Lash and Lacplesis - A bloody good trip to Latvia

“A pint of Guinness, if you will landlord” I said to the corpulent, red-faced proprietor of the Wetherspoon’s Gatwick Airport, no doubt one of Tim Martin’s most frequented establishments. It was a bold choice of drink for 9:30 in the morning, at that stage of the day all I had partaken of was a dubious double sausage McMuffin (no egg) and a black coffee - half of which I spilt when some nincompoop knocked into it with their bag. 

No matter, I was on holiday and had not a care in the world. Where was I going on that glorious Friday? You may well ask dear reader, for I was in fact going to Riga, Latvia which some called the jewel in the Baltic crown. It also had a dubious honour of being the prime location for many a drunken stag do or birthday celebration. 

The original idea of going was originally put to me by a friend who had suggested the destination on a whim and the attraction of the very cheap flights on offer from AirBaltic. Doing a little research, it looked like an admirable location for some bad behaviour and some heavy drinking. I was sold and, so it was, that on 16th May 2014 I found myself at the ‘Spoons with a metallic tasting pint of Guinness, surrounded by countless other brits doubtless on the same mission that I was. 

The atmosphere was convivial, but my travelling companion and all round bloody good chap couldn’t help but remarking that us UK lot had a very poor style when it came to casual attire, surveying the tables and tables of pasty, overweight lads on tour with their upturned collars (of which I was one) or novelty t-shirts with ‘Larry’s lash up’, ‘Micky’s Stag’, ‘Bitches beware’ (just sinister) or ‘Fancy a shag’ (direct and to the point), I could not entirely disagree. 

Departure time came around soon enough and I amused myself on the plan with a can of Latvian lager (in a suspiciously super-strength style gold can) and a few chapters of Dickens’ David Copperfield. The arrival was painless and soon we were on a bus to Riga Old Town, during which time I nearly suffocated under the stench of a local gentleman’s terrible BO - the drawback of being a short-arse on a crowded bus. 

The Rubinsteins originally hale from Riga (or rather an hour south in a city called Jelesava/Mitau) and my fellow traveller had some nightmare notion that everyone in the city would look similar to me. Thankfully, his fears were quite unfounded. It would be an understatement to say that Riga had a higher-than-average proportion of incredibly hot women coupled with drunken british lads ranging from the age 25 -50. That seemed to be the demographic of the Old Town and, as one of the latter drunken Brits myself, this place was none the worse for it. 

First things first, we got the keys to the apartment we had rented in the town centre for a very agreeable €160 for two nights and were led by the cold, but glamourous recpetionist of DesignApartments to out bolt-hole... and what a bolt-hole it was. There was definitely something of the flat from the first scenes of Living Daylights about this accomodation. One could certainly imagine a duo of contract killers or a sniper using the location as a safe hideaway for their mission. Bare furnishing, two fridges , a plethora of wardrobes, it was an eccentric place, the sofa in the kitchen was quite frankly bizarre. 

But enough time had been spent admiring the decor and, dumping our bags we went out for a quick walk around the town and some much needed liquid sustainance. The Old Town itself was pretty but you could tell that it had been massively reconstructed following what must have been a very damaging and harrowing occupation by first the Nazis and then the Soviet Union. There was plenty of architecture associated with Eastern European/Baltic states including red brick, low protestant churches with sparse interiors, quiet cobbled streets, baroque flourishes and here and there a medieval feature or two. 

We had our first drink of the holiday underneath the majestic gaze of St. Peter’s Basilica in a well-appointed bar basking underneath the warm evening sun as a light breeze blew in from the Baltic. As cool glass of refreshing Lacplesis was washed down with a generous shot of the city’s hideous local gutrot... Black Balzams.

Black Balzams was going to become something of a theme for me on the trip as I did my very best to indulge in the local culture. this liqueur is a blend of herbs and spices with pure vodka to create a tar like liquid, unsettlingly coating the glass. I warn any curious travellers that you must have a fondness for bitter flavours to get any enjoyment out of this beverage. The manufacturers call it ‘deliciously different, exceptionally smooth and velvety on the palate’, different it sure is but I was not sure how delicious it was. The bartender who served me looked apprehensive when I order giving me a ‘do you know what you are doing’ look, but I was not to be deterred from my order. I shuddered as I took my first sip of this strange elixer, it was so strong and astringent that I believe a weaker many would have balked! But there was a part of me that thought, you know what, this stuff is so bad it’s actually quite good and, strangely enough it was a great foil for the Lacplesis that was being quaffed. Let me assure you, dear reader, this would not be the last shot of Black Balzams that would be a sampled on the trip. 

The night was still young so we picked up a few cans of some very questionable beer from the off license. Priced at a very reasonable €0.89, we invested in a few for the fridge and went back to get changed before hitting the town a la Tony Manero style for an evening of drunken debauchery. 

The town was starting to fill up with lads on tour but being sensible fellows, we decided that the best course of action would be to grab a bite to eat at a local eatery. I wanted to try some of the local fodder and would not be put off in this quest for smoked fish and dumplings. Sure enough we found a cosy, if slightly touristy inn just off the main square full of delicious smells of braising meat and boiled potatoes. The menu did not disappoint with all sorts of smoked fish, cooked fish, roasted and boiled meat on the bone and a definite lack of green vegetables. Following an obligatory stein of Lacplesis, we placed our orders starting with a couple of smoked fish and smoked meat platters. When I say that this was the best smoked and cured fish I have ever eaten I do not understate. The rollmops were like nothing I have every tasted, so sweet and succulent and the hot smoked sprats were a revelation (why can’t we get smoked fish like this in the UK without paying a small fortune?). 

I followed this up with a bowl of the most delicious Pelmeni (steamed dumplings) filled with roasted chicken and topped with sour cream and chopped dill. I greedily wolfed down these little parcels of deliciousness. My fellow pilgrim has a very succulent looking pork kebab for his part. 

Fully sated we prepared ourselves for a night of carnage by going first to a rock-a-billy bar in one of Riga’s many square and listened to a band definitely past their first flush of youth doing their best Commitments impression with interpretations of ‘Mustang Sally’ and ‘Sneaking Sally Through the Ally’ (an incongruous tribute to the late Robert Palmer). The show was stolen by the bootlace tie wearing, Maurice Gibb look-a-like on the keyboard. Certainly their performance was helped in my mind by the two rounds of litre steins that we partook of before moving onto the infamous ‘101 Shots’. 

Ahead of going on the trip I had done a little research and it was this bar that kept coming up trumps, the mecca for all drunken tourists and apparently a favourite amongst the locals. So it was here that we headed to officially start what was to become something of a lost weekend in the style of John Lennon and Harry Nilsson! 

Find out more in the next part of Lash and Lacplesis, which I will be publishing in the next few days... 

Picpoul de Pinet and Pomeranians - The return of the Bloody Good Chap

I know, I know I have been lax of late. Of course the usual excuses abound such as:

1. Having too much fun
2. Having too much work
3. Having too little time

Read back, none of them seem great excuses and, it was a colleague who roused me back into action, bringing me back from a blog lethargy that has recently come over me. I fear he showered me with far too generous praise, comparing me to the very accomplished Simon Majumdar! A flattering comparison but one I think that appealed more to my imagination and ego than to the reality of the copy you see before you! 

No matter, I have been sloppy of late... and as such seek penance from my readers in the form of this new post, the first of a more regular stream of such writing. What better way to start this new chapter in ‘How to be a bloody good chap’ than with an excellent cigar, a fantastic dinner and a very agreeable venue for drinks? So lets begin...

It was a Friday and, as are most Fridays for me, it was a fun day. Following a busy week at work I was quite ready for the weekend and, having quickly gone home and refreshed myself with a shower and an ice cold lager, I raided my humidor and made my way from Elephant and Castle (where I now live) to The Theodore Bullfrog in Embankment - a very average but veteran pub, close to my heart as a result of many a visit in times gone by. 

The pint of Amstel that was purchased for me when I arrived was but a poor companion to the very agreeable, if rather strong, Henrik Kelner Jr ‘Smoking Jacket Cigar’. Plumes of gentle smoke ascended into the balmy night air as chums waxed lyrical on the terrors of the British political landscape from the agonisingly poor quality of the EU debate to the recent scandals rocking UK parliament. All this was washed down with more of the dubious ‘nectar’ that is cheap lager quaffed so freely when the weekend is in site. Surrounded by the incessant banter and chatter of workers throwing off the shackles of a week in the office, I was soon summoned for dinner. 

A short journey on the Underground brought me to a Sloane Square legend, no not my father (for he was brought up in the area, and incidentally was my host for the evening), but a local institution, Carrafini. This traditional London-Italian restaurant serves great plates of food cooked to time honoured traditions. Simple dishes and fine wines make this a restaurant well worth seeking out for anyone looking for plates of sophisticated comfort food. Complemented by a decor that owes as much to Conran as it does to the varied eateries of Northern Italy, I felt in my element as the first, deliciously chilled glass of Gavi was being poured. 

The prawns were sweet and succulent, perfectly matched against the tangy tomato sauce and fiery chili that all come together for the classic Gamberetti al Arrabiatta. Paired with the crisp, dry Gavi it was a triumph and it was all I could do to remain dignified as I resisted the temptation to wolf down the dainty little morsels. 

I followed the prawns with my favourite dish, in fact to my mind the best dish that Carrafini has to offer, scaloppine al limone, delicate fillets of tender veal with a very subtle lemon sauce which brings out the best in the citrus fruit without overpowering the flavour of the meat. With a side of spinach and courgette fritters, a king could not have asked for a better dish. As my knife glided through the meat as if through butter I registered the expression of delight across the face of my dining companion as he enjoyed his old-favourite, liver and bacon with pureed potatoes. 

Having had a sizeable main course with a very agreeable and pleasingly light Sardinian red, pudding should have been the last thing on my mind, however, having seen the menu I could not resist the temptation of caramelised oranges marinated in brandy, calling to me as they did across the pages of the menu. I went for a large portion, no point in half-measure. Refreshing, tart but with a pleasing edge of burnt sugar they sent a shiver down the spine as a well timed grappa warmed the cockles of me heart, and a strong black coffee brought some verve back into my flagging constitution. 

Full of the joys of the weekend I proclaimed more drinks and my father decided that he could just about humour a smidgen more of my conversation and a couple more glasses to round off the night. Not to outstay our welcome at the excellent Carrafini, we headed to the uber-trendy Colbert for a nightcap. 

The bar area was jam-packed but we managed to grab a table amongst the throng of city brokers, high-class trollops, mischievous merry-makers and happy-go-lucky chancers. Grabbing a couple of coffees and a some glasses of the restaurant/bar’s very good Picpoul de Pinet (a bone-dry white wine from the Languedoc,whose name literally means ‘lip stinger’!). It was while we were quaffing the expensive but generous glasses of the booze that I was suddenly shocked to find that a hideous pomeranian dog had leaped onto my lap. 

I know that I have attracted a few dogs in my time (geddit?) but this really took the biscuit. This hideous little fur-ball with its beady, teddy bear eyes and yappy little jaw shook and squirmed as it remained undecided at whether it had made the right decision. I was unamused and shot my father a bemused and helpless look as i help this rat-ish creature up in the vain attempt that he would have some sage words of advise. ‘Put it back where it came from’ was the helpful answer. 

The owner was nowhere in sight but funnily enough this ridiculous and, as I was finding, yappy little urchin had come from an equally ridiculous  Louise Vitton holdall where it seemed to hold court from the designer bag. Weirdly enough, it is much harder to get the dog to go back into the bag than it was for it to get out but, after I had a few more slugs of the Picpoul it seemed a far easier task and soon a confused dog was back in its pampered pouch. 

I looked round in the next instance and our hirsute friend had gone, probably back to its owner and not the local kebab shop. Time for one more picpoul and a black coffee before I returned home following a drunken conversation with the cab driven, a fumble with my house keys and a stumble up the stairs before crashing into bed... a very enjoyable evening! 

The incessant noise of drum machines… Technique (1989) - New Order

As some of you will remember from my previous posts, 1989 has never been my favourite year for music. That melting pot of sound punctuating by a declining Stock, Aitken & Waterman and Jive Bunny. But there were a few glimmers of hope, particularly in the growing rave and dance music scene. Acts like Inner City, Adventures of Stevie V and Steve 'Silk' Hurley were making a big impact with their synth-laden singles, proving big hits in the UK clubs. 

Augmenting this was the fast-rising 'Madchester' scene, casting Manchester as the epicentre of late 80's/Early 90's indie music. Started by bands like The Smiths and record labels like Factory in the early 80's, it had grown into a behemoth with exiting new records coming out of awesome bands like The Stone Roses, Happy Monday, The LAs and The Charlatans. However, by far and away the leader of the pack was electronic/rock group New Order. 

Having formed from the fallout of Joy Division following Ian Curtis's suicide in 1980, the band had grown exponentially by 1989, carving a niche for themselves as one of the most musically exciting acts of the decade, coupling melodic riffs with razor-sharp production and a signature use of the latest synthesisers and drum machines.

Over the years records like Blue Monday, Thieves Like Us, Perfect Kiss and Bizarre Love Triangle had become airwaves staples cementing the group as one of the top-draw acts of the era. Coupled with this was the Northern dance scene they were fostering through their infamous 'pills, thrills and bellyaches' club 'The Hacienda' (a combination of acid house sensibilities and Factory Records' vision). It was a Mecca for all things of Manchester music scene. 

Come 1989 New order had not released a full album of new material for three years (the last being the patchy 'Brotherhood' in 1986). Buoyed, I'm sure, by the massive success of True Faith and Quincy Jones's prolific remake of Blue Monday ('88) the band embarked on a new set of material with incredible results.

Technique, is one of the best albums of the 80s and a great way to cap the decade. Combining thundering dance tracks with sombre indie rock it is a dark but danceable album showing a group at its zenith - hey, they were even asked to provide the World Cup anthem a year later! 

The album opens with, in my view, the best track of the set ‘Fine Time’ (also the first single off the album). The hypnotic beat of the drum machine and the catchy rhythm of the synth bass collapses into a weird and wonderful club track overlaid by Bernard Sumner’s idiosyncratic vocals. Clever effects and a liberal use of production combine to make this a memorable song that perfectly captures the flavour of the UK music scene during this period... others might disagree with this sweeping statement but I am sure they will not find fault with this track. 

This quickly descends into a slice of New Order stock fodder, will familiar production and a good melody ‘All The Way’ is a solid but unremarkable tune and weirdly fits alongside the previous, seemingly incongruous cut. Much the same can be said for ‘Love Less’ at no.3 which masterfully plays to Graham Hook’s signature bassline technique.

This slight, melancholy air is then obliterated by the next tune, ‘Round And Round’ the albums second single taken from the album. It’s a frantic and claustrophobic number, incorporating - dare I say it - a similar keyboard sound to that found on Phil Collin’s 1985 smash ‘Take Me Home’ (I am sure there are indie fans everywhere groaning at that comment). ‘Round and Round’ musically is New Order through and one might be forgiven for thinking that is structurally resembles ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ - although I am sure devotees of the band will disagree. Whatever, it is a standout track. 

Suddenly we are transported back to the incarnations of group for ‘Guilty Partner’, an atmospheric mid album number full of melancholy, not a favourite but not unlistenable as is the third single from the album ‘Run’, which marches on at a steady pace, made up for by it’s slow pace with some great work on the rhythm guitar. 

‘Mr. Disco’ is another dance orientated number with industrial sounds, heavy use of sythesizers, perfect for the pilled-out clubber of the day, zapped out of their mind on the shores of Ibiza (or more likely Bolton). Again, not one of the best, but pleasing. Luckily, this is followed by a top tune, ‘Vanishing Point’. Perhaps I like this because it is so of the New Order sound I prefer sharing the same name as one of my all-time greatest films. The echoey vocals and clever arrangement create a track that can be listened to over and over. 

The final number is another melodic, indie track and I think a unbefitting close to a brilliantly constructed album. ‘Dream Attack’ with its use of acoustic piano and spare production is good but I rather feel that it should have been scheduled earlier in Technique. Still, no matter. A great album and one that I thoroughly recommend to anyone looking for something to belt out loudly across South London as the sun shines and the beer and BBQs flow! 

The end of an affair… the last doner

‘Everything ends badly, otherwise it wouldn’t end’ - Cocktail, 1988

Profound words I am sure you’ll agree, and the very essence of ‘Coughlan’s Law’ put into practice. Apologies for those who have not had the sheer pleasure of enjoying the flawed genius of the 1988 blockbuster Cocktail, but I feel the above quote is apt for this post. 

This affair, if you can call it that, dates back to the winter of 2001 where a 13-year old schoolboy (me) enjoyed his fist taste of a doner kebab. At the time it was a revelation. The slightly chewy, greasy savouriness and stale cumin aroma of the shaved meat atop crisp fries drenched in degraded vegetable oil and accompanied with the clean bitterness of white onion, limp, shredded lettuce, fiery pickled chilli and lashings of garlic sauce was a veritable feast! On the £10-a-week allowance it was a real Sunday lunchtime treat, appealing to that taste for junk food that all young people seem to have. Sitting on the steps outside the bustling ‘Charcoal Grill’, I was in an MSG, fat-laden heaven, tucking into a mountain of sub-prime meat and ersatz chips. So a long-term relationship was born with this icon of unhealthiness. 

A taste for the dish was developed throughout the years and in my time I sampled many a different take on this fast food classic, call it a wrap or a gyros, it was still the same thing.  However, it was at my alma mater, The University of Leeds where I became something of a connoisseur. Quality varied of course, but for the most part I was either hungry enough or drunk enough to chow down on some very suspect foodstuff, I don’t think the suppliers of the meat will be winning any Red Tractor awards any time soon. The garlic sauce, I believe, played a big part in masking the taste of low-grade alsatian definitely past its best - the further addition of punchy chilli sauce was also something of a panacea to the slightly putrid flavours playing havoc on the tastebuds.

There also seemed to be something of a ritual behind the consumption of the kebab. The pub crawl or heavy night clubbing, the 2:00am stagger home, the blinking signs of 1,001 different takeaways (all with a varying success rate in the hygiene stakes), the smell of rancid fat bubbling away in the deep fat fryer, the shouts of other sozzled revellers trying to place their orders in stilted drunken-ese... I am sure that many of you, dear readers, will remember remember this scene well. 

A request garbled whilst trying to hold down a booze-soaked conversation with other kebab shop pilgrims. The offending article then bagged and tagged, plastic fork stuck in the top of the polystyrene box. Home, TV on and the ritual of eating the meat and chips, indulgence in something that screamed naughtiness. You knew you’d feel bad the next day but the thrill of the quick fix was too much, worth the guilt and remorse you’d feel as the last, dried out chips stared back at you the next morning, reminding a person of their debauchery the previous night. 

It went on like this for many years, the cheap thrill of the doner kebab with its seedy lure was very appealing after a night out on the tiles, but it all came crashing down around me when I had the unfortunate luck to go to the ‘The New Grill’ (Formerly Kebab Delight) on Leopold Road, Wimbledon. It wasn’t even that late but I was coming back from some drinks and I couldn’t be bothered to cook - passing the shop I got something of a craving for poor-quality, low-grade meat. I entered, slightly concerned that they were shutting up shop at 10:30pm way before the the industry’s big trading hours. Seemingly I had stumbled into the only ‘small town’ kebab shop, something that Carson mcCullers might have written about, ‘Ballad to the sad kebab shop’. 

The staff were sullen and despondent, only emphasised by the unnatural glare of powerful fluorescent lighting. The fruit machine that had once been there was gone, replaced by a depressed looking palm tree that one felt was hankering for the dry heat of the French Riviera - it was its lot in life to be stuck in a South London fast food joint, having its leaves spattered with grease and receiving abuse from drunken punters pouring cans of Fanta into its bone dry soil. 

I was distracted from my musings on the plight of this palm by the cheery but slightly weary proprietor who informed me that all they had left on the menu was Doner and Chips. ‘Fine’ I thought, ‘that’s what I wanted anyway.’ 

So without further ado, I ordered usual topped off with lashings of garlic sauce. I had a couple of cold Stellas in the fridge and, in homage to Gary Strang of Men Behaving Badly fame I decided I would indulge in the above whilst watching some late night dross on TV. Of course I wasn’t disappointed, a double bill of ‘Don’t try this at home’ followed by  a repeat of ‘Stars in their Eyes’ on Challenge. The rest of the night was set and I was looking forward to a few chilled brews and my delicious kebab. I could’t have been more wrong. 

It had been a good six months since I had eaten my last doner and chips, and looking back a couple of weeks ago I can see why. It was just filthy, fond memories of slurping up slivers of shaved meat were wiped away in seconds as I bit into the semi congealed mess on top of chips that definitely could have done with some more time out of the freezer and in the fryer. To top it all off, the garlic sauce had so much sugar in it that it rendered the who sorry mess inedible... I came to realise that this truly was the end of an affair. My night was ruined (perhaps a little far-fetched but I am sure you will allow me some embellishment for the sake of entertaining prose)

Like the narrator in A E Houseman’s A Shropshire Lad I was reminded of those ‘happy highways whence I roamed, and cannot come again’. Such it was with the kebab, a sordid and longtime love but one which I must leave behind to the mists of misspent youth and the chip shops of West Yorkshire. 

Sketches from a Cigar Smoker's Album: The Duke goes to Bunga

It’s Not Unusual...

I think it was Jackie Chan who once asked that great life question ‘Who am I?’, as a kung fu proficient amnesiac searching for his identify, I don’t think anyone can really know who they are until they have take a trip to Italian-themed night club-come-den-of-iniquity, Bunga Bunga. Waking up the morning on a mate’s sofa, indeed I asked myself that very life searching question, as I cradled my head in my hands and limbered up for a relatively long journey home. My cranium smarted as each drop of rain crashed upon it on my walk to the station. By Fulham Broadway I had just about reconciled my brain with my body and started to piece together the pattern of the previous day of drinking and debauchery. 

First the memories of the previous night came in a trickle and then flooding back in torrents as I tried to negotiate the wet and windy streets of Fulham, back to the station and on to the comfort of my own home. I passed plenty of artifacts left by scores of drunken revelers, now probably entombed in a darkened room or wrapped around some loved one (or a casual acquaintance): Chunky vomit up the side of a wall, a used prophylactic, a coke bottle filled with urine on a wall outside a Methodist church... this was the city at its Sunday morning best, the seedy frame through which I was able to remember some of my activities. 

It all began with a few drinks at The Lighthouse on Battersea Park Road a very agreeable pub serving a range of craft ales along with the usual suspects. I was making the long trek to the establishment from Queenstown Road when the heavens opened and unleashed a deluge upon my person. A veritable gale howled and I barely made it through the door and to that first pint intact, I looked more drowned water rat than man about town. Leaving a trail of rainwater behind me I made my way to the bar and to a very welcome, crisp lager that had been purchased by the friend I was meeting for a few cheeky snifters before a night on the tiles and the celebration of a good friend’s birthday. 

Time marched on and I had suitably dried off before I thought that I would brave the elements, and head down to the foot of Battersea Bridge to Drafthouse where we were all meeting. Just in case you thought that I was at all shirking in my duty to provide a cigar based anecdote, I smoked a couple of the ever reliable Villiger’s Grosseformat Exports (pressed) on my way down there. In this case the smoke was more incidental to the evening that the main topic of focus. 

Tobacco cravings satisfied I stepped into Drafthouse, a fun, lively venue packed to the gunnels with the greater good of South London, wall-to-wall with lads and glamour-pusses. I felt rather out of place, but did my best to fit in with cooler surroundings than I was used to, I held my own and soon I was supping a pint of some Belgian lager with the best of them. I was a little early, so indulged in a little people watching before my friends arrived and we moved onto Bunga Bunga. 

Already packed when we strode over the threshold, we made our way to the table, which my mate had thankfully reserved as it was it his birthday and we sat down to an evening of jolly banter, great pizza, gutsy red wine and rather astringent white. Then the real excitement of the evening, it started with dancing of which my moves where usual silky mixture of drunken-uncle-at-a-wedding and drunken-uncle-at-a-wedding-who-thinks-he’s-in-Saturday-Night-Fever. Bopping away to the tunes I noticed my very own Pandora’s Box... karaoke. Having once been something of a competitive singer I just couldn’t resist a chance to drunkenly get up on stage and serenade the club audience with a belting rendition of Tom Jones’s ‘It’s Not Unusual’. 

Even if you had shut your eyes I am sure you would have notice the difference between me and Wales’ finest son, but at the time I was holding court and the attention was deliciously satisfying... I can see why the great man does Vegas, but he needs to try the clubs of Clapham.  I thought I had been greeted with the sound of clapping, but i’m sure that it was more the sounds of breaking bottles and calls to ‘get him off’ as the infamous shepherd’s crook lurked on-hand to drag me from the stage and cast me back with the mere mortals on the dancefloor!

As I sat on the sofa that Sunday afternoon remembering my turn on the mike, I chuckled. A cracking evening, with great people and of course, that cruel mistress... karaoke! 

*

At Duke’s Place...

We all make mistakes in life and I made a very minor one the other day, in the grand scheme of things, nothing scandalous, nothing major, just the wrong thing sent at the wrong time. 

There was regret, recriminations, a chance to put things right - which I did, thankfully - but even when you do manage to rake the leaves which disperse over the proverbial garden it is very easy to feel down, as indeed I did that evening, and, in need of a little alone time and some relaxation to take my mind off it, I found myself in the bar of Dukes Hotel, looking for some peace after being dragged over the coals by a couple of rather irate people. 

There's nothing like a little retail therapy for the mind and i eyed up the humidor longingly knowing that a great cigar would be a perfect antidote for my frazzled and weary mind. There was a fantastic selection to choose from: Hoyo del Rey, Cohiba and of course, my standby, the decadently delicious Montecristo No.2! 

Sitting outside under the glare of the fan heaters and a waterproof tent, in a very cosy armchair I reflected on the day while the rain pita-pattered all around me, and was able to put things into some context. 

I was finally starting to relax after the tense day and, although it can sometime be nice to be surrounded by the chatter of various fellow smokers, sometimes a bit of alone time with an expertly made Negroni (with my favourite, Plymouth gin) can be an absolute joy. The cigar was an old favourite, medium-bodied, it started light and got deeper and richer as it smoked through. There was a good length of ash, burning at a steady speed, indicating the cigar had been kept in a well maintained humidor (not as common as one would think). 

Let me point out thought that all this finery comes at a premium. Dukes is not cheap, with cocktails costing between £15 - £20 and expensive brandies, some which cost thousands of pounds a bottle, it is not your Sam Smith’s pub to be sure! Cigars are set at standard London prices (£15 - £30), so this is not somewhere to go every evening, more an occasional treat. 

However, the real thing that makes Dukes special - apart from that it is by far the best place to get a Martini in London (after all it was where Ian Fleming apocryphally created the renowned ‘Vespa’) - is the incredibly high standard of service, no request is too much for the highly courteous and charming bar staff and waiters. It is a great example of a level of hospitality that people should expect when paying such high prices, but is sadly lacking from so many high-end establishments. 

If you happen to be in the St. James area any time soon, I would thoroughly recommend ducking into Dukes for a perfectly-mixed cocktail and a most delicious smoke. 

LA cops are told to play by the rules… Shotgun (1989)

I had put it off for too long, I thought, as I supped a pint of bitter and enjoyed a fine Bolivar No.1 at the Rose & Crown. One of my loyal readers had long badgered me for a particular film review and I had continually demurred. Now, in a more philosophical mind, sheltering as I was beneath an outdoor heater as the cold wind whipped around me, I thought it high time that I shared this film with the general public. For one reader, at least, it will come as a welcome surprise, others will bay for my blood at having introducing them to this truly eccentric motion picture... So let me set the scene.

1989 was a year of many seminal events: the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the start of the Gulf Conflict, the birth of my younger brother, Hugo Rubinstein, the resignation from the UK Cabinet of Geoffrey Howe, the seventh season of popular Jersey-based crime drama Bergerac, Tyson vs Bruno, Arsenal winning the league... I could go on. 

It was not, however, a seminal year for cinema with some highly disappointing films rising to the surface, remember this was the year that Driving Miss Daisy won the best picture award at the Oscars! Only a few diamonds lurked amongst the general coal stock of celluloid rubbish: Black Rain; The Last Crusade; Uncle Buck; Kickboxer and Lethal Weapon 2 couldn't make up for a number of turkeys: 

• Ghostbusters II (dire - especially Peter McNicoll's role - a poor man's Rick Moranis)
• Licence to Kill (one of Bond's most disappointing outings)
• The Abyss (more like the Abyss-mal)
• Troll 2 (famously regarded as the worst film ever made) 
• Born on the 4th July (sanctimonious rubbish masquerading as high drama) 
• Dead Poets Society (a banquet of mawkishness)

Then there are films that you just cannot put your finger on, these special features that defy good or bad but just fall into a category of unadulterated brilliance. No, I am not talking about John Matuzak's 'One Man Force' or Don Johnson's 'Dead Bang', I am talking about the seminal  Stuart Chapin and Riff Hutton buddy-cop vehicle 'Shotgun' <click to see trailer>.

Released against the backdrop of the collapse of communism and the cultural vacuum left by the ending of Miami Vice, shotgun was made to tackle some of the major issues affecting people in the USA: narcotics, prostitution, police welfare, gun crime, shifting consumer values and border control.

Set in a fictious, but all too real LA, two cops, the hard-done-by and world-weary Ian Jones (Chapin) and Max Billings (Hutton) are on the trail of a grim English lawyer, Rivington, who likes murdering call girls in his spare times using S&M sex as his weapon of choice (a biting piece of satire from the writers of the screenplay, indicting the exponential growth of the hardcore porn scene during the 1980s). It’s tough, gritty realism told masterfully through some edgy shots, punchy material and hard-boiled dialogue

Our duo cut a fine pair, with Jone depicted in very much the style of the day: ginger ponytail, cowboy hat, Arran sweater, jeans and trademark naval overcoat - if ever there was a cop look this was it! Billing, a more senior figure, pressed and pressured by the rigours of the job is the ‘yuppie’ of the two, a family man with his eyes on the top job. He has a wife and kid, he needs the steady income of a desk job whereas Jones, the maverick, merely needs the succor of his badge and the bottom of a whisky bottle. However, sometimes Billings lets his hair down, much to the viewer's relief (as we become so involved with the lives of these two over the course of the flick) and dons a leather jacket and trucker cap to go ‘undercover’ in some of South Central’s seediest districts. 

For much of the plot they pursue the evil Rivington and his cocky sidekick, known only as ‘Rocker’ through fleshpots, dirty video stores and old skool hip hop night clubs . As much as there is the great thrill of the chase, this film could also be seen as a picture of a city in urban decay. The director using a very jerky rough-cutting editing method and low quality filming equipment merely emphasises the plight of those trapped in a downward spiral to destruction. 

As the two cops pick up leads across town, delving more and more into Rivington’s sleazy empire things start to become personal. When the boys start getting too close the corrupt lawyer decides to send a warning shot, gunning down the protagonist’s ‘only blood relative’, his sister. 

Sitting in the dimly lit bar following the ordeal, Chapin, an actors’ actor if ever there was one, delivers one of the finest, most poignant monologues in film history which exhibits how important family loyalty is to this film. Yes, it may be a booze drenched passage, but it smack of Bukowski, delivered from the heart and convincing the viewer that Jones and his sister had a unique bond now cruelly severed by a hideous villain. Hutton is also no slouch, offering an understated, quiet majesty to his intense performance as a close friend, the shoulder to cry on... you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. 

Chapin is a master of versatility, at one moment a mild mannered, almost zen-like in his approach, the next a copper-on-the-edge-of-a-nervous-breakdown. His eyes blazing with intensity, he quits the force in a flurry of confusion involving oranges been chucked at senior officers and some diarrhea-based analogies. He impulsively becomes a bounty hunter, giving an insight on the bleak prospects that await an ex-cop trying to make ends meet in the late 80s. Tragedy strikes again as his former, newly promoted ex-partner, Billings is gunned down by the bad guys because, like a horny dog, Ian Jones had been caught sniffing tail at close range one too many times. 

Like the special amp in ‘This is Spinal Tap’ , Jones cranks it up to notch 11. This time it’s personal, it’s one thing to kill his sister, but to critically injure his partner is another matter all together and so, in the same vein as other great buddy cop films, I’m thinking ‘Tango & Cash’, ‘48 Hours’, ‘Beverley Hill Cop’, ‘Stakeout’ and ‘Running Scared’ this one ends with a spectacular gun fight. Without giving too much away it involves a custom-made tank, a gun-toting English toff wearing a panama hat, a cravate and smoking a cheroot, a over-fortified Mexican hacienda, massive explosions and of course the film’s signature shotgun. It’s a rollercoaster and you need to get yourself on board to enjoy this non-stop ride. 

At the end of the day a film is only as good as its sum parts, where the script sometimes might falter Chapin and Hutton knock the ball right out of the park with bravura performances, defying the populist Academy and Screen Actors’ Guild to deliver a film that both shows the vulnerability of South California detectives but also opens up the seedy underbelly of a consumer society obsessed by cheap thrills. Is this a must see? I think yes! 

The January Man

A new year should be all about new resolutions and January is the time to start acting upon these, a time of remorse and self-pity where everyone feels compelled to tell everyone else that they are ‘detoxing’ and ‘being good’... until February! How sanctimonious!  That is why I have taken the opportunity this month to shun convention and carry on as normal... and what fun I have had. So while these ‘holier-than-thou’ carrot munchers quaff their wheatgrass smoothies and pop their cod liver oil tablets, I declare ‘boo-ya-sucks-to-you’ in this joyous post focusing on some of the hedonistic highlights of this month. 

Nothing is more comforting on a chill winters evening than a quiet pint of tepid bitter in an old fashioned boozer, and while such establishments are few and far between in South London, there are a small few that still offer a very convivial and warm setting for a civilised drink. The Alexandra (or the ‘Ally’ as it is known locally) is one such place, a large but friendly pub fifty metres from Wimbledon Station with a killer selection of bitter which includes my favourites: Young’s Special, Winter Warmer, Wandle and Junction as well as a few craft ales from the Meantime Stable along with the ubiquitous selections of commercial lager. Okay it might not be the gastropub that so many now crave but it served a lovely, frothing pint in a jolly atmosphere which is helped by great staff. 

For those looking to step back in time even further, I recommend a seedy, scummy little pub in the grand surroundings of Duke Street St. James, Chequers. A regular haunt of mine this pub is perfectly positioned being a five minute walk from Green Park Station, JJ Fox and Dukes Hotel’s legendary bar. Only last Friday you would have found me there under the searing blaze of their outdoor heaters indulging in a fine cigar, a NUB Sungrown. The stogie was full bodied and rich smoke with a thick plume of smoke wrapped and filled with some very fine Nicaraguan tobacco, well worth the £13.00 it cost. I coupled this with a very reliable pint of London Pride and a little nip of brandy to warm to cockles of me heart with, of course, some great banter. Inside it is somewhat dated with beer stained carpets, badly kept urinals, gin and tonic served in goblets and no room to swing a cat. Hear of ‘Tavern’ brand crisps? Neither have I and, after sampling them I cannot say i will be recommending them to anyone! 

Looking a little later into the evening London in January offers no end of entertainment, a veritable mix of iniquitous dens where one can dance and drink the nice away. Bart’s Bar is one such place, a ‘speakeasy’ on Sloane Avenue it is a room in an apartment complex decked out in weird objet d’art and hunting memorabilia. Potent cocktails and spirits on the rocks are the order of the day at this late-night watering hole as well as the presence of many uber-chic glamour pusses. Far too cool for me but sometime riff-raff like me are allowed to make an appearance.The same could not be said of Sugar Cane on Lavender Hill, a far from salubrious place, in which the smell of stale mojitos mingles uneasily with an atmosphere of passive violence and cracking knuckles, not the place for a drunken, shrinking violet like myself! After too too many badly made cocktail it was difficult to remember much of the decor, and indeed some of my more riotous and dangerous dance floor moves, but needless to say it was like a Tiki bar designed by someone devoid of all sense of taste! But then again, what do you expect of a place by three AM in the morning? 

Well that’s your lot for this week, but if you, like me, have decided to stick two fingers up at the broccoli brigade then please feel free to comment below and tell me about some of the places that you have been this January, I am always on the lookout for recommendations! 

Freedom Overspill: Episode #4

After a long absence the fourth part of the gripping cop saga, Freedom Overspill is now up for your delectation. I was thinking of posting the whole story but, at a staggering 6,000 words I thought i might be a little bit too large for the blog’s feed so, if you are a newcomer and want to get into the groove from the beginning, here are the links to the first three parts: 

Episode 1

Episode 2

Episode 3

In a nutshell, the year is 1986 and two cops, the redoubtable Hall and Lomacks are on a case against the backdrop of The Westland Affair, Iran Contra and the release of Genesis’s seminal Invisible Touch.

Back at the Hand & Hand, Hall and Lomacks approached the Landlord, as a couple of locals, by the name of Ben Cross and Linley Harrison look on, State of the Nation  by New Order was playing in the Background, lending an uncomfortable, paranoid edge to the whole affair. Cross turned to Harrison.

“I think they might come over and talk to us in a minute Lin, they aren’t going to get much out of Dave.” Harrison looked puzzled.

“What do we say though? All we’d done was played a round of golf on the common and come in to have a few pints here. As I remember we were talking about John Martyn when the explosion happened.

“Fact is Lin, I hardly knew Niven, I mean, I lived next door to the man for 10 years and never once was I invited round, we never shared a pint in the pub. Nothing!” Spotting the two golfer in tense conversation, Hall and Lomacks crossed over to them, Hall spoke first.

“Excuse me, do you mind if we interrupt? The thing is we don’t like to drink alone.” With a brush of the hand Harrison acquiesced, what choice did he have?

“Please detectives, and don’t worry, we know why you’re here.”

“Oh?” Lomacks gave him a suspicious look, but Cross interjected

“Well…we can only guess that you want to talk to us about the Nivens.”

“In a nutshell!”

“Well there is really little I can tell you. I mean, as I was just explaining to my friend, although I lived next door to them for ten years we, by that I mean my wife and I, were never invited around. Perhaps if we had been able to have children it might have been different, as I am roughly the same age as Digby Niven, but that wasn’t meant to be.” Hall did his best attempt at empathy, he’d never had children, married to the job as he was.

“quite understand, Mr…”

“Cross.”

“Mr Cross, I don’t suppose on the rare occasions that you bumped into Niven he discussed his business.”

“It was a few chance meetings at the Delicatessen or the Newsagent really. Besides, High finance has never been my forte. I’m and artist by trade.” Something suddenly clicked with Lomacks.

“Oh I know you, didn’t you exhibit at the Serpentine Gallery a couple of years ago?” Hall was always impressed by his partner’s urbanity but would never admit that to anyone, let alone some strangers in a pub

“you’ll have to forgive my partner, he’s something of a dilettante when it comes to culture.” Cross laughed.

“None taken, it’s nice to meet a fan. Look, I don’t know what help it would be but come and speak to my wife, as she knew Mrs Niven better that I ever did Mr...” But Hall cut him short.

“Thank you Mr Cross for your time. We’ll grab something to eat and then we’ll be over.”

“Oh you haven’t eaten yet? Well, it would be a pleasure to give lunch to one present appreciator of my work and perhaps a future one.” Hall never liked to take freebies off the public.

“We couldn’t impose.”

“I insist! I live just over… well you know where I live by now I’m sure (Laughs). I am afraid I can only offer you cold cuts and some salad, but I do have a nice bottle of White Burgundy which is in dire need of consumption. I do take it you drink?” Lomacks eyes lit up.

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” Hall scowled.

“Shut up Lomacks. That sounds very nice.”

Soon they were in Cross’s dining room and following a rather convivial lunch of cold lobster with mayonnaise they set down to the business in hand, police work. 

“That was an excellent bottle Mr Cross.” Said Hall, wiping his mouth on his napkin. Cross concured.

“Yes, I quite agree, I drove over to Burgundy last year and picked up a shed load of the stuff.”

“I’m sure customs would have had something to say about that.”

“Well, if they had known. I have a few friends at customs and excise who turn a blind eye. Well, selling paintings abroad you’ve got to ensure some flexibility.” Cross tapped his nose in a conspiratorial way. Hall knew this as the trademark of the white collar smuggler. He laughed.

“Well, Mr Cross, I think you are safe on this occasion!” 

“well that is a great assurance detective!”

“By the way, Where is Mrs Cross?”

“Oh she’ll be back in half an hour. Look it’s such a nice day let’s have coffee and Brandies in the garden. Are either of you interested in flowers.” Once again the young dilettante chipped in.

“ I grew up in Devon and as you can imagine the range and variety was amazing.”

“Indeed,” Cross was impressed, “well, you must come and see my foxgloves.”

“Ah Digitalis...” Lomack mused, “beautiful but deadly.”

“like so many things in life Mr Lomacks, like so many things…”

In the garden, Hall, Lomacks and Cross walked around a long, attractive border looking at the remarkable array of plants that Cross had. Bees were buzzing and birds were chirping away in the trees, you wouldn’t have guessed that just 20 metres away there had been a massive explosion, it all seemed so tranquil. Suddenly Lomacks saq something flashing in the flower bed.

“One moment Mr Cross,” he caught artist’s arm, “I think I see something in the flower bed. It looks like a piece of tooling equipment or something.” Hall, who had been rather bored by the nature trail was roused from the lethargy that the booze had inflicted.

“it looks like part of a lathe or something. Used to hollow out metal tubing, quite specialized equipment. My father used something of the sort when he worked in the motor industry.” A frown came across Cross’s brow. 

“How very strange, I certainly don’t use such stuff, industrial art isn’t really my thing”

“Was it Niven’s?”

“Search me, you seem more the expert on this.”

“Very strange indeed, Lomacks have you got a biro.” Lomacks handed a Bic to Hall and used it to pick up the tooling part and drops it in his jacket pocket. From the distance there came the sound of the front door slamming shut, Cross turned. 

“Ah! I think I can hear Mrs Cross coming in now.”

“Thank you Mr Cross, we shall go and speak to her now?”

“Happy to be of what little assistance I can be.”

*

Digby Niven’s was sitting in his office, sitting at his desk with a Black Label on the rocks and a recently used mirror and credit card augmenting the rather vulgar alabaster ashtray and desktop lighter. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a Dunhill, lit it and drank deep of its various flavours and toxins. He had four packs delivered each day to his desk and there would be four empty packs in the bin by the time he left for the days. The phone rang, he answered.  

“Niven here”

“They brought it.” came the unmistakable voice of Cross. 

“What?”

“That I have had nothing to do with you, as far as they know, you’re just someone that I bump into every now and then at the Newsagent.”

“Excellent, it seems that all is going to plan. And you gave them lunch I suppose.”

“Oh yes, they got through two bottles of the White Burgundy.”

“This gets better and better, drinking and scoffing on the job at a potential witness’s house. They better not dig much deeper or IA will be getting a well placed and of course, anonymous phone call.”

“There’s just one thing...” Cross hesitated. 

“What, what could there possibly be? This is too perfect for words.”

“It seems the explosion sent some debris from your house flying into my flower bed.”

“So?”

“Well, it was a piece of tooling, and Det. Hall identified it as part of the lathing process used to shape the gun barrel. Granted, it was small so he won’t have known its real purpose.”

“And you told them.”

“I feigned ignorance, told them that I hadn’t had you down as an industrial artist.”

“Good, great Cross, you’ll be an even richer man before the month’s out! Now have you talked to the shippers?”

“I have, in my capacity, of course, as a non-exec director of Lansing & Tolsen Building materials.”

“Well I think it is only right that we do our bit for social reconstruction in the Middle East.”

“You mean re-configuration.”

“hahaha, you are learning my dear Cross, We should have had you in Grenada! Excellent! Well, just stay on your toes and let me know if those two stooges come sniffing around the Common again. By the way, what did your wife say?”

“They are right that ignorance is surely bliss, almost as if I had drafted her statement for her. Your late wife was an upstanding member of the local community and member of Conservative Association, avid horse rider and of course the classic line: ‘I don’t know who’d want to kill her’.”

“You sly dog! Look, I’ve just seen my secretary come in so I will end it here. Until next time.”

“Until next time.”

Looking up, Niven recognised his secretary, a long-legged saucy young thing with a pronounced Essex accent.

“Sorry to disturb you Mr Niven.” She chirruped. Niven was in a good mood but he tried to hide it behind false grief. 

“Not at all Susie, what’s up? I was just talking to my lawyer about my Wife’s effects.”

Susie looked puzzled as the tone of the previous phone conversation, although muffled through the frosted glass wall, sounded a bit too jovial to be about his late wife, he has been acting erratically recently. She merely put it down to sheer emotional stress. After all she wasn’t being paid £60,000 a year to ponder Niven’s mental state.

“I have General Adnan Khairallah here to see you about the Macarthur account.”

“Indeed…please send him in.”

That was quite a Christmas!

Those of my readers who saw me over the break will attest that I had quite a Christmas, jam-packed full of good wine, good food and great cheer. In fact this might have been the most boozy and certainly the most sociable I have spent this year. So now, in the dark depths of January, as I lean upon a coppice gate (like Hardy in his Darkling Thrush) munching on a stick of celery and drinking a glass of oh-so-healthy carrot juice, I think back to that hedonistic Christmas season and all the fine riches that it brought to me...

December 24th - Christmas Eve began ominously, the wind and rain battering our Sceptred Isle with all the force Mother Nature could offer. A quick call to the office and I was warned to baton down the hatches and work from home for the rest of the day. Tasks completed and work finishing at a generously early 15:00 I was set to make the most of my Christmas Eve. A quick trip to Waitrose to purchase some last minute Christmas groceries provided the first cigar of the period, a very pleasant Montecristo Petit Edmundo (for more info check out my collected Sketches from a Cigar Smoker’s Album) and a pretty generous tumbler of Grant’s, ginger liqueur and Canada Dry with a twist of orange peel over ice. To keep me entertained as I braved the elements I had Trevanian’s excellent Shibumi a rip-roaring thriller about the world’s best assassin and his battle against a consortium of the world’s oil and gas companies. 

Dinner soon came around, a beautiful pheasant gratin (large morsels of game bound with a stock and white wine infused roux, topped with crisp-fried bacon and breadcrumbs and set under the grill until bubbling) with fine green beans accompanied by an excellent bottle of Villa Maria’s Gewurztraminer (Waitrose, £9.99). It certainly brought about some tidings of comfort and joy, a perfect start.

December 25th - I woke up to a plethora of very useful and much needed presents including Thomas Keller’s fantastic book on baking (which would knock the socks off anything produced on that tosh on the BBC) some very welcome NUB Cameroon cigars and a fantastic bottle of 1949 Madeira! ‘Lucky fellow’ I hear you cry. 

Following a bit of prep work and and some sous-chefing in the kitchen, I heard the first pop of a Champagne cork around 11:00 and enjoyed a chilled glass of Christophe Herbelet with some delicious smoked salmon sandwiches as I trimmed the sprouts. 

Lunch was a veritable feast, and, as I had to do two Christmas meals that day (the inevitability of divorced parents), served at the far more civilised time of 13:00. The turkey was complemented with the usual suspects as well as two stuffings (basic herb & Chestnut, bacon and mushroom) and lashings of delicious homemade gravy. To go with this there was a healthy selection of good wine including: 1982 Chateau Talbot, Gewürztraminer Reserve 2007 Trimbach and a 1977 Sandeman’s Silver Jubilee Port... simply heaven. I topped all this offer with one of the NUB Cameroon’s I had received, savouring the heady smoke and rich, spicy taste of the stogie ahead of round two of Turkey later that evening where I polished off another line-up of goodies at my aunt and uncles house!

As I fell asleep at the dinner table, party hat at a jaunty angle, fit to bursting with food and booze, I drowsily reflected that this had been a very good, if excessive, Christmas Day. 

December 26th - Boxing day hit me hard, my head hurt and I was reminded (Waugh fans must forgive me if I misquote) of that great line from Brideshead Revisited: ‘It was neither the quantity, nor the quality, but the variety that was at fault’. Feeling somewhat woozy, I shakily made myself a cup of coffee and readied myself for another influx of guests. 

I noticed another couple of bottles of the 1982 Talbot on the table and realised that I would have to buck up before a lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. A cold shower followed by a strong espresso and a well appointed Plymouth Gin & Tonic at midday kicked me into action before the guests arrived.

Lunch was another affair full of jolliness and lots of laughter, The Talbot and a bottle of 1985 Graham Port slipped down very nicely after a feast of rolled sirloin with all the trimmings. Another cigar followed (NUB Cameroon), before I felt decidedly knackered and longed just to sit with my book and sog out... 

Christmas had been and gone for another year and I felt decidedly decadent as I sat enjoying a 1941 Armagnac as my cigar gently burned in the dying embers of the main part of the Christmas holidays. 

Soft Rock Follies... a love of the laid back and righteous

There was a brilliant series published on YouTube a few years ago called Yacht Rock. This dramatic saga parodied the heady days of the late 70s and the early 80s when an oft forgotten genre call Soft Rock ruled the airwaves. Emanating from the sounds of Steely Dan and Boz Scaggs this genre was firmly planted in West Coast America where bearded stoners in Hawaiian shirts and stone wash jeans made great pop-rock tunes with a large emphasis on clean production and quality of music (over quality of lyrics). 

Many of the main players of the genre had already established a career as prolific session musicians, looking for some limelight of their own, others were young upstarts keen to make a name for themselves in the hotbed of the LA music scene laced with alcohol, drugs and casual sex. One would think that such an environment would produce the aggressive music of The Doors or perhaps the biting insistency of Motley Crue yet it was the mellow vein that seemed to captivate artists between 1976 - 1981 and to my mind, so much the better. 

As I have reiterated in many a previous post, my friends are often sick to death of some of the music I insist on playing them, so insipid do they find it! Yet I still love it, for me it is timeless,  enjoying it so much as to repeat play it on my stereo system as on stations like Magic and Smooth! Here is my pick of my top five albums from the genre (in no particular order): 

Minute by Minute (1978) - Doobie Brothers: Probably the quintessential album of ‘Soft Rock’ released in the wake of the genre’s zenith, it is rightly regarded as a classic and one of the strongest outings in the band’s catalogue. By this stage former frontman Tom Johnston had been replaced by Michael Macdonald (with his idiosyncratic vocals) and it shows in the more romantic songwriting and the slicker production. Coming to the Doobie Brothers from the Steely Dan session stable a few before, Macdonald really stamps his mark on the group with instant classics such as the insistent ‘What Fools Believe’ (a Grammy winning track, co-written with Kenny Loggins) and the lilting Minute by Minute’. The album cover featuring the whole band in ‘LA’ mode is another classic with a number of the group living up to their suggestive name. 

Red Cab To Manhattan (1980) - Stephen Bishop: Most people will never heard of Stephen Bishop but I can guarantee that they will, at some stage, have seen him. He has a very prominent cameo as a folk singer in ‘Animal House’ whose guitar is smashed to pieces by John Belushi’s ‘Bluto’, a gig he secure from being the then boyfriend of Karen Allen (Marion Ravenwood from ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’). Although laced with soft rock sensibilities this bittersweet record was made during their break-up and many of the songs focus on classic soft rock material such as: longing, reflection and romance with a good dose of cynicism thrown in. Bishop was and is a sporadic artist and his music is always of interesting bursting out at different tangents every so often. It makes for a slightly inconsistent listen but when he hits, he hits hard. Tracks like ‘Send a little love my way’, ‘Story of a boy in love’ and the title track are top-notch. 

Christopher Cross (1979) - Christopher Cross: I have already written about Christopher Cross in another post so I will make do with an extract from that brilliant analysis of his Grammy award winning record: ‘I know I must sound incredibly gushing about this album but it really is one that, for me at least, has not one dud cut on it - very rare for a soft rock album. It also has one of the most impressive groups of musicians who Cross called upon to help create it: Don Henley, Jay Graydon, J D Souther, Larry Carlton, Victor Feldman, Nicolette Larson and the aforementioned Michael McDonald. But let us not forget Cross, who has a unique and very engaging vocal talent as well and an incredibly good hand when it came to writing pop music and gauging the popular mood at the turn of the 1970s. If I am right this was one of the last albums to be released in 1979 and serves as an exceptional and truly awesome end to the decade.’ 

For the full review: http://howtobeabloodygoodchap.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/ride-like-wind-christopher-cross.html  

Rumours (1977) - Fleetwood Mac - What more can one add about this heroin-drench, smash hit album? Probably the greatest soft rock triumph of all time, with people wearing out record-after-record from its release in 1977 to present day this is the stuff of legends right from the initially fraught recording sessions, the grueling touring through to the behind the scenes hedonism which saw some of the greatest excesses in music history come to the fore...(breath)... this is such a treat for the first time listener from the opening chords of Second Hand News to the sombre Daddy. Then there are the hits, now classics of contemporary music: Don’t Stop, Go Your Own Way, You Make Lovin’ Fun and The Chain. The whole album works, each track is worth a listen and just goes to shows the irony of a band who in reality were on the very edge but were one of the musically cohesive acts of their time. If you buy one album from this list then make it this one!

Cat in the Hat (1980) - Bobby Caldwell - What would one of these reviews be without a mention of one of my favourite albums, the one that I bore you all to death with! Again, like Cross I have already waxed lyrical so I will direct you to an extract and a shamelessly place link: ‘Each track is a meticulously played, meticulously produced and has real passion. Funky and soulful, Caldwell had already dazzled with his debut album and the smash (and oft sampled) 'What you won't do for love'. This album was different, very slick and soulful lacking the harder edge and resonating chords of Cat in the Hat. Nowhere on the record is this more apparent than on the most famous and sampled track 'Open your Eyes' an oft overlooked 80s pop classic with echoed vocals and rollocking piano chords descending into a dirty guitar riff which will imprint itself on your mind for hours after listening to it.’

For the full review: http://howtobeabloodygoodchap.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/coming-down-from-love-cat-in-hat-bobby.html