July 15th

Humdrum month, humdrum column. I'm incessantly chanting:

You wear it well,

A little old-fashioned

but that's airight.

I don't know what it means but it's airight, airight. The word is out:

And he was alright

the band was altogether

Yes he was alright

the song went on forever.

It’s that time of the season. More ads are being laid down than music. Alice Cooper is queen of the publicity machine, but RCA has started to spend money on David Bowie and Roxy Music isn’t far behind. We’re getting all of them, heavy. An English pop summer. No real hit yet but “Sylvia’s mother” will do nicely. Ignore the serried ranks of American rock critics — it’s a truly tremulous single and I also love to hear Van Dyke Parks sing about Bing Crosby. I always go this way in July.

It’s the silly season and rock secrets are hard to find. $till... I was watching Yorkshire play cricket on television, really — beer and sandwiches — when suddenly there were these people bouncing about and singing ‘In the Midnight Hour’ in WELSH!!! And kids dancing at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon - hazy cosmic jive!! They followed with the Welsh version of ^Jbe Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’ -now there’s a well kept secret. I switched off before I learned too much.

For the rest, I don’t know. WJiat kind of secret is it that’s embroidered in a ton of newsprint? I can take the PR men, they’ve never known anything, but now we have this hoard of journalists who swamp rock with analysis before we’ve had a chance to hide the clues. They were there in force for Alice Cooper’s London show, deeply corrupted and explaining why sappy English teenagers are suckers for American hype and of course Screaming Lord Sutch did it all so much more Britishly all those years ago. Go to a London concert these days and there are all these chewed pencils screaming: “Move me, baby, move me!!.” Deadlines, dead lines.

England is a small country which is ok except that London squats on us like a huge bloody leech. Ninety per cent of all live rock ends up there and all the paraphenalia of the business — companies and studios and agents and radio and papers and writers. I hate them all. They can’t keep secrets in London — too knowing, too much whispering (nudge, nudge, wink, wink), no desperation, no dreams. I don’t think there are any fans in London — they’re all too progressive.

Formally (on the radio, in record racks, in the press) there is a special category of music in England — progressive rock. It’s been with us since 1967, led by Pink Floyd, reaching perfection (?) with King Crimson. Clever music, with the cross references, key changes and electronic complexities that English critics love; progress charted with cold certainty. London music and I dislike it because it isn’t necessary, it’s not music for fans. I can appreciate post Sid Barrett Pink Floyd but I can’t love them like I do him.

Roxy Music, are the new progressive thunk. They were on the same bill as Alice Cooper but oh-so-much-moremusical, the new golden (lamed) boys of the pop press, make-up and a synthesizer. I’ve always liked the idea of Roxy Music. It’s a great name and the few gigs they did for radio were witty — a rare rock quality. A simple mind like mine got quite excited when I heard that one of them was the List from the Nice days of Emerlist Dayjack. But Roxy’s album is out now and it’s a disappointment. Badly over-produced by ex-Crimson Pete Sinfield, all the right words apply and I don’t trust it. They’re the biggest new group of the year but... Progressive rock — I don’t believe any of these people are really rock fans.

This isn’t a trivial point. I do believe that when the day of rock judgement comes and the last great Charlie is drawing up the account book he will write that while rock and roll was an American cultural form, its proper appreciation depended on the English. The true believer, the fan, is our contribution to rock’s history. Our greatest starts have, in fact, been our greatest fans, from John Lennon and Keith Richards on. I could go on about this in great detail but it’s enough to point to the two most English acts ever devised, the Who — Pete Townshend, eternal fan, dancing homage to Roger Daltrey, eternal star — and Joe Cocker. The stunning thing about a Who show is the realisation that that ugly kid leaping up and down in a boiler suit, big eyes on the golden haired, bare chested rock star, really wrote the script, is really pulling the strings — fan-tasy come true. Joe Cocker is moving in a different way. He still performs as if he’s listening to someone else and privately fantasizing that it’s himself. I feel slightly ashamed at a Joe Cocker concert — does he know we’re watching?

It’s no accident that Joe Cocker is from Sheffield. More and more, as London goes, progressively blase, to be a true fan is to be a provincial. Reg Presley is our symbol (has there ever been a better name for a rock fan?) and they never did appreciate the Troggs in London. We need rock out here — it’s difficult to explain to Londoners, live music available seven nights a week, what concerts mean to us. Strung through the year like jewels they are the only chances we get to be moved from grime and boredom. The great rock stars can levitate the hall but we have even more love for the committed provincials like Edgar Broughton, working their way from small town to small town, keeping faith — real English rock is Rory Gallagher’s 365 local gigs a year.

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 28.

My own obsession is different. This month’s best kept secret is that underneath the glitter the great David Bowie himself is a provincial. The Ziggy Stardust album is not really about being a rock star, it’s about being a rock fan. The clues are all there, right down to the message for Marc Bolan. Work ’em out for yourselves and a pox on all critics. What I’ve been carefully leading up to is my most thrilling moment of the month: my younger sister’s best friend is David Bowie’s cousin — now that’s far out.

Titbits

Good singles: Audience: “Stand By The Door;” Finbar and Eddy Fury: “Her Father Didn’t Like Me Anyway.”

Bad singles: Keith West and Tomorrow: “Excerpt From A Teenage Opera’,’ the worst record made in England in the year of 1967, reissued. Hawkwind: “Silver Machine,” Whooooooosh.

Sweetest sound around: Wishbone Ash’s two lead guitars (but their lyrics are awful).

Welcome (almost) home: Kenny Everett, genius of the radio.

And I’ve been bugged all month — what did happen to Chris Jagger?