David Hepworth on Nick Drake's talented mum, a smart move for Radio 5, and fishy events 50 years ago
If you listen to only one thing this week, make it Tracey Thorn singing Night Is My Friend on *The Songs Of Molly Drake* (Thursday, 11.30am, R4). Molly was the mother of the late singer-songwriter Nick Drake. When she wrote that song she was the wife of a returned colonial engineer, living in Tanworth-in-Arden, the full-time mother to Gabrielle (who was to be an actor) and Nick (who was to die young and become a legend). Her poetry and songwriting were just a hobby. There was some talk of publishing children's stories but her performances were mainly confined to the children's bath nights. As soon as her son came home in 1970 having made an actual LP, her own efforts became teasing comments in the margins of his, now apparently more serious, works. He wrote one called Poor Boy so she wrote one called Poor Mum. He said her songs were a bit naive because by then, like all 20-year-olds, he was in the fortunate position of knowing everything.
As presenter Pete Paphides observes, we have trained ourselves to believe that middle-class, middle-aged ladies with Brief Encounter vowels cannot possibly have souls or the means to plumb them. But as Joe Boyd, who produced the Drake son, also observes, a great deal of Nick's musical DNA was, unsurprisingly, owed to his mother. A career in "the music business" was never an option for her. In Mrs Drake's era, unlike her son's, melancholy wasn't a marketable commodity. She just poured her feelings into a song and then, presumably pulling herself together, went and made the genius's tea.
Eyes are rolled throughout the independent radio production fraternity every time the BBC announces it has filled another presentation vacancy with someone quite well known off the telly. During half-term week, so much of the Radio 2 schedule was given over to minor TV personalities (and generally those who, in radio terms, couldn't find their fundament with a flashlight) that it was like some grotesque charity stunt. However, I'm happy to report that the move of Dan Walker – one of those unfeasibly tall TV sports presenters whose name you can never quite remember – to Colin Murray's old Kicking Off slot in *5 Live Sport* (Friday, 7pm, 5 Live) has been a great success. A few weeks ago he had on Everton manager Roberto Martínez and former Liverpool player Danny Murphy, and it was such an education to hear the station doing something it should do more often, which is to hang the schedule and just allow it to roll.
*Air Force One* (Saturday, 2.30pm, R4) is a Christopher Lee play, directed by Martin Jarvis and starring Stacy Keach as Lyndon Baines Johnson, which appears 50 years after the events it depicts. There's a legendary picture of the vice president being made POTUS in the cramped cabin of the presidential jet on the tarmac at Love Field. He looms over everyone, not least the dazed widow who is still wearing clothes covered with her late husband's blood. There is no single incident that took place that day in Dallas that doesn't seem either fated or fishy when you look it over, and Johnson's organisation of that famous photocall is queerer than most. Why was it so important it was done there and then? Why did it matter which hospital performed the autopsy? Why did he go to Dallas in the first place? Why did Jackie have to be next to him? With programmes like this I suspect the speculation will be passed on to another generation. Reported by guardian.co.uk 3 days ago.
If you listen to only one thing this week, make it Tracey Thorn singing Night Is My Friend on *The Songs Of Molly Drake* (Thursday, 11.30am, R4). Molly was the mother of the late singer-songwriter Nick Drake. When she wrote that song she was the wife of a returned colonial engineer, living in Tanworth-in-Arden, the full-time mother to Gabrielle (who was to be an actor) and Nick (who was to die young and become a legend). Her poetry and songwriting were just a hobby. There was some talk of publishing children's stories but her performances were mainly confined to the children's bath nights. As soon as her son came home in 1970 having made an actual LP, her own efforts became teasing comments in the margins of his, now apparently more serious, works. He wrote one called Poor Boy so she wrote one called Poor Mum. He said her songs were a bit naive because by then, like all 20-year-olds, he was in the fortunate position of knowing everything.
As presenter Pete Paphides observes, we have trained ourselves to believe that middle-class, middle-aged ladies with Brief Encounter vowels cannot possibly have souls or the means to plumb them. But as Joe Boyd, who produced the Drake son, also observes, a great deal of Nick's musical DNA was, unsurprisingly, owed to his mother. A career in "the music business" was never an option for her. In Mrs Drake's era, unlike her son's, melancholy wasn't a marketable commodity. She just poured her feelings into a song and then, presumably pulling herself together, went and made the genius's tea.
Eyes are rolled throughout the independent radio production fraternity every time the BBC announces it has filled another presentation vacancy with someone quite well known off the telly. During half-term week, so much of the Radio 2 schedule was given over to minor TV personalities (and generally those who, in radio terms, couldn't find their fundament with a flashlight) that it was like some grotesque charity stunt. However, I'm happy to report that the move of Dan Walker – one of those unfeasibly tall TV sports presenters whose name you can never quite remember – to Colin Murray's old Kicking Off slot in *5 Live Sport* (Friday, 7pm, 5 Live) has been a great success. A few weeks ago he had on Everton manager Roberto Martínez and former Liverpool player Danny Murphy, and it was such an education to hear the station doing something it should do more often, which is to hang the schedule and just allow it to roll.
*Air Force One* (Saturday, 2.30pm, R4) is a Christopher Lee play, directed by Martin Jarvis and starring Stacy Keach as Lyndon Baines Johnson, which appears 50 years after the events it depicts. There's a legendary picture of the vice president being made POTUS in the cramped cabin of the presidential jet on the tarmac at Love Field. He looms over everyone, not least the dazed widow who is still wearing clothes covered with her late husband's blood. There is no single incident that took place that day in Dallas that doesn't seem either fated or fishy when you look it over, and Johnson's organisation of that famous photocall is queerer than most. Why was it so important it was done there and then? Why did it matter which hospital performed the autopsy? Why did he go to Dallas in the first place? Why did Jackie have to be next to him? With programmes like this I suspect the speculation will be passed on to another generation. Reported by guardian.co.uk 3 days ago.