"I'm fucked, mate," was all he could say at first, then, "I can't finish me bloody album for fuck's sake!" He always sounds Irish when he's drinking.
"It's the Irish talking", he'll say, pointing at the word on the bottle above "Whiskey"
He was working on a solo album after giving most of his adult musical life to the band. They'd all quit and now the bass player hates him, apparently.
After the second blown deadline, his label insisted on an outside producer, and he'd rejected everyone they'd suggested.
I got the next flight to London and by tea time the next day I was in beautiful downtown Swindon, dodging hipsters. I had a schwarma at Mamoun's, a Tiger brew or two at the Splash and Spasm, and thusly fortified, hired a car and rode out to his country estate. I never count on being fed out there. The cook is still mad at me for making a rude joke concerning "bangers and mash".
I felt a fair amount of trepidation as we turned off the A419, halfway to Cirencester, onto the long drive into the property, and rode past the empty zoo cages, now somewhat overgrown, and signalling disrepair. A family of hedgehogs it's sole captives.
The maid indicated he was out by the pool, where I found him shut in the cabana. With much cajoling he appeared, dressed in a rumpled terry cloth robe, a V-neck T-shirt, lightly dusted with bisquit crumbs, pink sunglasses, and matching plastic flipflops. He looked terrible. Worse for wear than the topiary animals out by the zoo.
"I need you to be my producer, mate," he said, sheepishly.
With that, he handed me a thumb drive with over 160 songs on it.
"I'll see what I can do," I said.
"I'm sure you'll make it right as rain," he said managing a smile, as I wondered about the metaphor. How could rain be "Right"?
"I get to play GOD, er Todd," I thought, and pondered that troubled history. A masterpiece and a thirty year grudge.
We locked ourselves in the former garden shed, now studio, lit a phatty, and got to work.
I was dumbstruck by the overall quality of the material.
Although there were plenty of throwaway tunes, and self-indulgent experiments, it was obvious there was a great album in there (A double as it turned out).
The first thing I did was get rid of everything that hearing once was enough.
I avoided the overly familiar material made famous by the band.
"WWTD" (What Would Todd Do?), I wondered. He'd roll up the sleeves and do some heavy lifting, while not being too concerned about stepping on any toes. Who has time for that? In other words, beat the thing into shape.
I rolled up my sleeves and dove in. Once the basic tracks were selected, I got fairly intrusive (Sir John's words, paraphrased without expletives), giving about half the songs tighter intros. Many were too long. "Little Lighthouse" was marred by almost a minute of noise it didn't need at the end. I gave it a proper one. Through brutality, I made room for more music.
"My Land Is Burning" required no such attention. A perfectly rendered closer if I ever heard one.
Sir John Johns is a great songwriter, fine vocalist, and nifty guitarist. I like his version of "Shake You Donkey Up" about 100 times more than what ended up on that, to my ears, unlistenable album, by the band. I hate the drum programming, but somehow his use of canned drums here doesn't bother me.
Perhaps because Sir John otherwise sounds so fresh. Nothing like first takes without band politics as a backdrop.
After spending so much time with this material, the band's versions can sound somewhat overworked.
I'm not sure how he feels about "our" record, as he hasn't returned my calls. I will someday get even for the "gift" he left in my suitcase.
The uniformed guys with guns weren’t amused.
I think it's a terrific personal statement, and after this experience,
probably the only solo album we'll ever get out of him.
Put it on again, indeed!
Sonic Bloom
Enjoy!
-BBJ
