Adventures In Vinyl: #8 In A Continuing Series – The Andrew Oldham Orchestra and The Rolling Stones Songbook


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In the 1960s, Mantovani, the 101 Strings and their ilk were stomping all over pop music with their Easy Listening jackboots, providing a hip yet culturally neutral backdrop to key parties around the globe. Andrew Oldham, then manager to the Rolling Stones, had a radical thought. In 1966, he gathered a host of studio musicians including, some say, the Stones themselves, anointed them as the Andrew Oldham Orchestra and produced The Rolling Stones Songbook. Popular Stones tracks, such as (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction and Time Is On Our Side became sweeping orchestral instrumentals. The cardigan-clad swingers briefly broke from their flokati-bound labours and cried “it’s all right now, in fact it’s a gas”.

Almost fifty years down the track and key parties are quaint anachronisms, replaced by Tinder and evangelical Christianity but.the Rolling Stones Songbook sounds not unlike a parallel universe, one where Sergio Leone directed Performance for which Morricone reworked the Rolling Stones anthems of angst and rebellion into a compelling soundtrack. I’m playing the Australian pressing of Songbook, released by the World Record Club in 1968 with an original psychedelic cover (the original UK release had a cover photo of the Stones in what looked suspiciously like a cage). Equal parts bizarre and creepy, baby.

 

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Note: It’s these little stories that divert me from the main path; it started out as a piece on Gram Parsons (nearing completion, believe it or not) but I was soon hung up on the relationship between Gram and Keith Richards. Picking over several biographies and autobiographies for clues until I’m as satisfied as I’ll ever be that I have a firm grasp on the subject. All looks well and good. Then I unpack the latest box of vinyl and rarities destined for auction and find the Songbook. While researching that, I discover the existence of Fred Goodman’s 2015 book, Allen Klein: The Man Who Bailed Out The Beatles, Made The Stones, And Transformed Rock & Roll. Klein figured large in the Stones history (he was their business manager and ended up owning their pre-1972 publishing rights), just the sort of story I love. Nothing to do with Gram Parsons but I can’t resist a good yarn.

 

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Getting There Is Half The Fun



Actually, it’s not. Especially when “getting there” translates into flying.

I hate flying. Not that I’m a nervous flyer, although I prefer being at the back of the bus rather than the front (on the understanding that planes rarely back into mountains). Rather, I hate the artificial atmosphere of the entire experience. I hate airline food. Even the smell of it wafting from the galley makes me want to heave. I hate sitting up for 12 hours and simmering slowly in my clothes. I rarely sleep on planes, even if I’m flying in Business Class. And I hate having to battle the boredom by watching movies that have been edited so they won’t offend six year olds and Midwestern grandmothers and shrunk to six-inch screens.

I’ve had some horror flights. In the 1990s, I would attend an annual tradeshow in Chicago. One year, owing to the deadline of a magazine I was editing, I had to fly Sydney – LA – Denver – Chicago in one hell-bound session. It was late at night when I arrived at O’Hare International Airport. I was already in a foul mood and even more so when I discovered my luggage had been lost. After two hours of fruitless form filling and arguments with people who didn’t give a toss, I caught a taxi to my hotel to find there was no record of my booking. I was close to ripping the throat from the hapless clerk. Happily, there suddenly appeared two colleagues, also in town for the tradeshow, who had decided over a prolonged happy hour that they would be sharing a room and didn’t need the spare. And my bag turned up the next day.

Another nightmare trip was Sydney – Bangkok – London – Helsinki. In London, I bought a new pair of socks and had a shower but, by the time, I reached Finland, after more than 30 hours since I left home, I was too dazed and disorientated to build a bonfire for my clothes.

So it’s important to find ways of surviving long flights. When it comes to new technology, I’m not exactly an early adopter. So when, at Sydney Airport before one trip, it was suggested by a good friend that I buy an iPod, I was initially reluctant, a strange reaction considering I have such a prodigious music collection. Luckily, the friend, thrice-crowned Rock Brain Of The Universe by the BBC and whose own music collection takes up a two-storey barn on his property outside Sydney, persevered.

So we raided the duty free shop for a 160Gb iPod Classic. I doubt if I’ve ever loved a piece of technology as much as this. I take it on every trip along with external speakers so I can  play music in my hotel room. I’ve graduated from earbuds to over-the-ear noise-cancelling headphones that pretty much drowns out the background roar of jet engines. And it makes that time away from home a lot more survivable.

Of course, the problem comes with what to put on it. I pretty much cover every eventuality, every possible type of music I could imagine the need for. Rock, pop, 60s rhythm and blues, 40s swing and 90s neo-swing, 70s disco, jazz, blues, crooners, doo wop, French singers such as France Gall, Sylvie Vartan and Serge Gainsbourg, glitter rock, lounge and Northern soul, swamp rock and surf, soundtracks, Broadway musicals and British Invasion.

At just over 25,000 songs, there’s something for every mood. Ever the completist, I tend to go overboard when it comes to inclusions. There are 300 Beatles songs and I don’t even like the Beatles (notice how the world is divided into those who favour the Beatles or the Rolling Stones?). Bruce Springsteen gets more than 400 songs while I once had almost 500 KISS songs on the iPod until I realized they were all pretty much the same. So I replaced them with more than 600 David Bowie songs.

So while I won’t ever say that getting anywhere is half the fun, it’s a lot more enjoyable than it used to be and I travel in a better frame of mind. Which means that,  amidst screaming toddlers and seat back kickers and luggage mishaps and missed connections, horror flights are a lot easier to cope with.

Words and photos © David Latta