What the Hell Is Punk, Anyway?
The three unavoidables for musicians: death, taxes, and the van–the less than sumptuous facilities from which I am reporting to you now as the Damned hurtle at breakneck speed from Thessalonica to Athens on our latest Euro jaunt.
At least we had a reasonable hotel last night–but is it “punk rock” to be afforded the luxury of a bathrobe, room service and a vanity kit and all that? It takes a lot to get my chum Charlie Harper, singer of the UK Subs, to complain (”sleep on the DJ’s floor Charlie?”…”Yeah yeah yeah, but where’s the beer?”). The Subs will play any gig, anywhere, anytime–the bloke’s a legend.
Now I’m not saying that dossing on the floor’s beneath me–I just think at this late state in my dubious career I deserve a bit of comfort after a hard day’s flitting about in my quest to spread a little joy and happiness (plus a dollop of subversion) around the planet. Oh, and I’m not sure my dodgy old back would stand sleeping on the DJ’s floor these days, either.
A few years ago the Damned participated in the Warped Tour, a traveling punk circus with the bands journeying from town to town through the night in their various tour buses. We did notice then that some of the buses were a lot posher than others. And how about the bands that have private planes with an anarchy logo on the tail–as the owner of our last label had (although that didn’t stop us borrowing it on occasion…cough, ahem!).
I remember when we flew in for what was the first US show by a UK punk band. At CBGB’s it was, in 1976 and we were met by this limo to take us into Manhattan…which we promptly sent off in disgust taking the shuttle bus instead. Who did they think we were–rock stars? But it wasn’t long before we started selling reasonable amounts of records and the inverted snobbery went down the jolly old toilet pan!
So, what exactly is punk rock? Is it just about kick ass songs, spiky hair and tattoos, or is there more to it? The Damned’s motto was “THE FIRST RULE IS–THERE’S NO RULES”–but I’m not sure you can front a punk group wearing bright orange loon pants and get away with it.
Maybe punk’s job is to tell it like it is: naming names, challenging the lunatic policies of government and pointing out the failures of a society that works just fine and dandy if you’re stinking rich but is a nightmare for the poor–in a way that journalists used to do before the likes of Rupert Murdoch changed all that nonsense! And whatever you think of Green Day–”American Idiot” did hit the nail firmly on the head lyrically (even if the tune does reminded us of Kim Wilde’s “Kids In America” somewhat).
But is it not the DIY attitude that is the crowning glory of punk? Buy a guitar and do it yourself. You only need to learn a few chords and you’re away. And for me that philosophy should go for sport, TV, religion, art, whatever…don’t sit on the couch watching some arrogant overpaid asshole do it for you–use your own brain and see what you can create. That’s punk if you like.
But I’d better wrap up now as our van is finally approaching Athens after 6 hours of hell–sweltering heat with no AC to speak of–and regardless of my preceding waffle about punk all I can say is if they don’t have any decent beer at the venue tonight the gigs off!
Pip pip,
Captain S.
The worst joke I’ve heard this week…
A 6 year old and a 4 year old are talking. The 6 year old says, “I think it’s time we started swearing”. The 4 year old agrees.
They go down to breakfast and Mum asks what they want. The 6 year old says, “Oh shit Mum, I think I’ll have some Cocoa Pops”. WHALLOP… he flies out of the chair and across the room and runs out crying.
Mum looks sternly at the 4 year old and asks what he wants.
“I don’t know,” he cries–”but it won’t be fucking Cocoa Pops!”
Where Are All the Weirdos?
I first met Monty the Moron at “performance night” at a dingy club in the UK’s bohemian (i.e. sleazy) Brighton–a place where literally anything goes…and that’s the way we like it down here. The place is rammed to the rafters with winos, weirdos, junkies and poets, all of whom are welcome in my book, as they each play their part in keeping Brighton well and truly off the straight and narrow.
Anyway, the first glimpse I had of my future band-mate Monty was as he was called to the stage to give it his all for the alloted five minutes that the participants were rationed to–not enough in some cases and rather more than truly necessary for others! Boy did he go for it, getting some pretty impressive noises out of a cheap and battered Casio keyboard. A quick flurry of Bach was followed by a smidge of jazz. Then, most impressively he suddenly freaked out–something had gone untoward with the equipment which instigated a cacophony of loud cursing and swearing from the stage–and a stunned silence from the audience. This was my kind of musician I thought, but on purchasing him a pint later I was surprised to find that he was actually quite shy and unassuming, the demented stage persona being reserved solely for performances.
Basically, if anything goes wrong with his keyboards he loses it big time. It’s a nightmare for the roadies but hilarious for the fans as the air rapidly turns blue with a dazzling array of foul-mouthed invectives (I could also mention that the onstage air has turned brown over on Monty’s side of the stage on occasion, but that might have more to do with his love of all things curry…if you get my drift).
Anyway, you should have heard him the night we arrived at our extremely dodgy San Francisco motel after a harrowing 24 hour drive across country from God knows where. Some dubious fellow residents of the drug dealer persuasion made the mistake of attempting to sell our keyboardist some of their produce and it didn’t seem like they were willing to accept no for an answer. Well, they got a whole lot more than they bargained for, and deservedly so. The fact that he woke the whole place up at 3am-ish didn’t bother our manic hero as he fired off a choice selection of w***ers, f**k offs, and b***cks in the general direction of these hoodlums, convincing them that they were potentially dealing with a dangerous psycho. An assumption not 100% away from the truth.
In this day and age of slickly coached TV talent show contestants and punk band clones with nary a spiky hair out of place, might it not be the weirdos and flawed genii who could be the saviors of a music business that doesn’t seem to know talent when it hears it? So what if a performer is good looking and can put over a tune to a standard that might appeal to the likes of Simon Cowell. How much longer will it be before even the fans of his turgid shows start hankering for a bit of spontaneity and madness in their entertainment?
Frank Zappa wouldn’t get through the first audition on American Idol (or whatever it’s called these days) let alone be offered a record contract. I can hear them now, “Not commercial enough…too controversial…where’s the hit?”
The quote he came out with about the ubiquitous nature of mainstream pap went something like this: “95% of all music, from whatever genre you care to mention, is garbage. But after a little investigation it’s easy enough to find the real stuff, you just won’t get to hear it on radio that often.”
When young punk bands ask me for advice I tell them to do something different…like find themselves a bassoon player, or paint themselves green or whatever.
Is there any likelihood of a resurgence in the experimentation of the ’70s that brought us Krautrock, punk and psychedelia? Well, if the likes of the UK’s determinedly left field Colour Out of Space and All Tomorrow’s Parties festivals are anything to go by, things look promising.
And at the end of the day, wouldn’t you rather witness some lunatic muso losing their cool onstage, tangled up in cables and broken equipment screaming “C**TS!” into the microphone than some tediously normal act well versed in their stagecraft, doing everything by numbers–and thereby boring everyone to death? The likes of James Blunt spring to mind–do you have him in the USA? I can only apologise on behalf of the British nation–we’re not all like that.
Oh, and to any of the many labels currently churning out the same old dross that might be listening–do us all a favor and sign the occasional unpredictable genius type…a future Syd Barrett, Brian Wilson or Frank Zappa. You never know, you might even start selling some records you’d be proud to actually listen to!
Pip pip,
Captain S.
PS - Here’s the worst joke I’ve heard this week
I went to see the nurse this morning for my annual check-up,
She said I have to stop w**king
I said “Why?”
She said, “Because I’m trying to examine you.”
Captain Sensible is the guitarist of rabble rousers the Damned who kick started the UK punk scene of 1977 along with the Clash and the Sex Pistols, with whom they shared many a stage. Highly rated examples of the Damned on vinyl are “Damned Damned Damned” and “Machine Gun Etiquette”, the latter of which combined their rifftastic version of punk rock with a generous dollop of pysychedelia–a common theme in Mr. Sensible’s work. Mr. S also had a successful (if unlikely) solo career in the ’80s and toured the USA as a rap artist (I kid you not…) when his single “Wot” found itself high in the Billboard Dance Charts. He recently formed his own political organisation, The Blah! Party, as a direct result of Tony Blair’s warmongering. Captain is still touring with the Damned who are planning some recording soon–so if there’s any labels out there……
www.captainsensible.com
Cap’s Vacation
London - Valencia, Wednesday, April 16th
No frills but cheap…it’s my middle name, playmates. No, actually I’m referring to EasyJet, the bucket airline who transported me out to sunny sunny Spain this afternoon. Well, there is a smattering of cloud cover if the truth is told but the weather’s certainly a whole stack better than the crap I’ve been putting up with in the UK for the last few months. You know I heard some scientist blathering away on TV the other day suggesting that the future looks increasingly bleak for Britain weather wise over the next few years…something to do with the shifting of the Jet Stream. Something else to look forward to, eh folks?
Valencia, Thursday, April 17th
Spain’s 2nd city (or is that Barcelona?) is a groove…I spent the day zipping around the gaff on the bus after getting hold of one of those fab value local transport day passes. And the route of the No. 95 bus is a lot of fun, meandering along the side of the old river Turia which I have been authoritatively informed was diverted around the city owing to the disastrous floods of 1957. So Valencia, which was previously less than well endowed on the green spaces front has gained a massive new area of public land which has been admirably landscaped with lots of trees and sports facilities ending up in some ways akin to New York´s Central Park. Only being an ex-river this park is a lot longer and thinner!
Valencia, Friday, April 18th
‘Twas a real nice day and I spent most of it down at the beach which had a bunch of enticing cafés running alongside. I was amazed to find one that had vegetarian paella on the menu. Blimey…the world’s changing before my very eyes, as just 5 years ago there was no way you could find anything to eat out here of a non-carnivore persuasion, and now (thanks to happycow.com) I know of several restaurants I can frequent. Going back a few years I can recall an unhappy incident while on tour in Spain when the other guys in the band were heartily tucking into their meat meals and after an additional wait of about half an hour I received my less than impressive dinner–a burger bun containing grated cheese…microwaved. Yuk!
I also remember 30 years ago how bloomin’ difficult it was to get decent beer in the USA with the likes of Schlitz, Coors, Bud, Miller, etc. appearing in the dressing room with a depressing regularity. Thankfully it’s all changed and the only problem is in deciding which fabulous new ale to request. Sam Adams Boston Lager…Sierra Nevada Pale…and Levitation Ale from San Diego. These are the current faves–but what am I doing rabbiting on about beer when I have my holiday diary to write here…
Vilanova, Saturday, April 19th
The route up the Costa Del Sol has got to be one of the great train journeys of our time, taking in some spectacular scenery…rocky coves, sun kissed beaches and the like…some full of the now ubiquitous surfer dudes but I think they´re flogging a dead horse here cos (as someone should’ve told them) there’s no real waves in the Mediterranean to speak of. They looked like a bunch of basking seals or whatever floating out there in the beautiful calmness of the sea…well, it keeps them off the streets, I suppose.
What was the reason I broke my journey to Barcelona in sleepy Vilanova? Well… it might have something to do with the fact that this is where we can find the “Museo Del Ferrocarril,” Spain’s railway museum which boasts 25 or so gorgeous steam locomotives, just the job for a big kid like my good self. The first job I had on leaving school all those years ago was with British Railways…it was my dream position and I still cannot for the life of me work out how I ended up playing guitar in a punk band. I’d probably be running the rail company now if I’d have stayed, but there you go…music lovers would have a gaping hole in their record collections where Machine Gun Ettiquette should be so all’s worked out OK in the end, I suppose.
Barcelona, Sunday, April 20th
For some reason or other when I was attempting to purchase my train ticket to Barcelona, a 50 minute trip or so up the coast from Vilanova, they refused to take my money. The ticket was free…and for someone from Britain–a country where if they could tax the very air you breathe they would have no hesitation in doing so–it came as a very pleasant surprise. I still have no idea what this was all about as I gratefully grabbed the ticket and legged it onto the platform before they changed their minds.
For a self confessed trainspotter, the journey up the coast was a treat…there’s something about trains by the sea don’t you think–or is that just me? Anyways I was in a real good mood as I emerged from Estacio Sants…before I realised that I had been very skillfully pick-pocketed within 5 minutes of arriving.
Bollocks!
Captain Sensible is the guitarist of rabble rousers the Damned who kick started the UK punk scene of 1977 along with the Clash and the Sex Pistols, with whom they shared many a stage. Highly rated examples of the Damned on vinyl are “Damned Damned Damned” and “Machine Gun Etiquette”, the latter of which combined their rifftastic version of punk rock with a generous dollop of pysychedelia–a common theme in Mr. Sensible’s work. Mr. S also had a successful (if unlikely) solo career in the ’80s and toured the USA as a rap artist (I kid you not…) when his single “Wot” found itself high in the Billboard Dance Charts. He recently formed his own political organisation, The Blah! Party, as a direct result of Tony Blair’s warmongering. Captain is still touring with the Damned who are planning some recording soon–so if there’s any labels out there……
www.captainsensible.com
Will Someone Please Turn That Bloody Rubbish Off!
At the risk of coming over as a tad pompous and holier than thou I have to admit that I cannot find it within myself to enjoy the music of any band or artist that I consider to be in any way, shape or form of the asshole persuasion…and hearing the first couple of bars of any said musicians rancid output generally has me careening across the room (regardless of whoever might be in the way) in search of the dump switch.
For example, I accept that Ol’ Blue Eyes might very well have been the greatest crooner of his generation but are there not a whole stack of biographies literally brimming over with tales that suggest he was not exactly the nicest person that ever walked the face of the planet? Indeed there are, and I have to admit therefore that I try to avoid his music whenever possible.
Likewise the Fall, whose Mark E. Smith can apparently “smell a vegetarian a mile off”…and who, in Uncut magazine recently boasted about exterminating some squirrels in his back garden. Needless to say he is very much off the Sensible playlist also–anyway us vegetarians smell just fine than you very much…apart from maybe the occasional time when we might have overdone it on the cabbage…which reminds me of a joke I heard this week:
Old lady in a department store lift, doors open and two rich women walk in. One says to the other “Smell that? Christian Dior! $100/oz.” The other says “Smell that? Chanel No.5! $120/oz.” Old lady farts and says “Smell THAT? Brussel Sprouts! .50/lb.”
But enough of that–where was I? Oh yes…records by people I would rather not have my ears defiled by–and the reason I am harping on about it here is that while out for a soiree with some chums the other day, and just after the waiter had delivered a fancy selection of drinks, my ears detected a sound that was most definitely NOT welcome–Phil Collins. Whichever song of his it was I do not recall but it was followed by another…and another. We were commencing a greatest hits tirade…my heart sank.
I’m sure you’ve all been through that one–out with friends in a nice little bar or whatever and you’re just getting settled in and they start playing your least favorite muso–you know, the one that gives you feelings of nausea and the commencement of a foul mood. I hope you bloody well complain–I always do!
You see it’s all very well suggesting (as has been done many a time over the years) that I just ignore the muzak and get on with the task in hand–i.e., enjoying oneself, but as any musician will tell you–for us that would be an impossibility as we register every key change, analyze every drum fill, etc…even at background music volumes. And there are plenty of drum fills in Phil’s work. Boy does he love his paradiddles…or whatever it is they call them in the drummer fraternity.
But it’s not his skin bashing that pisses me off but more important stuff, like when he described punk as being “worthless”…which is a bit rich coming from a bloke in a band famous for nonsensical lyrics…like this Genesis classic “six saintly shrouded men walk across the lawn slowly…a seventh walks in front, cross held high in hand.” Not particularly relevant to a working class youngster in a council estate–in fact I’d go as far as saying that it was the likes of Genesis and Yes that more or less inspired punk, seeing as we had buggerall to identify with there–the only option being to do it yourself…which was pretty much the battle cry of the class of ‘77!
There is ONE thing I like about Collins though…he did put his money where his mouth is when he quit the UK–like he’d promised to do if the Conservatives got booted out of power in the 1997 election. Britain’s loss is Switzerland’s gain…a nice country where the people dress smartly and the trains run on time. Oh, and the taxes are low too…do you think that might have occurred to Phil and any of the other multi-millionaires who relocated to their mountainous retreat?
Of course nobody likes paying bloody taxes, and our scurrilous politicians seem to think there’s no limit to how much of our cash can be grabbed, whether through the IRS or via the cash registers. But this is not the case in Switzerland that leaves its citizens a far larger chunk of their earnings to spend as they see fit. Could the reason be that the Swiss government spends an absolute pittance each year on defense having long ago declared itself a neutral (i.e., peaceful) country–thus negating the purchase of any of the prohibitively costly military equipment required for warfare these days. Give everybody a Swiss Army Knife and a bicycle and tell them to cause havoc if anyone invades was the general idea–and the payoff is the low tax regime which seems to be rather popular with the celebrity tax exile set.
Contrast this to certain other Western governments who are currently in the process of further increasing the already vast amounts they are squandering on their disastrous follies in the Middle East…no wonder all the Fat Cats are stashing their cash abroad where it can’t be confiscated and turned into F-22 Raptors at $300 million a pop.
I sincerely hope that as the wine waiter uncorks a celebratory bottle of bubbly at the Collins local that Phil’s ears prick up…after someone with a sense of humor changes the piped music…and put on possibly his least favorite. THE DAMNED!
Captain Sensible is the guitarist of rabble rousers the Damned who kick started the UK punk scene of 1977 along with the Clash and the Sex Pistols, with whom they shared many a stage. Highly rated examples of the Damned on vinyl are “Damned Damned Damned” and “Machine Gun Etiquette”, the latter of which combined their rifftastic version of punk rock with a generous dollop of pysychedelia–a common theme in Mr. Sensible’s work. Mr. S also had a successful (if unlikely) solo career in the ’80s and toured the USA as a rap artist (I kid you not…) when his single “Wot” found itself high in the Billboard Dance Charts. He recently formed his own political organisation, The Blah! Party, as a direct result of Tony Blair’s warmongering. Captain is still touring with the Damned who are planning some recording soon–so if there’s any labels out there……
www.captainsensible.com
He turned “A Whiter Shade Of Pale”
It is with dismay that I read the other day that my old chum Matthew Fisher, former organist of prog rockers Procol Harum has lost his claim to a share of the royalties on “A Whiter Shade of Pale” from the band’s singer Gary Brooker at the Court Of Appeal in London.
When I started my solo “pop” career in the ’80s it was in Matthew’s studio just up the road from my humble abode in Croydon that I commenced recording in, striking up a great working relationship with the virtuoso from the word go. I found we had two important things in common: first, he was a bit…well…weird and wonderful I suppose sums him up. Second, and more importantly, we both liked a beer…or twelve.
And it would be during the odd recreational break in the proceedings that his discontent with that song’s publishing situation would occasionally rear its ugly head. I wouldn’t exactly say he was bitter–more hurt, really–that his former colleague would not consent to his name being added to the song-writing credits. Anybody who has heard “A Whiter Shade of Pale” (is there anyone who hasn’t, I wonder?) would have to agree that it is Fisher’s beautiful flowing Hammond Organ lines that have made the tune so phenomenally successful over the years…and not the somewhat forgettable original song with its mumbo jumbo, druggy sounding lyrics about nothing much in particular.
Everyone who has ever been in a band knows how thorny a subject publishing credits can become, and indeed Brooker fought tooth and nail throughout the long and costly trial (£500,000…kaching, another nice fat payday for the bloke in the wig) to persuade the court that it was solely his genius as a tunesmith that had propelled the hit single into music history–but I have to say I don’t have the titles of any of his other pop sensations on the tip of my tongue…do you?
No, for me the swirling Hammond is the song; in fact if you ask the man in the street how the tune goes, they will instantly sing you the organ line, and not the old waffle about dancing “fandangos” with “vestal virgins”. Unfortunately, Lord Justice Mummery (a right groover no doubt) decided that even though Matthew’s name would now be rightfully included as a songwriter, he would leave the royalty situation as it was when the record was released in 1967–a bizarre anomaly, I think you’ll agree. And with the record having been a staple of classic hits radio the World over ever since then, you can imagine that the sums of money we are talking about here are pretty colossal.
But lawyers say some funny stuff to back up their cases don’t they? Brooker’s were coming out with stuff like, “well, if you judge in favour of Mr. Fisher in this case then every session musician who ever played on a bestseller would be thumbing through the Yellow Pages to find a legal team to sue for a share of the publishing of that record”…a scenario that would of course cause chaos in “showbiz” circles–and commence the popping of champagne corks over at the chambers of Messrs. Sue, Grabbit and Runne.
Although I’m not sure it’s too likely that all those former school-kid singers on “Another Brick in the Wall” will be demanding their share of Roger Water’s earnings because–going back to the song in question–”A Whiter Shade Of Pale” is an utterly unique case. The organ melody does more than embellish the piece; it transcends and enhances the song out of all recognition, and I reckon my mate Matthew should be given his long overdue slice of the not inconsiderable cake forthwith!
The fact that the fabulously melodic organ lines in question also owe more than the odd nod to the works of Johan Sebastian Bach is neither here or there as he is no longer around these days to stake a claim for his cut of the proceeds…ahem.
Pip pip,
Captain S.
Captain Sensible is the guitarist of rabble rousers the Damned who kick started the UK punk scene of 1977 along with the Clash and the Sex Pistols, with whom they shared many a stage. Highly rated examples of the Damned on vinyl are “Damned Damned Damned” and “Machine Gun Etiquette”, the latter of which combined their rifftastic version of punk rock with a generous dollop of pysychedelia–a common theme in Mr. Sensible’s work. Mr. S also had a successful (if unlikely) solo career in the ’80s and toured the USA as a rap artist (I kid you not…) when his single “Wot” found itself high in the Billboard Dance Charts. He recently formed his own political organisation, The Blah! Party, as a direct result of Tony Blair’s warmongering. Captain is still touring with the Damned who are planning some recording soon–so if there’s any labels out there……
www.captainsensible.com
Good-bye bio-diesel
Can I say how pleased I was to hear that the Bush government has gone cold on all that daft bio-diesel tosh…I mean–how stupid was THAT for an idea? At a time when the people in certain countries are desperate for food, were we seriously proposing using a large proportion of the planet’s precious farmland to grow crops for conversion into fuel for motor vehicles?
Of course it would be the poor countries that suffered most from the inevitable food price rises and shortages, so it is good news that this whole lunatic bio-diesel nonsense is being consigned to the dustbin of history.
And this being in the news the same week as it has been announced that the troops will soon be coming back from Iraq AND at long last there are going to be some proper gun control laws introduced in this country…
Now, of course by this point most of you will probably have glanced around the room to check the date and it is with regret that I have to inform you that your hunch is correct–and it is indeed April Fools’ Day, where the most outrageous lies and untruths are told as a jolly jape, at the expense of anyone gullible enough to fall for it!
April 1st has long been the excuse for the odd prank or two–back in 1982 residents of Hong Kong (which was suffering a water shortage at the time) were informed by the South China Morning Post that powdered water was going to be distributed as a back up measure. Now, that’s got to be just about a perfect April Fools’ stunt, but radio stations were apparently inundated with calls asking where to get hold of it!
And a few years ago the BBC got in on the act with a news item telling the impressionable Brits about the failure of that year’s Italian spaghetti crop, including hoax footage showing strands of the stuff hanging from trees–and indeed, a lot of people in the UK were taken in, hook, line and sinker.
Now, it’s debatable whether this says more about the public’s ignorance about where their food comes from (and about how many of us have witnessed the joys of an abattoir in full swing) than it says about how easy it is for media organizations to pull the wool over our eyes. But, there are whole industries that are banking on the fact that there is one born every minute…otherwise they might find themselves rapidly out of a job. I’m not just talking about advertising agencies here, but also those fine institutions that are the tobacco and junk food businesses. I mean, you’d have to be well versed in the dark arts of deception to get large proportions of the population to put their hands in their pockets and pay handsomely for things that could very likely end up killing them, wouldn’t you!?
But of course, the greatest experts at misinformation and fact twisting to get their own ends are our dear politicians…and none better than the current occupants of the White House, for even if they may not be able to fool ALL of the people all of the time, they have certainly fooled ENOUGH of the people when it counted to allow them to pursue some thoroughly unpleasant policies at home and abroad.
So there you go, that’s April Fools’ Day for you–but I must add that unless we hear some fresh ideas coming out of Washington after the impending presidential election we will not only be April fools…but May, June, July and every other bloody month for at least the next 4 years!
Pip pip,
Captain S.
Captain Sensible is the guitarist of rabble rousers the Damned who kick started the UK punk scene of 1977 along with the Clash and the Sex Pistols, with whom they shared many a stage. Highly rated examples of the Damned on vinyl are “Damned Damned Damned” and “Machine Gun Etiquette”, the latter of which combined their rifftastic version of punk rock with a generous dollop of pysychedelia–a common theme in Mr. Sensible’s work. Mr. S also had a successful (if unlikely) solo career in the ’80s and toured the USA as a rap artist (I kid you not…) when his single “Wot” found itself high in the Billboard Dance Charts. He recently formed his own political organisation, The Blah! Party, as a direct result of Tony Blair’s warmongering. Captain is still touring with the Damned who are planning some recording soon–so if there’s any labels out there……
www.captainsensible.com
So, just where DID you get your stage name, Captain Sensible?
I got an invite through the post this morning. Very nice and all that…it turns out that my musician chum Tony McPhee, guitarist of the Groundhogs is getting married and has invited Yours Truly to the inevitable ale fest that that day is bound to degenerate into (if I know him). I’m proud to count Tony as one of my mates; his band (who took their name from John Lee Hooker’s “Groundhog Blues”) were great heroes of mine when I was a teen, producing some wonderfully tripped out blues albums–my favorite being “Thank Christ for the Bomb”. And you’d be right in thinking that with a title like that, the record’s not exactly brimming over with love songs!
Anyway, I had to laugh when I looked at the envelope, as he had addressed it to me using my “professional” name. I wonder sometimes if our local postman wonders, “What sort of person IS this Captain Sensible that I’m delivering mail to?” I mean…it has been a few years since I topped the old pop charts over here–and the bloke delivering the letters is barely in his twenties, so he’d be excused if he’d never bloomin’ well heard of me. Maybe he imagines there’s some incognito superhero living in the neighborhood…or perhaps a nutcase. In fact there would be an element of truth in both these theories…but it has to be said that if I had known that I’d be using that name during a 30 year “career” in showbiz I would CERTAINLY have chosen something a little less ridiculous. Mind you, the daft moniker HAS opened some doors for me–in fact I doubt very much if you would be reading this blog now if I were still known merely as Raymond!
So, that started me wondering if Elton John’s life might have been a little different if he had stuck to his original name, Reg Dwight…and not nicked (just after playing with him in a band called Bluesology) the real name of sax player Elton DEAN. That’s definitely a bit naughty isn’t it…and who remembers poor old Elton Dean now, you wonder?
Well, I do. The bloke was unstoppable onstage…improv, melody, weird noises, a “sax maniac” if you like…though mostly for a small but select crowd, so I doubt very much if he made a fortune blowing his saxophone. Jazz proggers Soft Machine were his biggest band…and they nicked THEIR name from the title of William Burrows book.
But, I hear you ask, where did the inspiration for “Captain Sensible” come from? Well, to tell the truth–I EARNED the name by being a bit of a liability (to say the least) in the mid ’70s when the Damned was just starting. There was pretty much nothing I wouldn’t do for a “laugh” back then (as various tour managers and colleagues in the band would attest), and it was during one particularly mad bus trip through France that I was first referred to–ironically of course–as “Sensible”.
So just WHAT sort of jolly japes had I been involved in to have deserved this accursed handle? Well…I do seem to remember at one point being at the back of the bus while a sleeping and hungover Elvis Costello was set on fire…
Hmm…and I wonder where he got HIS stage name from?
Captain Sensible is the guitarist of rabble rousers the Damned who kick started the UK punk scene of 1977 along with the Clash and the Sex Pistols, with whom they shared many a stage. Highly rated examples of the Damned on vinyl are “Damned Damned Damned” and “Machine Gun Etiquette”, the latter of which combined their rifftastic version of punk rock with a generous dollop of pysychedelia–a common theme in Mr. Sensible’s work. Mr. S also had a successful (if unlikely) solo career in the ’80s and toured the USA as a rap artist (I kid you not…) when his single “Wot” found itself high in the Billboard Dance Charts. He recently formed his own political organisation, The Blah! Party, as a direct result of Tony Blair’s warmongering. Captain is still touring with the Damned who are planning some recording soon–so if there’s any labels out there……
www.captainsensible.com
Cap’s Heavy Metal Nightmare
OK, I admit it: I am a hoarder. I find it difficult to throw anything away, still having all these boxes of old junk that go right back to my childhood. And it’s all pretty randomly packed too–which makes finding anything specific a nightmare to say the least.
So anyway, there I was the other day, ploughing through the disaster zone searching for a needle in the haystack when I made the mistake of opening one of my old diaries–and it was at this point that all hope of finding the elusive object went out of the window, as this one contained my account of a Damned tour across America in the 80s (and pretty funny stuff it is, too).
Yes, I remember those strenuous 2 month jaunts well, as they combined the good sized venues we played in the larger cities with some pretty rough and ready bars in hick towns, where it was evident that punk rock was still not exactly “flavor of the month”. So while we would be giving it our all in a seedy club sparsely populated by disgruntled potential lynch mob candidates, up the road there would invariably be some heavy metal band or other playing the local stadium in front of an audience of tens of thousands (none of whom’s day would be complete without the purchase of the tour t-shirt featuring a bloodstained dagger…yawn).
When we’d get back to the hotel after our evening’s exertions, there on the TV would be the reason for these bands’ popularity–a seemingly endless procession of clips featuring metal bands on MTV (which unfortunately for us is what puts bums in seats, as our tour manager would remind us annoyingly). Slayer, Ratt, Poison, Wasp and the unfortunately named Manowar…I mean really, have we not had rather more than enough men marching off to war in recent times?
But what is it about heavy metal that makes it such an enduring musical force…or should that be farce, as the whole thing is a dumbed down, testosterone fueled, leather clad joke to be taken seriously by nobody over the age of 10, surely?
“Gaze in awe at our scary skull backdrop and fake blood makeup…gasp at our video clip where a Harley roars over the drum kit as the fireworks explode…drool at the chained up scantily clad females as they wait for the beast to make his appearance…”
You can imagine how pissed off that made a UK punk band who had just slogged their way across the States for not a lot of reason. So I had to laugh when I opened an invite to an album launch party which was sitting on my doormat upon my return to the UK: it was from the label promoting Iron Maiden, a particularly turgid and clichéd heavy metal band without an original idea in their heads.
Of course I went…I wanted to see what made them tick. But I have to report that it wasn’t a meeting of the minds, and that they could even have been named after their hero Mrs. Thatcher for all I know, as they were indeed “the right dressed as the left”.
Call me old fashioned, but I think lyrics should say a little more than “Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter”. So when I hear people criticizing hip-hop and rap I think to myself, sure, there is a sexist, homophobic element to these genres–but it pales in comparison with heavy metal, which is in my view unmitigated garbage from start to finish…and the proponents of this moronic leather clad tosh should bog off and leave the rest of us to get on with our lives with some semblance of dignity.
Er…apart from Motorhead’s Lemmy of course, as he’s my mate!
Hello everybody.
Have I got itchy feet. I mean part of the reason I play in a band (rather than doing a job where you AREN’T financially embarrassed on a near permanent basis) is that you get to travel a fair bit… and I DO like to travel. Yes, and while the rest of the entourage is sleeping off their hangovers, you can often catch me out and about with my camera at some ungodly hour–taking snaps down at the local railway station for I am a self confessed “trainspotter”. Do you have those in the USA?
Anyway, the aforementioned foot problem is mainly due to the fact that I find myself between tours currently–and the humdrum routine of home life coupled with the increasingly moronic output on TV these days is sending your old chum a little “stir crazy” (which has resulted in my attention hovering over the flight offers in the newspapers on more than one occasion recently).
And why not? I could bugger off and catch some sun… or maybe nip over to Berlin to see my muso cronies–there IS some marvelous beer to be sampled in Germany after all.
But what’s this I see on the front page as I close the paper? It’s an article urging the government to slap a heavy tax on air travel whilst ticking off the users thereof for their role in the Global Warming of this planet.
Now the science blaming recent temperature rises on greenhouse gases such as CO2 and methane seems to be pretty unimpeachable but hold on a minute here… air travel at 3% does NOT appear to be the major culprit. So you’d probably guess from the press that it must be road traffic - but once again you’d be wrong because ALL forms of transport put together can only produce 14% of all carbon emissions. So where the hell is all that mystery gas coming from… and why are we not being told about it???
Well, dear reader–I’ve done some research and it seems that there’s an enormous amount of greenhouse emissions directly resulting from deforestation (25%) and animal agriculture (18%)–but these, as far as western governments and their lackeys in the media are concerned, are (no pun intended) fairly sacred cows and above criticism. No… the people to blame of course are YOU AND ME… and we should be made to PAY for our sins in the form of punitive new taxes if we buy a plane ticket anytime soon. Mind you, I don’t see the likes of Condaleeza Rice and Tony Blair cutting back on their flying activities while gallivanting about on a quest to spread their own particular brand of “joy and happiness” around the planet–do you?
No, if you ask your old mate Sensible we are being hoodwinked into accepting these proposed new “stealth taxes” on air travel and we should demand an end to the mass destruction of the rain forests at the hands of agribusiness and the cattle industry instead.
I’ll end with this little little snippet of info: a recent report over here says that one day’s deforestation is equivalent to the carbon footprint of eight million people flying to New York… which makes old Bush’s hack down the trees to grow ‘Bio Fuel’ crops idea the rather large bucket of hogwash that it is.
And so it is with a guilt free heart that I bid you farewell… for I have a ticket to book. I’m told the Canary Islands are nice this time of the year!
Pip Pip,
Captain Sensible
