An Appreciation of Rufus Wainwright

As I ponder the wondrous news that I have managed to secure tickets to see Rufus Wainwright perform his Judy Garland tribute for one last time at the Albert Hall early next month, I thought it would be nice if I jotted down for posterity just how much I love and appreciate his work (and, of course, THAT voice), and discuss his music along with some personal anecdotes - as is my way on this blog - and even possibly encourage some non-fans to go and explore his work. Sometime pleather-clad glam rock n roll star, sometime torch singer, opera writer, cabaret and burlesque inspired performance artist, and all round dandy, there are few genres that Rufus doesn't have a toe tipped in, and his work is a rich, technicoloured tapestry. I first discovered him through his Want 1 and Want II albums back in 2003, and each album was a revelation. His beautiful, emotive voice enraptured me from the first moment I heard it, and the swooning strings, the glorious arrangements and the theatricality and wittiness of the lyrics were like gold dust. This is the first thing I ever heard by Rufus and it was a life changing moment. Just listen to this voice...

- Rufus Wainwright, Agnus Dei

And then there was the first time I saw him perform in concert, which was at the Apollo in Manchester in 2004. From the very first second he started singing 'Oh What a World', I knew I was in the presence of someone who had been blessed by the invisible hand of the divine. For this live experience was like bathing in sonic honey, purple-hued and crammed with feeling. His voice was as rich as velvet and yet, at random moments, would crack and rasp with deep emotion, just like Frank Sinatra's did. The closest analogy I can offer is that I actually felt like I was listening to a pre-Raphaelite painting. And if, as the novelist Thomas Mann observed, all art aspires to the condition of music, perhaps what I actually was experiencing was this idea in full, and, sitting just behind me, the ghostly spirit of Dante Gabriel Rossetti was, unknown to us all, drowning in the glory of his own pictures being turned into ecstatic melody, whilst no doubt making a million observations of my fine lady at the same time so she could be his next portrait study (what a masterpiece that would be). Anyway, it was a supremely magical moment. And Rufus also looked every inch the perfect pop star, for he is a consummate dandy, and you can pretty much rest assured that never will he take to the stage looking like a run of the mill indie singer/songwriter who has just finished doing an oil change on his car. No, Rufus oozes glam and showbiz, darlings, and thank the Lord above that he does!

Another occasion I recall was when I saw him live at Liverpool Philharmonic Hall in 2010, where, surprisingly, he invited fans up to join him on the stage during his encore. Because my CF was particularly bad that day, I couldn't make it onto the stage. But a young man in a deep velvet jacket who looked a lot like your very own Nocturnal Butterfly, did get onto the stage, and my eagle-eyed observation caught Rufus checking him out. Now, dear reader, although I may appear calm and composed in these words, if it had been possible for the audience to have seen the Troilus-levels depth of jealousy that my burning heart experienced at that moment, I would imagine that many of them would have had to go and have a lie down after witnessing it. Oh, to have been cruised by Rufus Wainwright! Ah, the tears that were shed, and the deep sighs that were released in the car on the journey home, and all because of The Man That Got Away.

But hardly had my love affair with Rufus become established when tragedy struck both him and me, almost at the same time. For, within a year of each other, both our beloved mothers passed away. Out of this heartbreak came one of his most astonishing albums, All Days are Nights: Songs For Lulu, and it sound-tracked my own grief in a way no other piece of music could. He performed this album in its entirety at the Apollo in Manchester in April 2010, and it will remain in my memory forever as one of the most profound musical experiences of my life. The album consists of Rufus singing whilst being accompanied only by his own piano playing, and this was what he recreated on stage that night. With placards placed throughout the auditorium requesting silence and no applause from the audience until Rufus had exited the stage after finishing his first set, it was clear that this was going to be something very different to a usual concert experience. He entered the stage, dressed in a long black dress with a long train flowing behind, sat down at his piano, looked up at the sole spotlight, paused for a few seconds, before proceeding through fifty minutes of the most heart-wrenching, yet soul-healing music in a manner that remains beyond my ability to accurately describe. Hearing the songs 'Sad With What I Have', 'Sonnet 20' (with words by Shakespeare), 'True Loves', and the closing, devastating 'Zebulon', are still some of the most sacred artistic moments I have ever had in my life. And although there was talk of many disgruntled audience members leaving the concert and not returning after the interval, I can only say I pity them if this was indeed the case. Rufus was incredibly brave performing in such a naked, vulnerable way, and it helped me enormously with my own grief, and brought me so close to my mum that at times I felt like she was still in these realms and sitting in the auditorium next to me. I suppose some people merely expect to be entertained when they attend a concert. Fortunately, and certainly at a Rufus Wainwright concert, most people want Art.

A year or so later, Rufus announced that he was going to marry his partner, Bjorn (see picture above), and incredibly, his timeline was almost exactly the same as mine and my good lady, for we ourselves were just putting the finishing touches to our wedding arrangements, after deciding to finally take the plunge after being engaged for almost ten years. Well, we both wanted to be sure, didn't we? The date we arranged to tie the knot was in December 2012, and, once again, Rufus was on hand to soundtrack this most glorious happening in my entire life.

Because of this, one of my deepest, everlasting connections with Rufus's work is his Out of the Game album, which had been released just over a month before me and my fine lady got married, and to ensure that I was in as tip-top a condition as possible, my routine fourteen days intravenous antibiotic therapy in hospital was arranged by the consultant to conclude a few days before Lydia and I got married.  And, strange though it may seem, some of the best days of my entire life were those days I spent in hospital in the week before Lydia and me got married. For listening to that wonderful new album, so sweeping and romantic, both lyrically and sonically, in a time of intense anticipation of the magical realisation that I was actually marrying the great Love of My Life in a couple of weeks' time, was actually sublime. It was utterly delicious, and although I desperately wanted the big day to arrive, another part of me would have liked to hold on to that intense feeling of luscious anticipated longing forever. There were many, many songs that fitted my elated mood, but perhaps this one was the closest to the mark, containing these fabulous lyrics:

So, baby, welcome to the ball!

Don’t worry about nothing at all,

I don’t know how you made it in

But since you have arrived...

Let it begin!

'Cause something in your eyes has
made this room a much more brighter place,

The chandeliers and fireplaces
all seem jealous of your face,

Something in your smile has left
 A light that has left a trace,

Come and take my hand,
I'll let you lead me to the promised land...

- Rufus Wainwright, Welcome to the Ball

And then, there is his love and knowledge of opera, which, in turn, nurtured my love of opera in turn. I hardly need to emphasise how important a trusted, knowledgeable, guiding hand is when it comes to the myriad, divine world of grand opera, with all its passion, lust, romance and tragedy. And, along with Freddie Mercury, who could be a better Virgil to guide me through this vast, operatic dark wood, so savage and harsh and dense, and the thought of which renews my fear, to paraphrase Dante.

And, so, in great anticipation I look forward immensely to next month's concert. How magical it will be. Rufus, with his extraordinary voice, and with an astonishing full band, recreating Judy Garland's famous 1961 comeback concert, which Rufus himself described as being "the greatest night in showbiz." What a dazzling treat it will be, a feast for the ears, eyes, soul and senses. As good as it gets, actually.

Backstage, I'm Lonely

This is what I wrote for a 300-word story assignment:

Backstage, I’m Lonely

“On my own, pretending he’s beside me…”

The cleaning lady suddenly stopped and peered up the staircase. She was the only one backstage at this late hour, the cast long gone, their curtain call taken an hour previously. With a shake of her head, she continued brushing the floor, when, again, came a haunting melody, “All alone, I walk with him till morning.” The brush dropped from her hand with a clatter, her pulse throbbing, hands drenched in sweat. She peered upwards, terrified, calling tentatively, her voice cracking with fear: “Is anybody there?” Silence. The old lift, a relic from the 1920s, stood before her with its iron grate door, as if in a sardonic grin. She shuddered as she recalled a rumour that had circulated for many years about an actor who had hung himself on the secret spiral staircase that linked the second and first floors. She suddenly looked up and saw the photographs lining the walls, pictures that she saw every day but had never looked at. But now, the eyes seemed to draw her in, demanding recognition. Nijinsky, in a supreme ballet pose but with eyes sunken and haunted. “The magic of yesteryear has disappeared,” ran the message above his signature. Without warning, she burst into sobbing, Nijinsky’s private pain seemingly entering her overwrought mind. And with a gravity defying leap, she found herself face to face with another photograph: Sarah Bernhart, in full Salome costume. Imperious but broken. She had signed her name along with, “What could have been.” The silence was broken by the lift wheezing into life and then coming to a halt on the second floor. Silence again. “That’s impossible,” she said. “Somebody must activate the… “

Next morning, the stage manager found her dead.

Modern Life Is (Still) Rubbish

And, dear Reader, let's face it, if Blur thought this was the case back in 1993, when they released their Modern Life is Rubbish album, it's difficult to argue that things have improved. We've got greater wealth inequality since then, our public services have been all but decimated by a seemingly never ending austerity, we've had a global pandemic which claimed the lives of millions of people, social media has exploded into our lives, dividing people more than ever, and we are on the brink of a global depression because of the war in the Middle East, and, like a sparkling icing on the top, we face the ever closer threat of ecological disaster due to climate change.

Ace. Just bloody ace.

 

I very recently discovered the work of the artist Rebecca Lightbody, and I responded to her work in a very positive way, as she seems to sum up so much that is fiercely irritating about our culture, but with a dark sense of humour at the same time:

There is something about this particular image that really amused me. Designed in the style of the hundreds of business cards that used to be found in telephone boxes in London, by ladies (and gents) of the night in the 1980s and 90s (and perhaps still do, who knows), but with a fabulous twist: "Call For Pain - I'll send you straight to voicemail." I don't exactly know why but I actually laughed out loud when I read that. For me, it just seemed to sum up so much about our current society. It used to be so very easy, if you wanted something from officialdom, or had a query about a venue or an electronic device you were interested in buying, or wanted to make a doctor's appointment, to just pick up the phone and call somebody. But now, it is practically impossible to do this. You either press the numbers requested when the phone answers, only to reach the end of the options with the instruction to email your question. Or you will be put on interminable hold, with Vivaldi blasting your eardrums, which is then periodically interrupted by a voice saying that the company are experiencing an unprecedented high number of calls, and advising that there will be a long delay. Thirty minutes later you are still waiting and have to hang up as you have other calls to make as well. I don't know about you, dear reader, but I despise this part of our society. And it doesn't have to be like this! It's a choice by the collective people who run the show.

This T-shirt design by Rebecca also caught my attention...

Albert Camus and the existentialists, eat your heart out!

With all this in mind, each day I become increasingly grateful (and reliant) on the simply priceless website that is the Internet Archive. And my latest discovery has really fired my imagination. For, instead of perusing through our dreaded contemporary newspapers or magazines on a weekend, I can now pretend that I am sitting in the lounge of The Cadogan Hotel, in 1896, sipping Earl Grey tea whilst reading The Savoy magazine of literature, art and criticism (which was published by Leonard Smithers and who was a friend of Oscar Wilde), with piano concertos by Chopin and Liszt playing away softly in the background or on my headphones.

I am currently two-thirds of the way through the 1st issue of The Savoy (which was published in January, 1896), and I have enjoyed the articles immensely. Here are its literary contents:

I am eagerly anticipating reading Aubrey Beardsley's Under the Hill, which is the last story in the collection, but so far my favourite has been The Binding of the Hair by W.B. Yeats, which has a strange, ghostly ending that I was not expecting. The piece by Havelock Ellis on the novelist Emile Zola, Zola: The Man and his Work, was intriguing and informative, as was the piece entitled Dieppe by Arthur Symons. This article had extra interest for me as I spent some time in Dieppe circa 1990/91, and although I don't have any recollections of any of the places Symons discusses, it still brought me closer to the time I spent there, and I could feel the warm heat and hear the soft sound of the sea as I read his evocative descriptions. 

- Dieppe, Illustration in The Savoy (1896)

I have been enjoying perusing The Savoy as if I'd discovered treasure that had been buried deep at sea for over a hundred years, and, in a sense, that is an accurate description. Of course, this find doesn't make me richer from a financial perspective, but the richness of its contents from an intellectual and emotional standpoint, and the way it has fired my imagination and allowed (nay, encouraged) me to find a way to extend my reality to how I would have felt if I had been living in 1896, has been priceless. To imagine myself reading this rather risqué, brand new decadent publication in the lounge of a beautiful London hotel, whilst sipping Earl Grey tea, in 1896, is an added delight. We all have many possibilities in us, and seeing that I am an individual who is sympathetic, eclectic, cosmopolitan, full of curiosity and abounding in the "historic sense," why wouldn't I delight in imaginatively exploring these myriad selves, given that such a rich opportunity for doing so has thus been presented to me? And not only that, it has given me a space where I can ignore some of the things in modern life that I described above which drive me to a barely concealed fury. The other fabulous news is that all eight issues are available to read on the Internet Archive, and I fully intend to make the very most of this situation by leaving the same interval between each edition as I would have had to do when they were published back in 1896, rather than just devouring all eight as soon as possible. A rather dandified and dignified way to go about this particular experience, I would suggest.

Anyway, gentle reader, with that in mind, I am now going to make myself a fine pot of Earl Grey tea, settle down in a chair in the lounge, put a Liszt piano concerto on in the background, and read what's remaining for to me to read in Issue 1 of The Savoy, whilst pretending I'm sitting in the lounge of The Cadogan Hotel, wondering if at any moment Oscar Wilde, Arthur Symons, Claude Debussy, or even Pierre Louys will walk through its famous doors, and join me for tea. Maybe you should do the same?

And yes, in my opinion, modern life is still rubbish.

 

The Savoy Magazine at Internet Archive:
https://archive.org/details/sim_savoy_the-savoy_1896-01_1

I'm a Weirdo: My Experience of Max Richter's 'Sleep'

"Ah God! that it were possible

For one short hour to see

The souls we loved, that they might tell us

What and where they be."

- Alfred Lord Tennyson,

Last year, I discovered that Max Richter's Sleep had been performed, live, in concert, with the audience members offered beds to sleep on during the performance, which began at 10pm and finished at 8am the following morning. Immediately, this struck me as being rather unique, and I was saddened that I had missed it. When I told my wife about the concert, she came back with an inspired suggestion: we should recreate it at home, and have the album playing (the album lasts 8 hours) from 10pm until 8am the following morning. That sounds great, I thought, let's do it this weekend. The timing was increasingly perfect for us, as the weekend we had decided to do it (December, last year), fell on a New Moon, which from a Daoist perspective is the best time to do something of this nature. 

With the date confirmed, we arranged our diaries so that we had nothing extra to do the next day, except my treatment regime, cook lunch and dinner, etc, and made sure everything was done that evening so that we were ready and prepared for bed, with lights out, to start the Max Richter album, Sleep. 

At 10pm exactly, I pressed play on Spotify.

Now, dear reader, just to bring you up to speed, I had read some wonderful reviews by people who had listened to Max Richter's Sleep, whether that be on album or the fortunate people who had experienced it live. And, almost unanimously, they waxed lyrical about how incredibly relaxing it had been, many saying they had experienced the best, most refreshing night's sleep they had had in decades. A few compared it to Brian Eno's beautiful ambient albums. Well, let me prepare you in advance: my experience was anything but relaxing and rejuvenating.

During the first ten minutes there was something profound about the feelings that the music stirred in me, and I recall my wife and I clutching hands during this time. Gradually, though, we both disengaged our fingers from each other and changed positions, as partners often do when falling asleep. And then suddenly, in the pitch darkness, memories began to invade my consciousness from many different episodes of my life. And these weren't just fleeting memories. They were intense, and it was as if I was back in those situations. I saw my life as a boy in the little terraced house in North Wales where I lived until I was seven. Crystal clear memories (more like a lived vision, in all honesty), of things I loved dearly back then: my train set, my pet rabbit, railway memorabilia that I had collected but which has long gone, my Flockton Flyer book, my mum's sister's husband, and, of course, my Mum and my Nain and Taid. I recall sobbing and asking them for their forgiveness, asking them if they knew how much I loved them, hoping beyond words that they did. Oceanic feelings of guilt swept in, leaving me shattered. I hope I returned your love, was about all I could say.

I then recall Lydia woke suddenly and needed a drink, and after this she very quickly fell asleep again. I knew this as I could hear her gentle purring and feel the change in her breathing next to me.

The next stage I experienced was intense feelings of death; my own, the people around me who I love, even the death of the animals and the world itself. I could feel myself almost breaking at this point, and just when I thought I couldn't take much more, a complete change came about in my thoughts and memories. In what seemed like an instant, I was then recalling vividly some of the most ecstatic and euphoric happenings of my life. Some of mine and Lydia's favourite places, singing on stage in Les Misérables, and most intriguingly, memories of mine and Lydia's date nights, with her wearing some of her most flirtatious outfits that I absolutely adore. But, suddenly, in the midst of this euphoria, something subtly changed. It was as if a force, an energy, was trying to deceive me. Deep inside my psyche I knew this was not now Lydia making me feel these things, and this sudden knowledge helped me break this particular spell. I managed to force myself to wake and sit up in bed and bring myself back to consciousness. Reflecting on this, I am compelled to consider the thought that a succubus had entered the scene, but who knows if that is what had actually happened. 
In the meantime, as I lay back down, the mood subtly changed once again. We have deep green velvet curtains covering our windows and it was pitch black in our room, except for the slightest chink of light coming from the speaker that was on the floor in the corner, and which was mostly hidden by the ottoman. I desperately tried to get to sleep, changed position a few times, but found it impossible. Richter's haunting music enveloped the room and completely invaded my body, mind and soul. In an attempt to sleep - even though by doing this I knew I was letting the side down - I put my headphones on so I could listen to the TV series Auf Wiedersehen, Pet, a tactic which usually works very well for me when I am struggling to get to sleep. But it was no use. I could hear the bass and haunting singing above the headphones, and the eeriness was utterly  overwhelming. I now felt like there were most definitely spirits in the room with me. In the dark corner by the mirror, the small speaker light was barely shining but I was too petrified to look in that direction even though my attention was constantly trying to get me to do so. I was convinced there was something in that corner of the room. I contemplated just sitting up and having the courage to look brazenly into that specific corner of darkness to see if anything happened. But I simply could not do it; The most I could bring myself to do was glance nervously and then quickly look away. Once again I swapped positions multiple times. I did some photo art on my phone to try and distract my mind as it was all becoming too much. I was caught completely between desperately wanting to see somebody like my mum, Nain or Taid, yet at the same time being gripped by the fear that it might, but wouldn't, actually happen. I was completely torn between feeling terrified that they might be upset with me over the kind of things my mind had been thinking of earlier, yet wondering if this might be my one and only opportunity to connect with them again in this world. It was an intolerable impasse and I was now truly exhausted. I looked at my phone and saw that it was now 5.30am, and I knew that I simply couldn't take this any more. I decided I had to turn the Max Richter album off as it was all becoming far too distressing, and I knew that if I continued there would be no chance of me getting any sleep, and I was already physically and emotionally shattered. So I turned off what remained to be played of Max Richter's Sleep album, and very hesitantly found the small light on our landing, and turned it on so I could go to the bathroom. I recall thinking how I could never have gone into our bathroom had everywhere been in pitch darkness, so thank goodness for the immediate convenience of that small night light. After this, I came back to bed and, eventually, managed a restless doze. At 9.40am our doorbell rang (which I answered) and then at 10am (the time Max Richter's Sleep was scheduled to finish) Lydia's alarm went off and she woke up. When I came back into our bedroom, I felt a very real need to open both our windows and let some fresh air in, and Lydia said later that I must have intuitively known what to do, as, through her knowledge of Daoism, that is what she would have suggested that I do. She also asked me to bless the corner of the room that I had found so mysterious and haunting, just to make sure that if there were any supernatural happenings occurring there, especially if it involved loved ones, to let them know that everything was fine and that there were no bad feeling towards them, and which would also, at the same time, clear the space if unwelcome and uninvited spirits had been hanging around, which, due to my experience, could well have been the case.

And with that ended my "relaxing and rejuvenating" experience with Max Richter's album, Sleep. I have read many more reviews of this album, since then, and, as far as I can tell, no one who has written has had an experience even remotely similar to mine. All of their reviews tell of a similar tale: relaxing, rejuvenating, deeply soulful, a spiritual awakening, etc. Lydia, too, remembered very little of the night and she had slept very well. But no, this wasn't what occurred with me. My experience had been the complete opposite. It was incredibly difficult at times, but I don't regret doing it. Perhaps I conversed with spirits in the otherworld, or maybe I connected in a very profound way with memories that are usually hidden so deep that I can't reach them (or they me). I guess I will never know for certain exactly what happened. But, either way, my experience, when compared with everyone else's, confirmed only too well what I am already painfully aware of:

I'm a weirdo.

- Henry Fuseli,
The Nightmare (1781)

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Oxford Playhouse Review.

Last week I attended a performance of one of my favourite plays (and, as we shall discover, films) of all time. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? by Edward Albee.

I first discovered Albee's scintillating play through the 1966 film, which I recorded on a VHS tape from the old TVC channel on Sky, starring Elizabeth Taylor as Martha, and Richard Burton as George. I knew I was in for a treat with it starring those two colossal figures of the acting world, but it blew my already high expectations out of the water. Taylor is astounding as Martha, the brash, caustic, yet deeply wounded wife of George, who is conjured by Burton with a gravitas beyond most actor's wildest dreams. 

The film is infinitely quotable:

and I have watched it (or, listened, to be precise) so many times that I can practically quote the entire film, line-by line. 

With all this in mind, my mindset going into the wonderful Playhouse auditorium was one of great anticipation, but also slight trepidation. Will it live up to its immensely illustrious predecessor, was my principal enquiry.

First things first. There were many aspects of this production that were very interesting. The first thing I was reminded of is just how many cuts were made in the film version, and hearing these extra lines from Albee's incredibly talented pen was a rare delight. Ben Hall as Nick, and Leah Haile as Honey were excellent as the sidekicks that are at the receiving end of a thousand barbed quips from their hosts, George and Martha. The set was perfect, with the books lining the walls (George is a history professor) apparently loaned from the Blackwells's store in Oxford, which I thought was a very pleasing touch, although the lack of a grotesque painting for one of the play's most famous scenes was glaringly absent, and I was surprised at this directorial choice.

But what this production really brought home to me was just how impossible it is for any actors to follow Taylor and Burton from the film version. Katy Stevens as Martha was believable, and she clearly savoured saying the lines that any actor would dream to be able to work with. But, I'm afraid, it was Matthew Pidgeon playing the character of George where this production fell flat for me. I have no doubt Pidgeon is a fine actor, and I am not suggesting otherwise. But his casting as George in this production completely mystifies me. Richard Burton's George is a fascinating character. It is clear that Martha is no ordinary woman and has larger than life, wild romantic dreams and enormous ambitions for her husband. Burton's George attempts to rise to this challenge. You can see why she loves him, even though he doesn't (and probably never could) meet her demands and wishes. And yet, it is very clear why this couple, who bicker and bitch at each other for all they're worth, and who carry so much pain from each other's wounds, are actually deeply in love and inseparable. It saddens me to say, but I just couldn't see the Earth Mother that is Martha falling so deeply in love with the George of this production. Again, this is not the actor's fault, my quibbling would be aimed at the casting director's choice. Burton has a physicality that matches his intellect and voice, but  Pidgeon's George resembled a physically brittle old man, and not someone who could match the sheer desire and ferocity of Taylor's Martha.

I am still glad I went to see this production, however, but, as my wife said as we discussed the show over coffee after the performance, for us personally, it is almost an impossible play for us to watch. Because, whoever is cast, they won't be Taylor or Burton. Each line that was delivered by the cast came with a strange haunting echo in my mind, the echo of the same line being delivered by Taylor or Burton. It was as if their disembodied presence was on the stage with the other actors (and seeing that Taylor and Burton performed on that very stage their ghosts may well have been prowling the theatre). I suppose sometimes a work of art achieves its pinnacle, which in this instant is the film version of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, and any other version will inevitably fall flat when compared with it. In a similar way to the reality that no matter how many people sing Freddie Mercury's songs, no one will ever top Freddie singing them himself.

So, all in all, a very interesting evening, but one that brought home a clear message that I already suspected, even as far back as when we purchased the tickets: nobody comes close to Burton and Taylor.

Until next time, I remain, etc, etc...

MTV: (1981-2025) The End of an Era

 

Although I haven't watched MTV in over twenty-five years, the news of its closing down has had me reflecting on what a sometimes brilliant, sometimes infuriating TV channel it was. I was about twenty when I first saw it, circa 1991/92, and it was a channel I watched a great deal initially, but then turned away from completely around 2006/07. Part of the reason for this was that my fiancée and I didn't have satellite TV in our very first flat, but even before then I had stopped watching the actual channel MTV because there was hardly any actual music on it. The last time I watched it (well, recorded it on VHS at my mum's house, actually, which was then watched over the next few days on our video player) was MTV's 120 Minutes programme, which was on around midnight and during which far more obscure, less mainstream-heavy music videos were played. It was through recording this programme that I discovered the likes of The Long Blondes (see a previous post), The Dresden Dolls, Ladyfuzz, New Young Pony Club, The Bravery, and quite a few other rare gems as well. But this was the last bit of my time with MTV.

It was very different from when I first started watching it, circa 1991/92. Initially, it was, almost inevitably, incredibly exciting. Whenever I had my mum's house to myself I would put it on. And even the videos to some of the songs that were incredibly mainstream were fascinating and well worth watching in those first couple of years. Some of my main memories are of the repetitive nature of a lot of the videos, and it seemed that the likes of Dire Straits, Billy Joel, Yes, Phil Collins, Genesis, and REM must have been included by rota during each passing hour. But even this was great. Dire Straits' Walk of Life' video was hilarious, as was 'I Can't Dance', and 'Jesus he Knows Me' by Genesis. And the video to Phil Collins' 'I Wish it would Rain Down' was actually a masterpiece, and I enjoyed watching that video very much. Here are the links for anyone interested...

Dire Straits, Walk of Life:

Genesis, I Can't Dance:


Genesis, Jesus He Knows Me:

Phil Collins, I Wish it Would Rain Down:

It was also on MTV that I first saw my very favourite promo video (still to this day), and the most heart-breaking one, too. My favourite, is 'I'm Going Slightly Mad' by Queen. In the video, Freddie (who was very ill at this point), wears a great black fright wig, and proceeds to ham it up spectacularly in a wonderfully theatrical, German-expressionism styled video. I doubt if it will ever be bettered...

Queen, I'm Going Slightly Mad:

And, then, there was the devastating 'These Are the Days of Our Lives', which was the last video Freddie ever appeared in, and which was heart-breaking to watch. Shot entirely in black and white, there is no fright wig or costume to disguise how ill Freddie was, just him and the band, performing this achingly beautiful song with class and dignity. The final "I still love you," from Freddie, complete in the original video (see below) that includes him signing out to the viewer, turned out to be his final goodbye, and the first time I saw it I was in floods of tears, as I have been on many consecutive viewings.


Queen, These Are the Days of our Lives:

But the main memory I have of MTV now, when I reflect back on those times, is actually the presenters. There were many of them but three remain in my mind. The first one was Paul King, a kind of laid back, indie "cool" guy who didn't go in for some of the insanely irritating "zany" shenanigans that used to drive me to a fury. The only reason I really remember him is because he introduced an MTV U2 weekend special in 1992, which I was so excited about and recorded quite a lot of. Unbelievably, his intro is on YouTube...

Another presenter that I recall was the exotic, Italian (I presumed), Kristiane Backer. She was rather easy on the eye (and ears compared with some of the brash American presenters!), and was so much better than all of the other female presenters, who were so obviously reading their lines from an autocue, and seemed to have little genuine interest in pop/rock music...

The third one I recall the most, however, Ray Cokes, I remember for all the wrong reasons. He was one of those infuriating, "zany" types, a kind of prototype Chris Evans, or Johnny Vaughan from the nauseating The Big Breakfast programme, and here he is for you to savour (and be haunted by from now on) in all his "glory":

But, all in all, it's a shame that MTV has finished as a channel. Although to most intents and purposes it ceased being an actual music channel many moons ago, it still signals a shift in culture and signifies the end of an era. It accompanied me through much of my early twenties and into my late twenties, and I am very grateful for its existence during those years, not to mention the gratitude I have that my mum was able to have SKY TV so I could watch it.

It was far from perfect, but served a very important pop music lifeline for many years.
I raise my glass: to MTV, and the end of an era.

And my absolute Favourite MTV moment, Nick Cave & Kylie Minogue, interviewed, sadly, by Ray Cokes, although both Nick and Kylie lead him on a merry dance, which is fabulous.

Enjoy, darlings!

Cover Version: Let's Spend the Night Together

The subject doing the rounds on social media today has centred on cover versions. Many have been posted, some of which I'd deem to be good, some dreadful, but, in the main, most have been fantastically dull. Anyway, for me, there can really only be one choice today on what would have been David Bowie's 79th birthday: his cover of Let's Spend the Night Together' by The Rolling Stones. I've never really been able to listen to the Stones for long periods of time as Jagger's voice brings me out in a rash but I deeply love many cover versions of their songs (Echo and the Bunnymen's 'Paint it Black', for example):

My favourite, by a country mile, however, is Bowie's version of 'Let's Spend the Night Together.' It simply pulses with passion, sex and vitality. One review on a Bowie webpage says, "In this song, Jagger sounds hesitant and wry, whereas Bowie is manic and confident, as though he's so sure of his conquest he's already got his eye on another one." Well, quite! 

Before we savour Bowie's pulsating version, let's remind ourselves of the pedestrian and plodding original by The Rolling Stones:

And here, in sharp contrast, is Bowie's scintillating, life-affirming, go and grab the night by the nipples (copyright Fleabag) version of 'Let's Spend the Night Together', which, for my money, makes the Stones version as drab as drab can be:

Don't you agree, darlings, that this wham bam, thank you, ma'am, glam thunderbolt knocks the Stones version into a cocked hat? And, as a humorous aside, I think I may have unintentionally 'sexted' my still-to-be future wife in our early courting days because of this song, for I clearly recall texting her the message, 'Let's Spend the Night Together, Now I need you more than ever!" one afternoon when I'd been discharged from a hospital admission. I guess Bowie would have smiled and considered it job done, in any case, as he inspires us both to embrace life and be anything but coy, darlings! 

So, which one do you prefer, kind reader? I'm sure you have your own favourite and greatly disliked cover versions. They certainly make the musical landscape a far richer tapestry than if they never existed, don't they?

"Let's Spend the Night Together,
Now I need you more than ever...

Let's spend the night together Now!"

Dedicated to the lady I texted, Lydia, who also took me to see Bowie in 2002 on a night I will never, ever forget, and who then became my wife, a little while later, in 2012.

"Our love comes from above... OH!
Let's Spend the night together, now!"
xxxx