We Have Moved

ISLAND OF TERROR

Exciting News For Optimists

Depressing News for Pessimists

I started this weblog exactly two years ago, and it’s given me a lot of pleasure to share all this odd stuff with the world even though, for the first six months at least, there was very little evidence that anyone else in the world was watching.

Over time, however, the blog gathered momentum and a fair few followers, and it felt a very worthwhile activity, a sort of online scrapbook, a way of recording some of my daft obsessions and passing phases in an almost therapeutic way. But despite your support and some great comments, standard blogging remains an essentially solo activity, and it requires the individual to be motivated and excited and brimming with ideas they want to communicate. For me, my motivation, excitement and ideas now all focus on ‘Island Of Terror’, my other blog, so I will be suspending this blog and moving all activity over to there.

If you currently follow this blog, or look in occasionally, it would be great if you would bookmark or follow ‘Island Of Terror’ instead. It’s less general, or rather more specific, but I’m still behind every post, so you can expect a similar approach and some familiar subject matter: I’m too old to change.

Thanks to everyone that ever read this blog and liked it, special thanks to people who read it regularly. I don’t see this as a funeral, I see it as wedding announcement, a merger, much in the same way that Valiant merged with Vulcan, Battle merged with Action, 2000AD merged with Starlord, then Tornado (well, maybe not Tornado, it was rubbish).

All content will remain here for future generations of nerds, and all links will, I hope, remain live. Let me know if they don’t. Thanks again, and I hope to see you on The Island.

Paul Bareham (aka Ray Wittering)

To see us out, a stone cold fucking classic, and that's swearing.

Disco Wrestler

Every seventies icon needs their own record and although not speaking didn’t stop Marcel Marceau from recording an LP, Kendo Nagasaki decided to let others pay tribute rather than blow his own trumpet.

Lloyd Ryan is a drummer, and a good one, or a bad one when you consider that he taught Phil Collins to play. Impressed by a mighty Kendo television appearance in 1975, he recorded ‘Kendo’s Theme’. It wasn’t a hit, despite a lot of airplay, but Kendo liked it and used it for his entrance music for several years. Lloyd later became Kendo’s manager.

Kendo Attitude

Kendo Nagasaki is one of the great enigmas of British wrestling and, as such, also counts as a cultural icon of that wonderful, awful decade, the 1970’s.

Televised wrestling was hugely popular in the seventies, although most of the stars were grizzled old hands from the national circuit, veterans of a thousand bouts, some of whom had been plying their trade since the fifties.

Kendo Nagasaki was a different type of wrestler entirely.

Rather than the usual costume of a paunch, boots and briefs, Kendo came to the ring in Samurai regalia and fought in a full face mask. He never spoke, he rarely acknowledged the crowd. No-one was quite sure if he was a goodie or a baddie, although, in full flow, he was a pretty scary individual regardless of his motivation. He always won, or got disqualified. No other wrestler could defeat him. Under the management of the flamboyant ‘Gorgeous’ George Gillette, Nagasaki became one of the shining stars of the sport, a massive success.

His mask first slipped (or rather was ripped off) in a 1971 bout, but Nagasaki successfully covered his face and the fight was ended. In 1975, hugely popular tub of guts Big Daddy got the better of Nagasaki (as if) unlaced his mask and tore it off on live television but, instead of settling a mystery, only deepened the enigma. Nagasaki’s face, half glimpsed between Nagasaki’s covering hands, was very odd indeed. His hair was long but shaved at the front and sides. There was a tattoo on the top of his head. His eyes were jet black. It was a disorienting and disturbing experience. I was glad when he put his mask back on.

In 1977, apparently fed up with being famous and unknown at the same time, Nagasaki arranged an elaborate and ridiculously overblown public unmasking: very public, as it was televised live on World of Sport to a massive, eager audience, including me and my Nan. It was, ultimately, an anti climax, but the anticipation was very exciting.



Nagasaki spent most of the late seventies retiring and un-retiring. He acted a little, and had his portrait painted by Peter Blake, a process captured in a memorable BBC Arena documentary. The popularity of WWF in the nineteen nineties gave British wrestling a little boost, and Kendo returned to the ring. Unbelievably (or quite plausibly given the limited actual physical demands of a staged wrestling match), Nagasaki was still wrestling up until 2008 when, by conservative estimate, he would have been in his mid-sixties.

I met Kendo in 2005, at a book signing in Leeds for ‘The Grapple Manual’. Even sat down, he’s a formidable looking figure and, of course, he had all the gear on. He didn’t say anything, or even look at me, he just signed my book very, very slowly. When I looked at what he had written I had a very familiar reaction to this most enigmatic of sporting legends: confused and slightly scared.

The World will be a vacant lot

With the much loved Three Stooges all safely dead, Hanna-Barbera thought it appropriate to resurrect them in 1977 as bionic crime fighting super hero klutzes living and working in the year 3001. It must have made sense in the Disco Age as the show actually ran for two seasons, something a lot of their great productions (including 'Top Cat' and 'Yogi Bear') hadn't managed to do.

It's a mess, and has the specific deadly unfunniness of something that seems to find itself utterly hilarious. I'm suprised that Moe, Larry & Curly didn't dig themselves up and come looking for revenge. Anyway, here's an episode of, yes, 'The Robonic Stooges' called, get this, 'Star Flaws'.

This is just the tip of the Hanna-Barbera iceberg, by the way, but watching them makes me tired and depressed.

It's the flaming rocks

While I'm here, it would be remiss not to look at one of my other interests: crappy Hanna Barbera cartoons. I'm not talking about 'Huckleberry Hound', or 'The Flintstones', or 'Wacky Races', or any of that classic, timeless entertainment: I'm talking about the barrel scrapings, the cheap, thoughtless, nonsensical schedule fillers that would shame anybody, let alone two of the greatest cartoon producers of all time.

Case in point: 'Moby Dick', meeting the obvious demand for a cartoon set in the present (well, 1969) where Moby Dick likes children so much he helps them to solve underwater intrigue. A fantastic touch is the decision to make the picture undulate and refract constantly for that authentic undersea feel, an effect that is disorienting and, ultimately, makes you feel a bit sick. Everything about this cartoon is poor, including the quality of the copy. Funnily enough, it's not currently available on DVD. 

This incomprehensible mess sums up the worst aspects of the mercurial Mr. H & Mr. B, inconsistency and the favouring of quantity over quality, meaning that for every 'Top Cat' there was a 'Herculoids', for every 'Hong Kong Phooey', a 'Jabberjaw', for every Scooby Doo, a Scrappy.

Rather pitifully, I have become slightly expert in this rubbish over the years, but, fear not, I am more than happy to share my knowledge with you.

I'll never forget what's his name

Johnny Shannon.

F*** Me, It's Freddie

Bless you, Sir Fred.

Throwaway Pop

From an earlier album (‘Nashville Skyline’, 1969), ‘I Threw It All Away’ is probably my favourite Bob Dylan song.

Over a simple backing (Dylan said ‘I just play, and the band fill in’) he croons one of his most direct lyrics: the story of a man who behaves badly towards his lover and, too late, realises what he has lost.

Firmly in the country and western style, it’s a short, simple song but it has great elegance and economy and an emotional depth that , like all the best country tunes, appeals directly to the heart and the part of the head where we store regrets.



Covered many times, Dylan’s original remains the best, although Scott Walker’s 1996 recording is a close second. Scott, using his wavery mature voice and singing over a slightly florid arrangement, gives a performance that, at first, sounds faintly ridiculous but is actually incredibly dignified and rather moving.



Much as I admire Scott for his classical / industrial recordings, and as much as I’m grateful that he records anything, I would love to hear that he’s recording an album of covers, as his interpretive powers are absolutely unique. How about it, Mr. Engel?

Morning Glory

Bob Dylan is an artist that I respect rather than admire. I mean, I get him, his talent, his importance, his impact on popular music, and I have about half a dozen of his records but I just don’t listen to five of them much. ‘New Morning’, however, is a different story.

Dylan recorded ‘New Morning’ in 1970. It’s not his best album, or his most innovative, but it’s the one that chimes with me, a record that I return to again and ‘New Morning’ is not a lazy LP, but it’s an easy one, straightforward, slightly ragged around the edges. It’s a good natured record that seems to hint at a happy home, which celebrates the simple things in life, the things that cost nothing but mean everything: fresh air, trees and water, family, love. As he sings on the title track ‘so happy just to be alive, underneath the sky of blue’. What else is there?

Here’s that title track in all its scrappy glory. It’s a great song, full of optimism and exuberance and you get the feeling that the band is a. enjoying themselves and b. making it up as they go along.

‘Went To See The Gypsy’ is apparently about Dylan failing to meet Elvis in Vegas but, as with most Dylan songs, that’s open to interpretation.

My favourite song on the album is ‘Sign On The Window’. It’s a beautiful treatise on the joys of domestic bliss which, as a happily married family man, always strikes a chord with me.

It’s a great LP. Get one.

I'll never forget what's his name

Roy Evans.

Shit that I am hopelessly addicted to

S-s-s-sensational

Exile On Planet Gonk

Ever since I started looking at the work of Robert Hartford-Davis I knew that this awful moment would come: 'Gonks Go Beat'.

Regular readers will know that Hartford-Davis' work is of, how shall we say, variable quality but 'GGB' really takes the piss.

The premise is that intergalactic ambassador Kenneth Connor is sent to Earth to resolve the ongoing conflict between two rival states, Beatland and Balladisle.

Beatland, as you may have guessed, is full of polo necks, sunglasses and hair that touches collars, and Balladisle is all ties and hushpuppies and songs with spoken middle eights that make you want to be sick. If Ken doesn't manage to heal the rift he'll be exiled to the Planet Gonk, a fearful place apparently inhabited by close cousins of Humpty Dumpty from 'Playschool', i.e. the sort of flammable spike concealing soft toys they fill the grabbers with at the fair.

It's one of the most stilted productions I've ever seen. You can get Connor and people like Frank Thornton to say 'swinging' and 'groovy' but Hartford-Davis can't get them to look anything other than deeply pained when they do. The budget is virtually non-existent, and most of the scenes look like they were shot in The Beachcomber Bar in Butlins Bognor Regis. Most of all, though, it's the awful, awful music and the ugly, ugly people, a string of sub-standard fourth division groups and singers performing derivative, boring and old-fashioned songs (the worst are co-written by Hartford-Davis himself), culminating in an appearance by Lulu. I fucking hate Lulu.

Here's a couple of clips which should settle the whole 'come on, it can't be that bad' debate. The first takes us inside Kenneth Connor's head for a while to watch the aforementioned toxic toys and a dated dance routine. Una Stubbs must have been out when they called.



The second clip comes at the 'climax' of the film, and, despite a nice array of vintage musical equipment, more than supports the maxim 'war is hell'.



That concludes our business with Robert Hartford-Davis. Thank Christ.

Tonight at ten

I like Sir John a lot

Regular readers of this weblog will be aware of my love for folk giants Pentangle. This extends to all the various solo endeavours of the group members (of which there are many), including the work of guitarist John Renbourn.

Renbourn studied classical guitar at school before getting caught up in the Skiffle boom, Diligent and studious, he traced Skiffle back to its American Folk Blues origins, before following the line back to the British folk tradition. His playing, which blended folk, rhythm and blues, jazz and classical styles made an impact on the rather conservative folk scene, especially when he teamed up with another eager iconoclast Bert Jansch.

Renbourn and Jansch made several albums as a duo, and the interplay between the two guitarists is dazzling and occasionally exhausting. Their work rate during the mid to late sixties is quite amazing, with them releasing several solo and duo albums, often using their own records to test out and hone material for Pentangle.

‘Sir John Alot of Merrie Englandes Musyk Thyng & Ye Grene Knyghte’ (1968) is my favourite Renbourn solo album. It’s one of my favourite records by anyone. Ostensibly his reading of early music, it encompasses a number of styles but never sounds too clever or contrived. It is sometimes forgotten in the world of the high concept pop single that music isn’t necessarily about production and energy and philosophical lyrics, and here John delivers a short, simply recorded album of guitar music (played brilliantly, which helps) which operates outside of trends and genres and subtext: it’s simply music, and its timeless and absolutely wonderful.

I’m a generally quite easy going person but, like everyone, I have my stresses and strains. When I feel particularly het up, I often take thirty one minutes out to listen to ‘Sir John A Lot’. It doesn’t take the problem away, but it certainly makes it seem absolutely irrelevant. That’s a hell of an achievement for one man and a guitar and a few supporting musicians. We need records like that in the world, I need records like that. It’s a shame there aren’t too many around.

Here’s a little medley from the LP, which is available very reasonably in all sorts of formats from the usual outlets. Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, I guarantee that this music will take you somewhere slightly better.

F*** Me, It's Freddie

Ynr, 'Krull' (1983).

A Cautionary Tale

Radiophonic Jamboree

We all like Radiophonics, don't we? I know I blooming do. & I've got nothing against Bristol, so I'm particularly aggrieved that I'm unable to attend the Radiophonic Weekend at The Cube Cinema, Bristol which is happening on Saturday and Sunday.

My son is ten years old on the 2nd and although he means the world to me I may look at him bouncing on his inflatable castle and silently wish he'd been born on April Fool's as his 'special day' is stopping me from seeing Radiophonic legends David Cain and Dick Mills in the flesh, the premiere of a new Delia Derbyshire documentary, a demonstration of some new instruments from inventor and electronic music expert Ian Helliwell, a live set from Ekoplekz and, well, I could go on, but won't, as I'm making myself feel sad.

More details can be found here. It looks like a fantastic event, and I wish I could be there but, ultimately, I only have one son, and he only has one birthday. The selfish, selfish little devil.

Arrividerci, Giallo

Well, it's been an interesting month, hasn't it? Hasn't it? I sort of ran out of steam at the end there but I hope you've enjoyed it and will perhaps seek out a few of the films highlighted in the last few weeks.

I’ve spent more time on You Tube than I usually would as part of this process and have noticed that several of the films are there in their entirety, although you will have to watch them in nine or ten segments. Vimeo have some as well, often in one piece. In terms of DVD’s, Giallo is simultaneously well and under-represented on UK shelves, i.e. it’s nice that there are so many, but there could be so much more…

Good, bad or 'Spasmo' there's usually at least one moment in a giallo film that repays your investment by shocking or surprising or scaring or confusing you or making you laugh like a drain. It’s a fascinating genre, a mix of the brilliant and bizarre, the deft and the daft, the good, the bad, giallo.

Normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

Molto Gialli

With thanks again to Giallo Trailers.

Earthborn

There's a brand new U-W mix of old stuff by other people over at Island of Terror, by the way. You should definitely vist there after you've been here.

Autopsy

Giallo Guys

Tomas Milian,
b. Thomas Quintin Rodriguez,
Havana, Cuba, 1932.

Giallo Girls

Florinda Bolkan,
b. Florinda Bulcao,
Fortaleza, Brazil, 1941.

Queen of Sin

Just to break in, there's this and lots more besides over on the Island Of Terror.

For A Fistful of Lira

"This time last year I was in the studio narrating a Rick Wakeman album."

David Hemmings,
'Deep Red'.

ProgGoblin

Profondo Trailo

After his Animal Trilogy, Dario Argento turned away from giallo, working in television before directing a period comedy, all presumably to stop him being pigeonholed as the 'giallo guy'. In 1975 he returned to the genre with one of the best and most accessible of all giallo films: 'Deep Red' ('Profondo Rosso'). Critically acclaimed internationally, it starred David Hemmings and was an extremely stylish if occasionally mystifying thriller filled with atmosphere, violence and genuine mystery. Here's the trailer.



After this, Argento became pigeonholed as the 'horror guy', although his earliest films in this vein ('Suspira', 'Inferno') are perhaps more accurately described as supernatural giallo. 'Tenebrae' (1982) fits the bill, but it's poorly directed and shoddily written and I'm not having it.

In 2009, Argento directed 'Giallo', an obvious return to the genre. I haven't seen it yet but Argento has taken his name off it, and Oscar winning idiot Adrien Brody had to sue the producers for his fee, so I expect it will be a triumph.

Seems Perfectly Clear

'In The Folds Of The Flesh' (1970)