“Good Morning, all of you lovely people. I've had my porridge and prunes so I'm ready to go!”
Erudite and earthy, perky and perceptive, knowledgeable and naughty. John, aka 9hair9knots, aka 9H9K, aka Nines here on Song Bar, also aka 7hairs7knots on the Guardian website in the past, sadly passed away on 20 December 2020 after a battle with lung cancer. This is a tribute to a beloved character of infinite jest, humour, charisma, wit and mischief, who graced these pages for many years with his own brand of charm and fun, a person who will be very much, sadly missed.
His presence and persona at our virtual bar was always a complete joy, a mesmerising mix of music recommendations, but so much more, of at times bewilderingly offbeat and bonkers playfulness, of adventures in language, of extraordinary anecdote, a man of originality and self-effacing cheekiness, but also one who had undoubted skill in reaching out to others with wonderful perceptiveness, warmth and sensitivity.
How can you capture such a man, who, as regular Song Bar punter swawilg fittingly describes him, was such a shining crazy diamond, so unique in form and reflection, in just one sitting? It’s nigh on impossible, and if only John had found the time, and inclination, to write his memoirs, we would have something in the manner of a comic masterpiece of grand literary tradition, somewhere between Laurence Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, or Tobias Smollett’s The Adventures of Roderick Random, and the sharply stimulated recollections of music-loving hippy hedonist whose tastes, habits and joie de vivre were formed and repeatedly illuminated in the 1950s, 60s and 70s.
We can only pay tribute to him with just a few examples of his thousands of comment posts, pithy and long-winded (OK mainly long-winded) and, in time-honoured tradition, wave him a melancholy but jovial farewell, with a playlist of some songs he liked.
So this tribute is not a piece you can read in five minutes. It’s one to soak in with joy and recollection. Pull up a chair, pour yourself a glass, and imagine you are sitting with John in the pub, about to have a full evening of sparkling conversation. Enjoy in more than one go if you like.
John’s turn of phrase was eye-catchingly vivid. In one example, as recently as September, he summoned a beautiful and striking image after nominating, for the subject of songs with choirs, the Scottish song MacCrimmons Lament:
“It was the only thing I could think of to offer, as words frequently fall into a bottomless well; a well lined with raven's wings.”
But John, always generous, offered up everything all the time. John was never without words, and they would regularly soar up from that metaphorical well with glorious abandon and, in unexpected directions, take spectacular flight.
As with almost many regular visitors at Song Bar, John went under a moniker or avatar, and so much of his real life has remained private, only occasionally opening up through colourful windows of vivid anecdote. His partner, Susie, reports that John didn’t want a funeral, instead there will be a day in the summer at the beach for his friends wherever they are. But today, 5th January 2021 is his official sendoff, and we wish her and all other loved ones our deepest condolences and hope this does John some justice.
Origins
John was based in Northumberland, but his origins were a mixture of Welsh and Scottish, as explained this post to Liverpudlian regular George Boyland aka sonofwebcore after a favourable football result, displaying John’s classic double-edged playfulness:
Morning Cap'n. I assume you enjoyed the match yesterday and celebrated with a coupla sherries and only right and proper that you should too - it was a great result for The Reds.
As I recall , the first time you exercised the famous Scouse wit, regarding my online moniker, it was 9hairs9nits. I responded, that, with the addition of one letter, I could conjure a rather rude anagram, of your online tag. On immediate reflection though, I realised that following this course, would render me prey to a much, much worse anagrammatical fate - I informed you of such and withdrew from the fray, with as much dignity as I could scrape off the pavement.
Further, it was the fragrant and lovely Princess Eilonwy, who called you, "cariad" - not the neutered, dead Blue Tom Cat. This, after a discussion in which we learned that the lovely Mrs. Webcore was also a Welsh girl. However, be that as it may, the process of emasculation would, no doubt, give pause for thought to the most hairy-arsed of cats around - regarding
one's eventual sexual orientation.
As regards the, ydw i'n siarad Cymraeg? Well, I don't v. well, at all. Born in a small village in Scotland, of Welsh parents, I spoke Welsh at home but had to speak English at school - the lingua franca, in lowland Scotland, at that time, you understand.
So my Welsh is at the level of that of a four or five year old child, actually it is much worse than that. I still understand Welsh stuff when I hear it spoke though - this can be v. frustrating when it is a derogatory remark, aimed at one who only partially understands Welsh. I would usually expect respond to these remarks with, "cachau bant", whilst gazing adoringly into the remarker's eyes - this will usually excite some further social intercourse......
WilliamsBach, latterly of this parish, and I got horribly stuck whilst attempting to converse in the
Cymraeg, a few years back. It was taking an age to translate our responses and google would usually screw up the translations in a most alarming fashion - we decided to call it quits and speak the quean’s english (sic).
There, I hope that I have offered enough ellucidation to relieve that onerous burden of confusion, under which you seem to be struggling.
I hope that any hangover, from which you may be suffering, may not last any longer than is absolutely deserved!
Pip-pip ;-)
John’s avatar: the feline 9hairs9knots
But what of the cat image and the name that accompanied his online persona and was a source endless purring reference? Here is the background in response to the news that my cat had gone missing, but had then safely returned:
My (whisper it) favourite cat, a huge, long-haired tom (entire) named "Tuppence", once went missing for just over two weeks. My Darling's Aunt, came round and swore blind she had seen him, in the next village - about two miles away. By this time, I had passed tears and any hope of seeing him again was but the ghost of a wish.
And then, there he was, skinny, filthy, bloody and scarred but purring coming down the garden path, ve-ry slowly.
Tuppence, was an extremely territorial Tom and he shared the house with us and two Queens, "Ruby" a long-haired, black farm cat (not a cuddly one at all) and "Muriel" (Mew-real loudest mew, like a herring gull a calico cat).
He never did the business with either, gawd knows how - he did it with every other queen in the vicinity and Mu was in love with him.
Soon, my Darling convinced me to have Tuppence neutered, when he was three years old, and after spending £600.00 on fighting related injuries (bi-furcated tongue and ripped ears), this was meant to stop him fighting - it didn't.
He just lost about a third of his muscle mass but retained his joyous memories of fighting all-comers and (usually) triumphing.
The first inklings of change, came with the appearance of strange cats in the garden, none of whom we had seen before. One, who we had named "Horace Gentleman" because he looked just like an Edwardian tough, with tight, close-black fur, big head - all he needed was a low-crowned, bowler hat, rakishly tipped over one eye and he was the picture. He was obsessed with getting to grips with Ruby (Ruby was also black with wispy, long-hair).
Horace was fearless. He appeared one day on our dining room window sill, staring in at Ruby. He wouldn't be scared off. So the inevitable happened, Ruby grew more and more frog-shaped and began looking for a suitable nest space (right under the stairs) and duly gave birth to three rather unattractive kittens, two short-haired, one long and the least attractive.
Try as we may we couldn't shift that kitten until one day, my Darling was up country and she was introduced to the Kitten - who was to become, 9Hairs9Knots the progeny of a Blue Persian Queen and a Silver Tabby Tom (the dirty seducer). The owner of the Queen was a cat breeder, who was going to do away with 9H9K. When told of our kitten she informed my Darling that her daughter wanted a long-haired black Queen. So we swapped! The rest is in my avatar.
Cats were often featured in John’s posts. Here’s another feline recollection, again combining the ethereal, the mischievous and the hilariously earthy.
"Alas, Ali, it is a fact that cannot be denied. I'm old and have an uncontrollable (but healthy!) love of pussies.
It is Kismet... but not really...."Kismet", was a beautiful, chocolate-brown, Burmese queen. She had eyes of mystic topaz and a tendency to shit in slippers."
Gems indeed. Thanks to Nilpferd for that particular one. But now let’s dip into more of a variety of his posts, some are mercifully shorter, but it’s impossible not to get sucked into his world. The following few examples were put together by Song Bar regular UncleBen:
On Song Bar regular swawilg’s return after a long absence from Song Bar:
So you think that covers it?? Where the holy fuck have you been? Your Mum and I have been worried to death, your dinner’s ruined and we've told your teacher that you’ve got St. Vitus’ Dance!
On Kurt Vonnegut, the Beatles and Hey Bulldog (a song he nominated frequently):
This quote is from a man who didn’t want love, or respect. What he required from his fellow human beings was ‘Common Decency’. I tend to agree with him. Mind you, love and respect are nice....... so is sex.....esp. sex. I also like the occasional banana split with hot fudge sauce..... "I say in speeches that a plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit. I am then asked if I know of any artists who pulled that off. I reply, 'The Beatles did'." – Kurt Vonnegut. Here's a much underrated song, it changed my mind about the competence of the bassist and the drummer. ‘Hey Bulldog’ – The Fabulous Beatles ;-) That Bassline – wheew!
On initially trying to get to grips with the ‘Songs with notable key changes’ topic:
Key changes. What the holy feck is a key change? Is it like when you fall out with your flatmate? You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? I'm going to guess...............and then I'm going to nom favourite tunes – which may, or may not, fit the bill. And the de’il tak the hindmost... I shall start slowly.
After various stabs at noms of songs with notable key changes:
Suzi, do you know if I’ve even nommed a tune with a key change in it, yet? I feel that this may be important, this week. Pip-pip!
After an uncertain but nicely encouraging response from Suzi:
This is just fine and Jim-Dandy, Suzi. I’ve nommed zillions of songs, tunes and tracks which have not the least connection with the topic in question. Many are not within touching distance of a crowbar/prybar let alone a shoehorn. So you mustn’t fret! The only criteria which guide my right forefinger (read, ‘my mind’) are the ones which go:
1) Does this, (my) nomination, approximate to my concept of what the fuck The Guru, requires?
2) Do I like this song, track etc?
3) Will my proposal get me barred from the lovely Song Bar? If so, ferget it. If not, why not? :)
If you think your proposal is close to ‘the rubric’ and you like it – and if it is not offensive to the prurient. If it contravenes a local bye-law, insults or causes offence and injures any person at all, go ahead and call it! Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law, unless you upset some, Rightwingnutjobbrexiteermakeamericagreatagainfascistbigottedshitforbrainscretinousarsehole
whoisasthickasminceandcouldn’tfindtheirarsewithbothhandsamirrorandamaphavingbeengiven
instructionsabouthowtofindtheirownassbutwilltellyouthatyouarewrongabouteverythingtheyknow
nothingabouteventhoughyouhaveadoctorateinthatexactsubject........because they are just crap.
You are doing a Grand Job, Suzi! Carry on regardless, enjoy the ride. Or, as the rodeo riders would, no doubt, say, ‘Yahoo!’ Pip-pip!!!
On realising that his ‘Killer Queen’ nomination for songs with notable key changes, one which he found hard to get to grips with was previously chosen for another topic:
Right! B.b.b. bollocks and shite. Zedded! 2012 RRSA ‘Queens’.....tchuh! Inventive huh, or what? Dave Simpson in the chair. gordonimmel wearing the laurels, like he always does – what a swot! etc.
I did think of ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’, but I thought ‘Killer Queen’ was so much cheeezier (I'm not going anywhere near ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’, ever). But guess what? ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’, zedded at our favourite Drinking Palace, subject, ‘Positive Songs’, Jan 4 2017, – Chiefy.....Chiefy, for chrissakes – at the controls, even! And my lovely Uncs.......Uncs nommed it! Jeez, it makes me weep! Still it bears some tentative connection to the subject.....but sheesh, already.
I would have argued that my Blister (sole Bilster.....hmmmm) of that week (I can see a Trumpy style pattern developing here......) Mr. William DeVaughan’s massive track, ‘Be Thankful for What You Got’, is equally as good as anything in the A-list. OK, OK, maybe not as good a fit as ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’. But it’s damn’ close.
I'm going shopping now. In the fucking rain. And there’ll be no nice bread left. And then, and then I’ll get shouted at for being a useless pillock. Yippee. My fucking life! Catch all you alligators in a while ;-).
I hate Queen.
On red hair:
You may recall that I am besotted by women who have Auburn tresses. Indeed my Darling is such a beauty. Somewhere down the comments, there is a pithy little bit of advice. It goes a bit like, ‘only a ginge can cal somebody a ginge’.........this, of course, is utter horse bollocks. Bollocks worthy of a slap. Having been threatened by my lovely, after the injudicious use of an orange-type epithet, I asked for a full briefing of acceptable descriptive terms. These are they:-
Auburn, Autumnal, Gold, Bronze/(d), Rust, Titian, Copper, Strawberry Blonde, Flame
but deffo NOT:-
Carrot (top), Ginger/ginge, Red, Bricktop, Orange
On the suggestion that ‘Rust’ must be quite borderline:
Prefer not to comment, in this regard......... I learnt ages ago, that the Ordnance Survey bods, deliberately put fictitious details in all of their maps. So, if some other mapmaker copies their handiwork, they can sue the pants off them.............if you catch my drift. ;-)
On dancing:
It's an inescapable fact that nobody looks anxious, worried, angry, negative, sad, or anything but released by the groove, when they are truly immersed in a funky song. The only thing to do is dance.
In this I include Scottish Highland and Country Dancing tunes, Irish Step Dancing, Barn-Dancey tunes, Square and Unsquare dance tunes, Cajun and Zydeco Two-Step and Four-Step, Lancashire Clog Dances, Merengue, Bhangra & Giddha, Klompendans (Nederlands), Bomba, Fandango, Sardana, Swing, Lindy Hop and Jive and of course Strip The Willow! And about another thousand that I haven't mentioned.
Dancing releases the joyous human spirit, it always has done it always will. It is more profound and primal than language or thought and it encourages a healthy thirst.
On punctuation (in response to treefrogdemon posting that Nick Broomfield's film about Leonard Cohen was showing on BBC2):
9h9k: Thanks, Froggy my Darling will no doubt be delighted and teary. Hope you're well. Pip-pip!
9h9k: Hi again, Froggy Darling! This is why I hate commas :)
tfd: Ah, I know what you meant (after that instant when my heart leapt up…)
9h9k: Let's leave all options open, shall we……….. ;-
Calm and sensitivity:
John also had a uncanny ability to becalm fellow posters when, on rare occasions, tempers flared. Both bar regulars Maki and Suzi have reported how on separate occasions he called them a “silly sausage” for taking umbrage at something. Suzi reports: “In memory of John, and as a tribute, my New Year resolution will be to use, wherever possible, the words ’silly sausage’ instead of either swearing or flouncing. ‘A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger.’” She also recalls this comic story of sweariness by 9H9K himself during an encounter with a gull during off the Northumberland:
I was fishing off the cliffs, just south of Dunstanburgh Castle, early one Summer's morning - maybe Mackerel maybe cod, not sure but as sea birds don't usually go for lures, on the cast, just real bait...but cod in the summer?.
Anyhoo, I cast long and high, and a stupid gull, or Kittiwake, tried to take the lure/bait when it was high on the arc. It missed its mark by a matter of millimeters, and the shock leader wrapped round its wing (close to its body).
Down into the briny went bird and seventy yards of line and tackle. I immediately started to reel in, I didn't want the bastard bird to drown. Up popped the bird, above the surface and it was fighting the pull back to shore (cliff face). I eventually got it in and up the cliff, where all its pals were nesting, they started to take an interest in proceedings.....oh shit!
Got the bird on the grass, and snipped the line either side of its wing, freed it (it really, really wanted to be away - I could tell by ithe flapping and screaming).
Away it flew and I felt all warm and pink inside for being a latterday Saint of Assissi, when I noticed the blood. There was claret everywhere, all of it on me, white T-shirt mostly. I was instantly depressed, not only about the shirt and jeans but the fact that I' most probably taken the life of the beautiful bird,
When I realis(z)ed (z in Scotland) that the bastard had opened up my middle finger, along half its length on the side and I hadn't felt a thing, its beak was as sharp as a scalpel. The Twat.
Pip-pip!
Pain and humour:
Pain and comedy often went together in John’s world. Check out this priceless post:
Opens door slightly...v. quietly......peeps round...is it safe to come in yet? Have they gone?
To give the Punsters a break from their intellectual labours, something slightly different; this week's topic brought the following little gem back to mind. I may have posted this on a Graun blog many years ago and many of you will, no doubt, know of it already, to those I apologise. But for those who don't, here's:
"The Bricklayer's Lament", by Gerard Hoffnung at the Oxford Union December 1958...
..........a claim submitted to the Australian Workers Compensation Board
"Dear Sir,
I am writing in response to your request for additional information in Block 3 of the accident report form. I put 'poor planning' as thecause of my accident. You asked for a fuller explanation and I trust thefollowing details will be sufficient. I am a bricklayer by trade. On the day of the accident, I was working alone on the roof of a new six-storey building. When I completed my work, I found that I had some bricks left over which, when weighed later, were found to be slightly inexcess of 500 lbs. Rather than carry the bricks down by hand, I decided to lower them in a barrel by using a pulley, which was attached to the side of the building on the sixth floor. Securing the rope at ground level, I went up to the roof, swung the barrel out and loaded the bricks into it. Then I went down and untied the rope, holding it tightly to ensure a slow descent of the bricks.
You will note in Block 2 of the accident report form that I weigh 135 lbs. Due to my surprise at being jerked off the ground so suddenly, I lost my presence of mind and forgot to let go of the rope. Needless to say, I proceeded at rapid rate up the side of the building. In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel that was now proceeding downward at an equally impressive speed. This explained the fractured skull, minor abrasions and the broken collarbone, as listed in Section 3 of the accident report form.
Slowed only slightly, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until the fingers of my right hand were two knuckles deep into the pulley. Fortunately by this time I had regained my presence of mind and was able to hold tightly to the rope, in spite of the excruciating pain I was now beginning to experience. At approximately the same time, however, the barrel of bricks hit the ground and the bottom fell out of the barrel. Now devoid of the weight of the bricks, that barrel weighed approximately 50 lbs. I refer you again to my weight.
As you can imagine. I began a rapid descent, down the side of the building. In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel coming up. This accounts for the two fractured ankles, broken tooth and several lacerations of my legs and lower body. Here my luck began to change slightly. The
encounter with the barrel seemed to slow me enough to lessen my injuries when I fell into the pile of bricks and fortunately only three vertebrae were cracked.
I am sorry to report, however, as I lay there on the pile of bricks, in pain, unable to move, I again lost my composure and presence of mind and let go of the rope and I lay there watching the empty barrel begin its journey back down onto me. This explains the two broken legs. I hope this answers your inquiry."
Pip-pip! (Punsters included)
9H9K was also always more than ready to parody himself:
A minor clarification:
Frequently I may be a bit abstruse.
More frequently, I talk a lot of indecipherable bollocks.
Illness was a shadow lurking, but John was never afraid to face it. During the topic songs about decor, he made this rather pithily ironic comment to Olive Butler, following a description of his own beloved’s medical treatment:
My maxim has always been, "Life before death, always”.
Incidentally, with health problems never far away from any of us, Olive Butler, who reports on how her own partner has been battling cancer, remarks how John’s insights into his illness and chemo were just as illuminating as his comments on music, and how she and partner much appreciated his wry and vivid reflections on the crazy experience of "chemo brain”. John’s adventures with cancer treatment and painkillers continuously combined the painfully funny with the inventive.
Here is one post in which, no doubt battling chemo brain, he still rather brilliantly combines song lyrics with his own wit when thinking about songs about the evening, contemplating the remains of the day, but clearly not planning to go gently into that good night. If was the beginning of a farewell of sorts….
Maybe the last time I don't know.
That is, if I can't find a way of stopping the cold dead hand of Goggle caressing my tender parts and for me to avoid french kissing its diseased maw.
For, every time I do, I feel my entire genome being sucked out of me and transmogrified into a curse for to sell bad things, to innocent but stupid people.....
I'm experimenting by using "Harry Lillith", or, "Donald and Daisy" and their nephews, Huey, Gluey and Dewey, if need be, as alternative search engines.
In the meanwhile I shall try to...."Hold Back The Night" - a dainty and delightful confection for your delectation as sung by The Trammps.
And maybe not quite so sa-weet.....A Little number from, The Last Poets. From their eponymous album of 1970.
"Wake Up *******"
Night, descends, as the sun's light ends
And black comes back, to blend again
And with the depth of the sun
Night blackness become one
Blackness being you
Peeping through the red, the white, and the blue
Dreaming of bars, black civilizations that once florished and grew
HEY! - WAKE UP, 8888888 or y'all through!
Drowning in the puddle of the white man's spit
As you pause for some drawers in the midst of shit
And ain't got nothing to save your funky-ass with!
You cool, fool - sipping on a menthol cigarette 'round midnight
Rapping about how the Big Apple is outta sight, when you ain't never had a bite
Who are you fooling? Me, you
Wake up, ******* or ya ALL through!
In Uptown, two roaches are drowned in each other's piss
In Downtown, interracial lovers secretly kiss
While junkies are dreaming of total bliss
Somewhere in the atmospheeeere, far away from heeeeere
Beyond realms of white dimensions, gathered by suppressed intentions
As their CRIES, cries, cries go unrecognized
Except by their keeper, the Grim Reaper
"SAVE ME!, " a carnity shout, as the lights go out
'cause you ain't paid your 'lectric bill
And the rats and roaches move on in for the kill
As your lips struggle the Grain, that last drought from the wine bottle
And you roll snake eyes, never to realizing that you BLEW
WAKE up, ******* or ya all through!
Sitting in the corner with your minds tied to your behinds
Bonafied members of *888888 Anonymous
Never knowing which way you're going - pimpin' off life
Turning tricks to slick dicks, with candy asses
"All masses are behelding a mind mourning for the Late Great black maaaaaaan... "
(Ahhhhhhh-meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen...)
YOU ******* UNDERSTAND?! UP AGAINST THE WALL
Black male and farmers, are a-blow you away
And you'll never live to see the light of day
And the nightstick, the nightstick it glides GRACEFULLY upside yo' head
That's right, brothers and sisters, YOU livin' dead
When the cock crows, and the night goes
And it saves your ass in the nick of time
As you wake up and you start to find
Yourself, laying up in bed - scratching your ass in hand
Trying to remember where you recall this veneer nightmare
That always leave you feelin' blue
But you still can't place, The Man face, as hard as you try to
HEY! - WAKE UP, 8888888 OR WE ALL THROUGH!
Childhood:
Just as John never did anything in a logical order, neither is it possible to present his life chronologically. Let’s now roll back the years to a poignant anecdote from his childhood:
I was in the choir at a certain of my schools too but it was solely to avoid getting the 'cosh' (cane) from all and sundry. Including bloody prefects, who didn't have the authority to administer corporal punishment!
But by the time I got to senior school (a Merchant School in Edinburgh, courtesy of passing Bursary/Free Place exam, as parents couldn't afford the fee) I had become inured to physical punishment.
My Dad had caned me with his old officer's swagger stick (leather bound rattan cane) from when I was five - if I was caught/found out and then caned again, if I lied about my 'crime'. My Dad caned me once, for lying, when I hadn't been lying. I stuck my hands down over the seat of my pants, to protect my arse and the stick hit me across my knuckles, raising blue 'hazelnuts' on the back of my fingers. My Dad thought he had broken my fingers, he was distraught. I went mental - I was about eight and my Dad thought I was going to attack him. It was the last time he corporally punished any one of us (kids). I still react crazily if somebody accuses me of lying, in front of witnesses, if I am telling the truth. My fingers were painful for a long time afterwards.
I realised much later, in life, that my Dad was most probably suffering from extreme P.T.S.D. He had had a horrific war and had been brought up in a South Wales pit village when kids were punished by routine brutality as a matter of course....
.... so when Bennett the sadistic headmaster at my infant school, gave me The Tawse for writing back to front (I couldn't distinguish mirror writing, from proper writing or, 'back to front writing, until I was six - they all looked equally legit to me) It didn't upset me that much.
But my big Sis grassed me up to my Mum and she went off it (I've told you that she was also from a pit village in Wales, the Daughter of a miner, who was blacked from every coalface in the country, for trying to start a Union. Then, she became a Colonel and Deputy Matron in the Army during the war - all of 4'11" of her and afraid of nothing) she faced Bennet the bastard off, for not letting my Sis and I talk to each other in Welsh, in school and for Tawsing me. She told him that she would swing for him, if he laid a hand on either of us again - I didn't learn of this until I was about thirteen and we were living in England, by which time, I was almost beyond any kind of control. I remember being caned on thirty six separate occasions in my final year at one school - not only that, one of my P.E. masters made me jump up and hang by my fingers over the edge of a plywood screen in the changing rooms. This, when he caught me retaliating to a German Jewish kid (called Stickans) who had just lamped me. The screen was three eighths of an inch thick with sharp edges. Every time my feet touched the deck, or I lost my grip, he whacked me across the arse. They loved it but they still wanted me to play rugby, or swim for the school.......I hate bullies and bald injustice, inordinately.
On predicting the future:
And, during a discussion from the Word of the Week section, here another recollection of his father:
Of all the people I have known, the one least likely to undergo this fakery, is my Dad. Well, he went and did it in 1920, or thereabouts. I asked him what were the resulting conclusions, he said he couldn't remember.
It's strange but at least two of my relatives, not close, I hasten to add, had porcelain Phrenologist's 'heads'; one was even on show!
Notwithstanding the fact that my Dad considered all such things as bunkum, I found myself in a weird situation, in my late childhood.
For some reason Dad had to take care of us (only two of us then - my big Sis and me) so he took us to a travelling fair in South Wales. He said "Look go and get your fortunes told. This woman's meant to be very good."
And so sayin he gave us each a two bob bit, or maybe it was half-a-crown each, it was a lot, anyway. With that he was off (it was v. close to Swansea's Rugby Ground and his second cousin's house, whose upstairs windows gave a view of about a third of the pitch......and the pub next door.
So my Sis and I were a bit gobsmacked and stood staring at the silver in our palms. I suggested getting some sweeties and spliting the rest on some rides but my Sis (she was born fifty years old) said, "No!" Dad would want a report on what the fortune teller had said - smart girl, my Sis.
So, into the tent we went, it was scary. Sis went first and asked for the Crystal Ball....woman didn't have one. Woman then offered tea leaf reading - Sis wasn't thirsty. Cards? No. So Palm reading it was. I can't remember what the woman said to my Sis. Then it was my go.
Sits down, I could smell her soap, it was half dark and weird.
At her request, I crossed her palm with silver. I remember thinking that I should have got some change......maybe she only needed a tanner to work her magic, too late now.
She got hold of my hands and pulled them towards her, glancing from one to the other, she stopped and pulled my right hand rather roughly closer to her. When it was in the light more she inspected my left hand again and then dismissed it.
"What do you want to do when you grow up, bach?" she said.
"Don't know"
"I think you will go into the Army, or, the Church." she said very slowly. "In fact I would strongly recommend either, they would both suit you very well."
Well, I was aghast.
A god-botherer or getting shot, no thank you. (I had rejected organised religion when I was six or, seven, thanks to the headmaster of my primary school, who was also a sadist and our Sunday School teacher. He gave me the tawse for colouring in jesus' face in yellow, I did this as it was closest to my skin tone (I was white blonde at that age) and all the other farm boys and local people had faces the colour of well-smacked arses but I didn’t. He decided that I was the spawn of satan and gave me two across each palm.....(maybe I was after all). I told my parents I wasn't going back, ever. Presbyterian doctrine had nothing to do with mercy and forgiveness.
Anyway back to Swansea bay and the gypsy.
"I don't want to be priest. And my Uncle said my Dad was almost killed lots of times during the war, so I don't want to be a soldier!"
"Look" she says "See this" and she points at my right palm.
"See this line that runs right across your hand, unbroken."
"Ye-es" I said. 'Cos I didn't know what the holy feck, she was going to say next but I knew from the vibes that it wasn't going to be nice. To put not too fine a point on it, I was papping my nappy.
"Well, that's called an Archbishop's line, or, a Murderer's Line! It means you're more than likely to kill somebody. So, it's better if you go into the Army or the church, that way your covered no matter what!"
"Sorry, I'm going to have to go now, My Dad's outside, bye!"
I ran out of that tent like it was on fire and my stupid Sister shouts at me to stop. Fat chance, I ran about fifty yards and here she comes dawdling, she starts telling me off but I told her to shut-up. She thought, briefly, about slapping me but I must have looked a bit wild. My Big Sis used to beat me up when we were smaller, she was a fierce piece of work. Her nickname at school was "Bootsy" because she wore big boots and she kicked.
"Let's have a look at your hands!" I demanded hysterically.
She showed them - no Murderer's Line.
"See that!"
She looked
"That's a Murderer's Line!" It means I'm going to kill somebody! I looked at her really hard.
She went v. quiet and promised not to tell Dad, or, anybody.
I learnt much later in life that THE LINE is known as a Simian Crease and that all great apes and many monkeys have them on both hands, this is because they tend not to use their fingers independently but mostly in conjunction with their opposing thumbs, for gripping branches and the like.
In humans it is fairly rare. It's the "Head" and "Heart" lines running as one. Each, indistinguishable from the other and mine is a particularly fine example of such.
It is also known as an Archbishop' Line and a Murderer's Line as well.
In Japan, it is called, "The Masukake Line" and is the mark of a Conqueror and is v. propitious, esp. if present at birth and will bring not only good luck but also amazing capabilities!
I haven't murdered anybody, yet.
Pip-pip!
Being in the pop scene:
At a later point, John recalls living with mates who formed a well-known 80s band:
I used to squat (or was it, "house share") with the singer of these songs - along with his chums, Sarah Yellow Jelly, Richard Yellow Jelly Sharpe, Sarah Rudlen, and the rest of the Yellow Jellies (they were from the Southendish region and were big pals with The Lemon Kittens and Danielle Dax and Alison Moyet and just loads of other outrageously fabulously gay peeple.
Anyway, I felt like I needed to bask in reflected glory, a deserved, vicarious pleasure as I didn't feel as flat as a fart, when I remembered all of the jolly wheezes we used to get up to...... here's John "Yellow Jelly" Foster, fronting (and I really mean that) Bronski Beat, after Jimmy decamped.
"Hit That Perfect Beat Boy" - Bronski Beat.
and
"C'mon, C'mon" - Bronski Beat. Mad, rude fun.
This is most probs the only time you'll see these songs nommed in The Bar......certainly by me, that's for sure!
Pip-pip!
Myth and culture:
And on the musical topic of magic, or indeed magick, he delves back into other mists of time:
For those of a Celtic/Brythonic bent (this is esp. for Froggy, by way of an apology for the "Tom" remark) some magick, for you.
The horseshoe, as a symbol of luck was to be found on Assyrian obelisks. On ancient Celtic carvings and sculptures, it represented the arch of the heavens and was regarded as having divine power.
It is lucky to make a horseshoe red-hot, then place it above the door and then, never touch it again, nor have it taken down.
There is no virtue in a horseshoe that has been purchased.
A horseshoe found, is only lucky if the heel is towards you, as you approach it. If the toe is towards you, do not pick it up, it will bring bad luck. If you find a (lucky) horseshoe, pick it up. Don't pull off any of the original nails, that remain attached to it. Nail the horseshoe, with its original nails, above your door; the heel points uppermost. You will have very good luck for as many years as there are original nails; the quality of luck decreases after this time has passed but do not take it down! It will protect you from evil and witches like my chum the Jewish, white-witch stripper! A horseshoe buried underneath the threshold, or nailed under a door, will keep witches away - if the toe is pointing upwards. If it is pointing down, with the two points uppermost, it is an invitation to evil forces to enter your house.
Plant a Rowan tree in your garden.
Gather together in one strand, nine hairs from your beloved's head and and knot nine times (three times three)along its length and with this amulet you will be bound to your beloved for ever.
Silly sausage!
John was a mischievous character, mostly lighthearted, but he was also unafraid to get serious at times. He was a staunch supporter of this website, especially during difficult early days, and he sent me (The Landlord) many supportive emails during that time. There was an uncomfortable period of schism between and within readers after the previous playlist incarnation at the Guardian, Readers Recommend had dissolved under a dark cloud of editorial management, and then was reincarnated in a half-baked format. John wasn’t afraid to poo-poo anyone who decided to start a argument about this, rather than just get on with just sharing the music, when revisiting upon the rather hot air subject of gas and oxygen.
Why do some people get a big hit from bad-mouthing others?
Who knows,eh?
I'm sure any satisfaction, which they may derive from such behaviour, is only fleeting. If they were to reflect upon what they had said, they may well regret their rash judgement.
Maybe even a smidgeon of shame might register, for a lapse of courtesy or common decency, committed in the heat of the moment.
They may apologise....
Who knows, eh?
Certainly not me.
Nor, I suspect, do any upstanding RRers, either.
We, us, the people who offer, selflessly, our favourite music, for others to listen to and enjoy.
We don't do this, do we?
After all, we are hip, cool, funky, sensitive and intelligent comrades.....fighting for a common cause, aren't we?
Aren't we?
It's been a year, since I came on here - and not because anybody below the line pissed me off, either.
It was a matter of choice. A choice that I felt was forced upon me. It was not a choice I looked for, or wanted.
I made my choice, I stick by it.
I grieve the loss of some amazing pals, who I don't speak to now but the graun really pissed me off.
The whole atmosphere changed after their fucking about with RR.
All to no good effect, for themselves, or anybody else.
Noxious atmosphere, huh?
"It's (just) Too Funky In Here" - James Brown
Peace & Love....if you can cope with that sentiment.
If not, you can have my
Pip-pip!
anyway you choose to take it.
But before that time, when one place closed, one I used to run, and before this one opened, which I still do, he wrote this lovingly stylish, wonderfully over-the-top eulogy to its many patrons:
Bravely, the legions of The Lecti Commendo, (or Commando!) strode into the night, as they approached the mystic VMilia. Was it another Rubicon? A personal invitation to enter the infernum of lost souls? Or, was it the beginning of the fabled golden road into the future, where they would be fêted (note circumflex) as immortal heroes, the saviours of The Holy Temple of Marconius Magni. Where Attractive youngsters would strew the golden path with rose petals, sweet-scented herbs and liquorice allsorts. Their parents would cheer the heroes, hysterically, whilst massed choruses of carefully selected eunuchs would sing, in shrilling ululation, of the derring deeds of such as "ParaMhor" - the Great Umbrella, "Fintan the Fury", with the strength of 28 men, "ShivSidecar"- leader of the fontana chariots, "Beth Nero" - Leader of the Goths! blah, blah, blah....Or, are we just jerking off?
Who knows eh?
I'm grave afeart o' the five thoosand mind. Excited as well...but it seems like an awfully roundish sort of number and you know how the mundane are attracted to easy paths..we march, on blind and hobbled but not without a certain joy in our hearts!
Thirty to go...
On this, my mark!
And finally, on to the music …
But of course the main reason, or indeed excuse to entertain us all with so many other subjects was music itself. Here then is a selection of some tracks upon which he remarked to go along with some other favourites.
In this post for Hear, hit or blame? Songs that lyrically refer to rhythm, beat or boogie, John explains what it is about some tunes that just click:
Y'know when some tune, or other, gets stuck in ya heid and you get to the joyous state of glazed gawping?
It needn't be very good, in fact it's better when it isn't......... it's even best when it's just plain, droolin', simple, facile, merciless, mindless funk, with no musical merit whatsoever - save the groove (y) beat.
Ya just plug into some v. loud thumpasaurus source material, switch off your higher philosophical centres - disable any states of objective consciousness and/or superior intellectual capabilities (sometimes this is more successfully achieved with chemical enhancement) and then, dribble whilst nodding your head and staring into middle space seeing nothing and vaguely grinning like an eejit?
THEN - rewind the track.
It's been a wee while but this one may have done it for me, terminally
Ready? - Pump that Bass Response and teeeze the volume.
DEEP, nonconcrete, transcendental shit......or what!? :)
Go!
"Jinglin' Janglin'" - Fort Knox Five & K+Lab (ft. Baby Bam).”
And then of course there’s Aretha …
"Until You Come Back To Me (That's What I'm Gonna Do)" - Aretha Franklin
Ah, Aretha, Aretha. Most probably my favourite female singer, ever. I've been in love with her voice for fifty years.
Stevie Wonder wrote this song in the sixties and recorded it in '66 or '67. Aretha recorded it in 1973 and released it in November of that year. It had been rumoured for quite a while that Stevie had it written specifically for Aretha, it wasn't the case; Stevie released his original recording years later, on his anthology, "Looking Back", in '77.
From first hearing, this track captured my heart. The song, the lyrics, The Voice, the delivery, the backing vocals, the orchestration, the production....all astounding, there isn't a bad space between the notes. This is another track to feature in my all-time greats.
It doesn't matter to me if it gets the Alister, or not - it never does with me. But it isn't zedded, yet and to my mind, this is very wrong.
If you haven't heard it before, I envy you. If you are an alien life-form and haven't heard Aretha sing, it is an amazing introduction to one of planet Earth's divine blessings. I dread the day when she is no longer with us.
You may ignore all of my other nominations.........this the one.
John often boasted about his great age, but in many ways he was eternally youthful:
I said that, "You're only young once but you can be immature forever". I wouldn't retract that statement for a second but I would modify it. Rather than using, 'immature' , I think, 'childlike', would be a better. Childlike wonder and a sense of playfulness, are gifts that we discard, without consideration, along with all the other detritus of, "growing up".
Sometimes, I still have that gift and it just comes upon me, welcome but unbidden. I can't quite tell you how it is but you can see the effect; it's like when you see a mother gazing at her new born child...the look on her face. You can't see the wind, yet the shadow of the clouds still race across the hills.
I can remember seeing a tree, with the sun falling on it and being emotionally moved beyond anything that I could make sense of in any intellectual way....I was moved to a state of ineffable joy.
Also, an unknown cat, ambling aimlessly towards me and ungracefully slumping down softly, stretching out on a patch of hot concrete, within arm's length. The perfection of that moment, has lasted for more than sixty years.
It's naïve, it's primitive, it's primal, even.
But it's not immature.
It's magic.
"I put A spell On You" - Nina Simone
"Let's Dance" - Bowie
"Arnold Layne" - Pink Floyd*
......and this is where I stopped, last night.
On the death of musicians
Just after the death of David Bowie, thoughts of mutability were never afar:
This morning, this morning........took me back to September 1970, when they told me Hendrix was dead. I had a feeling of dread, about Bowie, two years ago when he released the track, "Where Are We Now?", on the 8th. Jan 2013. The sadness in this track...I am convinced he knew then.
I cannot listen to any of the tracks on, "Blackstar"
* The Arnold Corns single, "Moonage Daydream/Hang On to Yourself", Bowie with pre-Spiders From Mars, which I bought (and then sold for less than a quid to my mate the record collector/dealer), Bowie named the band after "Arnold Layne".
My Darling is inconsolable. I am reconciled to the inevitable, since I learned that all carbon-based life forms, derive their carbon from long dead suns. The cycle continues and time doesn't only exist in the moment.
But here’s also a comment of John's from a Gil Evans blog, in 2012:
"Just after Miles Davis died, I saw Gil Evans in concert, leading the New York Youth Jazz Orchestra (I think this is the correct nomination) and they did a mind-blowing version of "All Along The Watchtower". I was more than impressed. I think his arrangement of this Dylan/Hendrix number, served as well as anything from "Sketches Of Spain", in defining his unmistakable, musical essence. I think Gil Evans was pretty neat."
And a couple of his recommendations for a Northern Soul blog:
Just these two, from up here in the frozen....
"Jeanette" - Wade Flemons
It's all you'll ever need for the next 3 Minutes of your life.
"The Champion" (part 2) - Willie Mitchell.
and the two and a half minutes after that…….
John’s partner Susie has mentioned how much John loved a Miles Davis number from Sketches of Spain. Concierto De Aranjuez ( Part Two Ending ).
As suggested by many his friends here at the Bar, other poignant tracks he especially liked include:
Prayer from the Miles Davis/Gil Evans collaboration Porgy and Bess
Leonard Cohen - Lullaby
Bill Withers - Make Love To Your Mind
The The - Heartland
Steely Dan - Kid Charlemagne
Rubberband Man - The Spinners
Earth, Wind & Fire - Boogie Wonderland
Grant Green - Sookie, Sookie
US3 - Cantaloop
Carleen Anderson - Nervous Breakdown (wit’s end full length remix)
White Bird - It’s A Beautiful Day
Marc Bolan - I Love To Boogie
The Pretenders - Kid
The Beatles - Only A Northern Song
The Beatles - Hey Bulldog
Todd Rundgren - Just One Victory
William DeVaughan - Be Thankful For What You Got
But that’s certainly not the end of the list. There are more songs, and here are how he presented them:
On Creole Moon by Dr. John:
Now some of you may say that I nominate this song slightly more than once in a blue moon. But, baby, I don't care.
This is one of my most favourite pieces of music, ever. Even my Darling
loves this, and she hates funk and that sort of stuff and what have you.
If you've never heard it before, I envy you the experience of hearing it for the first time.
Hark! I hear pseuds' corner a-calling.
Time for Horlicks and hot-water bottles. I must to bed.
Goodnight.
On What A Difference A Day Makes - Dinah Washington
I might as well...
The adjective, "lush", is frequently employed when describing strings in popular musical recordings. Dinah may have cornered the market.
. Lush.......
...apart from the bull fiddle, that is - that's like the heartbeat of a lovesick whale.
I love the warm velvetyness of Dinah's voice. She is up there with, Sarah Vaughan, Ella, Aretha, Amy Winehouse, Etta, Dionne, Gladys…………
Also from the topic of songs about hats, here’s this classic post and nomination:
"Not So Sweet Lorraine" - Country Joe & The Fish, from one of the first ever psychedelic long player records, no really!
It was called, "Electric Music For The Mind And Body" and it was released in 1967.
Now it may come as a bit of a shock to the unprepared mind. So, if I may suggest that you don't dive headlong into this 'trippy' music full tilt but refrain from taking any psychomimetic ,or psychedelic drugs to fully enjoy the experience, until you have familiarised yourself with the strange music contained therein. It may be as well to start off gently with some Max Jaffa, or if you are feeling more adventurous, poss. some Perry Como ("Catch A Falling Star" would be a good "jumping off" point). Good Luck. "
Many friends at Song Bar have nominated songs, but in a change of pace, another articulate regular, nosuchzone, has been inspired to write a wonderful poem in honour of 9H9K:
Nine hairs nine knots
(after John Donne’s The ecstacy)
So soul into soul may flow,
though it to body first repair.
Just as flesh and blood likes to try
on spirit, as close as it can get
(because sticky fingers itch to tie
the niney knots of our earthly net),
so must any undying soul descend
to pricks and purses of intimacy—
the clutch of sense in a bodied mind.
What else good is a burning body?
But if it’s to bodies we have to turn,
it’s to look for the spirit-work of love
they bear, their soul-candle burn,
and love its flame they never snuff.
So when the beachbound, like us,
see a splash, a hole in the ocean
where no drop dropped—no, look, it rose
up through the ring of a nine-hair crown!
Talking of the divine words, not all John’s posts were conventional songs. In one reply to Severin, John penned this otherworldly post:
I remember listening to similar, just before sunset outside the Dalai Lama's palace in MacLeodganj, in the Dhauladar Range of The Himalaya and the monks blowing the big horny things (Dungchen) which echoed way down the valley. When we got back to Delhi, I mentioned this to our Landlady, she told us of an ("antiques") store, or, shop, which had one for sale.
I went to have a look for it. Unfortunately, it was one of the smaller horns, made from a human (preferably, murderer's) thigh bone (femur). A Kangling.
Neither of my companion's were keen on me flying back to blighty, with this in my possession - neither were the Indian Customs officers - spoilsports.
Buddhist monks playing dungchen during evening prayer
On Van Morrison’s Ballerina:
"It is always a weird and sometimes unnerving experience, each time I listen to it. For me, it has become as timeless as air. It's not because the first time I listened to it, my head was full of acid. The music by its very qualities became ingrained on my being at a primal level. Never erased, never changed, or tainted, it has remained the same, having that same old effect on me, as that first time. My eyes still get a bit misty."
And finally, a very poignant post on Todd Rundgren’s Dust in the Wind.
"Here's Todd, I should most probs offer an apology to all who knew me, if they ever got to hear of my death. I don't want a funeral.....but if that should happen, I wouldn't care much, as I shall be well beyond such concerns. As they used to say in The Orkney Islands, "Be happy now because you're a long time dead". A difficult task, indeed, sometimes but you must endeavour to persevere, I suppose. You really must, as the alternative is odious."
The playlist
Here then are the some songs, an appropriately prolific 33 revolutions in all, to help send John on his way:
Thank you to all the Song Bar readers and contributors who helped compile this tribute, in particular Uncleben, magicman, Nilpferd, swawilg, Suzi, nosuchzone, Isabelle Forshaw, amylee, Olive Butler, severin, Maki, EnglishOutlaw, megadom, and several more. Please feel free to add further comments and your own tributes below.
With best wishes to all his friends and family,
Peter, aka your friendly Song Bar Landlord.
So farewell then John, aka 9hairs9knots, you’ll be terribly missed, you wonderful old rascal. You will always remain here in the Bar, in our thoughts, our memories, with love in our hearts and and music in our ears.
So let’s wave a final goodbye with your own wise words:
"Pip-pip, old chap, and remember your two most important senses are, humour and perspective.”