 'This was not an earthquake. This was the work of men.' No earthquake but the work of men. There is nothing left. Imagine that : houses, belongings everything rubbled, destroyed in seconds. The Israeli tanks circling in the distance like carrion crows. The Red Crescent diggers uncover bodies days decomposed. The same species have done this : every man, woman, child they dub a terrorist. Searching for a reaching hand movement among the wreckage, small gesture of future in Devastation Desert.
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 Looking up looking round always the possibility of a telling noise sound of a jet, a missile's threat. Hide and seek on the beach, theirs among the broken down buildings of fishing now banned. Scrap metal gatherers small pickings shards of once was, scrabbling a living, both family and friends ; shouting out, playing. Arrived from the sky and nowhere to hide, the only count-down a pilot's machine ; shield with arms over their eyes. Four boys found not by the chase or outstretched hands or laughing tease. Instead, seek and kill : broken scatterings, like shells. 
Why not? You can place bets on everything else. Who's going to score first, who will Suarez bite next! So why not the chances of a Palestinian being killed to an Israeli citizen? You can weigh it up in column inches, hysterical headlines, or so-called balanced reporting. Boys on a beach playing games, children on a rooftop or lying in hospital. Described as 'shields' by spokesperson from Israel, placed there deliberately by the evil Hamas. Decide then : who's the bully and who's the victim and place your wager. The odds are widening daily. 
His signature song was 'Barry Lamp-posts'
It was the period between the end of hippiedom and the onset of punk and Barry's 'local leg.' singer-songwriter Rod Tolchock was the star of the folk club then, the Railway.
On the face of it, Tolchock was a hippie hanger-on, a peace and love merchant ; after all, he wore a woolly teapot cosy hat and kaftan (though his climbing boots didn't quite fit that). Yet he took his nom de song from Anthony Burgess's 'A Clockwork Orange', the 'tolchock' meaning an attack on someone......hardly a hippie sentiment! With his anarchist philosophy and insistence on writing about the locality, he wasn't your typical James Taylor impersonator. His anarchism was never the screaming of 'Destroy!' of Johnny Rotten however and he always espoused setting up alternatives within society rather than simply trying to drop out. Some of his songs were definitely influenced by his taking of various substances, which placed him closer to the psychedelic strain of Syd Barrett and Beefheart. He was wild and unpredictable : sometimes dreadful and inspired in the same set . He often punctuated songs with his thoughts about poetry, revolution and green politics (he was ahead of his time in that respect). There were a fair share of other exciting acts visiting the club : single performers who could imitate brass bands with their mouths, or do amazing things with one harmonica. I believe most were astounded that Rod hadn't made it Big Time. Today, he'd be a hit on You-Tube and I have no doubt and his singalong 'Barry Lamp-posts' would be the perfect antidote to Gavin & Stacey cliches. I never got close to him, despite the fact that it was my job to do the write-ups for the 'Barry & District News'. Rod smelt pungently of dope and cats, but it wasn't that which distanced me and my best mate Dave. We wanted to keep him as a mystery. When friends reported back to us that the local record shop Christopher's never stocked anything by him, we'd just reply - ' Can't understand it! Not even recognised in his own town!' Also, Rod always seemed to have a woman nearby and more often than not it was Debbie ,who sat at the front and was his unofficial Fan Club. She was small, blonde and feisty. If she thought you were mocking his work she'd become very protective and a series of expletives would machine-gun from her gob, making Vanessa's insults positively charming. Rod, like Van the Man, was impossible to interview as well. I once attempted a short one for the paper ,but gave up after the second question. 'Just lissen to the fuckin songs, man......' he dismissed me, combining punk venom with hippie phrasing. I wish now I'd recorded some of those crazy nights at the Railway, or down Porthkerry Park where we'd follow Rod like children behind the Pied Piper, for beach parties in summer. He left Barry after suffering some kind of breakdown and I still look out for him on the streets of Cardiff, listening for every busker just in case I hear that refrain. He could have been, but never was. Now he only exists in the memories of people like myself and Dave : titles of songs, snatches of strange choruses and , above all, that vision of Rod on stage, peculiar and unique, out of his age. I did manage to scribble down a few of his phrases for my reports and some resonate today , like - 'Every song should be a small revolution.....changing people's views forever with its groove.' ENIGMA 'Rod Tolchock' wasn't his real name, of course ; I never did discover what it was. 'It's here inside my 'at, mate!' he gave his tea-cosy a point. Someone claimed he was John Toshack's cousin and didn't want to be a hanger-on. His tea-cosy was the only heirloom he inherited from his Nan when she passed on. He once supported Roy Harper (so he said). Before his Memo gig he dropped acid ; shouted at Security to catch the snakes he saw writhing around in the audience. He was the best and worst performer at the Railway : mad, sad, funny, sometimes burbling away. In the late 70s he went missing. Rumours had him in India searching for a guru, or chanting in Cardiff centre doing the Hari Krishna. Rod would come out with his philosophy like others burp or sneeze. Once he told us - ' Nothing will be achieved till people learn to think like trees!' 
Briar makes an O, porthole to waves of wild rye, scaly-shine trefoil. ********************** Bindweed trumpets raised : fanfare for strangle-tangle ; green throat of hedgerow. ********************** Ancient garden oak, two arms open to embrace the house should it fall. ********************** Cat quick catch claw-climbs up bark chasing fret of flies : dark side of moon eyes. *********************** Rock cactus garage, roots in the spongy spread moss : white petals of tiles. 
You'd think concept albums were things purely for proggy rock followers of Pink Floyd or Rick Wakeman. A phenomenon of those pompous days before punk spat on all of them!
What place for them in this century, the age of the download, shuffle and individual song? Yet - and this is a huge YET - I maintain the 21st century has actually produced the most captivating by a long way. The greatest singer-songwriter of all time Tom Waits even released two in the same year, 2002. Both 'Alice' and 'Blood Money' were written for theatre, in a similar way to The Who's rock operas made into films. Although the play was produced in 1992, 'Alice' wasn't out till much later and, like the other, Waits' wife Kathleen Brennan was integral to the song-writing. The imagery and language of both Carroll's Alice books is prevalent and music suitably strange and atmospheric, ranging from balladry to angular jazz, with an often melancholic mood. Characters such as 'Poor Edward' and 'Table Top Joe' certainly belong in a modern underworld. Like 'Blood Money' and his earlier 'The Black Rider' Waits develops the music of Kurt Weill. 'Blood Money' comprises songs for the play 'Woyzeck' by Georg Buchner, premiered in Copenhagen in 2002. As a concept, it's held together not by language and character, but by the feelings of the protagonist and some of the darkest lyrics are set off against the most pacy sounds. Though it's more disparate than 'Alice', it's also more personal :listen to 'All The World is Green', such a sensitive love song. The fact that he released them simultaneously is remarkable. If you're put off by his growling, gritty vocals then you're missing one of the genuine geniuses of contemporary music. Along with Loudon Wainwright and Tom Russell, Waits has continued to produce music to excite and challenge. Tom Russell? Is the usual reaction to the singer-songwriter that Beat Poet Ferlinghetti once described as America's finest. His concept album 'Hotwalker' came out in 2005 and is a remarkable collage of songs, narratives and samples, with readings by Kerouac and Bukowski and a snatch of comedian Lennie Bruce. It's primarily a celebration of the work of Charles Bukowski and his influence on others, Russell included, when he grew up in LA. The only track which stands outside this is his tribute to Dave Van Ronk 'the Pope of Greenwich Village', a very moving spoken narrative with musical accompaniment which contrasts the Coen Bros film 'Inside Llewyn Davies', supposedly based on Van Ronk's life. Though Russell directs the whole affair, his compere is the incomparable Little Jack Horton a 'circus midget' and one-time friend of Bukowski. Unlike the Waits albums, it's essential to listen to this as a whole to appreciate the energy and vitality of its protagonist. Though the music is primarily country and folk, Russell uses other forms - such as jazz and folk songs of that era - to add authenticity. This is a concept album like no other : a celebration of lost voices, reborn through both story and song. Another American musician who stands alone and has influenced a number of important contemporary artists like Ireland's Villagers, is Sufjan Stevens. Like Waits he has brought out two concept albums, the first being 'Michigan', and the second 'Come on feel the Illinoise!' It was Stevens' mad plan to bring out an album for every state in the US, but he stopped after two! 'Illinoise!' is the masterpiece of the two : so ridiculously ambitious you'd think he'd have done a Wakeman and descended into pretension. Not so, because it's so quirky and visionary and also because for every intense orchestral piece there's a spare, banjo-accompanied song. It's all tied together by the state itself and especially Chicago. However, this is no travelogue or simple observation. There are UFOs, Zombies, sympathy for a serial killer, the ghost of poet Carl Sandburg and a homage to a skyscraper. Like 'Hotwalker' it's full of eulogies. Like the poetry of Whitman it embraces the spirit of an America of openness and discovery, yet with a mysticism stemming from Stevens' own unique form of Christianity. Shifting to England, where Robb Johnson's 'Gentle Men' was released earlier this year and is very much an alternative commemoration of the !st World War. For anyone unfamiliar with him, he is a seasoned activist, still a Primary teacher and England's most under-rated singer-songwriter over many years. He is to contemporary folk what Ken Loach is to film : witty, compassionate and never afraid to share his left-wing opinions. 'Gentle Men' is an extraordinary exploration of the lives of Johnson's grandfathers, who both fought in that war. Like 'Hotwalker' it's interspersed with music from that era, though the sense of time is often created by using brass bands and Music Hall-styles. Apart from the great song-writing, it's vital listening because of the interplay of the three main vocalists : Johnson, Roy Bailey and Barb Jung. The movement between present and past is constant and there is a prevailing critique of class divisions and how war heightens them. This is Johnson's most ambitious project to date and all his characteristic humour, satire and indignation are there, but above all he pays tribute to the lives of his two relatives. There is much cultural ado about the 1st World War, but this is the most enlightening anti-war creation I've experienced : never pontificating, always speaking through the people involved. One of the best concept albums of the last century was Geraint Jarman's 'Mabinogi', composed initially for a multi-media show in Cardiff Castle. So, it's fitting I should make Gruff Rhys's 'American Interior' my final selection. Film, book, stage show (and probably t-shirt!) this album tells of Rhys's retracing the steps of his infamous ancestor, the eccentric 18th century explorer John Evans, who journeyed across America in search of a tribe of Welsh-speaking 'Red Indians'. In typically original fashion, Rhys even imagines his ancestor accessing emails in '100 Unread Messages'. The exploration is better appreciated after seeing Rhys's hilarious live set. The album's an allegory for any voyage of discovery : although Evans's intention would seem rather pointless , he actually achieved a great deal on the way, such as mapping the wilderness. Rhys brings it off brilliantly through his sheer variety of musical approaches and ever-catchy tunes. He makes Evens come alive as his experiences merge with Rhys's own on songs like 'The Whether (Or Not)'. John Evans sets out to find a tribe and ends up finding himself. The word 'genius' is bandied about by the likes of Jools Holland, but in Gruff Rhys's case it's a definite . Amazingly, I haven't even mentioned those two concept albums which deal so superbly with the effects of the economic crisis on the States, namely Springsteen's 'Wrecking Ball' and Loudon Wainwright's 'Songs for a New Depression' and, above all , the greatest songwriting team since Lennon- McCartney, i.e. Scott-Yeats in The Waterboys' 'An Appointment With Mr Yeats'. Nobody listens to albums any more , do they? Well, if that's the truth then they're missing out on so much. ROD TOLCHOCK AND BARRY LAMP-POSTS for Dave Evans 1975, a damp dark November evening in Barry town (but not from Steely Dan), local singer-songwriter Rod Tolchock announced his master-plan. Doing the Railway, the folk club as he always did, he usually sang his memorable ode to the area's lamp-posts ; and we would all sing along except a few trad-folkies waiting for the inevitable finale of 'Goodnight Irene'. Rod, in his tea-cosy hat (literally, complete with stains), his pig-tail sticking out the spout like a pour of silvery-brown. Rod, in his colourful kaftan and his powerful aroma we had an inkling (the youthful girls inhaled him). Rod, who we expected to do a Shane MacGowan (before The Pogues, of course) and fall into the audience. Rod, who announced his concept album 'Barry Bus-shelters' that wet night and claimed he'd do a tour and perform in each one. Rod,who sang about the one opposite and some bloke who'd told him he'd seen a whale off The Knap and would he like to buy acid? Max Boyce was all the rage at the time and Rod was like a visitor from another planet ; I wrote something like that in my report for the 'Barry & District', but they never published it. It was the beginning and end of his concept and his grand tour never even started. He returned to that raucous chorus : 'Barry lamp-posts light up my life!' 
for Pete & Elaine
A blue boat speeds into the harbour and we too have been trawling all evening, but in the car, spreading our nets to catch any quick-slipping memories. In streets, houses and rooms so familiar yet so changed we are seeking out creatures of long ago, our former selves seeming a different species. Lights of the windows, aquariums where students bend over computers, while we strain for elusive shapes, dark movements on walls and ceilings and snatches of voices and songs. On the brink of a stone jetty we feed the outgoing tide with ashes of the last generation : powdery dust of two lives and below, the shoals unseen. |
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