music in these covers, there is much to recommend them (even the Vanilla Fudge one if you're in the mood for a spot of earnest, po-faced, self-aggrandisement.)

Superb though these covers are, the best, and most brutal of all the Eleanor Rigby re-workings is by Aussie band Zoot who featured a young Rick Springfield (of Jessie's Girl fame) on guitar (but don't let that put you off.) I feel a bit of a fraud featuring this version here because I don't own the record. If you saw the prices it goes for on the rare occasions that it comes up for sale, you'd appreciate why I've yet to snag a copy. Any criticisms of Zoot's re-imagining of Eleanor Rigby (it's bludgeoning lack of subtlety, its disregard for McCartney's melancholic lyric) are all theoretically valid, but rendered moot by the sheer shit-kicking heaviosity of the riff that Zoot graft onto the song to transform it into a driving, proto-Metal monster. Like it or loathe it, there's no denying that it re-invents the Beatles' original. But is it better? Whoever posted this YouTube video seems to think so.

 

From Spitalfields To Soho

On Friday, while Mrs Shelf-Stacker was distracted by an impending playdate for our four year-old and one of his house-trashing, midget accomplices, I snuck out to investigate the record fair at Spitalfields Market. These fairs take place on the first and third Fridays of the month, days when I am ordinarily unable to find the time to head east and rummage, so thank the sweet baby bejesus for the festive holidays! Initial signs weren't too promising when I headed into the market, surrounded on all sides as I was by stalls selling nothing but women's clothes and jewellery. I very nearly turned on my heels and headed back to Liverpool Street Station, but I'm glad I perservered as, beyond the seemingly impenetrable maze of frocks and blouses, a sizeable corner of the market had been colonized by blokes with trestle tables and crates full of lovely vinyl. I'll apologize here for the lack of photos of the market. The truth is that the digging sickness fell upon me and the tunnel vision and singleness of purpose that this engendered caused me to forget all about recording any images of my outing.

Vertigo Swirl at 12 O'Clock!

More often than not, despite finding something to warrant the effort of schlepping across London, record fairs are insultingly over-priced affairs staffed by misanthropic old farts bemoaning the turnout, the weather, the state of the music industry, yada yada, whilst getting misty eyed over memories of punters fleeced and collections pillaged. Okay, so there was still a bit of that, but the mood was playful and the thoroughly reasonable prices suggested that a lingering shred of Christmas cheer had prompted a Scrooge-like transformation in the sellers. On one stall, with a sign declaring that everything was £5.00, I felt I had to check that I was understanding correctly: could I really have an original US pressing of The Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour LP complete with 24-page colour book for five measly squid? How about a Reprise steamboat label copy of Family's A Song For Me complete with lyric insert? Sold! I hoped I could ride my luck and get another stallholder to part with a pristine, Vertigo swirl copy of May Blitz's debut LP for the tenner burning a hole in my pocket. Sadly not, but the £200 he was asking for still seemed like a bargain. I resisted the temptation to run to the cashpoint.

It's funny the people you bump into when you're on your knees rooting through crates of mildewed LPs. The tunnel vision lifted long enough for me to notice a familiar face alongside me, one belonging to the one-time basement-dwelling salesman at the sadly defunct Cheapo Cheapo Records. I was still too gripped by the sickness to go through the usual social niceties of finally getting around to finding out his name, but I recognised him, he recognised me, we bemoaned the weather, the state of the music industry, yada yada and fell back into our respective tunnels. As expected, he's selling vinyl online now, the landlords of Cheapo Cheapo having taken the opportunity presented by the proprietor's death to impose a hike in the rent to £75,000 per annum - I'm pretty sure I heard that right - which, unsurprisingly, they were invited to shove up their arses. It seems you can't blame iTunes and Simon Cowell for the death of every record store!

Having amassed a haul which included the aforementioned Beatles and Family LPs as well as The World Is A Ghetto by War, Broken Barricades by Procol Harum, Painter's self-titled effort, Two Fisted Tales by The Long Ryders, Frank Zappa's Joe's Garage Acts II & III, Capital City Rockets' sole LP, Blackjack's debut and a The Left Banke compilation on Bam-Caruso Records, I remembered the wad of Music & Video Exchange vouchers languishing in my pocket.

The Music & Video Exchange (forever The Record Tape Exchange in my mind), offers the choice of a piddling amount of cash or a more generous quantity of their own toy town Monopoly money when you offload your unwanted records on them. After a recent visit I discovered that Camden Town's Music & Video Exchange had closed down, so figured it was time I exchanged my play money for vinyl before their remaining stores go tits up and I'm left with a wallet-full of expensive, dog-eared arse wipes. To cut a long story short, a post-Spitalfields trip to the Berwick Street Music & Video Exchange in Soho revealed it to be looking decidedly forlorn. As usual, the staff behind the counter seemed to be competing to see who could inflict the most unpleasant, unlistenable, tuneless music on their customers and one another. This stuff can't even claim to be avant garde and envelope pushing. I can happily lose myself in Trout Mask Replica, Reign In Blood or a spot of Sun Ra, but give me strength, where do they dig up this charmless filth? Perhaps in the bargain basement, which looked like it had fallen victim to a spot of fly-tipping. Anyone who ever dreamed of working in a record shop should visit the bargain basement at the Berwick Street branch of The Music & Video Exchange and you'll skip to your mundane job on Monday morning with a song in your heart and a smile on your face, grateful that dreams don't come true. What a toilet! I left empty-handed.

Jellyfish ONE : Royal Mail NIL

I recently took delivery of Jellyfish's newly released Live At Bogart's double LP on beautiful blue vinyl, which, in common with Genesis' Calling All Stations album, consists of three playable sides and one purely decorative, laser-etched side.

The LP winged its way over from the States without a hitch only for the Royal Mail to deliver it to a random address half a mile from where I live. Fortunately, and by some strange quirk of fate, a fellow vinyl aficianado lives at said address and, after realising that it wasn't meant for him,  took it upon himself to hand deliver my LP. Perhaps this isn't a big deal if you live somewhere like Alaska where your closest neighbours are likely to be at least half a mile away, but within spitting distance of London, such neighbourly, not to mention honest, behaviour is at a premium. A huge 'thank you' then to Khaled for renewing my faith in human nature and reinforcing my low opinion of the postal service. I hope your Bee Gees LP has turned up!

If ever a band disintegrated before its time, then Jellyfish is that band. The list of my top ten favourite albums is pretty much set in stone with the same LPs maintaining their presence in the list if not their exact ranking, their places in the hierarchy being fluid and ever-shifting, but Jellyfish's Spilt Milk has long remained rooted to the top spot. After their debut album's statement of intent, the band delivered its very own Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band / Pet Sounds / A Night At The Opera with Spilt Milk and promptly imploded. The band took their musical cues from The Beatles, The Beach Boys and Queen and ran with them, creating an album that, amongst a knowing, bewildered and ever-growing cult following is regarded as an inexplicably ignored all-time masterpiece. Live At Bogart's, which documents in its entirety a gig on the Bellybutton tour at Long Beach, California on February 21st 1991, leaves me kicking myself that I never saw the band live. I was certainly aware of, and enjoyed, the first album when it was released thanks to a heads-up from a discerning mate (cheers Ash), but failed at the time to work out where the band fitted into the constant diet of third-rate hair metal crud that dominated my gig-going at the time. You live and learn!

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that there are tapes of Spilt Milk-era gigs being readied for release. Incidentally, music aside, the richness of the sound reproduction and the quality of the vinyl pressing of this live LP is gobsmackingly good. A big step-up from the somewhat muddled sound of the recent Spilt Milk vinyl reissue, also on Omnivore Records: one of those rare occasions when, whisper it, I would opt for CD over vinyl.