Midweek Update #36: From London with Love
Pensioners in Chelsea, Squeeze and The Who in Kensington, Warhol in Mayfair, and London for free..
Officially, I am meant to be on holiday this week. My girlfriend and Hudson Palace partner Paula flew over to the UK for the first time in her life this past weekend, and I am posting this while we take a train from Brighton to Beverley after already staying in three different places in her first four nights! I will be in the UK for several more weeks after she leaves, and my posts may lean more personal as I am taking the opportunity of my impending 60th birthday and another special occasion this coming Good Friday to revisit many old haunts, stay with some friends in further flung parts of the British Isles, who have had the offer extended for many years, take on a couple of new challenges and reflect on all that has come before.
To that end, we spent Sunday touring the houses I grew up in in South London, taking a pilgrimage to Selhurst Park (home of Crystal Palace FC of course), and ending up at the Gypsy Hill Brewery, which, as if it wasn’t already one of my fave breweries in the land, and conveniently close to all those childhood homes, has just launched what it claims to be Britain’s first carbon negative beer, called Trail, a wonderful pale ale coming in at a level-headed 4% and tasting all the better in the belief that it somehow makes the world better in the process.
Being a tourist in your hometown is always a delight, and for this former boy about town who treated London as his playground but never bothered with the tourist sights when growing up, I had almost as much fun as Paula taking in as much we could over her 48 hours in London. The unexpected highlight, undoubtedly, occurred almost immediately after we set out on Saturday afternoon from a quick post-jetlag-recovery-nap over the Chelsea Bridge to walk the Kings Road. This inevitably led to a forced respite for Paula’s first ever British pub experience, for which I understandably honed in on the Chelsea Potter – scene of many a rock ‘n’ roll legend, not least those around the Sex Pistols.
Before I had opportunity to explain about the Chelsea Pensioners, my eye caught a flash of red uniform seemingly dancing up at the bar. Closer inspection only confirmed that first impression: here was a properly uniformed Chelsea Pensioner, 80 if he was a day, giving a shuffle as a younger woman treated him to a pint of Guiness he was soon to be seen sipping through a straw while grinning from ear to ear. One might have assumed he doesn’t get out much, but he was obviously quite the character, and when you have cold-called the likes of Ginger Baker and Leslie West as I have done, approaching a clearly convivial Pensioner in a pub is a relatively straightforward process. Turns out his name is John Riley (“Lord John the Divine”), he is 92 this April, and in 2017, at the age of a mere 85, he was the World Conker Champion.
I imagine there are many among my non-British readers who don’t know a conker from William the Conqueror, and even among those who do know what I’m talking about, there may be a nostalgic question as to whether anyone actually plays conkers any more. Judging by some of the ongoing videos I’ve found on YouTube, they evidently do. Regardless, I mention all of this not as a segue into how I bought a Chelsea Pensioner jacket at Camden Market for £5 in 1979 and how you can see it for yourself on the cover of Boy About Town, inside of which it plays its own cameo, but because the encounter was a glorious piece of classic tourist London that was so perfectly designed with so many British archetypes that it could not have been scripted any better as an introduction to a first-time visitor than a hand-tailored Harry Potter movie. For that reason, I am unabashedly sharing a picture of ourselves with the champion conker bash-man himself.
A ROYAL EXPERIENCE
“I had that Roger Daltrey in the back of my cab once…”
As a follow-up from a London taxi driver after asking who I’d just seen the Royal Albert Hall, you couldn’t have scripted this cliché any better either. Explanation #1: For those who’ve never ridden one of these money-eating machines on four wheels, “I had so-and-so in the back of my cab once” is a guaranteed response to almost anyone you can name – and if you’re not in the mood for naming anyone, the taxi driver will typically take the conversation that way anyway, usually to disparage whoever it is he fancies naming who was in the back of his cab once.
Sure enough, the taxi driver had a bone to pick with Roger.
“He’s an ardent leaver, isn’t he? And you see, me, I’m an ardent remainer.”
Explanation #2: For those who’ve never heard the words used in this context before, we’re talking Brexit. Daltrey was for it, the cab driver was not. But this is where the conversation immediately veered from cliché to the-times-they-are-a-changin’. Contrary to the stereotypes perpetuated in Stewart Lee’s Observer column I linked to last week (“Tory donors are the new black cab drivers”), this was a left-leaning cabbie complaining about a right-leaning rock star.
Having left my 3rd row centre seat the very second The Who concluded “Baba O’Riley” (as will be evident from when I switched off my phone recording), splurging on the taxi to ensure I got back to my digs in Brighton somewhere before dawn, I used my best panel-moderating experience to steer the conversation away from politics and into the music. The ability of cabbies to take you places you don’t want to go, after all, is legendary and always best pre-empted. He was a lovely enough bloke, and of course I tipped him, but all in all I wanted to digest what I’d just seen on my own terms.
First, I have to say this: Squeeze were just fantastic. I met up with a friend in Brighton the night before writing this and he recalled me being negative on Squeeze in the 1990s. To which, fair enough: reformed bands don’t always recapture the magic. And certainly, when I saw the group headlining NYC’s Beacon Theater in the latter noughties, supported by James (the reason I was in attendance), it felt a little underwhelming, perhaps because they were promoting a so-so new album or perhaps just the line-up wasn’t quite right that night.
On Wednesday at the Royal Albert Hall, however, opening for The Who as part of the annual Teenage Cancer Trust week, they were just spot-on. The only founding members were the ones that matter – Glenn Tilbrook and Chris Difford – and the set list was 60 minutes of hit single after hit single after hit single. There was but one song in the set I didn’t recognize, and looking around me, I was in the minority. And 60 minutes of continual hits still wasn’t enough time to play “Black Coffee in Bed.”
I’ve always loved those Squeeze singles. Who couldn’t? The melodies, the subject matter, and the twin voices – Glenn Tilbrook’s glorious alto, and Chris Difford’s blasé baritone - made for some of the best 45s of the new wave era. It’s also made for some incredible albums: I rate East Side Story as the best London/British suburban soap opera LP, full stop. (Its US companion is Fountains of Wayne’s Welcome Interstate Managers.) I do have a particular affinity for “Up The Junction,” with its wonderful rhyming couplets, its life-in-a-song storyline, and its ability to effortlessly change keys along the way. For that reason, I felt compelled to film some of it: the view, at this point at least, was completely unobstructed.
For all that former admiration, it was only in recent years, when I directed a Rock Academy 80s New Wave show that included “Tempted,” that I really came to understand the majesty and complexity of the songwriting. “Tempted” has a different chord for every line of the verses, before blessedly offering a reprieve on the relatively straightforward verses. And it was only when my song was playing “Another Nail in My Heart” (on a different Rock Academy show that I was not directly involved in) that I also realized what an excellent guitarist Tilbrook must be to pull off a solo like that and make it sound so easy.
Watching him from close up at the Albert Hall, that rather belated understanding was confirmed multiple times over. As a songwriter, Tilbrook may not be under-rated (talking with Matt Goss before the show, as you do sometimes in life, Matt was clear that he rated Glenn a better songwriter than Pete Townshend), and as a vocalist he has no shortage of admirers also. But these twin talents do tend to overshadow his abilities on the guitar, which far outshine his partner Difford’s role as rhythm player. I am mildly kicking myself for not making the effort to get to solo shows of his over the years – there have been no shortage of them in the States – but given the rather fractured history of Squeeze, and particularly the on-again/off-again relationship between Difford and Tilbrook, I imagine I won’t have missed my last opportunity.
With age as a concert-goer comes my increased admiration for musicianship, and the six-piece line-up of Squeeze has it in abundance. There was a clear generation gap between the long-standing pedal steel/third guitarist and the balding-mohawked drummer, with the youthful and rather over-exuberant bassist and keyboards (note the use of plural) players, but the unit was nonetheless polished beyond belief: it wasn’t so much that there wasn’t a wrong note as that every note was played perfectly. While unable to confirm how Squeeze looked and sounded from the far back end of the Albert Hall, the standing ovation they received at the conclusion of the set with “Cool for Cats,” one of the few that Difford leads vocals on, suggested that the entire audience enjoyed it as much as I did.
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As for The Who, this was an opportunity to enjoy an orchestral accompaniment of the remainder of the band that has meant to most to me in my life, from the best seat I have ever possessed for them in what is now an astonishing 48 years of occasional concert attendance. (I took a full break from 1979-1989.) The seat itself was not the result of any particular special contacts or favours called in; a friend had bought a ninth-row seat which I agreed to pay him for, and on the morning of the show I was informed that someone else wasn’t claiming a particular 3rd row seat and I should just move into that one. Perhaps, if nothing else, it was a little piece of positive karma for the fact that I turned down a free press ticket offered to me when the Who plus orchestra came to Bethel Woods a couple of years back: I was running a marathon the next morning and didn’t want to undo all my good training. But I had also thoroughly enjoyed attending a show at Madison Square Garden over Labour Day weekend 2019, with my younger, Who-loving son Noel, when we took an Air B&B for a couple of nights in Manhattan, went to the Play It Loud exhibition of guitars at the Met, and enjoyed all the drama around what some considered a lackluster Who show but which I considered the type you wouldn’t want to miss. (Examples: Pete breaking a fingernail wind-milling right before having to play a finger-picking acoustic song, squeals of unexpected feedback testing Roger’s patience, Pete’s sudden forgetting of lyrics causing the orchestra to frantically switch into vamping mode). I had assumed afterwards that that show would be my last and felt comfortable leaving it there with the positive father-son memory.
There were occasional moments at the Albert Hall where I did wonder if I shouldn’t have stuck to that decision, because the inherent problem with seeing an old band from close up is that you can see how old they are. Roger Daltrey recently turned 80, older than Tr*mp, only a year younger than Biden, and in finer and fitter form of physique and voice than you or I will have any hope of matching at a similar age. (If Bruce Springsteen is reading this, there are of course exceptions.) But he is, still, 80 years old, and it’s debatable whether twirling microphones and standing under hot spotlights for two hours is the most beneficial form of exercise. Pete Townshend, by comparison, is a spritely 78, and still a magnificent guitarist when the mood takes him, but as he admitted to Rob Tannenbaum in a New York Times interview published just this past weekend. “I don’t get much of a buzz from performing with the Who.” While no one could see behind his blue eyes at the Albert Hall given that he’s taken to performing with dark glasses these days, I can testify that the only time he smiled all night was when first violist Katie Jacoby got him dancing for that “Baba O’Riley” finale.
As with Squeeze, it was a charity performance and The Who therefore delivered the classics, beginning with an orchestral truncated Tommy, continuing with a 30-minute rendition of 1965-1979 hits (of which I still never tired of “The Kids Are Alright” and “Substitute”) and just about concluding with a truncated orchestral Quadrophenia, before wrapping it up with “Baba O’Riley.” As is one of their finer concert points, the setlist was significantly different from that on the Monday night, including changes to the rock operas. Specifically of interest here, whereas on the Monday they had opened the Quadrophenia section with “The Real Me,” on Wednesday 20th they exchanged it for “The Punk and the Godfather” to allow Eddie Vedder, who was already billed for the Sunday night Royal Albert Hall Teenage Cancer Trust finale, come bounding onstage unexpectedly to raise the energy level from a modest six to a rocking eight-and-a-half.
This merits repeating and examining. I’m not a particular fan of Pearl Jam, but as anyone who saw their performance of “Love Reign O’er Me” at the Who’s Kennedy Center concert would know, they are incredible Who fans capable of outWhoing The Who, and as anyone who has seen Eddie step on stage in any of his many special guest appearances, he is one of those unique forces of nature that can fill a room with his presence – quite before opening his mouth and filling it all over again with their voice. While I am not a big one for filming gigs at the expense of experiencing them, I’m glad I caught this section to share his particularly mercurial magic.
It may just have been my mood, it may have been the fact that it usually takes The Who a while to warm up, it may have been the struggles I was having with ear plugs – do I wear them this close to the stage allowing that I have tinnitus, and if so which ones, or do I go without as I may never get this close up again? – and it also may well have been the problems I had with people around me during the initial, Tommy section, an important discussion of concert-going etiquette that I will save for another day. Regardless, once Eddie had performed his shamanic act, the concert exploded, the Quadrophenia section pretty much worth the price of admission itself. It is absolutely no reflection on Roger Daltrey that the absolute highlight of the night, for me, was an incendiary performance of the instrumental “The Rock” that featured some truly memorable interplay between Pete and his younger brother Simon on guitars, as the documentary footage, the only visual effects of the whole night, played behind them and brought additional drama to what was always a symphonic rock arrangement.
I left the Albert Hall without the sound of Baba O’Riley literally ringing in my ears – I did wear the earplugs – and happy, once again, to call it quits and leave it there. This is why, on my Facebook, I posted the conclusion of the set and called it simply “The End of an Era.” And then, in the New York Times interview this past weekend, ostensibly about the new Broadway production of Tommy, Pete Townshend announced that “It feels to me like there’s one thing the Who can do, and that’s a final tour where we play every territory in the world and then crawl off to die.” Hopefully not to die as individuals quite so quickly, but there is certainly a point at which we are all allowed, indeed, forced to retire and enjoy the fruits of our life labo(u)rs.
On the subject of Pearl Jam, I found myself listening to a couple of podcasts recently via a Substack column (that I will have to refind and link to when I can!). Ostensibly, one episode was about streaming and Spotify and the search for an equitable model that rewards listeners and artists alike, and the other about the ever-rising cost and availability of concert tickets for major acts. However, as the hosts are ardent Pearl Jam fans, both shows leaned heavily towards that band, especially the ticket price/availability discussion. For those like me who don’t actively follow Pearl Jam and may not have paid much attention since the group tried to take on Ticketmaster – and lost – it came as a bit of a shock to find out that even with an online system that supposedly puts dedicated fans to the front of the line, seats for the upcoming tour are in the hundreds of dollars. Then again, I recently considered paying to see Neil Young on his upcoming tour, as he is one of the few artists I admire that I have yet to see in concert. I reconsidered that consideration once I took a look at the cost of “cheap” seats at the Hartford Arena – a staggering $226.
There are plenty of economists out there who believe that ticket prices should reflect what the market can bear. And as my gathering with American Who fans in London last week, along with this Pearl Jam related podcast confirmed, there are no shortage of people with the disposable income to take special trips via airplane, to see their most treasured acts. But it is hard not to see the likes of Pearl Jam and Neil Young, who seem willing to take on all other forms of social and industry causes – the latter only just gave up his fruitless battle with Spotify – as anything other than greedy.
Just because there are people who can afford these prices doesn’t mean you should charge these prices. I grew up in an era where concerts were affordable – Led Zeppelin at Wembley /Earls Court in 1975 was essentially the cost of my weekly “allowance” had my mother let me attend. Even if your contemporary idea of an 11-year old’s’ “allowance” or “pocket money” is a generous $10, we’re easily now up to this being a year’s worth to see a top group. Meanwhile, we wonder why small venues are suffering to the point of extinction all over the place, certainly in Great Britain.
The reason appears simple enough: ageing audiences are spending their money going to see ageing bands at top dollar/pound, none of which income is trickling through to the grass roots live scene that gave these acts their leg-up in the first place. One could rightly argue that young audiences are not coming through to the same extent to support their up and coming bands, and that certainly leads into the understanding that music no longer means what it did to most of us when we were young, and that many young people are as happy seeing these legacy acts with their parents as going to clubs to check the latest bands without them. But still, none of it justifies these prices.
For the record, the face value of that third-row center seat for The Who and Squeeze was £150 (just over $200 with the ticket fees). Considering that the show was for charity and this was a small-ish venue, with a full orchestra in accompaniment (all the musicians donated their time for Teenage Cancer Trust), that would seem a comparative bargain. Maybe not “the best I’ve ever had,” but it’s appreciated all the same. While Pete may have told Tannenbaum that “If I’m really honest, I’ve been touring for the money,” the fact is that they’ve been among the few such legacy acts not to gouge their fans for every penny they can get.
LONDON FOR FREE
London can be a costly place to get about, especially if you catch a black cab or grab any sort of semi-fancy meal, but as with all big cities, it also does Free. I got together with a friend last week at the Hamiltons Gallery in Mayfair, as a random place to check out a photo exhibit rather than meeting at a coffee shop. The exhibit in question was perhaps a little incongruous in its prime Monopoly location, given that it was all shot on a housing estate in Nottingham in 1991 by Nick Waplington at the peak of Thatcher’s decimation of the working class, though no less valuable for all that. Fortuitously, we then stumbled on a massive Andy Warhol exhibit taking place just down the road, occupying two distinct locations of the Halcyon Gallery. Featuring a complete set of the ten Campbells Soup Cans (of which only 250 were made and only about 10 deemed to still be complete), a collection of his impressionist art, and also the Cowboys and Indians, and Icons works, it was impressive in its breadth, and I’d recommend you go see it yourself if in London except that it has wrapped already.
Nonetheless, Saturday found us stopping in the Saatchi gallery on the Kings Road, also for free, where we were quite taken by the playful but conscientious multi-media work of Rong Bao in her debut solo show. That one is still running until May 12 and if you find yourself on the King’s Road, pop in to see it. And then stop in at the Chelsea Potter. You never know what sights straight out of casting central may await you.
For those who are relatively new to this Substack and wonder what it is I actually do, this podcast with Adam Schartoff may help. Or may not. I’m known to meander.
And for anyone looking for good new music recommendations, well, I may be a week or two behind with my own listening, but up until the flight over I’ve been following my New Year’s Resolution and placing new songs I hear and like in an ever-growing playlist simply entitled 2024. If you’re not so adverse to Spotify that you refuse to have anything to do with it, you are welcome to listen and, hopefully, like or love a couple of tunes along the way. And with that, Cheers.
The kids who are growing up today have too many choices in their discretionary spending. In our youth , there was no 24 hour TV or decent music on tap. We found our music by going to the clubs . These days, the music finds you. Priority money goes towards mobile phones which have become a prime source of entertainment. Sad news for club owners but new bands can get their music out there by making videos on Tik Tok! It’s just a different world but the kids are still alright …