Trick or treat

Spirits and saints. Ghosts, go-betweens and ghouls. Psychics and those in need of psychiatric treatment. Here we are at their annual festival of absurdity.

Efforts to contact the rock and roll dead range from the cheap and cheerful – the Twenty Four Hour Church of Elvis, in Portland, where for 25 cents rolled into a slot machine, the spirit of Elvis will tell your fortune – to the customised tour of Graceland where you can hold hands with your fellow dreamers and attempt a psychic Q/A with the King.

Some websites will also guide you to Oregon if you want to find Jim Morrison living happily as a cowboy, and (admittedly this does stretch the imagination) as a cheerful participant on the rodeo circuit in the Pacific North West.

There’s a blog dedicated to insisting that Kurt Cobain is still with us and living in Cork, Ireland. He was significant by his absence when I flew into Cork Airport last month, but to be fair, it hadn’t entered my mind to scan the car hire office for former members of Nirvana.

This whole business about contacting the dead, whether spirits of rock and roll, or ordinary Joes like you and me – after thousands of years, and thousands of ‘mediums’ making a living out of their self promoted ability to contact those who have died – nobody, ever, in all that time, has ever produced one shred of a sliver of evidence that such contact can actually be made and verified.

It is most convenient for the ‘psychics’ and equally inconvenient for the bereaved or curious that the contact with the deceased always seems to be vague, and their messages so inconsequential. The messages from the dead never warn us not to go on that holiday to Miami in 2016 because we are going to get mugged, nor do they advise us to put all our savings on the favourite in the 3:30 at Kempton Park. The mediums report that our loved one told us to look after the cat, and do we remember someone whose first name may begin with ‘B’ or ...was it ‘D’ – or something that sounds a bit like that?

In the UK, one of the most well known of these ‘mediums’ was Doris Stokes, who died in 1987, but oddly, considering her belief in the ability of those who have died to return with messages, she seems to have been unable to make that journey herself.

James Randi, now eighty years old, has spent much of his life debunking the work of psychics. He has written several books (including one dedicated solely to a ‘how he does it’ exposé of Uri Geller) and appears frequently on television where he demonstrates how it is possible to dupe an (perhaps willingly gullible) audience. Here he is in a short clip, explaining how Doris Stokes used cold readings to steer her ‘victims’.

Since 1968, Randi has offered a cash prize (now standing at a million dollars) to anyone who could actually provide positive proof of the paranormal.

One astrologer was so certain of his powers that he appeared on “Exploring Psychic Powers Live!” on American television in an attempt to win the million dollars. He said that after talking to people for a few minutes, he could ascertain their astrological sign. In the test, it was agreed that the astrologer needed to get ten out of twelve correct to win. In fact, he got none correct. The million pounds is still available through Randi’s Educational Foundation.

So, Happy Halloween and all that. Keep the curtains closed and lock away the broomsticks. There’s a guy works down the chips shop swears he’s Elvis. There’s also a photo doing the rounds on the internet purportedly showing Elvis appearing amongst the plants overhanging a balcony in New Orleans (left).

If you want to win James Randi’s million bucks – now’s your chance!

Terence Dackombe, October 2010

No fear!

We're easily scared. From tom cats screaming in the night, to a bath robe hanging at a funny angle, it doesn't take much to get us diving for the duvet. But it does take more than this lot ...

10. The Creature from the Black Lagoon

To be fair, the movie is an enjoyable 50s horror romp in monochrome - they even had a stab at a 3D edition. But the creature (read: Olympic swimmer in rubber goldfish outfit) causes less terror than Pingu.

9. Godzilla

Take your pick. You can go for the innocently charming, bloke in a rubber newt suit, Japanese original. Or you can have the terribly boring CGI Hollywood version with Matthew Broderick and a hopeless script. You'll sleep well either way.

8. Leprechaun

You see, the clue's in the name. Monsters are supposed to be huge, slathering beasties ripping up the landscape and munching villagers. Not little Irish fellows who might be overcome simply by erecting a waist high fence. They made six movies out of this nonsense.

7. Klingons

Do this: interlace your fingers and cup your hands. Place your palms on your forehead. Look in the mirror and make a miserable face. Scared? Thought not.

6. The Blob

Inevitably, this chap sprang from a crashed meteor in the desert near a small American town. Surprisingly, when it entered the local high street it had teenagers running for their lives, despite looking like a strawberry and wheatgrass smoothie. Even Steve McQueen was fooled.

7. The Signs Aliens

If you have seen M. Night Shyamalan's 'Signs' you may recall being utterly confused by the very muddled plot and Mel Gibson playing the priest he always wanted to be. But you'll probably struggle to recall the aliens. That's because they were not scary and so rubbish they can't get through a wooden door.

6. Vampire Weekend

Toothsome bloodsuckers come in many shapes and forms, from the bald ghoul of 'Nosferatu' to the angst ridden teens of 'Twilight'. Buttoned down preppy guys playing music that's a bit like the Bhundu Boys is a new one. Not even remotely frightening.

5. The shark in Jaws

First things first. The shark isn't and never has been called 'Jaws'. That's the name of the movie. And a very fine and genuinely frightening film it is too. Until ... you see the flipping fish. Budgets and primitive technologies ensure the thrill factor drops rapidly as soon as the rubbery creature rears its silly head. By the time it's gnawing on Robert Shaw you can actually see its plastic 'jaws' bending.

4. The Thing From Another World

John Carpenter's outstanding sci-fi, arctic horror 'The Thing' was actually inspired by this black and white B-movie from 1951. But while Carpenter's shape shifting nightmare pins you to your chair, the fella with the Tefal forehead and crab claws in the original is rather less scary than a grumpy Richard Hammond.

3. The Martians from War of the Worlds

HG Wells describes the creatures inside the iron hoods as glistening like wet leather with luminous disc like eyes. When the story was first brought to the screen (and relocated from London to LA) they had somehow become rather sad looking guys with faces in their chests. Not quite what Mr. Wells had in mind one imagines.

2. The Robot Monster

The title gave the costume and make-up department so much scope to stretch their talents and terrify us into a state of long term trauma. But they must have been down the boozer beacuse we ended up with a gorilla in a deep sea diver's helmet. Bravo! (see above)

1. The musical Phantom of the Opera

Dear God! Deformed beyond recognition and exiled to the steaming tunnels beneath Paris. Driven by a bitterly warped mind to kidnap, murder and revenge. Embodying evil in a ... hang on, didn't you used to be Frank Spencer?

Magnus Shaw, October 2010

The Albert Call

I was strolling along a shaded cobblestone street in the old quarter of Nice, ambling gently past artists’ ateliers and sleepy artisan boutiques up towards the Parc du Chateau when I was stopped in my tracks by a sublime sound coming from a street corner.

On looking back I could just about make out a rangy figure, dressed in black and perched on a low stool, playing a plaintive French ballad on an amplified Spanish classical guitar. The voice was strong and honest, the song poignant and haunting.

I was intrigued. I turned and walked back to see what was going on. The lone figure finished his song, and was surrounded by no one except two bearded American hikers, who were clearly boring him and whoever else that didn’t care to listen with the usual tedious counterculture schtick about the pointlessness of gigging, and how it’s all about the money these days, man.

I ignored them. At the front of the chanteur’s guitar case sat a neat row of white covered CDs. He swept straight black hair from his brow, shielded his eyes from the sun and greeted me, with a smile, in French. I thought I’d try some English: “I’ve just been listening, you sound really lovely. How much are these?” “Thanks a million! They’re 15 euros”, came the reply in a soft Galway accent.

How wonderful: an Irish troubadour filling the streets of the Riviera with song. His name is Albert Niland, and during our chat he revealed: “I’m travelling through France, and I’ve been trying to learn Italian for the last three months, but not doing very well so far! I’m on the slow boat to Tuscany.”

I purchased a CD, and it’s every bit as good as I expected. I am recommending him to you now as a result of one of those finds that not only bring great new music into one’s life, but the magic of a moment, of inspirational synchronicity.

Over the last year or so I had become tired of searching for new sounds. I thought I’d lost the music, but worse still, I genuinely feared I’d lost the muse. I worried that I was becoming yet another jaded oldie, descending into cynicism, feeling that so much of what is produced today sounds the same. (The problem is, having lived through the excitement and energy of the original post-punk, new wave era, the more bands I hear on TV and radio during the present day, the less I can seem to find anything to really counter that argument.)

However, I’m delighted to report that it’s chance discoveries like Niland that keep me hanging on to something which has been a lifeblood since I first expressed a wish as a toddler to learn guitar. Where that desire came from, I have absolutely no idea. What I did was to pick up a tiny Spanish acoustic at the age of seven, and never look back.

I truly admire people with creative vision who follow their passion to produce something beautiful and timeless for everyone to share and enjoy. The world would be so much greyer without them, and we should be happy – and grateful – that they’re here.

Lisa Cordaro, October 2010

You can see Albert Niland performing here:

http://bit.ly/aJMiBG

Ari Up RIP

The great myth about late 70s UK punk bands is their inability to play. In fact, The Clash and Sex Pistols could play pretty well, and the Buzzcocks and The Damned were more than proficient.

But The Slits really weren't. Formed in 1976 by Arianna Forster (Ari Up) who has died aged 48, and her friend Paloma Romero (Palmolive), their lack of musical skill and tender age presented no barriers. Arianna was just 14, but thanks to the do-it-yourself spirit of the time, their amatuerish performances were regarded by many as being most authentic if not particularly listenable.

Perhaps it was inevitable Arianna would pursue a creative life. Her mother was Nora Forster, a friend of Jimi Hendrix, boyfriend of rocker Chris Spedding and the daughter of the owner of Der Spiegel. What's more, Nora would go on to marry John Lydon (Johnny Rotten), front man of Sex Pistols and shy figurehead of the UK punk movement.

By 1977, Ari and Palmolive had been joined by Viv Albertine and Tessa Pollitt and The Slits were regularly supporting The Clash on tour. Footage of the band appears in Don Letts' The Punk Rock Movie and does confirm their basic approach to their instruments, but it also shows their appeal. It's clear these young women were driven, serious and full of the limitless energy reserved for the very young. And that is surely what people loved about the group.

The Slits probably didn't realise it, but they were also blazing something of a trail for women in rock, putting an end to the manipulation of groups like The Supremes and confronting their audiences and the industry in a way previously set aside for hairy blokes. They were women, but they were never demure.

As with many of their contemporaries, The Slits had a huge regard for reggae, but unlike most punk bands who used the Jamaican influence only now and again, Ari Up and her crew adopted it as their principal sound, combining it with an angular, metallic new wave that was limited but all their own. Unsurprisngly, John Peel was an early fan and their first recordings were a session for his show.

Palmolive's relationship with Joe Strummer ensured the band had access to some rudimentary tuition and in 1979 they entered the studio to record their debut album for Island Records. Appropriately, reggae stalwart Dennis Bovell was tasked with producing them and is widely acknowledged to have done a near faultless job in capturing their naive, schoolgirl dub and spiky, jerky guitar stabs.

The record, named 'Cut', reached number 30 on the album chart, but the music was overshadowed by the sleeve. Featuring the band covered head-to-toe in mud, bare breasted and sporting loin cloths, it led to the departure of Palmolive who was very much against the concept.

Clearly Ari had no taste for pop stardom and further releases were steadfastly experimental. Work with Bristol's Pop Group and a relatively unsuccesful second album 'Return of the Giant Slits' preceded the band's split in 1982.

This freed Ari to explore beyond exotic music. I can safely say she was the only figure from the original London punk scene to live with the tribal peoples of Indonesia and Belize. Sporting a proud headful of dreadlocks (and an interesting hybrid accent), she then settled in Kingston, Jamaica with her husband and twin daughters.

A new band was formed, The New Age Steppers, and Ari continued to record with them and as a solo artist, occasionaly using the titles Baby Ari and Madussa.

In 2005 Ari released her only solo album 'Dread More Dan Dead' and in 2006, The Slits reformed - or at least Arianna and Tessa Pollitt toured Europe, the USA and Japan under the name - producing an EP with the help of Sex Pistol Paul Cook and Ant Marco Pirroni. Only last year, an LA label announced they had signed the band and were planning a fresh Slits album.

That was not to be and of course, Arianna would never trouble the UK charts again. But I feel sure this wouldn't have worried her one bit. So many artists refer to themselves as free spirits (while regarding their royalty statements like hawks), but Ari genuinely did embody the notion of following one's heart whatever else the world expected.

A friend of the Rocking Vicar who knew her said 'She was completely nuts but only did anything because she wanted to.'

That seems an exciting, brave and honest way to live a life.

Magnus Shaw, October 2010

TV time travel

There are no spoilers in this article.

On Monday, The Guardian did a strange thing (yes, what’s new? asks the reader).

They ran a poll, in the Comment is Free section, asking for responses to a question that, in theory, only television viewers in the United States could answer. In fact, viewers of a cable network ‘should’ have been the only respondents.

The poll asked Guardian readers a question related to the finale of the fourth season of Mad Men, which aired on the AMC cable network on Sunday night.

So why were they publishing this poll when Mad Men has reached only episode seven (of thirteen) in its hideaway home on BBC Four? I’m going to throw caution into the gale force wind and suggest that The Guardian had little interest in the way we voted; they simply wanted to count how many voted at all.

Television viewing is beginning to echo the journey of music, or more accurately the music business, in the 2000-2010 decade when Napster led the way to the streaming successes of Spotify and We7, and the DRM free version of iTunes.

Today, the majority of viewers in the United Kingdom still wait, perhaps with increasingly less patience, for the television providers to decide on their behalf, the date and time they will be allowed to watch the ‘can’t miss’ series that has captured their imagination.

In the last year or so, The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm, In Treatment, 30 Rock and Mad Men have all appeared in this ‘must see’ category.

However, to comply with the imposed legitimacy of viewing culture, the fan of these shows will have to avoid any interaction with social media that has any sort of hold in the United States. Understandably, many Americans will want to share comments, particularly on Twitter and Facebook, about the finale of a programme that has captured their interest, and, importantly, that of their peers. Any UK viewer, marooned on episode seven of season four, will be very lucky to avoid a spoiler revealing the denouement of Mad Men over the timescale of the remaining six weekly broadcasts.

Increasingly, viewers outside America are becoming more sophisticated in finding ways to watch United States’ television programmes in real time, or download a specific episode immediately after broadcast. Such practices have a resounding echo to the dilemma facing the music customer in the days of Audiogalaxy and Limewire.

This leaves the early viewer or downloader in the grey area between a perceived illegality and the need to avoid the time lapse between the American broadcast date and the delivery on foreign (to the US) television.

ABC and SKY TV became acutely aware of this conundrum and squeezed the time gap between the United States and Europe to a minimum for the closing season of Lost, even airing the show finale simultaneously in both continents.

We must hope that the huge corporations learn the lesson of the folly of chasing down individual downloaders or IP maskers, as the music business learned too late.

In an age where import and export between nations is considered a right and any obstruction a restraint of trade, there is a solid argument for allowing American broadcasters the opportunity to deliver content direct to European audiences.

I do hope The Guardian publishes the number of total votes cast in their quirky poll. Judging by the responses of UK based Twitter account holders, I’m far from being the only British viewer capable of answering that Mad Men question with the authority of one who has viewed the final episode.

Terence Dackombe, October 2010

This week I have been:

Watching The Apprentice and pondering that if these are the best British business prospects, will we ever live to see the recovery of the economy?

Still been reading Stewart Copeland’s memoir (it’s never ending) and noting that on their reunion tour, the only time The Police were all together was on the ride from the hotel to the gig, and on stage.

Listening to Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number Three, and the acoustic version of Prefab Sprout’s ‘Steve McQueen’.

Enjoying lunch at the weird but compelling Beatles carvery restaurant near Bray in Berkshire.

Radio waves goodbye

On Monday, in Salford, the great, the good, and some other people will be gathering to discuss, and perhaps even decide upon, the future of radio in the UK.

Of course, some people may say, “Why don’t they make some radio programmes, instead of talking about some radio programmes” but that may be a little churlish. Let’s take this opportunity to tell these decision makers what they should do.

In fact, they really do need us to give them a few hints, because the conclusion that will be reached at the end of several seminars, workshops, podcasts and interview sessions will be... that nobody knows what the future holds for radio, (and television, and publishing, for that matter).

Last Tuesday, in the company of chirpy Matt Wells from the Guardian, I attended a discussion about the future of television news, but it ballooned outwards to encompass thoughts on the future of all sorts of media.

Peter Horrocks, BBC director of global news; Ben Cohen, from Channel 4 News; Greg Beitchman, global editor of Reuters, and Simon Bucks, from Sky News, all gave thoughtful and insightful views. None of them knew where we’re headed with any form of media.

In terms of radio, we may have a greater clue of direction. In fact if anyone heading for the festival at Salford is reading this, I should advise – look away now.

Music radio as we have come to know it in the United Kingdom, from the pirate radio ships of the 1960s, through to the Magic, Smooth and Radio Two of the 2010s, is dying.

It’s still with us, and has a few short years of life left, but dying it is.

As I write this, I’m not choosing to listen to the cavalcade of radio stations available to me here, within reach of the London selection box. I don’t want someone else picking out a series of records for me. Not any more. I’m listening to my own choice through Spotify. Eighteen months on now since the Swedish revolution and the drum roll announcing the burial of traditional radio is becoming too loud to ignore.

Only a short number of years ago, I might have switched the radio on, because it would have been just a bit too fussy to have to sort out a CD, listen to a track or two, change my mind, find another one, do a bit of opening and closing of drawers, and pile up jewel cases around me.

Now, I just go clickety click, and my choices are playing before I’ve clicked back to this Word document. If I don’t have Spotify, or LastFM, I can head for iTunes and enjoy a similar though more limited experience. Why should I endure an impossible ‘mystery voice’ competition on Magic, before they finally play some music, which will almost certainly be “Wherever I Lay My Hat” or “Back For Good”?

Music radio is just not good for anything, anymore. It isn’t even ‘radio’ in 2010. If I did find an unlikely urge to listen, I will ‘tune in’ on line, or through my iPhone and the many varied Apps that will supply me radio from anywhere in the world. That’s not radio, that’s audio streaming.

So why is music radio dying but not dead? Because there is just about enough station loyalty, and regard for some presenters, to keep hold of a pocket of listeners; because not everyone ‘gets’ Spotify or other providers yet; because like record companies, music radio people can’t bear to face the future and so keep giving the corpse the kiss of life.

We were going to give them some tips. We misled them. There aren’t any to give.

There’s a haunting voice around the corridors of The Lowry Arts and Entertainment Centre in Salford this weekend. It whispers, but the voice grows louder with every mention of demographics, psychographics, branding, reach and q on q shares.

It says, “Enjoy your P Squared, your Myriad and your voice tracking while you can, because, ladies and gentlemen of music radio, the future belongs elsewhere...”

Terence Dackombe, October 2010

This week I have been:

Struggling on with Stewart Copeland’s memoir “Strange Things Happen”. I haven’t reached the Police reunion yet, so I’m hoping it will pick up a bit then.

Watching the second half of the England v Montenegro match on my iPhone, on a train from Paddington to Slough, and wondering if I had left this world and arrived in Purgatory.

Reading the new copy of Word Magazine, in which I appear in some depth from page 108 onwards. It’s all about me, John Peel and Yootha Joyce. Word Magazine is available in stores throughout the land, or you could even subscribe and get free things http://www.wordmagazine.co.uk/buy

Chatting with Tom Fenton a correspondent for CBS News for thirty four years, and listening to his gentlemanly, yet forthright, views on the quality of news production and broadcasts of today.

On the beach

The programme fascinates me. Recent episodes have been so engaging, from Tom Jones’s unadulterated passion for a life in music (and much more), to Johnny Vegas’ touching recollections of his life as a youngster.

It set me thinking about the songs that provide the soundtrack to my life, as well as some of the tracks I really couldn’t do without if I were marooned on the eponymous island. So here goes…

1. Never Let Her Slip Away – Andrew Gold

I first heard this back in the 1970s when I was a kid. It is the consummate pop single in terms of construction, content and delivery – plus it has a great sax break. What I find curious about the song is that it engendered such an emotional reaction in me. I was genuinely moved – and this was at an age, as a pre-teen, when I couldn’t conceptualise the true depth of romantic love beyond a hopeless crush on Starsky and Hutch. Eitherway, it’s the perfect song about the breathless excitement of new love, and I love it.

2. Jimmy Mack – Martha and the Vandellas

The time of the excellent Motown revival. Anything by Diana Ross, Smokey, Marvin and Tammi or any of the Detroit stable would fit into this slot, but I remember hitting the floor and dancing like a loon to this track, played full blast at the school disco. Motown has stayed with me ever since, and I wouldn’t be without it.

3. Games Without Frontiers – Peter Gabriel

My reaction on hearing this for the first time was: from what ineffably weird place are these bizarre sounds emanating? But I adored it, and its spiky, stark simplicity was irresistable. This track was my first real encounter with electronic music, and it set me on a path of exploration from which I have become a huge aficionado of pioneering electronica and ambient, from early Human League, Gabriel and Eno, to present-day artists such as Boards of Canada and Jon Hopkins. Bleeps and squiggles are my thing. They have to be on the list.

4. Living On The Ceiling – Blancmange

Ah, sixth-form years… This period delivered a positively overwhelming amount of good music, and it’s so difficult to choose from anything that came out at the time: Costello, OMD, The Jam, Blondie, The Specials, Talking Heads, The Clash, you name it… but I dig this track. Plus you can dance to it – and on a desert island, there may be times when you simply need to get up and shake it loose. So Blancmange it is.

5. California Dreaming – Mamas and Papas

At my university, this was probably the most played track in the Student Union bar, and the reason we enjoyed it so much was because it was an antidote to all the massively right-on Smiths and Joy Division listening that was going on at the time. At an extremely activist, left-wing university, I didn’t wear top-to-toe black, sell the Socialist Worker or bash on incessantly about how much of a political genius Marx was. So some Californian music was, at least on an evening with mates over a few pints of Directors, a fine counterpoint to all the greyness of the Thatcher years.

6. Love Over Gold – Dire Straits

Yeah, you may knock me for this, but it’s the message of this song that lingers. Listen to it, and you’ll realise why. Plus it reminds me of a truly golden, happy time. I’m sorry I didn’t choose Tom Waits’ Ol’ 55, as it was a strong contender for the same slot, but this song really had to win out.

7. Don’t Dream It’s Over – Crowded House

I’m pretty much bypassing the late 1980s and early 1990s because they were a massive nadir for music. We can forget Aceeed and crap R&B and move on to some decent songwriting. I heard Crowded House’s first album back in 1989 – not a few years later, when everyone claimed them as their own – and Neil Finn’s sheer inspiration and craftsmanship had me in thrall. If I had to save one record from the deluge, it would be this one. When Paul McCartney was asked: ‘What’s it like to be the world’s greatest living songwriter?’ he replied: ‘I’ve no idea, as it’s Neil Finn.’ Couldn’t have put it better myself.

8. Northern Sky – Nick Drake

Yes, I know, everyone quotes Nick Drake these days (thanks, Brad Pitt, for nothing). I was introduced to Drake on arrival in London in 1994, and a wonderful world of music inhabited by people truly in the know. His three albums were a revelation, and since I’ve always had a folksy bent, I instantly adored them. This track narrowly pipped John Martyn to the post, as pretty much any of his songs – particularly from Solid Air or Grace and Danger – would do. However, it’s the optimism and soft delicacy of this song that always draws me in, as well as the textural gorgeousness of John Cale’s accompaniment on celeste. I never tire of it. Put simply, it’s pure magic.

9. One Moment More – Mindy Smith

A deeply poignant song, which I encountered on seeing Smith playing her first album live at the Cambridge Folk Festival in 2004. She recollects the loss of her mother to cancer, and little more than a month later, I suddenly lost my own to the same after a long and incredibly courageous fight. My mother was a very fine woman, and so this is among my choices as a tribute to her. The song is heartrending and beautiful, and speaks for itself.

10. Touch Has A Memory – Pete Atkin

This brings us to the present day, and what I’m listening to now. The songbook of Pete Atkin and Clive James is so overlooked that it’s a positive crime. During the 1970s, Atkin and James produced several albums, and the best tracks from this have been rerecorded for a recent album called Midnight Voices. James’s lyrics are perceptive and gentle, lending themselves so well to Atkin’s melodies, and the latest arrangement of Touch is a little slice of perfection, delivered in such a way as to soothe the soul and genuinely touch the heart.

Lisa Cordaro, October 2010

Good Lord!

There's much to enjoy about BBC1's The Apprentice. Alongside Dragon's Den, it has somehow managed to levitate above the seething mass of reality TV we've endured over the last decade.

Particularly the pointless, nauseating and now departed Big Brother. That said, there are some issues I must raise at an executive level so I have copied you in on the following memo:

1. Lord Alan 'Lorshugger' Sugar tells us in the opening sequence that the prize is 'to work with me'. Leaving aside the rather puzzling notion that to graft for Amstrad is the kind of blessing of which mere mortals can only dream, it seems obvious the winner gets to do nothing of the kind. I understand former 'apprentice' Michelle Dewsberry was put in charge of recycling PCs. Is this a flagship area of Lorshugger's operation that's alive with challenge and opportunity? I'm not so sure. No wonder she left after three months.

2. Many of the contestants are really incredibly stupid. Now they may be picked for that very reason, but that would force Lorshugger to hire an idiot. Nevertheless, only this week we saw several grown, educated adults turn down an offer from Boots (only named once and thereafter dubbed 'The Pharmacists') and thereby ensuring their ludicrous 'novel as a windbreak' concept attracted not a single buyer. Razor sharp thinking there, ladies.

3. The 'team leaders' almost always fail miserably to grasp even the basics of people management. In most cases their strategy appears to involve dumping any notion of planning, discussion, listening, deputising or executing in favour of a festival of shouting, bickering and occcasionally crying. If the next generation of industry captains are going to take all their cues from the playground, then this fiscal crisis is likely to have a long shelf life.

4. I don't really get the cooking tasks. This season favours these episodes - we've already had sausages and there's at least two more kitchen briefs to follow. They don't really explore the complexities of business and are closer to an edition of 'Ready, Steady, Cook'. I can't imagine a three figure gig with Lorshugger calls for much culinary flair and what about hygiene? Do restaurants really buy meat products from gangs of youngsters on the street? I hope not.

5. On the Piers Morgan documentary, Lorshugger claimed he was one of the few people who could write a valid cheque for £100m. So how come his boardroom resembles the meeting room of a medium sized plumbing supplies wholesaler? I've seen better furniture in the Ikea Spring sale. C'mon Alan, surely you have Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen's number.

6. Returning to the title sequence, I note Lorshugger no longer glides over the office blocks of the capital in his SugarCopter. But is this a result of the recent 'authenticity' scandals tainting other shows (ie: he doesn't really have a chopper), or a nod to the cutback culture we're all enjoying so much? I must find out.

7. Karen Brady is no Margaret. Last week, it was rather ironic that the young lady who was shown the door was accused of taking a back seat and not getting 'stuck in', when this is very much Ms. Brady's modus operandi. Her little 'women in business' speech was her sole appearance of note (and was largely nonsense) so the barbed observations of her predecessor were particularly missed.

8. When the 'saved' pair return to the house and their fellow competitors jump to their feet to embrace them, as if to say 'Thank God it was you who survived!', the insincerity almost moves me to physical sickness. Just for once, it would be wonderful if the two strode into the lounge to be met with moans of disappointment, exasperation and dismay.

9. If I was to be summoned to Heathrow at five in the morning to watch Lorshugger's 'bulldog licking a nettle' visage on a big screen, before being whisked back to central London, I might have cause to question the decision making abilities of my potential employer.

10. When Lorshugger appears through the frosted glass door of the shabby boardroom, straight after the task, it looks like he's just been for a poo.

Still, Alan, loving the show, loving the show.

Magnus Shaw, October 2010

A history of violins.

I like classical music. The problem is, I only like Dvorak’s ‘New World Symphony’ and Holst’s ‘The Planets’. I’m very fond of Erik Satie piano music too, but I’m not even sure that counts.

And that’s it. Of all the huge volume and vast variety of classical work, I can only manage affection for two and half recordings.

There’s clearly something wrong here. Music has dominated my life since childhood, from Abba to Crass, Hawkwind to Pet Shop Boys - I have spent more hours listening to bands, attending gigs and humming pop tunes than I have eating or sleeping. I’ve worked as a club DJ, a radio presenter, a music writer and even played bass guitar in a very poor post-punk rock group. Surely my tastes are catholic enough to embrace the sweeping drama and high emotion of orchestral compositions, choral recitals or string quartets? But no.

Heaven knows I’ve tried. My wife and mother are both keen fans of classical music and have often fed me CDs of works they think I’ll appreciate. Without exception, one listen is enough to confirm my inability to find anything enjoyable in the genre. And my excuses aren’t even terribly original:

“It all sounds the same.”

“It’s too long.”

“Where’s the tune?”

“I’m lost".

Please don’t misunderstand. Not for one minute do I deny the incredible talent, skill and dedication it takes to become a proficient classical musician. And the ability to write this astonishingly complex and sophisticated music strikes me as demanding extraordinary levels of creative flair and profound understanding. Nevertheless, the resulting sound leaves me utterly unmoved. This doesn’t please me, it’s just a fact.

In his book ‘Rock Me Amadeus’, Seb Hunter describes his journey from my position to a love of classical music through exploration and education. It’s a great read and shows it is certainly possible to build affection for Handel, Wagner, Mozart and the rest. But I have to wonder whether a musical form which only becomes appealing after study and force of will is really an artistic arena designed for me. 15 years ago I was assured acid house would reveal its glory to me if I took the right drugs – and I am told classical music will become compelling if I understand its context and history. My reaction is the same in both cases: I am resistant to any music that has to be, in some way pre-treated, before I can properly enjoy it.

My lack of connection with classical composing is odd. Many of the pop/rock performances I find the most wonderful, so astonishingly good they strike me dumb with awe, involve grand gestures, melodrama, great passion and large measures of emotion. The Doors’ ‘Riders On The Storm’, Manic Street Preachers’ ‘Everything Must Go’, Elbow’s ‘A Day Like This’, Echo and the Bunnymen’s ‘Killing Moon’ – all have the resonance of orchestral pieces woven through the guitar, bass and drums.

This is a sound I love in contemporary music. When a band uses a string section, I’m usually the first to applaud. So why doesn’t this carry, rather logically, to an adoration of the same classical works my family find so enriching?

Maybe I’m lazy. Perhaps a recording lacking the immediacy of say, ‘Reach Out, I’ll Be There’ is asking too much of an idler like me. It’s possible I’m just not prepared to put enough in to classical music to get anything out. But that’s the way I’ve trained myself to address any music. It’s too extreme to claim that a song has to be instantly lovable to avoid my dismissal, but it must have something to hook and net my attention. In many ways, I believe it is the duty of a worthwhile musical endeavour to arrest me. It must have sufficient originality, energy, pathos, anger, tunefulness, cheek, sexiness, simplicity, poetry – something, anything – to halt my life and demand my time.

And, much to my regret, classical music almost always fails to do that. My loss, I guess.

Magnus Shaw, October 2010

Beep, beep. Beep, beep yeah!

When I was young, BBC Radio, as part of its public service remit, relayed rather harrowing announcements just before the news bulletins.

“This is a message for Mr and Mrs Reginald Beauchamp, who are believed to be holidaying in the North Devon area. Would Mr and Mrs Reginald Beauchamp please contact ward nine of the Royal Hospital in Moreton-in-Marsh, Gloucestershire, where Mr Beauchamp’s mother, Mrs Cecily Beauchamp, is dangerously ill.”

As I ate my jam sandwiches I would wonder, and worry, about the possibilities of the Beauchamps, in their holiday caravan at Ilfracombe, hearing the message, and of course, the chances of the senior Mrs Beauchamp pulling through.

This was an era in which mobile phones were thoroughly absent; indeed most households were without a landline, and we all relied on ‘interaction’ by letter or postcard. The sight of the telegram boy heading to your door was usually unwelcome. People rarely sent good news by telegram.

So – if you had a dire emergency, and did not know the location of the recipient, the BBC and their ‘dangerously ill’ missives were your only hope. Fifty years on, and both the BBC and independent radio are trapped in the belief that they still need to provide public services, ignoring the technology and changing lifestyles that have revolutionised our ability to receive information.

Traffic and weather bulletins provide comforting junctions for broadcasters. They enable them to feel they are being of service, and perhaps more importantly, give structure to not only the programme, but also the station. Programme controllers like structure.

In this country we have pretty stable weather. Most days, it is sunny, cloudy, or raining. Blistering heat or belligerent snowfall is rare; at most they feature for a few irritating days each year. Therefore, if a radio (or TV) station really feels an overwhelming desire to forecast the weather (and incidentally we could just as easily look out of the window) the whole business could be wrapped up in five seconds, “Cloudy today, chance of showers later, a high of about fourteen degrees.”

That’s all we need to know right there.

Instead, however, we are treated to an aural essay, detailing every nuance, hour by hour, of high pressure, low pressure, isobars and prevailing winds. Those five seconds run into minutes. We hear a lot and learn nothing.

The weather report though, is nothing but a light breeze compared to the hailstorm of worthless information delivered by the traffic reporters.

A few days ago I was driving back to Berkshire, on the M4, and listening to the excellent Richard Bacon on 5Live; up pops Nick Duncalf with his traffic news. “I’m hearing that a lorry has overturned on the M4 between junctions fifteen and fourteen, and that all three lanes are affected.”

Yes Nick, that’s quite so, if only we could travel back in time about an hour.

As the M4 blockage was broadcast, I and my fellow, stationary, drivers had been sitting, without moving an inch for about forty-five minutes, whilst the emergency services dealt with the incident. As Nick Duncalf gave the first indication of the obstruction, the truck had been uprighted, moved to the hard shoulder, and the traffic was beginning to move freely once more. That’s not a public service. Traffic news generally tells you what happened an hour ago. By the time you hear the update, you’re either already sitting in the middle of the incident, or it’s been cleared up, and the information has no relevance.

How many people were caught up in ‘my’ traffic line – a couple of hundred? How many listeners does 5Live attract in the afternoon? Well they won’t tell us but it will be several hundred thousand. So that M4 information, delivered an hour after the event, may have been useful to about 0.0005% of the listeners.

The most compelling reason to drop weather and travel reporters (WTRs - or ‘witterers’) from radio programmes, and especially music based shows, is the overarching desire that overcomes presenters to include the WTRs as a part of the show, rather than as a contributor to it. This starts innocently enough, usually with some contrived and excruciating banter. The WTR, unused to having to respond speedily, live on air, will often fall back on a silly insult about the presenter’s stature or appearance. There is usually one of those forced, “HA HA HA!” laughs, and we go straight to a new entry in the chart from Lady Gaga.

It doesn’t stop there. The WTR is useful to fill up a link or two, and the role increases to reading out some text messages, and they receive a surprise call from their mother on their birthday. It’s terrible, outdated, and squirm inducing. Generally, we can hear the underlying terror in the WTR’s voice, when they are asked anything away from their weather or traffic comfort zone. Set them free.

Will the controllers of all radio stations please drop the traffic and weather updates at once, as their usefulness is dangerously ill and out of date.

Thank you.

Terence Dackombe, October 2010

This week I have:

Been listening to Prefab Sprout’s wonderful “Let’s Change The World With Music”, and the traffic flowing ‘the other way’ on the M4.

Reading Stewart Copeland’s memoir “Strange Things Happen: A Life with The Police, Polo, and Pygmies” and wishing he had employed an editor.

Watching The Apprentice (don’t those applicants ever watch the show? “I turn everything I touch into sold!”), Seven Days, and, of course, X Factor, joining in with the public anguish about the fate of Gamu.

Simple, Simon

Betting without parrots, cheese, or lumberjacks, one of the lines quoted most often from Monty Python is from ‘Life of Brian’, “What have the Romans ever done for us?”

It is meant as a rhetorical question with the implied answer of “Nothing.” However there is a long pause and then John Cleese’s colleagues in the People’s Front of Judea begin to list the many positive legacies of the Roman Empire.

If we ask, “What has Simon Cowell ever done for us?” we find ourselves undergoing the same process, although the question might be more authentic if we ask what he’s done for the old fashioned concept of ‘showbusiness’

Cowell is an intriguing figure. There’s a shield around his personality. Analysts could spend hours pondering on the meaning of the flappy grey t-shirt and its brother in arms, the dazzling, split to the bosom, white shirt; the ‘Princess Diana’ head down and eyes looking up expression; the square hair.

Simon Cowell owns evening television at the weekend. From the first, bottle of water in hand, “Hello guys” as he steps from the limousine, to the final, “Well, it’s been a tiring week” departure, he rules your television. Even if you don’t watch X Factor, he’s still there, in command, in Wembley, despite your valiant and bold move to watch Discovery Shed.

Curiously, if I put you on the spot and ask you to name the (to date) six winners of the UK version, I think you’ll struggle. X Factor has the same coat of paint as Big Brother – when you’re in it and on it, you’re big news. As soon as you’re back on the street, you become one of us again, and the paint peels faster than Steve Brookstein’s career path.

Yet, like Big Brother, if you have genuine talent, and a capacity to listen to good advice, you can grasp at the flicker of the spotlight for longer than Shayne Warne or Leon Jackson. Alexandra Burke and Leona Lewis are very good singers indeed, and would, almost certainly, have never been heard without the re-invention of ‘audition tv’.

In the early stages of the mass try-outs, X Factor is the equivalent of those ‘stack ‘em high, sell ‘em cheap’ pound shops that proliferate in Britain’s High Streets. It is at this point that Cowell does us the biggest favour (there are other judges, but they, and each of the contenders, defer to Cowell; the ‘singers’ and us at home really only want to hear what Simon has to say) because, happily, he has an aversion to that dreadful style of performance that many pub singers and karaoke warblers believe is mandatory to prove their professionalism.

That anguished ‘living the song’ face; the dropped knee; the pacing; and worst of all, the ‘ooch, ouch, red hot microphone’ thing. This technique involves the vocalist treating the microphone as if it were a particularly nuclear McDonald’s apple pie. The singer tootles the mike around in their fingers, unable to let go, but equally unable to bear the pain of simply holding the damn thing.

It must be something handed down through the generations. A kind of Frankie Vaughan, Kathy Kirby, 1950s legacy. Simon spots them as soon as they bound on to the stage with their barely suppressed “Hello London!” He tells them they are out of date and out of time. There are tears, or perhaps a declamation that (and this is always an amusing moment) Simon doesn’t understand how hard they’ve worked, or how long they’ve had a residency at the pub.

The ‘old’ style way of getting a recording deal is dead. It helps if you can sing or play an instrument (efficiently) but the essential facet is to be visible, to be seen, and to be memorable. Yeah, yeah, YouTube, MySpace and whatever, may just help you a bit, but who knows you’re there? No, I mean apart from your Facebook friends?

At worst, a memorable appearance on X Factor will generate a couple of years’ worth of gigs on the cruise ship between Portsmouth and Santander, or fifty seater pubs in Dorset.

At best, well... Leona Lewis has been nominated for three Grammys, and her debut album has sold 6.5 million copies worldwide.

We don’t need a crystal ball or tarot cards to predict that this ‘search for a star’ style of television programme is currently peaking, and that audiences will begin to drift and look for something new. Talent shows flitter in and out of the ratings on a cyclical basis, but for the moment, on weekend evenings, keep your Twitter feed fired up, the kettle on standby, and your set tuned to ITV – because Simon Cowell owns your television.

Terence Dackombe, October 2010

When indie met R&B

The standard narrative of pop tells us how, after the initial US rock’n’roll explosion of the ’50s, British musicians who’d grown up on Elvis and Chuck Berry sold the sound back to the Yanks in the ’60s, transmogrified.

Those who dug deeper (The Beatles, The Who, Clapton, Van Morrison) reached back to early blues and r’n’b and, in trying to replicate what they heard in suburban English bedrooms and cramped Northern clubs, created a sonic hybrid that boys with guitars still build on today.

There was, briefly, a moment in the early ’00s when something similar happened between the US r’n’b of Timbaland, The Neptunes, and Dallas Austin, and a coterie of British bands - all nominally ‘indie’ - who tried to emulate their productions. The potential here was dizzying, but it never sparked the revolution in British pop as I had hoped.

The Beta Band came closest, with Steve Mason’s love of US r’n’b finding full flower on ‘Hot Shots II’, where he employed C Swing to underpin the band’s psych-folk with stuttering programmed beats. Arguably, Mason was better at doing this solo, in his King Biscuit Time guise: I Walk The Earth is the blueprint for how the revolution could have sounded.

Simian were another band touting r’n’b influences at this time. When I interviewed them before the release of their second album, ‘We Are Your Friends’, they were full of awe at the futurefunk The Neptunes were conjuring for the likes of Kelis and Britney Spears. But they took a different direction - Justice came along and remixed the album’s title track, and Simian Mobile Disco was born.

I was trying to do something similar at the time, and the result of my dabbling, picked up by Wall Of Sound in 2004, was a song called Selfish Girls Stay Thin. It was my attempt - as a suburban white Brit with minimal programming knowledge - to recreate the sound of my favourite record of the time, Justin Timberlake’s Neptunes-produced Rock Your Body. As an attempt to imitate Timberlake, it fails miserably - but of course that’s the point. The process creates something new, something DIY, ramshackle, a bit silly, and obviously English.

I really hoped these bands (I don’t put myself in the same bracket, obviously!) would spark a decade of strange, idiosyncratic English indie-r’n’b in the same way it did in the ’60s. But it never quite happened, leaving a seam of pop that still needs to be mined.

Christian Ward, September 2010

Simply the Bestival?

Bestival, which seems to grow in size and popularity every year, was as spectacularly enjoyable as the last one ... minus the blue skies.

But the weather failed to dampen our stoically British spirits and everybody partied even harder to make up for it.

This year’s fancy dress theme was fantasy, which spanned from trolls, hobbits and zombies to bondage and the ubiquitous ‘Kigus’ (Japanese all-in-one animal outfits). The fashion show takes place on the Saturday, but it seems obligatory to dress like a charity shop mental case throughout. This is a good indicator to the unconventional, unique vibes of the festival, which I have experienced at no other. It really does feel like some kind of post-hippy movement for like-minded music lovers.

The set-up of the festival followed suit. New additions such as the Wishing Tree Field (centring round a spooky tree/bar) made the fantasy feel really come to life. As a particularly environmentally conscious festival it opened up its hillside as a “Tomorrow’s World” field, which focussed entirely on eco-friendly projects. The bandstand was (as last year) solar powered and there’s an eco-house (which uses innovative renewable energy).

The Sailor Jerry’s area is always worth a visit, with a karaoke bar (complete with free transfer tattoos), a collection of new DJ acts and a hedonistic atmosphere to boot. There’s also a cabaret tent if you’re feeling saucy (!) with live burlesque shows from a range of weird and wonderful people.

But let’s get down to the music. A cracking line-up (I’d say the best of any UK festival this summer) saw a very broad spectrum of genres. Smaller stages like Polka Tent hosted some hilarious acts like ‘The Countryside Alliance Crew ‘– a rural take on grime and drum and base and in the Chai Walla Tent ‘Sub-motion Orchestra’ .

An unexpected surprise (I was actually waiting for Portico Quartet) but a very satisfying one. There’s nothing better than a bit of dubby trip-hop on a Sunday morning. The music opened with a heavily vibrato-ed electric piano and loose hi-hat work, with singer Ruby Wood’s voice emerging gently and soulfully through the instrumentals. Full band, including a piercingly present trumpet, made the final crescendo fully deliver. Definitely ones to watch.

I didn’t make it to see Fever Ray, which was a shame, but my friend Pete Large did and had this to say – “I made sure I was right at the front for this one. Copious amounts of dry ice and tens of living room table lamps made the eery stage. The mist cleared as the music built and there was a silhouette of a well disguised Karin who emerged as a big, well, Totem Pole. The other musicians also wore frightening masks and lurched aggressively at you as if in a mosh pit. I loved the 80's feel of Triangle Walks, the opening song, with the claps and poppy synth. Those synthesized drums with her dreamy pitch-shifting voice reminded me of a Cocteau Twins number.

The dark male sounding vocals are even more haunting live as on the record. This combined with the stage set and universal appreciation of the audience made a deeply moving, theatrical performance that I will never forget.

I only caught the end of Mount Kimbie but it was breath taking to say the least. The duo performed a live act and the somewhat distant sounding long synth chords, intricate percussion which sounds like dripping water and heavily modulated vocals made for a euphoric experience. They delivered an emotional and ambient journey away from the muddy field outside. I don't know where this magical place is but I know I want to visit Mount Kimbie again, and I strongly recommend that you do too.

The main stage had a far better lay-out this year, similar to the Pyramid stage at Glasto, it was placed on the bottom of a slope instead of at the top of a hill. The Prodigy absolutely killed it on the main stage, although I was quite far back, and Keith Flint was as terrifying as ever with a dramatic light show to match. I was glad to hear they played some stuff from ‘Fat of the Land’ and ‘The Jilted Generation’. Also on the main stage, but of a different musical flavour, was Rolf Harris. I could only stay for a few minutes before having to move on...however I’m sure, judging by the huge crowd, that other people enjoyed it!

Overall, despite intermittent rain fall, Bestival 2010 was absolutely cracking and it promises to be even better next year!

Alex Genova, 2010