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The Rest of Both Worlds Online
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On-line articlesRest of Both Worlds On-line will carry articles not found in the magazine, which will be found here. This is also the gateway to The Lizard's Web and where you will find the Misheard Marillion Lyrics. Grendel - the AnalysisPromotional ideas for MarillionKatherine Crowe InterviewA Pilgrimage to Oxford
Here is the first.... our experiment into the effects of listening to Grendel...
As we were to feature Grendel in our debut issue, the editor felt it was only fair that he himself should be the guinea pig in a scientific experiment to determine the long term effects of this epic track. Although he was only 7 years old when this song was first written, we asked Mr Hughes to listen to the track and note down anything that occurred to him during it - this is the unedited text of his notes... 0.00 - Inserted 'B-sides Themselves' CD. So far so good. 0.10 - music starts. Decided that there's no way of getting through this straight, so I start to skin up. 0.29 - God, these vocals are a bit airy fairy! 0.44 - There's an echo on the word 'echo'. Clever. You can tell these boys went to University - well, agricultural college anyway. 1.26 - the furniture starts to shake, the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, the
cat suddenly runs off. We're approaching a crescendo, 1.55 - Absolutely nothing. We're back at the beginning again. 2.50 - In an attempt to lose the airy fairy vocals, Fish resorts to a silly falsetto. I'd like to see him try that these days... 3.33 - Oh good god! I hope they didn't pay that drummer too much... 4.26 - Now were talking! Obviously when the boys were on a tea break Tony Banks and Steve Hackett popped in to visit their old mate Dave Hitchcock. What? You mean they didn't...? 5.49 - Hang on, haven't we had this bit already? 6.58 - Whilst Pete, Steve and Mark work overtime to provide a soundscape of sinister
atmosphere, they were probably more than a 7.15 - A mere ten minutes left to go. 8.02 - Hehehehe! He said 'bastard'! Heheheheh! 8.28 - Right, that's the reefer finished. Wasting no time in sparking it up... 8.57 - Ominous cathedral organ. Oh dear, I can't believe no one mentioned it to them.
On the other hand, it is quite scary. I can't 9.24 - Bored with his organ, Mark resorts to some serious widdly widdly antics. Perhaps I should rephrase that... 9.57 - 'Screams are his music'!!? How on earth did this band ever get signed? 10.11 - Ah! A rolled 'r' sound. I detect the work of a Scotsman! 10.30 - More widdly widdly bollocks. Be fair though, it was only 1982. 11.33 - Bored with Mark indulging himself, Steve decides to cut loose with a rocktastic guitar attack. 12.34 - Ah, now this is the bit that separates the men from the boys. On one level this
is the sound of Mike Rutherford turning up a little 14.13 - oh for crying out loud, somebody buy him a metronome! This is more like Apocalypse in 9/8.5... 14.28 - Do you think if I gnawed off my own foot, that they'd let me out of here? 14.44 - having exhausted all the widdly widdly sounds on his keyboards, Mark sets foot into the previously uncharted waters of parp parp. 15.19 - Finished smoking the jay. Very stoned by now. too stoned to turn the stereo off anyway. 15.28 - Finally something to write home about! Steve's solo manages to hog enough of the sound spectrum to obscure some of the most blatant of Pointer's mistakes, on our way to... 17.12 - the 'rousing' conclusion. Conceptually appropriate in that it sounds like the
relieved exhalation of a thousand fans waiting for 15 minutes later - heart rate dropping back to normal. That's 17 minutes and 12 seconds
of my life I won't be getting back again. For some
And with that burst of deadly wit, we'll leave you to ponder on the result of this
groundbreaking medical test. If you would like any other
THE REST OF BOTH WORLDS GUIDE TO PROMOTING THE NEW MARILLION ALBUMWe at ROBW believe that controversy is the oxygen of publicity, or is that publicity is the oxygen of celebrity? Never mind, here are some silly ideas we had…
The Lizard Meets... Katherine CroweA short while ago, Mark Daghorn, the man who brought us Tales from the Engine Room, the co-writer of Plague of Ghosts, and producer of John Wesley's excellent The Emperor Falls album, contacted The Lizard and suggested we review an album he had just finished by Katherine Crowe. Our response was "Who? Oh go on - if we get a free copy, we might as well give it a listen." If you want to know what we thought of the album, then you'd better get a copy of ROBW2, available in December - see Ordering Details. If you want to know who Katherine Crowe is, simply read on...
Kath has spent her life indulging in music, and blames her parents for her original interest. Not that we should assume that they were professional musicians, rather that her father would always play music, and this is where Kath got some of her earlier influences from. Her style on the album varies from track to track, and it is easy to see where the influences come from. This is confirmed when she gives some examples - Kate Bush, Beverley Craven, Tori Amos and Sarah McLachlan being some of the more recognisable names. Whilst the music varies in style, in mood it is generally pretty much on the down side of depressed! Kath blames this on having gone through a lot of negative things in her life, which seems oddly incompatible with the lively enthusiastic person I find myself talking to. Track titles such as Losing Faith, Suicidal and Struck Down are obvious signposts to the mood of the songs, but the melancholy feel is present elsewhere. The song provisionally selected as the first single (Treading Water) is the only really up-beat track on the album, yet Kath admits that this is her least favourite track. In fact, in general, although she is very complimentary about Mark Daghorn's production, she says that her own inexperience meant that the album's sound and feel is more Mark's than her own. She would have preferred the album to be more out on the edge - "more Tori Amos" - than it is. The chances of making it big in the music scene are slim at the best of times, so surely producing an album that was more out on the edge would not make sense? Kath replies that her ambitions at this point are not set too high, and if the album allows her space and time to make more music, then it will have achieved enough for the moment. This sits uncomfortably with the official line that Kath is a Missionary Girl - a "girl with a mission", but Kath then admits that this is not actually the real explanation for the name of the title track. After a warning that we would print aything she told us, Kath still explained that the track is in fact written about the ex-girlfriend of her partner, who would only make love in one position... The title track is Kath's favourite, in spite of the fact that it is about someone else and, in fact, probably features less of her than any other track on the album. "Yes, but I love that melody" she replies, and goes on to add that the 3 minute guitar solo that ends the track (and the album) is one of her favourite moments. They had already laid down the solo a couple of days previous, but John Wesley suggested they take another run at it, so they did. As the solo (which was done in one take) emerged from Wes's guitar, she said her jaw dropped and they knew they had something special. At this point I asked for the relevance of the sample of Fish on the beginning of Friend of Mine, and she said that she had originally thought that the song should start with the sound of a telephone, and she had spoken to Fish a lot on the phone around the time he was trying to get the US tour organised. Moreover, they had what they felt was an appropriate sample. I pointed out the similarity of the first line of You Made Me Feel to a Jim Diamond song, and was met with complete incomprehension, so I ventured to sing the first line. "No - sing the Jim Diamond song", she said. "That was the Jim Diamond song", I replied. Coincidence or some subconscious memory it might have been, but clearly it was no deliberate reference! When I spoke to Kath, the album had not been properly released, and she was unsure how she thought it would do. Sensibly she was keeping her feet on the ground, but pointed out that the local radio station where she lives in South Wales has had a copy for a while, and receives various requests for it. The industrial landscape of South Wales is echoed in the cover of the album, but contrary to what you might be thinking, the naked woman is not Kath. The original painting, entitled "Woman versus Industry" is by Louise Payne, a friend of Kath's, and had hung over her fireplace. "When I put out my first album, I am going to use that as the cover", Kath had told her many times, and true enough, she did. "We were going to use that as the name for the album as well, but Woman Versus Industry sounded too political, so we didn't". It would be true to say that it would not be too appropriate for an album that Kath herself describes as "Middle of the Road". I point out that this is a tag that most artists would be offended by, yet she volunteers it as her own categrositaion of her work. She goes on to explain that she means that she feels that Missionary girl could appeal to a wide range of people. Presumably even those that try other positions. ******** Katherine Crowe's debut album "Missionary Girl" is released on Positive Records. For information, see their web site, at www.positiverecords.co.uk
A Pilgrimage to OxfordPaul Hughes, ROBW's editor, is a big fan of those Marillion boys, but suffers somewhat from living at some distance from the band, and events such as the fan club convention in Oxford. Don't feel too sorry for him, as he lives less than half and hour's drive from Haddington! In this article, Walter Dunlop chronicles his and Paul's trip to last year's convention...
This is yer actual track one, side one The mission - to transport two slightly suspicious looking characters from Edinburgh to
Oxford in the quickest time possible. It all starts in the most discouraging way possible. Having gone to the trouble of getting out to my parent's house in the arse end of nowhere (or somewhere just outside of Edinburgh), actually finding my way into the centre of town AND getting a decent parking space right in front of my house, I manage to oversleep by almost an hour and 15 minutes. The entire day hinges on the tightest possible schedule, with minimal time left for the sort of overshoots and misdirections which the midlands roadway system positively seems to invite. Sod it. that's the shower and shave out the window, then. I guess I'll just have to meet Ian Mosley while stinking like a polecat, then. Several frantic moments later I leave my house and set off to pick up Paul... to discover that the front right tyre on my parent's car appears to have picked up a slow puncture. Me being me, I don't notice this until my steering goes halfway up Dalry Road. Thankfully, a garage is near to hand and I finally manage to pull up in Arden Street not much more than two hours later than I said I would. Paul Hughes, of course, is monumentally unconcerned, and we take a little more time to get going. Well, you can't actually set out on a car journey like this without some decent provisions, which in our case amounts to a packet of crisps, a bottle of coke, batteries for the tape player and at least twenty tapes. All of this further eats into our time, but gives your driver a little time to calm himself. Which is just as well, given the state of frenzied panic I'd got myself into on the short drive across town. Before we've even got to the end of the street, we're off. The first sight of my parent's car elicits a delighted cry of "Why don't you take that piece of shit back to the junkyard?" as Paul turns into the Chocolate Monk before my very eyes. Guess that makes me Dean Martin, then. Hell, I can live with that. The Cannonball Run is never too far away over the next 24 hours. Note to the uninitiated - the Cannonball Run is one of those late seventies/early eighties road movies which the Americans used to crank out by the dozen. Invariably featuring Burt Reynolds and a cast of thousands, quotes from movies like this have been known to take the place of actual communication for the twenty something British male. Certainly, this proves to be the case where we're concerned for the next day or so, and I for one, couldn't be happier. This is going to be a bit good, this is. Ask not why (because I don't honestly know) but shortly after this the musical references start to fly. For some strange reason they start off being quite light, and get progressively heavier as the miles wear on. I introduce Paul to the delights of second Rolling Stones guitarist "Honest" Ron Wood as we swing through Musselburgh, and before Galashiels we've also reacquainted ourselves with "Big Sick Ugly" Jim Martin; Scott "Not" Ian, Big Ian and Little Ian from Deep Purple, who also featured The Cunt in Black, The Hat and the Lord is my organist... you get the general idea. By the time we reach Galashiels we've already hit full on Pink Floyd mode. A massive dissection of the towering musical genius that is "Smiling" Roger Waters follows (Gilmour wins, by two falls, an armlock and a couple of hundred sessions) - accompanied by a full performance of "The Wall" on the small and sadly erratic cassette recorder which sputters and pops on the dashboard as the miles wear on. Said performance of "The Wall" is periodically accompanied by the sound of two confirmed heavy smokers doing their best Floyd vocal impersonations. By far the sweeter voiced of the two of us, Paul seems happy to be Dave Gilmour, while I'm stuck with warbling Roger's finer moments. Still, it does give me the chance to terrify a little old lady as we pass through some quiet Scottish village while "One of my turns" is doing it's stuff. It's somewhere around here that Paul reveals a major talent, hitherto unknown - this man can roll spliffs in the strangest conditions. How anyone can manage to concoct a fatty boom batty blunt on the dashboard while barrelling down the motorway at eighty miles an hour is utterly beyond me. How anyone can possibly then think that's a good idea to offer one to the driver is even further beyond my comprehension. Despite being sorely tempted, I tactfully decline. Given the fact that the day has already taken on a fairly surreal tinge already, I don't really think it can make much difference to my mental state. It's just as well, as shortly after taking his first draw Paul discovers a new game, which sustains him for hundreds of miles, and which nearly causes three crashes and the utter ruination of a nice new pair of Y-Fronts. It's difficult to describe the scrotum tightening shock of a full throated shout of "Aaaaaaaaagh! Look out, Walter, a sock!!!" as we pass one of those signs warning of high winds ahead. I threaten major doom if he does it again after respectively "Aaaaaaaagh! Look out, Walter, tractors!!!!" and "Aaaaaaaaagh! Look out, Walter, squiggly lines!!!!" Sensibly, our boy takes the hint, just as "Powerslave" by Iron Bloody Maiden hits the cassette deck. All of you little trendy wendies out there with your SClub7 and Steps albums take note: a quick blast of Nicko McBrain is enough to cure 9 out of 10 of the world's ills, or at least it is until the tape deck starts to run down and Bruce Dickinson suddenly starts to sound like Captain Beefheart. I'll bet the Captain's a better fencer, anyway. With Gateshead round the corner we pass the Angel of the North, which I believe locals are not terribly impressed with. I rather like it - and I like it even more as I realise that it could be used as the ultimate stopper in a major police chase. A couple of good shotgun blasts could bring it crashing down in front of the pursuing police cars... but behind our speeding, giggling motor. Mind you, it would have been rather better had it been the real Angel of the North. I'm sure Newcastle's tourist industry would pick up enormously if all entrants to the city had to drive between the enormous cast iron feet of Jimmy Nail. Maybe in their own minds, they already do. Newcastle is of course, as all Beastie Boys fans know, where VENOM COME FROM!!!! My revelation of this choice fact (Check out "Hello Nasty" for proof) sparks off fond reminiscences of Kronos and the boys which rather naturally reminds us of Krokus, Gillan, Diamond Head, and the whole NWOBHM (and if you don't know what that is, all I can say is that you probably had a much more hygienic early eighties than we did). Regrettably the next couple of hours yield not much in the way of metallic moshing mayhem as we get lost somewhere in the midlands. It's a funny thing, but you can be making really good time on any given journey through Britain, but two hours driving round and round sodding Nottingham can sap the will of even the bravest of souls. Thankfully, the realisation that Six by Seven (Nottingham's finest) originate here is (just) enough to sustain us through a lengthy period of listening to carrot-headed speccy-wanker Chris Evans burbling on and humiliating innocent members of the general public. Yup, the tape recorder is taking a rest, and the only channel the radio will pick up is the one that's got his ego-massaging Saturday afternoon lad-culture bandwagon jumping pile of self congratulatory nonsense. This annoys me monumentally because I really, really want, at this particular moment in time, to listen to "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner". This prompts much fond discussion on the subject of Bruce Bruce's fantastic stage banter. The aforementioned song is introduced as "What not to do when a bird shits on you"; "Running Free" features the human air-raid siren (ex bandmate of Thunderstick - pay attention at the back - this is a bona fide, IMPORTANT FACT) entreating the fans to sing louder because "When I go back to England on Monday I want to go to the hearing Doctor and say, Doctor, Long Beach fucked up my hearing for good".... regrettably we can only dream of the twenty foot tall Eddie lurching along behind the twin-pronged guitar attack that is Dave "Mooncalf" Murray and Adrian "h (heavy metal division)" Smith. Mind you, there are times on the way back up the motorway that I'm sure the 'ead is pursuing our speeding vehicle with implacable deadly pantomime intent. And us without a bass guitar with which to shoot the bastard. Ah, well. Never mind. Thankfully, I can imagine that rather than being on the accelerator pedal, my left foot is actually up on a monitor somewhere as I exhort the assembled masses to go f*^&* crazeee! Oooops. Wrong band... sorry, Ozzy. We finally emerge blinking out of the Netherworld that is the Nottingham sliproad system (to this day, I'm convinced that we travelled the same piece of motorway at least ten times) to discover that Oxford is rather nearer than we thought. We also realise that Radiohead's Thom Yorke is a huge fan of "Brave", and while away the last hour and a half wondering how nice it'll be to pass Thom a hanky so's he can wipe his tearstained face. Wonderful as Radiohead are, Thom knows that his ragged band will never match the towering Genius that is God's Lovely Boys (that's Marillion. Do wake up.) at their absolute peak. Speaking of whom... It's astonishing that you can get right from one end of the country to the other with no idea of where you're going, and actually drive past the venue (the Zodiac) first go. It's somewhere around this point that I start to fall in love with Oxford. My passion is pushed to screaming point when first I manage to snag the last parking place in the park behind the venue, and my lust for Oxford reaches hormonal overload when I have to shove my way past someone who appears to be Dumpy from the eponymous Dumpy's Rusty Nuts who's trying to get into the Zodiac. He tries everything, including the traditional threatening lunge towards the bored bouncer, but to no avail. We sashay past proudly flourishing our hard earned tickets with a sly grin. You may have a green beard, Mr Nuts, sir, but we're the ones who'll soon be breathing in the same air as Ian Mosley. Wait a minute. Make that the ones who ARE breathing the same air as Ian Mosley. I nearly faint when I turn around to find the very man standing behind me. This, let us not forget, is shortly after Mr Peter Trewavas pushes past me. Me! I nearly faint with the giddy excitement of it all. Or is it the total and utter lack of oxygen in what must be the pokiest venue I've ever found myself in? Still - all adds to the atmosphere, which is so feverish that the screening of the little seen "You Dinosaur Thing" by h heralds a cheer that raises the roof (a trick which David Coverdale rather foolishly failed to emulate at Donnington - which as any fule kno, is an open air venue. "TAKE THE FUCKIN' ROOF OFF, DONNINGTON!!!!!" - Blow-dried twat that he is). For some reason the admittedly highly accomplished Man of a Thousand Faces promo elicits a female comment of "Doctor Who eat your heart out!" and we've just had time to catch our breath when the Q & A session hits us full in the face. Highlights are far too numerous to really list, but I can't let it go by without mentioning that Steve Rothery is now and forever "The Guv'nor", that Ian Mosley is not afraid to let Mick Pointer onto his drumkit, and that almost all of the questions were for Ian and h. Sorry Mark, Pete and Guv, but I'm afraid that's just about how it should be. Mind you, I'd have quite liked to have had a few words from Rothers, because I'm not altogether sure if I remember ever actually hearing him speak, apart from a few pithy comments on that old video compilation. I'm also amused to discover that in his off duty moments the aforementioned drummer from heaven is never to be found without a half smoked Benson and Hedges dangling from his fingers. What stamina the man must have. I've always found it impossible to maintain a decent sleeping pattern in my own flat, but take me out of my own environment, and I'll nod off in the strangest places, and the strangest of positions. Thus it is that I manage to catch some Z's standing up during the playback of Radiation (the premiere of which isn't greeted with the reverent silence I'd hoped for. but nonetheless fails to deter me from crashing out), and also manage to miss some prime video (I'm reliably informed that the footage of the acoustic Oswestry show is stonking - they must be half right, as having heard the cover of Fake Plastic Trees from that performance, it appears to fit Steve H as if it had been written for him. That sound you hear is Thom Yorke cocking the final trigger. Outdone again...) As for the show itself... two megaphones by the H.meister; a version of "Under the Sun" that pisses all over the Charlatans and their like, a few belting versions of some old favourites; a twat in a waistcoat who coins the second nickname of the evening for God's guitarist (Mister Wothewy, as in : "hey! hey! Mr Wothewy! Mr Wothewy! Over here!"); some highly crap "slashing" dance movements from the chicks in front of us during "Hooks in You". There's the obligatory catchphrase of the evening (Pete breaks a bass string, h responds with "Bloody Hell... That could be disastrous" - a phrase which must by now have all who know us wanting us killed for overusing. The utterly fantastic roomshaking climax to "King", and it's all over bar the shouting fan in the supermarket across the road. I forget what the hell he was talking about now, but I'm sure it was highly entertaining. I believe it was something along the lines of "oooh arh. arrrh. fookin' Fish 'kin fookin' stick it up his own fookin' arse". Not necessarily the most charitable of sentiments, if I understood him correctly, but you can forgive him for being carried away with the emotion of the moment. Paul and I make our own little contribution to the sum of Oxford happiness by spontaneously hugging each other as the last notes of the show die away. For some reason it strikes me as a good idea to get back into the car at 10:30 in the evening, and drive all the way back to Edinburgh. Paul doesn't seem to mind, so off we go on our journey of discovery. A journey that takes in... Tamworth. Now, Tamworth may be familiar to some of you as the birthplace of Oliver Cromwell. Some may call to mind the fact that Winston Churchill was once MP for Tamworth. As we swing into the local service station, I regret to say that the only thing that goes through our minds is the fact that we are now in the home of... Wolfsbane. As two committed former Howling Mad Shitheads, the Wolfies forever hold a special place in our collective hearts. How can you not love a band responsible for such gems as "Steel" (Tough as steel, tough as steel, tough as steel, tough as steel, never show the pain we feel because we're tough as steel) or "Manhunt" (We're on a Maaaaaaan hooont - a Maaaaaaan hooooont. MeinHunt MeinHunt MeinHunt MeinHUNT!!!!)? A band so talented that to this day old metallers still talk fondly of the days when Steve, Jeff, Blaze and Jase ripped up the Dinnington Squirrel good style? It is of course at this point that the phrase "Hello, Dinnington Squirrel! Are you ready to rock and roll?" "Neep Neep Neep..." was fully formulated. It was just the funniest thing EVER. Alternatively, it was the ultimate you-had-to-be-there moment. Apart, of course, from the rich vein of Wolfsbane humour struck by the thought that the couple shagging in the car next to us might just have been getting it on to "Live Fast, Die Fast - tales of Birds, Booze and Bad Language" - or the exciting possibilities of being served our fries and coke in the local burger king by Jeff Hately. We bid farewell to Tamworth and all its pleasures (and we STILL say - Wolfsbane for Donnington! Neither of us may of read Kerrang in many a long year, but what Pandora Peroxide says still goes so far as I'm concerned) - and shortly after that, Paul is struck dumb with the delightful sight of a roadsign for - guess where? Yup - Castle Donnington. Home of the brave. Land of the Giants. A place that I have never actually been to, but still treat as my second home. So should you, unless you want Krusher to come around for a quiet word. Believe me, all the little crinkly bits of green paper in the world wouldn't be enough to save you in such a case. If they manage to snag Maiden for Donington this year, I'll expect Wolfsbane to be second on the bill. Or, as seems more likely, playing on the back of a flatbed truck at the front entrance. After all that, the rest of the journey passes in a blur. Paul crashes out for a few fitful hours sleep, woken only after I drive over some speed bumps with malicious intent; when I lose my bottle for ten minutes or so just outside Newcastle and practically flee the car for some fresh air; and finally when I arrive at Colinton service station for what seems the fiftieth petrol top-up of the journey. We end as we began, with me fucking up. I've managed to get us from one end of the country to the other without too many slip-ups, and somehow I contrive to hit Paul's place via the Western Approach road, which then means that I have to retrace my route considerably and putting at least twenty minutes onto the end of the trip. A long walk for a short cut, as my Dad used to say, and quite probably still does. Approximately 23 and a half hours after I woke up in a blind panic I sink blissfully into a much appreciated sleep. Somehow, I've got a feeling that it's not the last time I'll be doing something like this. But not for a bloody long time, mate. That is, unless the Wolfies reform and play a one off gig in Penzance. Then, you just watch our 'kin smoke.... Rock hard, rock 'eavy... rock aaaanimal!!! |
Katherine
Crowe was originally supposed to be the backing singer on Fish's aborted
US tour, and has just produced her first album, produced by Mark Daghorn,
also featuring Tony Turrell and John Wesley, and even a
sample of Fish on the penultimate track. So how did she come to end up in
such distinguished (?) company, and where did the album come from. We asked her.