Bill and Ben

Ben and Bert in Sligo 

Bert and I have known Ben all his life, all nineteen and a half years of it. He has been coming to our house since babyhood, sometimes with his family, sometimes just him. We always enjoy having him around. I'd thought a few years back that by now we'd be seeing less of him, that he'd have other places to go and other people to see but it seems that he still likes to hang out with the old codgers now and then. He's here now. The firm he is/was apprenticed to has gone into administration and Ben's at a loose end so he asked if we'd mind if he came over for a few days?

But we never, ever mind.

Tonight is Gypsy Jazz night so Ben and I left the musicians to it and went to my private, secret sitting room to Netflix and chill. We watched Bill Hicks perform his Just A Ride show in London. Ben hadn't come across Bill Hicks before and he was impressed. It struck me that although the cultural references were dated, the ideas that Bill put across were as relevant today, maybe even more so, than they were 25 years ago.

After my big success introducing Ben to Bill, I tried him on a couple of my favourite Woodstock clips. Joe Cocker, he knows Joe's early work, Santana, he thought they all look completely stoned and Country Joe and the Fish - good song. It was that song.

Gypsy Jazz over and done with I hunted him back to Bert because, y'know. The blog.

Forty Years After

I catch that Woodstock movie every ten years or so and each passing decade brings a different reaction. I was fifteen (almost sixteen) when Woodstock happened and at that time I would have liked to have seen Arlo Guthrie, because he was so pretty, Joan Baez, because Daddy liked her too, Canned Heat, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane and Jimi Hendrix because I loved them.

Back then I wasn’t that enamoured of Ten Years After or Joe Cocker and the Grease Band mainly because I didn’t fancy Alvin Lee or Joe Cocker. Alvin might have been greatly talented but he had a chin like Bruce Forsyth and I couldn’t imagine myself walking hand in hand with him through a cherry orchard in full bloom. Likewise Mr Cocker – great to listen to, but so sweaty, so rough, so not a Jackie pin-up.

Last night though told me a different story – there were Alvin and Joe, their sweet young faces, so soft, so unlined, and so young. How could I ever have thought they were hard or manly? They were darling, clever, brilliant and talented infants.

Then Santana came on. Now I have never been much of a Santana fan, nor did I ever care much for drum solos – but talk about babies! You should have seen that drummer! A cherub! I said to Bert. Look at him. He’s a baby. You wouldn’t get anyone as young these days, who’d be as skilled as that (correct me if I’m wrong). They wouldn’t put that effort into learning their craft. So spake the fogies of the Woodstock generation.

Later, I turned to Wikipedia to find out more. Michael Shrieve was that young drummer, he was only twenty, and he was the youngest performer to have played at Woodstock.

Here’s a link to the performance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XnamP4-M9ko

It starts with a shot of some fat, bare asses, a beautiful collie dog, then a guitarist with the best ever red hat, Carlos Santana and his amazing sinewy arms, some naked guy acting messianic, guy pubic hair shots, some blonde librarian type looking like she’s having an orgasm, lots of silly hippies, more fat bare asses and the amazing Michael Shrieve.