Book Notes: Deep Blues by Robert Palmer

“The Blues”: few phrases within the lexicon of musical terminology are as loaded with intrigue, mystery, myth, legend, iconic imagery and folklore. While much of this is no doubt rooted more deeply in marketing than reality, that particular current in the history of popular music still remains enormously influential, and the formative influence on all manner of subsequent music making. In all corners of the world today, singers can be heard delivering lines like, “Blues fell like rain”, or “I believe I’ll dust my broom” – singing the music of the impoverished Black underclass of the Mississippi Delta from around the time of the First World War. That extraordinary fact in itself is a story worth telling.

American musicologist and social historian Robert Palmer hit the road during the 1970s to research a book on the music he loved: The Blues. He travelled the length of the United States, visiting the farms and plantations where the Blues was born, interviewing those who were there (or their immediate successors), travelled the migration routes on which African Americans fled Northwards, and explored Chicago’s Black community from where it was first electrified, then popularised and then globalised.

The book, although 'academic' in its depth of research, is pleasantly easy reading. It brilliantly weaves the sound of the music onto the backdrop of the social history that produced it, bringing fascinating insights into the political, religious, economic and geographical landscape which not only shaped the sound but also the experiences and lyrics of the bluesmen. Palmer’s foray’s into music-theory are also written so straightforwardly that they are generally comprehensible to the non-technical reader like myself. Most fascinatingly are his descriptions of the similarities between the micro-tonal shadings of master vocalists like Muddy Waters (much imitated, seldom equalled), and some West African languages. Likewise his comparisons of African drum rhythms with the polyrhythmic explorations of early Delta Bluesmen like Charley Patton are absorbing reading.

Levee camps, floods, cotton, railroads, migration, depression, racism, the black-church, the cross-currents of different musical traditions, prison, bootlegged alcohol, juke-joints, share-cropping all form part of the detailed and fascinating picture of Delta life that Palmer describes at the start of the book. Palmer set out to trace thee roots of The Blues, and talked to collaborators of seminal figures such as Son House, Robert Johnson, visiting the estates where they grew-up and learned their music. The earliest figures he points to as players of what might be called Blues, are Charley Patton and his teacher the mysterious Henry Sloan.

Unlike many other books which seem to treat The Blues as a undifferentiated monolithic body of work, Palmer’s book is written like a family tree of the genre, demonstrating the different currents and influences that run through different types of Blues. One of the rare weaknesses of the book is Palmer’s overwhelming preference for guitar over piano blues, perhaps not doing justice to that aspect of the Blues. Nevertheless, he neatly describes the various patterns, and who influenced who, and who took Blues in new directions in its critical years between 1920 and 1960. The index reads like a who’s who of recorded American Blues! His real love is clearly the early Delta Blues of Patton, and Johnson, preserved, developed and marketed by followers such as Elmore James and Muddy Waters – what Muddy called “Deep Blues”. Muddy Waters’ many contributions to this book are worth this price in and of themselves.

For anyone who loves the Blues – this is essential reading.

My son, "Boris" got a new cricket jumper from the club this week. It's a very nice cricket jumper too. The only strange thing about it was the label (left), which along with the exciting information about the properties of the fabric also contained the curious warning, "Do Not Eat".

I must confess that until I read that, I hadn't actually considered tucking into the cricket jumper next time I fancied a snack, or couldn't be bothered walking to the shops when the fridge looked a little bare. To be honest, 'Boris' would have been furious when it came to match day and he couldn't find his jumper and I would have had to admit, "Sorry son, I've eaten it".

I suppose it might be more reasonable to consider eating his old cricket jumper, after all its nice and woolly and he has outgrown it - but even this hadn't occurred until I read Kookaburra's helpful advice label. It did make me wonder though, do people actually eat sports equipment? Are there people who would genuinely consume sit down and consume and article of clothing as part of a balanced diet, and do they walk amongst us? How scared should we be?

Of course, I had never contemplated having a munch on his cricket kit. But having read the stern prohibition printed on the label, every time I see it now, I fancy sinking my teeth into its delicious looking fibres. But, I suppose, such has always been the effect of the law!

Funghi

Barnhill, Perth.

Eden on the Feugh

The River Feugh, is the closest thing I have seen to the images my young mind conjured up when I was first told the story of the Garden of Eden. Gentle hills sweep down to fertile plains, which give way to grassy banks and soft meadows through which the gentle river drifts. The only ripples on the surface of the deep silence here, are the sounds of moving water, birdsong and jumping fish.

Sitting alone in sinking light by the Feugh, everything appeared to be still - as if all but the river itself was frozen in time. But my impression did not reflect reality, but rather, showed how insensitive the usual bustle and drama had made me to the subtlety of the millions of movements of life. For the Feugh and its' banks were teeming with, brimming with, life. It's not just that I habitually take for granted the 'slow-life' of the great trees that line the banks of the river - great, grand hardwood structures which have been drawing life from the river for generations. No, there was more than that.

First there was a splash, and then another, and then more. Each one the tiny leap of a salmon, breaking the surface of the water to snatch a fly. And there they were, millions of insects darting everywhere, or resting on the water to tempt the fish to leap. Like a flash of tin-foil, the sun caught the scales of a fish as it broke the surface - too fast for cameras, and almost too fast for the human eye - and was gone. Despite the three-fold predations of man, otters and birds of prey, the river was bursting with fish.

Small birds appeared, dafting about, following incomprehensibly chaotic flight-plans and calling to each other in tumbling waterfalls of notes. A Heron glided down to the river, and perched quietly on a rock - waiting for the right moment to spear a fish. A great tree appeared to become a hologram for a moment, to allow a great owl to fly straight through its' dense branches without touching it, or making a sound. Rabbits lolloped on the grassy banks, while hares sprinted through fields and deer wandered down to the river to nervously inspect the scene - before taking fright (at who knows what), and bolting for cover in the woods.

I walked for a long time by the trees in this achingly beautiful paradise and thought how profoundly odd it is that while I was standing there in Eden, this world is riven by war, and evil. The thought even occurred that while I was standing admiring a particularly stunning tree - somewhere somebody was being tortured, and bearing unspeakable pain. I contemplated my own faults and errors too, and realised that the Garden of Eden story of a good world spoiled; isn't a curious tale from pre-history, but a commentary on contemporary life.

One of the last photos I took that night was of this row of rocks which lie across the river, in front of the cottage, where I was given permission to stay for the weekend. I went to bed thinking about a possible angle for writing about my trip, contrasting the bleak, rugged, wild reaches of the Upper Dee, where I had been hillwalking over the weekend, with these soft, tender, gentle and fruitful landscapes, lower down the river-system. Such writing plans were obliterated by the roaring sound with which I was greeted as I awoke. Overnight rain had turned the Feugh from a gentle river into a seething, boiling torrent. Where the night before it had played with the rocks, almost flirtatiously - now it scoured and assaulted the landscape. It's song was replaced by thunder. The following photo is of the same spot on the river, only hours later.

Up and up the river rose, bursting its banks and encroaching on the gardens, while carrying a great weight of mud, silt, branches, trees and fenceposts. Only myself and two clearly deranged ducks stood in the driving rain to observe the spectacle, all sensible life-forms and sentient beings hid inside their homes and lit warm fires.

This spectacle and show of power was as overwhelming as it was spectacular. I fail to see how anyone could not be deeply affected by nature in its various states like this. Anyone, like me, who thinks that the beauty of all this is not simply chance, random or unplanned - but all flows ultimately from a creator who set the processes of life running with this deliberate end in view; has reason to be doubly awe-inspired by it. The overwhelming glory of everything around me, was not the point of it all - rather it was there in order to reflect, to a degree, the glory and wonder of the mind in whom it all originated.

Beinn Bhrotain & Monadh Mor

The road from Braemar doubles-back on itself at the Linn of Dee, just before the large car park provided to allow walkers and cyclists access to the great heart of the Cairngorms National Park. Over the last few years I have come to know the track Northwards from here to Derry Lodge and Glen Lui, very well indeed. However, just at the point that the road turns back on itself and crosses the River Dee, there is another track which heads due Westwards out into wild and inhospitable territory. I have long wondered where this track went, what it was like, and what sort of adventures might lie down its path - but until yesterday had always driven on past to the familiar Derry Lodge route.

By eleven o' clock the early morning rain-storms were dying away and so I took the bike off the car roof and peddled Westwards. The map indicates that the track follows the path of the Dee, until its fork with the Geldie Burn and the first landmark of the day - The White Bridge (so called, presumably because it isn't white). A cyclable path continues on the South bank of the Dee for some miles after this, only interrupted by regular drainage cuttings which required careful handling of the bike. I passed the 'chest of Dee', with the dark shapes of cloud-enshrouded mountains beckoning me forward. At the foot of Cam Flach Beag I abandoned the bike by a little cairn. By this stage the path was so rough, I was quicker on foot. Soon the great view of the high Cairngorm peaks, and the Lairig Ghru, that great scar through the mountains came into view, so I stopped and took the photo (above). It's only a snap taken with my phone - but it does capture the grandeur and excitement of approaching the mountains!

The ascent up Beinn Bhrotain is straightforward. A maintained path splits of from the North-South track and heads Eastwards into the mountain, following the Coachan Roibidh burn. This path only climbs for a few hundred feet before disappearing into the damp heather. Nevertheless, a feint path - marked by the impressions of hundred of hill-boots basically follows the path of the stream to the broad, multi-cairned summit. Hot, humid, hungry and thirsty, I sat down and rested - basking in the broad views of Cairn-Toul and the Devil's Peak. It was here that I had to make a route-decision. Time was against me, because of my late start, however Monadh Mor looked inviting, almost tantalisingly close, and perhaps too good to resist. I had my timings worked out though, and I knew that I could not possibly manage to complete the route in the book, descending Northwards off Monadh Mor to the bealach between it and Cairn Toul, before walking back round the whole mountain. I reckoned that there was time to go onto Monadh Mor if it was possible to descend the steep corrie between these two Munros, the Coire Cath nam Fionn. A brief exploration suggested that a descend that way would indeed be possible, if a small band of ice at the top could be negotiated.

The walk to Monadh Mor proved to be longer, steeper and harder work than it had first appeared. The views across mountains in all directions, and Glen Geusachan far below were tremendous however and gave inspiration to my now-flagging limbs. The descent down the Coire Cath nam Fionn, was exceptionally steep at first, but soon gave way to more forgiving terrain, and a path appeared far sooner that the map suggested.

By the time I regained the Dee, I was struggling. Tired, dehydrated, and aching - the trek to the bike seemed endless. I usually love every minute I spend in the outdoors - but for about half an hour at this point even my insatiable enthusiasm began to wane. Climbing a hill is usually an undiluted pleasure - this one was rapidly being downgraded to an 'achievement'. Driven on by the fact that I had a deadline with sunset to meet - and therefore no opportunity to rest, I pushed my protesting limbs ever-harder. Once on the bike, it got no easier, first a headwind blew-up, which was then accompanied by driving rain. I don't think I have ever been so pleased to see my car as I was when I arrived back at the Linn of Dee almost nine hours after I had set off. Full route details of this 27mile/2 Munro route can be seen by clicking on the map (below) to enlarge it. I'm still aching..

Sron a' Choire Ghairbh & Meall na Teanga

The extra public holiday on Friday, coupled with a great weather forecast presented the ideal opportunity for taking to the hills. Sron a' Choire Ghairbh and Meall na Teanga were selected as targets, friends invited, plans made and anticipation generated! The day got off to an inauspicious start when I was woken by my neighbour ringing the doorbell wondering why I wasn't waiting at the car as agreed (I'm sure I set that alarm!). Nevertheless, within a few minutes we were loaded up running round Perth to pick up the other lads who had accepted the invitation. By mid-morning we reached Spean Bridge, turned North and then West at the famous Commando Memorial, crossed the Caledonian Canal, and parked just before the shores of Loch Arkaig.

A steep path pulls up from the car park past the Cia Aig falls, finally joining a forest track which climbs Northwards parallel with the river below. The track eventually becomes a path which becomes increasingly feint after it crosses the footbridge (shown on the OS map) to the west bank of the river. Before reaching the little tumble-down ruin of Fedden, we struck westwards across the glen to intersect the path running in from the North, swinging into the glen we were aiming for. The climb up the bealach was a slog, and we rested at glen's highpoint, and dumped our bags for the trip to the summit of Sron a Choire Ghairbh.

Sron a Choire Ghairbh is not a shapely peak, in fact it is a steep sided lump when viewed from the South. What gives it character, (as with so many Scottish mountains) is the deep, steeply cliffed corrie which bites into its Northern flank - and the awe-inspiring views the mountain offers of other peaks too numerous to mention.

In blazing, hazy-humidity, we descended to our waiting packs, and lunch! The climb opposite onto Meall na Teanga looked incredibly steep. In practice it was a manageable, if not rather a hot, long pull. Teanga itself is another hill whose gentle lines are not themselves eye-catching, but the experience of standing on its' summit and looking down at the world; makes every pound put into the petrol tank, and every aching muscle, costs worth paying!

Heading off Meall na Teanga westwards over Meall Odhar was actually the most pleasant part of the walk. A nice steep little scrabbly ridge to climb, up, wide open views, striding over grand-ridges over springy moss, in delightful sunshine, an experience we shared only with a herd of running wild deer - was just tremendous.

In retrospect we should maybe have descended westwards from Meall Odhar, but the continuing ridge Southwards was too tempting. Dropping gently towards the car, with view out over Loch Arkaig looked too good to miss. In fact it led to a very awkward few hundred metres of descent through woodland to re-gain our track back to the car. Tired aching, and in my case, rather dehydrated (despite carrying all the fluid could lift!), the shop in Spean Bridge was a welcome sight - as was the Monadliath Hotel just before Dalwhinnie, whose fine pub-grub, completed a brilliant day out.

Ah - it's just SO good to be back in the mountains....

Forgiveness

He died that we might be forgiven,

he died to make us good,

that we might go at last to heaven,

saved by his precious blood.

Pain

We may not know, we cannot tell,

what pains he had to bear,

but we believe it was for us

he hung and suffered there.

Hell on Earth

There is a Green Hill Far Away

Without a city wall

Where the dear Lord was Crucified

He died to save us all

Marriage Course - 2011

Setting the table, peeling the spuds, checking the DVD - it's Marriage Course time again for us here in Perth. This time, quite a small course - but will no doubt be just as useful for them as for couple who complete it amongst a larger crowd.

The course is a really practical guide - packed full of wisdom, with some very searching exercises for couples to work through, all with the aim of keeping a marriage alive and healthy for a lifetime. We start this new course on the day that the press are posting the latest sorry statistics about the breakdown in family life in this country.

Our experience, and the feedback from many of the couples who've done the course with us is that, entered into with a positive attitude, to get the very best from it - the course can play an invaluable role in making marriage work.

There's always a little nervous anticipation on the first night of a course, new people, new dynamics... I suspect that the guests feel a little nervous too. Hopefully tonight will kick the new course off to a flying start.

Trainspotter!

I don't care how sad you think I am! I saw these two giants simmering in the afternoon sunshine in Perth this afternoon, and thought that they looked, smelled and sounded rather splendid. The front one is Scots Guardsman, while the smaller one behind it is The Great Marquess. They were stopping at Perth for water having climbed over the mountains from Inverness. Click on the photo to enlarge and appreciate!

Spontaneous Goonery!

As I laughed at number #2 son's antics, and reached for the camera to capture them..... it suddenly dawned on me, that it looked more than a little similar to "A Dustbin of Milligan". Now, while I have over the years taught him one or two poems from this book - he has never actually seen the cover. Spontaneous bonkers-type Goonery, I tell ye! I blame their grandfather!

Weatherseal - Receiving the Hard-Sell

We had a strange experience this week with a double-glazing company called Weatherseal. I took a telephone call from one of their sales people, which suggested that the company were looking for a showhome in my postcode. They were looking for a property to take 'before' and 'after' photos of, to demonstrate how their products could revitalise a house. In exchange for using the house in their advertising, they would do the whole job completely free. This sounded too good to be true, so I checked with the telephone sales-person, asking one specific question: "Do you get told if your home has been selected for the promotion before you agree to the installation or not?" The answer I was given was that, someone would call round, assess the property for its advertising potential, and if it was the most suitable one in the area, authorise free installation, and that this would all be agreed without paying a penny.

It sounded too good to be true because of course it was.

On the evening the person was supposed to call, he appeared two hours later than agreed. He understood that he couldn't go into measure windows in the kids bedrooms while they were being put to bed and that the measuring couldn't proceed. His boss on the phone thought otherwise, and put us under pressure to 'wait until they were sleeping' and then go in and begin. It's the school holidays, and they weren't even going to bed until nine-ish! Clearly these salesmen are being driven, and are under inordinate pressure from HQ.

The following night the assessor re-appeared. Bright, friendly, articulate and only 15 minutes late, he came - not to assess the property for its advertising potential taking "about an hour" of our time as promised; but to subject us to over two hours of intensely high-pressure selling. The experience was almost surreal.

The salesman was obviously highly trained, and engaged us in this ludicrous piece of theatre, involving a spurious company history lesson designed to build trust; a guide to the market designed to discredit the competition; mysterious rituals with meaningless (but important-sounding) code numbers to make the potential customer feel like a lucky winner; asking us to sign pointless pieces of paper saying we had understood the presentation, so to get us warmed-up for signing a real-contract. The pressure to take up their credit-plan was extremely strong too - and at times highly misleading. While the salesman was keen to suggest that a huge discount would be applied to the bill just for taking up the credit-plan, and to talk about the potentially low monthly repayment figures, he was far from forthcoming about the total-repayment sum should you use the full ten-years to repay! Likewise his figures for interest did not relate to the amount it would actually cost us for the job he had just measured up for - but simply interest 'per thousand pounds borrowed'. Likewise we were never told whether the interest rates were fixed, or flexible! This was rushed through at enormous speed, followed with the invitation we (unwisely) took, to sign to say we were happy with the presentation. The truth was, we were still digesting it, when the pen and the form were pressed into our hands.

All this comes to the inevitable climax of the sky-high bonkers price, which you get to chew on for a few minutes while he rehearses for the umpteenth-time the benefits of the Argon-filled glass-units and multi-point locking system.... Then comes the call from HQ with the 'good news' about the code number which slashes thousands off the price..... all so predictable. Yet - even as we were wise to what was happening, we felt the huge psychological pressures being brought to bear on us.

When we repeated, and repeated, and repeated that under no circumstances would we be signing a contract as big as this on the night - the salesman refused to accept this answer. He questioned, asked all manner of intrusive questions which we had to repeatedly refuse to answer, questioned again, kept offering to wait outside in the car until we had talked it though. Embarrassingly he just would not let go, despite us asking for the space to cook our tea and deal with the kids! The pressure to sign was then upped with the usual line about these deals only being on offer tonight, and that if we didn't sign now he wouldn't be able to give us the amazing deal we had just seen. When we explained that we would never sign a deal this big on the spur of the moment, he phoned his boss - who then tried to (very assertively) run through the presentation with me again on the phone! Can you imagine?!

I got the impression that the salesman himself was a decent guy, being driven by an unbelievably ruthless company, to operate in a way which stretched the definitions of reasonable, ethical practice to its tolerances! Whether any of it was actually illegal or not, I do not know.

Thankfully we are not weak, vulnerable, elderly or unable to withstand this kind of bombardment - and eventually he left. I had the chance to Google this company and see if this kind of thing goes on regularly - and indeed it does. I also discovered that they are a repeat offender in violating the rules on tele-marketing and in fact should not have been calling me at all!

Their windows look quite good. They seemed strong, warm, secure, and looked fine. The question is this: would I want to do business with a company that (i) violated my TPS registration and illegally cold-called me, (ii) tricked their way into my home under false pretences, (iii) outstayed their welcome by taking double the promised time, (iv) put us under undue psychological pressure, (v) tried to get us to sign up to a credit-scheme without adequate time to consider its terms in detail or compare it with other products, (vi) placed us under pressure to hastily conclude a deal with them for the windows without allowing us time to weigh our options (vii) subjected us to highly-polished theatre and ritual all designed to psychologically manipulate us towards parting with cash? Er,....

I see that consumer discussion boards are deeply divided about this company. Some people report terrible experiences - others will not have a word said against them. I am in no position to generalise about the company, I simply relate my experience. Let the reader decide!

Tim Keller at Google Authors

Keller's talk on Christian apologetics was warmly received when he was invited to speak at Google as part of their 'authors' series of guest lectures. He made some good points on the way, and conceded a few during the Q&A's at the end too. It's delivered with his customary clarity and humility which make it all the more watchable. It's a fascinating talk, and the discussion at the end probes some of the big issues.

Stumbling Upon the Vinyl Archive. 6. Singles.

The BBC used to have a lunchtime programme called "Pebble Mill at One". While I recalled the show being rather lame, a quick trip to YouTube stunned me - it was actually worse than I remembered! Despite this, I still remember the band they had arranged to close the show one day, and the song they played. The band was Del Amitri, and the song was Nothing Ever Happens. I still have the single, and was delighted to unearth it in the attic last week. Along with some of these other gems and turkeys..

It's often pointed out that when Vinyl gave way to little CDs, it spelt the end of the era of great cover-art. Of course, it also meant the end of the 'picture-disc'. Record companies knew that countless fans would part with more cash, to get a copy of the same song pressed onto a picture of their musical hero, or band logo. Here's a particularly splendid picture disc, from MSG. Quite honestly, the design on the plastic 7" does look quite jolly spinning round at 45 rpm. Of course, turning the sound off assists with the enjoyment of this particular disc; if only it sounded as good as it looked!

Whaddayamean it's about drugs? I thought it was all just innocent childish fun!

Roy Buchanan was a guitarist who never received the recognition he deserved - especially in the UK. Yet his performances on tracks like the bluesy instrumental The Messiah Will Come Again, have been hugely influential on many subsequent players. Gary Moore is the obvious beneficiary of his legacy, with his solos in songs in the Parisiene Walkways/Still Got the Blues, vein drawing deeply on Buchanan's work. Moore acknowledged this in his cover version of this single, and his own work The Prophet, which develops the theme. Buchanan also sounds uncannily like Richie Blackmore would, in several passages on Pete's Blues.

Oooh look, red Vinyl! Surely the kids will buy it in bright red!? "Only You Can Rock Me". UFOs lyrics were hardly the finest poetry, but the music was fun, and in their prime, rather well executed.

Sam Brown's hit "Stop!", was a great song, sung brilliantly with immense passion - an arresting vocal performance. The cardboard sleeve for the single contained not only the black Vinyl disc, but also a large folded poster of the lovely Ms Brown. I had two posters on my wall when I was about 15, one was Ian Paice, just visible behind an enormous drum-kit; the other was Sam Brown. I am sure Mr Paice wouldn't be the least bit offended if I was to point out that he was the less alluring of the two images.

"Don't Believe a Word", I think is the definitive Thin Lizzy song. It has all the ingredients that went to make the Irish rockers into legends, by the spadeful. Lynott's writing is both heartfelt, sentimental, and confessional - despite presenting his own failings as if he were a victim of them; a fiendishly morally ambiguous song. It has upbeat shuffle-rhythm and the distinctive dual-guitar lead, and a scorching solo from Brian Robertson. Two and a half minutes of genius, with a perfect ending.

On a quite different note, Paul Simon's "Still Crazy After All These Years" is a tender little ballad - and rightly considered to amongst his finest works. As delicate and quirky as perhaps only Paul Simon can be, a charming little song - which so nicely invokes nostalgia for times gone, with the story of a chance encounter.

By the time Barclay James Harvest recorded John Lees' composition, Cheap the Bullet, they had been treading the boards for decades. Orchestra's and choirs had come and gone, enormous proggy-soundscapes had been used, swathes of new-fangled synths bathed their 80s output, backing singers had had a turn, their music had evolved and changed almost constantly. This then was a surprise, a no-nonsense guitar-driven mid-paced, rocker. The single predictably didn't sell anything like the quantities it deserved at the time - perhaps by then they were exclusively an 'album band'. At least polydor made a decent effort of the sleeve though.

I always thought that Bob Dylan's "Just Like a Woman", and Billy Joel's "Always a Woman to Me" would form a fascinating double-A side of a bizarre single!

When the Righteous Brothers re-release of Unchained Melody became a smash-hit in 1990 on the back of its use on a film; the BBC did the decent thing a issues Milligan and Sellers definitive rendition of the classic song. "I need your love, I need your love, ying-tong, ying-tong iddle i-po, play my ukele as the ship went down" - genius!

And then something comes out of the archive and it sort of vaguely rings a bell - and then you can't remember why it was there in the first place. Apparently this band Marseille flourished for a while...

And then something I had forgotten about but was pleased to find again! This is Gary Moore's cover of the Yardbirds song, "Shapes of Things", a heavy, powerful version of their 60s pop-tune. I heard Moore do this track live a couple of times, the extended solo of which was a particularly fine point of his live-shows in those days. It's backed by Blinder, an instrumental with an uncanny resemblance to a Rainbow song! These are tracks which I haven't heard for a very, very long time!

Fat n' Frantic - A band whose energetic live-shows were gloriously eccentric, riotous fun, but whose studio performances never had the same energy. "Last Night My Wife Hoovered My Head" was one of their most profound efforts, and indeed gained some national airplay in the hands of Simon Mayo. Those crazy-boys in the psychedelic suits, playing their mixture of punk and skiffle (called piffle), I wonder where they are now? I suspect not moshing as vigorously as they were two decades ago.

Other marketing ploys of the Vinyl singles era included the 12" (as big as an album but only a single, played at 45rpm - allegedly better sound quality) and the EP. Here's an EP (extended player), that I have unearthed from the vaults. The EP is the size of a single, but played a 33rpm, so you get more on it! This one features Barclay James Harvest's Rock n Roll Star, and Medicine Man (part one). Medicine Man (part two) is found on the B-side, and the listener has to flip the disc over midway to enjoy the rest of the song. I wonder how many people spent how many hours trying to record this song onto their TDK D90 blank audio cassettes, trying to time the 'pause' so that it played back seamlessly. Or perhaps I am uniquely sad in this respect...

Stumbling Upon the Vinyl Archive. 5. Unclassifiable.

Despite the worry they have caused, the cracks which are spreading around our bedroom ceiling, have had one pleasant side-effect. The visit of the structural engineer necessitated a clear-out of the attic, which in turn led to the discovery of a long-forgotten trove of Vinyl. I have found kids stuff, blues, jazz, rock, and now these, a selection of almost unclassifiable records.

SKY (1) is an album which has such precious memories associated with it, that for me it is impossible to assess objectively. As a young teenager I used to sometimes go and stay with my Grandpa in Dorset. This meant cycling to Woking, a train ride through the countryside to Gillingham, and then the cycle up the hill to Shaftesbury. As if this wasn't an adventure enough, it was completed by the excitement of a week spent with Grandpa. He was a great character, and always good fun to be with. I remember days there often being busy, cycling around the surrounding countryside, visiting my Aunt and Uncle who lived in the same town, or attacking a mound of 'O' level coursework - but spending the evenings with Grandpa. Many of these evening would be filled with music, either music that he played on his piano, or playing records from his collection. SKY (1) was a record that was often brought out. Although he was a classical pianist who loved playing piano works from a range of composers, he liked occasional forays into other music too. SKY were a rock/classical crossover band that performed instrumentals in a variety of styles, from the most delicate of ballads to some classical standards in a solid rock format. After his death, each of his grand-children were given something of his with which to remember him. The items were chosen, not by anything as pointless as monetary value, but by the connection that the item had been between him and us. Of course, I was given some of the LPs we had listened to - and his old Marantz music system, which I used until only a couple of years ago. In the photo above, the number and sticker on the cover were part of his library system for cataloguing his music. Just holding this LP again transports me back to a world of being 16, of curries and cider, of cycling through the countryside, of music, adventure, optimism, youth, but most of all, all these things with Grandpa.

This LP comes from a later date, but is no less musically unclassifiable than the last one. Some people would want to subsume such things under the label 'prog', but that has become an almost meaningless term for anything that allows musicians to work across genres instead of sticking rigidly to the rules of their musical type. I remember the late, great, Woolly Wolstenholme of Barclay James Harvest decrying the term for exactly these reasons. "Music Inspired by The Snow Goose", is enough of a coherent concept-album of long instrumentals to be dismissed under the 'prog' label - but this album is a remarkably diverse collection of tunes. Camel were able to picture Paul Gallico's touching WWII story in a charming soundscape which is in turns delicate, whimsical, powerful, and touching. I was initially lent a copy of this by some friends in the church I grew up in, near London. I grabbed a 2nd hand copy for myself soon after. Of course, I taped it for playing in the car - while this old piece of Vinyl lay forgotten!

Not quite rock, not quite jazz, almost fusion, but then again, and definitely not really prog. Collosseum II produced a string of albums in the late 1970s full of musical brilliance, creative composition and the kind of frantic duelling on guitars and keys that I adored - but in all honesty was never going to sell millions. My initial interest in the band was because Gary Moore's guitar was intrinsic to the sound - and in the early 80s, I was really into his rock albums. Colloseum II, was then a revelation, as Moore's albums such a Victims of the Future or Run For Cover were positively pedestrian compared to the range, variety, complexity and spark on the Colloseum II records. Electric Savage was the first one I bought - and played to death. I still have enormous affection for this album, and not because it was the only LP cover I ever had to keep inside a brown-paper bag! (the astute music historian will notice the fact that this picture here is the expurgated version, and not the original LP cover, which didn't spare the blushes of the young lady). It's not merely the album cover over which there was a distinct gender-difference in levels of appreciation, though. I know many guys who like this music, but while there may be women who like this stuff - I have never met any! Certainly none of the girls I ever knew, or the one I am married to, can stand it! Really unusual and powerfully creative - I think its great, and wonderful to stumble across again after all these years.

Drymen to Balmaha via Conic Hill

The Scottish Tourist Industry usually trades on the country's extremes. Programmes such as Coast, Mountain, or when Griff Rhys Jones is filmed careering down a river, re-enforce this image by constant repetition of the unusual, as if it were typical. In landscape programmes we usually see the Black Cuillin of Skye, the semi-Arctic landscape of the Cairngorm plateau, or the bleak vastness of Rannoch Moor. Human interaction with this land is therefore generally pitched in terms of remarkable feats of physical endurance, or danger. Indeed, Scotland is big enough, and its landscape wild enough to provide enough stories of maverick adventurers, of avalanches, Mountain Rescues or tragedies, to satisfy the media's thirst for the sensational. Scotland's uplands are rugged, potentially dangerous, and an awesome classroom for the study of the geology and geomorphology, or myth, legend and heroics. All this is rightly celebrated.

The danger in all this is that the extremes are revered at the expense of so many of the other things which the Scottish landscape offers. There are, for example, countless walks suitable for young families which will never grab headlines, but which can make for an idyllic day out, without great expense.

Our family-experience of walking in Scotland has evolved as the children have grown. When 'Boris', 'Norris' and 'Doris' were babies they were easy to pick-up and carry on a good day's walking, but soon reached a point where they were simply too heavy to carry - but were not yet capable of a full day out on their own legs. During these phases, hillwalking was severely restricted. The last time we all went up a hill of Munro height, was four years ago when I staggered up Beinn na Lap with the weight of nearly-two-year-old 'Doris' on my back. Now that she is five, and becoming increasingly strong and confident in the hills, family hill-walks are (at last!) beginning to recommence. Thankfully, Scotland provides not merely the Larig Ghru's and Aonach Eagach's - but so many of these smaller, walks which provide an excellent introduction to the Great Outdoors, at almost every grade of difficulty.

The various assembled characters of the Outdoor Activities Fellowship (OAF's) leave the Baptist Church car park, and head for the hills about once a month from Spring to Autumn. They try and offer a varied programme of walks for people of all ages and fitness levels. The progress that our youngest has made, has meant that for the first time we have been able to join them for a walk as a family, for one of their easier expeditions: Drymen to Balmaha via Conic Hill.

Above Drymen there were numerous route diversions through the woods due to logging operations. Thankfully, as the track is part of the West Highland Way, they had provided a well-signposted diversion. The first stage of the walk is a straightforward stroll through densely planted pine forests. After a mile or so the forest breaks to reveal a glimpse of the only obstacle on the route, Conic Hill. From the track the hill looks gracefully shaped, with steep sides and a cheerful looking little ridge running off it down towards Lomondside. It's a fairly short climb, steep in places, but with an obvious path to follow. 'Boris' who is 11, likes to walk calmly, and make intelligent conversation with the adults in the group. Eight-year-old 'Norris' likes to run between groups of adults, laughing, blethering constantly and finding the deepest patches of mud to leap into. Little 'Doris' likes to walk with either parent, but who despite being the smallest member of the party marches along contentedly.

On Saturday, Western Scotland sweltered in bright sunshine, and high temperatures and humidity which made walking hard, and thirsty work. The hills were not looking photogenic, as they sweated in a blanket of hazy-low-cloud and poor light. Nevertheless Loch Lomond looked wonderful, with people playing on the beaches, pleasure-boats in every corner of the Loch and the vague outlines of the big mountains to North peering through the bright haze.

The climb up Conic Hill from Drymen side is easy, the path curves around the back of the hill, ironing out the gradient. We stumbled upon the summit more quickly than we expected, and sat down in the leeward side to eat our lunch, enjoying the shelter from the wind and the view out over the water. The descent to Balmaha was surprising - if only for its busyness. When we had arrived early in the morning to drop a car off at the Balmaha car park, the place was almost deserted. By early afternoon, the place was buzzing, a significant proportion of Glasgow out enjoying the sunshine. This was reflected in the overwhelming volume of feet tramping up and down the Balmaha-Conic track. There were groups and families in trainers and street-fashions, walking up from Balmaha, the obvious up and down route. There were day-walkers like us, boots and day-sacks - trekking along from Drymen. We were all mixed up with West-Highland-Way-ers, with their huge rucksaks, unslept appearances and fixed expressions of relief and disbelief at the glorious weather! Youngsters, oldsters, and everything in-between-ers, basking in the wonder of Highland Scotland.

I enjoy hanging off the Cuillin, or marching for miles across Cairngorm uplands, but there is much to appreciated in Scotland's smaller gems too. We drove home with children falling asleep in the back of the car. My wife simply commented that if you could rely on weather like this, you'd never think of holidaying anywhere else.

Friarton

After a very long cold Winter, Perth finally felt Spring-like today. With the kids off school, we all trudged up Kinnoull Hill (yet-again!) today. Kinnoull is though, a place that we never seem to tire of, there are so many different routes up, and around the hill, and so many hidden corners that despite countless trips it always seems to throw surprises in our way. Today we picked a new (for us) route from Branklyn Gardens, around the very South-Western corner of the hill, skirting the very edge of the cliffs all the way to the summit.