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Ross62

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  1. Jimmy has kept just about everything pertaining to the band's history.
  2. That is truly heartwarming.
  3. Happy Mother's Day,Mum's.
  4. Enjoy!
  5. In 1987, famous groupie and rock ‘n’ roll lifer Pamela Des Barres released I’m With the Band, a juicy tell-all about her affairs and adventures with Mick Jagger, Jimmy Page, Keith Moon, Don Johnson, Jim Morrison, Waylon Jennings, and many others. The irresistible page-turner went on to land at No. 11 on Billboard’s ranking of the top 100 music books of all time and earn praise from even Nobel Prize-winning wordsmith Bob Dylan, but at the time, Des Barres’s unrepentant tales of sexual liberation on the Sunset Strip raised many judgmental haters’ eyebrows and hackles. In fact, years before “slut-shaming” was the national hot topic it is now, a famous shock-rock DJ actually introduced Des Barres as “the national slut.” But as she celebrates the 30th anniversary of I’m With the Band, Des Barres is as unapologetic and free-spirited as ever, and she’s opened the door of self-expression to a new generation of memoirists, some of whom take her writing classes and even inspired her latest, fifth book, Let It Bleed: How to Write a Rockin’ Memoir. In this personal essay, Des Barres reflects on how being known, for better or worse, as “queen of the groupies” helped her learn how to embrace her own life story and teach others to do the same. https://www.yahoo.com/music/im-band-author-pamela-des-barres-slut-shaming-30-years-later-ive-done-hard-time-groupie-suffragette-233146100.html
  6. U.S Metalheads,In Death will be touring your country again soon on the back of their new album "The Devil Speaks". If you like your metal tight and brutal they're not to be missed!
  7. We'll never know,but I do.
  8. own,he howled like a
  9. Thanks luvlz2,it's safe where I live.And the cool change that came through on Sunday was very welcome
  10. New Year’s Resolutions seem like a good idea. They get you thinking about your future and looking at what’s required to make it a reality. But because they aren’t often achieved, resolutions often set people up for failure and this isn’t good for your self-esteem along with your mental and emotional health. If setting and not achieving your New Year’s Resolutions is getting you down, then stop torturing yourself! Ditch the resolutions and do this instead: 1) Focus on what you do have and like about your life Resolutions get you focusing on what you ‘don’t’ have, which creates a ‘lack’ or ‘gap’ within you. Sometimes this can provide the necessary ‘kick up the behind’ to make the necessary changes to your life, but more often than not focusing on ‘lack’ means that you’ll create more of this and start to feel ‘bad’ about your life. This isn’t ideal. A better idea is to focus on what you ‘do like’ about your life and be grateful for that. The law of attraction means that you create more of what you continually think about and focus on. As a result, you’ll attract more of what you want into your life and the ‘good things’ will naturally grow. Doing this is a much kinder and gentler way of improving your life. 2) See every day as a chance to start fresh January is often seen as a way to start fresh with a clean slate in terms of your life, but I’d like to challenge this ‘yearly reset point’. Instead, why not see each day as a new beginning. That way you have 365 chances to improve your life each year rather than just one! There are times where you’re going to have a bad day. There are times where you’re going to self-sabotage or procrastinate or undo your hard work. But this is normal because you are human. If you only give yourself a yearly reset point, you make your life very hard! If I’ve had a bad day, I feel safe in the knowledge that tomorrow is a new day where the ‘reset’ button has been pressed. Just like pressing the ‘control-alt-delete’ button on your computer, you can start each day with a new attitude on a different foot. You can wipe the slate clean knowing that life can be different tomorrow. Don’t let one mistake get you down. Be kind and gentle with yourself. Realise you are human. Take the pressure off. Let yourself have a bad day or a bad week and allow yourself to move on. Why not wake up each morning and ask yourself ‘what one thing am I going to do today to make my life (and the lives of others) even better’? Daily and consistent action is key because it’s the small steps that add up to make the big changes.
  11. I regret to inform that these are the only "five pictures of Jimmy in a box" that I have. And still only £7000!
  12. 1.2.3. 4.5. Taking orders now.All major cards accepted. PM me for payment details.
  13. Gold!
  14. Below is an excerpt from Marc Myers’ new book “Anatomy of a Song: The Oral History of 45 Iconic Hits That Changed Rock, R&B, and Pop” (Grove Press), which you can buy on Amazon. In it, Myers talks to Led Zeppelin member Jimmy Page and collaborators about the making of one of the band’s hits that changed rock history, “Whole Lotta Love.” Released in November 1969, the song helped kick off a wave of more experimental rock on radio. In 1968, record companies were becoming more comfortable letting unproven rock bands experiment on albums. In prior years, only seasoned musicians and proven moneymakers like the Beatles, the Beach Boys, the Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan had that opportunity. The rest had to focus on tightly controlled singles, with albums functioning merely as collections of those short records. Starting in 1968, the album began to be viewed by a growing number of labels as a separate creative platform for rock bands, particularly those with electric guitarists who could wail on longer solos. There were two reasons for the abrupt shift. First, the rising sales of stereo systems were creating an appetite for rock albums. Second, a growing number of stereo FM radio stations were promoting rock albums as a more sophisticated and better-sounding format than pop singles. Unveiled in the early 1930s, FM radio didn’t catch on until the early 1960s. Up till then, most U.S. radio manufacturers didn’t bother adding the FM band on their units, since consumers were perfectly content with AM radio. But when car companies began offering the FM band on the radios of new models in the early 1960s, AM stations started investing in FM operations. As FM activity picked up, the Federal Communications Commission insisted in 1964 that FM stations be devoted to original programming, not the duplication of AM broadcasts. The turning point for FM radio came in the late 1960s, when Japan began exporting inexpensive stereo components to the U.S. Among the electronics arriving in stores were solid-state integrated stereo receivers that featured both AM and FM radio bands. The availability of FM radio on many new stereo systems led to the rise of stereo stores and the proliferation of FM radio stations, particularly near college campuses. But since FM radio was so new in 1968, stations had trouble attracting advertisers, leaving a glut of airtime to fill. Many stations allowed program hosts to play whatever they wished, including long album tracks and even entire sides. By 1969, with the consumer market for rock and soul albums expanding rapidly, record companies invested in bands that could fill the longer format imaginatively. One group that benefited from the shift was Led Zeppelin. After signing a major deal with Atlantic Records, the British band toured the U.S. in late 1968 and early ’69 before releasing Led Zeppelin, its first album. The band then embarked on two more arduous North American tours in 1969, releasing Led Zeppelin II in October. The album opened with “Whole Lotta Love,” a song that revolutionised the sound of the rock vocal and electric guitar. The album went to No. 1 on the Billboard pop chart for seven weeks. After “Whole Lotta Love” was released as a single in November 1969, it reached No. 4 on Billboard’s pop chart, and in 2007 it was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame. Interviews with JIMMY PAGE (Led Zeppelin guitarist and cowriter), GEORGE CHKIANTZ (recording engineer), and EDDIE KRAMER (final-mix engineer) JIMMY PAGE: I came up with the guitar riff for “Whole Lotta Love” in the summer of 1968, on my houseboat along the Thames in Pangbourne, England. I suppose my early love for big intros by rockabilly guitarists was an inspiration, but as soon as I developed the riff, I knew it was strong enough to drive the entire song, not just open it. When I played the riff for the band in my living room several weeks later during rehearsals for our first album, the excitement was immediate and collective. We felt the riff was addictive, like a forbidden thing. By January 1969, we cracked America wide open with the release of our first album and our first U.S. tour. I had this avant-garde master plan for “Whole Lotta Love” and could hear the construction coming together in my head. From the start, I didn’t want “Whole Lotta Love” — or any of our songs — to be a single. I had been a session musician since the early 1960s, as had [bassist] John Paul Jones. We had recorded on hundreds of singles and hated the abbreviated, canned format. I also knew that stereo FM radio was emerging in America and playing albums. I wanted to develop our songs emotionally, beyond just lengthy solos. Our label, Atlantic Records, got it, but there was really very little risk on their end. John Paul and I knew our way around a recording studio, so we weren’t going to waste studio time or produce something that wasn’t cohesive. More important, I wanted to expand our approach to ensure that our album wouldn’t be chopped up into singles for AM radio. To make sure that didn’t happen, I produced “Whole Lotta Love” — and our entire second album — as an uneditable expression, a work that had to be aired on stereo FM to make sense. During the band’s rehearsals in early ’69 for our second album, “Whole Lotta Love” sounded strong enough to open it, so I wanted to record the song first. In April, we went into London’s Olympic Studios and cut “Whole Lotta Love” with engineer George Chkiantz, who had recorded Jimi Hendrix there. GEORGE CHKIANTZ: There were two studios at Olympic — one large and one small. Management had installed our sixteen-track recorder in the small one with hopes of luring rock bands in there and away from the larger sixty-by-forty-foot space with twenty-eight-foot ceilings, where we recorded mostly classical works and film scores. But Jimmy chose the larger one — even though it had only an eight-track recorder. He wanted the extra space so the drums could be miked properly for stereo. I was a relative novice then, and what Jimmy wanted was a stretch, given Olympic’s traditional way of miking drums. So I invented a new way. I didn’t mike the snare, since that would have reduced the size and space of the drum sound. Instead, I used a stereo mike on an eight-foot boom above the drums, along with two distant side mikes to give the tom-toms edge, and a huge AKG D30 mike positioned about two feet from the bass drum. Jimmy knew that high-end mikes didn’t have to be up against an instrument to maximise the sound. PAGE: For the song to work as this panoramic audio experience, I needed Bonzo [drummer John Bonham] to really stand out, so that every stick stroke sounded clear and you could really feel them. If the drums were recorded just right, we could lay in everything else. CHKIANTZ: To make the drums sound impressive, I placed them on a platform about one and a half feet off the floor. The floor at Olympic was made of wood, not cement, which meant I needed to keep any drum movement from transmitting rumble across the wood floor to other microphones. When we began taping, [lead singer] Robert Plant sang in the studio, but eventually he moved to the vocal booth to better isolate his voice. At one point, Jimmy began fooling around with a theremin [an electronic instrument] that he brought to the studio. We worked it in when the song shifted into a weird, free form. PAGE: The theremin’s eerie sound begged for more experimentation. To get my guitar to sound surreal, I detuned it and pulled on the strings for a far-out effect. I was playing a Sunburst 1958 Les Paul Standard guitar I had bought from [James Gang guitarist] Joe Walsh in San Francisco when we were out there on tour. The Standard had this tonal versatility, allowing me to get a blistering high pitch. Robert’s vocal was just as extreme. He kept gaining confi- dence during the session and gave it everything he had. His vocals, like my solos, were about performance. He was pushing to see what he could get out of himself. We were performing for each other, almost competitively. When we toured the U.S. again in May and June, we took the rough-mix tapes along with us in a large trunk. In Los Angeles, we’d work at studios like Mirror, Mystic, and A&M to overdub material. In New York, we worked at Mayfair, Groove, and Juggy studios. Today, digital files are e-mailed all over the place, but back then you actually had to take your tapes if you wanted to work on the road. When we were ready to mix all the songs for the album, I wanted Eddie Kramer to do it. Eddie had engineered several of the album’s songs from scratch in London, and he had worked with us in the American studios. He also had engineered Jimi Hendrix’s albums. But by the summer Eddie had relocated to the States, so when we were in New York in August, we called him. “Whole Lotta Love” was all there on tape, but it needed a big, polished mix for the album. EDDIE KRAMER: The first time I heard “Whole Lotta Love” was in August ’69, when Jimmy and I started working on the album’s final mix at New York’s A&R Recording. Jimmy and I had first met in 1964, when he was playing on the Kinks’ first album [Kinks] at Pye Studios and I was the assistant engineer. I also had heard Led Zeppelin early on in ’68, when John Paul Jones played me an acetate of Led Zeppelin’s first album, before it was released. I was blown away — it sounded so hard and heavy. In New York, the recording console at A&R was fairly primitive. It had only twelve channels, with old-fashioned rotary dials to control track levels instead of sliding faders, and there were just two pan pots [control knobs] to send the sound from left to right channels. But as Jimmy and I listened to the mix, something unexpected came up. At the point where the song breaks and Robert slowly wails, “Way down inside . . . woman . . . you need . . . love,” Jimmy and I heard this faint voice singing the lyric before Robert did on the master vocal track. Apparently Robert had done two different vocals, recording them on two different tracks. Even when I turned the volume down all the way on the track that we didn’t want, his powerful voice was bleeding through the console and onto the master. Some people today still think the faint voice was a pre-echo, that we added it on purpose for effect. It wasn’t — it was an accident. Once Jimmy and I realised we had to live with it on the master, I looked at Jimmy, he looked at me, and we both reached for the reverb knob at the same time and cracked up laughing. Our instincts were the same — to douse the faint, intruding voice in reverb so it sounded part of the master plan. PAGE: I hadn’t heard anything like that before, and loved it. I was always looking for things like that when I recorded. That’s the beauty of old recording equipment. Robert’s faraway voice sounded otherworldly, like a spirit anticipating the vocal he was about to deliver. KRAMER: By adding reverb, we made his faint voice more dynamic, and it became part of rock history. I also used the pan pots on Jimmy’s guitar solo to fling it from side to side, so it would move from one speaker to another. I loved the sonic imagery, and I like to think of my mixes as stereophonic paintings. On the break after the first chorus, where the song gets quiet and we hear Bonzo’s cymbals and percussion and Jimmy’s distortion, Jimmy and I went nuts on the knobs. We had eight dials controlling the levels on eight individual tracks, so we rehearsed the choreography of what we were going to do to create the far-out sounds. Then we did it and printed the result onto the master stereo reel. Because Jimmy was a studio brat, he really understood how we could push the limits. When you have limitations in the studio, you go for it and stretch your imagination. PAGE: Some people said later that “Whole Lotta Love” was based on Willie Dixon’s “You Need Love” [recorded by Muddy Waters and released in 1962] and the Small Faces’ “You Need Loving” [released in 1966]. My riff — the basis for the entire song — sounds nothing like either of them. Robert had referenced the Dixon lyrics because with my riff, they felt right. This eventually forced us to give Dixon a cocredit on our song. But if you take Robert’s vocal out, there’s no musical reference to either song. When we were done, “Whole Lotta Love” ran 5:33, which was great since at the time it was too long to edit for a single. So Atlantic released the album version as a single. We loved that. But soon after, Atlantic cut the single down to 3:12 to satisfy AM radio. Weeks before its release, they sent me an acetate of the edit. I played it once, hated it, and never listened to the short version again. “ANATOMY OF A SONG: The Oral History of 45 Iconic Hits That Changed Rock, R&B, and Pop” © 2016 by Marc Myers. A version of this chapter first appeared in The Wall Street Journal as part of the column “Anatomy of a Song,” 2011 — 2016. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher, Grove Press, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved. http://www.businessinsider.com.au/led-zeppelin-whole-lotta-love-oral-history-how-it-was-made-2016-12
  15. THE FIRST PUBLIC appearance of what would one day be touted as "the greatest rock and roll band in the world" was hardly headline news, claiming no more than a couple of column inches on an inside page of the July 1962 issue of Jazz News. The date of the debut was Thursday 12th July; the venue the Marquee Club (then a basement below the Academy Cinema in Oxford Street, whose tent-like décor had been designed by the surrealist photographer Angus McBean); the band the Rollin' – with an apostrophe – Stones. These details were followed by a quote from singer Mick Jagger, expressing the fragile hope that the audience in that bastion of musical correctness wouldn't "think we're a rock'n'roll outfit," and the expected line-up, which, alongside the snake-hipped "R&B vocalist", featured guitarists Keith Richard and Elmo Lewis (Brian Jones' blues alter ego), pianist Ian Stewart, bass guitarist Dick Taylor and drummer Mick Avory. Whether Avory actually appeared is uncertain, and other drummers would come and go in the six months before Charlie Watts could be persuaded to abandon a day job in graphic design to pursue a full-time career with the Stones, but on Thursday 12th July the band's future drummer could be found in the Marquee's audience, from where he noted a phenomenon that set this new group apart from Alexis Korner's Blues Incorporated, with whom he had previously played. "The thing was," he told me in 1978, "the bands that were doing that stuff, like Alexis', were really eccentric old men. Now the Stones, the front line at any rate, were young, so there was obvious appeal for the kids who wanted to dance. Alexis' band was a joke to look at, but this lot sort of crossed the barrier. They actually were like rock stars, I suppose, but they could play." The Stones' Marquee debut was no springboard to overnight success. Although they reappeared at the club, they were dropped by the club's manager Harold Pendleton after a meagre five more bookings in as many months because, as Pendleton's partner Chris Barber argued, "they weren't authentic enough, even then they'd gone into British" - intoned with unmissably dismissive emphasis – "R&B." (The slight was not quickly forgotten: filming a TV special at the Marquee eight years later, Keith Richards petulantly swung his guitar at Pendleton, but missed.) During the months before he left the Stones to pursue an unfulfilled aim to attend the Royal College of Art, bassist Dick Taylor had little reason to suppose they were about to break into the big time. "We played very few gigs," he conceded. "I remember somewhere way out in the sticks, though it probably wasn't as far as Watford, and we all went by train, took all our gear on the train, and we played in this completely empty hall. The only audience was outside, looking through the window. No one came in, but we really enjoyed ourselves." The Stones were welcomed back regularly at the Ealing Club, and also tried out at the Flamingo Club in Soho. Run by brothers Rik and John Gunnell, the club's renowned All-Nighters - midnight-to-six sessions on Saturday nights – were popular with black Londoners and US servicemen on 48-hour passes from their bases at Mildenhall, Lakenheath and High Wycombe, reluctant to waste on overnight accommodation the pay they had earned guarding Britain against the Red Menace or to spend an unnecessary moment of their precious leave asleep. The audience also included the first mods, their stamina boosted by drinamyl and dexedrine. For die-hards with nowhere else to go, there was a Sunday afternoon session, which doubled as audition time. The Stones' turn came in November 1962, as John Gunnell told me nine years later. "We were all pissed from the night before, pouring out afternoon whiskies, and this band comes down, when long hair wasn't in, and we were thinking, 'Fuck, who are these? They've got to be kidding.' But they went on stage and they were great, so we gave them a Monday night. This was when they had Ian Stewart on piano and Carlo Little from Screaming Lord Sutch's band on drums. And they drew no one, because the Flamingo was a black club, a real R&B club. It was saxophones and screaming, and the Stones died a death, no one was there, like one person would come in, which was five bob (25p). I remember paying Mick Jagger off and telling him, 'If your R&B ever takes off, you can kiss my arse.' When it did, he came back down to remind me." The Stones' truncated four-week residency in January 1963 was nonetheless notable for the first appearance of the soon-to-be familiar line-up of Jagger, Richard, Jones, Wyman and Watts, plus pianist Ian Stewart, who, because his face didn't fit, would be relegated to roadie by soon-to-be manager Andrew Oldham. The musical background of the Rolling Stones' two most recent recruits could hardly have been more polarised, yet Charlie Watts and bassist Bill Wyman, who joined a matter of weeks before the drummer in December, typified the diversity of musicians drawn to R&B. Wyman had been playing what everyone else played in his corner of south-east London: "Shadows stuff, Ventures stuff, all those semi-instrumental groups, because there were never really any good singers about. So most of the bands had an echo chamber and a good lead guitarist who could play 'FBI' and all that shit, and experiment and try and play some American music, but it was always the wrong stuff – it was 'Poetry In Motion' and 'Personality', all those things – whereas the band I was trying to get together, we were trying to play the R&B kind of American music that was coming over, more like Little Richard, the Coasters, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, black artists, not the Pat Boones and the Bobby Vees. I wasn't involved at all with the jazz thing that was going on in London, or even the R&B thing. I was more into rock'n'roll, rather than the Korner thing, so (joining the Stones) was very strange to me, and it was only Chuck Berry that held me in with the band for the first few weeks, because I knew all those Chuck Berry songs, and I knew Bo Diddley vaguely. I didn't know any of the blues people, but at least when they said, let's do 'Reeling And Rocking', I knew it backwards, and doing a blues on the bass was fairly simple anyway. It was just popular music that was being played by black artists instead of white, really, that was the difference, and we suddenly realised it was better." By contrast, Watts "came out of the school that never listened to rock'n'roll, or refused to until I was about twenty-one. I was never really that good to play what you might term 'jazz', particularly at that time, so I just used to play with anyone really, which was mostly jazz people, but not on a very high musical level, not the best, though some of them turned out to be the best as time passed." Blues Incorporated had provided Watts' introduction to R&B. "When I first played with Cyril Davies in Alexis Korner's band, I thought, 'What the fuck is happening here?' because I'd only ever heard the harmonica played by Larry Adler, but Cyril was such a character, I loved him. But the rest of it! I didn't know what the hell was going on. Although I knew about playing a heavy backbeat, it wasn't like Chicago, which was what Cyril wanted. On a good night it was amazing, but a total cacophony of sound. It was like a cross between R&B and Charlie Mingus, which was what Alexis wanted. By the time I joined the Stones, I was quite used to rock'n'roll... to Chuck Berry and that, but it was actually sitting up endlessly with Keith [Richards] and Brian [Jones] – I was out of work at the time I joined them and I just used to hang about with them, waiting for jobs to come up, daytime work – just listening to Little Walter and all that, that it got ground in." While the Stones were consolidating their style, the turbulent, cacophonous clash of R&B and Mingus observed from his drum stool by Watts, had brought to an untimely end Alexis Korner's long-standing association with Cyril Davies, who quit Blues Incorporated in November 1962. "Cyril wanted to work with a sort of recreation of the mid-fifties Muddy Waters band," Korner told me, "but my argument was, it's already been done, what's the point of doing it again? So Blues Incorporated was getting to be this riffing-type R&B band, and I'd always liked horns." With Davies gone, Korner brought in altoist Graham Bond to complement Dick Heckstall-Smith's tenor – "and we got some tremendous riffing things going with them and Jack [Bruce] and Ginger [Baker]." Following his abrupt departure, Davies did not waste time hand-picking individual musicians to play with, instead annexing in its entirety Screaming Lord Sutch's backing group, the Savages - Nicky Hopkins (piano), Bernie Watson (guitar), Rick Brown (bass), and sometime Rolling Stone Carlo Little (drums) - adding Long John Baldry as second vocalist and a trio of black backing singers, The Velvettes, recruited from the cast of the West End show, King Kong. He named his new band Cyril Davies's R&B All-Stars. While welcoming his liberation from Davies's belligerence and dogma, Korner continued to miss his old partner. "We'd worked together on and off for a long time, Cyril and I, and as long as things were going badly for us, as long as there was a fight, even to find somewhere to play, we were okay together. It was a musical partnership, and once we were playing, we forgot about all the rest. Sometimes we played some extraordinary things together, Cyril and I. We got things going together that I've never got going with anybody else, never, not those particular things that I used to get going with Cyril, that he used to get going with me." The post-Davies "riffing" line-up of Blues Incorporated lasted barely three months. Recruited as an altoist, Graham Bond made no secret of his desire to double on organ, a move vetoed by Korner, who had "got it very clear that Bondy came in as an alto player. He occasionally did a piano feature, but we had a pianist – Johnny Parker. When he started wanting to play organ, I said it didn't fit into the band, it wasn't that sort of sound. Besides, I have a thing about organ players, because they do tend to ride over everything else, they've got all that power, and they do tend to bloody well use it, so they swamp the more delicate things that are going on elsewhere. After some arguments, not bitter ones, but some fairly positive arguments about this, that and the other, he left (in February 1963), persuading Jack [Bruce] and Ginger [Baker] to form a trio with him." Unwanted at the Marquee, but established at the Ealing Club and the Star & Garter Hotel in Windsor, the Stones next set up camp at the Station Hotel in the Thames-side suburb of Richmond, where they played on Sunday nights from February 1963, making it one of those venues, like the Cavern in Liverpool or the 100 Club in Oxford Street, where, in order to assert earlier-than-thou allegiance to the Beatles or the Sex Pistols, you had to claim to have seen them. The Sunday evening sessions were run by Georgio Gomelsky, a desultory entrepreneur who might have managed the Stones, had he been half as sharp as he thought he was. Helping Gomelsky was Hamish Grimes, a young graphic designer, who witnessed at first hand the mushrooming popularity of their Crawdaddy Club. "There was only a small group to whom mention of the Rolling Stones would have meant anything at all," Grimes recalled, "but the word spread that this was something totally different, and every week the figures doubled until the place was absolutely full to capacity. People would queue for hours, literally, on a Sunday afternoon. They would start queuing about five o'clock, people sitting outside the door, so they could be first in and get next to the stage. It was difficult to move around, and if you went out to the bar to get a drink, you could never get back to a good vantage point. It was absolutely mad." As at the Ealing Club, when Blues Incorporated had first played there, the audience for the Stones' sessions at the Station Hotel was peppered with would-be bluesmen and apprentice pop stars, among them schoolfriends Jim McCarty and Paul Samwell-Smith, who, having had enough of the same Shadows instrumentals that had bored Bill Wyman, would soon team up with members of a Kingston art school band, the Metropolitan Blues Quartet, to form the Yardbirds. Another regular was future Small Face Ian McLagan, who affirmed, "There were a lot of musicians who used to turn up early, drink a couple of quick pints, and get to the front of the stage to watch mainly Brian for me, funnily enough, and Stu [Ian Stewart]. And that's when I realised maybe white boys from London can play the blues, because they could, so it gave me a bit more confidence: yeah, maybe we can play the blues and get paid for it." By the time the Stones unloaded their gear at the Station Hotel, they had already played one gig, an afternoon set at the Ken Colyer Jazz Club at Studio 51 in Great Newport Street, where Soho meets Covent Garden. This new residency in such a stronghold of traditional jazz, on behalf of which Colyer had remained a tireless campaigner, said much about R&B's take-over from trad. Although Acker Bilk's 'Stranger On The Shore' was by far the biggest-selling record of 1962, even before the end of its twelve-month chart run Melody Maker was asking "Has Trad Had It?": "Let's face it. The trad boom is on the wane. Only a few big names can pull in the crowds – and not all of them are doing the big business of six months ago. A lot of newly-formed trad bands around today are going to the wall." The article went on to blame the top bands for following the same big money circuit – "no wonder the fans are beginning to get bored" – but identified as the essential reason for trad's decline the fact that many of those fans were not genuine jazz enthusiasts. "So many so-called trad fans are really camp followers of the pop disc parade. Thousands of youngsters who buy the trad-pop singles have about as much musical appreciation as those who rush to purchase the latest rock or twist hit. Jazz fans? Not on your Nelly!" Bandleader Alan Elsdon blamed "certain agents and promoters [who] have flooded the jazz clubs with inferior bands," while Mike Cotton, whose Jazzmen would emerge from an R&B make-over in 1964 as the Mike Cotton Sound, conceded, "There is no doubt the big boom is on the wane." Rhythm and blues was seen as a universal remedy: a cure for dwindling club audiences, an elixir for uninspired musicians, and ultimately a money-earner for the record industry, although not until its London-based, but Liverpool-fixated A&R men had recovered sufficiently from the tunnel vision brought on by Merseybeat to spot what was happening in their own back yard. © John Pidgeon, 2009