By Hans Morgenstern
By Joseph Hess
By Peter Gilstrap
By Julia Burch
By Jeremy Essig
By Nathan Smith
By Julie Seabaugh
By Julie Seabaugh
Annie Zaleski This review is part of a longer Zeitgeist review that was originally published on the RFT's music blog, blogs.riverfronttimes.com/atoz. (Specific URL: blogs.riverfronttimes.com/atoz/2007/06/ smashing_pumpkins_zeitgeist_fi.php.) For more exclusive content such as this, check out the site.
Peel It Up
Were you one of the thousands of hopefuls who submitted your demo tape to BBC Radio 1 DJ John Peel? Perhaps he didn't play it, let alone include it on his annual Festive 50 list. But consider this: Did you describe your music as "jazz"? Boast about your saxophone player? Profess a lifelong admiration for the MC5, the Stooges or the New York Dolls? If so, you doomed yourself to oblivion and didn't even know it: All three of these were on Peel's short list of "things not to write in any press release."
Somehow, this passage sums it all up, both the man and his iconoclastic approach to radio. In Britain, Peel was an institution. From the 1960s until his untimely death in October 2004, he was a constant presence on the BBC, playing the music he loved with a charmingly casual, low-tech approach. (He never overcame his habit of cueing up records at the wrong speed.) He was a hippie in the '60s, hanging out with T. Rex's Marc Bolan and preaching peace and love, but his boundless passion for music made him one of the few Flower Power vets to successfully make the transition into punk. His favorite band was the Fall; his favorite song, the Undertones' "Teenage Kicks."
Peel was more than a DJ; he was a tastemaker extraordinaire. To be asked to record a "Peel Session" in the BBC studios (or at Peel's own home) was an honor on the order of being knighted. Many of these recordings have been released commercially; for some, like the Slits and Scritti Politti, they represent the artists' best studio work. Upon Peel's death, there were radio tributes, magazine articles, memorial Web sites and an outpouring of grief usually reserved for athletes or film stars.
It seemed obvious that Peel had some great stories to tell. Margrave of the Marshes is necessarily incomplete, but it's a captivating read and the closest most of us will ever get to hearing from the man himself. Peel himself wrote the first 165 pages; sadly, he died before getting to write about his first radio job. What he did finish is a rambling, eccentric, often hilarious account of growing up in wartime England, his military service, his first marriage and the culture shock of being a Brit in early-'60s Texas. (People assumed he knew the Beatles; he didn't let on otherwise.) He jumps from subject to subject in a way that suggests that this is, indeed, a first draft, but somehow it works; anyone who's heard Peel's shows is used to jarring transitions and occasional flaws.
It was up to his wife, Sheila Ravenscroft, and children to dig through his diaries and their own memories to tell the rest of the story. Sheila picks up where John leaves off on a visit to a Mexican brothel, where he was apparently just an observer and helps make sense of the messy prose we've just read. She started out as a Peel fan, too; the two met at one of his live appearances, stayed married for 30 years and had four children. She doesn't sugarcoat the man's flaws he could be curmudgeonly and overly sensitive but it's clear that they loved each other and that Peel remained a relatively unassuming, down-to-earth presence in a business all too often ruled by ego.