Ian Hunter - Defiance Part 2: Fiction

There’s a promotional chat by Ian Hunter for Defiance Part 2: Fiction on YouTube, during which he says “I tell you what, I know something. They’re all going to go, it’s not as good as the last one. ‘Cause they’ve only heard this one five minutes, and they’ve heard the last one for a year.”
I’ll tell you what – he’s right. But then Defiance Part 1 set the bar incredibly high.  It was a late career slam dunk of an album for anyone who loves proper rock’n’roll.  And if . . . Fiction doesn’t hit the same heights from start to finish, it still has more than a few peaks.
One of those peaks is the opener ‘People’, which grabs the attention with a “na-na-na” singalong and doesn’t let go.  It bounces along on a pounding beat and churning rhythm guitar as the basis

Ian Hunter - still dishing out hope and anger

for some typically acid Hunter lyrics about the influence of modern marketing, amid crashing cymbal punctuation:  “’We know what people want.’ No you don’t – you make me wanna throw up,” he protests.  The backing features Cheap Trick stalwarts Robin Zander, Tom Peterson and Rick Neilson, and the latter provides the icing on the cake with a splintery solo.
At the other end of the album, penultimate track ‘Everybody’s Crazy But Me’ also does the rocking business, Hunter teasing with an opening call of “’Ello, ‘ello, ello” as Taylor Hawkins kicks off a clever, shuffling rhythm and Waddy Wachtel adds a grinding, irresistible guitar riff.  It’s tense and pushy, and after a minute and a half leaps to another level, a deeply Ronson-like guitar line prefacing the chorus, which eventually amasses shoutalong proportions.
But there are reflective songs too, ranging from ‘The 3rd Rail’, a sad tale of subway tragedy with musical echoes of ‘Sons And Lovers’ from way back, to which Jeff Beck adds subtle curlicues and flourishes.  ‘What Would I Do Without You’ is a simple, direct love song with a vaguely Celtic air to its swaying melody, with Lucinda Williams’ worn voice providing a suitable counterpoint to Hunter himself.  The closing ‘Hope’, meanwhile, is a gentle dream of being able to welcome a new dawn after recent years' turmoil, with rippling piano from Benmont Tench, while Lucinda Williams and Billy Bob Thornton add soothing harmonies.
‘Fiction’ itself rides a rolling piano groove,  to which Hunter adds a considered vocal, creating a hypnotic vibe which is gradually augmented by strings, at first just throbbing along but gradually becoming more elaborate and serpentine in the arrangement by Dylan sidekick David Mansfield.
‘This Ain’t Rock’N’Roll’ is a more uptempo, sprightly affair, on which Hunter pays tribute to the rockers of days gone by, and perceives a lack of fresh personalities and sounds of the same calibre.  It is, of course, a splurge of old-fashioned rock’n’roll itself.  ‘Precious’ is a jaunty, happy-go-lucky expression of affection, perhaps a bit less substantial but still with an infernally catchy chorus, while Brian May eventually weighs in with some characteristic, squelchy guitar licks en route to a slowing, fairground hall of mirrors outro.
Contrastingly, ‘Weed’ may open with sweet, Beck-like slide guitar from Stone Temple Pilots’ Deon Deleo, but it’s actually a caustic portrayal of the pernicious influence of today’s ‘Masters Of The Universe’, who can holler “Let ‘em, let ‘em, let ‘em smoke weed” in an ironically anthemic chorus, offering opium to the masses while growing their power.  ‘Kettle Of Fish’ is darker still, a brooding beast that foregrounds rumbling bass from Tom Peterson over Taylor Hawkins’ lurking, behind the beat drums, while Hunter curls his lip at “these troubled times,” observing that “This is a fine kettle of fish, I can’t drink the water.”
I tell you what - listening to it again as I write, Defiance Part 2 doesn’t fall that far short of its predecessor at all.  Recently I said that on their latest album I reckoned The Black Keys displayed a loss of edge.  Well that ain’t true of Ian Hunter.  Not likely.  He may not be one of the young dudes any more, but he’s still got rock’n’roll fire in his belly.
 
Defiance Part 2: Fiction is out now on Sun Records.

Ian Hunter - Defiance Part 1

There may be a hint of Dylan-ish creakiness in Ian Hunter’s voice these days, but his capacity to write a terrific rock’n’roll song remains undiminished – as does his ability to capture it with brio.  And for all that there’s a bundle of big names making quality contributions to Defiance Part 1, it’s still Hunter who’s at the heart of everything.
The title track gets things moving with enough power to clear the custard, as it were.  Yeah, there’s a bucket of grit in the guitar work from Slash and bass from Robert Trujillo, but it’s also the only track for which Hunter himself straps on an electric guitar to add to the churning sound of the rhythm section.
Long-time Hunter fans are going to be well pleased with a lot of the stuff here – the melodies, the riffs, the vibe and the lyrics are all present and correct.  ‘Pavlov’s Dog’ rattles its cage in a manner reminiscent of rockers from the Hunter/Ronson escapade Y U I Orta, but with just a tad

Ian Hunter joins Def Leppard shock!

less sense of turbo-charged rabble-rousing.  It’s a nagging shuffle with a very Hunter-ish ringing riff and the piano banging away in the engine room, while Hunter cracks out, just a little hoarsely, an urgent chorus about how “You can bite the hand that feeds ya, but I gotta job to do,” and Dean De Leo of Stone Temple Pilots carves out some warbling, ferrety lead guitar.  ‘I Hate Hate’ on the other hand, is a piano-pounding anthem with snappy, behind the beat drums and shaking tambourine, plus a terrific piano riff that surfaces periodically.  And while the lyric doesn’t do anything elaborate, it’s a great example of how good Hunter is at ramming home something simple, direct and forceful.  (There’s an alternative take too, with Jeff Tweedy adding guitar and bass.  Take your pick.)
‘Kiss N’Make Up’ sounds very modern, with restrained, offbeat drums from the late Taylor Hawkins, subterraneanly rumbling bass from JD Andrew, and subtle, fuzzy guitar from Billy Gibbons.  ‘This Is What I’m Here For’ has Waddy Wachtel rocking out on guitar over swinging, thumping drums from Hawkins, who clatters a few cymbals for good measure when things heat up with a sizzling Wachtel solo, and all the while Hunter sounds like he’s having a damn good time hollering away at the title and declaring “Might as well enjoy it”.
But Hunter can still dial things down in expert fashion too.  ‘No Hard Feelings’ is a wistful affair of vivid, character-led memories, drifting along on lilting piano and some moans of slide from Johnny Depp, and with a very Jeff Beck guitar solo from – well, Jeff Beck actually.  ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ is soulful, with nice bass from co-producer Andy York, cleverly phrased backing vocals and understated lead breaks from Todd Rundgren, but with words of warning from Hunter about trying to push him around.  Even better though, is ‘Guernica’, with Hunter putting himself in the shoes of Picasso, contemplating the painting of the title and reflecting that “If you think for yourself you’re a traitor”, over interesting, downbeat percussion from Dane Clark, while Mike Campbell adds an excellent, reverb-shimmering solo.
Songs like ‘I Hate Hate’ and ‘Guernica’ show that Hunter has his finger on the pulse of today’s bitterness, and can still get his feelings across in pointed fashion.  But ‘Bed Of Roses’ is a reminder of just how long he’s been at this game – a jaunty piece of nostalgia about some dive like Hamburg’s Star Club with, appropriately enough, Ringo Starr on drums. Its melody and lyrical pattern recall ‘White House’ from Fingers Crossed, but here with a singalong chorus and anthemic bridge, and some wonderful, woozy slide guitar from Mike Campbell.
Much of Defiance Part 1 was recorded remotely by the various contributors, but it all sounds as engaged and fresh as if they were all knocking it out in the same room.  And it’s released on Sun Records – aptly enough, as if Ian Hunter is still rocking all the way from Memphis.
 
Defiance Part 1 is out now on Sun Records.

The Singer And The Song: Making It Real

“Blame it on Eric Clapton and the myriad hordes who followed in his bluesbreaking creamy footsteps, but the present-day perception of the blues is that it’s all about guitars, mostly brandished by men.  But while many of the blues greats wielded the six-string razor (alongside those who blew the harp and those who pounded pianos), most of those Real Guys would tell you that the Real Deal was about the singing and the song, rather than the solo: the instrumental flourishes were the icing on the cake rather than the cake itself.”

-  Charles Shaar Murray, The Blues Magazine Issue 10, November 2013

 
I couldn’t have put it better myself.  No really, I don’t think I could.  But I’m still going to bang on about it for a bit.

When I was in my early teens back in the Seventies, getting into hard rock, the greatest acclaim was reserved for the “axe heroes”.  Sure, there were some singers who stood out from the herd for their voices, and/or for being cracking front men.  But still – guitarists were the real gods.  

Put that fag out Bob - it'll ruin your voice!

And a lot of the time, listening to current day blues albums and going to gigs, it seems to me that the belief that the guitar is the main thing still prevails – except now among middle-aged blokes rather than impressionable teenagers.
But with all the music I’ve listened to in recent years, I’ve begun to think that, as Charles Shaar Murray (a self-confessed guitar geek) put it in that intro to a piece on Etta James - the Real Deal is about the singing and the song.  Often nowadays though, the vocal duties are taken on by the guitarist/band leader, regardless of their aptitude.  Sometimes they're great, of course.  But sometimes, to these ears, it’s the wrong move.  Maybe they don't think the singing bit is that difficult, or that important.  Maybe they just don't want to split the pay check another way.  But for me, whatever potential there may be in their music, they’re hamstrung if the vocals don’t cut it.
But here’s the thing.  What does “cutting it” mean when you’re singing popular music?  It can’t always mean being technically perfect with a four-octave range.  If it did then half the blues, rock’n’roll and rock music over the last 80 years would have gone straight in the bin.  And for many music fans, me included, the ironing out of vocal imperfections with auto-tuning is a sin, not a virtue.  So what is it that works then?

A couple of years ago I heard Ian Hunter, of Mott the Hoople fame, talking to Johnnie Walker on his Sounds of the Seventies radio show.  He said that if hadn’t been for Bob Dylan, he could never have made it in rock music.  Dylan was nobody’s idea of a quality singer, Hunter suggested, but he made it okay to be a “personality” singer.  Keith Richards, in his autobiography, also commented on the impact of Dylan’s vocals:
“Bob has not got a particularly great voice,” says Keef, “but it’s expressive and he knows where to put it, and that’s more important than any technical beauties of voice.  It’s almost anti-singing.  But at the same time what you’re hearing is real.”

Guess who?

In other words, if you’ve got something to say, and your voice can communicate that to people whatever its weaknesses – I mean, really get it across like you mean it – then that’s an instrument as valuable as any guitar.  That “something to say” though, brings us on to the matter of the song.
Okay, I know I just mentioned Dylan.  But a rock’n’roll song doesn’t need a Nobel Prize-winning lyric to be great.  Take Little Richard and ‘Tutti Frutti’.  The lyrics of ‘Tutti Frutti’ are pretty much doggerel, but it still takes off like a runaway train, powered by Richard’s urgent, whooping delivery.  If this song and singer convey anything, it feels like pure exhilaration – amped up, maybe, by the knowledge that in its original, illicit version, the lyric was a paean to gay sex.  Did “getting away with it” add to the rock’n’roll thrill?  A wop bop a loo bop a lop bam boom!
A singer has to have a certain something to make a song like ‘Tutti Frutti’ work – so-so just won’t do.  (Okay, so the godawful Pat Boone managed to shift shedloads of his cover of ‘Tutti Frutti’, but who gives a shit about his recording now?)  Maybe too, it needs to be just the right “certain something”.  The voice needs to fit the song and the sound.
In a more subtle vein than Little Richard, the song that first turned me on to King King was 'A Long History Of Love'.  It's a smouldering, slow bluesy affair, and Alan Nimmo's warm, soulful voice brings the emotion of the lyric to life with total conviction, aided and abetted by a guitar solo that weaves its way deliciously around the melody.  Alan Nimmo isn't the only singer who could have done this - I can well imagine Paul Rodgers delivering the goods, for example - but

Alan Nimmo - I second that emotion

it's still a vocal performance that really makes you believe every word.

Different singers, different capabilities.  Jimi Hendrix, it's said, wasn't keen on his own voice, couldn't bear to be watched while recording his vocals, and used to insist on spurious extra takes because of his insecurities.  But as his engineer Eddie Kramer put it, "Jimi was not a great vocalist in the classic sense, but his vocal style was suited to what he did to the nth degree."  The warmth of his voice, his sense of rhythm, and his playfulness all combined to make his singing a perfect fit for his overall sound.  Take a relatively simple track like 'Freedom', for example.  If it weren't Jimi singing, how well would it work?  He even managed to take on Dylan's 'All Along The Watchtower' - as I've observed, another singer with a unique voice - and make it his own.

Whatever the limitations or idiosyncrasies of your voice, rock'n'roll will still give you a shot at the title, if you can find a way to make it work.  I don't mean that any old shit will do - my heart sinks when I'm sent an album to review and I encounter a vocalist who doesn't realise, or perhaps doesn't accept, that they're trying to sing in a key they can't handle.  No, getting it right demands awareness of your capabilities, and of the possibilities.

A little while back I watched the Joe Cocker documentary Mad Dog With Soul, in which Billy Joel observed that there was such a thing as "shouting in key", but said that wasn't what Joe Cocker did.  The thing is though, that "shouting in key" can be just peachy, if you understand the possibilities of

Sean Webster - emotional gold

what you can do with it, and "find a way to make it work".  Hell, just listen to Lemmy barking his way through 'Motorhead'.  His voice may be as rough as a badger's arse, but he fucking owns that song.

The opposite is true too though.  One can have a voice that's technically fine, but fail to be expressive with it.  For example, I'm not a big fan of Kenny Wayne Shepherd, and one of the reasons is that his long-standing vocalist may be blessed with a good singing voice, but he leaves me cold.  His voice comes, and it goes, and it leaves no mark on me whatsoever.  The same is true of John Mayer, however good some of his songs might be.  His voice is frictionless, it generates no traction.  Whereas the criminally less well-known Sean Webster has a voice that takes Mayer's 'Slow Dancing In A Burning Room' and turns it into an emotional tour de force.

Personal taste comes into it too, naturally.  I really enjoy Ian Hunter's English-accented delivery, but a very credible fellow blogger once likened it to "a coalman shouting down a back alley."  Whereas for my part you can argue all day long that Buddy Holly and Roy Orbison were landmark artists, but I just don't like their voices.  You pays your money, and you picks your poison.

Some of my favourite lines in poetry are by Hugh MacDiarmind, in his epic poem 'A Drunk Man Looks At The Thistle':

And let the lesson be - to be yersel's

Ye needna fashion it's to be ocht else.

To be yersel's - and mak that worth bein',

Nae harder job to mortals has been gi'en.

That's the challenge for the rock'n'roll singer.  To be yourself, and make that worth being - to do it your own way, but still connect.

Of course, you could argue that the same principles apply to a guitarist.  But the singer is more exposed, at the mercy of their physical abilities.  As Neil Peart said, the drummer has the hardest job in a rock band, but the singer has the worst job.

I remember asking the singer and guitarist Marcus Malone about the challenge of reworking studio arrangements of songs for live work.  "A song's a song," he said, explaining that he has stripped songs back to two-person acoustic arrangements at times.  "I think people go for the voice mainly, it's the main melody.  All those other things are good around it - it's like, y'know, dessert!"  The icing on the cake, as Charles Shaar Murray said.

I still love great guitar playing.  But it's not the be all and end all.  With most of the artists I've grown to love over the last decade - like King King, Samantha Fish, Ian Siegal, Thorbjørn Risager & The Black Tornado - there's a distinctive voice in there, working its personal brand of magic.  There's a singer, and a song.

Reading Matters: Diary of a Rock'n'Roll Star, by Ian Hunter

I’ve been meaning to read Ian Hunter’s Diary of a Rock’n’Roll Star for years, but a lot of the time it’s been out of print.  Recently though, I collared a copy of the most recent 2018 edition, which comes in a very stylish trade paperback format.
“May well be the best rock book ever,” says a quote from Q magazine on the front cover.  Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far, but it’s certainly an interesting read.
For the uninitiated, Hunter’s diary covers a month-long US tour in November-December 1972, when his band Mott the Hoople were looking for an American breakthrough on the back of ‘All The Young Dudes’ reaching #37 in the Billboard chart that summer.  Hunter makes one or two references to the tour having been booked in a hurry, and maybe that accounts for one of the things that struck me – the expedition feels a bit ramshackle.

Ian Hunter back in the day - that guitar looks flash, but . . .

Pic by Brian Hunter

After kicking off on the West Coast the band spend much of the next month zig-zagging around the East Coast, Mid-West, and South, often needing two flights to get from A to B.  Inevitably, given that winter is descending, they find themselves competing with the weather, sometimes facing long delays and diversions.  Oh yeah, and guitarist Mick Ralphs is constantly faced with his phobia about flying.
When they get wherever they’re going, some of the shows they’re booked on are less than seamlessly organised.  At the mercy of local promoters, for several shows they’re sharing the bill with two or even three other bands of wildly differing styles (supporting John McLaughlin being one spectacular mismatch), fighting for soundchecks and embroiled in arguments about the running order.  So bad are some of these situations that they point to their contract and blow the gig out – getting paid expenses, but still out of pocket and losing the exposure the tour was intended to bring.
The book is not, by any standards, a litany of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll.  Groupies are always hanging around, but the band aren’t interested.  More than once, in a manner symptomatic of the pre-PC argot of the times, Hunter refers to them as “slags”.  Been there, done that in the past, it seems – and now acutely aware of the diseases these “chicks” might be carrying.
The arc of the diary also reveals the fatigue brought on by touring.  Hunter starts off commenting chirpily enough about flights and hotels; flying is still a relatively novel experience back in 1972, and he finds the standards of American hotels way better than the gloom and poor service in Britain.  But as time goes on tiredness and tetchiness set in.  Flights and security can be a pain, officious cabin crew feel the rough end of his tongue, and some hotels are less pleasing.  When serious drinking does break out, it seems as likely to be in response to boredom as any kind of party vibe – and the hangovers are real.
It’s this insight Hunter provides about the workmanlike nature of the “rock’n’roll star” life that

"Author!  Author!"

marks the book out.  Mott the Hoople, with one big hit single under their belt and not long disentangled from onerous contracts and debts, are by no means rolling in money.  So it gradually dawns that their determined investigation of pawn shops wherever they go is less to do with unearthing some classic guitar to be treasured forever, than with making some spare cash.  The hard currency of these expeditions is highlighted by a Mick Ralphs’ purchase of a Gibson Les Paul Junior in Detroit.  He pays $83.50, which Hunter observes equates to £33 (the past is another country, the exchange rates were different then), plus 50% customs duty to bring it back to Britain.  So, a £200 guitar is acquired for £50, and is eminently saleable in London’s Denmark Street to put some ready cash in a skint rock’n’roller’s pocket.
What you don’t get are regular blow-by-blow accounts of the shows.  Hunter is often more preoccupied with what can go wrong, and maybe when he’s onstage he’s too in the zone to bring many reflections off it – unless something out of the ordinary has happened, which is not necessarily a good thing.  Happily though, the final show in Memphis is a highlight which makes clear the buzz of performance, and sends him on his journey back home on a high.
The book contains a heap of photographs, including a very good glossy section, and in this edition the bonus of a brief diary from Hunter of a 2015 trip to Japan, which comes over as an altogether more relaxed experience.
 
It’s a measure of Ian Hunter the songwriter that some of the 1972 experiences evidently became the seeds of Mott’s 1973 hit ‘All The Way From Memphis’, condensed and transformed into a mythical rock’n’roll tale that’s now a golden oldie.  Just like Ian Hunter himself, who is 81 years old now, and still a rock’n’roll star.
 
Diary of a Rock’n’Roll Star is published by Omnibus Press.   
 

Ian Hunter & The Rant Band - Fingers Crossed

‘Allo, ‘allo, ‘allo.

I’ve always had a liking for Ian Hunter.  First in the days when Mott the Hoople were on Top of the Pops with a string of classic hits, all razor-wire guitar, pounding piano, attitude – and shades!  Then there was his first solo hit, ‘Once Bitten, Twice Shy’, which along with Dr Feelgood’s ‘Back In The Night’ seemed to be on permanent rotation at school discos when I was fourteen.  I’ve returned to his stuff periodically ever since, most notably with the terrific, three-quarters live album Welcome To The Club, and the Hunter Ronson outing YUI Orta – and also a couple of incendiary gigs at the Liquid Rooms in Edinburgh in the late 90s.

Fingers Crossed has been kicking around since September, but having grabbed a copy of it

Ian Hunter - attitude and shades

over Christmas I couldn’t resist banging out a belated review.  Because  here Hunter is again, at the grand old age of 77, still delivering the goods with a knockout album.

People’s attention will naturally be drawn to ‘Dandy’, Hunter’s anthemic eulogy to Bowie and the way he lit up the Seventies.  But there’s plenty more to enjoy on this ten-song set, right from the opening ‘That’s When The Trouble Starts’.  It’s a stomper on which a needle sharp guitar riff from Mark Bosch underscores Hunter’s way with words as he skewers the TV talent show phenomenon: “After your 15 minutes of fame – look out, here come the howlin’ rain”.

There’s a great hook on ‘Ghosts’, as Hunter captures the spine-tingling sensation of being able to jam at Sam Phillips’ Sun Studios, among the spectres of his heroes.  Hunter and co-producer Andy Yorke capture a full sound from the Rant Band throughout, with little details of shading in the various arrangements – on this occasion some nice slide from James Mastro, while Bosch delivers a searing solo on the shoutalong of  ‘Bow Street Runners’, which tells the tale of the prototype London coppers.

Hunter has always been a master balladeer as well, and the title track is a classic example, piano-led in the mould of ‘Irene Wilde', with a lovely, soaring chorus.  It’s imaginative lyric is far from your typical lurve song though, as it contemplates the privations of ‘pressed men’ in the 18^th century navy.  ‘You Can’t Live In The Past’ is a similarly downbeat mediation on loss, loneliness, and the fatal charms; underpinned by a simple, gentle reggae rhythm, it conjures a beautifully melancholic mood.

Further variations in style are apparent in the likes of ‘Stranded In Reality’ and the closing ‘Long Time’.  The former has the jangling, lilting feel of something like The Pretenders’ ‘Back On The Chain Gang’, and yet more imaginative wordsmithery: “Bought my space ship second hand / Should’a known better – the steering jammed”.  The latter muses on the ups and downs of a musical career in a style that suggests The Band crossed with an East End knees-up.  On YUI Orta Hunter declared that “I love American music, I play it all night long / Just me an’ my records an’ a vivid imagination”, but in spite of his love for all his Stateside rock’n’roll’n’soul heroes, his songs are infused with a distinctly British sensibility – reinforced by the fact that he continues to sing in a raucously English accent.

The Stones’ Blue & Lonesome may demonstrate that the old codgers have still got it, but in essence it’s a rebooted trip down memory lane.  Fingers Crossed may come from the hand of a fellow veteran, but it’s something different – another great blast of new and memorable material from one of Britain’s finest rock’n’roll songwriters.  Go get it.