Whilst over in Madrid, I managed to find a decent record shop and got hold of a few obscure gems. The best and most intriguing of which was an LP I’d never before come across by the wonderfully-named DICK HECKSTALL-SMITH
The album also has a wonderful name, taken from a line in the poem ‘Four Quartets’ by TS ELIOT. It’s called:

Released in 1972, it was came out on Warner Brothers in most territories but, pleasingly, this is a rare Spanish copy on Island Records.

Dick (Richard Malden) Heckstall-Smith was one of many musicians brought up on classical and schooled in jazz whose mind and musical oeuvre were expanded by the loose, free-spirited thinking of the ’60s; a time when musical distinctions became evermore blurred and multifarious creative experimentation became the norm. Heckstall-Smith studied agriculture at Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge and led the college’s jazz band.

Always something of a risk-taking maverick, he was a conscientious objector who eschewed national service and instead worked as a St. Bart’s hospital porter. In 1957 he became a jobbing musician, playing a Butlins’ summer season with clarinetist Sandy Brown (who’d awarded him a jazz prize while at Cambridge). He moved in trad-jazz circles for a while but he loved raw, bluesy roots music and the wild, wayward expressionism of be-bop, being greatly influenced by people like Rahsaan Roland Kirk (adopting his trademark party piece of playing two different saxophones at once) and as he’d developed his style playing with much louder, amplified rock and blues bands, his playing employed a more direct, fiercely blasted-out approach.

He played sax on an album by New Orleans trumpeter Bob Wallis and on that very same session was, according to Dick himself; “a flame-haired gangly young git with blue eyes who played drums like a wild animal” whose name was Peter Baker (‘Ginger’ to his friends). In 1961, he and Baker were regularly playing the Café des Artistes and Club Flamingo in Soho and soon hooked-up with Alexis Korner, the patriarchal British blues pioneer who pieced together Blues Incorporated, a raw, Chicago-style blues band that embraced elements of r&b and jazz.

Various hip young beatniks (Charlie Watts and Mick Jagger included) served time as members of Korner’s ever-changing crew until Heckstall-Smith, Ginger Baker, Jack Bruce and organist Graham Bond broke away to form the Graham Bond Organization, a prototype jazz-rock outfit of considerable clout. The Organization enjoyed transatlantic success until Baker and Bruce formed Cream with Eric Clapton, a former guitarist with the Bluesbreakers, led by John Mayall, who’d hired Heckstall-Smith to play on his seminal 1968 album ‘Bare Wires’. Also playing on that ‘Bare Wires’ album (along with future Rolling Stone Mick Taylor) was Jon Hiseman, the dextrous, powerhouse drummer who briefly took the place of Ginger Baker in the Graham Bond Organization before forming Colosseum, the progressive jazz-rock band of whom Heckstall-Smith was a also founder member.
In the album’s scant sleeve notes, our Dick reveals; ‘When we all met in a pub and decided to end Colosseum, I said I wanted to make a solo album. Well, here it is’.

Helping him out were four fellow Colossi; vocalist Chris Farlowe, Mark Clarke on bass, keyboardist Dave Greenslade, who would later form his own eponymous prog-rock band, and Jon Hiseman (who also produced the album).
Also featuring amongst the myriad personnel were:
Chris ‘Motorbiking’ Spedding, the go-to session guitarist of choice (who at the time was cutting his jazz-rock chops with Ian Carr’s Nucleus), Graham Bond, the ORGANiser of Dick’s old band, Paul Williams; NOT the singer/songwriter responsible for the songs in Bugsy Malone. This dude was vocalist in Juicy Lucy and Tempest, the next jazz-rock band Jon Hiseman and Mark Clarke formed after Colosseum’s dissemination.

Also featuring is Caleb Quaye, the older half-brother of Finley Quaye and a valued alumnus of Elton John’s ’70s band who played on Elt’s ‘Rock Of The Westies’ & ‘Blue Moves’ albums. Tying things in nicely, in an almost incestuous display of chummy camaraderie, the lyrics on the album were written by Pete Brown, lead singer of not one but two hippy art terrorists signed to Harvest Records; Piblokto! & The Battered Ornaments (featuring Chris Spedding on guitar). Brown was a talented, delightfully dippy lyricist who wrote the words to a handful of classic Cream songs including ’Sunshine Of Your Love’, ‘White Room’ and ‘Badge’.

Enough of the personnel, what about the music…?

‘Future Song’ kicks things off with a ‘Voodoo Chile’-like chaka-waka intro and a driving funk-infused riff over which our Dick bleats out some hot-as-hell honkin’ and offbeat jazzy chord sequences until the song fades out, annoyingly enough, just as a smoking guitar solo breaks out.

‘Crabs’ is a passionately-wrought mid-paced burner that soon jolts into life, picking up a double-time tempo, sliding subtly back into the slower pace and back again with clattering percussion and plonking piano.
‘Same Old Thing’ then staggers into view with heavy eyelids hiding dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes, sporting a nicotine-stained beard, it’s a smoky, worse-for-wear English blues with a Hendrixian vibe, the recurring motif recalling ‘Wind Cries Mary’.
‘Was The Morning After’ is more wistful, like something faux-meaningful from ‘Hair’ or ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ which gets faster and more fidgety during the middle section.

‘Pirate’s Dream’ is the killer track though. Boasting busy, supple drumming throughout, it has a classic, descending rock riff and a remarkable vocal performance from Chris Farlowe who spouts out a volley of verbose mouthfuls from the impenetrable, poetically pithy pen of Pete Brown. There’s a frenzied drum-led acceleration of delivery which soon settles down into a more tempered, jazzier section in which Hiseman shows he’s not all about crash ’n’ clatter and can play with subdued restraint.
Some smart dual interplay mimicry from Dick & Chris Spedding on guitar, as Hiseman and bassist Mark Clarke slowly ensure the song gradually ups both the pace and the level of intricacy before locking down into an irresistibly fluid blues-jam groove.
You hear some soaring vocal histrionics (by an uncredited female) and Graham Bond mewing and squelching forth some otherworldly squawks and squelches from what would then have been a strange, newly-acquired keyboard gizmo bearing the legend ‘Moog’.

Here, treat yourself to a good listen:

Finally, there’s ‘Moses In The Bullrushes’, a swingin’ jazz-pop finger-clicker with a gobful of garbled lyrics that concludes proceedings on a suitably energetic note.

This album must’ve seriously blown some music-loving minds in ’72. Such a great ensemble piece, very typical of the time; jazz-trained musicians gleefully showing off their collective chops by playing each individual instrument to the limit of its capability.
Breathtaking in parts. Popular music made within a rock framework yet with some very jazz-minded chord structures and shape-shifting polyrhythms. Every participant playing for the thrill of it, pulling off dazzling performances just because they know they’re good enough to be able to with epic ease.

As mentioned in another post on this blog, I recently reviewed a restaurant for the first time, which was posted elsewhere online. Sod SEO… Here it is in full…

Matty Hebditch ventures into the unexplored, formidable world of food blogging with his first ever restaurant review. His eaterie of choice? Volta, a newly opened and unsuspecting establishment of the West Didsbury, Manchester

Walking into this newest addition to West Didsbury’s eat-&-drink scene, first impressions were good. Although bijou, the simple layout and subtle lighting made it an inviting place. A huge arched mirror on the back wall helps create a more spacious feel, and the chunky mahogany bar and accompanying stools make you feel welcome to literally hang out in this hang-out, as well as to eat in this eaterie.

Perched at the end of that chunky bar was chunky proprietor Luke Cowdrey, who welcomed us in and gave us the lowdown on what’s available and how we should order it. In any way and any order we fancied really, pick ’n’ mix-style.
It’s not quite a tapas bar but, seeing as it’s a reet down-to-earth Mancunian venture, I’m gonna call it a ‘Real Tapas & Shunters Social Club’.
There are several real good boozes (13 Guns IPA, Brooklyn, Wainwrights’s, and Brewdog’s Punk IPA if you like your ale), but my companion was denied an Aperol spritz aperitif as they’d run out of Prosecco. I imagine the opening night party, a week before Christmas, must’ve merged in with the other seasonal festivities.

The food on offer is a pleasingly diverse mix of fusion fodder, inspired by the grub Luke and co-conspirator Justin Crawford have sampled on their global Unabombing DJ adventures and perhaps the ‘small plates’ selection is inspired by a party person’s propensity for not being able to stomach too much grub at once.
We gladly bought into the concept of building your own piecemeal meal, with as many components as you like, and we even partook in playing some chip Jenga to further enhance the culinary construction theme (nicely mushy sweet potato chips they were too).

Careful thought has gone into minor details; we were oddly chuffed to receive a transparent glass plate (what happened to them?), while the cutlery and napkins arrived tidily in a tin can. There was an eclectic mix of downbeat music to enhance the mood too. We discerned John Martyn, some cerebral jazz, indo-Irish folk and a Bond theme (can’t remember which, Carly Simon I think).
Though smartly decked-out with dark wood vintage lampshades and mahooosive shin-high skirting boards, it’s also replete with some of those ‘can’t be arsed to finish that bit off’ touches to the decor; exposed brick here, unpainted plasterwork there, and we were charmed by an informal sign in the loos kindly urging folk ‘not to flush anything other than the obvious’. Also, Yorkshire roses decorate each table and the walls are half-painted City sky blue, making it a place Man United fans probably wouldn’t sit too comfortably in.

Now the important bit: the food. We sampled three small plates first, one of which was four mini pecorino toasts with some unedifying Jerusalem artichokes, presumably marinated in truffle oil, as it was bereft of actual ‘posh mushroom’ truffle. This dish was rather bland; the crispy toasts could’ve been thinly cut scrag-ends of stale baguette, and with the artichoke lacking any real flavour it could quite easily have been grated hard skin from the chef’s achilles (mmmm… my fave!).

The sea bass with black olive paste was delicious, however, and jazzed-up the toasty bites considerably once we’d mixed, matched and married the two.
We queried the helpful, clued-up staff as to the whereabouts of our third small plate and were told they’d forgot to explain that the slapdash ‘order whatever whenever’ nature of the menu means that some dishes arrive irregularly as everything’s made quick-sharp, upon request. That didn’t quite explain why the (hot) sea bass & green beans arrived ten minutes before the (cold) beetroot, feta, dill and hazelnut dish. The latter brought to mind an old Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut ad (“Nuts, oh hazelnuts, Volta they take them and they smother them in beetroot”) and tasted lovely scooped-up with some herby flatbread (whoever he is), but the beetroot slop resembled tomato puree in the dim light. A quick shine of a handy keyring torch confirmed it was indeed purple but it may well have been tastier had it actually been tomato puree.

Main course was a hanger steak, neatly cut into medallions with accompanying chips, which turned out to be the rarest steak I’ve ever had, and as I don’t usually go for rare steak, this made me wonder why we weren’t offered the customary choice. Turns out it’s meant to be sampled rare and, had I asked for ‘medium’, I’d have simply been talked out of it.

It was indeed flavoursome and succulent, if a little bit slippery and oyster-like on the tongue – squeamish hemophobics may have been disturbed by the unheralded sight of blood on the chopping board. The steak came with chimichurri, an oily Argentinian-inspired salsa and herb sauce, which was fragrant and unusual, but a lot less potent and not as tasty as we’d expected.
We concluded with a winning dessert; a chocolate pot with a slightly torched surface, and a milky top which tasted much like the gorgeous gloopy goo you get in the middle of a Lindt bauble, almost leading us to stick our fingers into the pot to scrounge the very last smears.
In all, it was an enjoyably distinctive dining experience, ordering dishes we’d never tried before, and although not everything was spot-on, we’d be keen to come back, and see how they’re progressing and sample the other treats on the menu. Especially as there’s still a ’50% off food’ offer throughout January.

Since writing this review, the great and the good have been keen to visit Volta. You might have to zoom in a bit but…
Here’s ACTUAL photographic proof of PRINCE popping in last May…!!!

I was in Manchester not so long back and me and my dining partner, a Mancunian native, fancied trying out newly-opened Volta, on Burton Road in desirable West Didsbury. It’s a small but splendid restaurant/bar and hugely hip hang-out or ‘eaterie’, as they call it. Which is of course French for ‘eatery’, which is pretty much a made-up English word… Or is it Franglais?

Anyway, Volta is the new social enterprise of Luke Cowdrey and Justin Crawford who have made their name collectively as the über-tasteful disco/funk/nu-soul/house DJs, Unabombers (while Crawford was once a member of the brilliantly barmy Madchester band, New Fast Automatic Daffodils).

Their fabled club night, The Electric Chair, was a sorely-missed and highly-regarded jewel in Manchester’s already coruscating clubnight crown and since its closure, they have been running the Elektrik bar in Chorlton and have now ventured into more grown-up foodie territory; all Michelin-star chefs, fusion food fun and terrific top-tier tipples.

At the moment, I’m not rocking a smart phone, since I had my iPhone nicked in a horrible nightclub and have instead been using my sister’s old Blackberry that my doopid GiffGaff tariff won’t allow any web access on. Due to my current ‘no instant internet’ status, I’ve enjoyed going back to the trusted old method of carrying a pen and a little pad around with me so I could jot things down to Google later.

Having these famously compatible items on my person was the only reason I thought to review my Voltic experience, by scribblinging any thoughts down with said pen in said pad. Not any old pad, mind… a mini lilac-bound pad (made by Moleskin & available from Paperchase, in a pack o’two) that boasts classic functionality in the shape of perforated pages you can easily rip out. Even though I don’t really want to rip out any perforated pages from my petite little purply pad.

Anyway, the review was published up on Culture Vulture, a lovely Leeds-based ‘what’s on’ site of some repute. I’d post the review in full here but, as I’ve learned this week, it affects and hinders SEO if the same content is published elsewhere. I also had to put ‘SEO’ into a search engine in order to discover it stood for ‘Search Engine Optimisation’. I’m such a CJD (Computer Jargon Dunce) sometimes. Well, pretty much all the time, really…

http://theculturevulture.co.uk/blog/reviews/food-and-drink-reviews/volta-a-distinctive-dining-experience/comment-page-1/

Images of the attendant Eusebio dominated the beginning of the Portugal v. North Korea coverage as this fixture had everyone harking back to his incredible performance in Portugal’s comeback after going 3-0 when they played North Korea in 1966. It’s always worth another look, if only for those crazy curved cut-outs behind the goals at Goodison, installed to stop fans chucking sharpened coins and other missiles at the away team’s keeper, I’ll have you know:

It was doubly apt to see Eusebio I thought, as he was the first African footballing superstar really as despite making a name for himself with Portugal, he was actually from the former Portugese colony of Mozambique that borders South Africa.
Ronaldo may have been cattle-prodded after the first game as to his duties as captain because instead of bowing his head in apparent discomfiture at how lame and unfashionable national anthems are, he was seen reluctantly mouthing a few lines this time. Meanwhile, next to him, the goalkeeper Eduardo finished belting it out passionately and let out a motivational roar which suggested he may have just snorted a couple of lines.
There was no blubbing this time from the previously overwhelmed Jong Tae-Se who instead shut his eyes tight and thought of their long-deceased ‘eternal president’ Kim Il-Sung. I’ve done a bit of research into Jong Tae-Se’s background and remarkably, despite being moved to tears when standing for the national anthem against Brazil, he’s never actually lived in North Korea. Born in Nagoya and playing his football in Japan, he attended a private ‘Chongryon’ school in Japan that’s funded by the Korean Residents’ Association so that people can be brought up the ‘North Korean way’. Hmm…You too can have that human rights-bereft Totalitarian Stalinist Dictatorship experience in the comfort of the free world. Sounds like fun! That residents’ association also doubles up as the de facto North Korean Embassy in Japan who sorted out a passport for him in compliance with FIFA eligibility criteria. It all seems extremely sinister to me but, like the inaccurately-named Democratic People’s Republic of Korea itself, is oddly fascinating.
Also of interest are that six of the squad play for the snappily-named April 25th FC (military foundation day apparently) and that the team are nicknamed The Chollima, after a mythical flying horse, as pictured below here:

Although I’m certain they ultimately wished they’d never bothered, I’m not entirely sure when the North Korean people would’ve got to see this game. Their previous game against Brazil was shown on TV a full 17 hours after it had finished because the game kicked off in the middle of the night over there and, as there’s no television transmissions allowed at that time, they instead showed delayed coverage at prime time the following evening.