Quite embarrassingly for someone with an alleged interest in music, I’ve only just discovered Terry Callier. This has mercifully filled a Curtis Mayfield-sized hole in my life, vacant since I took a break from the man Paul Weller called “a little Buddha” due to over-listening.
When a friend described Terry Callier, I had a mental image of the cheeky Geordie from the Likely Lads (Terry Collier, I now know) moonlighting as a purveyor of 70s blue-eyed soul. I imagined lyrics written on beermats in a lonely corner of some smoky Tyneside drinking den, lamenting the decline of British industry, pit closure and his fading youth. Intriguing stuff (to me anyway), but sadly not the case.
Instead, Terry Callier of Chicago, Illinois (a childhood friend of Mayfield’s, incidentally) has bequeathed a legacy of music that aches gently with soul and longing. Consider Lover (Where Have You Gone To), its over-familiar sentiments made fresh by its slow-burning intensity and Dancing Girl, a considered odyssey of folk, jazz, funk and soul that is too short at nine minutes long.
This is the work of a man whose output veers from stomping Northern Soul to lambent acoustic guitar epics that build incrementally to an orchestral crescendo. With a quietly assured velveteen baritone and lyrics that illustrate a prophetic social conscience, Terry deserves a place amongst more lauded contemporaries like Curtis, Otis, Al and Stevie.
Sadly Terry had to retire from music in the early 80’s to become a computer programmer, in order to secure a steady income for himself and his young daughter. And yet, the likes of Posh Spice and Jade Goody can coin it in via fatuous self-promotion whilst the great British public oinks for more. For shame. Mercifully, he’s been coaxed out of retirement in recent years to record and tour: get yourself out to see him next time, there is still one “little Buddha” flying the flag.
http://www.myspace.com/terrycallier
Monday, 19 November 2007
Saturday, 10 November 2007
Reality Bites - get an Ipod instead
The iPod, ubiquitous symbol of the post-millennial age, is wondrous in its ability to create a superior soundtrack to reality, or even to heighten your immediate environment. I recall one occasion when I stumbled around Manchester city centre one Sunday, bruised and vulnerable from the previous night's Rioja indulgence. At Whitworth Street however, as the red brick splendour of the industrial age unfolded before me to the sound of Nick Drake, I found myself in an insulating bubble away from weekend crowds and hungover paranoia. Bliss.
Of course, this soon burst at Market Street. Every city has a street like this one: the chain stores and dead-eyed stares of the slow-moving masses usually result in blind curmudgeonly rage and fear, as my iPod battles buskers proffering lift musak.
I like Selfridges though. Many times have I found sanctity from the horrors of Market Street in the bowels of the capitalist behemoth. From the ridiculously pretty (if slightly orange) girls of the make-up counter to the intimidatingly well-dressed shop assistants, it is a gleaming contemporary monument to materialistic aspiration. It seems to go remarkably well with the rakish decadence of Bowie's Station To Station album.
Walking home from Tesco however, it can be useful to play something a tad more high-octane as I move through the dodgy estates near where I live. A bit of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club perhaps, an adrenaline rush to stir me into a faux-Gallagher strut. This statement of Alpha-male intent helps ensure that delinquent youths don't stare me out as I stroll past, imagining they're intimidated by the impressive loads I'm carrying, despite the broccoli and bog roll bursting out of the carrier bags.
The uses are manifold then, though regrettably my ipod now only scrolls downwards and the headphone cord always loops out of my collar or beneath my jacket, somewhat compromising the desired look of urban nonchalance. These are minor gripes however, without an arsenal of mp3's I might be forced to face modern life (including, God forbid, bus journeys) in its unfettered actuality; it's too hideous to contemplate.
Of course, this soon burst at Market Street. Every city has a street like this one: the chain stores and dead-eyed stares of the slow-moving masses usually result in blind curmudgeonly rage and fear, as my iPod battles buskers proffering lift musak.
I like Selfridges though. Many times have I found sanctity from the horrors of Market Street in the bowels of the capitalist behemoth. From the ridiculously pretty (if slightly orange) girls of the make-up counter to the intimidatingly well-dressed shop assistants, it is a gleaming contemporary monument to materialistic aspiration. It seems to go remarkably well with the rakish decadence of Bowie's Station To Station album.
Walking home from Tesco however, it can be useful to play something a tad more high-octane as I move through the dodgy estates near where I live. A bit of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club perhaps, an adrenaline rush to stir me into a faux-Gallagher strut. This statement of Alpha-male intent helps ensure that delinquent youths don't stare me out as I stroll past, imagining they're intimidated by the impressive loads I'm carrying, despite the broccoli and bog roll bursting out of the carrier bags.
The uses are manifold then, though regrettably my ipod now only scrolls downwards and the headphone cord always loops out of my collar or beneath my jacket, somewhat compromising the desired look of urban nonchalance. These are minor gripes however, without an arsenal of mp3's I might be forced to face modern life (including, God forbid, bus journeys) in its unfettered actuality; it's too hideous to contemplate.
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