Showing posts with label Stones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stones. Show all posts

to get away from the pits and the factories, all that cloth-capped bullshit


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When the scene was at its most vigorous there was this tremendous search for obscurities, and a lot of great records surfaced as a result. But after a while, the chances of discovering some old masterpiece diminish. I started Northern Soul but I actually found the music very limiting because in the early days I’d play a Charles Mingus record, then I’d play a bluebeat disc followed by a Booker T. tune, then a Muddy Waters or Bo Diddley record. Gradually there was this blanding out to one sort of sound. When I started DJing, I could play what I wanted. But after three years I had to keep to the same tempo.

the Stones’ favourite inhabitants of the underworld applied pressure


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More disturbing, though, was the incident at a family party when a young mother asked him to keep an eye on her child who was sitting on a potty, while she left the room to take a telephone call. As soon as she’d gone Litvinoff took the potty to the lavatory, where he sat on it himself and released a huge bowel movement before nipping back to seat the child in place again. When the mother returned to find what her toddler had apparently produced she was beside herself. In later years he would complain to friends of a lack of support from his family but if some relatives began to keep their distance, one can understand why.

burned-out acidheads sell Bibles on the street for a living.



The light shows and sounds indicated the influence of dope on audience and musicians alike. They could no longer be called dances for they resembled Be-Ins more than the foxtrot shuffles that still predominate in middle-aged memories. Clubs, like U.F.O. and Middle Earth in London's West End, used to have all-night sessions, where one could listen, dance, blow bubbles, eat, sleep, trip, make love or just wander around digging the people. As might be expected, rip-off club managers began their own enterprises, charging high prices for music, food and hard liquor. For a time nobody cared, because the head clubs were community run and one could hear the best in progressive rock and grin stoned grins at performers who would later be ranked as superstars. A mixture of police harassment and capitalist economics eventually closed them down. The political nature of rock music is manifested at a number of levels. Many groups take explicitly political stands, whilst others make obvious references in their songs and interviews. The nature of the music industry, however, sometimes induces an ambivalent stance for, despite the free concerts and the heavy rhetoric, the record companies are 'only in it for the money'. The M.C.5, as long as they stayed in Detroit with John Sinclair, were a screaming, revolutionary band. As soon as they left, they became a teeny bop group with a mean reputation but without any balls.

this cult of electric guitars and ass shaking has replaced Christianity


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The manhood of England, immersed in pools of Swedish flesh, must be beholden to their cunning music press which has facilitated the myth of their interminable swinging modernity. They need only get a bowl hairdo or some fey contemporary equivalent and they're awash in nubile Nords, thanks to a savvy and deceitful media organ. The Beatles are ultimately responsible, for without them and their psychedelic phenomenon, the country would be revealed as a chilly version of Portugal - a conservative backwater left only with distant memories of imperial glory.Indeed, before the Fab Four, England was drab and bowler-hatted; their parliament wore wigs, the food was bad, and the morality stultifying. No Swedish girl would have set foot on its soil. In the innocent days preceding "Beatlemania," Anita Ekberg and Ingrid Bergman were in Italy, almost certainly making love to their respective directors.

Jagger regularly petitioned Pye to release more Bo Diddley records

 
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A different form of nightlife, a different form of life – Soho. Our first port of call was the Scene Club, behind Piccadilly, just off Windmill Street in Ham Yard. The Scene was a loud, smoky haven for the disenfranchised working class, soul was the soundtrack till dawn’s harrowing light. Having grown up in the relatively rough district of Edmonton, Peter was attuned and passed for one of this crowd, while I stayed close to the edge watching the kids speeding on pills and good music, posing more than dancing, jaws frantically chewing the night away. Mod monsters, bound and bonded by sound and dread of the job on Monday. We’d move over to the Flamingo on Wardour Street. On Saturday the Flamingo was the only Soho venue serving drinks and playing music all night. An exotic mélange of Soho sex and underground sorts crashed in late after disposing of earlier engagements. The Flamingo was extremely seedy, hot and sweaty. I remember the Mar-keys playing down there and a very risqué show by Sugar Pie De Santo. Basically they were all jazzers who played R’n’B. Blue Note was big, which was why the Stones and the Yardbirds didn’t fit in, because they weren’t jazzers, they hated jazz. Andrew came up with the Stones and to us that was white R’n’B, which nobody was into at all.

a new class of street hustlers and hippies, flush with disposable income.

 
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Peter Meaden and I always had a friendly competition going so he was particularly eager I see “his” band. Peter had influenced me to venture from my mother’s comfortable Hampstead enclave into the dangerous and exciting world of Soho. As Peter tried out his most outrageous hype on me I noticed an attractive couple in the audience who divided their watchful attention between the group and Meaden. When I asked Meaden if he knew the pair with the hungry eyes, he dismissed them as a couple of “film ponces.” You might even stretch a point and speculate that in many ways the Who had more in common with Peter Meaden than they did their newly adopted minders. But it was no matter. Peter could never have managed to complete a marathon and spent the rest of his short life butterflying from project to project, fueled by pills, and never totally in touch with reality.