Deservedly Remembered - Baker Street is pure punk


“Some books are undeservedly forgotten, none are undeservedly remembered.” W.H Horton. I suspect the great poet would have said the same about music.


Whether it’s the flint spark guitar solo or the storming saxophone, or the lyrical portraits of the sorts of conversations disaffected twentysomethings have, stuck in this nightmare of mediocrity, Baker Street cooks, and cooks to this day. It’s glamorisation of the sex, sleaze and slime of modern urban living has never truly been equalled with such eloquent solipsism and everyone knows it; in the UK at least it’s been a drivetime favourite of the likes of Simon Mayo and a popular pub quiz topic (did that £27 cheque really bounce?). What’s often forgotten about Baker Street is how it’s one of the most stunning punk records of all time: cobbled together, the iconic saxophone solo, itself mired in controversy, played by a session musician, production of the song itself from all rumours appears to have been ramshackle and random; the lyrics of the song are packed with veiled references to the Steeler’s Wheel clusterfuck, and it inspired a DIY culture of saxophone music that led to the eighties being drenched in the sound. It’s baked into our culture, but take a moment to think about how he was right all along, and how, in 1978 this was a piece of pure punk, and unlike all the others, he meant it.

Written under duress by Steven. Act now and you too could regret following me on twitter.

The Truth must dazzle gradually/ Or every man be blind - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #225



It’s a difficult position where a highly exposed piece of art that puts forward a viewpoint that you support and is sorely needed is also a horribly right-on and unsubtle ballad trudging towards an ill-defined chorus and sloping off at the end to die in a corner. To think about the effect rape and sexual assault have on University campuses throughout the world, and the unique pain and suffering victims face, and to understand, to listen, and to work with these people to help them cope with the violence forced upon them and prevent others from becoming victims or perpetrators is possibly the most important social concern of our times and Lady Gaga’s ‘Til It Happens to You bravely doesn’t hint or suggest towards this point, but boldly steps up to it. Like her previous work with Born This Way it fails because it is so forthright, with no room for interpretation and no grey. Tell all the truth, but tell it slant.

"My life is a great, to others unknown and incomprehensible suffering.Sweep me up."


There’s a school of thought that when you see something like this, like when you notice a truly horrifying amount of dog shit on a city street, that you should ignore it in the hope some starving city fox will come and hoover it up in desperation but ‘Movin’ Up’ is such a completely and utterly wretched-in-tooth-and-claw creation of the modern cult of ‘celebrity’ that I needed to share it all with you. It isn’t music in the same way the blood-drenched latterday coliseum shows weren’t entertainment, they were a perfect representation of everything the diseased moneyed marrow of Rome was at the time, as is this. At some point the cult of celebrity will fail, we’ll realise that we decide who has ‘fame’, who we pay attention to, at least I hope it will.

Normally I'd tell you not to watch it so as not to give them the traffic, but fuck it, it's too late.

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