By necessity, I remember 25th October 2004 very well. Trudging across town to my three month temp job, struggling to get my bloody Sony discman to work (at least a year before the revelation of my first hand-me-down mp3 player), hearing skipping fragments of the second Icarus Line album that I’d got out of the library, thinking, well, this sounds pretty shit to be honest, but I should give it time cos I liked their first one (I was credulous like that back in those days).

I remember halfway through the morning, someone in work saying something to the effect of “oh, have you heard, that famous old DJ bloke died… what’s his name?”, and spending the rest of the day in a blank state of shock.

In the evening, a couple of friends and I went to the pub. There were really elaborate Halloween decorations up everywhere. We said reassuring things and all that. Closest thing to a wake for a family member I’d ever experienced until, in recent years, I’ve had to attend actual wakes for family members. Word to those friends, if they’re reading.

In spite of all the memorialising, the ascent to ‘iconic’ status, the BBC’s well-intentioned yet persistently ass-backwards attempts to pay ‘tribute’, I can’t help but think that the sheer magnitude of the legacy that John Peel left to music fans in the UK is still under-appreciated.

On many occasions of late, I’ve found myself talking music with people who, for temporal or geographic reasons, were unable to experience Peel’s programming in their formative years. Often, I find myself slightly shocked and distantly offended by what I interpret as their closed-mindedness and (to some extent) ignorance of the totality of pop musical forms, and their failure to appreciate the basic commonalities that exist between all such forms.

You mean to tell me, I keep thinking, that you’ve been listening to music all these years and you haven’t managed to come to an understanding that trad jazz and electronica and extreme metal and Chicago blues and African hi-life and stuttering introverted indie and dancehall and techno and unclassifiable outsider noise are all, basically, like, the SAME THING, to be experienced side by side, and appreciated according to the same system of values, as borderless forms of ecstatic human expression..? What the hell is wrong with you?

Then I remember, it’s not their fault – they mean well. But they didn’t have John Peel.

Then I contemplate the vast and humbling variety of great music currently being made in the British Isles by the age group that DID grow up listening to John Peel, and I think…. thank you John, we owe you too damn much.

Labels: anniversaries, BBC, deathblog, John Peel, radio

As far as content on this increasingly death-fixated blog goes, one obit I’ve had more time to think about than usual (not that it’s been called into service quite yet, thankfully) is that of Wilko Johnson, who, as you may have heard, was diagnosed with terminal cancer in December, and played what will most likely be his final live performances back in March.

Last weekend, Radio 6 broadcast a one hour interview with him, interspersed with some tunes, and I just thought I’d do a quick post to point readers in the direction of the programme’s seven day tenure on the BBC iPlayer.

Sounds potentially heavy-going, but trust me – it’s worth making time for. Partly because Wilko is, as ever, a funny, erudite and hugely likeable fellow, and partly because every song he chooses is fucking brilliant. But mostly it’s worth listening to for the final section, in which he discusses his illness. Let’s just say that if any of us can approach our own mortality with a spirit half as level-headed and positive as this guy, we’ll be doing bloody well, and that if you can get to the end of this programme without welling up for a good cry, you’ve got a harder heart than I.

Labels: bad news, BBC, Dr Feelgood, radio, Wilko Johnson

Cambodian Rocks on the BBC

Hey, remember all that great Cambodian Rocks stuff? Well it was brought to my attention today that last week the ever-reliable Radio 4 broadcast a quick documentary on the '60s Cambodian rock scene that produced those amazing sounds, and the predictably terrible fate that befell its participants after the Khmer Rouge seized power in 1975.

Obviously that's a LOT of context and history and explanation to try to fit into thirty minutes, so it's not the in-depth account that the subject probably merits, but it's great that the BBC took the time to make a program about such a marginal area of culture in the first place. God bless public service broadcasting.

It's particularly nice to get a bit of background on Ros Sereysothea, the absolutely extraordinary vocalist who fronts most of my favourite Cambodian Rocks tunes, and the ubiquitous Sinn Sisamouth, a guy who is described at one point as "Cambodia's Dylan", presumably because the appeal of his music makes more sense if you can follow the lyrics. A guy who played some of the kick-ass lead guitar on the songs, and managed to survive, is also briefly interviewed. No word though sadly on the identity of the still anonymous howling, cookie monster-voiced James Brown dude who turns up on some of the wilder cuts on the original compilation.

Although the documentary doesn't dwell on it, it is inevitably chilling and very upsetting to hear rumours about what happened to some of these musicians in the "work camps" post-'75. Whatever instances of ignorance and obscenity we may have to address in our lives on a daily basis, let's at least be thankful that the idea of people being tortured to death for the crime of making cool pop music is rarely one of them.

On the BBC iPlayer until next Tuesday.

STILL one of the best songs ever recorded:

Ros Sereysothea - I'm Sixteen

And here's a little something from the aforementioned anonymous howling dude:

Cambodian Rocks Track 8

Labels: 1960s, BBC, Cambodian Rocks, radio, Ros Sereysothea