But, as Paul Barrett and Hilary Hayward's indispensable 1983 biography Shakin' Stevens makes clear, mock Shaky's leftfield credentials at your peril. It is a remarkable book, not least because it seems to adopt the unique premise that Stevens is the most important figure in the history of British music. The authors (Barrett was Stevens' manager before the hits started happening) pour scorn on lesser talents, including the Beatles and Pink Floyd. At one amazing juncture, the oeuvre of Can is compared to that of the Welsh Elvis and judged hopelessly inferior. At another, they seem to suggest that Stevens invented punk rock.
More importantly, however, it lays bare Shaky's remarkable pre-fame history, a startling ferment of revolutionary socialism, grinding penury (at one stage, funds are so short that Stevens and his backing band are forced to transport their equipment between gigs in a wheelbarrow), an attitude to live performance that would give Iggy Pop pause, and some deeply unlikely cameo appearances. Who knew, as they witnessed the top-selling male UK singles artist of the 1980s shaking hands with a man in an enormous snowman outfit in the Merry Christmas Everyone video, that they were watching a man once feted by John Peel, who even attempted to sign him to his Dandelion label? Who knew that the Rolling Stones, perhaps still befuddled by the recent events at Altamont, booked him to play at their 1969 Christmas party? When not singing his heart out for the edification of Keith Richards, the pre-fame Shaky is to be found playing benefit gigs for the Communist party of Great Britain, organised by Barrett, who "was and still is a card-carrying communist", even encouraging Shaky and band to work up a rockabilly version of The Red Flag.
Lesser men might question the wisdom of employing someone dedicated to the overthrow of capitalism to handle your business affairs, but Shaky is of fearless cast, as demonstrated by his auto-destructive stage act - he tears down stage curtains in Cardiff, kicks drinks into punters' laps in Walsall, sets an audience member's hair on fire in London, and, at perhaps his most triumphant moment, climbs on a diner's table during a corporate Christmas party gig, puts his foot in a bowl of salad and shouts, "Scream, damn you! You would scream for Tom Jones, so you can scream for me!" Suddenly, the stuff about him inventing punk seems marginally less insane.
Certainly, Shaky's attitude towards every rock star who isn't Shakin' Stevens is rich with a withering contempt worthy of Johnny Rotten. His live shows begin with a skit mocking the pipsqueak talents of Jimi Hendrix: what price expanding the vocabulary of the rock guitar in a way unseen before or since when compared to a man from Penarth singing Yakety Yak? Barrett joined in on Stevens' behalf too. When John Lennon performed Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On at a 1969 Toronto festival, he penned a sarcastic open letter to the press arguing that "John Lennon had never before expressed a love for this music" - his years spent playing Chuck Berry and Carl Perkins covers in the hopelessly obscure quartet the Beatles having passed Shaky and chums by.
You read the book in slack-jawed disbelief, but it certainly casts his appearance at Glastonbury in an intriguing light. Silence the sniggers. Enough with the ironic "appreciation". No more mockery on the Sun's Bizarre page. Instead, let us hail the real Shaky: Lennon-besting, audience-terrifying hero of British communism; a singer cheered by the Stones and the late John Peel; scientifically proven to be better than Can. Shakin' Stevens: the most radical performer you'll see at this year's Glastonbury.
· You can read Shakin' Stevens by Paul Barrett and Hilary Hayward online at tinyurl.com/4z6vyk
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