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Hank Williams would have been 100 years old on Sunday. Instead he died, on New Year’s Day 1953, at the age of 29.
When The National first got popular, after several years on the fringes of success, their critics dismissed them as miserable middle-aged men making music for miserable middle-aged men. Well they’re my favourite band so I guess that’s me.
You’ve got to feel sorry for Fred Neil. The obscure Canadian folkie recorded definitive versions of three great songs that went on to become standards – and all three were made famous in better versions by three other artists.
Last night I went to see these guys, Dead Writers, at a goth-filled Camden pub with the apt name The Black Heart, on my way back from cricket at Lord’s. And I had a very good time.
Last night I went to see Mick Harvey of the Bad Seeds unveil his latest collaboration – a collection of duets with Amanda Acevedo at the beautiful church of St John of Bethnal Green.
There was no escaping this song in the summer of ’77, though I was far more interested in the Pistols and the Clash than chart-topping disco tunes.
You don’t often come across new sounds. And it’s even rarer to find a completely new genre of music. This one, which I suppose is a modern variant on “chill-out” music, is apparently called “barber beats.”
Last night I went to see Sarabeth Tucek at The Lexington. And the song I most wanted to hear was this autobiographical number about her childhood.
Last night I lost my oldest and dearest friend, Ben Buchanan. He slipped away shortly after 11pm, with his beloved Maria, Max and Penny at his side. I said my goodbyes to him a few hours earlier.
Maybe I’ve got a bit soppy because I’m feeling a bit sad and fragile but Mereba’s haunting electro-ballad hits me right there. Especially its lyrics.