I've always rooted for Ian Hunter. I don't know why. Second-rate rock stars evoke something in me I'd prefer not to explore, the recesses of those parts of the psyche holding uncomfortable mysteries no man ought to ponder, especially eight drafts in. I was buying Ian Hunter solo records before I knew who Gene Clark was. I used to lay on my dorm room bed with the lights out listening to "Reckless Youth" without irony. Maybe it's that glorious head of hair, which can only elicit something like awe in those with the baby-thin strands of an early combover contemplator. Perhaps it was the early Bowie obsession, the hero refusing "Suffragette City" but generously offering "All the Young Dudes," bestowing fame upon minions with the wave of his glittered wand. Maybe it was that fleeting crush on Corey Hart. Needless to say, no abode of mine has ever been without plenty of Hunter-led records, but I didn't have this one, which, upon multiple listenings, has not exactly left me aurally bereft. Like all 70s rock records, your hits lead each side ("The Golden Age of Rock 'n' Roll" and "Born Late '58"), and Ian and his foppy laddies even manage one more, the album-closing "Roll Away the Stone," deep questions of sin and redemption never far from a mind that once penned the anthem, "Jerkin Crokus." But that's mostly it. A second-rate Mott is a pleasure, albeit a minor one, like Sierra Nevada or calimari. I wouldn't say no in the desert, but this is the rain forest, gentlemen.
5 comments:
I know nothing about music. In fact for years I thought Ian Hunter, Dave Edmonds, Nick Lowe, Elvis Costello, Joe Jackson and maybe Bob Geldoff were basically the same person. Late socialist Labor Part, early Thatcher era British "smart" rock music. Working men listened to their music while sipping Carlings, smoking "fags" and complaining about the decline of British, well anything, really.
Your reviews of Mssrs. Hunter and Lowe have made me rethink my gloomy preconceptions. Although, I still hold on to the belief that all of the above had exceptionally bad teeth, silly hair and wore very very tight Jordash jeans.
no self-respecting Mott member would ever be caught in jeans- this is a band that found leg warmers too conservative.
And Ian Hunter had/has? spectacular hair, and I mean that in the truest sense of the word.
Finally, Mott was a late 60s, early 70s glam band that pre-dated the pub rock you're referring to. For some reason, I think you have Graham Parker on the brain, as he seems to hit your general criteria. And I'll stand by Joe Jackson's first two records, much of Dave Edmunds' solo shit, Rockpile, and fucking Nick Lowe wrote "Peace, Love and Understanding" for the love of the fucking Christ, not to mention a trough full of other hits. Don't tell me you hate Brits, too- is there no island nation you can embrace beside the Irish?
and yes, I just got back from six hours of Little League, and I get to return to the humble little burg of Sunnyvale tomorrow morning at 8:00 for another, perhaps one more and then a race to Joaquin Moraga for Lars' 3:30 game followed by family dinner.
And I'm a fucking single father of three- where is the goddamned love?
Lucas went 3-4 with three RBIs, so all is not lost.
You know, it's been a confusing day- we stopped at a Fremont mini-mall for dinner on the way home and there was a burrito joint but when we got in there it reeked of Indian food and there were Indian people everywhere and Indian people behind the counter and a big menu on the wall with Indian food listed and when I asked if I could have a burrito for my son the man said,"Of course, we won't be fully Indian until tomorrow." And you know, the chicken quesadilla wasn't all that bad.
By the way, the first game was against Campbell, which took me back to the year I lived there, teaching tennis and living in a studio apartment in some giant complex when I was 23- all the fathers drank beer relentlessly throughout the game- 2:00 start- and the wives flirted with the umpire, who kept brushing off the place and shaking his ass and then cooing, "Did you like that ladies?" I was concerned for his health because he was nearly 300 pounds and probably 55 and fully flushed and I was convinced he was gonna drop on one of our tiny hitters, crushing him instantly. We lost, but I'm betting that fucker got laid later, which probably finished him.
I should mention that it was only the Campbell fathers who drank and yelled at their children- the Lafayette/Piedmont parents murmured affirmatively and applauded good sportsmanship.
I'm still writing because I can't go to bed until I get an email telling me the time of tomorrow morning's game- it's either 8 or
10. Got too much sun, clearly, and with only one child in the house and no dog or wife it's spooky quiet.
I guess I get the above confused because the British all look the same. Hows that for racism!
I'm assuming most dads don't have so many baseball games to attend. Clearly your boys are on the fast track to pro ball. That's awesome, and I mean that sincerely.
Portland post tk. I really love that town!
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