Pop
Rock dreams
Duncan Fallowell
Dear Diary, Is there no respite from the helter skelters? Parties, parties, attrition and death, even with a stamina which only succumbs in extremis. I collapsed before the Cinderella hour, annihilated by promotional generosity which is still not susceptible to total recall. Perhaps it is foolhardy to arrive anywhere at 6.30, particularly for a Warner Brothers slap-up at Ronnie Scott's, always recklessly consumptive, in this case on behalf of the Scottish singer/songwriter, Rab Noakes. I hope he would not consider it undiscriminating to say that the songs were bitter-sweet, his voice appropriately boyish and flinty, and that his guitar three-piece boasts a decorous lead whose sympathetic intrusions tempt one to reach for the word 'perfection.' Given this simple, delightful performance, it is doubtful whether
his new record, Red Pump Special (Warner Bros f2.20), recorded in Nashville with the Memphis Horns, pieces of Stealer's Wheel and Lindisfarne, justifies the extra luggage.
So by the time Biba was reached, co-ordination was on the way out. This was the flash 'do' of the moment, a party to celebrate Rock Dreams (Pan £1.95), a collection of rock fantasy paintings by Guy Peelaert (according to the invitation but variously Pellaert and Peellaert. He suffers the indignity of having not only his name misspelt in the press but also some of his friends refused entry to the preview: it was intended to be that chic).
Rock Dreams, already out in Holland, France and Germany, has attracted wide attention here and made the reputation of its artist who now goes on to execute covers for the forthcoming albums from the Rolling Stones and David Bowie. Second rate one-upmanship of those two to pick up on it so hastily, but not surprising. In fact the sequence of painting on the Stones is among_ the most wicked, and Nik Cohn, too, actually gets a verbal idea across. See them posture like Alan Jones's fetish girls in black corsets, fish nets, suspender belts, dripping paste. Or Mick Jagger wrapped in dressing gown at forty, alone in his outrage, cossetted by a drum of John Player's and a bottle of Sandeman's, the last lethal word in shabby style. David Bowie's portrait is unremarkable which is presumably why he wants the job done properly, on his sleeve. His and Marc Bolan's are the most recent faces but the iconography begins with Sinatra. If you're pushed for laughs these days try the one of the Beatles taking tea with the Queen, complacent cheeks all round, or Phil Spector in the locker room. The choice is endless, more than decorative, an original book to slaughter every coffee table in sight, phew.
While one is with reappraisal, the film American Graffiti set in 1962 is due to open shortly and just out is a double album of the same title overflowing with classics from the early 'sixties. United Artists have issued two double albums based on the same period, The Many Sides of Rock 'n' Roll, and I enjoyed them more because the material which is less obvious is no less alluring. Volume II is worth buying for no other reason than to hear the Falcons sing 'You're So Fine.' If it does not put a lump in your throat nothing can.
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