Fresh Air

Life, it increasingly appears to me, seems to accelerate as the years tick by. Now I am not geriatric just yet, and even consider myself to still be in some kind of flush of youth, however dimmed, but it is incredible that the touchstones of life experience seem to whiz away into distant memory like a blink of the eye. I'm increasingly finding myself talking about things, thinking that they were a year or two ago, and being reminded that virtually a decade has passed, or even more scarily told that these events happened last century. While I remain feeling like a 19 year-old and wait for the day I grow up properly and stop wearing sneakers to work, the years still march inexorably forward. And it seems to me that music is one of those touchstones that is constantly throwing up surprising reality checks with which to plot the passing years.

The reason for such whimsical reverie, on this occasion, is the news that French electronic duo Air are set to mark the decade anniversary of classic debut album "Moon Safari" with a bulked up re-release special edition. Marvellous news I am sure you will agree and, while it sends shivers down my spine to think that this album is really 10 years old (seriously, that's a long time right!?!), it is a great excuse to just stop and reflect on what a great record it was, and is. Interestingly, if you dig "Moon Safari" out and listen to it through the first thing that strikes you is actually how fresh it still sounds. The music, with its blissed out tempo and dream-like aesthetics has a truly timeless feel to it, a fact perhaps all the more impressive given that the reliance on synth and almost robotically fashioned electronica could so easily have dated it.


However, even upon release the record had a retro charm, with the potential harshness of its hypnotic elements softened by the generous use of acoustic guitar, vocoded vocals, and a perfectly judged introduction of lyrical harmony. Indeed the use of Florida-born singer-songwriter Beth Hirsch on the incredible "All I Need" and "You Make It Easy" is so well-judged as to give the songs the immediate feeling of being remakes of classic recordings you never knew existed, taken from a smoky Parisian lounge some time in the preceding 50 years. And then there are the instrumentals, sonic soundscapes of understated beauty.


Opener "La Femme D'Argent" sets the tone, the sound of waves lapping on a distant shore giving way to a jazzy bass-heavy groove, interspersed with cosmic sounds and Moog keyboard stabs which transport you to a long soak in warm waters. And there is a sexiness to it as well which again is a repeating motif throughout. Whether it is the tempo, made for the make-out couch, or the echoes of 70s porn that the music suggests, it is definitely full of French naughtiness. And we haven't even mentioned the pop genius of "Sexy Boy" and "Kelly Watch The Stars".


Air have certainly proven themselves to be the kings of the late 1990s resurgence in laid-back electronica, a scene led by our Gallic cousins across the English Channel. Haters might dismiss this as wallpaper music, or that most damning of terms "easy-listening", but as far as I am concerned that is their loss. It is easy to listen to, and it is this ease, comfort and familiarity that makes it so appealing. And it is simply too good to just sit in the background, unless of course you are taking care of business on the afore-mentioned couch. Even then, make sure you don't get carried away and forget to come up for some Air.

Leave ya nines at home, and bring ya skills to the battle

It is a matter of debate as to who is the greatest producer in hip-hop. The question of greatest rapper of all time is one I am sure we have all chewed over at some point, but as for the beat-makers, well I'm not so sure that we feel as qualified to make the call. Not to say that we won't have opinions, and there are some definite entries who surely hold a place in any top ten list, but it just feels to me as though there is more objectivity inherent in this question. Not that this will stop us returning to the question at some future juncture I am sure, but I just wanted to get that off my chest. And anyway, lists or rankings are only a way of trying to put order to something which, at the end of the day, does come down to the subjective, and like a drive-thru family bucket from the colonel are always going to be moveable feasts anyway.

However a man who can arguably lay claim to the title is of course DJ Premier, a man whose innovation and diversity of styles, unlike this posting, have rarely gone off point. And for me, one of his greatest achievements is an album that I feel is in some ways a forgotten classic in the rap canon. Not forgotten, in that heads will of course recognise it as an instant great, but rather that it is not often that you hear much said about this record. If we are talking 1994 it is "Illmatic" and "Ready To Die" that will generally be heralded, and rightly so, but Jeru The Damaja's stunning debut "The Sun Rises In The East", wholly produced by Premier, often only serves as a footnote. And I for one think this is a shame, a view reinforced by a digging it out and treating myself to a full play through recently. And what an amazing album it is.

Classic first single "Come Clean" is, to my mind, almost faultless as a hip-hop tune. Check Primo's tap-drip sampling backing beat, providing an almost cinematic atmosphere to Jeru's intellectually intense rhyming and his knack for storytelling. I have always thought that Jeru is a bit like the enlightened and conscious cousin of the Wu, a deadly monk who trained alongside them and then took his own path to enlightenment. Certainly there is a large echo of influence from eastern martial arts iconography throughout the record, which is perhaps as coherent in style, subject matter, production and delivery as you will ever find from a hip-hop album.

Jeru was blessed with lyrical invention and seems to almost breathe metaphors and punchlines, such is the ease with which he spits his complex yet accessible wordplay. He copped flak for "Da Bitchez" from myopic critics unable to see the story of knowledge of self and appreciation of women through their intent to reinforce negative stereotypes. This is another standout track on an album full of them. "The Sun Rises In The East" is a hurricane of braggadocious raps, enlightened consciousness, off-kilter beats and tales of eastern mystery and mind mastery. If you are ever in need of a reminder of how music can make you think about your place in the world, reach for this album.

Since this incredible debut release, Jeru has only sporadically hit similar heights, and certainly not come close to repeating the feat. However that has often been the case in rap's constantly changing landscape, and should not detract from the fact that for enlightenment and a unique perspective, you should always look to the horizon in the east.

You've never heard of Bob Marley?!!

I'm not sure how many of you readers of A Story To Tell have dedicated two hours of your life that will never be recovered to watch futuristic numb-fest I Am Legend. But fear not, for the artistic merits of this Will Smith "blockbuster" are not the question for debate here. After all, that may make this a very short posting. However, there is one classic scene in the film, when Smith's apocalyptic one-man show is interrupted by the discovery of another survivor in a world he hitherto thought stripped of humanity and humankind. Having gone through the normal pleasantries engendered by such a situation, Smith's new companion soon asks why his deceased daughter was called Marley. Smith states that, of course, it was after the singer, to which said companion then asks, "who, Damian Marley?".

Faced with this effrontery and continued puzzled looks about who this Bob Marley character is, Smith recoils from his companion allowing himself some "me-time" with a spot of over-acting abandon, declaring that said lack of knowledge is just unacceptable, before righting this wrong with an unveiling of "Stir It Up". He declares it to have come from the greatest album ever made, and follows it up with a Hollywood spiel about said reggae star's philosophy of life and how we can all learn from it, follow the light from the darkness, that kind of thing.

Now then. Let us just rewind a minute. I can accept at a stretch that all humans bar a handful have been wiped out by a super-virus. It is a movie after all. I can accept that this virus has reduced victims to states of soul-stripped half-deads marauding the cities at night feasting on fresh souls. All in the name of suspending reality in the moviehouse, I can meet the makers half way. I can even accept that the new survivor has made it across North America against this army of unstoppable night-killers apparently armed only with little more than a flashlight, half a toothpick, some stale Cheerios and a soggy pad of post-it notes. But asking me to believe that someone from that same continent, or anywhere in the western world, has never come across one of the biggest and most iconic superstars of modern music, while knowing who son Damian is.

Well, I am sorry, dear reader, but that for me is when the movie truly tanked. And the point of this critique, believe it or not, is not actually to deride the movie in itself, which is for you to decide. But rather it is an admittedly long-winded way of getting to Marley himself. For I, like the film-makers, needed a plot vehicle to allow me to introduce Marley. Unlike the film, however, I wanted to attempt to do this in a way that does not, like the film, make the nonsensical leap that supposes you too are Marley virgins. That is clearly fanciful in the extreme, and A Story To Tell never knowingly tries to pre-suppose or patronise. I have wondered before how to talk about the music of someone who has, in many ways, transcended his own life and output to become a super-presence in our collective consciousness, a cultural icon in that rarefied realm of being globally recognisable in a similar way to the nike swoosh, the coca-cola lettering, or indeed fellow musician John Lennon. And the best way, I think, is simply to state the obvious, that Marley's music truly was of a rare vintage, and I am sure that we all, like Smith, have our own favourite albums and recordings.

That "Catch A Fire", the album from which "Stir It Up" comes from, is an absolute belter is without question. It was his debut release on a major, and arguably kick-started his international success. However, one of my own favourite recordings features some of the same songs, but is taken from a radio recording carried out at San Francisco's KSAN at the end of a long US promotional tour in the same year. "Talkin Blues", released in 1991, features Marley and the Wailers (unfortunately minus Bunny Wailer who was replaced with original vocal mentor Joe Higgs for these final tour duties having left the band) recorded live in front of a scant studio audience. It is interspersed with interview snippets, taken from a 1975 interview, espousing Marley's views on life and music, and providing a remarkably lucid narrative given the time difference. But it is the music that is crucial. For here was the sound of a band, and a singer, on the verge of greatness. It marks the closure of the golden period of the original Wailers, and features an artist and his band at the very crossroads of crossover success. Marley is inspired, and his band equally so.

Peter Tosh's rhythm guitar cuts and chugs brilliantly, giving a raw edge to the sound which bristles with energy and all out commitment. Tosh and Higg's backing vocals stretch with audible emotion, and the band, honed by their recent tour, are tighter than tight, so tight indeed that on said tour they had been dumped as Sly and The Family Stone's openers for being too damn good. And Bob Marley himself delivers the very archetype of his rebel music. The passion burst from the speakers. For me, this is the best Bob Marley album around, and if you have not yet come across it I would urge you to explore. The songs may be familiar, and indeed the version of "I Shot The Sheriff" comes from his legendary London Lyceum shows of 1975, and even then displays the contrast between the two periods, and the growth of the artist in a small space of time. Talkin Blues is a phenomenal and intimate testament, and a massively significant musical document. It establishes, and at the same time reaffirms, the unadulterated power of his music and message, and for that I'd rather plug in my earphones than have it spoon-fed by Hollywood, any day of the week.

The Revolution Will Be Digitally Televised

A Story To Tell is not the place to get overly mushy on you, but when I say that I have a lot to thank the girl in my life for, trust me, I mean a lot. One in a trillion. But one of the things that I have to thank her for most recently comes after a work trip she made to New York City a few weeks back. Now I am a big fan of the many attractions that New York has to offer and while I have had many a great night out there, one thing I have not yet managed is to take in any live music. Criminal I know, but there it is. So imagine my delight, tinged with a large side-salad of envy, when I get the call from said partner in a state of giddy excitement because she has just found out about a gig that night, timed to commemorate Martin Luther King Day, that she had secured a ticket for. And the artist in question? None other than Mr Gil Scott Heron, to my mind one of the greatest artists of his or any other generation.

I have always put off writing a posting on A Story To tell about Gil Scott Heron's music and influence because I simply don't know where to start. It is rare that I am lost for things to say when it comes to artists I admire, but for some reason it happens with him. He is simply one of my absolute heroes. I think it might be because I consider his insight to be so profound that I am unsure of my own abilities to analyse it or do it justice in any way. Maybe there is just too much to say, whether the incredible partnership with piano-man Brian Jackson, the benign and overt influence of his work on rap music, the soulfulness of his voice, the power of his use of words, or just the fascinating tale of his life, from moral highpoints to ongoing battles with substance abuse and the many contradictions that this brings.

Or perhaps because his work offers such a critique of American society that still resonates today. Listen to "Did You Hear What They Said" from 1972's Free Will album and tell me there are not echoes of sentiments in today's debates around the Gulf conflict. Listen to "The King Alfred Plan" from the same LP and think about the Patriot Act and Guantanamo. Just listen to the song most people know Gil Scott for, "The Revolution Will Not Be televised", and find me a better tear down of mass media's conceits, now or 40 years ago. Indeed, first three albums * 1970's "Small Talk at 125th & Lennox, 71's "Pieces Of A Man" and the afore-mentioned "Free Will" * are an astonishing output by anyone's standards, and up there with the likes of Stevie Wonder's own equally startling run of albums in the 1970s. Whatever the case, it is true that Gil Scott Heron's lyrics and poetry have provided some of the most important words to shape my own views on life, and some of the most memorable musical moments. Indeed it is the combination of the two that adds up to such greatness in my eyes. He's not a saint, but perhaps it is the failings and character glitches, the huamnness, that also add to the allure.

And so it was with good wishes, and yet a heavy heart, that I finished the phone call with my better half across the pond, thankful that at least one of us would see an artist that nestles among the highest reaches of my dream tickets. And was it a good show at S.O.Bs in the heart of downtown? You bet your bottom dollar it was, a fact that I can attest to because of the wonders of video messaging on cell phones, and the snippets that I was able to enjoy through this medium. That Heron is still battling with his demons is clear, but his voice remains strong, his eagerness to preach the good message undimmed, and his musical mastery a joy to behold. But if live front row clips weren't enough, there is another rejoinder to this tale of affection. As if seeing the man live was not enough, my good lady only had to stay behind and meet him after the show. Now that's just rubbing my nose in it, I'm sure you're thinking, as I did too. Except read on, because in doing so she also secured an autograph and message on a book of his music and spoken word pieces which I will now treasure for the rest of my days. I would not normally be an autograph seeker, but sometimes there are exceptions one has to make. I told you I had lots to thank her for.

Burn this disco out

Music! I wonder if it will ever lose its ability to surprise and thrill me. I already know that I could learn about a new artist every day of my life and still not mine the depths of what there is to know about the vastness of what is out there. For music, of some kind or another, is surely as old as we humans have been conscious beings, and if we count such phenomena as whale song, perhaps even longer. Anyway, the point is that music, like nature, is in a constant state of flux, of energy, and of mutation. There is simply too much to know, and the best that we music lovers can hope for is that the soundtrack we choose to accompany our lives continues to inspire, amuse, educate and entertain us through to the very end. But also that we can inform other people's own choices, and in some way affect their own choice of soundtrack, no matter how small that change may be.

And with this in mind it is no accident that the term file-sharing has come to be synonymous with music itself, because what better to share in this digital age than the music that we love, have loved in the past, and will come to love in the future? Sharing is good, and learning from others is good. And that is why I must give some love to my man Dames for opening up my eyes during a recent tete-a-tete. A discussion about what music we are currently grooving to was meandering along nicely into a playful one-upmanship, when he mentioned the work of French producer Cerrone. Now at the time I thought little more of it, other than past experience showing that a recommendation by Dames is often worth pursuing further. It didn't cross my mind to feel ashamed to not know about him or his work. For all I knew he was some obscure house producer that Dames and perhaps two other people in the world are actually into. Oh dear. How wrong I was.

Because for the uninitiated, discovering Cerrone, certainly for this self*styled music lover, felt a bit like saying I am into thrillers, and then finding out about some 2-bit director called Hitchcock. A bit of a strange analogy, but you get the picture. Because Cerrone's music is that good, and his influence that profound. He was virtually responsible, alongside Georgio Moroder, for the blueprint of what would soon become the all-conquering sound of disco in the late 1970s, and the impact of the two is unrivalled, certainly from a European perspective. With his seminal debut "Love In C Minor", which still sounds incredibly fresh and exciting today. Cerrone can truly be considered a pioneer and architect of the disco sound. The afore-mentioned debut and third album "Supernature" are true masterpieces. If you don't know them, like yours truly until recently, then dig them out and I guarantee you they will not leave your speakers for some time yet.

The orchestration is lush, with layered vocals and swirling strings, driving beats and a sensuality and sexiness that all the best dance music gives, intensified by the knowledge that on these records Cerrone is creating the aesthetics of disco for the first time. If you are a fan of the French disco revival led by the likes of Daft Punk, Bob Sinclar, Modjo and Etienne de Crecy amongst others, chances are you may have already availed yourself of Cerrone's work, knowingly or not. Certainly Bob Sinclar's own 2001 compilation of Cerrone's best tunes is a great shortcut to knowledge, and surely one of the best dance compilations available today. So thanks to Dames for showing an old dog some funky new tricks, and who says that disco is dead?! I for one, it woul appear, am only just getting started.

Turnmills, Thrills and Bellyaches

Some time ago I wrote on A Story To Tell about the tragic planned closure of legendary London venue The Astoria. I wish I were writing with an uplifting story of reprieve and restoration, but alas the plans for corporate replacement rumble on inexorably. And if you were hoping for a counter-tale of musical victory, I am afraid that today is not the day for it, as this post is concerned with yet another impending closure on London's after-hours scene, and an equally sad ending of an era. After two decades of unadulterated clubbing, London institution Turnmills is to host it's last-all-nighter at the end of March, and the capital's nighthawks will be robbed of one of the greatest venues in recent club history.

Any visitor to London over the years with a penchant for club-based craziness and simply the love of dancing the night away will surely have taken in a (sometimes very) long night at Turnmills, a club renowned for its lack of pretensions and totally up-for-it crowd. Turnmills has hosted virtually every big dance DJ and act of the post-rave era, and was the first UK club to be given a 24-hour license. In this respect it paved the way for the dance music explosion of the 1990s, and gave rise to a million addled memories of lost nights out and the twisted joy of making your way home across the city at dawn. It's warren of rooms and chill out spaces provided an aural blend unique in clubland, and have hidden a multitude of naughtiness and pure pleasure throughout the years.

The club was host to legendary gay institution Trade, and also famous for flagship all-nighter The Gallery featuring everyone from Paul Oakenfold, Paul an Dyk, and Judge Jules and acting as a mecca for progressive house music. Turnmills was also the launch point of the Chemical Brothers' now mythically revered Heavenly Social. Turnmills is perhaps only rivalled as a London club in terms of its place in dance music history by the Ministry of Sound, and despite the fact that the audience for straight up dance music has dwindled somewhat in recent years, it is still a shock to hear of it's forthcoming demise.

But as with the recent closures of similarly revered clubs Key, The Cross and Canvas earlier this year, it would appear that corporate interests have won through. Turnmill's lease is up, and the landlords (insert your own image of Dickensian style, hand-rubbing land-owners here) feel it will be much better if the building were refurbished, extended and turned into office blocks. Because London doesn't have enough of them already you see. It is a truly great shame, and I for one am planning to attend one of the closing parties, which promise to see the club go out with a bang. I would urge any residents or visitors to this fair city to try to do the same. There will be little fanfare, and little fuss, as is the Turnmills way. Just one of the best nights out of your life so do drop in to say hello. I'll be the one chained to the DJ booth.

The Ego Has Landed

In my opinion the release of a new Snoop Dogg album is always cause for excited anticipation. For anyone following his career, to quote the Doggfather himself on his 2004 return to form R&G (Rhythm and Gangsta): The Masterpiece, there will be ups and downs, smiles and frowns. And indeed there have been many. But throughout label wranglings, questionable artistic directions and simply the crazy weeded out world of Cordozar Calvin Broadus Jr and all it brings to bear, there have been more than a few moments of absolute genius.

His position as a rap legend is unquestioned and surely he would be close to the top of any all time greatest list. Who can forget the first time they heard the languid and soulful tones of Mr Dogg on the Deep Cover soundtrack, teasingly introducing his presence with a now trademark "dggyeeah". A couple more spoken lines before the half-sung, half-rapped, half-downright threatening "Cos it's 1-8-7 on a mother fuckin cop" (yes I realise that is three halves, but you get the point). And then the verse..."Creep with me as I crawl through the hood, Maniac, lunatic, call 'em Snoop Eastwood". Incredible. And of course there is his central role in the Chronic.

For me, one of the defining moments in my love affair with hip-hop came with the first time that the Chronic intro kicked in and that soon to be familiar drawl made a stunning statement of intent that suggested to you that this was going to be a seminal album. And this was even before the first song, and has proven to be the case. Death Row records is truly in full-mutha-fuckin-effessett. By the time "bow-wow-wow-yippee-yo-yippeeyay" had kicked in nothing would be the same again for this fledgling rap appreciative. And while we're at it, how incredible is Doggystyle? Anyway, I have digressed, but the point is that those three appearances alone would bestow on Snoop Dogg an unshakeable position in the rap canon. But who would have thought that we would now be waiting for long player number nine? Or that the career of the crip from the 213, which threatened to be derailed so early by a murder rap, would now take in movie roles (family and x-rated, of course) reality TV success, pop stardom, little league coach, and a role as a born-again family man and community role model? And with "Ego Trippin" we have what promises to be yet another side of the Dogg's character.

On this album he has foregone the usual label, pop and market-led collaborations to bring us Snoop on Snoop, and has also brought out the Ralph Tresvant in his bad self. We've already had more than a taster with "Sensual Seduction/Sexual Eruption", and I for one am crazy for the new vocoded falsetto sound. Going back to the 80s, and back to the funk. Back to the showmanship and good vibes of George Clinton, Prince and Rick James. Back to the soul of Curtis and Leroy Hutson. Back to Morris Day and the Time for goodness sake! If anyone can pull it off, i'd put my money on Snoop and after all, if we're going to take a trip on anyone's ego, we may as well make it interesting. And that is something which Mr Broadus, and his output, will always be.

So when the wind blows, I see my polos and Timbos

Jay-Z's documentary release Fade To Black is a brilliant portrait of a master entertainer creating a masterpiece of his trade. The Black Album is truly a classic of its time and seeing how Jay-Z's works to create the brilliance found on the record is a valuable insight into his creative mind, and also his business acumen. All of that aside, surely the best bit of the whole film is the segment where he is imploring Timbaland to come up with a beat for him. It is astonishing to see Timbo crank out beat after beat that many producers, and indeed lyricists, would give their eye teeth for, with a nonchalance that comes from knowing he has plenty more where that came from, and he too is a master craftsman. And then the Dirt Off Your Shoulder beat comes in, and Jay's eyes light up like a maniac, his brain starts whirring and his rap, a killer tune off the album, is born.

But what is amazing about that song, is towards the end, and the segment when Timbaland starts cutting up and slowing down his own beat. You know the bit, timed at 3.21 when the backing drums suddenly slow down, Jay repeats the line from the opening about being the listener being tuned to the Mo'fun greatest, the insistent squelchy synth line you have been head-nodding to skitters and stutters, turns around and seems to have an epileptic fit right there on the backing track. It is genius. It is not as if the beats on this tune aren't already incredible, and then Timbo just messes with it incredibly, making a standard fade out on a track a moment of inspiration.

And that is the point. Timbaland doesn't seem to do standard. He can truly be named as great because of the change-up that his style has brought to the game, and his pre-eminence as a producer across genres. And his trademark style is so inventive, so commercially viable, and yet so at the forefront of innovation. Timbaland's work could be a whole chapter of A Story To Tell, by itself and we'd still be here talking this time next year. When I started writing I had intended to talk about "My Love" from Justin Timberlake's Futuresex/Lovesounds album and then I got waylaid. I was going to talk about how insane that tune's production is as well as "Cry Me A River", but that will have to wait. Just like the post on Ginuwine's "Pony". Or Missy's "All In My Grill" or "Get Ur Freak On". Or Ludacris and "Roll Out". Or all of Aaliyah's stuff. In fact this post has gone a little crazy at the end, just like that "Dirt Off Your Shoulder" beat, only not quite as brilliantly!

When I first heard Criminal Minded...

No, this is not a posting about BDP, or even De La Soul, but rather an introduction to my own musings on the state of hip-hop today.

I'm far from an expert and certainly no encyclopaedia, but as I have stated on A Story To Tell before, I am a true fan and hip-hop is where it all begins and ends for my musical meanderings. And I am just a little sad, wondering where the source of my true affections goes from here. It started as I was listening to Ready To Die again the other day, and reminiscing about the first time I heard Biggie rap. You remember that feeling, right? The one which shakes you upside your head and slaps you with a diamond gloved palm, forcing a wedge into your frontal lobes which you know will remain for eternity and which heralds the beginning of something new and shockingly good. Something which you hope, and perhaps secretly know, means that the game will never be the same again, because it has just been upped a notch. You recall the excitement of waiting for Ready To Die to drop and smile, but then a melancholy takes over and you wonder if you will ever get that feeling again. That feeling of needing to tear off the record sleeve and let the beats hit the speakers. And the point of all this rambling is just that very question. Have we seen the last truly great artists and classic albums from our beloved genre?

I've been thinking about emerging artists over the past couple of years and while many have got serious highpoints in their catalogues already, none have really created that special piece of work, or generated that true excitement. And in some cases hype has become the end and not the means. I mean, is Lil' Wayne or Young Jeezy really the future? Are "Get Rich Or Die Tryin" or "The Documentary"really classics? Very good records in their own way, but, well you know what I mean. Even less thuggish rappers like Lupe or Rhymefest, or even Kanye still have the jury out. The best stuff I have heard lately has generally come from established artists, and even then a record like "Hip-Hop Is Dead" is very good but not great. The best stable out there seems to be Okayplayer, and the biggest buzz I have got from a record in recent times has been Little Brother's Minstrel Show, which I thought was truly great. There are others, too may to mention here, but the main point remains the same.

Sometimes I think it is just a generational thing, and I really don't want to come across like a rap dinosaur lamenting solely how things were better in my day. Things were also sometimes very bad. Times and scenes move on, and with evolution sometimes comes revolution, whether muted and understated or forcing a seismic shift. But whether or not that excitement and buzz over an artist or anticipated album in hip-hop has gone forever remains to be seen. I know for me it has been a while, but if there is one type of music that retains the element of surprise it is tis one. Watch this space, and int he meantime, why not dig out Ready To Die again. You know that excitement is still there, no matter how many times you play it.

Kings of the Dirty South

This is not a posting, as may be expected, about the lords of hip-hop in the southern states, staking the claim for rap supremacy, but rather a story of three brothers and a cousin who make some of the best rollicking rock'n'roll out there at the moment. I am talking of course about familial 4-piece the Kings of Leon who, to my mind, have released three of the most consistently great slices of guitar heavy rock of the past decade, and with more than a little funk along the way. They fit into that curious list of artists from the US who have found more favour over here in the UK than in their homeland and are fast on their way to becoming a band to sell out stadia and headline the festival circuit. And more curious is the fact that this has been achieved relatively underneath the radar of many people's consciousness, a reputation built on strong album sales and storming live shows as opposed to chart or mainstream success.


They are one of those bands that, as a fan, you feel as though you should be the only person who knows and loves them and then you try to get tickets for a gig and find they sold out in 12 seconds. Then when you finally pay a tout an exorbitant amount to get into the gig it is rammed with a melee of hero-worshipping loons having the socks rocked right off their feet. That the group have a sexual charisma that bristles from every note they play is undoubtedly a factor in their success, and they are one of the few heavy-sounding bands I know of who arguably have more female fans than male. But this does not make them a lightweight proposition by any means, and their reputation hangs on their riff-heavy but sophisticated music, tinged with elements of funk, country, Americana, and that magic quality from the US southern states. Kind of like the Colonel's secret recipe, but used to flavour the highest-grade corn-fed organic chicken!


And musically they are tight, with a family bond that was forged in part by their experience as youngsters being carted around those same southern states by their itinerant preacher father, living at close quarters and soaking up the musical influences almost by osmosis. If you don't yet know the Kings then I urge you to check out each of their three studio albums to date. The bubble has yet to burst and each collection seems to add another layer of maturity and complexity of musicianship to their craft. Not everybody's cup of tea I am sure, but if you like your tea laced with pre-coital tension and a whiskey chaser, to a soundtrack of the greatest southern road trip you have never driven, then this may just be what you have been waiting for.

Rhymefest in the mirror

I've said it before and I'm sure I'll say it again, you can forget Lupe, Kanye, Common or any other of the key players in Chi-town's current rap resurgence. Because for me, the best of the lot is Rhymefest. And I say that with a huge amount of admiration for the other three heavyweights of the scene. Of course Rhymefest doesn't have the track record of Common, or the superstar status of Kanye, or social kudos and lyrical intellectualism of Lupe, but the man can rhyme and he is funny as hell. I don't know, I just like his style. Time will tell if forthcoming long player "El Che" is up to the mark of debut "Blue Collar" which I thought did not get the critical acclaim or sales it deserved, but for now Fest deserves some praise. And the reason for drawing attention to him is his inspired, download only, album of Michael Jackson remixes, entitled Man In The Mirror.

Heralded by the Chicago Tribune as the best Michael Jackson album in 25 years (fitting given the current 25 year anniversary of Thriller), this exercise in mixtape-ology is a great piece of work which perhaps is only possible in the internet age. Mix-tapes have become an increasingly popular way for established and new artists to push work of questionable legality or of uncertain commerciality direct to fans. They are quickly becoming a mainstay of the hip-hop underground. And there is certainly nothing legal about Rhymefest's use of Jackson's back catalogue, but rather than being a thoughtless plundering of classic beats, or indeed a cheap shot at a much derided and increasingly confusing musical icon, Fest's tribute is heartfelt, clever, inventive, and clearly made by a true fan.

Fest's raps are on point and guest spots from Mary J, Talib and Ghostface add to the mix, but it is the skits and inter-splicing of Jackson's out-takes and contrived discussions between Jackson and Fest which give the project a touching humanity. Jackson's legal woes are his business, but there is no doubt that many music fans are puzzled as to how to treat an artist who has had such a positive impact on music's legacy, and yet has faced such strange personal issues. Well here is a project that allows a different insight into Jackson's world, and a different perspective on his iconic image, and for that it is priceless. Check it out, even if just for curiosity, and you may be pleasantly surprised. If you are Rhymefest fan, you'll be interested also and delighted that a precursor to his new legal album is available. Original and well executed, the era of the mixtape has just entered a new phase.

Something in the way she moves

Now this may sound like sacrilege to many a reader of A Story To Tell, a blog which wears its musical influences clearly on its sleeve and purports to love music in various shapes and forms, but I have always thought that The Beatles are slightly over-rated. Throw him out of the music appreciation society, comes the cry from the uproarious hordes, what blasphemy is this??! Well it is blasphemy of sorts, such is the recognised importance of the "fab four" in the history of popular music, and it is not this position that I am trying to knock. Clearly their significance is unquestioned, and their influence almost impossible to measure. All I'm saying is that I have never been much of a fan. This is not to say that I don't like a lot of the band's music, and such are their classic tunes and albums forged into the very fabric of our world that it is hard not to bow to their greatness.

However I just don't buy the unquestioning view that The Beatles mark the highest point of musical creation, and certainly not the demi-god status of John Lennon, or indeed Paul McCartney. A supremely talented song-writing duo, absolutely, but there are many others in that category. Anyway, all of this is a diversion and I certainly don't want to leave the impression that I am trying to deny the massive talents and impact of the group. No, what I wanted to say was how amazing George Harrison was. As a guitarist he was absolutely brilliant, technically gifted and inventively curious of how his instrument of choice worked. As a performer, he was understated and yet vital to the group's dynamic. And a s a songwriter I believe that he has been criminally overlooked by many for what was, by anyone else's standards, an impressive collection.

The shining gem in his repertoire has to be the stunningly beautiful "Something", one of the greatest love songs of all time, and my favourite Beatles song by a mile. Written during a break in the recording of The White Album in 1968, the song was intended for soul man Ray Charles, and then offered to white soul pretender Joe Cocker. That it found it's home on 1969's Abbey Road is a blessing however, and showcases Harrison's own impressive vocal prowess. Incredibly he also knocked off "Here Comes The Sun" for the same album. And then there is Harrison's post-Beatles solo work. While admittedly intermittent in its quality, there is no question that post- break-up LP "All Things Must Pass" is a simply stunning piece of work. It is unlikely that fans of The Beatles will not be massively familiar with this album, the first triple album by a solo artist in rock history, but if you do not know it then it is a great route into this fascinating performer's work, or indeed back into The Beatles themselves.

So you see, I am a fan really, I just sometimes like to go about things awkwardly sometimes.