Nick Kent's story

My girlfriend called Nick Kent ‘The Giraffe’ because of his height – he always seemed to be standing in front of us at gigs – and due to his strange dancing style. With hands in pockets, he did this quirky bobbing backwards and forwards move, which involved quite a lot of violent action from his upper body, whilst his legs remained motionless.

On reflection, and with the benefit of thirty five years of hindsight, I acknowledge that giraffes may not have pockets, and possibly don’t dance whilst bobbing back and forth, but this was the 1970s and the lifestyles of our giraffe brothers were less well documented.

Nick Kent was a significant figure in music writing in the 70s. Working for the New Musical Express, he paved the way for a new, influential style of composition. Often spending several days, or weeks, with his subject, Kent was less deferential than his predecessors, relying less on journalistic skills, and the use of press releases, and allowing the reader a deeper understanding of what it was really like to be on tour with The Stones or David Bowie. Often his pieces ran to several thousand words, and would be featured over the centre of the paper, accompanied by the striking photography of Pennie Smith.

Sometimes it was difficult to link the Nick Kent producing these essays, with the 6’ 3” stick like figure that roamed London looking to score drugs from whatever source he could find. At the time, in person, he seemed remote, detached and a little ‘holier than thou’; although in a different mental time zone, location and planet.

This is noteworthy in the context the denouement of Nick Kent’s ‘Apathy For The Devil’, his recently published memoir of the 1970s.

I didn’t know Nick well at all. It turns out that nobody did really.

I feel I should place a caveat here and acknowledge that it is dancing across a metaphorical minefield to pick up, or even comment, on another writer’s style. It takes the door of criticism off its hinges and sets one up for a hefty batch of responses that will point out your own scribbling shortcomings, and the potential for egg on face is as great as that when participating in the traditional ‘Throwing Egg At Your Face’ competitions held throughout the land on high holidays.

Yet, and, as they say, however...

‘Apathy For The Devil’ is for 360 of its 371 pages, a distinctly disappointing read. The unusual word ‘zeitgeist’ is used 7 times in those 371 pages (to save mathematicians the trouble, that’s a wince inducing once every 53 pages), which indicates that the book was not written contemporaneously, but drafted in segments, and thus this eye-watering over-indulgence with our zeitgeist friend was forgotten as each new section was added. It is a further clue to the almost certain absence of editing, which for a publisher with the solid reputation of Faber & Faber, is odd.

I note this with something of a heavy and regretful heart, as I don’t remember Nick’s NME prose being as throwaway as this.

Throughout the book, noun modifying adjectives are deployed in lurching train wreck phrases. Lou Reed is the ‘Velvet Underground songsmith’; Nico is described as the ‘German born former chanteuse of the Velvet Underground’ and his hero Bob Dylan, ‘the wiry little troubadour with the sage brush facial hair’.

Verbs are adorned with conjoined twin adverbs; a sound is ‘deeply infectious’; an album is ‘hotly anticipated’.

When seeking to avoid using a noun too often, and like a drowning man reaching for a lifebelt of alternatives, in an ocean of thesauri, Kent grabs the first potential substitute, and gratefully throws it onboard. Thus, England is ‘Limey-land’; Detroit? Yes, the ‘Motor City’; Los Angeles, ‘the City of Angels’.

There is, I suppose, no statutory prison sentence for ending so many sentences with a preposition, but Nick an art form turns it into.

OK, now I hear you yelling, “But what’s actually in this book by the beret wearing, mega-thin beanpole?”

There is a spirited honesty sprinkled like discarded white powder throughout. Nick acknowledges that he threw it all away due to his heroin addiction (there are twenty references to his drug use in the index). He reached that meltdown point of addiction where (literally) nothing else matters. Partner, job, home, self respect – all become secondary, and eventually all leave him adrift, as the pursuit of heroin becomes the only occupation of each day. Perhaps because of this, and his own extremely close encounters with expiration, he writes well on the background to the early deaths of Nick Drake and Ian Curtis.

In amongst some of the sillier name calling and bitterness, there is a very honest appraisal of his decline, and how he threw away so many chances that came his way. He acknowledges, readily, that his writing and commitment drained away, along with his money, belongings, relationships, home, self-esteem, everything.

There are anecdotes and stories of his time hanging out with The Stooges (he still places Iggy Pop way too high in the rock canon of influence), Led Zeppelin and David Bowie.

Kent’s encounters with the rock royalty of the day are nearly all written about in the context of his reliance on class A drugs, and consequently are related as within a haze. For example, Nick takes drugs with Keith Richards, and then writes about it for the NME whilst pursuing more drugs.

There is an overwhelming fog of paranoia about Kent at this time. It is possible he over-rates his standing or importance in this era, as he writes about his life being under threat due to his appearance, or because of words printed in the New Musical Express. Not often have the accused stood in the dock at the Old Bailey charged with murder after reacting to an unfavourable album review.

There is a quirky encounter with Bob Marley (worth bearing in mind the ‘dreadlocked bedecked Rastafarian songster’ was a good foot shorter than Kent) in a toilet at Island Records. Marley had “a cut throat grin on his face”, and is dismissed as an “ambitious little man slouching arrogantly around the planet.”

In 1973, he’s tipped off that the (wait for this) Bee Gees are going to beat him up after an unflattering review, and at a later brief encounter, he troubles himself that a Gibb may turn on him. Unsurprisingly, Robin and his brothers had no such intentions and so Nick claims himself “the victor by default”.

The fogginess that envelopes Kent’s memories place him at the forefront of the birth of punk. Whilst undoubtedly ‘around’ at the time that Malcolm McLaren, Bernard Rhodes and the Sex Pistols stumbled onto their winning format, I don’t recall Nick being quite the influential figure he considers himself to have been.

However, it was at this stage that he met Chrissie Hynde, and herein lies the biggest clue to Nick’s troubles.

There is a surprising twist at the end of ‘Apathy For The Devil’. Having scrambled our way through the misty memories of scoring drugs and overinflated dreams of influence, we find eleven pages of ‘aftermath’.

These eleven pages place everything written before in their context.

Nick has a spiritual encounter, he finds a partner who rescues him (and due to her well paid work in television he is able to become a John Lennon style house husband), and most crucially, he makes a sort of peace with Chrissie Hynde.

This latter relationship is the most prominent example of what was almost certainly troubling Nick through all those years. He wasn’t being aloof, remote and detached. He was (perhaps we all are) searching to give and receive love, and he didn’t know how to go about it.

He has a mantra now; “I’ve got a beautiful son. I’ve got a beautiful wife. I’ve got a beautiful life.”

In 2010, Nick Kent is a soldier of love.

Terence Dackombe, June 2010

Gimme, Gimme, Gimme

Band Aid. Yep, that was great. Taking the sting out of the decade of greed and pointing everybody's surplus cash in the direction of famine struck Africa. It seemed like a brave new era for recording artists and we felt we could all change the planet.

What we missed (or ignored) at the time was the law of diminishing returns. Inspired by this rush of altruism, anyone with access to a cheap Les Paul copy set about 'making the world a better place'. Nice of them, but ...

Voices That Care

Quite apart from the terrible, terrible title, this song was on dubious territory as its intention was to boost the morale of U.S. troops in Operation Desert Storm.

Of course the Americans are far less cynical about this sort of thing and Steven Seagal, Celine Dion, Luther Vandross, Gary Busey, Harry Hamlin (who?), Kenny G, Don King (!), Fred Savage, Magic Johnson, Chevy Chase, Mike Tyson (!!) and Jean-Claude Van Damme all sang along with gusto.

Strong stomach required.

The Gift of Christmas

In 1995 Esther Rantzen had a bright idea to raise funds for the (admittedly admirable) Childline. Unfortunately the plan was to assemble the world's worst supergroup. Hence East 17, MN8, Peter Andre, West End, the Flood, Sean Maguire, Ultimate Kaos, The Nightcrawlers, Dannii Minogue, Boyzone and Michelle Gayle all piled into the studio and we volunteered to pay whatever it would take to stop them.

Come Outside

Why on earth does the unwatchable Children In Need bash also feel the need to release records? Okay, I know, it's to raise more money. But is it ever justifiable to inflict this level of misery on the populace?

In 1991, Bruno Brookes teamed up with Liz Kershaw, Samantha Fox and Frank Bruno to cover a record which wasn't at all funny in the first place. If you can't recall it, it's because you had the memory erased in therapy in 1992.

The Stonk

Comic Relief is the least funny programme on TV in any given year. 1991 was no exception as Hale & Pace (RIP) and (God help her) Victoria Wood took a juvenile word and created a record so unfunny, the government had to import emergency supplies of humour from Germany to restore order.

Let's All Chant

Unless you lived in London, Pat Sharp (owner of the world's stupidest hair ever) and Mick Brown may have been strangers to you. They were off of Capital Radio and in 1988 they released this atrocity in aid of Help A London Child. Provincial kids could sod off, obviously.

Love Can Build A Bridge

If memory serves, this was an attempt to do a proper record to promote Comic Relief (still unfunny in 1995). To be honest, they may as well have invited Hale & Pace back as the sight of Cher, Neneh Cherry and Chrissie Hynde crooning in monochrome while Clapton pissed about on his guitar and African children starved was buttock-clenchingly awful. Still is.

The Floral Dance (Jungle Mix)

A word about the 'nation's uncle' Sir Terry W. He has been known to charge the BBC for anchoring Children In Need. Just thought you should know.

Not only that, but in 1995 he saw fit to take that brass band effort, which he is so keen to re-release at any given moment, add a load of electro crap and hope it would sell enough to help all the poorly kiddies. It failed to chart. Nice one, Tel.

Ferry Aid

Not that the intention wasn't good. The appalling 1987 Herald of Free Enterprise disaster scared and shocked all who saw it. It's more that this was the tipping point. The moment when any tragedy would result in a studio full of musicians (and Phil Collins) and yet another record with 'Aid' in its title. The music just got worse, the reaction more laboured and the whole charity record 'movement' more glib and trite with every project.

Spirit Of The Forest

I sometimes think I imagined this one, as no-one else can recall a moment of it. But I didn't. This was the one which brought the whole empathy fest to a screeching halt. The song was simply unlistenable, the cause a bit vague (rainforests in general, I think) and the line up just didn't seem that bothered. Olivia Newton John was involved, as was Debbie Harry. It was strongly rumoured to have sold less than 200 copies and lost money.

You can't make me like these bands

I suspect it isn’t widely known that when you are first invited to become a columnist, you are given a set of rules, by which you are expected to abide at all times.

Apart from the scorchingly obvious (don’t write about the Royal Family and never refer to crackling log fires), it is the edict that at least once each year a column should begin with either “Why, oh why, oh why?” or “Is it just me...?”

The former is most often called into play when the Daily Mail is musing upon some local authority spending five million quid on a swimming pool for the exclusive use of single mothers and asylum seekers. The latter is for someone like me, when about to take a controversial position on a matter of little (actually, huge) importance in the story of rock and/or roll.*

Is it just me, or does everyone have musicians or groups they simply cannot bear? A few simple opening chords and the radio or TV channel is immediately switched. I don’t mean the occasional song, but an artist’s entire canon. Something ‘about them’ that ratchets up the cringe and run factor tenfold. Hitting the shuffle button with the lusty clout of the powerhouse sinews of Pansy Potter, The Strongman’s Daughter.

Let’s start without too much controversy.

Queen, and Genesis

The BoRhap hitmakers are unlistenable and even harder to watch. Brian May’s screechy guitar that his dad made out of firewood or something. Every song, the same ooh—ooh—ee—oohee guitar sound, played with the air of a man expecting reverence. The grumpiness, clogs, and the hair we can forgive, but not that pomposity of purpose; the unspoken anticipation that we should be grateful.

Freddie. Bless him. I can neither suffer nor tolerate the vocal style. I avoid the videos and ‘in concerts’. It was the preening; the bloody stupid microphone stand; that squirming “Eh-oh” call and respond thing. The certainty he shared with his bubble-haired colleague that lines like ‘Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see’ represented a higher art form. The deluded belief they were opening Pandora’s Box and we were the open-mouthed naifs, snatching at these golden rays of august wisdom. It’s probable that Clive Anderson and Richard Hammond like listening to Queen in their Cotswold weekend getaways.

Genesis share the same irksome notion that we are down here and they are up there. Nursery lyrics dressed up in a burqa of pomposity and a veneer of philosophy. Like they know something and we don’t.

The misery factor is enhanced by the demeanour of Mike ‘Morose’ Rutherford, a man with the air of one constantly being on standby to attend a funeral. I typed ‘Tony Banks Genesis’ into Google Images, and was amazed to find at least a few photos where he is very nearly smiling. In Genesis World, this is the equivalent of delirium.Those who have met Phil Collins refer to a decent bloke, articulate and funny. However... put him in the company of his Genesis band mates and he too seems to find that huge black cloud hovering malevolently over his head.

Bring these three less than cheery fellows together, add in some over-long keyboard solos and incomprehensible lyrics and I’m a-running for those metaphorical hills (the Metaphorical Hills run parallel to the Chilterns).

Nobody of sound mind could disagree with the above, but I fear I am wearing hobnail boots and jumping up, and indeed down, on thin ice when I mention the final member of the unbearable triumvirate.

The Rolling Stones

It’s not Keef, nor Bill, Charlie, Brian, Woody. It’s Sir Mick. It’s that soul squelching ‘chicken with severe stomach cramps’ walk/dance. The punching the air in front of him thing. The pouting and the flicking back of the hair. The inappropriate vests.

Those lyrics! “Under my thumb, The squirmin’ dog who’s just had her day” and he’s not writing about his Labrador.

“I bet your mama was a tent show queen, And all her boyfriends were sweet sixteen.”

Why, oh why oh why (I worked it in!) does he appear to view women as squirming dogs or of easy virtue? All of that, and then, the voice. The cockernee Norleans blues. The Dartford Delta. Like a man permanently trapped between Kent and Memphis, Mick Jagger sings these odd and perhaps unwelcome lyrics in the style of a man entering the World Bellowing Championships.

Consequently, I have never owned a Stones record, my CD collection is a Stones free zone and my iTunes playlists are no-Stones territory.

Now, I realise that none of these extremely successful musicians is likely to weep into their pillows following the news of my lack of enthusiasm. It’s one of the great delights of the human condition that we all have our individual voices, and it could be that some poor and uninformed folk don’t share my fond regard for the works of Todd Rundgren, Laura Nyro, and Paul McCartney. Almost impossible to imagine, of course; unless such naysayers were incarcerated at the mercy of Her Majesty, and only due for release after extensive rehabilitation.

Tell me if you disagree, by all means, but you won’t catch me listening to The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (“Rael likes a good time, I like a good rhyme”), Killer Queen (“Met a man from China, Went down to Asia Minor”) or Honky Tonk Women (“I met a gin soaked, bar-room queen in Memphis, She tried to take me upstairs for a ride.” <- Mick! Again with the odd view of womankind!).

Is it just me...?

Terence Dackombe, July 2010

Lennon Naked - the bare facts

Someone at BBC Drama has had a lightbulb moment. 'Pop stars ...', he or she has noted, '... often have complicated relationships with their Dads. We could make some films out of that'. And so, a fortnight ago, we were treated to an exploration of Boy George's paternal frictions. This week it was the turn of John Winston Lennon.

'Lennon Naked' struck immediately as the superior effort. From the opening, the attention to detail and authentic 60s feel were convincing enough to draw us into the period (not least of all because everyone smoked cigarettes at a rate a Player's beagle would struggle to match). That said, Vicarage researchers are still working hard to establish whether 'shagging' was a term widely used in 60s Britain and the script could certainly have done with a final tightening before shooting began. 'So, John. What's next for the Fab Four' from Freddie was beyond clunky.

But of course our eyes weren't really on the vintage microphones and motor cars, they were on erstwhile Dr. Who, Christopher Ecclestone as the former Beatle. And here was the first difficulty.

Ecclestone wasn't so much playing Lennon as channelling him. He'd clearly done his homework by watching hours of footage to capture every inflection, idiosyncrasy and tick. The instantly familiar scouse drawl never wavered for a second and the laconic mannerisms were in place in every scene. So much so, in fact, that the whole performance began to overwhelm the work. It was more like a very clever turn than a characterisation. He was almost too Lennony.

This is a harsh criticism because in less skilled hands, the part could have been rendered toe-curlingly awful and it was far from that. But we hadn't settled down to watch a masterful impression and the piece promised much more too.

Indeed, it was intended to be an examination of John's relationship with his parents and the ways in which it shaped his life and actions. Now, to almost anyone with a passing interest in popular culture, this is an endlessly fascinating subject. As a genuine icon of the last century, who spent his career inventing and building some of the most memorable popular music we'll ever know, Lennon's motivations and inspirations fill many volumes. Clearly, an hour of TV isn't long enough to delve into these areas. Therefore it was vital not to squander a single insight or opportunity to shine a light on the lesser known John. A shame, then, that the focus of the drama was the rapid-cut recreation of the most obvious of his life's events. He met Yoko at an art exhibition? You don't say. Epstein had something of a crush on him? Who'd have known.

And so this went on. The plot was less a psychological analysis of a one-off genius and more a 'greatest hits' compilation of Lennon's musical life. Even when utterly superfluous to the story, we had to be exposed to well documented incidents like the trip to see the Maharishi Yogi.

Which is not to say the core conceit was ignored completely. The very best scenes, the most illuminating and telling, showed us John's reunion with his absent father. We had no way of knowing whether these precise conversations or arguments actually took place, but that was the appeal.

We were presented with so many events we know happened - and have seen for ourselves many times - that the speculation was refreshing. But it also indicated how the piece had the balance wrong. It needed to show us the ways in which the history of which we know little, led to the occasions and music of which we know so much. What it gave us were painstaking reconstructions of oft-told stories, lightly sprinkled with new ideas.

So the film did touch on Lennon Snr's failings and the anger and hurt this ignited in his son (and a special mention is deserved by Christopher Fairbank as father Freddie, easily the best performance throughout) - albeit in a far too sketchy and glib way. Inevitably, we also saw a great deal of the mutual admiration club which was the marriage to Yoko. But was I the only viewer wondering why one of John's most profound and affecting relationships was completely written out? That's right, no Macca.

I mentioned this on Twitter and was gently chided for forgetting this was a tale of John Lennon,

but surely any exploration of his psyche is incomplete without a recognition of this most creative

and fractious of partnerships? Yes, Paul was there as a bit player, but anyone unfamiliar with the story (if such a person ever existed), would assume he was simply a sideman in a band

called John Lennon And His Beatles.

'Lennon Naked' isn't bad but it is flawed, probably because it isn't nearly brave enough. The scene where Lennon plays his father the tape of him primal screaming ' ... daddy don't go!' hinted at different drama, maybe a two hander, maybe totally imagined, where John's bitterness and fury do battle with his Dad's indifference and idleness.

Whether this would have attracted the necessary funding and exposure on the BBC, I couldn't say. But it would have given us the chance to properly ponder the emotions, longings and cruelties that took John Winston Lennon from his Aunt Mimi's Liverpool house to the pavement outside a Manhattan apartment building. Something nobody has yet managed to achieve, this film included.

Magnus Shaw, June 2010

Bad ideas for bands

1. '... have a DJ on stage with us?'

Because DJs belong in what used to be called discotheques. If you're Public Enemy there isn't a problem, but if you're a white guitar act your wheels of steel operator is going to give you a deeply unattactive whiff of desperation. Yes, Texas we mean you.

Also see: Linkin Park

2. '... get Lee Perry to produce the album?'

Because there is an arm long list of bands who put their new tunes in the hands of the legend of dub and are still in therapy. Iconic and cool he may be, but remember he set light to his own studio. On purpose.

Also see: Phil Spector (probably not available anyway)

3. '... do an acoustic tour of small venues?'

Two reasons. One: everyone will know your appeal has become so selective you can no longer be sure of selling out arenas. Or clubs. Two: All those effects pedals, mixers, pre-amps and reverb are there to disguise your mediocre musicianship which will stand out like a rotting boil once you get the folk guitars on and sit on stools.

Also see: Going busking. Only worked for The Clash.

4. ' ... do a movie soundtrack?'

Because, and please pay close attention here, THE MOVIE WILL BE RUBBISH. What's more, they'll only use a third of your song over the closing credits and you'll look like you sold out just to be part of 'Big Momma's House 4'. Think U2 and 'Batman Forever'.

Also see: Actually appearing in a movie. As above but worse.

5. '... have a guest star on the single?'

Because 'a guest star' means only one thing: Elton. Sure he's famous, sure he wrote 'Rocket Man' but he guested on a Blue single, for crying out loud. You'll just feel used and dirty.

Also see: Guesting on Elton's dreadful tripe.

6. '.... do an instrumental album?'

Are you stark staring mad? The only reason you sold a single copy of your last effort was because some young men would like to be your singer and some young women would like to, well, 'go out' with your singer. You may as well put out an album of your kettle boiling.

Also see: Acapella versions of your hits.

8. ' ... write a rock opera?'

Hur. Hur, Hur. Hur, Hur, Hur. Yes, I see 'Tommy', 'Quadrophenia', very good. But bear in mind Mr. Townsend also wrote 'Psychoderelict' and he's quite good at it. You'll end up with something that makes Jeff Wayne's 'Spartacus' sound like ... er ... Jeff Wayne's 'War of the Worlds'. and everyone will laugh at you. A lot.

Also see: Writing a real opera. (Yes, we're looking at you Mr. Waters).

9. ' ... do a streaming web gig?'

Your last tour sold like chocolate radiators, so do you really imagine your hi-tech event of events is going to attract more than four die-hard fans and a myopic bloke who thinks he's watching Dutch porn? What's more, the whole thing will look like shapeshifting aliens dancing in a hail storm and sound worse than that. One word 'buffering'.

Also see: Launching an online game featuring

the band.

10. '... do a side project?'

Oh yes. Because they're always wildly successful. Let's examine the evidence: Arcadia, The Power Station, Revenge, the second Electronic album, The New Barbarians, The Glove. Although you might get lucky and produce something as good as The Creatures. Or The Cross.

Also see: Solo albums from all band members released at the same time.

11. '... manage ourselves?'

Because almost everything in the crazy, crazy world of popular music is unpredictable, with the exception of this one fact: if you manage yourself you will be bankrupt and playing wedding receptions before you can order the water cooler and leather-look briefcase. You may just have time to tell the press how free you feel, how you're big enough to make your own decisions and how it's going to take you where you always wanted to be. And you might be right - as long as you always wanted to be the act no-one recognises on TOTP2.

Also see: Starting your own label (Maverick? Rolling Stones Records?).

12. '... release a Greatest Hits and split up?'

You might just have something there. Good thinking.

Also see: Not releasing a Greatest Hits. But still spltting up.

Magnus Shaw, 2010

The Syco election

As media, especially television, has dispersed into fragments, giving a thousand choices, we may crave, with the nostalgia of the recently bereaved, those occasional get-togethers where we would congregate around the kitchen table and muse about last night’s news bulletin, or the guests on Michael Parkinson’s chat show.

Welcome to the X Factor election. To a world where party election broadcasts have lost all relevance (do you know anyone who watched even one?); where the big staged interviews with Robin Day, Alastair Burnett, or even Paxman, are relics.

Now, we are treated to the verdict of leading judge Simon Cowell, as, thanks to The Sun, he is given space to air his expert views on the final three contenders.

Political decision making, at its raw core – the scratch of an ‘X’ on a ballot paper – has been swept along on the tide of the ‘Quiet Social Revolution’ (QSR), and as a nation, we have changed forever.

In our QSR, the global digital universe finds an unspoken plurality and thumbs the remote to select Cowell’s or Lloyd-Webber’s latest starlet, or, as we have just discovered in the last few weeks, the new government of the United Kingdom. It’s the water cooler moment.

But the QSR has meant that we don’t have to restrict the besprinkling of our thoughts to those around the (now virtual) kitchen table or taking up all the space on the notional sofa.

The water cooler of 2010 is the back channel of Twitter. Swoop on the hashtag and make your comment with a sentence and a half of withering wit, or a succession of OMGs and LOLs, according to taste (or your sharpness of mind and reaction).

Where, once, we would have reacted, shared views, and argued, the next morning, now the news, incident, or ‘TV moment’ feels stale by the following day (this is why daily paper-based versions of news are finished).

We have devoured last night’s prey; let’s move on, for today’s watering hole has some chewy-looking hyenas.

As night turns to day, the world of comment and one-liners has already moved on to the next trending topic in our quiet social revolution.

Just as reality TV characters are only hot as they warm the (very) temporary seat of fleeting recognition (anybody squealing at Lloyd Daniels or Rachel Adedeji today?), the leaders of the three main political parties found they were judged on similar (x) factors. The three televised debates had far more in common with reality TV than Westminster. The debates redefined simplicity for the mass market. ITV’s bizarre but hypnotising digital ‘worm’ (gauging popularity in real time) moved up when one of the blessed trinity spoke, and down again when they stopped talking. Political commitment that wears off before the commercial break.

Politics, and the way we interact with politicians (just as popular music and print media have discovered a little late) has changed forever. The procedures of the last six weeks have nailed down the coffin lid on battle buses, leafleting, party election broadcasts, and impassioned speeches on the hustings, with no prospect of a vampiric emergence from the casket.

From this day onwards, the politician with a winning mentality will need a busy Twitter account, a pretty face and/or a compelling back story of obstacles overcome and demons conquered. He, or she, will probably find it increasingly essential to holiday at Sandy Lane, with Simon Cowell.

Britain’s got talent. Place your ‘X’ with care.

Terence Dackombe May 2010

Cornbury Festival 2010

I'm awake. Mexican food has given me roaring indigestion. There is more moisture in talcum powder than my mouth and it is 4.35am. Oh, and my bladder is as full as David Crosby's waistband and I'm in a tiny tent.

SATURDAY

Joshua Radin - main stage

We have to confess, our music collection isn't exactly bulging with with Mr. Radin's output - but we were more than happy to be impressed. And we were, Joshua is a very good looking young man. His music is less stimulating. By his own description his songs tend to be about friends, girlfriends and travel. Well trodden ground and there was little in the way of new angles here. There was, however, a plethora of therapy pop (a number called 'No Envy, No Fear', for instance) and a beyond glib comment on Hurricane Katrina titled 'It's Going to Be Alright'. Joshua Radin? He's rather like James Taylor for the Twlight generation.

Eyes For Gertrude - Riverside stage

The Riverside stage is the centre of a small folk festival within the main Cornbury bash and despite its modest facilities (we sat on hay bails), the acts were of a satisfying standard. We've selected Eyes For Gertrude for a special mention for a couple of reasons. 1) They seemed to name themselves as they came on stage, which is brave and 2) they did a song about Pat Butcher, which is braver still. Powerful vocals and unusual lyrics, we liked them a great deal. If you happen to catch them, please be advised they may well rename the band at any moment.

http://www.myspace.com/eyesforgertrude

The Independent stall - main arena

No sign of a Weekend Guardian on site, so we plumped for a copy of the Indie with 60p off. The paper had hit on the splendid marketing ploy of putting out branded deck chairs on which to place one's bum while reading. Unfortunately, as we bowled up, they put them all away. This says something important about the ailing title.

Stax featuring Kiki Dee - second stage

A band performing old soul covers is never going to change the world. But this huge outfit were more than proficient and certainly lifted their whole show above any lame 'tribute' accusations. Particularly when they brought on the veteran Kiki Dee, who normally performs acoustic sets these days but sounded in tremendous voice with a full horn section and three backing vocalists. She gave us 'Just Another Day' and 'I Got The Music' before helping out Stax with a genuinely uplifting 'Proud Mary'. Perfect lunchtime material - not too innovative, but very cheery and not too taxing.

Buddy Guy - main stage

Who doesn't love an old bluesman? They always deliver on the brief. Smashing hat, wrapround shades, throaty delivery

And Buddy Guy ticks all these important boxes. But to stereotype him is to underestimate his power. At 74, here is a performer whose gift has not only failed to desert him but appears to be in full bloom. Over 60 minutes, Buddy tore the roof off the mainstage with a stream of earthy blues and a barrage of quite breath-taking guitar breaks. Between songs his banter was as witty and charming as it was wise and fruity. A master of his art with enough verve to deliver searing shows when he's 104, an elder statesman playing like a youthful rogue, it's not hard to see why Buddy Guy is Clapton's idol.

Candi Staton - second stage

We were a bit nervous waiting for Candi Staton. After Buddy Guy, we were concerned karma may seek balance and roll out an artiste past her prime and phoning in some old hits for posterity. Nope. She was splendid - and so were her band. We have no way of knowing whether they were recruited by Candi herself, but she got the top team. Two co-vocalists up front (one crazy dread, one 'star in her own right' soul girl), snappy horns, tight drummer and, get this, Mick Talbot on keys. As well as the expected 'You Got The Love' (now boosted by Florence) and 'Young Hearts Run Free', Ms. Staton treated us to 'Stand By Your Man' - a feminist anthem by her account - and lots of advice on affairs of the heart. A cracking set from a genuine star with deserved longevity and a superb young band.

Noisettes - main stage

Rapidly becoming one of the bands of the moment, The Noisettes can certainly claim a big sound. 'Go Baby Go' propelled itself across the site like a bottle of wee at other less refined festivals. If it's possible, the band fill the long vacant punk/pop/soul niche - not always successfully, it has to be said. They are definitely better when cooking up great commercial bouncers like 'Never Forget You' than when serving up sound experiments, but the Cornbury masses liked them well enough. The Observer has called them the best live act in the UK. They're not, but they're having a damn good time trying.

Squeeze - main stage

When you're Glen Tilbrook and Chris Difford, it must be hard not to be complacent. A portfolio of songs rightly compared with Lennon and McCartney and lyrics as dear to a certain generation as Morcambe and Wise sketches - how do you raise your game when performing? Well, with a little difficulty. To be fair, the band seemed to have technical issues through the first two numbers and by the time they got to 'Hourglass' they were hitting their stride. Song choice was an issue though - and a couple of album tracks and the sleepy 'When The Hangover Strikes' made for a saggy middle section. When you only have an hour, much as you don't fancy it, a greatest hits set is really what's called for. That said, the closing 20 minutes were sublime: 'Tempted', 'Annie Get Your Gun', 'Goodbye Girl' and 'Pulling Mussels From A Shell' were fine enough to send a collective shiver of joy through the crowd and we can't have been the only ones to make a note to see the full Squeeze set soon. Who knows? Chris Difford may even smile.

It's raining. Not on the festival, where it's lovely, but on me in my tent. The condensation from the breath of two sleeping people has caused fat droplets to form on the ceiling and, reaching a certain weight, fall on my slumbering face.

SUNDAY

The Blockheads - main stage

Sunday lunchtime and there's a big hole in the arena. It's the shape of Ian Dury and it's right up there on stage. We're delighted the Blockheads are still working together and on the Cornbury bill, but it's so hard to overcome their late leader's absence and we feel a bit awkward. Dury's place is often taken by Phill Jupitus, but today it's one Derek The Draw and he's simply giving us a rather unconvincing impersonation. No matter. We're concentrating on the sinewy, gurning and impeccable work of Norman Watt Roy on the bass. Through 'Reasons To Be Cheerful', 'What A Waste' and 'Clever Trevor' he works like a trooper, his uniquely twisting features unable to hide the glee he still has for his job. It would be churlish indeed not to share this man's skillful enthusiasm, so we jig and shout along and leave feeling just swell.

Fisherman's Friends - second stage

To be honest, the Vicar's photographer had to drag this writer to watch these guys. I'm slightly dubious about the whole populist folk thing sweeping the nation and I'm expecting something very serious and 'olde worldly'. Instead, I find a line of splendid fellows with voices as rich as sauce and songs which make me feel I must have been a 19th century trawler skipper at some point. And they're led by a shaven headed, handle-bar whiskered cove so witty, chaming, wry and warm he should genuinely have his own primetime TV show. We thought about eating, but couldn't possibly leave until the final note of the final shanty rang out across the sun bathed site. Even if you have no time for acapella seamen's songs hundreds of years old, you really should take time to enjoy these old boys, because you'll love them.

Reef - main stage

Reef? They're not still together are they? Well, it seems they weren't for a while, but now they are again. And sometimes there is room in one's life for a muscular, well-drilled, long haired rock band. Reef are that band. Note perfect, tight as two coats of paint and making a big old noise, there's very little of which to be critical - but not much to genuinely like either. There seems to be a hardcore Reef following (and a good few of them down the front) and they must be delighted the group are working again. However, we really aren't sure what Reef are for.

The Feeling - main stage

When The Feeling released their debut '12 Stops And Home', I was somewhat sneery. Indie pop by sharp, skinny young men? Tsk, who needs it? Then I caught their set in this very field three years ago and all was revealed. Live, The Feeling have everything in place. They spent their formative years as a show band at ski resorts and you can tell. For this band, the show is everything. They cast aside obscure album tracks in favour of 'guilty pleasure' covers - 'Video Killed The Radio Star' and 'Take On Me'. It's cheese, there's no doubt. But well made, well presented and very tasty cheese is there to be enjoyed - and we did. What's more, just as I was thinking this lot may well be the latter day Squeeze, they played their ace and brought Glen Tilbrook on for a run through 'Up The Junction' which managed to exceed Squeeze's own version from Saturday. At a festival, making best use of the available time is everything and somehow, The Feeling managed to make 60 minutes feel like their full set. I'm still not sure I'll be playing that album on a daily basis, but I'd go to see this band any time you like.

Jackson Browne - main stage

Certain members of rock aristocracy, while hugely succesful and influential, aren't really household names. Jackson Browne may well be the king of this tribe. From the instant he arrived it was clear we were in the presence of a seasoned performer. He has that laid-back delivery and twinkly confidence that says 'I'm the professional here, nothing I don't know about gigging'. And that's fair enough. A career that's almost four decades old and a face that has forgotten to age, are more than sufficient to earn my respect for an artist's quality.

Nevertheless, this is not necessarily enough to make you the perfect closing act of a two day festival. In fact, it may be the reason they shouldn't stick you on last, because this level of proficiency isn't particularly rousing. Okay, there is an argument that a crowd should be lowered gently down on a cushion of polished West Coast folk rock, but it's not a logic I subscribe to. So we both agreed, if Jackson had swapped places with The Feeling, Cornbury would have had a cracking finale. Though I suspect Jackson's management would have disagreed.

I'm sitting outside a boutique bar and hotel in the Oxfordshire countryside about twenty miles from the Cornbury site. In front of me is a large, frothy coffee which I have not been forced to prepare on a Calor gas stove. Ahead of me waits a deep and bubbly bath and a soft, soft bed. Above that bed there will be a ceiling made from solid materials and in the next room, a lavatory with a proper seat.

Until next summer.

What are words worth?

If we take a few first tentative steps into the whirling, fast moving stream of music of the last hundred years, perhaps the first rock of certainty that we tread upon, is that music, and especially lyrics, mirror the pace of life, even define, the era in which they are created. The extremes take us from Ivor Novello’s word-heavy paean, in 1915, “Although your heart is breaking, make it sing this cheery song” to those left behind to stir the coals and keep the home fires burning – to Lady Gaga’s texted in, contemporary, lyrics “Eh, eh, Oh yeah, All I can say is eh”

By the time the Second World War arrived at Britain’s doorstep, and Adolf was anticipating a holiday home in Weston-Super-Mare, Noel Coward (in 1943 for heaven’s sake!) couldn’t take this whole ghastly war business seriously, and penned the hugely popular, (so naturally banned by the BBC) “Don’t Let’s Be Beastly To The Germans.”

Containing as it does, at least a dozen quote-worthy lines, and a similar number of delicious wordplays, pride of place must go to the juiciest couplet:

“Though they gave us science, culture, art, and music, to excess. / They also gave us two world wars and Dr. Rudolph Hess.”

The most fascinating insights into lyric writing, and with a direct and honest sense of personal review, can be found in Ira Gershwin’s wonderful autobiography/lyric writer’s guide, from the 1950s, "Lyrics On Several Occasions".

As a contrast between the Novello and Coward examples, the Gershwins wrote much of their work during the relative peace between the two wars, and Ira confirms what we can see and hear - that he loved to play with words. He turned phrases and sentences around, broke any ‘rule’ of grammar that stood in his way, juggled with the placement of words, until they fitted his game plan. Every last drop of inspiration was used to ensure the timbre and rhythm of the lyric remained true, throughout a song.

One of the very finest examples is the aching pain of a lost love in “Someone To Watch Over Me.”

Here, Ira Gershwin is happy to throw in an unnecessary indefinite article, simply to maintain the rhythm of the line. Without it, the line jars. With it, the verse becomes complete.

“There's a somebody, I’m longing to see; I hope that he; Turns out to be; Someone who’ll watch over me”

By the time we reach the 1960s, songwriters, perhaps in a broom cupboard in the Brill Building, or watching the sun go down over Laurel Canyon, blossomed in the spring of changing times, the chimes of freedom, and the reaction against ‘The Man’ and the war in Vietnam.

Hal David (with musical partner Burt Bacharach) had a magical run, right through the 1960s, with lyrics often about the anguish, rather than the joy, of love, yet with a perkiness that reassured us that tomorrow is another day, with the prospect of angels, to come and sprinkle moon dust in your hair of gold.

Elsewhere, Jimmy Webb almost foresaw the Twittering future with his short bursts of emotion strewn lyrics - somehow achieving a lifetime’s longing in a couple of dozen words. In the peerless ‘Wichita Lineman’, Webb gives the listener an insight into the ad-hoc lifestyle of the lineman with such a simple couplet, “I know I need a small vacation” –pause- “but it don’t look like rain.”

Terence Dackombe, 2010

Glastonbury 2010

Glastonbury’s 40th birthday saw a party like no other. As a very special present we were given legendary acts like Stevie Wonder and Toots and the Maytals (more of which later), with grime, house, rock and dub thrown into the mix.

As expected, Glastonbury 2010 did not disappoint. With a line-up to die for and of course all the extra amusements and late night partying, and the unexpected scorching temperatures (the first time there was no rain for 20 years!) made it one to remember.

Musical highlights for me were innumerable and many difficult to recall through the drunken haziness of the weekend! That said, Bonobo (down-tempo electronica ) performed a provoking set on the West Holts stage. With a full live band the songs exploded onto the stage and the fantastically talented Andreya Triana whipped up the crowd with exquisite vocals. Playing the same stage but with an altogether different vibe were Toots and the Maytals. They absolutely stormed it with a massively uplifting early evening set. As the sun set the crowd were gently sweating away, mostly barefoot, to the pure and joyous reggae sounds.

The hugely varied Dance Village hosted a plethora of electronica, grindcore, house and techno: Alex Metric, Aeroplane, Dubfire and Breakage to name but a few. Joy Orbison played a dirty collision of UK future garage and house and Chromeo, arguably the king of 2-Step, played a quirkily enjoyable electrofunk set with their front-man Dave-1 commanding the crowd.

Something to note about Glastonbury is its numerous and varying stages. Cube Henge is a new dance area with glowing cube recreations of the ancient stones; a spooky set up and a perfect background for some very un-prehistoric tunes. The Park stage is also worth mentioning. Designed by Emma Eavis (Michael Eavis’ daughter , soon to take over the Glastonbury family empire) it is a trek to be sure (at least half an hour from the most of the fest) but is worth it. The open air stage was the perfect setting for the phenomenal phenomenon that are The XX. The eery lighting complimented the natural intimacy of the smoky duets. A definite highlight.

For the all-night festival goer the after burner Arcadia stage lights up the sky with acrobats swinging from a flame-emitting platform where DJs such as Kissy Sell Out play to the buzzing crowds. Shangri-La (previously called Trash City) is a dystopian vision inspired by fantasies such as Blade Runner and District 9. It’s a dreamy hedonistic world best seen after dark and is filled with aging hippies and hard-core rinsers. An awe-inspiring experience.

Its ties with its associating charities (Oxfam, Greenpeace and Water Aid) were ever present, with an even bigger focus on keeping the festival as green as possible. The main stage screen played host to several environmental infomercials about taking your tents and rubbish home, whether this was followed or not was hard to tell. Festivals tend to equal a lot of waste, but the mantra Love The Farm, Leave No Trace was certainly drummed into our heads.

Its size (it’s big as the city of Bath) means that seeing (and enjoying) all of the festival would take at least a fortnight. Meaning the best way to enjoy Glastonbury is not to mission it from stage to stage determined to see every act on your check-list, but to wander and get drawn in by the tantalising food stalls, interactive art tents and of course any music that’s drifting your way that seems worth checking out.

Alex Genova, August 2010

Curtain up: what's wrong with London's theatres?

The Comedy Theatre, Panton Street, London, SW1.

1. INT. THEATRE. NIGHT.

La Bête is playing to an appreciative audience. They hear an acrobatic tumbling of words; a series of soliloquies in verse, including twenty minute monologues from the extraordinarily gifted Mark Rylance, who has the enviable talent of making stagecraft appear effortless.

VOICE OVER (V.O.): The writer is going to lurch into a diatribe and tell us just what theproblem is with London theatres. He appreciates that there is a world beyond the capital and will consider that later in the article. He is not reviewing the play, which he enjoyed as much as any theatrical event he has ever witnessed. The following does not reflect at all, any shortcomings on behalf of the staff at the Comedy Theatre, who, upon the writer’s recent visit, proved to be helpful, friendly, and professional. The writer also stresses that he is not ‘picking’ on the Comedy Theatre. Similar issues may be encountered at other London theatres.

2. EXT. A LONDON STREET SCENE. NIGHT.

The Comedy Theatre, a Grade II listed building, is a rather small playhouse with a tiny lobby, thus some sense of organisation is required to ensure that when the 796 members of the audience arrive, each one of them can expect a stress-free and enjoyable visit.

The reality is that the pavements of Panton Street (twenty minutes before ‘overtures and beginners’) contains a turbulent mix of those queuing to buy tickets; passing tourists looking at the billboard and pointing at the pictures of David Hyde Pierce; people perambulating en-route betwixt Piccadilly and Leicester Square; and, helplessly focused on the tiny door openings, those like me who have their tickets in hand, and simply wish to enter, possibly purchase a drink, and locate the seats (£20.00 each, but with an outrageous surcharge of a £3.00 handling fee; which, as I booked online, led to a cheery gentleman in the box office taking less than five seconds to hand them to me, a couple of hours earlier. For £3.00, I expected them to be embossed in the richest gold, but in fact they were plain old card).

Now, I am fully aware that I am a poncey London media type, who is usually either invited, or buys tickets, to sit in the stalls, and I give full disclosure that I am not used to sitting in the balcony area. We booked late, and due to the popularity of La Bête, the balcony was all that remained.

Once we finally managed to ‘excuse me, sorry, excuse me, can I just...’ our way into the lobby, it turned out that as we had tickets for the Balcony (the same rule applies for the Royal Circle), we were re-directed out of the theatre, back on to the pavement, round the corner, then back in through a side door that leads (wait for this) back into that tiny lobby, we left twenty seconds previously. And we weren’t even going to see a play by Kafka.

3. INT. A STAIRWELL. NIGHT.

Next, we were shown to some narrow stairs where a smiling lady sells programmes in the most inappropriate location other than if they had strapped her to the top of Nelson’s Column. This pleasant and calm woman stands on a teeny landing between the Royal Circle and the Balcony. Any patron who purchases a programme causes a staircase tailback, as there is simply no room to pass by in this dolls house environment.

Balcony ticket holders, who, after a climb that would have tested Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing, emerge into a space that closely resembles a vortex, and find to their dismay, that there is nobody there to indicate where they may find their allocated seats. Clearly some people gave up looking, and just sat where they wished, as there was much of the, “Excuse me, but I believe you may be sitting in my seat” business. We located our rather tired looking seats, and looked at each other in a combination of horror and amusement.

The Pixie, who accompanied me, just about reaches five feet & three inches, and would definitely weigh in at the featherweight category if she ever took up boxing as a career (unlikely, I hope). She could barely squeeze into the seat and the legroom in front of it. There was a metal barrier digging into her knee. ‘Luckily’ I had an aisle seat, and spent the entire (one hour and forty five minutes, no interval) time sitting sideways in the seat, with my legs dangling, rather gracefully I thought, out into the aisle. I’m just over five feet, ten inches tall. I believe anyone over six feet would have given up, or been carried out on a stretcher.

The Pixie said the Balcony area was like a scene from Alice In Wonderland. “Like looking down a well, or a tunnel”, she said.

I have never seen such a steep rake in a theatre. It took several minutes before the feeling, of an imminent fall forward, ameliorated. The stage seemed a mile away, and we could see about two thirds of it. When the man in front of me leaned forward, that view of the stage was reduced to about one third.

We were looking down on the actors’ heads. If anyone on stage moved to stage right, they were lost to us all together. Amazingly, the theatre has placed a small mirror opposite the seats, which (theoretically only) reflects the action that is being missed by the quirkiness of the layout. A mediaeval solution, at best.

DISSOLVE TO

4. INT. A BALCONY. NIGHT.

BANG! That’s the sound I will always link to La Bête; nothing to do with the action on stage, which had very little, if any, banging. Each time, someone (always they seemed to be located in the middle of a row) needed to go to the bathroom (why didn’t they ‘go’ before they came out?) the rest of the row had to stand to let them pass in this tiny world of miniature; BANG! Every seat crashed against its back. As people stood up a domino effect of sound was created, BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

You think that’s the end of the assault on our ears? It was only the beginning. How the cast manage to block all this out, I cannot say.

The bathrooms are at the back of the Balcony, along a minute walkway.

CREEEEEAAAAK! The doors opened with a sound that reminded me of when the scary bloke (usually called ‘Igor’ I seem to recall) opened the huge oak door of the castle, in a Vincent Price movie. I believe a tin of that WD40 stuff can be bought for a pound. The Comedy Theatre does not believe that to be a worthy investment.

CREEEEEAAAAK! BANG! That same door slammed shut after the creak with a velocity that would please the grumpiest teenager stomping off to their room.

5. ZOOM IN.

La Bête was wonderful. The cast, and in particular the three leads, were astonishing. Mark Rylance, with all due apologies to Stephen Fry, is the greatest living Englishman, and should be knighted with haste.

The evening will be remembered however by:

BANG! (rpt accordingly) as a dozen seats clatter every five minutes.

CREEEEEAAAAK! BANG! as the bathroom door opens and shuts upon both entry and exit. A hundred+ people in the Balcony all leap at the deafening noise and swivel their heads.

Paying a quid to hire those plastic opera glasses so that we could see a close up of the top of the actors’ heads.

Sitting sideways on the seats to avoid losing circulation to the lower limbs, and feeling an intense sensation of falling.

6. FREEZE FRAME.

So what’s to be done? The Comedy Theatre was built in 1881, and is a listed building. We can’t expect the Ambassador Theatre Group, who owns it, to work miracles. Or can we?

Perhaps ten or so years ago, cinemas had to learn to upgrade their customer facilities, if they were ever going to turn around the dwindling movie going audiences, against the rise of DVDs, the internet, and of course, television.

Cinema groups grasped that they had to provide something unique in terms of product, and add in new degrees of customer service, with improved (beyond recognition) seating, facilities and refreshments.

After some real life horror events, football stadia were also upgraded, and at least some consideration has been given to the customer experience.

Festival organisers in the UK are now faced with such competition amongst themselves, and a demand for customer value, that they have been forced to rethink the whole concept of what is on offer to those who attend, with ever increasing levels of comfort, to the extent that the days of mud-gloopy tent sites and ‘take the money and run’ promoters now seem positively Dickensian.

The answer is, as ever, investment.

But I hear you, despite the banging and the creaking, I hear you. These are budget conscious times; don’t you know there’s a recession on?

Whether the funding comes from the Ambassador Group (who have been buying up theatres, since 1992, like you and I buy coffees, so they must figure the investment is worthwhile), Government grants (yeah right – he waves to Dame Liz Forgan), charitable fundraising, a wealthy sponsor...

To quote a line from an earlier theatrical triumph*, “Something must be done.”

All around me, last Saturday, theatre-goers (many were tourists, judging by the accents) were saying that they would never return. If the Comedy Theatre can survive on such a dangerous tightrope, then good luck to all who sail in her; if they can’t, a very thorough review needs to take place (with urgency) to seek out the most appropriate way to bring comfortable seating, sensible sight lines, and an overall enjoyable experience to those who venture through the teeny doors in Panton Street; one that will match and enhance the effort and skills of the thesps.

Meanwhile, I’m donating a quid for a can of oil to fix that bloody creaking door.

Terence Dackombe, August 2010