You never know

Charlie Drake was a cartoon in human form. Tape measures that came to a halt at the five feet mark would have sufficed to measure him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

If he was emerging today, he would, in current agent-speak, be hard to place. Charlie Drake was a slapstick character actor who popped up in films when there was a call for someone to be thrown out of an upstairs window.

This tendency to be the first to raise a hand when mad stunts were being handed out, led to him spending several months in the London Clinic, on the Marylebone Road. In 1961, during a live broadcast of The Charlie Drake Show, a sketch was written that had, as its payoff, a sequence where Charlie was pulled through a balsa wood bookcase and then bundled out of a sugar glass window. All went well in rehearsal and everyone left the studio for their lunch break.

...Except for a conscientious carpenter, who, noticing what he believed was shoddy workmanship, bashed in a number of nails to secure the shelves in a manner that would surely in later years have resulted in a contract with IKEA.
Unaware that they were now working with a structure as solid as Stonehenge, and remembering that this was a live broadcast, Drake was somehow pulled through the bookcase, and unconscious, thrown through the stage window. Instead of hitting the foam and mattress combination beneath, he fell awkwardly, hit his already damaged head on a stage weight and broke his skull. He didn’t work again for two years.

In late 1974 and early 1975, when I was working at Charisma Records, next door to the Algerian Coffee Shop, in Old Compton Street, Charlie Drake became a regular visitor. Still only in his forties, his showbusiness career had trickled to a bit of a standstill after some popularity in the mid ‘60s when he released a series of novelty records that were popular with very young children, but cringe-worthy to their teenage brothers and sisters.

Just about any dress code is acceptable in today’s Old Compton Street, but in 1974, Charlie was sporting a most unusual fluffy comb-over hair style, and, presumably in a sterling effort to fit in with the mood of the times, striped, open-necked shirts and denim flares. And highly-polished business shoes. And a briefcase.

In a combination that surely could only be matched if Bruce Forsyth and Jimmy Tarbuck joined up with Paul McCartney and Ringo to reform The Beatles, Charlie was courting the A&R team at Charisma with the intention of making a record with Genesis. Yes, that Genesis.

He was a kind man, bringing in Fortnum and Mason mince pies at Christmas, and champagne and whisky just about any other time. Generally he was accompanied by a teenage female partner.

Somehow, the transition was made from tentative discussion to reality, and Peter Gabriel handed over a song he had written for his first solo album.

Recorded in one session, as well as featuring Gabriel, Robert Fripp was the guitarist, Sandy Denny provided backing vocals and Phil Collins played drums.

It wasn’t a hit.

We didn’t ever see Charlie again at Charisma, but he had another go ten years later with a cash-in single "Super Punk". Once again, he didn’t bother the charts.

‘You Never Know’ is one of those 1970s songs in which Peter Gabriel specialised. Simple melody, complex arrangement, and with lyrics that would have proved a natural successor to ‘I Know What I Like’

Here’s the original demo: Peter Gabriel – You Never Know

...and with a crash helmet in place, and comprehensive insurance arranged:

 Charlie Drake – You Never Know

 Terence Dackombe, November 2010 

Failure to launch

I have an irrational dislike of Frank Sinatra's 'Fly Me To The Moon'. Actually, while Frankie-boy was guilty of many things, this isn't his fault. He didn't write the lyric (indeed, he never wrote a single song in his life) - and it is the lyric to which I take exception. No, it was written by Bart Howard in 1954. So what did Mr. Howard do to upset me? Let me explain.

'Fly me to the moon / Let me play amongst the stars' - The stars are actually suns at the centres of inumerous galaxies, millions of miles away. So one wouldn't have any better chance of playing amongst them by being on the moon.

'Let me know what Spring is like / On Jupiter and Mars' - Although the planets in our solar system do have seasons of a sort, Spring wouldn't be any more stimulating on Mars than any other point in its cycle. Jupiter is a gas giant, with no solid surface and clouds of acidic atmosphere. It being May would not dispel this.

'In other words (the original title) / Hold my hand' - In exactly what way is travelling throughout the solar system, analysing the seasonal differences on other worlds analagous with grasping someone's sweaty palm?

'In other words / Darling kiss me' - Just a second. In the previous line, the interstellar journey was a token of the desire to hold hands. Now it's a plea for tonsil hockey. Make your mind up.

'Fill my heart with song  / And let me sing for ever more ' - Right, now Howard has just abandoned the whole astronomy as love metaphor stuff. Probably because he quickly realised he hadn't the faintest idea about the subject and anyway, it wasn't really working. Also, I find it hard to believe anyone would wish to 'sing for ever more'. It would play havoc with your vocal cords and if it were this particular song you were stuck with, everyone would take you for a doofus.

And that is why I dislike 'Fly Me To The Moon' so very much.

Magnus Shaw, November 2010

One Of Those Things

1. Gaffer Tape

Any gig which does not feature large men in ill-fitting jeans, heavy with keys and making merry with yards of this black adhesive material, is a gig I do not wish to attend.

Where to see it: Any O2 Academy. All over the stage. 

2. Marlboro Cigarettes

Quite why this brand of death delivering, paper tube has become so iconic in the world of the rock music professional rather than say, Superkings, no-one is really sure. But it's probably something to do with cowboys. NB: Not Marlboro Lights, they're for graphic designers.

Where to see it: Corner of Keef Richards' gob. Newsagents.

3. Jack Daniels

Boozing and rocking have gone hand in hand since Sam Phillips first bought Elvis a beer, but one brand of Tennessee sipping whiskey has become so ubiquitous atop amp cabinets it is almost the compulsary beverage for every band. Well, maybe not the Jonas Brothers.

Where to see it: On Slash's corn flakes. 

4. Zippo

Not much point in having a dressing room packed with Marlboro cartons and Rizla papers if you have no fire. And nothing says 'dedicated gasper and toker' like a solid square of metal making a satisfying ring as it is flicked open. A blue Bic plastic disposable just doesn't cut it.

Where to see it: The 'Greased Lightning' segment of the Grease movie.

5. Bootlace tie

Rock n Roll, it is said, happens when the Blues meets Country & Western and this neck adornment was definitely inherited from the uniform of the latter's performers.

Where to see it: Roddy Frame's throat c.1982 

6. Learjet

Slightly more expensive than the objects mentioned so far, but few things indicate achievement in the field of rock than a band with its own plane. I think Led Zeppelin were the first to scrawl their logo down the side of a Learjet but many have followed. Probably due to their desire to be Led Zep.

Where to see it: The exterior - some select runways. The interior - you won't. Ever.

7. Laminate

A piece of card is one of the world's most mundane objects - until the words 'Access All Areas' are added and it is encased in floppy plastic. It is then the most desired rectangle at any festival or concert. Must always be worn with casual indifference and suspended from a nylon cord.

Where to see it: Against the plaid shirt of every chief roadie.

8. Rayban Wayfarers / Aviators

A rock star's eyewear of choice is crucial. Elton is still experimenting to this day and has never quite got it right, but Lemmy in a pair of Aviators looks simply fabulous. As a rule, the mirrored, oval Aviators are the preserve of the extrovert hard rocker. The squared off Wayfarers tend to be selected by the sulky, shy indie type. Feel free to wear indoors at night.

Where to see it: Wayfarers - on Jesus & Mary Chain. Aviaitors - on Jon Bon Jovi.

9. Pomade

The oil based hair dressing much admired by The Clash, indicates an acknowledgement of rock's 50s origins (when everyone caked their barnets in the stuff). Out of favour throughout the 60s & 70s, made a comeback with Bowie, punk and the shorter hairstyle. Should never be confused with Brylcreem. Or lard.

Where to see it: On the Thin White Duke, Mark Kermode and Dave Vanian.

10. Motorcycle

Any self respecting rock legend has a garage full of cars (and often, no driving licence). But ownership of stonking great Harley Davidson is an absolute must. If you can also manage to fall off it and break an inspired collection of bones, you really are living the dream.

Where to see it: In a mangled heap in the middle of Sunset and Vine.

Magnus Shaw, November 2010

Enjoy your trip

The Lyrical Magic of Hawkwind

1. Where the ruined towers shout / We march towards our dying scarlet sun / Death!
From 'Warriors at the Edge Of Time'

2. Heading for the crossroads of fiery crucifixion / Lighting up the night sky with bitterness distinction
From 'Death Trap'

3. Paranoia police have sussed out my potion / Help me or there'll be an explosion
From 'Brainstorm'

4. I'm charged with cosmic energy / Has the world gone mad or is it me?
From 'Master of the Universe'

5. Small babies may be placed inside the special cocoons /And should be left, if possible, in shelters.
From 'Sonic Attack'

6. Although I sit upon this chair / I rise and float up in the air
From 'Levitation'

7.  I can read your mind like a magazine / I see where you're at I know what you mean
From Psi Power

8. Einstein was not a handsome fellow / Nobody ever called him Al / He had a long moustache to pull on / It was yellow
From 'Quark, Strangeness & Charm'

9. Can you find the valium? / Can you bring it soon? / Lost Johnny's out there / Baying at the Moon
From 'Lost Johnny'

10. We're sick of politicians / Harassment and Laws / All we do is get screwed up / By other peoples flaws
From 'Psychedelic Warlords Disappear In Smoke'

Bass for Lulu

When it started, I was in the front room of a flat in Kentish Town, swathed in sweet, herbal smoke.

Suitably relaxed and enjoying Max Headroom on VHS, I was thinking about chocolate biscuits when the flat’s owner called me through to his office (more or less his bedroom with a large set of brass scales on a coffee table) and asked whether I still owned a bass guitar. I was happy to confirm that I was indeed the owner of an Ibanez Roadster Series 2 in beech with a black scratch plate (an afternoon of jazz cigarettes inspiring needless attention to detail). Ignoring my waffle, the bedroom bloke peered round his scales to deliver his next question: “Would you like to audition for Flesh For Lulu?”

Younger readers may imagine he was inviting me to try out for a leftfield pornographic magazine, but FFL were a rather popular and semi-successful goth band with a sizeable following in 80s London.

I pondered the question. Asked him to repeat it. Nodded. Replied that it sounded like a delightful idea and finished with a puzzled expression. My host may well have been a champion purveyor of exotic substances, but I didn’t recall him being a member of any band – gothic, semi-successful or otherwise.

It transpired he knew the band’s road crew and they were pestering him to find them a new bass player. If my clouded mind understood the proposition correctly, Flesh For Lulu were holding open auditions at rehearsal studios in Chalk Farm the next day and my agreement, followed by a swift phone call secured me a slot. From stoner to stardom in just 24 hours, this was tremendous, thought I – returning to the videos and king-size Rizlas.

As is often the case with very good news, there was a catch. Or, in this case, two catches. The principal drawback was this: I really wasn’t very good at playing the bass. I’d bought the instrument at college in order to start a band, but with the exception of learning the whole of the first Psychedelic Furs album and a few bits of Joy Division’s ‘Closer’, I’d never really bothered to make any progress.

Then there was the issue of the band itself. I wasn’t averse to the odd bit of goth. I had the crimpy black quiff and actively relished The Cult and Sisters of Mercy, but had failed to be particularly attracted to Flesh For Lulu.

Cushioned from real concern by the weed, I wandered down Camden High Street and bagged a couple of 12” singles by the band in the Record & Tape Exchange before heading south of the river and home.

Morning. The day of the audition. Also, by some cosmic coincidence, the day of Live Aid. A couple of guys who were dossing on my floor agreed the prospect of an hour with Flesh For Lulu followed by a Live Aid party would fill their day perfectly, so I grabbed my bass, shoved on my motorcycle boots and off we headed to Chalk Farm via the Elephant & Castle bus stop (I had the boots but no actual motorcycle).

The nagging thought that I couldn’t actually play and had had some difficulty twanging along to the two discs the night before, was evolving in my head. So, while changing buses in Trafalgar Square, I nipped into Budgens and invested in a large bottle of Thunderbird wine – the consumption of which made me feel considerably more confident. One of my pals went a bit further and dropped some acid he’d brought with him. And he wasn’t even auditioning.

By the time we alighted on the Chalk Farm Road we were bubbling along in the the manner of The Furry Freak Brothers (if they had been two gothic punks and one soul boy tripping his nuts off). More by luck than design, we found the rehearsal place almost immediately. Not really listening to our babbling, the reception guy pointed us to a room at the back of the building. We entered with trepidation, caution and nervy grins.

Flesh For Lulu weren’t exactly

The Clash (who had a bass player),

but they did have a record contract

and toured and were ... well ... a

proper band. I didn’t want to look

too much of a fool and was glad of

the reassuring Thunderbird glow.

The studio wasn’t big. But it was large enough to contain a hefty PA system and a sofa. What it quite obviously didn’t contain was the up-coming, quite popular goth rock troupe Flesh For Lulu. Or anyone else. We were entirely alone.

Accepting the possibility we’d arrived too early, the three of us sank into the bizarrely scented, collapsing couch and shared a Turkish roll-up.

An hour passed.

By now, I had plugged my instrument into the PA and was banging out the bassline to ‘She Sells Sanctuary’ with no little enthusiasm and plenty of repetition. One friend was now sleeping soundly and the other was gazing out of the window as purple dragons and giant wolves frolicked through the London sky.

Eventually tiring of my clumsy Cult plonking, I put the bass down, looked to my companions and announced with great profundity: “Fuck it. They’re not coming. Shall slope off and watch Live Aid?”

“Yep” said one.

“I’m think I’m flying” said the other.

And that’s what we did.

To this day, I have not the faintest idea what went wrong. We may have turned up at the wrong venue. Or the right venue on the wrong day. Or maybe the bloke with the brass scales was just making it all up. What I do know, is that I am not, never have been and probably never will be the bass player in Flesh For Lulu. And for that everyone should be grateful.

Magnus Shaw, October 2010

www.magnusshaw.co.uk

Have faith.

We don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind is blowing in the music industry.

CDs and the album format are being swept away by the typhoon of iTunes and streaming services (our old friend Spotify, and coming up on the rails, we7); artists and bands are becoming disposable ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ commodities; and perhaps the biggest storm is created by the rise of the corporate businessman guiding the tastes of the nation.

I imagine if the likes of you or I wanted to discuss this scenario with Mr Cowell, we would need to convince a team of assistants - many carrying clipboards, several personal trainers and security personnel, and a small army of interns, that we wish to make an appointment (next free date, June 2017). Sometime in 2016, we would receive a draft email informing us that Simon has reluctantly cancelled due to pressing commitments elsewhere.

It wasn’t always so.

Over a cheery and nostalgia-tinged lunch yesterday I recalled the rather ad hoc nature of the music business in the early 1970s. There were, of course, no mobile phones. Many of the managers who had grown up through the austerity of the post war years had a less than enthusiastic, and untrusting, relationship with what we now call ‘land lines’, but back then were just ‘telephones’.

As a very young, and very junior, member of the Pye Records conglomerate, it was my job to roam around London delivering hand written notes, acetates, posters, pop stars, and occasionally bottles of Jack Daniels to a variety of characters from Peckham to Denmark Street.

If a chap emerged in the entertainment business today, and he was known as ‘Bunny Lewis’, we would immediately picture a rather camp, effete sort of fellow, possibly bearing

a similarity to Dick Emery’s ‘Mandy’ character. The Bunny Lewis to whom I would be sent as an emissary when Pye were trying to gain his record producing services for a very small fee, was born Bridges George McGibbon Lewis, was happily married and had been awarded the Military Cross in World War Two.

Unfailingly polite, charming and kind to the youthful me, he treated my over enthusiastic sales pitch with tolerance before gently steering me back to Paddington, with a message that whilst flattered by our interest, he would prefer a larger slice of the Pye; a pun which when I delivered it back to headquarters was not viewed with the same amusement which it clearly gave Bunny to send it.

Tony Stratton-Smith designed Charisma to run on the administrative lines of Motown, where everything, records, PR, management and agency could be covered under one umbrella organisation, and under (literally) one roof, in Old Compton Street.

How G.T. Moore and The Reggae Guitars slipped through that tightly woven net, I’m unsure (signed to Charisma Records, but managed by Pye), but as their booking agent, I spent a lot of time hanging around at Charisma, mainly trying to blag free albums, so that I could head directly to Cheapo Cheapo Records in Berwick Street and exchange them for fifty pence a go.

Looking back I have little doubt that ‘Strat’ knew all about my sideline, and that my enthusiasm to own albums by Refugee, Jackson Heights and Capability Brown appeared excessive, especially when repeated most Friday afternoons; incidentally, Monty Python albums were worth double at Cheapo Cheapo, so were highly prized. How I had the cheek, I don’t know, but Strat had a mad driver called ‘Crack’, and despite Cheapos being located about two hundred yards round the corner, Crack used to give me a lift in the Charisma Rover and drop me off on the corner of Berwick Street, before returning to his usual role of chatting to unorthodox ladies in Soho coffee bars.

The day that Charlie Drake turned up at Charisma to talk about recording with Genesis will have to wait for another time.

My favourite music business engagement however, took me neither to Denmark Street nor Old Compton Street but to the Fountain Restaurant of Fortnum and Mason. G.T. Moore’s girlfriend was Shusha Guppy (her son, Darius, would later attain his own form of fame), a Persian singer-songwriter who had achieved a small measure of success in France. We were tasked with trying to improve her profile in the UK.

To attempt to get her a foothold in the crossover market we buttered up a number of songwriters, the most progress made with a musician/lyricist pairing, Gerard Sayer and David Courtney. These two were managed by Adam Faith, who, having seen his own singing career fade somewhat, had made a new career as an actor, and part-time manager of aspiring pop musicians.

Faith didn’t have an office in London, but as Gerard Sayer became Leo, and the hits started to bother the top forty, he needed somewhere to make and take phone calls, and meet people. Extraordinarily, Fortnum and Mason indulged Faith to the extent of allowing him to take up residence, every week day, from about 11:00am until the pubs opened, in the Fountain Restaurant, just off Jermyn Street.

Against a backdrop of murals of bucolic scenes, he was given free use of a telephone, and visitors would be directed to his corner table, where he would offer poached eggs and coffee. I adored these ‘meetings’ which, for me, were magical opportunities to discuss potential songs for the unfortunate Shusha for about two minutes, but to talk over the weekends’ football stories and gossip with (amazingly) Adam Faith, and an occasional entourage of slightly slippery looking associates for an hour or two. How he got away with this rather high class squatting is unclear, but the waitresses fluttered around him, and the formidable woman in charge of them all (Rosie, I think) lost her rather terrifying edge when serving up the extra portions of toast which appeared every fifteen minutes or so.

Times change. The way we live and work has changed. Try arranging a meeting with Simon Cowell in Fortnum and Mason. Short change.

Terence Dackombe, November 2010

Save The 100 Club

Our plan, through this ground-breaking initiative, is to raise enough capital through donations so that the save the 100 club campaign can buy the name, the rights, the goodwill and the fixtures & fittings from the present owner and take over ownership of the club.

The people who donated will become "members of the 100 Club" and will be invited to have their say on major decisions that the board of Trustees make. The club would be run as a NOT FOR PROFIT organisation and therefore would be eligible for government funding such as from the Lottery Fund and the Heritage Fund. The trustees will also be applying for heritage status for the club which would secure its long-term future.

The club, as we all know, is steeped in musical history but let's not forget that it is also about the future of live music in London. All the small venues are shutting and soon there will be nowhere for emerging bands to play. So what will happen? The bands will stop being formed and we will be left with a karaoke generation. We can't let that happen. We aim to allow new bands the chance to thrive in a renewed 100 Club that will, once again, be the place where musical careers are made.

We are in this because we care about the club and want to preserve it so that future generations can appreciate it as we have done. If a well known venue sponsor such as O2 comes along and buys the club and it stays open we would all be happy with that. In the worst-case scenario, the 100 Club becomes a storage space for a large high street shop and no one ever again gets to feel the history that seeps out of its walls and floors. That is what we are fighting against.

Help to preserve the past by saving the future.

Statement from Bobby Gillespie (Primal Scream)

When Primal Scream played there in 2006 it was a lifetime ambition realised. We first heard of the 100 Club while reading about the Punk Festival in 1976. I think Malcolm McClaren and Ron Watts put it on, The Sex Pistols, The Clash, and the very first performances by Subway Sect & Siouxsie & The Banshees (with Sid Vicious on drums) who played one song- 'The Lord's Prayer' To us teenage punks this was legendary stuff. I had a bootleg tape of the Pistols at The 100 Club that I used to listen to when i was 16. Filling my head with dreams. We formed our band because of punk rock and reading about The Banshees getting up onstage without any prior experience as musicians at that festival and becoming a band in the process.

When it comes to rock and roll, The 100 Club is the best room in London. No contest. No other venue comes close.

Rock and roll was created in small, sweaty clubs, that's where the music sounds best, it doesn't translate well to the big arenas as the band and audience are too distant from each other. It's all smoke and mirrors, any fool can put on a spectacular show to hide behind. And many do. At the 100 Club there is nowhere to hide, you've got to have the chops to deliver, you've got to mean it, there's no room for fakes, You've got to be good to play there and carry it off. Trial by fire.

Music is no longer underground anymore. Everything is bought and sold over and over again. Commodified. Dead. It's all Carling Academy's and HMV Apollos and 02 Arenas, Corporate, unfeeling, distant. Places as void of atmosphere and rock and roll history as shopping malls or airports.

There's less and less independently run clubs where young bands and new music can grow and become a life-changing cultural force like The Rolling Stones & The Sex Pistols did, both bands having started out playing at the 100 club.

That's why it's important to keep The 100 Club open. It would be a tragedy for British music if it disappears, It has as much cultural value as any art gallery or museum. It's a living place of history. Don't let it die.

http://www.savethe100club.co.uk/

Snappers

A few weeks ago I met Patrick Chauvel, who, in 1967, at the age of eighteen, decided he wanted to be a photographer.

Instead of pondering upon this career choice, and perhaps joining a local newspaper as a trainee, Patrick (in his own words) lied about his age, invented the name of a newspaper, and managed to arrive in South East Asia into the middle of the Vietnam War. In order to gain credibility and a seat on the helicopters taking the press to the heart of the action, he made up fantastic stories about his coverage of the Indo-China War, when in reality, at the time of that conflict, he had been thirteen years old and going to school in France.

Looking back, forty three years later, Patrick said that he believes he survived because he felt that overwhelming sense that one has at that age of the invincibility of youth.

He engaged with the US troops because they too were just out of college and anxious to talk of women and cars.

There was, early on in his Vietnamese experience, a sad and pivotal moment that, he reflected, led him to a very clear understanding that war is less an adventure and more a horror story for all of those involved in it.

Escorting a captured Vietcong soldier back to camp, Chauvel stumbled over the root of a tree and exclaimed “Merde” as he did so. “You’re French?” asked the young Vietnamese soldier. Telling Patrick his story he revealed that he had studied at the Sorbonne, before returning to his home country and fighting the American forces. Using the French he had learned during his time in the Latin Quarter of Paris, he told Patrick that he feared he would soon be shot. Patrick assured him that the coalition of American and South Vietnamese would never do such a thing.

Seconds later, a bunch of soldiers took the young Vietcong prisoner to one side and shot him in the head.

Something (and he couldn’t be sure what it was) hooked Patrick Chauvel into a life of war photography and since that day in 1967, he has covered nearly thirty conflicts all over the world, still with that sense of survival, and still with a rakish air and dry sense of humour.

Yesterday, I spent an hour in the company of Aamir, a twenty-eight year old single man, who lives with his parents in Boreham Wood. Aamir has a digital camera that he bought from eBay, and we met on the street in Wembley opposite the studios from where The X Factor is broadcast.

Aamir became a full time photographer nearly a year ago now, when he was trained ‘on the job’ by his cousin. Spending four days each week outside Fountain Studios (rehearsals on Thursday and Friday, live broadcasts on Saturday and Sunday), he fills the rest of his time hanging around outside nightclubs in Central London (Pangaea and Boujis mainly) hoping to take a snatched photo of a young royal or a bedraggled celebrity.

The best shots, Aamir told me, are the ones that show the target (a common word used by street snappers) in a moment of anger or confusion. He doesn’t deal directly with newspapers, magazines or other media, but has a network of agencies that act as middle men and secure him a payment of anything from twenty pounds for a standard but ‘exclusive’ shot of (for example) Cheryl Cole, to several hundred pounds if he can catch a celebrity falling over or punching someone.

In the hour we waited along Fulton Road, I counted fourteen cars, each of which contained at least two young-ish men. They work in pairs so that as one takes a bathroom break at the McDonalds next door, their partner ensures that a photo opportunity is never missed. The studios have covered (with tarpaulin and chipboard) the area where the X Factor acts and judges arrive, but the snappers overcome this by the judicious use of stepladders that enable them to peer over the fence at the slightest possibility of a clandestine shot of Simon Cowell or Dannii Minogue.

Aamir’s ambition is to get married and set up his own small agency, so that he can leave others to hang around in ancient Volvos, waiting for Katie Waissel or Matt Cardle to offer the five second window of opportunity as they are hustled from the people carrier and into Fountain Studios.

As I left Aamir, I thought of Patrick Chauvel. Two men carrying cameras. Two different worlds.

Terence Dackombe, November 2010

This week I have:

Wondered why I’m subscribing to The Times paywall when I only visit the site about once each month.

Been listening to Mozart’s Requiem on Spotify, and WKTU “The Beat Of New York” via the excellent ooTunes app. for the iPhone.

Read a superb piece, by Paul Du Noyer in the new issue of The Word magazine, on the life and influence of Brian Epstein.

Deconstruction time again

“Are there any Americans in tonight? Pointless rhetorical question. No answer required.” And so Stewart Lee opened his set at the Leicester Square Theatre on Tuesday night.

His comic cliché of an opening line was instantly picked apart and dismissed, this is the essence of Lee’s comedy and it’s quite unsettling. Throughout his two hour routine, we’re never entirely sure if an anecdote or observation is genuine (and therefore funny in its own right) or a parody of a comic approach laid bare for ridicule in few moments time.

But Lee never invites us to settle back with our drinks, comfortable in the knowledge we’re embarking on ninety minutes of gut-busting, gag-filled fun. Indeed, Lee confesses the show will include only three jokes and we’ll spot them because he’ll lean forward when he cracks them. In the event, two of the jokes are the same with a single word changed. No, Stewart wants us on the edge of our seats, unsure where we’re being taken. Or why. And he succeeds.

The first half is almost entirely consumed by a circuitous and surreal exploration of his grandfather’s love of crisps, which Lee explains he steals from charity events. But behind this Booshian stream of consciousness there’s some fairly savage distaste for the competition between comics to perform at the most fee-free benefit shows.

I suppose Lee isn’t unique in taking shots at more traditional or more careerist stand ups, but where he does have the edge is his fearlessness in naming them. He’s running down popular ‘modern’ comics like Andy Parsons and Frankie Boyle who may well have fans in his crowd. But for Lee this is merely another discomforting and provocative thrust to trap us in his headlights or prod us off our seat backs.

Using fuzzy logic he reveals Mock The Week’s Russell Howard to be better value as a charity cyclist than a comic – he doesn’t really mean it, but he does mean the wider, sceptical point.

Surprisingly, Lee does comedy songs too. Who knew? He certainly didn’t use them in his recent (and superb) ‘Comedy Vehicle’ TV run. For me, they aren’t a highlight, but they are another channel through which his contempt for showbiz gag merchants and panel show prattle can bubble. And a lyric which paints a picture of P-Diddy rapping in a jungle clearing at Russell Brand’s wedding while David Baddiel applauds can’t be entirely without merit.

So far, so post modern. What was completely unanticipated was the physical comedy which opened the second half. Clearly Lee wasn’t about to launch into a Lee Evans style pratfall extravaganza – instead he turned twenty minutes of guitar tuning into a masterclass of understated, perfectly timed and expertly executed visual (and aural) comedy. For a performer noted for his sarcasm and misanthropic monologues, it was quite a revelation to find his talent apparent in a routine of extended twanging and silences. It is most impressive and very, very amusing.

I won’t divulge the payoff to the lengthy, political memory which absorbs the final furlong of the show, but it does confirm my suspicion that, to this performer, predictability is the greatest failure of all.

Stewart Lee is a comedian but he is on a mission to distance himself from his mainstream colleagues and share his dismay with his audience. So much so that his bemusement oozes from every pore of his act. His revenge is to undermine the sleight of hand and button pushing other comics deploy to raise laughs. Lee is the magician who breaks the code and points out the smoke and mirrors.

He is the anti-comic but what’s impressive, is he makes his disdain and cynicism so compelling and so funny.

Magnus Shaw, October 2010

Treasure hunt

Today, we have the task of building a British National Treasure from component parts; someone who is generally loved by all, and forgiven their trespasses if they occasionally sin (so long as it’s not one of ‘those’ crimes).

The very phrase ‘National Treasure’ must be written with capital letters striking a resounding gong at the first letter of each of the words of the doublet to endorse the importance of the status.

Over the last few days, I have given much thought to determining exactly what it is that takes someone from their status as a likeable celebrity, to the pedestal, the pantheon and garlands that await confirmation as a National Treasure.

It helps to have a slightly dodgy element sitting uncomfortably in the aperitif of your life story, but with a definitive edge of redemption available as the main course. A caper hinting at a touch of the roué is particularly welcomed.

In such territory, roaming the Garrick and the MCC with the charm and élan of a man who has studied the works of P.G. Wodehouse, we find Stephen Fry, an NT cut from the finest cloth.

Such is the esteem in which Stephen is held, that he can, from time to time, throw hissy fits by way of his Twitter messages and take ‘thoughts for a walk’ in an interview (even when such thoughts are distinctly off message), yet still be welcomed back, with much warmth, when he seeks our understanding by posting five page blog entries explaining how it was all just a silly bit of assiness and folderol.

So, is it all about wearing tweed, attending Oxbridge, and exclaiming “My giddy aunt” hither and thither?

It would be hard to pin those traits on Danny Baker, our second example of an NT. Danny has no criminal past (we’ll forgive the ‘Danny Baker After All’ chat show from the early ‘90s), and almost certainly does not employ a Savile Row tailor, but is embedded as an integral part of our lives. Self effacing, but aware enough to leave no doubt about who is in charge, Danny has no enemies, a rarity for one who has been in the employ of media for over thirty years. There isn’t a soul alive who doesn’t wish him well in his current battle.

Right then, to qualify as an NT, you have to be a bloke in your fifties, and a broadcaster and writer?

Kate Bush is none of the above, didn’t attend an Oxbridge college, and has never hosted ‘Pet’s Win Prizes’ (to date). I believe I witnessed the very vaguest association Kate has ever had with criminality, when I told off a member of her family for painting ‘The K T Bush Band’ on a wall outside Air Studios in 1976.

She takes decades to release a set of songs, rarely gives interviews, and disappears for years at a time in a manner that Lord Lucan would admire. Yet when one thinks of Kate Bush, it is with warmth and a sense of gladness that she carries on ‘being Kate’; never to appear in a cameo on East Enders nor as a judge on X Factor. She doesn’t try.

Here, I suspect, we come closer to understanding the qualifications that should be listed on the notional CV of the National Treasure. Number one – don’t try.

There is a list of pretenders to the throne who by striving too hard and with ‘push you out of the way’ earnestness lose all prospect of ever entering the kingdom of the NT.

Harry Enfield, Barbara Windsor, Annie Lennox, Bono and Bill Oddie; they want our love just a little too much.

So to be awarded the National Treasure accolade, it helps to have an air of vulnerability, a charm to which it is easy to relate, and a certain lack of grandeur of one’s place in the world. I’m dismantling the laboratory; we can’t make a National Treasure, because you can only become one by not trying.

Terence Dackombe, October 2010

This week I have :

Heard Neil Hannon sing the Human League’s ‘Don’t You Want Me’ whilst accompanying himself on a grand piano.

Learned that when setting off to cover the conflict in Abyssinia in the 1930s, Bill Deedes took so much luggage, one taxi was required for the young reporter, and another to take the overspill of his collection of riding boots, breeches, and chalk striped suits, all packed in cedar wood, zinc-lined trunks.

Been present when Mark Radcliffe picked out the winning ticket in a raffle of a jar of homemade chutney.

Started to work my way through the 55 (!) CD box set of ‘111 Years of Deutsche Grammophon’ and looking forward to reaching the works of the wonderfully named Wilhelm Furtwängler.