The Problem of Led Zeppelin

As a guitar teacher I have a frequently recurring problem with Led Zeppelin which isn't as simple as you might think. 

On the face of it, it's straight-forward enough: any number of spotty youths want to learn to play "Stairway To Heaven". If they're prepared to put the work in, I can make this happen for them. Like any old whore I think of the money and get stuck in. The funny thing is, "Stairway To Heaven" is not particularly easy to play. In fact, to play it well (ie, all the way through without making any mistakes) is quite demanding. Fortunately, most of my students are content with a serviceable approximation. Mostly they just want to play The Intro and The Big Chords just before The Solo and thenThe Big Lick just before the vocals come back in at the end. Armed with these, it's easy enough to fake the rest of it (after all, I did, when I was 15.) 

No, my problem is the more seasoned Zeppelin fan who wants to learn things like "Heartbreaker" and "Since I've Been Lovin' You", "When The Levee Breaks", "Black Dog", "The Ocean", "Out On The Tiles" etc. etc. As I patiently explicate the monstrousness ofThe Riffs, I find I am enjoying myself. I try to rein it in by lecturing firmly on the theft of sources, the provenance of the blues; I poke fun at the risible Spinal Tap-ishness of it all - but this is like shooting fish in a barrel with Zeppelin and I become aware that my student sees through me, that my discourse reveals far more about me than my subject. I see through myself. I squirm. I want there to be rawwrk, I want to wear my guitar low round my knees, I want a vintage black Les Paul, I want a wall of Marshalls and a drummer who bites chunks out of brick walls for breakfast. 

Is this a form of musical Stockholm Syndrome? I long ago realised that Zeppelin's strength was John Bonham's. Their success the result of Peter Grant's bullyboy gangsterism. That Plant's lyrics were ridiculous, his histrionics absurd, that Jones's bass playing was the epitome of professionally dull, that Page never plays from the heart, always the head, but damn... Sometimes those riffs sneak up on a person. 

If I didn't teach it, this problem would go away. I would listen to more worthy music and put aside this childish foolishness. But I'd miss it. Guilty pleasure? Yearning for lost youth? Anyone recognize the problem?

Photograph by Ringo Starr

PHOTOGRAPH BY RINGO STARR

Every day I used to walk to and from school down a little side street named Boston Place which runs alongside the back wall of Marylebone Station.  In 1968, The Beatles had leased a building in this street and housed Apple Electronics in it – presided over by the notorious Magic Alex. But by the 70s, he had long gone and the building seemed to be completely deserted. Every day I would look at the Apple logo on the bellpush and wonder if I would ever see a Beatle coming in or out. It seemed like a pretty remote possibility but I was very excited once when I saw a note in the window that said: “Have gom to the Apple” signed J. Of course, I was convinced that J stood for John – even though he was in New York. But the most exciting thing that ever happened was one day in Autumn 1973 when I walked past on my way home from school and saw that the door was open and that there were a couple of guys removing a whole bunch of tapes and putting them into a van. I couldn’t resist it, I walked in and asked if they needed any help. They were very friendly and said sure, go right ahead. So I started lifting these big boxes of multitrack master tapes and putting them in to their van. I noticed that these tapes were labelled with things like  “George jam” and I felt sure that they must be the original tapes for the jam session that made up record 3 of George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass album. I could barely contain myself. After we had finished loading up the tapes, the two guys thanked me for my help and one of them asked me for my name and address and said he would send me the latest Apple release. You can bet I gave it to him. And sure enough, within the next few days, a 45 shaped package came through the post and this is what was in it: “Photograph” by Ringo Starr. A dreadful record in many ways but to me it will always be wonderful – because it was my wages for working for Apple records for ten minutes or so one afternoon in October 1973. 

From Dusty In Memphis: No Easy Way Down

Put on "No Easy Way Down" just a bit louder than you really ought to: listen to the way the piano establishes tempo, listen to the tone of that Hammond, the perfection of the drummer's groove, the way the strings and brass blend, that little guitar figure suspending the 6th and 9th in that hammer on/pull off that sounds so easy and is actually so hard, the choices the bass player makes, then that outrageous key change down to E major in the bridge, like a wave hitting you in the face, and then back to G major for those gospel changes taking in the chord of the flat 7th and that magnificent dominant 11th chord taking you back to the last verse. Listen to the words: the best lyrics about the 60s anybody ever wrote. Listen to Dusty's vocal. Imagine you were the producer listening to the final playback in the control room... Now listen to it again. Nobody's ever done it better.

Dusty Springfield: Some Of Your Lovin'

Consider: "Some Of Your Lovin'" - released August 1965. I can't find my Guinness Book Of British Hit Singles but I know it was a medium sized hit - slightly below par by Dusty's chart standards of the day. But what a perfect record. In every way. Even down to its release date at the absolute high-water mark of English domination of world pop. The Beatles, Stones, Who, Kinks were all pumping them out - Carnaby Street, Mary Quant, David Bailey, The Shrimp, Terence Stamp - pop was never more POP, never more perfect, more unassailably irresistable, and right in the middle of it there was Dusty with this stately majestic confection of Carole King's and Gerry Goffin's. A song about giving and receiving love even when you know it's hopeless - a subject Dusty knew more than a little about. When I hear it I can see the session: A big hangar of a studio, maybe thirty or more musicians in attendance, cigarette smoke like a pall under a high ceiling covered in baffles. Music stands, white shirts, glasses, ties askew, underarm sweat, hot and sticky. And Dusty in the vocal booth, clutching her lyric sheet, smiling shyly and slyly at her should-have-been lover, Madeline Bell, doing back-ups along with Lesley Duncan. Dusty's in civvies too: hipper than the orchestra, of course, but under-dressed - a white blouse, blue jeans, no wig, mascara somewhat the worse for wear, trying not to smoke too much as she has a tough gig in the evening and she must save her voice. But she can't save her voice: the song means too much to her, and there's Madeline grinning at her through the glass of the booth, egging her on. She requests another take. The orchestra are groaning but with good humour: they know it's a good session. Ivor Raymonde, the musical director, calls for silence on the floor. The red light comes on. The tempo is perfect, Dusty soars. Ivor waves his baton at the end of the last bar. "Come and have a listen!" comes a delighted voice over the monitor. Dusty and Ivor pile into the control room. Ivor's trying not to grin too hard and blow his cool. Dusty tickles him. He blows his cool. The engineer runs the take. Dusty always wants to do another take, no matter how good the last one in the can. They listen to the playback. No-one says a word. Everyone waits for Dusty to request another take. But Dust is nodding, she purses her lips: "OK", she says, "that's OK." A huge wave of relief passes through the control room and out onto the studio floor. The musicians start packing up. Dusty's PA is in reception, waiting to take her to the limo waiting to take her to the evening's gig. Just another day's work in the 60s.

David Studdert's Mumbo Jumbo

So, once upon a time this guy with an Aussie accent phoned me up asking for guitar lessons. We arranged a time and he turns up with a beautiful Gretsch guitar and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. I thought he'd be into Bruce Springsteen and Bryan Adams but it turns out he's into Arthur Lee's Love and heavy dub. We get along. After a few lessons he asks me if I'd like to play guitar on his record. "Yeah, sure", I think but I say Yes. I go to this studio in Southall (almost exclusively Asian district in London suburb) and try to follow his eccentric instructions. I remember playing louder than I'd ever played in my life (before or since) on a song about a "Dirty Drug Deal" and, lo and behold, the album gets made and its great. He gets a dodgy manager on the back of a dodgy record deal with a dodgy record executive back in Oz and the band is up and running and doing gigs. There's a tiny Aussie lady saxophonist with a huge sound who's permanently stoned ("Bobby Keyes" Louise), there's a cynical South London cockney diamond geezer on the drums who's in recovery from cancer and playing with Shakin' Stevens for many years. There's a naive gentle giant Welshman on bass, there's a neurotic dipsomaniac keyboard player who should've been born in New Orleans who tells terrible jokes and eats terrible food. There's a detached session trumpet player who's maybe slumming it a bit. And there's me and Dave. We are undoubtedly the hippest and best band on the planet but London isn't ready for our exotic blend of jazz, blues, reggae and "rock noir" - all set to Dave's extraordinary Raymond Chandler-esque lyric tales of seamy city underbelly life and love. Undeterred, we found a club: The Conspiracy Club, where we play, firstly above a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown in Soho, then at the Marquee cafe (also in Soho). There is a "Biting Booth" where Giselle, a painfully hip American will bite you to order, there is a big bully of an MC, various supporting players, an obnoxious "poet" with "behavioural issues", Lorraine Bowen whose musical and comedic talent almost upstages us every time, and there's us. First gig Dave instructs me to roll joints with a lump of hash he has thoughtfully provided and dispense them amongst the crowd. This is possibly the most flagrantly illegal thing I have ever done and, amazingly, we get away with it. The juvenile delinquents (Dave's students) who had come to heckle are suitably pacified and, indeed, impressed. Perhaps the best comment made about us was from a drunken American singer who said: "You guys really play music, it's not just bullshit."

We made a supposedly "commercial" single at great expense that did nothing, but the acoustic version that Dave and I cut in about 10 minutes for the "B" side was possibly the best thing we ever did together. We made another album, live in the studio, we went to Australia for two gigs (!) The band split up. It was a wonderful experience and I'm very proud to have been part of it. Maybe one day the world will be ready for the great records that we made... 

The Beatles and The Stones: the difference

The Beatles were a rock'n'roll band - they came from a different world - Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran, leather, brylcreem, winkle pickers, playing for thugs with flickknifes, touring at the bottom of the bill for Larry Parnes's second division acts, booze and speed and fighting, you know... the whole Northern bit.  

The Stones were an r'n'b band - London - Art school, Chelsea bohemia, posh birds with long hair, pot, CND, all that...

The former fascinates and horrifies me, the latter is where I live, but I've never had any trouble at all in loving them both. The trouble is The Stones didn't have the good grace to quit while they were ahead. If they'd only called it a day after "Exiles"...

Roy Harper re-evaluated

I think I've come to a momentous conclusion: I DON'T LIKE ROY HARPER ANYMORE! 

What does this say about me? Help! I used to LOOK UP to him!! He was a ROLE MODEL to me!!!

I wanted to BE LIKE HIM!!! Now, so much of what I used to find admirable or endearing just seems irritating to me. All that stoned rambling that I used to liken to the art of the raconteur now just seems insufferably smug and self-satisfied. All that openly expressed lust which I used to think signified a liberated and free libido now just strikes me as a distasteful lack of self-discipline which can (ocassionally) be worryingly close to borderline paedophilia. Songs like "Francesca" now just sound cloying and facile to me where once they sounded beautiful. "I Hate The White Man" is just a megalomaniacal rant from a Hyde Park soapbox - no more, no less. Once I thought it was courageous and committed political poetry. Only "When An Old Cricketer Leaves The Crease" strikes me as the work of a genuinely talented artist. The rest is just self-indulgence, which one can enjoy to a greater or lesser extent, depending on how much you like the noise it makes. (I will always like "How Does It Feel" and "Sgt Sunshine", for example.)

I realise, of course, that it's patently absurd to apply such high standards to what is really only pop music but I do it because he himself demands it. Besides, as pop music, it fails completely. The Shirelles and Edison Lighthouse, or Kylie Minogue for that matter, easily leave this portentous, overlong, overblown material in the dust. No, Harper demands to be taken seriously as an Artist. But does he measure up? As a singer he can be wonderful, but he seems to have no sense of proportion. His wobbling vibratos and falsettos on, for example, "I'll See You Again" are quite excruciating. Where he can be sensitive and genuinely affecting, he can just as easily bludgeon and hector - sacrificing subtlety for empty bombast. As a poet he is equally inconsistent: some of his lines are genuinely insightful and thought provoking, or funny, or both ("the milkman rides his clanging cow.. and all the time it's now somehow"), he is good at expressing an angry outsider's view of the society of which he is so critical ("with your God strapped to your wrist"), and equally adept at the converse edenic ideal ("the barefoot dream of life"). But... he seems only too happy to just chuck away a good lyric with a stupid schoolboy obscenity, like an eight year old blowing raspberries in church. And.. his poetic vision of womanhood is patronising and sexist almost beyond belief! Only his guitar playing is consistently good throughout - and he seems to take this completely for granted, often burying his urgent and spiky and original playing under the more polished but infinitely less interesting contributions of his "rock star" friends such as Jimmy Page or Dave Gilmour.

So - is it all over for me and Roy? Should I send him this and piss him off? Poor old bugger. It's too late to expect him to do anything about it. I broadly suspect the old waccy baccy myself. A lifetime spent stoned has robbed him all along the way of the ability to effectively edit himself. What a shame, because, as "Cricketer" in its entirety, and a handful of other bits and pieces prove: he was a genuinely original English voice and, if he had had a little more artistic self-discipline, he could have developed into a significant one.

Itzhak Perlman and Bach's Chaconne

The Chaconne. The violinists Mount Olympus. To music what King Lear is to drama. The mystical Chaconne. What was it that prompted mighty Bach to compose such a massive edifice? At the end of a beautiful but otherwise entirely generic partita for solo violin in Dm, Bach places this huge Chaconne that is longer than the whole of the rest of the partita combined. When I first heard it all I knew of Bach was the Brandenburg concertos. I had listened to the preceding movements of the partita with growing interest and then, what was this? 14 minutes of continuous magnificence. Such deep, deep sadness and longing. So much pain and passion. Such wild beauty. Bach became my favourite composer then and for all time. Nobody else even comes close.

As I grew older with music, with Bach, I realised I was right. It IS the most beautiful music in the canon of Western Civilisation (“Western Civilisation? It’s a good idea.” – Ghandi) Beethoven has a good crack with the Opus 132 (String Quartet in Am) and, of course, everyone has their favourite bits of this, that and the other but no-one but Bach ever scaled the heights of the Chaconne. Hearing other musicians talk, I was gratified to find that this was not an uncommon view. I remember seeing a wonderful documentary on Itzhak Perlman, the Israeli-American virtuoso, possibly the greatest violinist alive and the bearer of the great tradition of Kreisler and Heifetz. He had not, at that time, recorded the unaccompanied Bach sonatas and partitas. When asked why, he smiled secretively and said “I’m not ready”. He elaborated a little but the impression was that these pieces were the ones – you had to get them right. A few years later he did record them. I remember the anticipation I felt waiting for the Chaconne. He breezed through the slight, jaunty Gigue that precedes it and launched into the Chaconne without a break.  And he was ready. There are probably an infinite number of ways to approach it but Perlman took it on like a man fighting the greatest battle of his life. A hard-liner like Gidon Kremer would probably accuse him of too much drama but there are very few moments in life like laying down for posterity a version of the greatest music ever written for your instrument and hoping, knowing, it must last; that this must outlive you and define your reputation as an artist for all those that come after you. Maybe it is possible to guage a successful rendition by the final rallentando – possibly the most delicate moment of the whole piece. Too long, and you’ve given it up to pathos. Too short, and you’ve thrown it away. As I listened to Perlman I couldn’t believe how good it was. As he approached that final hurdle I held my breath. It was perfect. That final stark D that the piece ends with – no chord, just a D – was like the end of a speech by God, which in many ways, it is.