Beyond the 130 - Pete Atkin
Posted: 16 Jan 2015, 02:40
(Part 1)
By 1973, my musical obsession was in full flow. I’d been working for three years and the regular monthly pay, although not great, meant I could take risks on what I bought. A familiar name in the credits, the artwork on an album, a trusted label, a good review in the music press from a writer I rated, a chance hearing on radio or via a friend, you get the idea; I’m sure it was the same for many off you. Once I could afford them, I went for albums. Singles were still bought but generally only if I couldn’t get the tracks on an album.
Which is why I could be found on a regular basis at HMV Manchester. What I liked about HMV back then was the way the album racks ran along the back wall from A to Z. I liked nothing better than to start at A and check out every album on the way down to Z at the far end; if the shop was quiet, so much the better. 1973 had already produced some of my favourite albums.. Honky Tonk Heroes, Viva Terlingua, A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean, A Passion Play, Cannons In The Rain, Cosmic Cowboy Souvenir, Pretty Much Your Standard Ranch Stash. When I came across this…
…that list increased by one. Maybe it was the fact it was on RCA, maybe the list of musicians or maybe even Clive’s moody rock pose.
Ah, yes, Clive, the Clive James.
All I know is that one play was enough. It was an album to get lost in. The sound was warm and appealing, Pete’s voice and tunes were beautifully presented and the lyrics were unlike any I’d heard before. Thinking back now, maybe there was a slight similarity of style with David Ackles’ American Gothic… Here’s three tracks from the album and for each I’ve added the full lyrics. There’s also a more recent live take of a fourth song.
Carnations On The Roof
He worked setting tools for a multi-purpose punch
In a shop that made holes in steel plates
He could hear himself think through a fifty minute lunch
Of the kids, gas and stoppages, the upkeep and the rates
While he talked about Everton and Chelsea with his mates
With gauge and micrometer, with level and with rule
While chuck and punch were pulsing like a drum
He checked the finished product like a master after school
The slugs looked like money and the cutting-oil like scum
And to talk with a machinist he made signals like the dumb
Though he had no great gifts of personality or mind
He was generally respected, and the proof
Was a line of hired Humbers tagging quietly behind
A fat Austin Princess with carnations on the roof
Forty years of metal tend to get into your skin
The surest coin you take home from your wage
The green cleaning-jelly only goes to rub it in
And that glitter in the wrinkle of your knuckle shows your age
Began when the dignity of work was still the rage
He was used and discarded in a game he didn't own
But when the moment of destruction came
He showed that a working man is more than flesh and bone
The hands on his chest flared more brightly than his name
For a technicolor second as he rolled into the flame
Though he had no great gifts of personality or mind
He was generally respected, and the proof
Was a line of hired Humbers tagging quietly behind
A fat Austin Princess with carnations on the roof
I can't express how powerful I find that song. Shame it refers to Chelsea though.
The Wristwatch For A Drummer
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Is the only wristwatch for a drummer
It tells true and it ain't no bummer
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Can stand for more than mere immersion
It thrives on whiplash, lurch and shock
Trad, mainstream, bop and rock
Baby Dodds had an early version
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Man, what a creation!
It's a mine of information
A vernier scale, the date in braille
Sidereal time, the rate of crime
And the growth of population
It's got more jewels than Princess Grace
Buckminster Fuller designed the case
Leonardo engraved the face
And did the calibration
And those knobs and screws and toggles
The imagination boggles
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Without this timepiece there'd have been
No modern jazz to begin with
Bird and Diz were tricky men for a drummer to sit in with
Max Roach still wears the watch he wore when bop was new
Elvin Jones has two and Buddy Rich wears three
One on the right wrist, one on the left
And the third one around his knee
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Has a warning-bell for free-form playing
That tells you when you're overstaying
Your tentative welcome with the paying
Customers in the deep decaying
Cellar club with the stained and fraying
Velvet drapes and the stooped and greying
Owner
It'll count the bars and tell you when
The basset-horn's coming in again
It'll see you right while you're trading twelves
With a synthesizer played by elves
Wear this watch and you'll keep in step
With Ornette Coleman and Archie Shepp
Why be a loner?
Get the Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
It's the only wristwatch for a drummer
It tells true and it ain't no bummer
So any time the brushes shimmer
On skins and brass while the solo tenor
Slowly blows the lazy phrases
You'll catch the golden glimmer
Of the wristwatch in the gloom
So softly now let's sing its praises
For the music in the room
Both beautiful and true
On plushly hushed extended wings
Is flown to me and you
By the Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
The only wristwatch for a drummer
It tells true and it ain't no bummer
Thirty Year Man
Nobody here yet
From the spotlight that will ring her not a glimmer
Not a finger on its squeaky dimmer
I play piano in a jazz quartet
That works here late with a young girl singer
And along from the darkened and empty tables
By the covered-up drums and the microphone cables
At the end of the room the piano glistens
Like the rail at the end of the nave
Thirty years in the racket
A brindled crew-cut and a silk-lined jacket
And it isn't my hands that fill this place
It's a kid's voice still reaching into space
It's her they're driving down to hear
And it's my bent-over back she's standing near
Nobody talks yet
From the glasses that will touch soon not a tinkle
Not a paper napkin shows a wrinkle
I play piano in a jazz quartet
That backs a winner while the big notes crinkle
And along from the darkened and empty tables
By the covered-up drums and the microphone cables
At the end of the room the piano glistens
Like the rail at the end of the nave
And I play a few things while no-one listens
Thirty years in the racket
A brindled crew-cut and a silk-lined jacket
And it isn't my name that brings them in
It's a little girl just starting to begin
It's her they're piling in to see
And I'd kill that kid if she wasn't killing me
Nobody moves yet
From the tables near the bandstand not a rustle
Not a loudmouth even moves a muscle
I play piano in a jazz quartet
That backs a giver while the takers hustle
And along from the darkened and empty tables
By the covered-up drums and the microphone cables
At the end of the room the piano glistens
Like bones at the end of a cave
And I play a few things while no-one listens
For an hour alone spells freedom to the slave
All The Dead Were Strangers
I met my buddy Kovacs stripping down his M-16
He said "I think the barrel got hot -- know what I mean ?"
And his smiling mouth looked friendly
But his eyes, like all the dead, were strangers
All the dead were strangers
Just lying there were ladies so old they hardly bled
Thin kids who never needed a red hole in the head
We were all in this together
We were friends, but all the dead were strangers
All the dead were strangers
We bumped into Polonsky, and Polonsky hollered "Look!
It's a Japanese transistor that I swiped off of a gook
And it don't even have no batteries"
And he laughed that all the dead were strangers
All the dead were strangers
And Kovacs said "You crumb-dumb, we weren't sent in here to steal"
And Polonsky answered "Stow it! How do you know what I feel?
What the hell else is there in this
For me? Like, all the dead were strangers
All the dead were strangers"
I left them two to argue and I walked between the huts
It's a bad day when a king-hit of grass won't calm your guts
But it helps you to remember
Or forget that all the dead were strangers
All the dead were strangers
The birds that lift us in here lift us out through the same sky
And the gunships hose the ruins for reasons hell knows why
And I can only yell Why bother!
Why bother all the dead? They were strangers
All the dead were strangers
Now before I go further I’ll give a very brief history of Pete and Clive.
Much more detail can be found on Wikipedia ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pete_Atkin ) and Pete’s fascinating website http://www.peteatkin.com/ .
Basically, Pete and Clive met at Cambridge Footlights, dreamed of becoming rock stars (very briefly) and made six albums. Nightfall was the third (and first on RCA, the first two were on Philips). The critics liked them but the good words did not translate into sales. Val Doonican recorded a cover version of the song "The Flowers and the Wine" and the royalties from that one cover were greater than the total from all six albums. The boys knew that success lay elsewhere.
And in many ways, that was it until the internet brought together a group of people , the “Midnight Voices”, who had never forgotten the remarkable work of Atkin and James and set about bringing that remarkable partnership back to life.
I'm out of time at this point and will get back with part 2 shortly. I'll finish by adding that, as I am sure some of you may know, Clive James is terminally Ill with B-cell chronic lymphocytic leukemia and did not expect to see Christmas 2014. He's written some beautiful poetry reflecting on life and the human condition and if you're interested it can be found here: http://www.clivejames.com/poetry/recentpoems For me, his site is one of the joys of the internet.
No connection to Pete Atkin but this is beautiful.
I'll miss him when he passes.
By 1973, my musical obsession was in full flow. I’d been working for three years and the regular monthly pay, although not great, meant I could take risks on what I bought. A familiar name in the credits, the artwork on an album, a trusted label, a good review in the music press from a writer I rated, a chance hearing on radio or via a friend, you get the idea; I’m sure it was the same for many off you. Once I could afford them, I went for albums. Singles were still bought but generally only if I couldn’t get the tracks on an album.
Which is why I could be found on a regular basis at HMV Manchester. What I liked about HMV back then was the way the album racks ran along the back wall from A to Z. I liked nothing better than to start at A and check out every album on the way down to Z at the far end; if the shop was quiet, so much the better. 1973 had already produced some of my favourite albums.. Honky Tonk Heroes, Viva Terlingua, A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean, A Passion Play, Cannons In The Rain, Cosmic Cowboy Souvenir, Pretty Much Your Standard Ranch Stash. When I came across this…
…that list increased by one. Maybe it was the fact it was on RCA, maybe the list of musicians or maybe even Clive’s moody rock pose.
Ah, yes, Clive, the Clive James.
All I know is that one play was enough. It was an album to get lost in. The sound was warm and appealing, Pete’s voice and tunes were beautifully presented and the lyrics were unlike any I’d heard before. Thinking back now, maybe there was a slight similarity of style with David Ackles’ American Gothic… Here’s three tracks from the album and for each I’ve added the full lyrics. There’s also a more recent live take of a fourth song.
Carnations On The Roof
He worked setting tools for a multi-purpose punch
In a shop that made holes in steel plates
He could hear himself think through a fifty minute lunch
Of the kids, gas and stoppages, the upkeep and the rates
While he talked about Everton and Chelsea with his mates
With gauge and micrometer, with level and with rule
While chuck and punch were pulsing like a drum
He checked the finished product like a master after school
The slugs looked like money and the cutting-oil like scum
And to talk with a machinist he made signals like the dumb
Though he had no great gifts of personality or mind
He was generally respected, and the proof
Was a line of hired Humbers tagging quietly behind
A fat Austin Princess with carnations on the roof
Forty years of metal tend to get into your skin
The surest coin you take home from your wage
The green cleaning-jelly only goes to rub it in
And that glitter in the wrinkle of your knuckle shows your age
Began when the dignity of work was still the rage
He was used and discarded in a game he didn't own
But when the moment of destruction came
He showed that a working man is more than flesh and bone
The hands on his chest flared more brightly than his name
For a technicolor second as he rolled into the flame
Though he had no great gifts of personality or mind
He was generally respected, and the proof
Was a line of hired Humbers tagging quietly behind
A fat Austin Princess with carnations on the roof
I can't express how powerful I find that song. Shame it refers to Chelsea though.
The Wristwatch For A Drummer
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Is the only wristwatch for a drummer
It tells true and it ain't no bummer
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Can stand for more than mere immersion
It thrives on whiplash, lurch and shock
Trad, mainstream, bop and rock
Baby Dodds had an early version
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Man, what a creation!
It's a mine of information
A vernier scale, the date in braille
Sidereal time, the rate of crime
And the growth of population
It's got more jewels than Princess Grace
Buckminster Fuller designed the case
Leonardo engraved the face
And did the calibration
And those knobs and screws and toggles
The imagination boggles
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Without this timepiece there'd have been
No modern jazz to begin with
Bird and Diz were tricky men for a drummer to sit in with
Max Roach still wears the watch he wore when bop was new
Elvin Jones has two and Buddy Rich wears three
One on the right wrist, one on the left
And the third one around his knee
The Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
Has a warning-bell for free-form playing
That tells you when you're overstaying
Your tentative welcome with the paying
Customers in the deep decaying
Cellar club with the stained and fraying
Velvet drapes and the stooped and greying
Owner
It'll count the bars and tell you when
The basset-horn's coming in again
It'll see you right while you're trading twelves
With a synthesizer played by elves
Wear this watch and you'll keep in step
With Ornette Coleman and Archie Shepp
Why be a loner?
Get the Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
It's the only wristwatch for a drummer
It tells true and it ain't no bummer
So any time the brushes shimmer
On skins and brass while the solo tenor
Slowly blows the lazy phrases
You'll catch the golden glimmer
Of the wristwatch in the gloom
So softly now let's sing its praises
For the music in the room
Both beautiful and true
On plushly hushed extended wings
Is flown to me and you
By the Omega Incabloc Oyster Accutron 72
The only wristwatch for a drummer
It tells true and it ain't no bummer
Thirty Year Man
Nobody here yet
From the spotlight that will ring her not a glimmer
Not a finger on its squeaky dimmer
I play piano in a jazz quartet
That works here late with a young girl singer
And along from the darkened and empty tables
By the covered-up drums and the microphone cables
At the end of the room the piano glistens
Like the rail at the end of the nave
Thirty years in the racket
A brindled crew-cut and a silk-lined jacket
And it isn't my hands that fill this place
It's a kid's voice still reaching into space
It's her they're driving down to hear
And it's my bent-over back she's standing near
Nobody talks yet
From the glasses that will touch soon not a tinkle
Not a paper napkin shows a wrinkle
I play piano in a jazz quartet
That backs a winner while the big notes crinkle
And along from the darkened and empty tables
By the covered-up drums and the microphone cables
At the end of the room the piano glistens
Like the rail at the end of the nave
And I play a few things while no-one listens
Thirty years in the racket
A brindled crew-cut and a silk-lined jacket
And it isn't my name that brings them in
It's a little girl just starting to begin
It's her they're piling in to see
And I'd kill that kid if she wasn't killing me
Nobody moves yet
From the tables near the bandstand not a rustle
Not a loudmouth even moves a muscle
I play piano in a jazz quartet
That backs a giver while the takers hustle
And along from the darkened and empty tables
By the covered-up drums and the microphone cables
At the end of the room the piano glistens
Like bones at the end of a cave
And I play a few things while no-one listens
For an hour alone spells freedom to the slave
All The Dead Were Strangers
I met my buddy Kovacs stripping down his M-16
He said "I think the barrel got hot -- know what I mean ?"
And his smiling mouth looked friendly
But his eyes, like all the dead, were strangers
All the dead were strangers
Just lying there were ladies so old they hardly bled
Thin kids who never needed a red hole in the head
We were all in this together
We were friends, but all the dead were strangers
All the dead were strangers
We bumped into Polonsky, and Polonsky hollered "Look!
It's a Japanese transistor that I swiped off of a gook
And it don't even have no batteries"
And he laughed that all the dead were strangers
All the dead were strangers
And Kovacs said "You crumb-dumb, we weren't sent in here to steal"
And Polonsky answered "Stow it! How do you know what I feel?
What the hell else is there in this
For me? Like, all the dead were strangers
All the dead were strangers"
I left them two to argue and I walked between the huts
It's a bad day when a king-hit of grass won't calm your guts
But it helps you to remember
Or forget that all the dead were strangers
All the dead were strangers
The birds that lift us in here lift us out through the same sky
And the gunships hose the ruins for reasons hell knows why
And I can only yell Why bother!
Why bother all the dead? They were strangers
All the dead were strangers
Now before I go further I’ll give a very brief history of Pete and Clive.
Much more detail can be found on Wikipedia ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pete_Atkin ) and Pete’s fascinating website http://www.peteatkin.com/ .
Basically, Pete and Clive met at Cambridge Footlights, dreamed of becoming rock stars (very briefly) and made six albums. Nightfall was the third (and first on RCA, the first two were on Philips). The critics liked them but the good words did not translate into sales. Val Doonican recorded a cover version of the song "The Flowers and the Wine" and the royalties from that one cover were greater than the total from all six albums. The boys knew that success lay elsewhere.
And in many ways, that was it until the internet brought together a group of people , the “Midnight Voices”, who had never forgotten the remarkable work of Atkin and James and set about bringing that remarkable partnership back to life.
I'm out of time at this point and will get back with part 2 shortly. I'll finish by adding that, as I am sure some of you may know, Clive James is terminally Ill with B-cell chronic lymphocytic leukemia and did not expect to see Christmas 2014. He's written some beautiful poetry reflecting on life and the human condition and if you're interested it can be found here: http://www.clivejames.com/poetry/recentpoems For me, his site is one of the joys of the internet.
No connection to Pete Atkin but this is beautiful.
I'll miss him when he passes.