#23 My Granddad

My Granddad may not seem like the kind of person we'd be reviewing on this site. Sure, he may have the air of a rock and roller, but what septuagenarian does not? I'll tell you this, the first thing I remember My Granddad telling me was, "You know the cover of Abbey Road? That was a veiled reference to me."

I didn't believe him; I thought something's about medication and the nonsense My Granddad often told me. He claimed to have an invisible dog and once even that he parachuted into Scotland in 1941, in an attempt to sue Churchill for peace. That all changed one day in 2005, when a scruffy Dostoevsky-alike arrived and frogmarched him to a studio. Taking the facts as they have shown themselves to me, I am now able to present the jigsaw in it's original form.

My Granddad did not immediately have an interest in professional musicmaking. First he was a child and then there was a war. After that it was teatime and then he thought about playing the guitar. First he had to learn and given that times was austere it took him until 1949 to really consider forming a band.

Assembling his war-buddies at the Woking Men's Club, My Granddad rated each audition in a way which would have been reminiscent of The Gong Show, had it existed at the time. If he thought there was no talent in 20 seconds, he would stamp his feet and they'd have to get out. If he let them play, he'd rate them, although he was known for his stern marking and propensity to stamp his feet when enjoying the music. Eventually, the band had been selected. Although most of the chosen few played instruments more in keeping with big band style recordings, My Granddad insisted on the band sounding and acting like a skiffle group. Exactly how you palm mute a saxophone is unknown, but My Grandad requested it and the Saxophonist (Ken Chapman, 1925-1999) managed to create a not too dissimilar sonoural experience.

Looking for a name that summed up their disregard for the status quo but attention to detail and self-preservation, the group hit on The Zebra Crossings. As My Granddad explained, Zebra Crossings were for everything new, including the Green Cross Code. To celebrate, My Granddad gave David Prowse (then aged 14) a ticket to their first gig. The young Prowse invited all his friends -of which there were many (who the hell wouldn't be friends with the future body (if not voice) of Darth Vader)-, and the gig sold out. The band soon sold out themselves, taking on a string of less-than-glorious advertising roles speaking against the mounting scientific evidence that jumping from a cliff was bad for you. "Jump from a cliff?" My Granddad shamefully said "full of flavour, good for your teeth and leaves a taste in your mouth for weeks to come!"

Eventually the touring schedule got to the 13 piece band, as did the living quarters where all but My Granddad were forced to share a bed. Referring to the conditions many of the band grew up in as a child, My Granddad opined that at least they had 0.08333 of a bed each. In order to stop the overcrowding and related virus-infestations, 5 members of the band left in 1962. Aware of the instability this created in the band -let alone the bed- My Granddad suggested that they changed their name. And so, in that Düsseldorf dormitory, The Panda Crossings was born.

Moving away from skiffle, the band settled on a form of industrial music that was not really of it's time. Sure, they had the right country for industrial music (and one very young paperboy by the name of Blixa Bargeld was definitely impressed) but they probably got there a little too early to be understood by the masses.

A new line-up change left just My Granddad from the original members and took the band in the surprising direction of chamber-rock. Part of this came from having such few members and part of it came from the liberation of having so few numbers. Suddenly silence could be embraced and the new name, The X-Ray Crossings, really added nothing apart from timely historical accuracy.

In 1969, tired of the emotional roller-coaster of name-changes and instore performances at Woolworths, My Granddad decided to go it alone and record using only a boombox. Always earlier than fashion, My Granddad had to wait until 1978 for the boombox to be invented for him to record anything new. When the new album "Bread, Dripping, Living, Workin'" finally did come out, My Granddad -who had called himself Pelican Crossing- was too busy picking me up from school every Tuesday to tour. Still, his remaining fans took their pension and bought the album, some Murray Mints and a teenth and got down to his noisily recorded acoustic tunes.

All this would be a footnote in musical history if it were not for one Trick Trubin, the number 1 Rick Rubin cover-producer in history (because we all know that technically Ben Folds does not count). Trubin's motto is, if people go to see cover-bands, why the hell not cover-producers? After a spell failing to act and sound like Bongwater heavyweight Mark Kramer, Trubin gave up, grew a beard, found an old man and started mimicking Rubin. With My Granddad signed up to the project Trubin requested that he record a cover version of "March of the Pigs", meditating on extreme old age, third rate industrial punk and, um, marching pigs. He played it to Rory Palmer, but he didn't much like it.

With that in the can, Trubin demanded the plane fare back to America and has never been seen again. My Granddad does not mind, at least he got to relive the glory days by making Trubin sleep in his densely packed and trinket filled cramped spare room.