"All happy families are alike but an unhappy family is unhappy after its own fashion". So Tolstoy chose to begin 'Anna Karenin', still frequently referred to as the greatest novel of all time. "Miss Brook had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress". George Eliot's 'Middlemarch', said by no lesser critic than Virginia Woolf to be "one of the few English novels written for grown-up people", a horribly arid recommendation. Both intros are undoubtedly snappy and attention-grabbing, but for the best high voltage opening in England literature you need to take yourself off to a hot summer night in the 1970s for a nightcap at Arabella's and a vintage blast of the early Jilly Cooper: "The moment I set eyes on Jeremy West I knew I had to have him".
The narrator is Octavia, self-confessed bitch and manstealer, who uses a canal boat holiday to try to snare weak-willed poet Jeremy, but is crossed by big-bellied Welsh industrialist Gareth, intent on breaking brittle Octavia's pampered existence into little pieces. He puts her on the road to redemption with a stern spanking in a country house bathroom, not a scenario Jilly's feminist contemporaries can have been wild about, then strips her of her assets. Gone are the luxury Green Park flat and flashy life-style to pay off debts. Octavia struggles through the summer of drought (1976?) as an office dogsbody and Putney waitress, forced into a porn shoot to save disgraced brother Alexander (the hugely dishy 'Xander'). The rains eventually come and so too comes redemption, Octavia moving from cat fights to catharsis, helped on her way by a magnificent supporting cast of dumpy schoolfriends, kindly capitalists and thoroughoing sleazeballs. Why was there never a movie?
Unlike the later, thicker, inferior Cooper novels, there is precious little bonking in 'Octavia', or indeed in most of the other pitch perfect novellas that early Cooper fans cherish: 'Harriet', 'Emily', 'Imogen', 'Prudence' etc... . Our naughty heroine beds the dapper Charlie with some aplomb in the first few pages, although the bedroom gymnastics are dedicated to the preening Jeremy. Diagnosed by her Welsh nemesis as frigid and manipulative, Octavia realises that her valley is best tended by the man from the valleys (apologies for that) and her reward is a big 'O' like a "great, glorious, whooshing washing machine". Well done that girl.
While I have met literary bores who read 'David Copperfield' or (God help them) 'Pride and Prejudice' on an annual basis, I would go for 'Octavia' every time, a frothy (but surprisingly deep) summer read, eminently quotable and wholly unforgettable. According to my calculations, Octavia would be around 61 now. I suspect the Welshman, fast-living and impetuous, may no longer be with us, but couldn't La Cooper give Octavia an equally troubled daughter to learn from Mum?
Friday, 15 July 2011
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
crying with kristin
So who was this pale and lovely waif on the BBC Breakfast sofa, blubbing and blabbing so passionately for Oxfam and Africa ? A little bleary-eyed and normally used to dealing with the Today programme or Chris Evans, it took me a while to clock the diva back from Dadaab. This was not Angelina Jolie on a bad make-up day, but the wet and winsome Kristin Davis, known to those who care (and I once did, honest) as shrinking southern belle from hell Charlotte in Sex and the City.
One of the biggest disappointments of a four-month stint in New York last year (walking down Madison and all that) was not to catch a glimpse of any of the famour foursome in the bars and boutiques of Manhattan, making do instead with the truly execrable SATC2. But never mind Carrie and co shaking it with the sheikhs in some Arabian pleasure zone. Here was Kristin on Kleenex alert, despatched to BBC soft question sofaland to peddle a personalised account of how bad things are, wowing her vacuous early morning hosts with tales of death and desperation. Or should that be gush and slush? The tears were for real.
So how to respond to this? How heartless can one be to ponder not the ongoing misery of those pouring into the refugee camps, but the judgement of Oxfam, entrusting its message from the crisis zone to a millionaire thespian. Whatever else is on the K Davis acting CV, she appears to be doomed to be forever associated with a TV show that (infamously) celebrates frivolous consumption, rich girl angst, shoes, handbags and missing orgasms.
Oxfam I know of old. As a callow schoolboy, I sang carols for them, gave them the modest proceeds from a school magazine and helped sort out the books in a shop in Cheltenham. Much of my library and wardrobe comes from Oxfam outlets. But I have also taken the Oxfam shilling, joining them on missions to Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo. In my naive worldview, Oxfam, warts and all, is still unequivocally on the side of the angels and speak more sense than most about issues that matter.
Historically, the focus has been on development as much as individual emergencies, resolutely unsexy and best handled by those who can talk convincingly about wells and irrigation, rather than weep for Africa. Dame Helen Mirren, bless her, can even put her name to a well-nuanced piece on the horrors inflicted by the Ugandan Lord's Resistance Army. I still harbour shy (possibly pathetic) fantasies of a trip together to some African backwater, Dame Helen quietly applauding my shrewd analyis of conflict dynamics while coyly fielding questions about 'The Long Good Friday' and her memories of going naked in 'Caligula'. So far, I have had to make do with a meal out with Nigel from Eastenders in Rwanda.
Which brings us back to Kristin. I have seen worse, Oscar wailer Sally Field promised Americans that "no one in Africa need ever starve again" while raising funds for LiveAid. Kristin's biography reveals that a past fondness for alcohol has given way to an enthusiasm for acupuncture (not readily available in Dadaab, but I'm sure we are getting there). Her Facebook page is a little cute and cloying if baby elephants, dogs, kittens and dead gorillas are not your bag. But she was well on message at the Montreal Milennium Summit, saving the world on all that. So on balance, put away the sick-bag or get out the cheque book? It's an alarmingly tough call.
One of the biggest disappointments of a four-month stint in New York last year (walking down Madison and all that) was not to catch a glimpse of any of the famour foursome in the bars and boutiques of Manhattan, making do instead with the truly execrable SATC2. But never mind Carrie and co shaking it with the sheikhs in some Arabian pleasure zone. Here was Kristin on Kleenex alert, despatched to BBC soft question sofaland to peddle a personalised account of how bad things are, wowing her vacuous early morning hosts with tales of death and desperation. Or should that be gush and slush? The tears were for real.
So how to respond to this? How heartless can one be to ponder not the ongoing misery of those pouring into the refugee camps, but the judgement of Oxfam, entrusting its message from the crisis zone to a millionaire thespian. Whatever else is on the K Davis acting CV, she appears to be doomed to be forever associated with a TV show that (infamously) celebrates frivolous consumption, rich girl angst, shoes, handbags and missing orgasms.
Oxfam I know of old. As a callow schoolboy, I sang carols for them, gave them the modest proceeds from a school magazine and helped sort out the books in a shop in Cheltenham. Much of my library and wardrobe comes from Oxfam outlets. But I have also taken the Oxfam shilling, joining them on missions to Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo. In my naive worldview, Oxfam, warts and all, is still unequivocally on the side of the angels and speak more sense than most about issues that matter.
Historically, the focus has been on development as much as individual emergencies, resolutely unsexy and best handled by those who can talk convincingly about wells and irrigation, rather than weep for Africa. Dame Helen Mirren, bless her, can even put her name to a well-nuanced piece on the horrors inflicted by the Ugandan Lord's Resistance Army. I still harbour shy (possibly pathetic) fantasies of a trip together to some African backwater, Dame Helen quietly applauding my shrewd analyis of conflict dynamics while coyly fielding questions about 'The Long Good Friday' and her memories of going naked in 'Caligula'. So far, I have had to make do with a meal out with Nigel from Eastenders in Rwanda.
Which brings us back to Kristin. I have seen worse, Oscar wailer Sally Field promised Americans that "no one in Africa need ever starve again" while raising funds for LiveAid. Kristin's biography reveals that a past fondness for alcohol has given way to an enthusiasm for acupuncture (not readily available in Dadaab, but I'm sure we are getting there). Her Facebook page is a little cute and cloying if baby elephants, dogs, kittens and dead gorillas are not your bag. But she was well on message at the Montreal Milennium Summit, saving the world on all that. So on balance, put away the sick-bag or get out the cheque book? It's an alarmingly tough call.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
HURRAY....HERE COMES THE HOBBIT
'Meet Bilbo!' this month's edition of 'Empire' film magazine suggests, deciding the world needs an update on Peter Jackson's work in progress out in thewilds of New Zealand. Given 'The Hobbit' is still 18 months away from a release date, this seems an unnecessary sop to 'Tolkies' (fans of J.R. Tolkien) and indeed to Warner Brothers, the film's backers. But in case you had forgotten, we are talking about a "long-awaited $500 million, two-film prequel to The Lord of the Rings, as filmed in real 3D"....and the really good news is that Martin Freeman is on board this time, joining Ian McKellen, Bernard Hill,Elijah Wood, Cate Blanchett and all the other lustrous thespians who have sold their souls to the tedious Tolkie super franchise. Oh God, Stephen Fry is in there too, playing the "greedy Master of Lake Town". Is David Mitchell also lurking somewhere in the Tower of Echtelion?
I have no worries about the feeble talents of Wood and Freeman being used in this overblown Dungeons and Dragons drivel. Poor Martin has never topped Tim in The Office. Genuinely endearing in that, his charms have worn very thin elsewhere. Elijah Wood's turn as a 'Green Street' West Ham football thug, cute and so courageous, was laughably bad, as was the actor's professed love of Upton Park. No fear of Millwall when you have battled Middle Earth nasties and held on to the ring.
But Sir Ian? Please....He stares out balefully from the Empire cover ('Your Return to Middle-Earth Starts Here!') long pipe in hand, looking like the Russian emigre brefriended by the Railyway Children.
I hold the man dear, having seen his Romeo opposite the luscious Francesca Annis as Juliet at Stratford many moons ago. His Macbeth was peerless, his Richard III fearless. But will he now be remembered best as a hoary old wisecracking wizard, the captive of Tolkies?
I have no worries about the feeble talents of Wood and Freeman being used in this overblown Dungeons and Dragons drivel. Poor Martin has never topped Tim in The Office. Genuinely endearing in that, his charms have worn very thin elsewhere. Elijah Wood's turn as a 'Green Street' West Ham football thug, cute and so courageous, was laughably bad, as was the actor's professed love of Upton Park. No fear of Millwall when you have battled Middle Earth nasties and held on to the ring.
But Sir Ian? Please....He stares out balefully from the Empire cover ('Your Return to Middle-Earth Starts Here!') long pipe in hand, looking like the Russian emigre brefriended by the Railyway Children.
I hold the man dear, having seen his Romeo opposite the luscious Francesca Annis as Juliet at Stratford many moons ago. His Macbeth was peerless, his Richard III fearless. But will he now be remembered best as a hoary old wisecracking wizard, the captive of Tolkies?
Friday, 8 July 2011
URBAN BLIGHT AND MUSICAL SHITE
Was there a better UK Chart-topper in the 1980s than 'Ghost Town' by The Specials? Subtle brass, eery organ, Terry Hall's dead-pan vocals, a flugelhorn in there somewhere and that weird kind of wailing, a blissful, powerful three minutes and forty seconds. The producer was not Elvis Costello, who was at the controls for two of the band's albums, but John Collins. For more details, go to: http://2-tone.info/articles/john_collins.html for his account of the production and the always reliable Alex Petridis in The Guardian on what it all meant. http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2002/mar/08/artsfeatures.popandrock for further details.
The song was recorded in Leamington Spa rather than Coventry, where there probably was not quite as much 'fighting on the dance floors'. But nevertheless, Ghost Town was a bit of a sociologist's dream, going to Number One in the week of Toxteth, Moss Side and all that.
But here I fear endeth the earnest essay on the power of music and its links to urban deprivation and insurrection. Looking at the chart line-up from the week in which Toxteth burned and you don't see many other singles kicking Thatcherism in the teeth and capturing the mood of a forgotten nation.
The rerelease of 'No Woman No Cry', coming after Bob Marley's demise, added much needed quality. Later in the summer there would be Stevie Wonder's joyous homage to Martin Luther King, 'Happy Birthday'. The latter was nearly wrecked for me by later being spun as a disco opener at the Tory conference in Brighton in honour of Thatcher's 63rd birthday. Hang the DJ, hang the DJ, hang the DJ.
But back to 1981. Other Motown legends joined Stevie in the summer hit parade. I was a teenage sucker for both Michael Jackson's sugary 'One Day in Your Life' and Smokey Robinson's 'Being With You', which hinted at former glories. Also rather lovely was Randy Crawford's 'You Might Need Somebody' and Abba's stern, 12-inch stomper, 'Lay All Your Love on Me'.
Grace Jones was lurking in the lower regions of the charts with 'Pull Up to the Bumper', whose lyrical ambiguity and sense of wicked adventure probably kept it off the Radio One playlist. I did not lose my virginity to that, or indeed (mercifully) to Aneka's 'Japanese Boy' or Shakin' Stevens cover of 'Green Door'. or 'Teddy Bear' by Red Sovine.
There was not much political in these offerings. I fear the tone was really being set by the likes of Duran Duran with 'Girls on Film', and the ever-execrable Spandau Ballet. The Kemp brothers later turned up on a Red Wedge bill to less than rapturous applause from the Labour Party faithful. But I don't think 1981's 'Chant Number One' had much to do with dole queue rage.
"A curious smell,an intangible crime
I'm washing my clothes,but the stain still grows
cover your eyes,the stain still shows".
This suggests either a New Romantic accident at the launderette or (God forbid) in the bathroom. Later the Spandaus take us into the West End:
"you go down Greek street
then it's underground
well it's Soho life
for this mobile knife"
Maybe they were looking for a nearby loo. Bar Italia, just around the corner in Frith Street, does the job nicely, but it's polite to have a four-quid cappucino after you've been.
The song was recorded in Leamington Spa rather than Coventry, where there probably was not quite as much 'fighting on the dance floors'. But nevertheless, Ghost Town was a bit of a sociologist's dream, going to Number One in the week of Toxteth, Moss Side and all that.
But here I fear endeth the earnest essay on the power of music and its links to urban deprivation and insurrection. Looking at the chart line-up from the week in which Toxteth burned and you don't see many other singles kicking Thatcherism in the teeth and capturing the mood of a forgotten nation.
The rerelease of 'No Woman No Cry', coming after Bob Marley's demise, added much needed quality. Later in the summer there would be Stevie Wonder's joyous homage to Martin Luther King, 'Happy Birthday'. The latter was nearly wrecked for me by later being spun as a disco opener at the Tory conference in Brighton in honour of Thatcher's 63rd birthday. Hang the DJ, hang the DJ, hang the DJ.
But back to 1981. Other Motown legends joined Stevie in the summer hit parade. I was a teenage sucker for both Michael Jackson's sugary 'One Day in Your Life' and Smokey Robinson's 'Being With You', which hinted at former glories. Also rather lovely was Randy Crawford's 'You Might Need Somebody' and Abba's stern, 12-inch stomper, 'Lay All Your Love on Me'.
Grace Jones was lurking in the lower regions of the charts with 'Pull Up to the Bumper', whose lyrical ambiguity and sense of wicked adventure probably kept it off the Radio One playlist. I did not lose my virginity to that, or indeed (mercifully) to Aneka's 'Japanese Boy' or Shakin' Stevens cover of 'Green Door'. or 'Teddy Bear' by Red Sovine.
There was not much political in these offerings. I fear the tone was really being set by the likes of Duran Duran with 'Girls on Film', and the ever-execrable Spandau Ballet. The Kemp brothers later turned up on a Red Wedge bill to less than rapturous applause from the Labour Party faithful. But I don't think 1981's 'Chant Number One' had much to do with dole queue rage.
"A curious smell,an intangible crime
I'm washing my clothes,but the stain still grows
cover your eyes,the stain still shows".
This suggests either a New Romantic accident at the launderette or (God forbid) in the bathroom. Later the Spandaus take us into the West End:
"you go down Greek street
then it's underground
well it's Soho life
for this mobile knife"
Maybe they were looking for a nearby loo. Bar Italia, just around the corner in Frith Street, does the job nicely, but it's polite to have a four-quid cappucino after you've been.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
MY VERY OWN CRUSADER
What treats and treasures July 6 offers to historians and make-a-list bores. Not a good day for martyrs. Sir Thomas More, social philosopher, statesman, saint and blogger, lost his head in 1535. Czech religious reformer Jan Hus got to heaven first, burned at the stake in Prague in 1415. The rather less saintly Lawrence of Arabia stormed Aqaba, vanquishing the Turks, although in the film Peter O'Toole, in some discomfort from saddle sores, led the camel charge on a Spanish beach near Almeira.
A more dubious Middle East warrior, Richard the Lionheart, ascended the throne of England on July 6, beginning a ten-year reign spent mostly overseas, bossing the Third Crusade, battling French barons and eventually taking a fatal cross-bow bolt, leaving the kingdom to scheming brother John.
What do we know of Richard? Shakespeare didn't go there, starting his account of warring monarchs with 'King John'. But a much greater dramatist, Sir Tim Rice, mercifully did. Rice gave us 'Blondel', the musical based around the mediaeval legend of the tenacious troubadour who tracked down his king in Austria, having discovered that Richard was not on a skiing holiday, but had been incarcerated by a Crusading rival. Blondel sings outside the castle prison walls. In the original West End production, Blondel was played by Paul Nicholas, who could have serenaded his king (and sealed his execution) with 'Grandma's Party', or 'Dancing with the Captain'. Richard was played by Stephen Tate, formerly of excellent mid-70s TV series 'Survivors'. Andrew Lloyd Webber was not involved this time, but did compose 'Come back Richard, Your Country Needs You', available for ALW completists in a box set or two.
There is still, sadly, no Lionheart biopic, but quite a few thespians have given Richard their best shot. Anthony Hopkins played the stormy princeling in 'The Lion in Winter'. Hopkins,then 32, was up against Dad, Henry II, O'Toole, a boozy 36. Others followed: Julian Glover, Frankie Howerd, Rory Edwards, Patrick Stewart, Danny Huston and memorably (if briefly) Sean Connery giving his blessing to a green-clad Kevin Kostner in 'Robin Hood-Prince of Thieves'.
Richard's alleged support for Robin's Sherwood-based gang may be the stuff of myth. But what of long-standing rumours of Richard's homosexuality? Gay Heroes (http://www.gayheroes.com/rich.htm)
point to Richard's failure to provide spouse Berenagria with a single child, hinting that he preferred the chamber of friend turned rival Philip of France. Other male lovers are alluded to and are in no position to provide injunctions.
But the only Richard you really need is the butch and bold warrior sketched by the late great John Kenney, who adorns the cover of the 1965 Ladybird, 'Richard the Lionheart', another Lawrence du Garde Peach gem from the much-adored 'Adventures from History'. This was undoubtedly my favourite from the series, great locations, awesome battle scenes featuring Richard wielding with sword ands axe, and somewhat fictionalised moments from history, including the famous 'sword contest' involving Richard and 'chivalrous' foe Saladin.
My other heroes at this stage were singer song writer Gilbert O'Sullivan and Gloucestershire and South Africa all-rounder Mike Procter. Gilbert was a bit frizzy to be a full-on hero (and a bit of a drip, if truth be told), Procter a little too porcine. Richard was the business. Kenney's classic image of Richard surveying his soldiers, before they engage in more slaughter of the enemy, is available as a Ladybird print for a tenner. But £175 will secure a framed canvas of the same. Just wondering if any of my summer hosts would like this as a parting gift.
A more dubious Middle East warrior, Richard the Lionheart, ascended the throne of England on July 6, beginning a ten-year reign spent mostly overseas, bossing the Third Crusade, battling French barons and eventually taking a fatal cross-bow bolt, leaving the kingdom to scheming brother John.
What do we know of Richard? Shakespeare didn't go there, starting his account of warring monarchs with 'King John'. But a much greater dramatist, Sir Tim Rice, mercifully did. Rice gave us 'Blondel', the musical based around the mediaeval legend of the tenacious troubadour who tracked down his king in Austria, having discovered that Richard was not on a skiing holiday, but had been incarcerated by a Crusading rival. Blondel sings outside the castle prison walls. In the original West End production, Blondel was played by Paul Nicholas, who could have serenaded his king (and sealed his execution) with 'Grandma's Party', or 'Dancing with the Captain'. Richard was played by Stephen Tate, formerly of excellent mid-70s TV series 'Survivors'. Andrew Lloyd Webber was not involved this time, but did compose 'Come back Richard, Your Country Needs You', available for ALW completists in a box set or two.
There is still, sadly, no Lionheart biopic, but quite a few thespians have given Richard their best shot. Anthony Hopkins played the stormy princeling in 'The Lion in Winter'. Hopkins,then 32, was up against Dad, Henry II, O'Toole, a boozy 36. Others followed: Julian Glover, Frankie Howerd, Rory Edwards, Patrick Stewart, Danny Huston and memorably (if briefly) Sean Connery giving his blessing to a green-clad Kevin Kostner in 'Robin Hood-Prince of Thieves'.
Richard's alleged support for Robin's Sherwood-based gang may be the stuff of myth. But what of long-standing rumours of Richard's homosexuality? Gay Heroes (http://www.gayheroes.com/rich.htm)
point to Richard's failure to provide spouse Berenagria with a single child, hinting that he preferred the chamber of friend turned rival Philip of France. Other male lovers are alluded to and are in no position to provide injunctions.
But the only Richard you really need is the butch and bold warrior sketched by the late great John Kenney, who adorns the cover of the 1965 Ladybird, 'Richard the Lionheart', another Lawrence du Garde Peach gem from the much-adored 'Adventures from History'. This was undoubtedly my favourite from the series, great locations, awesome battle scenes featuring Richard wielding with sword ands axe, and somewhat fictionalised moments from history, including the famous 'sword contest' involving Richard and 'chivalrous' foe Saladin.
My other heroes at this stage were singer song writer Gilbert O'Sullivan and Gloucestershire and South Africa all-rounder Mike Procter. Gilbert was a bit frizzy to be a full-on hero (and a bit of a drip, if truth be told), Procter a little too porcine. Richard was the business. Kenney's classic image of Richard surveying his soldiers, before they engage in more slaughter of the enemy, is available as a Ladybird print for a tenner. But £175 will secure a framed canvas of the same. Just wondering if any of my summer hosts would like this as a parting gift.
BABY YOU'RE A RICH MAN
'Who wants to be a millionaire?" The Guardian asked recently, Patrick Foster providing some interesting 'gestimates' on the chunks of cash trousered by the likes of Chris Moyles, Sir Bruce Forsyth and Graham Norton for BBC work (http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2011/jul/03/bbc-pay-talent-stars-accounts). These revelations are never quite as juicy as you want them to be, (where are the escort services and details of dodgy corporate gigs?) but provide some mild titillation for jealous fringe BBC players like myself and the more embattled parts of the BBC we have served at different times. Blood Boils Copiously? Well, up to a point. Should we begrudge current affairs all-rounders like Marr and Paxman their pay packets? I would certainly expect them to pick up the tab in the (improbable) event of a shared meal or late night drinking session. Sadly, I rarely get to meet such luminaries, although I live in hope of sharing a Greggs lunchtime combo with Gary Lineker (perhaps with some Walkers Crisps on the side?).
I guess levels of outraged correspond in large part to how much one likes or detests those on the pay roll. Surprise, surprise....the reviled 'Top Gear' trio of laddish japesters (or their respective production companies), all appear to be massively loaded. Given that Top Gear is now deemed to be one of the BBC's um...most successful exports, knighthoods or even peerages for Hammond, May and Clarkson should surely follow. My own journalistic earnings sadly don't run to hiring contract killers, but I would love to see the boys abandon their toys and join me on a pre-booked Fun Fare National Express trip. London Victoria to Penzance, Jeremy?
I guess levels of outraged correspond in large part to how much one likes or detests those on the pay roll. Surprise, surprise....the reviled 'Top Gear' trio of laddish japesters (or their respective production companies), all appear to be massively loaded. Given that Top Gear is now deemed to be one of the BBC's um...most successful exports, knighthoods or even peerages for Hammond, May and Clarkson should surely follow. My own journalistic earnings sadly don't run to hiring contract killers, but I would love to see the boys abandon their toys and join me on a pre-booked Fun Fare National Express trip. London Victoria to Penzance, Jeremy?
Saturday, 2 July 2011
ARE WE MISSING MORRISON?
It's meant to be the grave you can't miss, but I admit to having twice toured the Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris and failed to find Jim Morrison's resting place, or shrine. No bad thing, according to Wikipedia, which sniffily points out: "Permanent crowds and occasional vandalism surrounding this tomb have caused tensions with the families of other, less famous, interred individuals".
I'm sure on both occasions that there were plenty of semi-stoned, curious Morrisonites I could have asked, but maybe, as a pretentious sixteen-year-old, I wanted to appear less naff and ghoulish and pretend I was after troubled chanteuse Edith Piaf, Resistance hero Jean Moulin or Oscar Wilde. The latter could probably have got some good copy out of Morrison, alive or dead, particularly his (alleged) death in the bath. Surely better than collapsing on the loo, à la Evelyn Waugh, although you do wonder if it was a bubble bath and whether he had a pleasant soaking before choking.
As rock bores will quickly tell you, Morrison was in the '27' club, the age at which Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix also left us, mainly through 'susbtance abuse', or misreading prescriptions. Kurt Cobain came much later, (allegedly) shot by his own gun in April 1994, an event which for sadder rock fans registered more profoundly than the mass slaughter going on in Rwanda at the time.
I supect that Jimi, Janis and Kurt all have a bit more cred and kudos with the cognoscenti these days than poor Jim. Why? Some not very good later albums when the Doors were running out of steam (Waiting for The Sun springs to mind, or have I got that wrong?). Too much myth-making by admirers, including Danny Sugarman's overheated biography 'No One Get Out of Here Alive' (did he just mean the bathroom?). A less-than-enthralling Oliver Stone movie with the unloveable Val Kilmer woefully miscast as the Lizard King. The Doors did little service to their own reputation by hiring Ian Astbury of The Cult as a latter-day stand-in vocalist, offering an even more pointless combo than From The Jam or a Lynott-less Thin Lizzy. There was also that initimate exposure business. Was Jim victim or visionary when he (allegedly) whipped it out in concert? Should he have been given a pardon or a plaque? Joan Didion contributed a quietly withering account of the Doors in rehearsal, getting the vibe together while waiting for their erratic-erotic vocalist to turn up. Give me Joy Division any day. The Doors certainly needed a Peter Hook.
But still...... there were those of us who did hold a bit of a torch for Jim, particularly in the early 1980s when The Doors were hip again, helped by Coppola's heavy-handed, but effective use of 'The End' in Apocalypse Now. Several British bands of that era were self-consciously Doors-influenced. At the top end creatively, there were Echo and the Bunnymen, whose own 'Heaven up Here' frankly knocks socks off anything that Jim, Ray, Robbie and the other one came up with. A month in Crete in 1981 included listening over and over again to The Doors on cassette. Maybe the Greeks also liked that first album's fierce, destructive poetry. "You know the day destroys the night, night divides the day" and off we went, with Zeus nodding his approval. Never mind that the Daily Telegraph later performed critical surgery on Break on Through and found nothing but hot air and empty, very Morrisonian pretension, typical fodder for lazy baby-boomer camp-followers wanting something dark and meaningful without injecting. Anyone for The Crystal Ship? There is still nothing in the fabulous word of rock quite like 'The End'. How many other rock epics give you that Oedipal let's go kill Dad and get dirty with Mum feel?
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