Month: November 2025

The Cult – November 24th, 1989

Posted on by edwardlayland

On November 24th, 1989, as a surly sixteen year old, I saw my first “proper” live concert. I’d seen unknown bands on other occasions, like free amusement park shows on holiday in California or holiday camp cabaret at Pontins in the UK, but nothing that really counted.The Cult at Wembley Arena on the Sonic Temple tour was my first gig as a paying customer. I shelled out the princely sum of 10 pounds (today that would be £26.71, but a show at the same venue now actually costs around £70, depending on the band) and got myself to London (don’t remember how) to meet my brother, aunt and uncle to begin what would become a lifelong passion. 

I suppose the first proper band I saw was Claytown Troupe as they were the support band, but I was only there for the Cult…and I was blown away. They burst onto the stage and launched into the underrated New York City and I was immediately in awe of how larger than life it all seemed. This was the Cult in their prime; Sonic Temple had gone top 10 in the US (selling over a million in the process) and top 3 in the UK, the classic line-up was in place and they’d finally rocked up for the UK leg of the tour after a series of US dates supporting Metallica and a a handful of European shows opening for Aerosmith. Basically, they were now primed for big arenas and riding the wave of big-time rock n roll. Anyway, they ran through a set of classics mixed with most of Sonic Temple – which had been out since April, so no debuting new songs – with the album’s filler tracks taking on a whole new dimension in the live arena.  

OK, I’ll admit it, I don’t “remember” just how great it was, but half the songs from the show are on the Sonic Temple 30th anniversary reissue, so that jogged my memory a tad. I do remember how I felt however, which was ecstatic! I was seeing my favourite band, in the flesh, playing all their best songs!!! I headbanged my way through the entire set and went back to my uncle and aunt’s in Selhurst with an aching neck, a ringing in my ears and high on the excitement of the whole thing. The next day I was treated to a vegetarian lasagne (!) and a tour of Croydon’s finest record stores – Beano’s, HR Cloakes, 101 Records – before somehow getting back to Southampton (again, don’t remember how – probably involved a train). 

Anyway, the point here is not to review the show, but to take a look at the memorabilia, as besides still having the original ticket (see above), I also have the absolutely spectacular concert programme. Even back in the 80s the humble programme was generally considered a bit of a ripoff as souvenirs go and has been gradually disappearing ever since…do they even still exist? But, this particular programme was a rarity, as it was much more than the standard array of glossy photos that was par for the course. Here you get features on all the band members with a couple of pages for everyone; a discography with a list of single and album releases; a family tree showing how the band formed and all the connections to other bands (Billy Duffy used to be in a band with Morrissey!); in addition to a fold out band poster in the middle. It’s beautifully packaged, the photography is superb and it’s packed with information; talk about getting your money’s worth. It makes for a fine memento of an important occasion in my life and still looks the business 36 years later. Check it out below. 

Everybody Loves a Ballad

Posted on by edwardlayland

Ok. Hands up, I admit it – I’m a sucker for a big rock ballad. You can’t beat a bluesy riff, some heart-break lyrics, a soaring solo and a massive chorus. Ever since I was a kid I’ve loved a tragic melancholy slice of the break-up blues; my favourite Elvis track growing up was ‘I Just Can’t Help Believing’ and I loved ELO‘s ‘I Can’t Get It Out of My Head’; Doctor Hook‘s ‘Sylvia’s Mother’ was another that drifted up through the floor late at night that I couldn’t resist. Call me a sentimental old fool if you will, but come on, we all love a good ballad really and this updated version of an old listicle brings a few that have stood by me.

Ah yes, I remember it well, one of my first musical epiphanies. Back in the days before the internet, before satellite TV and even before channel 5, entertainment back home in England fell way short of today’s multiplicity – we had four TV channels and a handful of radio stations, yet access to non-pop programming was available for a few precious hours here and there. Besides The Tube (Channel 4), The Old Grey Whistle Test (BBC 2) and of course the legendary John Peel on Radio One, we also had the Friday Rock Show with the gravel voiced Tommy Vance for the rock/metal crowd, of which I was an enthusiastic member. Anyway, there I was one Friday night, in the middle of winter, must’ve been January ’89, headphones plugged into my midi system, when Tommy announced the next song – “Top 40 record? Hmmmm” – followed by the heartbreak riff of ‘How Come It Never Rains’ pulling on the heartstrings of my lovelorn 15 year old self. Damn it, I almost cried! I fucking loved that song, still do, Tyla‘s raspy cracked voice, the hook laden chorus and all those bluesy notes bending out of shape – unbeatable.

How do you end an album almost totally dedicated to shagging? Getting dumped that’s how. ‘What It Takes’ has to be one of the ultimate power ballads – it is Aerosmith at their heart aching best. Lyrically it is nothing short of superb, even with its cheeky references to other tracks*, and musically it’s sublime, the subtle time shifts are pure genius. Throw in an astonishing vocal from Steven Tyler and you have one of their finest crying in your beer tunes ever, something they’ve tried hard to match multiple times since, failing repeatedly every damn time. Yes, even on ‘I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing’ – it was good, but pales in comparison. Pass the tissues.

Although ‘Don’t Know What You Got (til it’s gone)’ is without doubt one of the cheesiest, most cliché glam rock power ballads in the history of hair spray, Cinderella were somewhat unfairly lumped in with the glam bands from LA as they prove on the title track of the very same album. Tom Keifer and co absolutely slay on the superb Zeppelinesque blues lament that is ‘Long Cold Winter‘, with its badass bluesy vocals accompanied by a mean lick of guitar; man, the sky is crying, the guitars are crying, even Tom sounds like he’s crying and it’s gonna be a long cold winter without your love baby.

Jeff Buckley‘s ‘Grace’ is one of the finest albums ever committed to vinyl, bearing not even the vaguest hint of filler. Although ‘Last Goodbye is an absolutely incredible break up song, there is way too much groove to the bass line to call it a ballad; ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over’ on the other hand….slow acoustic strum, rainy funeral imagery and tonight you’re on my mind… we get soaring vocals in the hook, brooding Hammond underpinning the melody as the emotions stack up in the lyrical climax:
“It’s never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It’s never over, all my riches for her smiles when i slept so soft against her
It’s never over, all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
It’s never over, she’s the tear that hangs inside my soul forever”


Then there’s ‘Forget Her’ which features Jeff at his best, fuck it just listen to it – it’s awesome.

Tesla were so sure they’d written the ultimate love song that they called it ‘Love Song’. Ok, so it’s like mega cheesy but hey, it works. Medieval intro and classic break up lyric to kick off, but the twist here is that this song offers hope that we can all find love again. It’s corny, it’s lighters in the air time and on one level it totally sucks, but on another you can’t argue with it’s delivery, from every soaring guitar lick to the arm waving sing along parts – the extended five man acoustical jam version is unbeatable – it out clichés every glam rock cliché ballad ever – even ‘Every Rose..’.

You don’t get much more heart breaking than the warm bath, open vein agony of ‘Black’ by Pearl Jam. Man, Eddie Vedder was really upset when he wrote those words and if you can’t identify with how the poor fella feels then you are either a cold unfeeling shell or you’ve never been dumped. For me, the definitive version has to be the one from MTV Unplugged where Eddie really belts out that killer final slice of desperate heartache.

One of my all time favourite songs is so obscure you’ll be hard pushed to find it anywhere. On the UK version of Tones of Home by Blind Melon, ‘Wooh G.O.D.’, also known as ‘Whoa Dog’, is either a mispress on the vinyl 12″ or wrongly credited as ‘Soak The Sin’. Whatever the case may be, this melancholy lament by tragic vocalist Shannon Hoon to his dead dog** is just so damn raw…

Notes:
*) “Girl before I met you; I was F.I.N.E fine; but your love made me a prisoner; yeah my heart’s been doing time”
**) “Wooh” was the name of Shannon’s dog. It is spelled Wooh, but pronounced “whoa.” Shannon would always catch it tearing something up or raising hell and he always yelled “whoa!” to try to get him to stop so he named him that. Shannon got him in a pet store and really connected with the dog and felt bad that he was cooped up in a cage. The dog was expensive so Shannon went back to the pet store, slid the glass up on the cage and snuck Wooh out of the store under his coat. He died when he swallowed a pin cushion. He was undergoing surgery and was over-anethstized by the vet. Shannon and Rogers buried Wooh near the big “HOLLYWOOD” sign in California. From http://www.blindmelon.org

Terry, Kurt and the Power of Art

Posted on by edwardlayland

I wrote this piece back in 2015 when one of my favourite writers passed away. It was originally on an obscure, now defunct, Tumblr blog that I had. However, although the people are less current than they were and the movie has long passed into memory, something about this article still seemed relevant, hence the share.

One of my oldest friends has died and, although we never actually met or spoke, I can’t help but feel wistfully sad at his passing.

It brings home to me how powerful art can be; we form a relationship with the purveyor, and I don’t mean the stalky type of relationship where we delude ourselves of reciprocity, he or she is with us during so many moments of our lives that we come to develop that easy familiarity that we have with our very best friends.

Terry Pratchett accompanied me through a large section of my life, over twenty years I guess. He was a constant companion during the rollercoaster of University as I found my way in the real Ankh Morpork (Terry’s capital city in the Discworld books) and whenever we hadn’t been in touch for a while he was always there when I needed him.

In his books Terry created a parallel universe we could all feel at home in, despite its apparent unreality, Comic Fantasy not being the most obvious choice of genre for most readers. Terry managed to captivate, enchant and most importantly include us all in his clever brand of observational humour, providing the kind of insight into human nature we could all relate to. The phrase “complex simplicity” springs to mind as the most appropriate way to describe the genius with which Terry wielded his pen, and probably sword; the use of capital letters to indicate that Death was talking being the most obvious example – kinda simple way to mark the character but genius in the fact that it gave Terry’s Grim Reaper an identity and voice off the pages.

This kind of humour united fans of the books, we were all in on the jokes even if we were at times on the receiving end of some gentle mockery; so far removed from the self righteous nastiness often present in satirical humour. Terry was all about self deprecation. I will miss him. But then again I still have about 25 of the 70 books he wrote, I can revisit them like I might an old friend and there are a whole host of characters and stories that I still don’t know. I loved Terry’s art, I don’t confuse it with the person, but I appreciate the impact this man had on my life and how he had been a friend to me for so long.

It was somewhat coincidental then, that another renowned artist was brought to my conscience on the day of Terry’s death. I happened to see the trailer for Montage of Heck, the upcoming documentary into the life of Kurt Cobain. The trailer features a number of home video scenes of Kurt and his daughter Frances Bean, as well as the much maligned Courtney Love, and is stark contrast to the exposé that is Soaked in Bleach.

I liked Nirvana, I saw them live, I rode the grunge train for a while during my aforementioned University years, but was never sucked into the idolatry of Cobain that the t-shirt tribes still hold on to. Nevertheless, I recognize Kurt’s talent and impact on the music industry; his songs stand up, the formulaic meanderings of In Utero notwithstanding, and I believe that on Unplugged in NYC we can get a sense of whatever it was that set him apart. My “problem” with Kurt was more personal I suppose, in that I have never been sure how I feel about the man behind the art, like, was he that good? Was he that different? Was he really that tortured? Then I saw the trailer.

Oh my.

How human.

I’d forgotten how dehumanizing the media can be, they tend to objectify artists whilst at the same time promoting vampiric interest in their private lives, although writers like Terry tend not to be so celebritised and its their enduring humanness that is the appeal. So when a movie maker gains access to the truly intimate moments of someone so iconic, and not just the paycheck driven words and pictures of the paparazzi, it was enough to stop me in my tracks. I await the movie with relish, not voyeuristically, but with eager anticipation of seeing the child who would become the biggest star in the world so that I can contemplate the tragic humanity of it all.

How far reaching art can be.

Memorabilia

Posted on by edwardlayland

Music became so easily available in the early 2000s, first with file sharing and illegal downloads, then with streaming services and platforms like YouTube, that the recorded product was essentially devalued. With the internet, we no longer had to pay for music and the entire industry shifted towards what we see today – paying through the nose for the concert experience with the best view going to the highest bidder. The release of a single or listening to an entire album lost their importance and the rich experience of actually buying a product by your favourite artist literally faded into history.

While the shift away from the physical product has its advantages, like being able to access whatever we want, whenever we want, the digital experience lacks something. And while I am an avid user of Spotify and love putting playlists together, I find it a little sad that the excitement of waiting for the new album or single from your favourite band to hit the shops in a wide variety of formats has gone. It wasn’t necessarily about the record itself, it was the anticipation of having it in your hands and then, in the case of singles, there was the added excitement of waiting for its chart position on Sunday night (as we did in the UK). If you were lucky, it might then get a performance or a video on Top of the Pops the following Thursday or crop up on the Chart Show on Saturday morning.

For the collectors among us, there was also the unadulterated joy of stumbling across a hidden gem while flicking through the racks of Virgin, Tower, HMV, WH Smith’s or Our Price. Not to mention the second-hand record stores that provided a sensory experience on a whole other level, from the sounds of obscure post punk, through the smells of stale cigarette smoke mixed with incense, to the feel of the records themselves. I enjoyed many such adventures in my teenage years, trading in LPs I’d grown out of for semi-new, cut price offerings at stores like Henry’s or Weasels (LPs) and Ferrets (singles) down near the Joiners Arms in Southampton. Later I was introduced to Sister Ray’s in SoHo and made the pilgrimage to the mecca that was Beano’s in Croydon. Good times.

Although vinyl is making something of a comeback and record fairs are much more common nowadays (is this a backlash against the digital?), the prices are now astronomical and it is more of a collectors market. There are still entire generations that will miss out on slipping a pristine black vinyl from its sleeve, hearing the crackle as the needle drops and listening to the A side, be it a single or an LP (no shuffling no skipping), before flipping the disc over and doing it all again on the B side, all while reading the lyrics on the inner sleeve of the album.

There’s so much of the record owning experience that younger generations will never know: picture discs, gatefold sleeves, numbered limited editions, Parental Advisory stickers, the extended remix on the 12 inch single with the unreleased live tracks on the B side, the radio edit, the poster bag, the double A side, the song that was only available on the flip side of the 7 inch, the occasional 10 inch, box sets, and, of course, the stunning array of album cover art that is so much better in the flesh. And that’s just vinyl! CDs often came as special editions, had extensive liner notes from the band, or hidden tracks. Even cassette singles had their charm.

So, when I made the permanent move to Brazil back in 2002 (I flew on the day of the England v Brazil World Cup quarter final), the one thing I refused to leave behind, bin, or sell was my music collection. As such, I slipped piles of CDs into my luggage and had my record collection and any memorabilia of sentimental value shipped over – do you remember actual concert tickets and concert programmes? A lot of the items remained in storage for a very long time and have only recently seen the light of day – new house, new office etc – but I thought it might be interesting to share some of those items and the stories behind them over the coming weeks in a loving lookback to a time when music as a product had value.

Nöthin’ But a Good Time

Posted on by edwardlayland

Tom Beaujour and Richard Bienstock’s Nothin’ But a Good Time tracks the decadent rise and fall of the much derided 80s hard rock / hair metal scene. It weaves a narrative from Van Halen and early incarnations of Quiet Riot, through the dizzying success of Mötley Crüe and Poison and the birth of Guns N’ Roses, to the scene’s implosion with all the look-alike sound alikes power ballading their way onto Dial MTV. 

After a revealing introduction from Slipknot’s Corey Taylor (!) professing his love for the 80s glam scene, music journalists Beaujour and Bienstock create an oral history through old and new interviews and quotes from a broad selection of players from L.A. and beyond. It’s the words of those involved that paint a vivid picture of the scene and its shenanigans, whether it’s A&R wizards like Tom Zutaut, producers like Tom Werner, the bands themselves, the publicists, stylists or even the odd groupie spilling the tea.  

It was clearly a wild time marked by rampant misogyny and unbridled excess, and the book takes us behind the scenes into the rivalries and ridiculousness to reveal the last hurrah of a tribal music scene before grunge changed the mood, the internet permanently altered life as we know it, and phones replaced lighters. Love it or hate it, there is no denying that it was hard rock’s most vibrant period, and, despite the scene eventually disappearing up it’s own backside and having its coffin nailed shut by the Seattle bands, it produced a lot of surprisingly enjoyable, good, old-fashioned rock n roll, as well as a bunch of stuff that’s probably best forgotten.

The book reveals all kinds of insights, from Slash’s audition for Poison to Sebastian Bach’s performance alongside Zakk Wylde at a wedding that led to him getting the Skid Row gig, via Jon Bon Jovi’s parents of course! There are all kinds of interesting backstories, but the one big shocker is that some of these bands worked really hard to achieve what they did, living in abject poverty and dedicating absolutely every waking hour to making it big. 

The book can come across as a little he-said-she-said gossipy at times, but that’s hardly surprising given the overriding High School Musical vibe of the scene. Still, for those who grew up with an HR/HM soundtrack, this book provides a delightful romp down memory lane in a no-holds-barred exposé of the misadventures of the time. It has also been distilled down into a three part docuseries on Paramount+ that is equally good fun, featuring said interviews from a number of the key players. 

Now that there is some distance from the time, it is clear that despite eventually becoming a parody of itself, a lot of great songs came out of the melee. So, check out the Spotify playlist that I’ve curated to more or less chronologically reflect the book’s narrative.