Keeping it Beat!

Posted on January 23rd, 2012

Tony O’Keeffe is well known around Liverpool for being the drummer of The Shakers, resident band at the Cavern Club, and lovers of all things Beat. Tony has a long history of involvement with the Mersey Sound and is passionate about what Beat music means to Liverpool.

Much to my delight, Tony has written an article which he wanted to share with us Cavern Bloggers. Here, our very special Guest Blogger, explains the importance of ‘raw’…..

Liverpool, 1961. A world in black and white. Grey skies hover over the soot-blackened Liver Building as the majestic Liver Birds look out across the murky Mersey, with its ferries criss-crossing their way over the water from the Pier Head. Somewhere in the distance there is the faint rumbling of beat music emanating from a smelly, dank cellar in the heart of the city.

Mathew Street, a small, cobbled street of fruit and vegetable warehouses connecting the busy thoroughfares of North John St and Stanley St, throbs to this new sound as the street’s workers mingle with the young office workers on their lunch-break as they soak up the heady atmosphere in this most inhospitable of underground settings…

This was the birth of the music that literally changed the world, thanks to four lads from Liverpool.

There are many Beatles tribute bands around the world today dedicated to keeping their name alive but not many actually capture the hot, sweaty, raw sound that made The Beatles and the Cavern legendary. I have a passion for that period and that sound, the Mersey Sound as it was known then and later, after Bill Harry’s local music paper, Mersey Beat.

There is something primal and fierce about the music that was played in the beat clubs of Liverpool at that time. Something other cities never quite captured and something that I believe was one of the most important ingredients of The Beatles’ and the other local beat groups’ success – Liverpool itself. A tough, uncompromising attitude with a sentimental underbelly, a leftover from a rich Maritime heritage, that made the music unique for the period and gave them the edge over their rivals from other towns and cities.

No wonder Liverpool and Hamburg enjoyed such a close relationship, being very similar in outlook and location (a lot of the beat musicians say they were born in Liverpool but grew up in Hamburg and their hard rocking sound was honed to perfection as a result). However, as the Mersey Sound became popular and exploded nationally, a fair amount of ‘smoothing out’ was required for the hit groups of the day to be acceptable to the great British public at large and the showbiz world they now inhabited.

As music moved on through the years the sound changed, as it must in the name of progress, and the technology gradually improved until it almost took over from the human element in the music. Even the musicians that were around all those years ago embraced these new techniques and changed accordingly with the times, upgrading their sound, giving their old material a new sheen and a more ‘today’ feel.

This, however, in my opinion, is where the magic stopped. The earthy, raw sound of that early sixties period is what made the music so exciting to listen to and, more importantly, feel. The way the guitars clanked and the bass boomed as the drums thinly clattered underneath a hoarse vocal, as it teetered at the top of its range, bellowing out Scouse-tinged, rough–hewn R&B and rock ‘n’ roll like their lives depended on it, which they probably did!

THIS is the sound I love and the sound that The Shakers, bring back to the best of cellars –The Cavern Club. A replica it may be, but it can still provide the sweaty atmosphere that was once legendary down Beat Street, when the mood is right. Our ‘Swingin’ Saturday’ ‘lunchtime session’ and ‘Shakin’ Sunday’ evening beat show are now established favourites in the beat calendar and a must for those wanting to experience the Mersey Sound just as it used to be; up close and personal, raw, sweaty and loud! So, turn up the collar on your leather jacket, sharpen those winkle-pickers and let’s go down the Cavern!

All images courtesy of Tony O’Keeffe

Check out The Shakers on Facebook

 

Tony with The Shakers at The Cavern

 

The Shakers

 

The Cavern stage as it is today

 

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I welcome you to Crackerbox Palace….

Posted on January 21st, 2012

From time to time, I venture down south to the posh bit, to visit my good friend Rob in Maidenhead.

Over the years he has become quite fond of Liverpool and all things northern, but despite my best efforts, he still insists that his tea is actually his dinner – and you should have seen his face when I asked for gravy on me chips.

Being a girl, I do, of course, have absolutely no sense of direction and am perfectly happy to admit it. When I read a map I physically have to climb into it – turning the map round to suit the direction I’m actually travelling in. And when I’m shopping, I frequently come out of a shop and head in the completely opposite direction from when I went in. I’m rubbish. And for this reason I hadn’t twigged that Henley-on-Thames where George had lived, was literally minutes away from Rob’s house.

So one day, when he casually offered to pop me round to George’s gaff, I thought he was having a laugh. But no! To my joy, that’s exactly what he did.

Now this isn’t a long blog, mainly because there was no plan to this trip, I wasn’t expecting it and even moreso because George’s house sits right in the middle of a high street, in a spot that certainly doesn’t inspire poetry and you wouldn’t look twice at it unless you knew what it was.

As we pulled up, I got out of the car with the same feeling of excited anticipation that had swallowed me whole on my first visit to Mendips and Abbey Road. The difference was, this was George’s place. The place that, until a horrid night in December 1999, George had cherished and felt safe in. Somehow, the mansion at Friar Park was a bricks and mortar version of George’s personality – it was completely obvious why he’d love it and you can tell how special it was to him in the hundreds of home videos that he filmed there over the years. George has always been my favourite Beatle and visiting his special place made me feel pretty amazing.

So…there it was. Friar Park. Or was it? I could see a gate and the very pretty gatehouse, which was bigger and more grand than anything I’m ever likely to afford, but the estate was walled and wired for as far as the eye could see, in a sad display of what George had been reduced to.

However….what lies beyond the gates is magical and mysterious and as I stared through the iron railings, my imagination ran riot….and I smiled as I heard George say “We’ve been expecting you…”

The Gatehouse at Friar Park. Nice.

 

A proud pilgrimage

And this little lot is what's hidden behind the gate. Go George!

 

 

 

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Blogging from across The Pond

Posted on January 19th, 2012

The Cavern Blog is very happy to welcome its first guest blogger!!

I was really touched to get an email from Susan from New Orleans, who, following a very personal and emotional trip to Liverpool back in 2008, now considers it to be her second home.

Susan was drawn here by Julian Lennon’s White Feather Exhibition – a collection of memories brought together by Julian and Cynthia Lennon in remembrance of John.

It was obviously a very poignant trip for Susan and yet another example of how Liverpool touches people in a way we can’t quite explain.

Susan writes (as Viola Russell):

I made two trips to Liverpool following my mother’s death in 2008.  On my first journey, I was on a mission.

I’d heard about the White Feather Exhibition and how the idea for the Foundation had come to Julian.  I visited London first, a city with which I was very familiar, and then moved on to Liverpool.

I immediately fell in love with the city. The Dock reminded me of my own hometown, New Orleans, and I revelled in the friendliness of it all.

I spent a wonderful night at the Cavern, dancing with a mad Aussie while Marcus Cahill performed his fabulous Lennon show.

Visiting the White Feather Exhibition, I felt a mixture of tenderness and sadness while I toured the exhibits – and I left the city feeling as if I hadn’t explored enough.

So the next year, I returned to Liverpool. The city called me with its Siren Song, and this time I explored more fully.  I flew directly into John Lennon airport where friendly airport workers directed me to an inexpensive shuttle service.  I stayed at the Albert Dock again, and this time toured Liverpool with a vengeance.

I decided on a taxi tour which took in LIPA, St. Peter’s Church, Eleanor Rigby’s grave,
Strawberry Fields, and Penny Lane and I visited  the homes of the
former Beatles, taking the National Trust Tour of Paul’s home in Forthin Road and John’s house Mendips, on Menlove Avenue.

Whilst taking pictures of George’s and Ringo’s homes in Arnold Grove and Madryn Street, I was struck by how similar they were to the stories my parents had told me of growing up in the 30s.

I also visited the Maritime Museum, The Slavery Museum, Liverpool Tate and St. George’s Hall and was struck by St. Luke’s wild beauty as it stands as a testament to the destruction of war.

I saw the Peace Monument, a tribute to John Lennon, and shed a tear.

I drank cider at the Cavern. Hail Liverpool!

Cavern Blog writes:
Thank you so much for sharing your ‘memories of Liddypool’ Susan – hope you manage another visit soon.

Julian and Cynthia unveiled The Peace Monument on 9 October 2010 - John's 70th Birthday ©Cavernblog

 

The Peace Monument. Opinion is divided, but I really like it, although I still think the guitar should have been a Ricky
©Cavernblog

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Classic Beatle

Posted on January 18th, 2012

Hello Cavern Bloggers and thanks for bearing with me these past couple of weeks while my blogging has been quiet. The truth is, my job involves staring at a PC for most of the day and when things get busy it’s not always easy to stare at another one when I get home. The good news is, during the break I’ve been scribbling down loads of ideas that I hope you’ll find worthy of a read, so stick with me.

For a little while now I’ve been teasing you with promises of rare and exclusive Beatle pics and guest blog interviews. They’re all on the way – in fact only 2 hours ago I was rummaging round my attic in search of hidden Beatle treasure to share with you and boy, did I come up trumps. But first another memory……

I daresay the debate on whether pop musicians should venture into classical music will rage on. Classical diehards probably sniff disapprovingly at the very idea that Sting should attempt to revive Elizabethan lute music – and let’s be honest, how many pop fans actually approve of Katherine Jenkins or Charlotte Church being in ‘our’ charts? Nuff said. So when the two collide, it’s always going to attract opinion.

What my opinion is on this subject, I’m not quite sure – and those of you who know me will realise that doesn’t happen very often – I’m usually more than certain what I think and more than happy to share. I’m often ‘accused’ (though I happen to take it as a compliment) of being a little bit black and white in my approach, well guess what, here lies a little grey area for me.

Personally, if music touches me, I don’t descriminate based on genre. I admit to liking Take That when the mood is right, but can also be found getting hammered to Zep.  I love Brenda Lee and Dolly Parton, but just a few CDs along on the shelf you’ll find Kate Bush and Stevie Nicks. I don’t care who thinks what of my collection – it’s my collection – that’s the point. So when I  hear a soothing string quartet or a thundering brass ensemble, if it makes me shiver, I’m gonna listen.

When I heard that Mr Mac was venturing into classical, my ears pricked up in anticipation. More Frog Chorus??? (ah come on…we all loved that!!) But no – this time he was serious. We were talking opera singers, a conductor, a cathedral – the lot.

Around early 1990, Liverpool’s Royal Philharmonic Society approached Paul for a contribution to their forthcoming 150th anniversary celebrations.

Paul set to work with renowned composer/conductor/husband of Ma Boswell, Carl Davis, on an eight movement classical oratorio which would be a semi-autobiographical portrayal of Paul’s Liverpool upbringing.

A year and a half later, on Friday 28th June 1991 (a year to the day since he played the Kings Dock), Liverpool’s glorious Anglican Cathedral played host to the Liverpool Oratorio’s World Premier Performance, which, along with TV crews, celebs and politicians, was attended by the man himself, Mr Mac.

Now before I attempt to get a review of my first live operatic experience down on paper, let me tell you what happened in the run up, cuz it was a bit good.

I am quite friendly with the guy who runs the Beatles Shop and he has the inside goss on absolutely EVERYTHING that’s happening in Beatledom. (Although I still haven’t forgiven him for not tipping me off when Del Amitri’s Justin Currie was popping in..) Anyhoo, the day before the Oratorio he dropped into the conversation that Paul was due in town on the day of the show, for a rehearsal and a press conference. Not only did he tell me that, he told me the times, the places and that not many people knew about it…’you ain’t seen me..right?!’

So Friday 28th came – in the morning my friend Christine and I slipped into our camouflage gear and took up our position in the trees at the back of the Cathedral, where Paul was due for a rehearsal. Sure enough, after a long, cold wait, with lots of nervous whispering and anxious ramblings about what we’d do if the Rozzers turned up, we got what we came for – Paul and Linda arrived in a black Range Rover, pulled up outside one of the back doors of the cathedral and got out. Losing all sense of dignity and self-respect, Christine and I shot to the fence, and with faces pressed into the railings like mutant zoo animals, we shouted his name and were rewarded with a wave and a very scouse “Hello!”

Did that just happen?? Paul and Linda McCartney had just looked us in the eye and shouted Hello, right?! Luckily for us at this point they made a sharp entry into the cathedral, because what followed from Christine and I can only be described as cringingly moronic and not at all how I would have wanted Paul to see me.

Now as if that wasn’t enough, we still had the press conference. So, with Paul safely tucked up in his rehearsal, we embarked on phase 2 of the operation.

The press conference was to take place at 2pm in the Philharmonic. We’d been tipped off as to what entrance he’d be using, so gathered there around 1-ish and waited. As the minutes passed, the crowd grew slightly, but not much. It was fantastic – only about 40 people to share him with. We waited.

Bang on time, the black Range Rover appeared with Paul in the passenger side. With just a small entourage, Paul emerged, suited and booted looking very handsome and very happy (of course..he was with Linda). He didn’t stay outside long, but promised he’d be back after the conference. We waited.

After an hour, the rear stage door creeked open and out popped Paul, complete with jazz hands and air guitar, much to our delight.

He stayed in the doorway for about 5 minutes – just long enough for me to snap away, securing myself some treasured memories. I snapped for a final time, then realised he was stood right in front of me and I was looking at him through a lens. What was I doing wasting my valuable McCartney time looking through a lens? I lowered the camera and savoured the moment of just looking at him with my bare eyes. How completely wonderful!

Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t/didn’t lust after Paul or any of the Beatles for that matter – they don’t blow my skirt up in that way at all -  although I fully appreciate what a beauty Paul was in his day. Nope, my state of wonderment was borne from my admiration of where he’d come from and what he’d achieved. This man had been a Beatle – and I love him for that!

Whatever was to follow in the evening was gonna have a tough job topping our brief encounter at the Phil, and I won’t pretend the Oratorio changed my life – cuz it didn’t. However, the sense of awe that was created inside the venue was something I won’t forget in a hurry.

I remember I’d bought a new outfit for the occasion – still a little bit 80s (well…the 90s just didn’t know what they wanted to be) I donned a fitted, bright red double-breasted jacket over black leggings (or ski-pants as they were fondly known back then) with a new pair of heels and a sparkly new bag. And yes, there were shoulder pads.

 

 

 

 

 

Our seats weren’t great – we were sat quite a way from the front and as we settled into the cold, echoey hall of the cathedral, Peter Sissons and Neil Kinnock settled in front of me. Not much of a who’s who, granted, but all the A-listers were at the front!

So the music started and as soon as Kiri opened her mouth, the hairs on the back of my neck shot straight up. The atmosphere was incredible. And it went on…..and on….and on.

I fell asleep.

OK I admit..it got the better of me – but at least I’m honest. And guess what, I’ve got some kick-ass snaps to show you, as always.

Download a PDF of the Liverpool Oratorio Promo leaflet here

 

Paul arrives for the press conference at the Philharmonic Hall

 

 

 

 

Paul emerges and happily gives us a round of applause

 

After the conference he popped out for a chat as promised - priceless

 

Left-handed Hofner air-bass!

 

 

My best shot

All images © Cavernblog 2012

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All Those Years Ago

Posted on January 3rd, 2012

In my recent blog It was 20 Years Ago Today, I got quite excited about sharing my memories of a very special Paul McCartney gig back in 1990. And as fantastic as that night was, there is one that tops it.

I think it’s safe to say, that in my 40 years on this planet, the particular date in question goes down as one of the absolute best nights of my life. So in anticipation of reliving the feelings all over again, I have settled down to write this blog with a glass of wine, a huge smile and All Things Must Pass banging very loudly from iTunes.

I agree, Paul puts on a great show and happily, for hundreds of fans around the globe, he tours fairly regularly. George, however, did not.

In my early days as a novice Beatles fan, my favourite Beatle changed from day to day, from song to song. John was a sharp wit and undoubtedly walked a fine line, Paul was undeniably pretty and a very polite PR man, whilst Ringo was the missing piece of the Beatles puzzle and despite many differing opinions on the subject, was, as far as I’m concerned, the only man for the job. But deep down, the one who really and truly won me over, was, and always has been, George.

I’m not easily fooled by phonies and I can spot a blagger a mile off – so judging by the personality he displayed in public, George always seemed to me like something of a joy. Cheeky and adorable, in a slightly ‘wet behind the ears’ kind of way, he would always make me laugh unexpectedly, without the feeling of angry sarcasm that would often project from John.

I loved the fact George was kinda shy, yet obviously not. He had a sense of peace about him and always seemed to be smiling. OK, maybe with the exception of the “I’ll play whatever you want me to play or I won’t play at all if you don’t want me to play” incident, but Paul WAS being a pompous ass and George did well not to lamp him (in my opinion).

Anyhoo, one day in early 1992, as I sat behind the counter of the council shop – awaiting the next barrage of abuse from an angry punter complaining that his front door had come off during a domestic altercation with “me Mrs” and “what the council gonna do about it?” – the phone rang…and it was for me. Happy for an excuse to escape frontline misery, I took the call, completely unaware of the joy that was to follow.

My friend and fellow Beatles nut Christine had by chance had a day off work. By chance she had been listening to Radio 2, when by chance they mentioned that George Harrison was going to be supporting The Natural Law Party in their election campaign. His support was to take the form of a gig. Had she heard that right??

As if that wasn’t exciting enough, Christine had decided to phone the ticket hotline, just in case, by chance, she might get through. And get through she did. Tickets were in the bag.

Answer me this. How on earth is any normal person expected to concentrate on their work after a revelation like that?! I was immediately filled with enormous butterflies which emerged from my throat as a childish shriek every time I tried to get my head round what had just happened.

I apologise if you’re reading this in any other capacity than that of a Beatles fan, because you are probably asking yourself whether it was actually such a big deal. Well believe me, not only did the entire music world buckle at the news George was going to be appearing live, but little 80′s-perm-Perrins, had only gone and got herself a ticket. It was like peeling back the wrapper of a candy bar and finding a golden pass into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Best of it was, we hadn’t all that long to wait, but at that very moment, Monday 6 April 1992 seemed like a lifetime away.

My Golden Ticket - 20 years old and still in perfect nick

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t remember much, if anything, about the events leading up to the gig on the actual day, so I’ll cut to arriving at our seats in the Royal Albert Hall.

You can see from the ticket, that we were in Row 8. As 7.30 arrived, a little bit gutted not be at the front, we listened patiently as the leader of The Natural Law Party did his bit for peace, love and transcendental meditation. Any other time, I’d have been completely openminded to learn something new, but surely he knew why we were all there? Even so, he was determined to rattle on.

Eventually, he started to deliver what sounded like an intro….for someone very special who was supporting their cause.

The Albert Hall went quiet. You could hear the goose bumps sprouting in anticipation. Finally, George emerged from the wings. Sweet, sheepish and obviously a little nervous.

I was shocked at what followed. The Albert Hall erupted into a standing ovation – the love for George was never in question. But no-one moved from their seat. Was it in a bid to remain polite in the presence of The Law Party’s spiritual leader? Or was it because we could see that any sudden movements might have sent Jumpy George running straight back into the wings? In hindsight, whatever the reason, it was a very respectful act, but hey, I hadn’t come all the way to London to be NICE.

I looked at Christine. Christine looked at me. Within one split second, we had kicked back our seats and made a run for it. Before they knew what was happening, the front row had lost their prime position (survival of the fittest I believe it’s called) and my elbows were firmly planted on the edge of the stage. Like a tree standing by the waterside, I would not be moved.

Once the kerfuffle (it’s not often you get chance to type that) had subsided, my position suddenly struck me. My elbows were 6 inches away from a certain pair of Harrison size 9′s. I looked up – and there he was. I had the best view in the house, and could see right up the very nose that created the gorgeously adenoidal scousisms that came through in his vocals.

I was pretty much dumbstruck throughout but will never forget the awkwardness of catching George’s eye on a number of occasions during the gig. I was stood slap-bang in front of him so it was hard not to, but George was clearly uncomfortable with our proximity. What do you do when your favourite Beatle stares right at you? I didn’t quite know where to put my face.

As the night went on, everyone, including George, relaxed and the entire Hall was revelling in his Greatest Hits. The guest line-up was impressive to say the least – Andy Fairweather Low from Amen Corner, old favourite Ray Cooper on percussion, Joe Walsh from the Eagles and the late, great Gary Moore. Rumour had it that Eric Clapton should have been there but didn’t turn up due to a pre-gig barney with George – not sure whether that was true, but to be honest, as cool as it would have been, we didn’t need him. I did, however, get a lovely surprise when George introduced Mike Campbell from Tom Petty’s Heartbreakers. I’d been to see them not long before this gig and had fallen madly in love with Mike, largely due to the unbelievable way he handled a mandolin. Sighhhh…..

George sang everything we could have possibly wanted him to sing, even Piggies. I feel so lucky to have been there. I can’t remember which song he did as an encore (maybe someone reading might have been there and could refresh my memory?) but the best was yet to come.

George’s last guest was the irreplaceable…..Mr Richard Starkey. Now I’ve heard some crowds go wild at gigs before, but jeez, this was off the planet. Two Beatles on one stage for the first time in God knows how long, was quite an emotional treat. There were middle-aged men crying behind me, their childhoods staring them right in the face. That’s pretty great.

In fear of not doing the night enough justice, it feels too soon to draw this blog to a close, but I do have one last thing to share. A picture can speak a thousand words and one thing I failed to mention earlier, is that I had my camera with me.

If you didn’t believe me when I said I was staring right up his nose, here’s my proof. My apologies for the copyright, but these pictures are so precious to me that I couldn’t risk anyone using them. They have never been seen before by anyone other than my family and friends.

George seemed to be a truly sweet soul and remains not only my favourite Beatle but one of my all-time favourite people. Martin Scorsese’s recent documentary made me love him even more and looking at these pictures really makes me smile. Enjoy them. Thanks George xx

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With Mike Campbell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With Gary Moore

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dhani Harrison

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Needle Returns to the Start of the Song

Posted on January 1st, 2012

So Christmas has been and gone (thank goodness) and here we find ourselves at the beginning of a sparkly, unspoiled year, with all the hopes and dreams of health, wealth and happiness that we had at the beginning of last year. You might mistake my lack of enthusiasm for cynicism and I wouldn’t blame you for that, however, I prefer to call it realism. But with that said, I do find it quite cute how humans get so excited every year about going to bed and waking up in a new year, much like a puppy that wees on the floor in anticipation of going out for a walk, when in actual fact it’s no different than going to bed any other night of the year. But, it keeps us positive and gives us all a good excuse to dance in the street with strangers – which can only be a good thing right?

Needless to say, I’m quite happy to see the end of all the festive mayhem and will be welcoming normality back with all the verve and vigour that everyone else seems only to muster in November as we begin our annual collision course towards Christmas.

Yep, Christmas was nice – a small family do at my parents’ house, which saw the welcome, though temporary, return of my brother from New York. I’m back in Liverpool now and am happy to report that Bro will be visiting for a few nights prior to heading back to NY.  Like the rest of my family, he has developed a fondness for Liverpool and, just as John Lennon did, recognises the similarities it has with New York.

During my visit there in 2008,  Bro and I were walking over a bridge not far from Ground Zero, when I got a sudden pang of deja-vu. The scene was SO much like Strand Street in Liverpool that it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It’s difficult to explain it, and having compared pictures of both areas, I decided not to include them in the blog because they didn’t look at all alike!! But the whole vibe of the area was exactly the same and for a split scond, I forgot which city I was in. You know the feeling…it was like waking up with a hangover at a friends house, when you spend the first 30 bewildering seconds trying to figure out where you are and how you got there.

However, it does have to be said that the gothic architecture of this building on Lime Street (next to The Empire), bears more than a passing resemblance to The Dakota Building, where John lived in New York. This one always triggers deja-vu too.

Lime Street, Liverpool

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dakota Building, West 72nd Street, NYC

Anyway, I digress. As I was saying, what I don’t like about New Year (and Christmas for that matter) is the pressure we put ourselves under to ‘perform’. I don’t know about you, but my life is stupidly busy on a day-to-day basis and in a bid not to become all-consumed by work, I do my damnedest to balance it with a healthy social life. So by the time Christmas comes, I am, for want of a better word, knackered. And here I am, faced with the prospect of a whole week of doing nothing but eating, drinking, dozing on the couch, watching crap TV and generally being a very lazy girl indeed. Why on earth would I want to go out? This is heaven!

Having said all that, by Friday 30th December, I was getting itchy feet and felt ready to face the world. Lucky for me, I knew about a little party down in The Cavern that promised to be a corker. So, I tarted myself up accordingly and headed off for a good time.

On arrival in Mathew Street I was pleasantly surpised to find it was all a bit quieter than expected. As you know, I love being in the Cavern, but at its busiest, the stench of bodies and the overwhelming humidity can become too much for even the most hardened Cavern-dweller. Thankfully, on this particular night, it was cool and fresh – a rare treat.

The reason I had chosen to have my new year a night early was The ROCKiTS. A 50′s and 60′s covers band who have absolutely blown my socks off recently. Now I’ve seen plenty of bands in my time – the last 20 years have been full to the brim of original 60′s and 70′s bands, Beatles Tributes and Merseybeat – but The ROCKiTS are like a shrift refreshing blow right between the eyes.

All good honest Northern lads, The ROCKiTS do exactly what it says on the tin. If they’re in a room, they’ll rock it. I was introduced to them a few weeks ago, when it turned out Chris, the bassist, recognised me from an introduction we’d had a number of years ago at Beatle Week. I was flattered to be remembered and was introduced to the rest of the band, who all turned out to be just as friendly as Chris.

Ever since then I’d looked forward to the 30th and knew that that would be my new year spoken for – let’s be honest, once you hit the big 40, two heavy nights on the bounce can end up being painful, so I was happy with the thought of just one.

The set list was a veritable feast of crackers, which made me shriek with excitement at each new intro. I mean come on, when was the last time you heard live renditions of Brown Sugar, Itchycoo Park and Bad Moon Rising followed by The Moody Blues, The Kinks and The Who?? Three whole sets of classic after classic – I didn’t want it to end!!

The other great thing about The ROCKiTS is that there is no false sense of celebrity or over-inflated egos, they are normal guys doing it cuz they love it – and I can’t stop smiling from the minute they walk on stage. There is also the added bonus of Justin on keyboards, who opens up a whole list of possibilities that guitar-only bands just can’t pull off. The Zombies, Spencer Davis, the Monkees…and my fave – Green Onions – a track I’d never really been that bothered about until they played it the first time I saw them. The atmosphere created by that unmistakable Hammond sound was surreal and enough to send someone who wasn’t even born until 1971, straight back to 1962!

So by the end of the gig, I was on a complete high and despite my best efforts to persuade the band to pull shapes with me at a local nightclub, a most splendid night drew to a close.

And so there’s my point. I refuse to be dictated to about when I should and shouldn’t be enjoying myself. Friday 30th was a night to rival all nights, so who cares if all I did was sit on my backside watching Jools Holland on New Year’s eve? And the best bit is, there’s no waiting another 12 months for another good night – I’ll be doing it all again next week. Happy New Year :-)

Check out The ROCKiTS on Facebook

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On The Waterfront

Posted on December 23rd, 2011

I’ve decided to shake things up a bit and jump forward a couple of years. You probably know that Paul McCartney has this week completed his ‘On The Run’ tour with a closing gig at Liverpool’s Echo Arena. I didn’t go.

I had a number of reasons for not going. When I found out when the tickets were going on sale, I vowed I’d give it an hour. An hour of trying to get through – one hand on my landline, one hand on my mobile and my elbows controlling my PC mouse. If I couldn’t get one, that would be that – at least I’d have tried.

This, in fact, was a step further than I actually thought I’d go when I found out he was touring. I’ll be honest with you, I love Paul but these days I find him a little uncomfortable to watch and I don’t feel unjustified in saying it. He’s a great man and probably the world’s most famous living musician – his melodies are simple, yet powerful enough to envoke tears – and whatsmore there are hundreds of them. Genius little riffs and quietly poetic masterpieces that masses of iconic artists wish they’d thought of first. But what I really want to do is freezeframe 1990, when Paul still had a thick floppy mop of gorgeous grey hair, when he could belt out the tunes for hours without a hint of suffering in his voice and before he turned into a very subtle caricature of himself.

Now I know loads of you may hate me for saying it, but I’m just being honest. You’re reading the blog of someone who’s life has been moulded by this man, so no-one could respect him more than I do, but I understand that in 6 months time, he is 70 and of course, his gigs are never going to be what they were, so for this reason, part of me wanted to just remember him…as if it were 1990.

But when I managed to get through to a ticket agent on-line, I was surprised to find myself thinking, ‘you know what, ‘sod all that, I’m off to see Macca in Liverpool – how cool is that!’ Alas, at £175 for the worse seat in the house, it was not to be and my previous excitement had now morphed into rage, that Mr McCartney would actually let this happen to the ‘minions’ who wanted to part with their hard earned cash to see his concert.

That was that. I refused to be ripped off and wasn’t overly disappointed at the outcome.

So back to 1990. In May of that year, Liverpool’s Pier Head had played host to the John Lennon Memorial Concert. I had waited patiently for 14 hours for my front row position and will tell you all about it in a future blog.

But the following June was a very special month. On Thursday 28th June 1990, I was travelling to Liverpool for the gig of the decade – Macca was playing his hometown for the first time in about 20 years and his set-list would, for the first time, include Beatles stuff. It was a big deal.

My ticket (check out the price..)

I drove into the city along Otterspool, approaching the Dock along Wapping, past The Baltic Fleet pub which proudly donned a huge hoarding welcoming home Liverpool’s Number One Son. The atmosphere in the city was electric and Liverpool couldn’t wait for Paul to appear.

I spent the day in the city, soaking it all up with my friend Janis who at the time I hadn’t known very long. We had met a few months earlier in the Cavern and she will be happy to learn that I intend her to be the subject of a future blog, so will leave it at that for now!

We had booked into The Shaftesbury Hotel on Mount Pleasant (long since demolished) and from there headed down to the Kings Dock site at about 7ish. Little did we realise that people had been piling into the arena for ages by then and we were SO disappointed that the back of the crowd was now quite a way from the stage. But not to be defeated, Janis is a Geordie, and as such, has the cheeky, yet endearing ability to get away with murder.

She raised her hand as if waving to someone further forward in the crowd. She looked back at me and cried “Look Nic, there’s Trace, come on!” She grabbed my arm and ploughed me through the crowd, all the time alerting ‘Trace’ of our pending arrival. Luckily for us, Trace had pitched up right by the stage in front of the middle mic. Tracey was my hero. Of course, there was no Tracey.

Thousands of us were gathered….and thousands of us made absolutely no noise.

He was about to come on.

And God, when he emerged, did Liverpool know about it. I won’t even try to describe the elation of that city at that precise moment on 28th June 1990,  I don’t have the words. All I know is that we LOVED him and he gave us every single last note of everything we wanted to hear.

Of course, this wasn’t just a normal City to Paul. It was His and he had planned something a little bit special just for us. As dusk fell, it was perfect timing for the cigarette lighters to shimmer, while Paul, in tribute to his Bezzy Mate, sang ‘John’ songs.

Liverpool didn’t want him to leave.

As the concert came to a close, we wanted the chorus of Hey Jude to last forever. We’d all sung it a million times before, but this time we were singing it with Paul and every ‘Na na na na’ drew us closer to what we didn’t want – the end of the gig and the end of a perfect night.

As we made our way out the arena, Janis and I spotted a row of undamaged gig posters on the walls of a dimly lit street. We looked at each other, tipped a nod, and proceeded to peel them off gently. A couple of them were enormous, but yep, I got one, and it now sits carefully rolled up in my attic where no-one can man-handle it. Another was a little smaller, though still impressive, and as I got to the very last corner without ripping it, I knew this one would eventually take pride of place somewhere special.

I bought my first house in Liverpool in 2008 and my fab, bright yellow gig poster, framed and protected, now stares down at me from the wall as I write my blog. Which, I hasten to add, would not be complete without a big Thank You, to the 2 Rozzers who graciously gave us a hand to get the posters down safely, without arresting us for vandalism!

So all that remains, is for me to share 3 very special pictures with you. I had bought a new Olympus Zoom especially for the occasion, and whilst most of my pictures were a little fuzzy with all the excitement, I had a few of the best ones enlarged. When I look at them now, it makes me glad I didn’t go to the gig this week. It could never have topped Thursday 28th June 1990 and my memories remain unspoiled. I hope you like them.

Watch Paul’s Tribute to John here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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It was 20 years ago today

Posted on December 20th, 2011

You came back! And with such lovely positive comments – thanks so much.

So where was I?….

Right….while all those mind-numbing jobs were going on, there was one thing that would keep me going. My bit of light at the end of a Mersey tunnel. Liverpool. Little did I know at the time it would become the place I would come to feel most safe and at home, but just for now it was simply something to look forward to, when the daily drudge seemed never-ending.

Remember Freddie and May? Well, I took them up on their offer. Or more to the point, Mum couldn’t wait to cart me off for a week. So, I trundled off to Liverpool – not sure exactly when, but I figure early 1988 – for my first real trip away from home on my own.

I was collected from the grandeur of Lime Street Station and delivered safely to a very northern looking street in Garston. I remember the train track running right along the bottom of the back garden and how what started off as a window-shaking din soon went unnoticed after the first 3 or 4 had rattled by.

Freddie and May were great hosts. Home-made cake, steaming Scouse and a good strong cuppa were always on tap – and I was introduced to the whole family, who took me under their collective wing, determined to show the ‘Brummy’ a good time.

I came out of my shell a lot that week and plucked up the courage to head into the City Centre on my own. The Liver Building has always been an absolute wonder to me – so unbelievably pretty, yet completely powerful, like a towering Dominatrix keeping watch over her man-servants. Never before had I felt a building demand such respect – and 24 years later, having witnessed The Empire State and the Pyramids, it is still one of my all time favourites and never fails to create a smile and a goose-bump every time I see it.

Also vivid is the memory I have of whistfully gazing over the Mersey, bag of chips in hand, when a gang of greedy seagulls descended, making off with said chips in the general direction of Birkenhead. How bloody rude. And tell me how you deal with that when you’re stood on your own in a strange city with people pointing and laughing?

I wandered, miffed, into the centre of town, where I spotted a ‘Beatle Bus’. I’d heard of The Beatles and I vaguely remembered they were from Liverpool. Dad had a few of their albums in his collection (only up to 1966 cuz apparently they “went down hill with all that wierd Sgt Pepper stuff”) so i figured it’d be a nice way to pass a couple of hours and I might just learn something in the process.

The Beatle Tour is a famous part of Liverpool’s culture and the guys who run it are passionate and proud. I sat on the bus, listening to the crackly cassette (1988 don’t forget!) of Beatles tunes – some I recognised, some I didn’t. Giggling quietly to myself at the fantastically adenoidal scouse accent delivering the narrative.

Eventually we turned up a quiet, shady street which I now know to be Beaconsfield Road in Allerton. The bus stopped outside the iconic red gates of Strawberry Fields. At this particular time, I was relatively unaware of their significance, but got off the bus and dutifully had my picture taken next to them – something nice to show Mum and Dad when i got home I thought.

I got back on the bus and waited for the die-hards to finish fawning.

Then it happened. My bolt of lightening moment – and I’ll never forget it.

The tour guide changed the cassette. Strawberry Fields came on. I was sat on the bus, staring out of the window at Strawberry Fields – listening to John wanting to take me down cuz he was going to….

My brain didn’t quite know what to do with the information, but I knew it was special. And 24 years later, typing that last paragraph has made me cry.

Hearing John recall his childhood in the very spot I was sitting, was SO powerful, from that point I was completely hooked. I might not have known it right then, but I was.

Next stop Penny Lane. A very short, frankly very dull street on the outskirts of town. Tourists had stolen the street sign so often that the council had given up replacing it long ago and had scrawled a scruffy painted version on the wall at the end of the road. It was hardly Gracelands.

So the tour guide played Penny Lane, and proceeded to point out all the landmarks mentioned in the lyrics, as we drove past each one. The bank, the barber’s, the shelter in the middle of the roundabout. Another lightening bolt – and now i was desperate to GET OFF the bus and BUY SOME STUFF!

Drawing the tour to a close, the bus dropped us in Mathew Street (I seem to remember you could drive down it in those days??) and I shot straight into The Beatles Shop where I purchased a gorgeous book of Black and White photographs by Dezo Hoffman and Alan Partidge’s favourite Beatles’ Album, The 20 Greatest Hits.

On the train back to Garston I stared at Dezo’s photos, trying to work out how four normal scouse lads could do what they did. Where does talent like that come from? Were they born with it? Was it just coincidence that 4 cheeky young mates (well, 3 when it came to singing) could harmonise so beautifully it could make you cry? I just couldn’t figure it all out.

At the end of my week, I left Garston knowing I’d be back. Telford was home – for now. But all of a sudden I felt uneasy there – from that moment, it would never be what I wanted.

Mum and Dad could hardly keep their faces straight when I arrived home full of stupid questions like “Mum, do you remember the Beatles??” To which she fondly remembered how my Grandad had labelled them “yobs who need a haircut”.

They told me everything they knew and think they enjoyed the fact I was taking such a sudden interest in all things sixties – but none of us quite realised what effect those Boys and their City would continue to have on me.

It was the start of something special, and as I watched the sun going down, the eyes in my head saw the world spinning round.

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We need to talk about Me

Posted on December 20th, 2011

School for me was a painful place. I was shy and awkward and never really fitted in. You know the one…always got her clothes wrong, always got her hair wrong (well…it was the eighties, maybe I shouldn’t be quite so hard on myself) and always the last to be picked for the netball team? Yep, well that was me.

I was very uncomfortable in my own skin and on a social level was completely out of my depth. So when it came to leaving and having the option to go to college, my decision was easy – no thanks, this just ain’t for me.

In1987, as a treat for doing so well in my exams, my parents took my brother and I on holiday to Portugal. A lot happened in Portugal. Victor happened in Portugal. My very first snog. And he wasn’t half bad either – tanned, handsome – quite an impressive conquest for a boring square with eighties frizz. But more importantly Freddie and May happened in Portugal. The now sadly late, great Freddie and his gorgeous wife May – a flamboyant Liverpudlian couple whose banter typified the very core of what it is to be Scouse – they were hilarious. They came from an old village in South Liverpool called Garston. I’d never heard of it. But they took a shine to me and told Mum and Dad that when we got home I could feel free to visit them whenever I wanted.

After the holidays, I started work straight away, throwing myself into a frontline customer service role at Natwest Bank (other lenders are available). Now, some people might say this is a great way to build one’s confidence, I on the other hand, now realise it was the start of a very long journey which eventually led me to hating people. Not all people I hasten to add – some of my best friends are people, but the general public – when put in a position of power infront of a shy, badly-permed, novice cashier - are, let’s be honest, arseholes.

So I left and joined the Building Society where ‘there ain’t no stopping us now’. ‘Frying pan to fire’ I hear you cry? Well actually no. This job was a tad more interesting and led me to a co-starring role in an all singing, all dancing,  armed (does it count when he sticks his fingers in his pocket and points them at you like a gun??) bank raid. Full on Snatch as a matter of fact, except he didn’t have Tyrone – instead he went and waited for a train.

After a thrilling spell in the witness box, I was disappointed that the culprit eventually got off on a technicality, but it had brightened up an otherwise dreary day. Unfortunately, from there, what did actually follow was a very hefty leap from said frying pan, into the ghoulish anal recesses of complete social deprivation. I went to work for the Council.

Don’t spit out your coffee just yet – it gets better.  I went to work on the till collecting POLL TAX. Remember that?? Now I could say some pretty awful things about the people I met in this job. So I will. Scum scum scum scum scum.

I was sworn at and spat on repeatedly, because apparently open-plan offices with no glass protection between Me and aforementioned scum (should probably have a capital ‘s’ but they don’t even deserve that), is not ‘customer-friendly’. But my best day…ahh…my best day, was the day Mr and Mrs Scum waltzed in with arms flailing and limited vocabulary projecting across a busy council office. Their Vicky-Pollardic rantings were in regard to some pesky cockroaches they had found in their kitchen. This, I tried to explain calmly, was not a council problem, as pests can occur in ANY house – not just council houses. This didn’t go down at all well and a jar of sample critters emerged from Mrs Scum’s fake Burbery handbag. Loosening the lid, she (and I use the pronoun loosely) proceeded to explain to me that these particular little fellas, were in fact, my problem. Within seconds I was wearing them and t’was that precise moment at which I decided I might consider leaving my job.

So, in a concerted effort to rid myself of such thankless misery, I was determined that my next job should take me behind the scenes. The peace and quiet of a Marketing Department was what I needed and it was there I learnt what was to become my trade. My copywriting skills were uncovered and I blossomed into  the wordsmith you see before you. Right about now something also happened to my personality. I finally got one. And people started to notice. Which was nice.

Here I shall leave you to mull over the first 25 years of my life. I’m going to bed and shall return tomorrow to see if anyone has read my ramblings.

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Step Inside Love…

Posted on December 20th, 2011

Well, I’ve been thinking about this for long enough, so at last, here it is. My Cavern Blog. A place for ramblings which I hope will eventually uncover the answer to my question….”What is it about Liverpool?”

Everytime someone asks me where I’m from and why I live in Liverpool, they are always amazed at my reasons. I’ve often been told I should write my story down but although I’m really proud of living here and proud of the personal achievements that have led me to eventual contented Scousedom, I’m not entirely convinced that anyone else will find it all that rivetting, but I guess there’s only one way to find out.

As the blog develops, I want to invite EVERYONE who loves Liverpool to write the blog entries with me. I want to know what it is that makes Liverpool so special to so many people from all over the globe and why they keep coming back. No-one may write to me, no-one may read it – but I’ve got a feeling that if you’re interested enough to have got this far, the chances are your grey matter is already working overtime thinking of something to scribble. So….get it all down and send it to me at nic@cavernblog.com

Week after week I spend hours in the City, and on a Saturday afternoon usually end up in The Cavern Club clutching a Guiness. It’s a great place to people-watch – and I’m always intrigued. Obviously it’s a tourist attraction, of course I understand that The Beatles were the biggest musical thing to ever hit the planet – and still are. But it means so much more than that to its regular visitors. The atmosphere of the City is captured in a sweaty, noisy hole that sits below the constant daily rumblings, minding its own business and creating its own magic. It’s a special place in a special City – and I want to find out more.

If you’re still confused about what exactly it is I’m doing here, maybe my story will help clear things up. From shy beginnings to discovering The Beatles and falling completely in love with a beautiful, misunderstood City, it’s been quite a trip and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Along the way I think the Blog will find its feet.

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