Eine Kleine Nichtmusik

Witty and pertinent observations on matters of great significance OR Incoherent jottings on total irrelevancies OR Something else altogether OR All of the above

Sunday, February 21, 2010

So long, and thanks for all the music

Some music tracks I associate with my brother.

First, a favourite album from a band he turned me onto. His tastes were pretty advanced in a lot of ways.




These guys were friends of his, and I ended up for a few years in the Middlewood Swamp Band with my brother and Joe Beard (the Purple Gang's guitarist).



I was taken to see the Dave Brubeck Quartet, and also Dylan on his 1966 tour.





My brother's educative efforts weren't confined to me. My parents found themselves the recipients of tickets to see Peter Paul and Mary, and on another occasion Donovan (with Martin and myself tagging along of course). I have to say they enjoyed both evenings very much: the PP&M concert I would say just as much as we did. Here's one they did that night:



Martin used to help organise the Poynton Folk Festival, which meant we sometimes had Stan Hugill staying with us and delighting family and friends alike:



And Martin took me to see Artur Rubinstein in 1972 or 1973. After a punishingly hard programme of Schubert, Chopin and Schumann, he did nine encores of which this was the ninth!



I haven't even mentioned Ravi Shankar, Stan Getz, Coleman Hawkins, Eric Clapton, Simon & Garfunkel or Sir Laurence Olivier. Nor The Beach Boys, Ornette Coleman, The Mothers of Invention, Leonard Cohen, Doc Watson, Roland Kirk, The Incredible String Band, Steeleye Span or Dizzy Gillespie, all of whom he took me to see. This at a time when my school contemporaries' musical horizons were mostly defined by Top of the Pops. What with that, his books of Kerouac and the Beats, and his copies of Playboy, my cultural identity in the sixties and early seventies was very largely formed by my brother, and I am immeasurably grateful for his generosity.

Finally, I couldn't find a decent clip of this Phil Ochs one but I can't think of a more fitting memorial for my folk-singing brother, who introduced me to Phil's music and took me to see him in Manchester in 1966 (I think).

When I'm Gone

There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

And I won't feel the flowing of the time when I'm gone
All the pleasures of love will not be mine when I'm gone
My pen won't pour a lyric line when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

And I won't breathe the bracing air when I'm gone
And I can't even worry 'bout my cares when I'm gone
Won't be asked to do my share when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

And I won't be running from the rain when I'm gone
And I can't even suffer from the pain when I'm gone
Can't say who's to praise and who's to blame when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

Won't see the golden of the sun when I'm gone
And the evenings and the mornings will be one when I'm gone
Can't be singing louder than the guns when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

All my days won't be dances of delight when I'm gone
And the sands will be shifting from my sight when I'm gone
Can't add my name into the fight while I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

And I won't be laughing at the lies when I'm gone
And I can't question how or when or why when I'm gone
Can't live proud enough to die when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it
I guess I'll have to do it
I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

P.S. Found this (audio) clip eventually.

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