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day of making “all sorts of horrible noises, like animals being mistreated.” Me? I think it sounds like teeth; scarily omnivorous, all-powerful, inscrutably grinning teeth, like those you would find on a horrible Victorian drawing of the Sun’s face. What are we talking about? The Mellotron, of course; the fragile, frustrating, ill-tempered, intractable and altogether wonderful keyboard instrument which is the subject of Nick Awde’s excellent new book. Appropriately enough when


paying tribute to such a hernia-inducing device, Nick’s book is a satisfyingly weighty lodestone, which runs to nearly 600 pages. Casual observers may blanch at the prospect, but before your eyes roll back in your head at the thought of being faced with an enervating, will-sapping technical manual, rest assured that this is nothing of the sort.


All the gen is there if you want it


of course; but if anything, Nick’s book ambitiously seeks to place the Mellotron in a cultural, sociological and even psychological context by telling the stories of the people whose lives were inextricably associated with it. The structure is simple and coherent: each chapter is someone’s separate testimony, and the book is topped and tailed with Nick’s passionate, informed, argumentative, super-intelligent and drily humorous essays.


Rick Wakeman and Robert Fripp aside, practically all of the Mellotron’s most celebrated users are represented: Mike Pinder, Ian McDonald, Tony Banks and Woolly Wolstenholme


among them. Many seem to have philosophically regarded “the Beast” as a necessary evil, a temperamental means to a transcendental end. Others cordially detested the fucking thing. It was a sod to tune, nigh-on impossible to lift, it didn’t like dampness, dryness, the cold, the heat, being transported or being left in the one place. A wealth of incidental detail


naturally emerges from these pioneers’ tales. Did you know, for example, that Meccano was extensively used in the manufacture of early Mellotrons? Or that audible quirks on the original master tapes include the scraping of a musician’s chair and bursts of applause? The tapes utilised by “the world’s first sampler” were strips of tape, not loops, so the notes ran out after eight seconds – meaning that musicians had to adopt a whole new technique of trimming the keys to keep chords going. That, and learning to compensate for the sluggish delay between the pressing of the keys and the notes actually emerging… Caveats are few regarding Nick’s


book: a dogged proof-read would have cleared up the odd inaccuracy and inconsistency, and irredeemably hardcore Mellotron nutters may feel that there is too much back story in some chapters, but then that’s surely the whole point: the thrill of finding out how this extraordinary device


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dropped into musicians’ lives like a Tardis, except twice as heavy. There’s a ‘64 “for sale” advert from


The Stage at the back of the book for Geoff Unwin’s Magic Carpet Inn Mellotron which describes it as “ideal for dancing, singing and general fun.” Fun? Great, I’ll bring my gallows and cyanide capsules. Make no mistake, the Mellotron is the gloomiest, most moribund-sounding instrument of all time; and that’s why we love it, of course. Buy this book. Marco Rossi


OLD RARE NEW: THE INDEPENDENT RECORD SHOP Edited by Emma Pettit, Nadine Kathe Monem and Rita Vozone Black Dog Publishing www.blackdogonline.com


I worked in and managed record stores longer than I care to admit to, putting in my last shift in one of those shops in the summer of 2001. Over my last few years working in the business, I was


constantly asked questions about the state of the music industry, particularly the retail arm. What effect was file-sharing having on music sales? Were amazon.com and eBay killing record shops? Why should anyone buy a major label new release CD at a mom and pop store, when they could get the same disc at Best Buy or Wal-Mart for two or three dollars less? The funny thing was, the people asking these questions were almost always individuals who didn’t care much about music. These same questions are


explored in this quick and highly enjoyable read, via interviews with, and essays by, various musicians, music journalists, DJs, and record shop owners. The primary question underlying all of the bits and pieces seems to be: was/is the record store really necessary, will it be missed if things reach the point where you really can no longer hunt for rare vinyl in a favourite shop? The answer: a resounding YES! We do need record stores, because it’s just more fun to find a great album by digging through bins in a cool shop, because of all the great recommendations you can get from knowledgeable staff, because of the social experience of being in a hallowed place with kindred spirits. More than a mere homage to


record shops, though, Old Rare New is a celebration of the record itself. Bob Stanley’s essay gives a brief history of vinyl as a medium for recording music. Many of the people interviewed rave about certain records, and the packaging of those prized items, in their collection. And there are several pages filled with pictures of classic record covers.


Another graphic motif throughout


the book is a collection of photographs of record shops. You see shots of stores’ various inner and outer signage, the posters and other displays within the shops, and, most importantly, photos of their bins filled


with records. It only takes a few moments of looking at these pictures to know what you can get from an authentic record store that you can never get from an mp3 or a purchase made via an on-line auction. Brian Greene


SO YOU WANT TO BE AROCK ‘N’ ROLL STAR: THE BYRDS DAY-BY-DAY 1965-1973 Christopher Hjort HOT BURRITOS: THE TRUE STORYOF THE FLYING BURRITO BROTHERS John Einarson with Chris Hillman Both Jawbone Press www.jawbonepress.com


About two decades ago when The Long Ryders had just broken up (ask your grandparents) and I received in the mail two inches of A4 pages listing every gig The Byrds did and


every gig they did as solo acts from the moment Gene Clark left the group to the mid-70s. (There were even some pre-Byrd gigs listed by the young solo folkie David Crosby.) The compiler said he had been through every logical daily newspaper, rock magazine, TV Guide and underground publication before researching word-of- mouth rumour and interviewing several Byrds to double-check facts, a formidable task in the pre-internet days. Did Christopher Hjort have the


same list in Oslo? Already several of my old Sunset Strip heyday veterans are grumbling there are mistakes in Hjort’s impressive tome but how could there not be? I could be ungenerous here and point out a good half dozen small factual errors but in light of Hjort uncovering several dozen gems of information which neither I nor Johnny Rogan nor David Fricke nor the late Greg Shaw ever knew then surely The Byrds fan on your block must admit what a great, worthy addition this is to this great group’s legacy and bow, immediately and three times a day, in the direction of Oslo in deep gratitude to Mr. Hjort. The Flying Burritos book is another


matter. The first chapters blatantly attempt to tilt the Burritos’ legacy in Hillman’s direction and at the expense of Gram Parsons. True, Hillman is a God who never has received his just due and, equally true, Gram was a lazy, self-centred git who Hillman musically carried on his back at times. Nonetheless it is truly tragic how not one voice is raised in Gram’s defense and hardly anyone shows much sympathy to a lonely, sad young man born to one of the most dysfunctional families in rock’s quixotic history. Once Gram leaves the Burritos the


unnecessary one-sidedness of the book is gone and the tenor of the read gets brighter and more informative as the work of the latter day Burritos, when Hillman had molded them into a crack live band, gets credit for being the amazing in concert act they were indeed. Sid Griffin


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