Rock On, Tommy!

By the time I was fourteen, The Friday Rock Show, as presented by the late lamented Tommy Vance, was a regular part of my listening.  In rural Warwickshire it provided a precious introduction to lots of new sounds, some of which I was excited to hear, some of which less so, but nearly all of which meant I was learning new ideas and which meant that my horizons were broadening.

In September/October that year, Tommy Vance played one of the regular session tapes which he could put on for anything from twenty minutes to an hour, and go for a shit/pint/cig, and thus take it easy.  Sometimes these might be abject shit e.g. anything associated with Saxon, sometimes a bit predictable and average, a band looking to cling on to the last vestiges of the NWOBHM, and occasionally, a gem.  Tommy by then was having to juggle the record company demands of plugging the latest Iron Maiden slab, and the desire of the moustachioed old skool rockers still to listen to Ritchie Blackmore wankathons, against the increasing tide of anger that was coming from the US in the shape of thrash metal - Metallica were already a big rumble on the underground and were about to make it massive, with the likes of Slayer, Megadeth and Anthrax hot on their heels.

But this session was something different - and it changed my life, and listening, utterly.  It was by a band who had been making records for a long time already, contemporaries of Black Sabbath, and who had been gigging for longer still, knocking around with the likes of Pink Floyd.  But I didn't know any of that... yet.

I sometimes talk to my Mum about the excitement her generation felt when as teenagers they binned their David Whitfield and Perry Como records and replaced them for ever with Elvis and Buddy Holly.  It must have been electrifying.  This experience must have been as near as I will ever get.

I didn't really expect to like it - I knew just that they were a bunch of old giffer hippies, and I wanted something fierce... and within three minutes of the beginning of the set, I was scrambling round for a cassette to record as much as I could.  I still have that precious, worn tape.  It took over twenty years to get hold of a cd; one was published, I missed it, and spent a long time looking to get hold of one.

So who is it?  Hawkwind, at Reading Festival, 1986.  The barrage of noise, the mix of Huw Lloyd Langton's constant guitar invention and the widdly-whooshes, the complete novelty of such a sound to me, it triggered a life-long addiction to the Bird.  Even when I come out of particularly shit gig feeling betrayed, I know that sooner or later I'm going to fall off the wagon and play a Hawkwind album, probably, but not certainly, a live one.

Anyway, Tommy Vance, thanks for that.  Rock On!

"Wan ya ta really let loose on iss one"

Here at home, now, Slade are regarded fondly as a bit of joke, and with some vague affection for one specific record, perhaps the greatest Xmas - and it definitely is Xmas - number one of all time, a fairly cheeky piece of satire that Messrs Holder and Lea claim still provides a significant pension, as it crops up annually on numerous compilations, and on rotational play throughout December on most radio stations and in all shops and other consumer vending premises, the lyrics being blithely ignored by the mind-wiped punters.

I can understand why the US never really took to Slade.  I mean, just a look at them is bit disconcerting, isn't it?

The drummer suggested flying picket with a sideline in football violence, both a trademark of mid-70s Britain.  The bass player looked like a dodgy beatnik folkie.  The guitarist looked like an extra from Flash Gordon, with what is arguably the worst haircut in pop music history.  And in the middle of it all was a bloke resembling an Open University lecturer wearing an outfit like Ronald McDonald on a golfing weekend.  Leering.  Not a great first impression.  Not as exciting as Kiss...

All of which is a bit of a shame, because there is more to Slade than all of this.  Which is not to diminish the above, as 'Merry Xmas Everybody' is truly a great record, and would be a contender for my DIDs.  But there are plenty of other corking tunes, and a good starting place to learn about this is any one of the numerous greatest hits packages available.

'Slade Alive' (1972), as the name suggests, is a live album, one which makes me wish that I could have witnessed the Slade-on-a-stage experience.  Apparently there are no overdubs - this lot must have been incredible in their pomp.  This is cottage cheese music at its very best.  You have to turn this up loud, you want to be buffetted by it.  There are no stand-out tracks on this record, no filler, just a slab of fantastically yobbish rock 'n' roll.  The album is a mixture of original songs and covers, by artists such as Ten Years After, Lovin' Spoonful, Little Richard and Steppenwolf; the version of 'Born To Be Wild' is truly something to behold and knocks the original into a cocked hat.  The general effect is serious British noize.  The drumkit is getting a beating like a man clubbing a seal, the rest is like having your ears repeatedly battered with medicine balls, and above it all is a combination of plaintive balladeering and plain bellowing.  What it isn't is glam rock.  This record would hold its own in the ring against the aural punch of the likes of Black Sabbath, Motorhead or AC/DC - I can imagine the plasterwork crumbling away in many a manky old '70s venue as this racket shook it apart.

I like to listen to this when I've had a shit day at the office, and drive home with the windows open, distressing the gentlefolk of Hampshire, as Noddy exhorts them to "Get Down and Get With It".  It will eventually crowbar a grin onto my scowling gob.

If you can get hold of it, the 2006 re-release with bonus disc is excellent value - it throws in everything else that Slade released as an official live recording; Slade Alive 2, and some '80s recordings including Reading Festival where they resurrected their career.  These all offer some of those great Slade singles getting a biffing for delightedly oafish audiences.  More cottage cheese cheer.  And the treat that is Slade's rendition of the 'Okey Cokey'; no longer blue rinse and snowballs at the village hall, this is greasy denim and Special Brew in a big field.

Kiss looked amazing.  But the records are shit.

PS; Slade were managed by a man named Chas Chandler, a member of 'The Animals'.  Chandler's first experience of talent spotting and act-management was with someone called Hendrix...