Showing posts with label Steve Winwood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steve Winwood. Show all posts

The greatness of Muhammad Ali and the decline of boxing


In his pomp Muhammad Ali was just about the most recognisable man on the planet. Supreme as an athlete, he risked everything that had earned him to stand up for his people and for what he believed to be right.

One reason for his extraordinary fame was that he was a great athlete in a sport that enjoyed a popularity it hard to imagine today.

Heavyweight boxing was the blue riband event. In the years of rationing after the second world war British men like Bruce Woodcock, who were really no more than middleweights, had to take on American heavyweights so we had someone to compete in it.

When I was a small boy the great heavyweight bouts were global events of extraordinary significance. I have a clear memory of listening to them on the radio late in the evening.

So much so, that when I was in New York I went to look round the foyer of Madison Square Garden, where so many of those great fights were held, just so I could say I had been there. (Admittedly, the recent Clapton and Winwood concert there may have had something to do with it too.)

Time moves on and sports lose popularity. In the first year of this blog's life I wrote:
Thirty years ago the British heavyweight boxing champion was just about the biggest name in sport - think of Henry Cooper. Can you name the current holder of the title without using Google? I can't.
That would have to read 42 years ago today. There are several credible British heavyweights around today, but I have not idea if any of them is British champion.

I fell out of love with boxing when Michael Watson suffered brain damage in a bout with Chris Eubank. That had been an era when there were great British middleweights - Watson, Eubank, Nigel Benn - and their clashes made for wonderful fights.

It was magnificent when Eubank got off the canvass and from God knows where found a punch to knock Watson out and win the fight. But the damage it caused convinced me that professional boxing was insupportable.

I did watch Eubank's son Chris Eubank Jr fight Nigel Blackwell. The younger Eubank is clearly a very talented fighter, but I found the proceedings sickening.

Not just because Blackwell ended up in a coma and almost died, but also because of the dishonesty of the commentators.

It was clear almost at once that Eubank could unload combinations on Blackwell's head at will and that Blackwell lacked the weapons to stop him. Yet the commentators talked up the idea of Blackwell fighting back right up until the point that the fight was stopped.

The nearest equivalent to Muhammad Ali today in talent and personality is Usain Bolt. It is hard to see how a boxer could ever achieve that sort of fame again.

Until things change (and they will), you have to put your money on the next sporting figure to matter beyond sport in the way Ali did being a footballer.
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Happy St Pancras Day to all our readers


As May 12 is both the feast day of St Pancras and Steve Winwood's birthday, it is a big deal here on Liberal England.
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Spencer Davis Group: Let Me Down Easy



It was my birthday on Friday, so I am allowed to choose a Spencer Davis Group track as my Sunday video. (I don't make the rules.)

Let Me Down Easy appeared on the Spencer Davis Group's Second Album in 1966. It had been a hit in the US the previous year for Bettye LaVette.
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Tragic Magic: The Life of Traffic's Chris Wood

Way back in 2008 I blogged saying that Dan Ropek was writing a biography of Chris Wood from Traffic.

Thanks to someone who has found that old post and left a couple of comments, I can tell you that Tragic Magic: The Life of Traffic's Chris Wood has now been published.

The book's blurb says:
Traffic was the most enigmatic British band of their day. Formed in early 1967 by Chris Wood, Steve Winwood, Jim Capaldi and Dave Mason, they rejected the bright lights of London in favor of a run-down, supposedly haunted, cottage in the country - a place to live communally and write music. 
With Chris especially intent on channeling the vibes of England's landscape into their sound, days would be spent getting high, exploring, playing and working in varying proportions. Against all odds, this eccentric model paid off - songs such as "Dear Mr. Fantasy" and "John Barleycorn Must Die" would lift Traffic into the upper echelons of the rock world. 
As they brushed shoulders with Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, and the Grateful Dead, and with Dave dropping in and out of the band, Traffic's music evolved from a synthesis of Steve's innate musicality, Jim's atmospheric lyrics and Chris's special brand of congenial mysticism. Record sales boomed and tours carried them back and forth across the Atlantic, everything seemed to be going to plan - a dreamlike fairy tale come true. 
But for Chris, a toll would be exacted. 
Amid the clashing egos, wearing road trips, stressful break ups and a complex personal life, he vacillated precariously between bursts of exquisite creativity and torrents of self-destruction; a paradoxical dance which continued until his death in 1983. For a man who found artistic expression everything, and for whom suffering for it was an expectation, Chris would stare fully into the Medusa's face of the music industry, paying a higher price than perhaps any of his contemporaries. 
Researched and written over a ten-year period, "Tragic Magic" offers the only definitive account of Traffic's story and Chris Wood's quietly extraordinary life.
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Paul Young: Wherever I Lay My Hat (That's My Home)



I love blue-eyed soul, but you have to admit there is something silly about it.

Steve Winwood has said in interviews that when he was making his wonderful covers of Black American records as a teenager with the Spencer Davis Group he did not always understand the words he was singing.

This record from Paul Young, a cover of a Marvin Gaye song, turns the silliness up to 11. Far from being the sort you cannot rely on to be there when you get home, he is such a sweet boy that he will have put the hoover round and have supper in the oven.

I suppose Young is a bit of a guilty pleasure - it was his misfortune to be at his peak in the naff Eighties - but he has a lovely voice.
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