GOTCHA!

You can’t blame them for doing it. Every performer has stock phrases he or she uses on stage to communicate with the audience; the great art lies in making the crowd feel that that particular night is special for the artist. Justin Currie once told me that when his band Del Amitri supported Tina Turner in Glasgow, the stage was littered with notices reminding la Turner of where she was performing lest she address the crowd incorrectly. A sensible precaution in the light of the rate at which successful artists change location or even continent while on tour. When big names come to Zurich, they regularly apologize for not being proficient in Schweizerdeutsch and then inevitably stammer a few words of the local tongue for which they are rewarded with resounding applause. Fergie, the singer with Black-eyed Peas, made use of the apology gambit when I went to see the band play recently, but dropped an absolute clanger in the process. Shortly before launching into “Big Girls Don’t Cry”, she apologised for not speaking Schweizerdeutsch, got the expected roar from the faithful, but then made the mistake of saying what a beautiful language she thinks Schweizerdeutsch is. The reaction to that remark started to gain momentum but died away quite abruptly as the audience realised that Fergie obviously didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Schweizerdeutsch is far too guttural to be called a beautiful language even with a lot of imagination, and the clanger showed Fergie’s banter for what it was, a set of stock moves she pulls every night, whether she’s in Barcelona or Zurich. As Michael McKeegan of Northern Irish band Therapy? once said, there’s a thin line between being a professional and a cynic, and this seems to be a case in point.

GIVE THE DOG A BONO

2010 is definitely the year to be considering rock music’s potential as a force for positive change in the world. Not only will we be celebrating the 25th anniversary of the Live Aid concerts in July; Bono of U2 turned 50 today, giving admirers and detractors alike the opportunity to analyse his success as Africa’s most visible ambassador to the industrialised nations. It would take an expert on aid policy to tell you with any authority how effective Bono activism is, and his debt relief and more money policies have attracted criticism from writers such as Paul Theroux who are more than sympathetic to Africa’s troubles. I feel more at home considering Bono’s activities within show business which is what rock at the stadium level undeniably is. U2 put on a clever show, but funnily enough, the weak link at their concerts is often the music. As Bono once said the band is like “a boxer who has the grasp but not the reach”.

Perhaps it’s the realisation that U2 are far better songwriters than musicians that leads Bono to be so cocky when talking about the band and its music. Given, if you are beloved by millions, you do have the right to be a little self-assured, but I can’t help thinking of Golda Meir when I think about Bono. The fourth Prime Minister of the state of Israel reputedly once said to a fellow politician that “you’re not great enough to be modest". With Bono, a man painfully aware of his limitations as a singer and an instrumentalist, Golda Meir’s quip has a canny ring. I think his subtle shortcomings more than his evident triumphs are what make Bono interesting as an artist, and he’s always most engaging when he’s not trying to convince you of his own greatness. As he himself once said, sometimes the least serious music turns out to be the most eloquent. The song “Sugar Daddy” he co-wrote for Tom Jones is proof of that. It by far outstrips anything on U2’s current album “No Line On The Horizon” because it’s funny, sexy and autobiographical all at the same time. That’s a combination not many song-writers achieve.

HIS MASTER’S VOX

Who said promotion doesn’t work? After speaking to Midge Ure of Ultravox a week ago, I got curious and went to see the band play in Zurich last Thursday. It turned out to be a very educational experience. What really struck me was how the band straddled the gap between Krautrock fanfares (“Astradyne”), and Roxy Music melodrama (“Visions In Blue”)during their hay-day - and how their atmospheric tracks far out-shone their more straight-forward songs. The concert also got me thinking about 1981, the year synth-pop rally broke through into the mainstream. I remember returning to England after a long summer holiday to find bands I’d never heard of like Soft Cell and Depeche Mode high in the charts dragging previous niche favourites such as Japan and The Human League with them. I wonder whether Ultravox’ success with the “Vienna” single in early 1981 helped to bring this paradigm shift about, then I started wondering what had happened to turn Ultravox from nobodys dropped by Island Records after three albums into a viable commercial proposition. For one part, Midge Ure joined the band in 1979, giving Ultravox Celtic fervour, rock guitar crunch and a clear-cut image, the other factor bears the name of Gary Numan who took Bowie-style alienation to the top of the charts with “Are Friends Electric?” in summer 1979. Although Numan became a figure of ridicule in the following years due to concepts that grew ever more ambitious as his career waned, one shouldn’t underestimate his influence on musicians to come. Even Nine Inch Nails now hail him as an inspiration.

THE GREAT PRETENDER

Malcolm McLaren died last Thursday at an as yet undisclosed location in Switz-erland, and most of the ensuing obituaries concentrated on his efforts as the manager of the Sex Pistols. It’s wrong to reduce the man who brought hip-hop to the British charts with “Buffalo Gals” and taught Madonna how to vogue to his punk years. McLaren remained an astute observer of pop culture right up to his death, deploring the karaoke culture we live in where everybody wants to be in the limelight without putting in the work and declaring Napster inventor Shawn Fanning to be the greatest artist of the early 2000’s (“I don’t want everything in the world to be free, but I don’t want everything to have a price-tag either”). I met McLaren in 1994 while he was promoting “Paris” an album that nobody was really interested in, as it was a gaudy tribute to the French capital that featured icons such as Françoise Hardy and Catherine Deneuve as well as lush adaptations of Erik Satie’s music and McLaren’s own dodgy singing. I didn’t expect him to reveal any truthful insights into is chequered past, but I did find McLaren to be a generous and gracious interviewee. In the course of our conversation, he enthused about Bill Clinton’s sax playing (“You’d never get Jacques Delors doing something like that”), outlined the shortcoming of the then omnipresent dance scene (“It doesn’t produce any stars”) and predicted England’s demise as a leading nation (“Once the troubles in Ireland end, and all the Irish return, England will become a backwater as Portugal was between the wars”). By sheer coincidence, I had the pleasure to speak to Midge Ure of Ultravox two days after McLaren’s death, who, as legend will have it, was offered the job of the Sex Pistols’ singer in 1975. Ure, also an engaging interviewee, confirmed the story and went on to say that McLaren and later Clash manager Bernie Rhodes were selling stolen musical equipment in Glasgow when they popped their question. “I didn’t join the band but I bought an amplifier off them”, Ure chuckled. “And it actually worked. But I sold it quite quickly just in case it was hot.” He was very complimentary about McLaren’s business acumen: “It was phenomenal that he got EMI to let him walk away with 100’000 pounds just because they were embarrassed to be associated with the Pistols. It was like David against Goliath.” One doesn’t need to condone all of McLarens’ practices (especially with regard to how he handled his artists) to concede that he was one of the music business’s great personalities, always showing it for what it was: A smash-and-grab industry where mavericks like him could flourish. Provided they were brave and brash enough, that is.

MORE THAN THE SON OF HIS PA’S

I really think the idea of the guitar hero is out-dated. There have never been that many virtuosos who can dazzle and still be entertaining, and even the late great Jimi Hendrix manages to lose me at times - which is why I prefer his studio work to the many live recordings released since his untimely death in 1970. Of course, there are modern guitarists I very much admire, such as Tom Morello of Rage Against The Mmachine who combines white noise fret-play with a hip-hop sensibility. But I don’t go out to watch guitarists play any more, it’s usually the bands (or for personal reasons) the bassists that interest me these days. So last Thursday, I was shocked to come away from a gig with a new guitar hero to marvel over. The musician in question is Vieux Farka Touré, the son of Mali guitar master Ali Farka Touré who died in 2006. And Vieux isn’t just a younger version of his dad: he’s replenished Ali’s lyrical runs and tricky rhythms with techniques and effects drawn from the vocabulary of blues and heavy metal without cloying the original beauty of Mali guitar music.

So when I went to see him play at the Moods club in Zurich, I was astounded to see a consummate performer who seemed to be reclaiming the electric guitar for Africa with melodic wit, elegant phrasing and a strident albeit subtle aggression in his playing. Watching Vieux Farka Touré left me dumb-founded and open-jawed at times, and I can’t wait to hear more of his music. I have seen one possible future of the guitar, and his name is Vieux Farka Touré, a musician who is definitely more than the son of his pa’s.

WATER EVERYWHERE

I have to give Steffen Fuchs, my favourite Berliner and adopted member of the Joyce family for some ten years, credit for this one. While visiting us here in Basel over New Year, Steffen, a passionate fisherman, expressed his appreciation of the Johnny Cash biopic “Walk The Line”, only criticizing the fact that June Carter Cash’s prowess as an angler hadn’t been emphasized enough in the film. To his knowledge, the accomplished singer and song-writer had also been a stellar sportswoman who could out-fish both her husband and her son.
This little-known fact, confirmed in John Carter Cash’s book “Anchored In Love” got us thinking that perhaps the film (and the song it was named after) should in fact have been called “Cast The Line” instead of “Walk The Line”. We then developed the possibility of niche journalism as a growth market for the otherwise shrinking field of print journalism. For example, one could start by judging films only on the basis of their aquatic content, but that’s a dangerous road to go down, as that would man rating Kevin Costner’s disastrous “Waterworld” much higher than David Lynch’s rambling yet powerful “Dune” epic. Furthermore, any film with Laurence Fishburne would inevitably get a five-star rating and Jacques Cousteau would be a superstar far outstripping the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Taking this line of argument on to music, Fishbone would be the sharpest band on the planet (which they in fact were around 1992), but Stock, Aitken & Waterman would go down in history as the greatest record producers of all time. Considering that the British trio was responsible for 80s pop horrors by Kylie Minogue, Rick Astley and Samantha Fox, I’m not sure that fishy music criticism is such a good thing. Sorry, Steffen.

I FOUGHT THE LAW

Happy New Year to you all. My posts got even less frequent towards the end of 2009, but as usual I have decent reasons for going incommunicado. i.e. an over-ambitious workload, an undiagnosed iron deficiency and quite a few interesting encounters with Joss Stone, H.I.M. and Massive Attack which I’ll come back to at a later time. The most pleasant reason for radio silence was Gretel’s new CD “Chop Chop” and the preparations involved in getting the album to press and back again. The band had its launch party at the “Hirscheneck” music club here in Basel where we supported unwavering Swiss punk veterans The Bucks.

The gig had a potentially very rock’n’roll epilogue: While saying good-bye to The bucks outside the club at around three in the morning, a passing Black Maria grazed my shoulder with its right wing mirror; I thought nothing of this pain-free encounter until the van emitted three irate-looking police officers wanting to know who had beaten against the side of their vehicle. I owned up to having been in contact with their wing mirror albeit not by my own design but was nonetheless asked to provide some ID. While taking down my details I was asked about my professional occupation, and I knew exactly what effect this piece of information would have. Sure enough, the blood drained from the officers’ faces when I also gave them a full list of the publications I write for. They were obviously dreading headlines along the lines of “Basel police ram handicapped journalist” and departed in an apologetic hurry.

Although I was sure that the encounter wouldn’t have any consequences for me, I was a little unsettled to receive a letter from the Basel police a few days later. In it, the police woman who had headed the team apologised for the encounter and asked me to get in touch should I have sustained any injuries from the encounter with her van. So I now tip my hat to the Basel police for doing such a careful and also caring bit of damage limitation - even though their good work has severely dampened my rock’n’roll credential.