Browsing Tag le beat bespoke 8

Considering I’m beuf en croute, to coin a terrible play on words, to what may well be the psych event of the year, I probably should have made more preparations (making sure there was enough gas in the meter to run a bath, jumping in it before the missus, et al) prior to setting off: the typically unpredictable Bank Holiday traffic (tailbacks of cars or empty roads with less buses, but either way, you’re fucked) doesn’t help either. Ultimately, all of the above combines into a recipe for surefire disaster that means I miss all but the final notes of July’t set, particularly galling from my perspective as my good friend Alasdair Mitchell of the Hidden Masters is now the bass player. Drat!!

Fortunately, he doesn’t throw a wobbler when I tell him, and several hours later we’re still on the best of terms at a small informal post-NUTS gathering at a friend’s house in N1: frontman and head honcho Tom Newman also tells me there’s a DVD I can watch for notes, but that’s scarcely the point. My first NUTsMag feature and I’ve already managed to cock it right up. Whoop-see daisy.

Still, never mind, onwards and upwards, there are too many good mates here for me to be in a bad mood, so the best thing I can do is order a drink and ensconce myself at a premium vantage point from which to watch the CRAZY WORLD OF ARTHUR BROWN let forth the first ever complete end-to-end performance of “their” (i.e. his) debut 1968 platter. And what a performance! I’ve seen Arthur live somewhere between nine and twelve times (even promoted him myself once), including both a stint as a member of Hawkwind and as provider of spoken word introductions betwixt the musical numbers of the Pretty Things’ SF Sorrow (which we will touch on later) but this is something quite different. For a start, there are no dodgy U2 covers involved, and secondly, while with Arthur you’re always guaranteed a certain degree of quality, tonight he and his Crazy World exuded sheer class above and beyond our wildest expectations.

Some of us know all the material, others perhaps less so, but I don’t think anybody expected it to be so mouth-wateringly tight yet loose at the same time in the way that the best psych should be, full of such vigour and fire (OK, we did expect ‘Fire’, but not that kind) and flow so seamlessly from tune to tune as to still retain the original album’s cyclical feel. But it did, and while I’d wager that over half the room were well acquainted with the Brown schtick, that didn’t stop jaws falling to the floor in sheer wonderment at what was being witnessed. Of course, Arthur has always been the quintessential Shaman showman, the man whose image, vocal style and theatrics laid the foundations not only for psych and prog as we know them but glam, shock-rock and even black metal, but very rarely does he get the chance to remind us just how great those early albums were.

Tonight at LBB, all that was put to rights, with frenzied renditions of ‘Come and Buy,’ ‘Time,’ ‘Child of My Kingdom’ and ‘Spontaneous Apple Creation’ – but all in the correct order – sounding as fresh as they had the first time round. Sadly no other original members remain from the glory days, but the current lineup, with the swooping, Rita Tushingham lookalike high priestess of lysergia Lucie Rejchrtova (formerly of Instant Flight) on keyboards, and Samuel Walker ably thrashing the traps where both Carl Palmer and Drachen Theaker once sat, are instinctively, intuitively tuned in to the true Crazy World sound, ably aided by Nina Gromniak’s scything guitar and the interpretative dance of Angel Fallon (also of Space Ritual). The venue may be a little more grandiose, but there’s still that touch of the old UFO club about this band: haircuts aside, this is about as close as 2012 gets to the real thing.

And Arthur himself is undoubtedly the real thing. Any man of almost 70 who can still sing, nay, shriek, at that volume, in tune, and still decorate it with those dollops of soul and blues that, again, launched a zillion careers, deserves some kind of knighthood – a dark one, obviously, but he deserves it all the same. “I Put a Spell on You” is now as much his song as it was ever Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ or Alan Price’: here, as much as in any number, Brown and his band demonstrate the whole combination of primal soul, R’n’B and even Olde English Music Hall roots which, when combined with jazz, neo-classical keyboard work and a healthy ingestion of “magic squares” created that which we now define as “UK psych-prog”, his band members such as Vincent Crane and Nicolas Greenwood soon also going on to record groundbreaking classics of their own.

In such music, the pop melodies and the soulful exhilarations are there, but rather than relying on the harmonies and choruses of the Beatles, Stones and other deities, the Crazy World album always was, and still remains, a symphony: music in varying and constantly shifting degrees of colour and mood. Yet, despite all that, every Mod about town (and a few Rockers too, judging by the front rows) can still “freak their stuff” to it without difficulty, and duly did so. My only complaint is that being, as it was, a performance of an album, there could be no surprises or time left for an encore, but on the other hand, maybe any attempt to follow what we’d just seen would have sullied its power.

Except, that is, if you’re a different band altogether, and you happen to be the headline act: a grand fanfare by Master of Ceremonies Caspar De La Mare, resplendent as ever in titfer, whistle and kipper, heralded the arrival of the Pretty Things (for ‘twas they) who achieved the unthinkable in managing to surpass their old mate Arthur for sheer power and create possibly an even more otherworldly atmosphere. This, you see, was not just any old Pretties gig, but the Electric Banana set: those who know the films from which these tunes came will understand therefore just how special tonight is. Some, like “Alexander” and “I See You” (the latter of which also appears on the band’s magnum opus SF Sorrow) have been aired before: others like “Danger Sign,” “Love, Dance and Sing,” “Eagle’s Son” and in particular “It’ll Never Be Me”, which graced the soundtracks of at least four classic Brit exploitation flicks, don’t get aired enough, and the chill down the spines of those lucky enough to witness it, myself included, is palpably visible.

You see, without the Pretties, aka the Banana, and their unique take on British R’n’B, which then flowered into freakbeat and psych, festered into prog, hard rock and metal, even veered off into reggae in the early 80s (as anyone who ever saw the Monster Club will attest) and provided the aural finish to so many of the films which go hand in hand with that music, I almost definitely wouldn’t be here writing this, and it’s probably fair to say that a lot of us wouldn’t be at LBB every few months grooving to it. All the requisite ingredients of what could be defined as ‘psych’ were here tonight from the music to the crowd to the raven haired dancing girls: the price of the beers (always hiked up slightly when we come in as opposed to the venue’s usual student clientele) was a harsh reminder that it definitely isn’t 1970, but if you closed your eyes for a moment it smelt and sounded like it was.

With regard to the PTs themselves as musicians, it never ceases to amaze me every time I see them how powerful they sound – if anything, with encroaching age, Dick Taylor gets heavier, fuzzier and dirtier as a guitarist, yet still manages to ring those bell-like signatures that form the core of the trademark Pretties sound from his instrument with a sublime sense of melody. Phil May’s voice may be deeper, more spoken in places than in days of yore (days of my what? Bad Puns Ed), but he remains note perfect, even when the rest of the band, including the ever-capable Frank Holland (rhythm guitar) and Mark St John (percussion and backing vocals) manage to forget how the final stanza of “Walking Through My Dreams” goes. Sod’s Law, if they had to nadger one song up, it would have to be my personal favourite, wouldn’t it? But one glitch in an otherwise perfect evening is easily forgiven.

R’n’B roots are returned to with ‘Midnight to Six Man,’ ‘Get the Picture’ and ‘Come See Me’ but there could have been no better end than the final throbbing crescendo of ‘£.S.D’ (yes, spelt that way – it meant money then), which, segued into ‘Old Man Going’ is possibly the best condensed demonstration of their durability. Their Kentish brethren the Strolling Bones may have the fame and the millions, but the Pretty Things retain the credibility worldwide that no stadium rock act ever has – and they’re still building on it. How something as sublime ever managed to crawl from the utter arsehole of Sarf East London that is Erith is still beyond me, but I guess half the best art has always been created out of a need to find something of beauty in an ugly environment…

Post-gig, LBB splits into various rooms covering a wide spectrum of underground vintage sounds with me heading into the Psych and Garage den for more hedonist fun till closing time. However the most remarkable aspect of Le Beat Bespoke its friendliness and warmth. Faces both old and new co-existed in the spirit of appreciation for above all the music (and not just the fashions, although some of the finest hairdos, dresses and three-piece suits known to man were still sported) there were many participants that looked more likely to be readers of Classic Rock or Prog magazine than Shindig or Record Collector, and even our venerable founder Rob Bailey, normally as stressed as any man responsible for organising a four day event could be, was sauntering round the room with a cheerful demeanour and wide grin, particularly whilst Arthur Brown did his thang.

Author: Darius Drewe Shimon

Photos by Horst A. Friedrichs & Ramees Farooqi

Take a look here for more photos from LE BEAT BESPOKE 8 and THE 8 HOUR TECHNICOLOUR DREAM 

 

 

 

Taking The Beat By The Teeth: Le Beat Bespoké 8

Slap bang wallop! Without even a moments thought April has swung back round again and the Easter Bank Holiday has reared its handsome face. The worker ants of England are assembling with the prospect of a three-day weekend just too hot to handle. Pint arms are winding up and cigarettes jingling in their boxes, while the pub tills are grinning their toothless smiles in wait of the precious pound notes that will soon be jumping eagerly to their alcohol-induced doom.

Some people are choosing their outfits, and a few of them have been choosing more carefully than others. One such member of the few happens to be me, and it’s vintage suede on the outerwear agenda as I walk a walk of walks in repossessed Italian lace-ups and gunmetal strides down Great Portland Street. My consideration has been of due importance as my destination tonight is none other than the all singing all dancing Le Beat Bespoke weekender; the holy grail of modernist and 1960s orientated events on these fair isles.

As I near the end of Great Portland Street the venue looms into view and the scene is awash with psychedelic overtones: floral shirts, formidable sideburns, shaggy mop tops and tight flares, girls in every shade of paisley, cigarette smoke billowing from under Sassoon bobs; the occasional suit a close fit over spindly limbs. This is of course because taking the stage tonight will be three separate counts of psych rock majesty: fabled Ealing group July playing their eponymously titled ’68 album in full; on-stage arson enthusiast and godfather of shock rock Arthur Brown brings his ‘Crazy World of’… album to life track by track; and to cap the nights live music Dartford garage rock icons the Pretty Things will be serving up a helping of personal highlights from their string of Electric Banana albums. So descending the steps into the main hall I swing myself a beer in at the bar and join the steadily amassing crowd as Friday night begins…

A luminously coloured 4-foot dwarf-like monster of sorts is slowly parading across the stage shaking some kind of cosmic African staff when July take the stage, unbeknownst at this point that peculiar costumes and masks will feature steadily throughout the evening and beyond. Kaleidoscopic visuals swirl overhead as the band launch into opener ‘My Clown’, far-off harmonies and organs oscillating above the steady snare beat, with screeching guitars wail throughout ending with a warm applause from the crowd. Four minutes in and things are decidedly acidy already, and it’s all Eastern leaning space rock from here on out. Bongos ripple under driving rhythm guitar on ‘You Missed it All’ and languid sitar drones while distorted solos spiral on ‘The Way’, not to mention a ‘July’ shaped bass appearing in the hands of singer Tom Newman (of which someone tells me he crafted himself). All these elements are combined throughout the on stage reincarnation of the album, and personal favourite ‘Crying Is For Writers’ goes down a storm before the band finishes with classic track ‘Dandelion Seeds’.  Everything technicoloured and dandy so far.

After a brief smoking intermission I re-beer and prepare for Arthur Brown to make his Crazy World live music reality. Though infamous for the insanity of his live shows nobody can quite prepare you for the crew of druid-like figures that walk on stage in bizarre brightly coloured masks and shimmering cloaks. Organs sing out as the imposing frame of Mr Brown takes position at the front and a wild garage drum beat kicks in with quick firing guitar. Brown screeches and the mask is off revealing a black and white painted face that resembles something halfway between a panda and a vampire. As Brown howls his way through opener ‘Prelude/Fanfare’ I’m quite literally taken aback by the wild majesty of his voice; 69 years of living seem meaningless as he bellows maniacally over duelling organs nailing every piercing note. After shaking and shimmying like the proverbial madman through the jazz flute synth mayhem of ‘Fanfare/Fire Poem’, the moment many people have been anticipating takes place. A diminutive LSD-goblin appears from behind the stage carrying the notorious crown of fire, which is subsequently fastened to Arthur Brown’s head and set alight to cries of adulation from the audience. The sacred words of ‘I am the Lord of Hellfire…’ are uttered and the band catapults into that most famous of Hammond electronic organ tunes. A simply unbelievable rendition of his famous cover of Screaming Jay Hawkins track ‘I Put a Spell on You’ follows amidst ritualistic dancing all round and a golden-winged woman joining the caped melee of the band, as the Crazy World of Arthur Brown hurtles towards its brilliant end. For tonight at least.

With Arthur Brown living up to his name with fry…flying colours it seemed even a band as feted as the Pretty Things would have a bit of trouble following on from the wild display just witnessed. Though in their Electric Banana guise, it’s not long before the crowd are once more fully engrossed in the psychedelic buzz. Bright coloured hypnotic projections follow once again and I make a mental note that something similar might be a worthwhile installation in my room at home. Having missed a chance to see the Pretty Things before at the Charlotte Street Blues club before it closed down it doesn’t take me long to start enjoying myself as the cacophony of garage psych and turbo blues spills forward from the stage.  Complete with Go-Go dancers some fine vintage late 60s psych is being played, ‘What’s Good for the Goose’ goes down perfectly with a rum and coke, as well as a favourite of mine ‘It’ll Never Be Me’, and as the set reaches it’s acid drenched crescendo ‘£.S.D’ is fittingly dropped into the mix and there isn’t a single person seen to be standing still.

Shortly after the live entertainment is finished I’m working over my game plan for the weekend over a cigarette. Do break it in gently on the Friday and gradually gather pace towards Sunday’s finale, or just say, “fuck it” and take Le Beat by the teeth and get well and truly weekendered? Knowing that this is now my third Le Beat Bespoke in a row I am aware of the fact that the ‘gently does it’ approach didn’t work the last two times, or in fact rarely ever. As I take the penultimate drag of my cigarette the party gene within is fully expressing itself, and having already made the decision for me I throw any lingering caution rather casually to the wind. As you do.

After the collective madness of tonight’s psychedelic live adventure I decide to delve back into the earlier half of the decade over in the R&B room, with tonight’s tunes supplied by the DJs of renowned Sheffield club night ‘Pow Wow’. As usual there is some fine dance moves on show, young guns and old hands alike in perspiration defying suits, more pristine hair-dos and dresses than you can shake a seven inch single at. Between fast paced R&B belters there’s club soul and boogaloo, cut with rum and ginger ale, and crucial cooling down outside which is making it a bad weekend to quite smoking. Two friends appear out of nowhere shuffling along to some up-tempo latin and remind me that it is in fact my birthday. I agree that it is and after a celebratory shot at the bar it’s dance dance dance non-stop until kicking out time, and after somewhat drunken and unsuccessful attempts to get ourselves some ‘Boris’ bikes Friday night is done and dusted with Saturday already poking it’s nose into view.

Feeling rougher than expected I awake with this years Le Beat soundtrack tune ‘Shake Yourself Down’ by the Checkerlads on repeat in an otherwise vacant mind. I am also horrified to discover that it is 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Thinking so much for making a birthday of it I call my mate to find that he’s gone to 229 to check out the vintage market which serves as one of Le Beat’s daytime features. The clothes obsessive in me is crying but my wallet is relieved. I resolve to get myself together and chip back into town later to catch 60s rock’n’roll Minnesota surfin’ birds the Trashmen who are, rather unbelievably, playing their first ever UK show. Arranging to meet fresh accomplices at a nearby drinking establishment round number two has arrived and Saturday night starts.

We arrive in time to catch the last third of the Screamin’ Vendettas’ set. Following on from Arthur Brown and his bands lead the masks are out again, complete with spooky hoods. Raucous garage rock & roll is blaring from the stage with gravelly vocals that put me in the mind of the John Spencer Blues Explosion all dressed up for Halloween. It’s brash, stripped-down cover stuff with a slight rockabilly lean, which suits tonight’s main room residents The Rock Around. Plenty of quiffs are bobbing in the audience and I even spot a couple of yes-drill-sergeant buzz cuts staring intently at the on-stage spectacle.

Still feeling suspect after last night I steady myself with a beer and when we return to the crowd the Trashmen are taking the stage. Dressed in black and looking understandably more mature than the sleeve of infamous single ‘Surfin’ Bird’, the drummer gibbers wildly into the mic and the band launches into their set, and suddenly the night is feeling very ‘Pulp Fiction’. With this gig decades in the making and also coinciding with the bands 50^th anniversary it’s clear that none of the original enthusiasm has waned. Amidst a set of classic songs such as ‘King of the Surf’ and a thrilling rendition of Dick Dale stormer ‘Misirlou’ (that Pulp Fiction banger to anyone who was wondering) there’s a three song Link Wray medley and an interesting surf re-working of classic Spanish folk song ‘Malaguena’, all of which are warmly received by the crowd. Undeniably the set highlight is of course ‘Surfin Bird’, which is by anyone’s estimation and undying staple in the classic rock canon, to which everyone in the crowd has buzzed-up shimmy and a shake to.

Following their departure and having re-found my feet somewhat, I decide to pick up where Friday’s ’68 sound left off. As the rockers and rollers begin to hit the main room floor we saunter through to the Beat Basement where I am met with more congratulatory birthday shots. And all of a sudden the weekend is back into top gear. I spend the best part of the evening swinging between the floppy fedoras and swirly dresses of the psych room and that sharp suited sounds of the R&B room, where guest DJs from Spanish stalwart The Boiler club are laying down some serious vintage black dancers. Everyone and everything seems in fine form with not a sorry face is to be seen.

Finding ourselves back in the psych room ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ blares forth from the speakers and now being well into the run of things drinks-wise I foresee that tomorrow will know less jovial times. But it matters not, because in the words of Lou Reed, ‘tomorrows just some other time’. At that care-free intersection of the evening where the music and people are at fun-induced critical mass I realise that there is only 45 minutes left. Resolving to carry on the party Elsewhere we leave in a taxi to an undisclosed location where the general merriment of the evening spirals into the wee hours in a ceaseless haze of happiness.

At around 8am it slowly dawns on me that there is something important that I am meant to already be awake for. And in the drunken fug I realise that I’m due to meet my own band for a recording session. Feeling a little bit sick and Hastily leaving in a shamble I head for the tube, drawing some very confused, if not concerned looks from various passers by. I suspect it’s either down to the un-dead pallour my skin has taken on or the rather conspicuous fringed suede jacket I’m wearing.

Several hours and countless coffees later I’m beginning to feel a little bit delirious. By half 5 in the afternoon I’m seriously questioning my will to carry on and by the time I leave to get ready for the third and final round I have decided with absolute conviction, that the idea of ‘rock and roll’ people are so often using to categorise a lifestyle of musical and recreational excess is thoroughly overrated. But what else can you do at this point and suck it up and make it to the next inning.

I just about pull my sanity and my body back together after a 2 hour sleep/coma and make it out of the house by 11. For the second time in 24 hours it once again dawns on me that I’ve forgotten something important, in that I missing Sunday’s live finale; the focal point of which will be another New Untouchables live coup- Scotland’s finest freakbeat emissaries The Poets. Lamenting the rickety state of my fragile weekend being I pray there might be another time.

For the third night in a row and my body now about as good as a cardboard cut-out of a former self I arrange to meet with startlingly fresh faced and large numbered group of friends at a flat near Great Portland Street. Everyone is gathered for Sunday’s Crossfire event, the immensely popular oldies night Crossfire. Bar two or three of us present this is the only night most of the assembled group had planned on going to, and a feeling of high spiritedness is unanimous. Having started the weekend as quite the game young buck I’m now feeling approximately twice my age (24) and my state of mind can be compared to that of a homeless Vietnam veteran. As someone sticks on Yvonne Baker behemoth ‘You Didn’t Say a Word’ I drain the content of my predominantly gin-filled glass in one and decide that only Northern Soul can save me now…

This is where the story ends, or rather cuts-out, as most of the hours following our arrival at 229 are a soul-fuelled blur. All I can say is that there was lots of soul, and lots of dancing, and lots of lots of things, all of which I can guarantee… It finally took me till half 7 in the morning at another after party in Elswhereville to declare my self 100% Weekendered. Gold stamp approved. Congratulations as always to Rob Bailey and the New Untouchables team for a thoroughly monumental weekend and roll on the next one. Maybe next year I’ll try the full 3 days without sleep and make things really interesting. Until next time, over and out- like a light.