Let’s start with a gloriously progressive vision of England. Lilli Bolero , the latest recording by Martin Newell and his band Cleaners from Venus, is a work of low-fi genius, up there with the all time definitive classic They Could Have Been Bigger Than The Beatles by the TV Personalities, and that is high praise indeed. It is the very essence of positive Englishness — yes, such a thing does exist, although it is often obscured by bollocks — and is a huge steaming streaming hit, which will worry Martin, a legendarily private person, and also make him very happy.
I heard some of these songs at the recent anti-Farage gig Martin and I did in The Odious One’s constituency, and every single second of this album is the antithesis of Farage’s loathsome vision for our country, without being “obviously political” in any way. Indeed, the title track is a reference to an anti-Irish flag-shagging anthem set to a Purcell tune during the Protestant rebellion of 1688 which brought William of Orange to the throne. The Critic Alights At Holborn is a beautiful evisceration of the profession of English music journalist, or critic in general, in the 1980s (I know, I was one) and the whole album is full of conkers, horses, graveyards and songs about the weather.
If you’re fed up with Ingerland, Martin brings you England. Balm for the soul. And especially brilliant because Martin’s from Essex.
Well done my old mate. Listen on Bandcamp . Marc Bolan was my first and greatest inspiration, and this time of year always brings back sad memories for me.
I found his words and music at a very difficult time in my life and it was the date below which was “the day the music died” for me, rather than the February 3 plane crash in 1959 which took Buddy Holly, Richie Havens and the Big Bopper, and inspired Don McLean. So I guess this is my American Pie. SEPTEMBER 16 1977 Par Beach, Cornwall, 6am Or thereabouts, in perfect weather.
I always took my radio – Fishing and music went together. I switched it on and you were there. Your voice which was my microphone.
Your words so weird and wonderful Which spurred me on to write my own. Without a break, another song And then two more. I’m dancing now – In fishing gear, at 6am.
A smile so wide, remembering how I’d heard King Of The Rumbling Spires Aged just eleven. “That’s for me!” Hippy at first, then glam, then punk – I’d travelled with you, seamlessly. And then the DJ’s voice cut in – In sombre tones, said you’d just died.
I’m not a bit ashamed to say There on that beach I sat and cried. I’d never met you, we weren’t friends. I was surprised at what I did.
I wasn’t nineteen any more: I was an angry little kid. A clever child, a dying dad, A proud headmaster’s ill-thought scheme. A scholarship which wrecked my world But was my father’s final dream.
You took a sad and lost young boy And in his head you lit a spark Which set me on my path for life. You still inspire me. Thank you, Marc.
I’m writing this just before setting off for three dates in Stroud, Newport and at Morecambe Poetry Festival and then have a bit of time off before the 30th anniversary celebrations for my early music punk band Barnstormer begin in October. Cheers folks! For further info please visit www.facebook.
com/attilathestockbroker and/or attilathestockbroker.bandcamp.com/merch .
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