05 December, 2013
Lou Reed - SAD SONG live : the art rock masterpiece
Neil Young & Friends - Tribute to Lou Reed at 2013 Bridge School Benefit...
This just in. Very cool.
I walked into Waterstones with a few minutes to kill and could not believe my luck when I came across your new book. Having been a fan since I bought the Paranoid Album in Cattolica in Spain on holiday with my parents at the age of around 13 years old 43 years ago I’ve never stopped loving Black Sabbath. As you can imagine I’ve read an awful lot about the band over the last 40 years but your book which I could not put down changed the story I was so comfortable with quite significantly and I thank you for letting me in on the real story. I like your honest comments about the members of the band and your description of the albums, although I don’t necessarily agree with all that you say, not doubting the validity in attacking the quality of some of the latter original line up albums as I can see that in comparison the media view them as much weaker but as a true fan I’d take any of them on to my desert island. It is amazing how the Black Sabbath story thus far ends, like a fairy story, weird, twisted and sad but living happily ever after with a number one album worldwide and a place in history which is where they truly belong.
I’m off to see them in Manchester on the 18th December. A grown man, father, grandfather, businessman as excited as a school kid and ready to head bang at a Sabbath concert one last time…… but I hope not.
Many many thanks Mick
11 November, 2013
Another extract from my new Black Sabbath book, Symptom Of The Universe, out now.
Tony Iommi was the leader. Follower of the left-hand path, no noble speechmaker he, no bringer of messages from on high, but a true musical alchemist, the flint-eyed general in whose hands the guitar became both a wand and a war machine. An only child who had always gotten his own way, never any need to explain, Tony did not take 'no' for an answer, did not waste words nor suffer fools gladly. "Tony has fists like fucking hammers," Ozzy would recall, his pained animal eyes still round with the memory of their bruising attentions. "Somebody had to crack the whip," Tony responded, typically stone-faced. "And that was me."
Then there was Bill Ward, a brilliant if wayward percussionist who loved jazz, especially the crazed Gene Kruper, and who would forever be treated as the joker in the pack. Poor old Bill, the one they set fire to - not just once, and never by accident, but as a matter of habit. The one they laughed at not behind his back but right into his face. Bill, who saw it all from his perch, sweating bullets at the back of the stage, arms flailing, legs spasming, always out of breath, always running to stand still convincingly, always the last to know what even the others, who always knew last, might know first. Poor old Bill, the one who would remain the most honest and would pay the heaviest price for it, kicked repeatedly until he refused finally to get up again.
10 November, 2013
I've had some enquiries from America about how to buy my new Black Sabbath book, Symptom Of The Universe.
Francis J Fagan, TGSOFL... et al.
The link is here...
But be warned: it's not for the fainthearted.
09 November, 2013
Today's extract from my new Black Sabbath book, Symptom Of The Universe, out now via amazon, Waterstones and other places like where you get books like...
"I wanna ask you something," Ronnie James Dio said the first time we met. "What do you think of this?" He held up his right hand, making the shape that now, 30 years later, the world knows as the devil-horn-salute. I stared in puzzlement. I had never seen anyone do that before. He held up the other hand, and did it again, this time with both arms held aloft, as though addressing a crowd. He stood up and strode purposefully around the room, arms held high, making the signs, as though sending out a message of the highest importance. Which, of course, he was - or soon would be, when he made his first appearance onstage as Black Sabbath's new singer.
It was in Paris, at Studio Ferber, where he and the band were finishing the Heaven And Hell album. The feeling behind the album was strong, thoughts of how Sabbath could possibly replace Ozzy Osbourne rapidly fading from view. "The only thing worrying me now," said Ronnie, was how he would be received by Ozzy's fans when the band went on tour; of how "to connect with" Ozzy's audience. "I know they're gonna miss him," he confided. "So I've been trying to think of something that says, look, I'm not here to try and be like Ozzy, but I am respectful of what he did with the band. And I thought of this..."
He did the devil-horn thing again, both hands held high.
"What is that?" I asked.
"Something my Sicilian grandmother used to do, to ward off the evil eye. I figure the peace sign thing belongs to Ozzy. I can't do that. Maybe I can do this instead."
At last, the penny dropped. Ozzy was known for flashing 'V' peace signs throughout Sabbath's shows. This would be Dio's highly personalised version of the same thing. Sure enough, by the end of the first date of the tour, the whole crowd was doing them back at him. Within a few years it became a common sight at all metal concerts; a cultural signifier of something specific to that experience: brotherhood and rebellion, all wrapped up in one beautifully executed piece of physical graffiti.
08 November, 2013
Another little taste, like blood in the mouth, of my new Black Sabbath book, Symptom Of The Universe, published this week in hardback, e-book and downloadable seance...
Their timing would always be bad. Too late for the sky-touching summer of love, too early for the rock'n'roll genocide of glam, they were Black Sabbath and no matter what the musical revisionists would say of them one day, long after it ceased to matter, they were the most reviled rock band on the planet. People whispered of Led Zeppelin, told of their secret magic and insatiable lust for power; others stood in awe of Deep Purple's telepathic musical prowess. Hendrix was still alive and so were Brian, Jim and Janis. Rock was on high yet Sabbath were oh, so very low. Critics - outsiders, cunts, mainly from London - simply could not relate. The kids, though, they loved them the way only kids can. Like crafty cigarettes in their bedrooms, windows cracked open; like stealing coins from your mum's purse when she was out, or finding a porno mag under your dad's bed; like a first glimpse of the cold fires of hell, body oscillating with the feeling of filthy inescapability.
07 November, 2013
My brand new Black Sabbath book, Symptom Of The Universe, is out TODAY. Hardback, kindle, bloodied parchment, whatever makes your candles flicker.
Here is a small taste of it from page one. More to follow in the coming days and nights...
Nobody fidgeted more uncomfortably at a Black Sabbath show, almost paralysed by self-loathing, than the four band members themselves. As their lyricist and bass player, Geezer, would later lament: "For years we went around thinking we were shit - the press hated us, said we couldn't write, couldn't play... other bands hated us, everyone." Something that could be heard all too clearly in their music: those crucifixion guitar riffs, nailed in with such heavy relish, framed by storm-gathering bass and head-rattling drums, together making a sound like that of a body being dragged from a river. Those eerie singsong vocals: as dramatic and pitiful as the sound of a swan dying. Full of cobwebbed yearning, of self-harm and picked scabs and the shriek of lost souls. The three of them zombie-walking around the stage in their preposterous crosses and moustaches, while the fourth self-combusted at the back, mouldering in his own poisons, the quad combining to ensure a fifth element: the pockmarked face of the most brutally deformed style of rock ever allowed to push its way, stinking and blood-cowed, amongst us.
31 October, 2013
For learning about the glory of love there is no one better to listen to than Lou Reed. Not just the title track of his Coney Island Baby album but the real gut-tearing live version on Take No Prisoners. I heard him do it live before that and it was great - you know, really moving - yet it never came within an asteroid belt of the same universe the TNP version lives in.
Amazing how already the canonisation of Uncle Lou has begun. People are even talking about Lulu is 'refreshed' terms. (Please don't bother mailing me how much you still hate it, do I look like I'll be listening to anyone else about that particular masterpiece?) Not only that but his sales are suddenly going through the roof. Turns out he really was the Van Gough of the rock generation - critical dead meat in his lifetime, buried treasure waiting to be discovered in death.
And here I was trying to show everyone the map all these years, all the way back to Transformer, right Frankie? Right, Pete, Sandy and whoever else was there sneering at me that night late in 197? I tried to tell them how in years to come we'd be talking about The Bells and Growing Up In Public the same way we later did about the VU?
Right. Not that I'm one to say told you so. Except when it comes to Lou, who always enjoyed telling us that.
27 October, 2013
I remember my friend, Stokie, lending me Transformer when I was 14. Stokie came from a well-off family and so had all the albums no one else dared buy in case they didn't like them. By then, I had amassed an album collection of about six - Bowie, Faces, Roxy... maybe it was less than six. But I liked Walk On The Wild Side because Bowie had produced it so I figured Lou Reed must be worth a listen.
I got home from school, played it and was dumbstruck. I didn't get it at all. But then I hadn't gotten For Your Pleasure the first ten times I listened. These were the days when the best albums all took days of listening before you finally got them. Not like now where five seconds of one track is all the time you can spare. Or need to. And so it was with Transformer. Except it that case, I would find new levels of 'getting it' ever-unfolding as the years and decades passed by and I grew older and weirder then older and angrier then older and more vague then older until finally I was old. Like now. When I really get it.
It's not just Transformer of course. Even today when I go to the gym I always have a couple of Lou songs on the phone to keep me running, keep me panting, take my boredom away as yet new layers of Sweet Jane or Rock And Roll or Street Hassle unfold, finally, against the odds.
The first time I saw him live was in about 75, when he played the Hammersmith Odeon, where I saw all my gigs back then (mostly) and he sang this unbelievably amazing new number not yet released called Kicks. To this day I swear the opening lines went, "Hey Mick, what's your style..." That he was looking straight at me, into me as he sang.
When weeks later I got the Coney Island Baby album and found him singing, "Hey man, what's your style..." I felt betrayed. For a second. Then went back to swooning over the album, a diamond in the dirt of mid-70s frackings by the Stones and whoever.
Years later, Fish came to stay the night - riding high at the time with Marillion - and I recall him telling what me what "utter shite" Take No Prisoners was, for me still one of the greatest live albums released by anybody ever.
I remember going to see Lou perform on the New York tour, in 89, at the Dominion in London, and finding myself sitting next to David 'Kid' Jensen. He and I were both on Capital Radio at the time - him the lunchtime king, me the late Saturday nite nanker - and being surprised and delighted that David loved Lou too. Who knew?
And I remember coming out of the Lulu listening press thing a couple of years ago startled at how brilliant Lulu was and listening to everyone else in the pub afterwards sneering and taking the piss and berating Metallica for not being metal enough. To this day it gets my goat when I see the ignorant 'jokes' about Lulu made by the morons who never had a clue what Lou Reed was up to anyway.
NOTHING he ever did was given the thumbs up first time around. The Velvet Underground were dismissed as a poor Warhol joke and sold shit. His first solo album was considered a major let down. His second, Transformer, with Bowie was considered weak as water after the VU. Berlin was also totally dismissed - by the same wise men who 40 years later now talk about it as the masterpiece it always was, except they never knew until it was too late. I remember me and Frank holding the cover to Metal Machine Music in Smiths for hours, back in 197?, daring each other to buy it, knowing how hard it would be to love, and loving it more because of it. Just the crazy fucking idea of it. Another bomb ripped to shit at the time.
And so on and so on... so forth so forth... It wasn't just me of course. There are millions of us. Millions who got it, got him, but could never really share it with anyone else because of the inevitable and tiresome ridicule, just as I get now for stating that Lulu was a masterpiece.
Then he had to die. Way too young. Now everyone who doesn't know never did never could never will, will be writing the obits. The same ones that think Amy Winehouse ever did anything interesting, or that REM were really class.
As Lou told the audience on Take No Prisoners: 'My week beats your year."
Go Lou Lou...
26 October, 2013
I was talking to Joe Bonamassa tonight. He's just arrived in Nashville where he's gonna make his next album. In the course of the conversation he told me that the Rock Candy Funk Party album he worked on last year is slowly becoming one of his best sellers. Not a hit but a real slow burn. I'm not surprised. I love the album. But then I've always been a jazz, funk, rock (candy) freak. Which just shows you how cream will always rise to the top eventually. Put me in mind of my last two books, on Metallica and AC/DC. Because I was so goddamned late in delivering the finished manuscripts the poor publishers never had a chance to get an proper publicity for them. Yet three years on the Tallica is selling better than ever after a very slow start. And a year on, especially since the paperback just came out, the AC/DC one is now also getting a lot of reader attention.
I wonder if Sam Bernett gets that. He has written (at least) two great books - one called The End on the finals days of Jim Morrison - and Rock N Roll Circus, the sleazy (funny, weird) tale of the Parisian club where he says Jim actually died. The first came out in 2007 and I still can't find an English language copy. But I bet it sold great in France. The second came out in 2010 (I think) and again I can't find an English language version for love nor money.
I'd love to talk to Sam about them, though. If anybody out there knows how to put me in touch I would be tres grateful.
25 October, 2013
I found myself talking to Jeff Allen today, Mick Taylor's manager for the past 20 years or so. And for the first time in a very long time the fan in me popped his head out the door to say an excitable hi.
See, for me, the only Stones albums worth a proper righteous damn are the ones they recorded when Mick was in the band. Beggar's Banquet was good but nothing compared to what they were doing by the time Mick was in the room and they were making Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers, Exile... need I go on?
As a kid I was dismayed when I read he'd walked out on them. This was early 75, late 74? At the same time, even as a 16-year-old I dug where he was coming from. He wasn't given any songwriting credits - for anything. Not even for superb tracks like Time Waits For No One, which he essentially built all by himself, bar Jagger's admittedly fantastic lyrics, then topped off with the most exquisite guitar solo Carlos Santana never played.
Hear it here:
His first solo album, simply called Mick Taylor, came out in 1979 and promptly sank without trace. Not that that mattered to me back then, not when it contained moments like Spanish / A Minor, which you can hear here:
Anyway, apart from a brief sighting on the Old Grey Whistle Test playing with Jack Bruce and a couple of those late night sessions you used to get on Radio One, and of course here and there on those priceless Ronnie Wood albums - oh sweet and sour irony - that was the last I really heard from Mick until he turned up in Bob Dylan's band, and then on other occasions over the wasted years. But that's a whole other other otherness thing, y'dig?
Of course, Mick's been back playing with the Stones, turning up as the ghost at the feast on their 50th anniversary tour shows - turning some truly dull occasions into something real and truly interesting again.
So to find myself chatting away to Jeff his manager today was a small afternoon feast for me. An unexpected moment of sun in a rainy day. Jeff was talking about this gig Mick is doing with Ronnie at the Albert Hall on November 1st, and I was talking to him about what else I think Mick should be doing right now. As you do. But then you get the feeling Jeff has had rather a lot of people telling him what they would like to see Mick Taylor doing for quite a long time now.
And that's what makes Taylor actually so rare in this modern music biz. He's the guy that walked. That blew up the whole deal when his mojo ceased to work. He doesn't take a lot of advice. Who else would turn their backs just like that on the Rolling Fucking Stones, knowing they were taking with them the best thing about the band that was so big and so arrogant they thought it wouldn't matter (even when they knew it would, ask Keef.)
Like this baby... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B51A6bcMeDY
24 October, 2013
Working late... like in the old days.
Well, maybe not. The old days cannot be replicated, unless you can somehow give me back those 25 years I lost somewhere back there down the rocky road. It's a trade off though. I had the energy then, the spunk, I just didn't have the craft, the style, the rust you need to build up on your writerly bollocks before your typerly elbow finally stops jerking at the wrong moment and something comes out the tips of your fingers you actually surprise yourself with.
On the school run this morning. We actually got there EARLY. On the school run again this afternoon. Somewhat LATE. Between times, WORKING. Wife was working too, see. So I have been at my office when I can, doing three different kinds of book stuff - past, present, future - stabbing away at an article I'm doing for Live UK (the biz mag for the concert industry) and generally making myself feel useful. Ish.
Now it's late, I've had too much coffee, and I'm going home. Perhaps then a very small medicinal sherry upon my return, as I wrinkle my toes in front of the (non existent) fire and balance a glass on one of the three dogs head. If you know what I mean.
Before I go... just been reading how vinyl sales have gone through the roof this year in the UK, their best numbers for a decade. Apparently, when you buy a record now, they also give you the MP3 file so you can listen on your phone etc but still have the pleasure of 'owning' the record, which you stash safely on your shelf like a treasured book or other artwork. It sounds ridiculous and definitely... attractive. Just what I need, in fact, to augment my already out of control secondhand/rare book collecting that my bank manager loves so much.
Help. Quick. I mean it...
22 October, 2013
Listening to the v.cool new Motorhead album Aftershock while leafing through the also v.cool 132 pages of the Classic Rock fanpack that it comes with. I am impressed. Double impressed. Best new Head album for a long time. And I'm not just saying that because I have a feature in the CR fanpack, though that is nice too, having been overlooked the last time they did a Motorhead fanpack, having so little knowledge and experience of Motorhead as I do obviously.
Without meaning to sound nerdy, I really like the production, at least as it sounds blasting from my iMac speaker. It's so... exciting. Lemmy's lyrics are really top drawer again too. If this turns out to be the one he goes out on it will do fine fine fine.
Off now to find my wife who last I heard was buried beneath a pile of week-old washing and a bundle of parent-killing kids. Perhaps if I go in and play the new Head album really fucking loud it will cheer her up...
21 October, 2013
Had the Sainted Vanessa over yesterday to spend the afternoon with the family. She's so good with the kids, it's a lesson to us all. She also told some fabulously naughty stories over our roast chick dinner. Our youngest daughter has been ill so it made for a really nice change of pace to the usual indoors weekend life scenario.
Couldn't sleep last night though. At all. Woke up feeling not too bad, though, so cracked straight into things, which today meant a rushed morning in the office before driving eldest daughter to the orthodontist at the hospital in the afternoon for the latest check on her uber-brace. All fine. Good, good. Got home, made a sandwich from the remains of the roast chick yesterday, then slung my hook straight back to the office to put some final touches to the e-book version of the Axl book, plus grab-bag a few other things I need to do before...
Woke up with my head lolling sideways, tongue crawling out, invisible hair skewiff. Fell of my perch, sleeping sitting up. Only woke up when the phone rang... someone calling WANTING SOMETHING... er...
Home now. Bout time I spose...
19 October, 2013
Lunch yesterday at that lovely French place opposite The Garrick. Always good to see Jane my book editor again. She seems to get younger every time I see her. And thinner. While I must seem the exact opposite to her.
Met the new PR lady, Kate, who is a scream. I kept telling her the most outrageous stories and she kept topping them, identifying with the bad girls and letting off the sad boys, while confessing her ongoing lust for that old crone Mick Jagger. .Reminded me of my wife's weird obsession with Peter Andre. (no, really, let's not...) She also has some great ideas for how to publicise my next book.
It looks like I'm also going to be doing an 'event' to go with it. Before a live and probably drunken audience. I will say more as soon as it becomes really real.
Today though has been all about a much older book. My Axl Rose piecemaster, W.A.R. Here's the thing. I wrote what I thought was a great book about that great rock star back in 2006 (pubbed 07) but the lawyers for the publishers I then worked with who all wore hand-knitted cardigans thought it rather, well, risqué. So took all the good bits out. All of them. Cheers.
Now, however, via the miracle of modern technology, and the fact that I own the e-rights to the book, I am going to make the original available for the first time as an e-book. Of course, some of what the lawyers advised me was actually proper, so I've kept those 'changes'. However, most of it was, as we say in the publishing world, bollocks. So, at last, very soon indeed, I will finally have the book I thought I'd written available to read by those I had actually written it for.
One thing I would stress though: this is not some pathetic payback job for putting my name into that lovely song. Gimme a break. That was a sooooooo looooooong ago. The fact is, Axl is one of the most fascinating artists I've ever had the fun of once working with. He's certainly been his own worst enemy over the years but who that is actually interesting can't say that about themselves at various points?
As that other great artist and annoying fuck Malcolm McLaren was fond of saying: "It's better to be a spectacular failure than a benign success." Are you listening Simon Cowell? No? Well... yes! So... ha! And ha! Yeeeaaaahhhhhhh...
17 October, 2013
I'd been on the trail much, much too long. I'd thought of quitting more than once over the years but every time I'd sold my horse and tried to settle down some grifter came through and called me on it. I'd killed so many the only one left was me and I'd already done plenty of damage there too. There is more than one kind of death, I learned. More than one way to come back haunted.
Still, I had a wife and babies back there so what else was I to do? Sheriff Tax and Marshall Overdraft were closing in fast and this time I had a feeling they might just get me, but I was resigned, in that way cats get when they see the truck rumbling down the street at night and they just don't move, almost in defiance. I'd simply run out of running. Most of it anyway. Not feeling too sorry just not feeling too inclined to make it easy for anyone else to say so, either.
A so-called friend asked me: "Did you ever listen to that Doors album Other Voices? The one they did after Morrison's death?"
I took aim, fired. One less wanker in my world. So many piss-takers, so little love.
Is the music over yet Jim? That's what I want to know. I know This Is The End. Known it for a long time. But Paris? I mean, really? What a failure of imagination that was. Better to die in the middle of the street, head full of arrows, mouth silly and ajar, than Paris in 1971. I'd laugh if I could be bothered. They should put a ride up in Disneyland. That hellhole of 300 Euro tickets to an oblivion of American-faking Frenchies and food straight from Mickey's ass.
So anyway I finished another story today. Well... the notes haven't come back yet and they will, so not quite finished, but the hard part done. The grind. This was my fifth, maybe my seventh in the last two-three weeks. Always feel good when it's (nearly) over, but I always wonder, how is it done? I used to know exactly how it was done back in the days when the help came wrapped up in its own grubby little envelope. Now there's just me and the sour coffee and too sweet biccies and cake and anything else I can mush into my mush to fill the gaping gap of yearning boredom.
People keep writing asking where has the blog gone? Like they really don't know...
Here's a rock thing. How many famous singers do you know that carry a second 'ghost' singer on the road with them that hide behind the curtains, someone to hit all the high notes for them? Can't think of any? Try harder...
13 October, 2013
Here's one kind of weekend...
Drove up to Nottingham on Friday, to see 'the lads'. That is, Harry, Neil, Phil, 'Young' Gav, and the 'crew'. All of us suited and booted. Stayed at the Midlands branch of the Bucket Of Blood. Unlike its London counterpart, which is run these days East Europeans, the BOB up there is mostly run by locals from far away places like Derby and Long Eaton. So we at least speak the same language, sort of. Which is nice.
Of course, we all had a very small sherry in the hotel bar, which seemed to last about eight hours. But that could just be my old memory fading a bit. Speaking of old... was shocked to learn that Gav actually retired this summer. He's 52, looks 42, and is now living the life of Reilly, before Reilly got past it. Not that I am in anyway jealous, as the very concept of retirement is one so foreign to me you might as well as say you're a lottery winner. Not, as I say, that I'm in ANY WAY JEALOUS!!!
Got home Saturday afternoon just in time to bid wife adieu as she left for a 24-hour shift at work. I also had some work to do, cue: five hours at the computer trying to 'focus' on the task at hand, which involved transcribing, which was handy as you can do that with half a brain and it's only jobs that require half a brain that I can manage after a night in Notts.
Woke up just a teeny bit tired this morning. Thankfully, the kids took mercy on me and decided not to burn the house down or use our precious time together to scream and fight. I rewarded them - and hard-working wife - by making a big roast chicken lunch. Which I was unable to eat with them as I had to dash off to my office as soon as wife got home. No biggie, cos she 'put it on a plate' for me and it is now sitting waiting in the microwave for when I get home. In about 15 minutes if I dash and don't kill anyone in the car...
10 October, 2013
Hello... remember me? The bloke what used to... Then... Before suddenly... well, well... what do you mean by that?
The trouble with leaving these things too long is you just don't know where to start. Do I try and rekindle memories of going to the Tattoo Convention in London the Sunday before last? Thanks by the way to my old mucker Roland Hyams for that, giving me and the wife two passes even though I wasn't actually there 'on assignment'.
Naw... how about the mental meltdown I experienced at the end of last week when a combination of an impossible to pay-now tax bill and an imminent massive reduction in my overdraft combo platter almost finished me off?
You know what? Let's not.
Then my lunch yesterday with film director Mike Jefferies? May-be... Only spoken to Mike on the phone and via email before, he invited me to lunch at Soho House, which I've never been to in daylight hours before. We sat and ate and talked on the roof terrace and it was really good fun. Mike has a great idea for a film I might be able to help him with. We then discovered we also have the same idea for a TV series. Then I told about him about an idea for a one-off film-documentary-thing I've been mulling over but not had any outlet for before now. Which also got his attention. In all fun... great fun. Even if we only end up having another lunch like that one it will be fine. My days of being the bad-tempered recluse are long over. I actually like meeting people now.
Even when they dos end me strangely mixed emails sometimes. Which is rather great too. Like these...
just read When Giants Walked The Earth... i'm a few years older than
you but we're pretty close in age. saw Zep twice in Hawaii as that's
where i grew up. love Jimmy's guitar work as i'm a player myself. love
the songs as well.
overall i enjoyed the book. but i noticed a couple of things that made
me wonder. but i'm sure i'm not the only person who has contacted you
funny how myth becomes fact but when Meredith Hunter was killed at
Altamont The Stones were NOT playing Sympathy For the Devil. they were
in fact playing Under My Thumb. the DVD of Gimme Shelter reveals that
clearly. but this is the myth that goes with The Stones. and a fairly
popular conception where legend becomes fact. it makes for a good
story. but you're too good of a writer to miss that one.
Brian Jones died in 1969; not 1968 as your book reports. in fact he
died only 5 days before the Hyde Park Show in 1969.
the line about Christ of Christian "mythology" i thought was a bold
statement but it is your right to view Him that way. he is very real
however. hopefully you'll see the light on that one some day.
no offense intended nor do i claim to be a critic... i thought you're
book was a great read...
Hey, Mick, how are you?
As a great rock and roll fan, I am reading "When Giants Walked The Earth" and adoring it!
Congrats on the great and beautiful work! It is easy to see how much you love Zep, too.
Just one point called my attention and I wanted to share it with you: at page 253 (Brazilian edition), it is mentioned that Meredith Hunter was killed at the Stones Altamont concert during the execution of "Sympathy For The Devil".
As far as I knew, it indeed happened during "Under My Thumb". I could not find more reliable information about it than at Wikipedia (that I am always a little suspicious of, since we do not know who wrote it), but it said the same.
Check it here:
As an informal researcher myself, I hope I have been of any help, my friend. And that your other books find their way into Portuguese translations. ; )
Have a great weekend!
Curitiba - Brazil
am such a huge fan ! I LOVE the way you write , every sentence is so well crafted and i love the way you phrase things , am reading your Axel rose biography .
Ps would you by chance have other suggestions for other well written music biographies ? (they are hard to find !)
LED ZEPPELIN, METALLICA, AC/DC... ALL THE BOOKS I HAVE WRITTEN SINCE AXL - MW
I'm a fan of yours from America, I would love to have more of your early interviews from SKY but they are so hard for me to find. I've got a few on DVD that came from VHS, but there are some I'm dying to find like the interviews you did with Metal Church, Bad News, Flotsam And Jetsam, Vicious Rumors, Nuclear Assault, Overkill, Malice, Tredegar, Exciter, Girlschool, Heavy Pettin' and I heard you've done an interview with Autograph, although I've never seen it before.
I know the stance on MTV, they absolutely refuse to release the old interviews they did back in the day, and they refuse to re-air any of them either, so they are all just lost. But I don't know about SKY. I'd love to somehow get a copy of your old SKY interviews on DVD or even just VHS. I know some of them are on youtube, but besides just sitting at my computer which I don't often get a chance to do, I have no other way to watch them. Do you think there might be a chance that the old SKY interviews might get released some day? The interviews I mainly want are the more obscure and less known bands. Those are my favorites, because you were the only one who interviewed some of these bands, nobody else did.
If you even have copies of the interviews from SKY, I'd love to buy some of them! I can't find anyone selling copies, I know this guy phillip on youtube has quite a few of your old interviews from SKY, but he's long gone and he hasn't been online in years.
Please let me know,
Your fan from America,
MAYBE ONE DAY RYAN BUT NOT RIGHT NOW. HOWEVER, IF YOU GO TO THIS LINK http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXFJxLKFipA&list=PLBDFBCE458646197C YOU MIGHT FIND SOME OF WHAT YOU WANT - MW
30 September, 2013
We've been looking after this white ghost cat that came out of the bushes where I work one night and just jumped into my car. No collar, no tag, skinny thing, just a lot of purring and rubbing itself up against me. It was late, too dark, and my office is not near anywhere people live, so I took it home, intending to check it out at the vet's the next day, see if its electronically tagged. It was but the owners did not answer calls. So five days or so later, the kids love the cat, wife loves the cat, I love it and we've even named it, Snowbill, bought a litter tray, and talked about getting it a collar and name tag - with our phone numbers on it.
Then this afternoon the owner called. Young guy, seemed nice enough, said he'd been on holiday, the neighbour was supposed to look after the cat but handy. bad neighbour. OK...
Rang home, gave wife the news. Kids all in tears, all suddenly looking on online for a replacement. I admit, I'm even a little sad. No way are we getting the tabby kitten they immediately found to replace it with that they sent me the link to on my phone. No way.
The only winners - apart from Snowbill, who has now returned to his real home and name (Flower, apparently, despite being a boy) - are our three dogs, two mice and one gerbil. None of whom looked on the arrival of a white cat in any way fondly. And that's life, up and down.
Like a toilet seat.
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