"IT WAS FORTY YEARS AGO TODAY": DUST THEM ALL OFF

“I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair; ’77 and ’69, revolution was in the air”, or so sang erstwhile MySpace ‘phenomenon’ and purveyor of the insipid Sandi Thom. The rest of this forgettable track aside, these lyrics (and Thom can claim none of the creative spark for this sentiment) provide an interesting insight into the prescriptive nature of music history. There seems to be a general consensus, usually by those with a vested interest (Stuart Maconie et al I’m looking at you) that there are certain dates that are intrinsically ‘magical’ when it comes to music production, and thus are etched into our collective musical minds as significant. 1969 is one of these sacrosanct years. Even the most cursory of glances at the music press at the moment will yield myriad articles singing the praises of this year. Yet all will focus on one band, one album and one conclusion: the Beatles, ‘Abbey Road’ and that 1969 was a full stop at the end of a creative surge in popular music.

Ok, let’s get the necessaries out of the way. Yes, the Beatles were (and still are) unparalleled. They are among the most significant products this country has ever produced, and I don’t just mean musically, I mean they’re up there with the Magna Carta and the NHS! Yes, ‘Abbey Road’ is an amazing album and it did serve as the perfect end to the Beatles’ career[1]. But the way 1969 has passed into musical history, you’d be forgiven (well, not by me) for thinking that the whole of the music industry shut down, entering a dark-age of self-indulgent stadium rock until punk came along and breathed, or rather spat, vitality back into British music.

The points I’d like to try and get across in this article are firstly, that 1969 doesn’t simply represent the ‘end of an era’ and that a lot of exciting musical ventures took root in that year. Secondly, I want to try and dispel somewhat this prescriptive vision of ‘great years’ or even ‘great period’ of music in history. The sanctifying of an imagined past (almost always viewed in comparison to an un-favoured present and negatively projected future) is an overly simplistic and detrimental way of viewing music.

DUST IT OFF: 'PLANXTY' BY PLANXTY (1973)

Ever since writing that Jason Mraz article last week, I have been left with a rather bitter taste in my ears (mixed metaphor enough?). I have found myself wandering aimlessly around the house whistling ‘I’m Yours’ inanely. I need an antidote. I need to write about the most meaningful piece of music I have ever heard. I need to write about Planxty by Planxty.

For those of you taken aback by the slightly baffling phrase ‘Planxty by Planxty’, let me clarify. Planxty is the name of the debut album by 70’s Irish folk band Planxty. For those of you have heard this truly seminal work, gaze into the middle distance for a moment and remember it. For those of you who have a spare few minutes at work you wouldn’t mind killing, allow me to indulge in some personal history. I first heard this album as three fairly important rites of passage for a young man converged at a single junction. Firstly, I had just had my first (and only) real heartbreak. And that is still all I can write about that. Secondly, I had just moved away from home to go to University and thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I had just inherited my dad’s record collection[1]. At the exact moment I heard this album, the first of these three concerns was weighing heavily on my mind, and the second was proving to be quite the disillusion. I had hoped university would be a hot bed of creativity where people would loose themselves in heated discussions over music. In reality, it seemed to be a rather dank place where people tended to loose themselves in a drink addled world of vomit and overdrafts[2].

This situation had left me pondering the ‘big questions’ as it were and it was in this existential quest for meaning that I was looking through my newly acquired record collection. My dad isn’t massively in to music, but had had a penchant for prog. and folk that was seriously beginning to permeate into my own musical palette. I picked out a curious looking record that gave very little of itself away. An almost completely black sleeve. A solitary spotlight barely illuminated four bodies engaged in playing indeterminate instruments. In the top right hand corner reads the word ‘Planxty.’ It was a record that demanded to be picked up and played. I played side one. A crackle. Then in burst ‘Raggle Taggle Gypsy’. It honestly hit me like a burst of lightening. It is an intricate and meticulously crafted song, which tells of a gentrified lady being coerced (with more than a hint of ‘old country’ magic) into leaving her worldly goods to “lie in the wide open fields, in the arms of her raggle, taggle gypsy”. The song is mysterious, dark. Sonically, it paints the picture of a dark, rain and wind swept night. Lyrically, it imbeds the narrative around your psyche with a subtle blend of repetition and intriguing rhythm, rhyme and turn-of-phrase until you could have sworn it had happened to you. You were that gypsy. Or lady. Or jilted lover, depending on which side of the psychological fence you fall. At its climax the song then segues effortlessly into a traditional Irish reel that provides a complete u-turn emotionally, shifting to a major key and lilting melody. While the danger would be that this would sound a bit clunky and break the atmosphere so carefully constructed, it actually serves as a really welcome breather for the listener. It acts as a stopgap for you to digest what you have just heard, cleanse your musical palate before diving into the next song.