Snakes on the Stage - Rockin The Social

Snakes, Snakeoil Rattlers, and a folky Scouse sentimentalist shared the bill at What’s Cookin' on Saturday night. It was an even wackier night than usual at Stephen Ferguson’s roots music showcase. Obviously things festive were bound to feature, and in any case a bevvied up audience’s ability to sort the pearls from the swine is always limited. That said there were real turkeys and some total barnstorming brilliance at the ex-Ex-Servicemen’s Club in Leytonstone, East London. Now fashioning itself as ‘The Social’, this century old treasure is an excellent venue for things musical and things affordable in the booze department. In fact ‘The Social’ is a welcome relief from the veritable orgy of bourgeois bacchanalian bullshit on offer at surrounding denizens of winter wankerdom.

Things kicked off at 730pm on the dot when Stephen threw the first of several celebrations of 1977-79 on to his turntable and no less a punk than Joe Walsh reminded us that ‘Life’s Been Good’ so far. Well maybe it hasn’t been for that many of the audience, but who cared. We haven’t had that spirit here since, well, 1978, and it sounded fuggin A. I have to say though, Stephen, that keeping it so cranked up before the bands had hit the stage and when older folks were just trying to chat whilst supping their beers was a challenge for those less hearing-enhanced than younger punters (if there were any).

This was a mere detail though cos by 8pm Danny Jones was on. Bald, and bearing a loud shirt and an acoustic guitar, the man started well, performing the, admittedly tad maudlin, ‘Maggie Mae’ (not that one). A great Liverpudlian folk tune for sure and he does this stuff well. Danny then did a decent, emotionally engaged cover of Paul Simon’s ‘Slip Sliding Away’. Perhaps uncomfortable with the intimacy, he suddenly donned his Everton FC Santa hat (blue, natch) and proceeded to play a couple of Christmas-themed ditties that sounded like utter stuff and nonsense to me. Having plumbed those undesirable depths, Danny then proceeded, admittedly half-embarrassedly, to inform us that he was about to bless us with a Chris De Burgh song. It's not ‘The Lady in Red’, he said. ‘Shame,’ said my friend, audibly. After all, if things were going to be bad then we might as well embrace the full horror, horns and all. It was though that other gooey song by the diminutive songster; the one that conjures up preferably forgotten Christmasses of childhood yore when you carried a candle to bed, but not for midnight self-pleasuring.

Danny Jones at What's Cookin', Leytonstone

Danny finished up his set with a very different number that was self-penned and heartfelt. Sadly though, I’d already switched off after an excess of the ‘La lah la, lah-la lah-dee-dah’ singalong-a- chorus on the De Burgh number, and didn’t fully appreciate that Danny had performed by far his best number of the night.

Before long the first of two Snake-orientated dirty southern rock swaggerers were on the boards. The Snakeoil Rattlers, like the headlining Snakes, make a good fist of their imagined American musical heritage. In fact I reckon the lead singer of the Rattlers, he replete with Lemmy-style black cowboy hat but with tinsel, is an Aussie. Either way he certainly had the grizzled ol’ southern greebo rock schtick thing going on. Not nature’s best voice, but it kind of worked for most of the material. The, by definition, seated steel guitarist took a more measured hand in occasional lead vocal duties, which broadened the band's musical reach. On bass was, well, possibly a graduate of the Sid Vicious school of rhythm discipline, only with a lot less power. Next to him was John O'Sullivan, the link man of the night’s Snakery, a bassist/rhythm guitarist whose whole look (long-haired and balding) and musical demeanour spelt fun; and he definitely was having it. In fact at times it seemed like The Snakeoil Rattlers were just having their own thing going on on the stage almost regardless of the audience.

The Snakeoil Rattlers @WhatsCookin, Leytonstone

The Rattlers feat. steel guitar

Of the numbers whose titles I could almost make out there was (possibly) ‘Johnny Got Shot by a UFO’ (if that isn’t a song title of their’s, it should be). There was an out there rock n' roll/country thing happening with these guys - to the extent that on one number they sounded like The New York Dolls do Country. Things though took an unwelcome turn when Eddy and the Hot Rods’ ‘Do Anything You Wanna Do’ was pretty much slaughtered. Not that the audience seemed bothered; a fair few had the signature hand-claps of this (non) punk classic off to a ‘T’. The lead singer managed, as my friend put it, to sing every note flat. Still, undimmed, and with the audience’s ongoing blessing, the boys then dusted off that annually overcooked if not seriously burnt festive offering, Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’; O'Sullivan replete with proffered Noddy-style hat (not that one, unfortunately). I’ve always hated Slade and if I never hear their Christmas song again it’ll be once too often.

At last The Snakes themselves were on stage. When I say ‘stage’ I mean that in the wonderfully egalitarian nature of the ex-ex-servicemen’s club, one end of the top floor room is where the musicians do their thing, surrounded, as you can see, by owls and colourful adornments that are pretty much the venue’s routine display all year round.

The Snakes gettin it on @What'sCookin'

The Snakes were exuding something dirty rock n roll before they’d played a note. I’d spotted the cape-wearing lead guitarist earlier – think an effete Dylan circa The Rolling Thunder Review show. The front man (and guitarist) was more yer archetypal Americana dude; big and grizzly and sporting a cap, lumberjack shirt and denim jacket. His vocals were definitely more present than those of his predecessor. The drummer played his heart (and arms) out. I was hearing southern rock thru the prism of the Stones’ ‘Exile’ period, though the Snakes’ promo material also mentions that Mink Deville is in the mix.

Snake pit boogie

There was one sublime wigged-out moment when the minimalist rock instrumentation just wouldn’t relent and I just didn’t want it to. Kinda like a Byrds’ space rock jam but grittier and without the space. In the bogs I distinctly heard one of the band announce that ‘If you’ve got any heroin, now’s the time to take it.’ Droll and kinda appropriate. There was then a number whose title sounded like ‘Turn Back the Clock’, which is pretty much what these boys do, as reflected in an apparent band signature tune: ‘The Last Days of Rock n’ Roll’. I was pleased that this wasn’t the finale because this isn't how rock n' roll’s last days should be spent at all. It sounded to me like a discarded number from the Ziggy Stardust era, which I guess could be taken as a massive compliment. It’s not meant to be. 

John O'Sullivan kept us entertained with his between numbers banter. He noted at one point that The Snakes had done three albums… in 50 years... and that the upcoming song was ‘from the middle one.’ It's 'a blues’ John said; a style, he gnomically observed, that's hard to play. Another notable song introduction was 'If The Snakes had had a hit' – and he noted that they haven’t – ‘then this would not be it.’ The Snakes were then off but were back on again in a flash. An encore was never in doubt and they served up a couple more good dirty rockin’ dishes to send the rightly satisfied punters home. It had been a great, if occasionally patchy, night.

What’s Cookin' is almost a musical institution, and Mr Ferguson and all of the musicians that play under his umbrella – in Leytonstone and other proximate venues – need to be lauded and supported. Check him and them out.

 

Midnight Canonball's debut pyrotechnics

Midnight Canonball’s debut gig was explosive. ‘The New Inn’ in Hadlow Down (East Sussex, England) had opened up a former hotel function room from the pub's glory days. From this freezing cold space Midnight Canonball were launched. By the end of the night it seemed like half the village had turned up. Hadlow Down is ordinarily a sedate place that only comes alive for an annual spot of steam engine fetishism.

Midnight Canonball are a self-styled blues and rock n’ roll trio, comprising band leader Neil Grove on guitar, Greg on double-bass, and Jez on drums. In the spirit of rock n' roll, Neil’s new recruits apparently don’t have surnames. The unusual spelling of ‘canonball’ in the band's name is presumably a nod to the musical didacticism that has been Neil's mission ever since his boyhood debut. This young blues guitar-slinging virtuoso carefully explains the musical heritage of each obviously revered number that he then proceeds to unleash on an audience. I totally get this and have been annoyed by incorrect musical references made at some other gigs I've attended. However I suspect the audience at The New Inn didn't care much who wrote or first performed Midnight Canonball’s numerous blues and rock n' roll covers, let alone who might have originally been on bass. As a song that I presume won’t be covered by Midnight Canonball almost has it, ‘When the working day is done they just wanna have fun.’ And fun this audience certainly did have. By the second half of the gig the audience had grown so big that there was barely any room for the those dancing upfront to strut their thang, let alone for a punter to pick their way to the adjacent serving hatch for more pints of heavy.

What about the actual performances though ? This new band’s Facebook page references their breadth of blues covers, and a predisposition for fast rock n’ roll and a touch of rockabilly. That pretty much sums up what Midnight Canonball are about. That, and the ‘choppy rhythmic styles’ that Neil is fond of mining. This was very much emphasised by their take on ‘Goin’ Back Home’, a Dr Feelgood song incorporating, Neil explained, a guitar part originating with Mick Green (of Johnny Kidd and the Pirates) that was sourced by the late, and very great, original Dr Feelgood guitarist Wilko Johnson. (For my review of a recent Dr Feelgood gig, see below).

There is no doubt that the 21-year-old Neil Grove is an exciting and highly skilled interpreter of vintage electric blues, the rawer side of its ‘baby’, rock n’ roll, and a skilled country blues picker too. He, the deft double-bassist Greg, and solid drummer Jez are very much guns for hire. I’m told a wedding gig will soon be in the offing. Neil, Greg and Jez could in the longer term play some bigger stages than those available in white marquee tents. Perhaps converting the obvious talent of Neil, and maybe that of his sidekicks, into fame and glory requires two steps: writing more of their own material; and Neil sharing some vocal duties, at least when it comes to the band's current repertoire.

I only detected one number on the night that he or the band had written (although I wasn’t there right up until the landlord turned the lights up). The self-penned number was largely a coruscatingly loud and dynamic burst of frenetic guitar soloing by Neil. It was undoubtedly highly exciting but was less a song than a platform for guitar pyrotechnics. 

When he sang Blind Willy McTell's (among other claimants) ‘St James Infirmary’, Neil’s vocal style definitely worked on what in fact is a subtler song with lyrics refreshingly free of the macho male bombast and sexual bravado usually beloved of Blues legends. In fact Neil and the whole band’s performance of this sublime number was masterful. No doubt any song Neil would choose by his vocal inspiration, Howlin’ Wolf, would though suit his fairly gruff singing style. I was less convinced by his vocal style though when it came to some of the other songs that the band performed on the night, for example those associated with Muddy Waters and Bill Haley and the Comets. By contrast the finger-picking country blues instrumental (‘Guitar Rag’ by Sylvester Weaver) that Neil played in the first set was for me the highlight of the gig.

Song-writing of the narrative kind requires hard work and inspiration in equal measure. It’s what in the 1960s transformed much of popular music from crooners and family entertainers, to the bands that made up the amorphous beast that we still call ‘rock’. To teach yourself guitar to Neil's high-end level AND to be told to think, together with your band mates, of generating a lot more original material is a major, major ask. It may simply be a matter of time. The sharing of vocal duties with another singer might round out the band's sound in the shorter term. After all, there are many fine examples in rock history of band leaders and lead guitarists not being the band’s main singer: Pete Townshend for one comes to mind. Not a bad pedigree perhaps. Townshend, as could Grove, sung when the song was right for his style and range. Maybe stepping forward requires stepping back a little.

None of this though takes away from what was a great night and a great band debut led by a great guitarist. The second favourite moment for me came toward the end of the second set when Neil’s mum, and veteran musician, Vanessa Grove joined him for an instrumental duo; she on spoons. I saw quite a few open-jawed looks of wonder among younger punters. Yes, music really can be this good.