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Jon on lead vocals and a different mix than Version 3, "Horror Rock" has backing vocals, which were removed from version 3, "Don't Be A Sucker" features Steve Luongo on lead vocals, "Face The Fear" features a different, more grittier lead vocal than version 3. The mastering has less bass than Versions 1 or 3. A contract was signed for a CD release. While the John Entwistle Band was on tour in California, several fans looking to see John post concert - found his tour bus. John wasn't there, but they met up with a member of the band.
Unknowingly, this fan had hooked up his cassette player to hidden recorder, so that he could secretly record the album. Within about 24 hours, pirated copies of "Van Pires" were out. I had a copy within days. It was amazing how quickly word and CDs traveled. But apparently he had no problem giving a copy to 3 three total strangers - one of which bootlegged it!
This led to flared tempers it's always good to " shoot the messenger ", isn't it? After he calmed down, I recommended some changes to the album i.
I also thought the repeating "Van Pires" on the opener "Horror Rock" were unnecessary. The song seemed better to me as a pure instrumental.
Fast forward to the year The Who's management agreed to allow it to be sold at concerts. Good news? You will need a suitable adapter to use the item in your country. Certain restrictions apply. You will be notified via eBay messages as soon as your items ship. Special Notice for Freight Items: If an item ships via Freight Truck Delivery, a valid phone number will be required so that we can contact you to schedule delivery. The item may be delivered with curbside delivery. An adult signature will be required.
Please be sure to have available help on hand to assist you with moving the item to the desired location in or outside of your home. Freight items must be inspected upon delivery. A talented artist, Entwistle held regular exhibitions of his paintings, with many of them featuring the Who. In , the band went on the "Left for Dead" tour with Alan St. Jon joining on keyboards. After this second venture, the band released an album of highlights from the tour, titled Left for Live and a studio album Music from Van-Pires in The album featured lost demos of Who drummer Keith Moon together with newly recorded parts by the band.
In this ensemble, he played and sang " Boris the Spider " as his Who showpiece, along with " My Wife ". Toward the end of his career he used a Status Graphite Buzzard Bass, which he had designed. From to early , he played as part of the Who. Entwistle also played at Woodstock '99 , being the only performer there to have taken the stage at the original Woodstock.
As a side project, he played the bass guitar in a country rock album project of original songs called the Pioneers, with Mickey Wynne on lead guitar, Ron Magness on rhythm guitar and keyboards, Roy Michaels, Andre Beeka on vocals, and John Delgado playing drums. The album was released on Voiceprint. Shortly before his death, Entwistle had agreed to play some US dates with the band including Nashville's Grand Ole Opry , following his final upcoming tour with the Who.
He also joined forces again with the John Entwistle Band for an 8-gig tour. This time Chris Clark played keyboards. Between and , Entwistle attended dozens of art openings in his honour. He chatted with each collector, personalising their art with a quote and a sketch of " Boris ". In early , Entwistle finished what was his last drawing. Featuring Jimi Hendrix , Pete Townshend, Jimmy Page and Eric Clapton , Entwistle's style had evolved from simple line drawings and caricatures to a more lifelike representation of his subjects.
He was more confident and relaxed with his art and ready to share that with his collectors. I'm still the Bass Guitarist. If you're reading this Bio at a show — don't forget to wave — I'm the one on the left. He had gone to bed that night with Alycen Rowse, a local stripper and groupie , who awoke the next morning to find Entwistle cold and unresponsive.
He already had heart disease and usually smoked 20 cigarettes a day. This noted high blood pressure and cholesterol levels. Entwistle's authorised biographer Paul Rees has suggested that if a physical examination had been undertaken this would have revealed that three of his arteries were blocked which necessitated surgery.
Entwistle's huge collection of guitars and basses was auctioned at Sotheby's in London by his son, Christopher, to meet anticipated taxes on his father's estate. A missionary priest from Connecticut served at the parish of my junior school. Father Corbett was a handsome man with wavy hair like a Kennedy brother.
He had been dispatched to save the little heathen children of Middlesex after the Second World War had caused a shortage of Catholic priests to minister to the flock heading out to the suburbs. Everyone liked Father Corbett. The Sisters doted on his every word, as did the parents who would gather around him on the church steps after mass.
The children loved him because he was kind, but not least of all because his wealthy mother made a gift of modern playground equipment and elaborately illustrated reference books from America at a time when our own schoolbooks were dog-eared and worn. We were told the money was going to baptize them and we were encouraged to name the children in our own penciled handwriting. If our money was meager, then perhaps it was enough to buy them a sherbet fountain or some penny chews.
This meant making your First Confession. I looked down the table of possible sins in the Commandments and got all the way to number seven and realized I had nothing to confess. On the other side of the confessional grille, I could make out the fuzzy outline and familiar voice of Father DeTucci, another, more somber, American.
He gently set me straight on the possible sins of a child and then gave me a penance of three Our Fathers and five Hail Marys for telling lies. A couple of years later, the parish announced that the senior cardinal in the country had agreed to officiate at a confirmation mass. This ceremony assumes that the children have attained an understanding by which they can be confirmed and anointed in their faith.
I think the parish just wanted to herd a flock of nine-year-olds through the gate, simply because a cardinal was to do the laying on of hands. After the debacle of missionary baptisms, they knew the score. It came to my turn. My mind went blank. I knew it was wrong as soon as I had said it, but my mind had gone blank. Now I was going to get it for being cheeky and choosing a Beatle name. But no, Sister Cecilia just wrote it down and went on to the next child. The patron saint of England?
The list had already been dispatched to the diocese, presumably written in indelible ink or the blood of martyrs. George was generous with his time and advice, amused by the allusions to his Beatles orchestrations that Steve had written into his score.
I invited Ringo and his wife, Barbara, into the control room, where he asked me if I would produce a few tracks for what became his Stop and Smell the Roses album. And in Every Home. It was as if we were hearing him speak for the first time. The other three of us applauded from behind the studio glass as Nieve provided some elaborately embroidered clothes for my shabby tale.
Not long before I was born, my parents lived in a modest flat in Leeds, while my Dad was playing in the trumpet section and singing the occasional song with Bob Miller and His Millermen at the Mecca Locarno Ballroom.
Legs, mottled and blue from the cold, swish into the meager shelter. Those tired pins look like something already dead or dying above a wrinkle of cheap, pointed leather.
The two girls enter in a hail of curses. Their skin is coarse and pancaked when stripped of shadows by the buzzing neon. One of them heaves her bosom—barely zipped into a fake fur—trimmed garment that would do well to cheat the wind—over the counter. The other unpops the studs of white nylon fabric gathered above a tiny stretched pelmet of skirt. Who among these sallow, hollow men hugging the edges of the room would dare trade with that hand with its gashed knuckle or approach any of his charges.
Did he pass furtively along the edge of their world, sniffing the scent, seething and plotting to sharpen and strike? She had grown tired of waiting and now sat to the left of Percy Inch, along with her chaperone, a disappointed and angry girl who Inch is determined to lose.
The spark that remained in her charge had been utterly extinguished in Jane. They were neither plain nor pretty. The difference between them was Josie still imagined something better. He had obviously seen too much, too quickly, and now seemed intent to recite it all in order to blunder his way back home.
Sometime around three a. Inch and the girl quit pretending that there is anything to detain them further in this waiting room filled with pox and hacking coughs. Once within, the visitor was welcomed along a purple corridor decorated with a repeated motif, the silhouette of an unclothed, dancing woman enticing the resident to bed with outstretched limbs.
The songs on Imperial Bedroom were about the same lies and deceits as found in the songs of Trust , only now they were being perpetrated behind gilded doors or during the murky excursions of nighttime.
I copied lines and whole verses from notebook to notebook for nearly five years until some images found their rightful home. The British newspapers have always loved a scandal, especially anyone being on the fiddle, or any kind of kinkiness.
The final draft was a collage of hoarded couplets and brand-new triggers from the daily headlines. If the late-night newscast coughed up some minister, red-faced and rattling his sabre for the little he was worth, he too went into the pot with a brand-new rhyme for that old line:. Would you like to tell us about a lower price? Read more Read less. Beyond your wildest dreams. Listen free with trial. Kindle Cloud Reader Read instantly in your browser. Customers who viewed this item also viewed.
Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. Reckless: My Life as a Pretender. Chrissie Hynde. Ezra Bookstein. Chris Frantz. Mark Blake. David Sheppard. Register a free business account. Dare I blaspheme by declaring I liked it even more than the excellent memoirs produced by Bob Dylan and Keith Richards?
Costello embraces the basic qualities of good storytelling: the use of detail, tension and humor The book is also a gold mine for Costello obsessives who have spent decades dissecting and analyzing his every lyrical zinger. The book serves as both a musical and personal anthropology.
Written in a clipped, biting style, the book reads like Costello's greatest songs, equally lyrical and hard to pin down. It's a constantly illuminating, perpetually idiosyncratic read, fitting for a musician whose entire life has been one long reinvention….
For brilliant pages, we're allowed to tag along with one of the greats, witnessing the unchanging beauty of a man who refuses to settle down on his quest of musical self-exploration—and we're all better off for it. It's not surprising that one of rock's most literate songwriters would pen such a deep, free-form memoir.
This is family history as musical encyclopedia, and to listen to Costello recount his life is to be buttonholed by an enthusiastic fan. Fandom for Costello is inseparable from the compulsion to write songs and, it seems, to understand his own life…. The book doubles as a selective mini-history of 20th century music, as told by a discerning guide.
It's funny, observant and clear of purpose. Unsurprisingly, it is beautifully written. It is also often extraordinarily moving. There's plenty of insight into his art here, a smattering of gossip, a wealth of pop-cultural knowledge, and just enough self-flagellation to keep things interesting. Hugely illuminating, fiercely passionate, funny, moving and beautifully written.
Elvis Costello is a Grammy award-winning musician whose career spans almost four decades. A prolific singer-songwriter, Costello has released several critically-acclaimed albums, and in was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. All rights reserved. Any relation to the wrestler? I just felt awkward. His office. His factory. My eyes were fixed on the bandstand. I believe that this was true. Then it was my turn to enter. Eamonn adopted his familiar style of setup, which I must now paraphrase.
You may remember him as that young man who sat up in the balcony of the Hammersmith Palais. It was all over in a flash, just like life itself. There was no way to go back. Time and the wrecking ball have taken care of the rest.
No seventeen-year-old lad should die that way. In minutes, his skin turned a translucent tint of blue. There was a siren in the distance. By Sunday night, Sister Philomena was proven to be correct.
Our friend never woke up. I affected teenage indifference and had the following conversation with myself in my head. Like most festivals in those days, nothing ran on time. It was a perfect place. Lillian knew all the songs even though she never had the confidence to sing in public. With characteristically terse economy, he wrote: Lillian, Thanks, Lee Konitz.
Give him your glasses. The opening lines argued the absurdity of even trying to write about such a complex subject. I thought briefly about changing my name again to something beginning with a B.
He laughed and handed the record to me. I suddenly had ten times the records that my pocket money would have bought me. In the case of one particular record, someone had typed in the words Northern Songs in a slanted line of black ink. Even though these songs were already on the radio, the presence of the records in the house felt special, as if the copies had come from The Beatles themselves, along some inside track.
It was then the biggest variety show of the year and starred popular singers, comedians, dancers, novelty acts, and stars of the stage and screen, all for the amusement of the Queen or one of her royal family, and broadcast to her subjects at home with some pomp by Associated Television. The TV Times went so far as to print a double-page insert, mocked up to look like a formal program with a serrated edge, printed in a typeface chosen to resemble handwritten calligraphy.
Everything about it was designed to make the viewer at home feel as if they were sharing an evening at the theater with the Queen Mother and her rather racy daughter, Princess Margaret.
There was usually a special cameo by a big Hollywood star who might just walk on, wave, and take the ovation, but this year it was a musical performance by Marlene Dietrich, accompanied by her musical director, Burt Bacharach.
Needless to say, the idea that my Dad would be sharing the bill with The Beatles was a lot more exciting than the fact that he was to perform for royalty. Would the people in the cheaper seats clap your hands. It was this quip that grabbed all the headlines the next day.
My memory is that my mother and I watched the show as it happened, but the history books tell me that it had been recorded for later broadcast. Either way, this was long before home video recorders, and such shows were never re-aired, so it might as well have been live, for if you looked away, you missed it. My mother and I went to see it as a second feature at the local Odeon. The television appearance had been broadcast in lines of fuzzy black-and-white, but this was in vivid Technicolor.
Unlike the Royal Command Performance, it was lip-synched, but what it lacked in musical veracity it more than compensated for with energy and surrealism. The number opens with a tight shot of hands playing a pair of conga drums and pulls back to reveal a man I recognize to be baritone saxophonist Bill Brown, who I had not previously associated with the playing of Latin percussion. The filmmakers had to do something with the rest of the band, so the members were arranged around a set, playing various bongos, maracas, guiros, and shakers rather than their usual trumpets, trombones, and saxophones.
Three hapless souls revolved on a small circular yellow podium for the duration of the entire number, although the camera failed to register what must have been the eventual green of their complexion. The morning after the Royal show, there was all the excitement of hearing about the backstage scene. Over breakfast, I tried to play it cool. I blurted out:. He mumbled something about them being very nice lads. Then he reached into a jacket slung over the back of his chair and pulled out a sheet of thin airmail paper and handed it to me.
I unfolded it, and there were the signatures of all four of The Beatles on one page. What I did next will bring tears to the eyes of those who make a fetish of such objects, but I had only a small autograph book and the paper was too large to be mounted in it. Many of the other performers on the bill were waiting to rehearse but had melted away to the edges of the auditorium to give him some space.
George Michael arrived quietly and was waiting patiently for his turn to sing. Prior to the day of the show, it was by no means certain that Paul would do more than attend the event along with his family. Now it seemed he was ready to take the stage.
After the first run-through, John found a technical reason to speak to Paul. I saw them confer, and suddenly Paul was nodding in agreement and beckoning me from the shadows. Even without Paul changing a note of the music, there was something incredibly poignant about the opening lines of the song.
It never really occurred to me that learning to sing either vocal part on a Beatles record was any kind of musical education. I was just a kid singing along with the radio or in our front room. Not having any siblings or friends who sang, I assumed everyone could sing harmony. If that was a tiny fraction of the fervor that they must have encountered nightly, then you could understand why they would eventually want to get off the stage. It was exhilarating and slightly frightening at the same time.
Rockpile, and their special guest, Robert Plant, followed our rather wired and rattled performance. That night, Robert Plant pulled his voice down from the usual helium heights and brought the house down with a couple of rocking Elvis Presley tunes that put our ramshackle set to shame.
Having watched most of the Wings set from the stalls, I was now gathered side-stage with Pete Thomas and Steve Nieve to witness the finale of the show. While everyone was getting plugged in, a heated discussion was going on just offstage between Paul, Linda, and a rather belligerent-looking Pete Townshend.
It seems he was the only cast member who had absolutely refused to don the rather daft-looking band costume, and after a frank exchange of views, Paul and Linda took the stage without him. I was standing right behind him as he tore the foil off the neck, pulled out the stopper, and tipped as much of the bottle down his throat as I thought humanly possible in one long swallow.
Wild-eyed and still dressed only in his own grey baggy suit, he proceeded to completely upstage the rest of the band. Townshend responded with a windmill of such ferocity that I was surprised that any strings remained on his guitar. Jimmy gave a weak smile and retreated to a safer distance near his amp. Queen had opened these post—Christmas week benefit shows with a Boxing Day concert, but the subsequent nights saw a collision between two or more generations of musicians—some who usually played arenas and had to scale down for the Hammersmith Odeon and bands like us who had yet to make it to Shea Stadium.
It was pretty much the first time the band and I had worked in a busy multiroom studio complex. You never knew who you were going to run into. We were recording Imperial Bedroom in Studio 2 with Geoff Emerick, but our sessions sometimes overlapped with the mixes and overdubs that Geoff was also working on in Studio 1 with Paul and George Martin for Tug of War.
You could say that I was really introduced to Paul and Linda by their young son, James. He must have only been about four or five years old and visiting his Dad at work when he ran down the hallway from their studio and into our control room while we were doing something tricky with tape and a razor blade.
James burst into the room pursued by his sisters, Stella and Mary, who were about ten and twelve at the time. A few seconds later, the trespassers were all retrieved by their mother. I liked Linda immediately. She was easygoing and friendly at first meeting and, as I discovered in time, a very thoughtful and kind woman. It was a little strange at first to have the McCartney clan camped out down the hallway, but I soon got used to running into Paul while on the way to the coffee vending machine or playing Asteroids in the recreation lounge.
Halfway between the two large studio rooms was a smaller mixing suite. The next day, I ran into Alice Cooper on his way to work. He was a very likable fellow and completely free of snakes. Our sessions were as luxurious in appearance as they were in generous duration. We turned our studio into a fancy playroom filled with new toys. I bought myself a marimba and a xylophone and a big shiny new acoustic twelve-string guitar.
I also purchased an accordion, although it took three of us to wrestle any music out of it, laying the instrument on a table so Steve could play the keyboard, while one of us worked the bellows and the other held the beast in place. He was the father of a lad I knew and some sort of sales representative for the Mellotron company. He claimed to have the future of music sitting in the front room of an ivy-covered house next to our parish church in which Dickens had briefly dwelled.
One Sunday after mass, we were invited to a demonstration of the newfangled gadget. My Dad was a little skeptical that a machine could actually replace an entire orchestra, but as he was singing in front of a bunch of grouchy saxophone players every night, I suppose the proposition might have held some appeal.
I remember the Mellotron as being very impressive in size, like the kind of organ that Vincent Price played in The Abominable Dr. Phibes , but this is probably my memory playing tricks, because all of the pictures I can find now show an instrument on a rather more modest scale. Our host switched on the contraption with the flourish of a stage magician. He depressed a couple of the keys and out came a wobbly recording of voices that sounded appropriately like monks chanting in a horror film.
He pressed some buttons on the console and the sound switched rapidly from a drunken brass band to a pair of waterlogged flutes. Another triggered a recorded drum pattern that resembled someone repeatedly kicking a suitcase full of spoons.
Eventually, my Dad was persuaded to try out the instrument, but the split-second delay between depressing a note and the head engaging with a tape loop within the cabinet made it nearly impossible for him to play in time.
It seemed those jobs in the orchestra would be safe from this particular musical miracle for some time, and we left without placing an order.
Needless to say, it was this disjointed and otherworldly quality that made the Mellotron so attractive to psychedelic musicians. We took for granted many of the woozy sounds and extreme recording processes that were first dreamed up by engineers like Geoff Emerick, Norman Smith, and their colleagues at Abbey Road. Geoff was just a young man of twenty when he took on the engineering work on Revolver and went on to make his reputation with Sgt.
The way Geoff shaped and balanced the sound was nearly as important as the notes we played and sang. It was also about the last time The Attractions and I played together, as opposed to in spite of each other, or even to spite each other. One of the band members wanted the songs to be about his dramas not mine. One of our drummers was drinking for England. He tumbled through the door, cackling like a hyena and breathing flammable fumes but insisting he was ready for the front. Reading it again now, it seems, as it did then, just a little pat.
None of the temptations and corruptions in the rest of the lyrics were being forced on the narrator. In the final verse of the rewritten lyrics, I left out one inelegant line, a small, true-to-life detail about a courtship dance, the carnal power struggle:. Waiting for that girl to return from the powder room adds little to the understanding of the scene. I had often changed lines on the fly, rearranged songs in a different tempo or even in a different time signature, and cannibalized entire songs.
But to stretch the lyrics over an existing musical performance was unprecedented for me. There was an attractive girl behind the bar. She would flirt with me over a glass of tonic water with a few drops of Angostura bitters. A missionary priest from Connecticut served at the parish of my junior school. Father Corbett was a handsome man with wavy hair like a Kennedy brother. He had been dispatched to save the little heathen children of Middlesex after the Second World War had caused a shortage of Catholic priests to minister to the flock heading out to the suburbs.
Everyone liked Father Corbett. The Sisters doted on his every word, as did the parents who would gather around him on the church steps after mass. The children loved him because he was kind, but not least of all because his wealthy mother made a gift of modern playground equipment and elaborately illustrated reference books from America at a time when our own schoolbooks were dog-eared and worn.
We were told the money was going to baptize them and we were encouraged to name the children in our own penciled handwriting. If our money was meager, then perhaps it was enough to buy them a sherbet fountain or some penny chews. This meant making your First Confession. I looked down the table of possible sins in the Commandments and got all the way to number seven and realized I had nothing to confess.
On the other side of the confessional grille, I could make out the fuzzy outline and familiar voice of Father DeTucci, another, more somber, American. He gently set me straight on the possible sins of a child and then gave me a penance of three Our Fathers and five Hail Marys for telling lies.
A couple of years later, the parish announced that the senior cardinal in the country had agreed to officiate at a confirmation mass. This ceremony assumes that the children have attained an understanding by which they can be confirmed and anointed in their faith.
I think the parish just wanted to herd a flock of nine-year-olds through the gate, simply because a cardinal was to do the laying on of hands. After the debacle of missionary baptisms, they knew the score.
It came to my turn. My mind went blank. Sep 19, · The album won a Grammy Award for Best Rap Album at the Grammy Awards. It also won Best Album at the MTV Europe Music Awards. In , The Marshall Mathers LP was ranked number on Rolling Stone’s list of The Greatest Albums of All Time. In its book format, the album was moved up to number .