A disastrous musical weekend


I’m hoping that this will be a cathartic experience, because I can’t remember ever feeling quite so low about the world of popular music.

Let me explain.

Following another challenging week, Friday evening found me curled up on the sofa, snoring lightly after couple of pints of home-brew. When I awoke, it was to the sounds of the cast of Eastenders ritually murdering the best of Motown. Even in the relative clarity of sobriety two days later, I still can’t understand why anyone thinks that having a group of unconvincing actors being less convincing on the singing and dancing front is in the least bit entertaining. Unless it’s in the name of shameless self-promotion (which I think is pretty much what celeb cheridy passes for these days). Anyway, it was horrible.

In my more structured daydreams, I’ve often thought that the one possession which I would cherish for the rest of my life would be a 200 play jukebox (probably an Ami Continental, if any of you are reading this with a view to that special Christmas present). 50 of the singles will be Motown, the other 50 will be the Stiff back catalogue, and frankly, I’ll need for nothing else in my life. Although after Friday, I’ve added an Ian Beale voodoo doll to my wish list. The point is, where something is good, be careful about messing it about. And if something is great, leave well alone.

Which brings me to Sunday night, when it was time to catch up on the immersion in popular culture that is the X Factor. And, as you may have seen, the return to the stage of everyone’s favourite misfit, the fairground exhibit that goes by the name of Susan Boyle. Who was singing ‘Wild Horses’. And frankly, reader, I wept for her. Well, I went to bed early, anyway, which in our house counts as about the same.

I will find it hard to describe to you how fantastic I think Wild Horses is as a song. It’s constructed brilliantly. It has flawless and yet relaxed guitar work on it (using Nashville tuning, fretboard fans). It manages to point Jagger’s louch public schoolboy sneer in a perfect embodiment of decadent self loathing. Crikey, any more of this and I’ll be writing for the Spectator. The point is, it works, in a way that ‘Angie’ and ‘Dead Flowers’ do, because on their day, the Glimmer twins could write songs that were just perfect rock and roll. And as such, it needs to be approached with caution. And putting Susan Boyle on the job, in a sapphire evening dress, singing tremulously in the style of Judy Collins with full orchestral accompaniment is Not The Way To Do It*.

As a result of this shenanigans, there are generations of people who will think that this is the way that ‘Wild Horses’ is supposed to sound, as a saccharine drenched sub-standard song, complete with sloppy timing and over ambitious wailing**. It makes even less sense than the cast of Eastenders frankly, but I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. After all, it’s only a few months since the same crew took Leonard Cohen’s finest round the back of the X factor studios and kicked it to death in the company of our very own Alexandra Burke.

This is popular music we’re talking about, so it’s really really really important. Something must be done.

Sorry, that wasn’t cathartic at all. I’m still very cross.

* For an example of The Way To Do It, see The Sundays version of Wild Horses. And if you’re really into this sort of nonsense, listen to Neil Young’s ‘Powderfinger’, back to back with the Cowboy Junkies cover. That (as Mr Punch might say)’s the way to do it.

** Hello, this is the Spectator…

Norwich Shadenfreude


I’ve become a citizen of the fine city of Norwich pretty much by osmosis. I arrived here almost 30 years ago, finding it very awkward to get to, and, unsurprisingly, as awkward to leave. Many of my friends arrived here about the same time, intending on staying for about 3 years, and we’ll all pretty perplexed about why the road out of Norwich is as trampled as the one in*. Norwich has many many wonderful qualities, one of the key ones being that the local characteristic is not to get too excited about how wonderful it is. Which means that they get to keep it to themselves.

Part of the responsibilities of a citizen of Norwich, is to naturally be very dismissive of anyone from Ipswich, particularly where football is concerned. It’s not exactly the Auld Firm rivalry, but there is an agreed assumption that if you come from Norwich (City) you should just dislike Ipswich (Town). (Sorry about that, but we have got a cathedral.)

And vice versa. Over the years I’ve played a few gigs in Ipswich, and everyone I’ve met has been perfectly charming. Until they ask you where you’re from. My friend Chris got into this situation in a pub once, and a bloke at the bar stared him out, saying that he hated Norwich so much that he’d removed all the yellow and green cables from his plugs.

So just hold that thought, while we consider the enigmatic force of nature that is Ipswich Town’s manager. Roy Keane is a long time stalwart of Manchester United, who is well known for stamping on his rivals in matches and for walking out of the Ireland World Cup team mid-tournament because he didn’t like the manager. So…that’ll be three good reasons to not like him terribly much. He’s got a fearsome reputation in the game, to the extent, I fear, that even journos don’t really like to criticise him too much in case he turns on them. So, possibly four reasons. And we’d probably be up to five if he was still playing for Ireland in last night’s match against France – how scary would that have been?

So, even though Norwich (City) are now in what we all agree is still called Division Three, playing against the legends of Bristol Rovers, Wycombe Wanderers and Tranmere Rovers, there is still a an immense sense of satisfaction to see Ipswich (Town) and Roy Keane go into a sharp and direct decline in the division above. Especially as it’s extremely likely that the club won’t sack Mr Keane as they’re too scared of him. Tee, and to a large extent, hee.

So, this local (and frankly, mildly xenophobic) schadenfreude is actually quite enjoyable. Apparently, if you’re any sort of person at all then this should be at best a guilty pleasure. But every now and again, all of your stars line up in the sky and you may as well enjoy it. After all, in a couple of years time, Norwich (City) might have a bad run, and the club could appoint a new manager, and it could be…

*Actually, it’s the same road, and it’s called the A11. A very strong campaign still exists to prevent it being converted to dual carriageway, as this would make the journey in & out a little too easy.

Paternity Sweet


I read in the Daily Telegraph last week* that there is a move for men to ‘stay away from childbirth’ as their presence make the process more difficult for women.

And, “… some women prefer their partner to be standing next to them at eye level and giving support there rather than putting pressure on them by peering at the business end which is not always the nicest place to be. ” Nicely put DT. Although it then goes on to quote a father-to-be, who found himself at (as we say) the business end, and described it as like seeing your favourite pub go up in flames. All of which does start to say something about your typical Telegraph reader these days.

Anyway, I’m not sure at all that I agree. Certainly, (and especially for first-timers,) a man’s visit to a maternity ward while his partner is in the throes of labour is a pretty daunting experience. But there are many many things that you learn for future visits :

– You are not the most important person for the next few hours. In fact, you won’t be for several years. More importantly, as a couple, your ‘special time’ is fairly old news to most people who work on maternity wards.

– The birth plan that you lovingly produced after reading Dr Miriam Stoppard’s books** on childbirth is completely and utterly useless.

– Especially the bit about ‘no drugs’. Given this is one of the few times in your life where you can have an open mind on using drugs, you may as well. Note, these are not for sharing.

– And ‘Sarah Brown’s Healthy Pregnancy” is utter nonsense, cover to cover. Especially the bit about knocking up a quick fruit cake as you go into labour. As the youth of today say, WTF.

– And the soothing cucumber baby wipes that you packed to mop your partner’s fevered brow. What on earth were you thinking of?

– Slightly more useful is the snacks and chocolate. But remember that these were for sharing.

– When she says something like “YoucompletebastardI’mneverlettingyoucomeany- wherenearmeagain”, stand back. Don’t attempt to argue. In fact, if possible, avoid eye contact, but don’t go too far the other way and start reading a book.

– Speaking of which, even if there is a TV in the room, don’t ask if you can switch it on. Even if there is a really important match on***. And probably best to keep the Blackberry out of view.

– Remember, every hilarious observation in this situation has been made a thousand times before. Possibly on this shift.

Things to watch out for post-birth:

– If, post birth, your wife tries to walk around the ward, and someone asks when the baby is likely to be born, you are allowed to deck that person. It’s the law.

– When your baby is presented to you in a green blanket, it means that your partner has been in surgery, not that you’ve had your first Alien. Although we did wonder for the first couple of years.

– The nurses will insist on carrying the baby out of the hospital. All the way to the waiting car, which in the case of Emu#1, was a deathtrap, masquerading as a minicab. Which was a good way to demonstrate that from now on, you’re completely on your own.

And remember to feed, but also remember:

– The NCT is populated entirely by well meaning people. With an agenda. That isn’t necessarily yours.

– Sometimes things don’t work out right. And then, and possibly only then, you should be grateful that the Tesco’s down the road is open 24 hours.

*Now, I never thought I’d start off a sentence like that. But I also remember reading Bill Gates’ column on knowledge, where he said out of principle he would read information that didn’t interest him, to widen his understanding of the world. So I thought I’d try a fetid out of touch broadsheet. Also, there was a free bottle of water and I was thirsty.

** Pah! Pah! And Pah! Again.

*** For Emu#1, a comfortable 1-0 win vs Coventry City, just prior to beating Bayern Munich in the UEFA cup. Yes, that’s Norwich City. And Bayern Munich. In the UEFA Cup.