London Calling

A rather lengthy hiatus from me, caused essentially by a relocation down to the Big Bad City of London Town, and the subsequent lack of internet access. Some may say that it's a big step. Others may say that it's a bad step. Either way, it's a step, and one that offers a whole new music scene to delve into.

After all, this is Clash territory, and Keith Richards' stomping ground. Hendrix emerged here. Hendrix died here. Elton John visits regularly, and it is reported that Elvis may have stopped here once on his way to Germany as part of his military duties. Greatness everywhere, to be sure. There's even Abbey Road around the corner.

But then again, this is my London. A city of sunbeams over Westminster with 'Mr Tambourine Man' as the soundtrack, of bustling markets booming JB's 'The Boss' and any number of unknown latino bossa nova dub funk tracks. Unlimited Pastures New seems to be the name of the game, and I love the smell of unlimitedness in the morning.

It smells like victory.

Makes the Blood Boyle

So it would appear that Britain's Got Talent front-runner Susan Boyle is the most famous woman on the planet right now. The saga of the Scottish singer - who apparently has 'never been kissed' - has made for "brilliant television," according to mentor Simon Cowell (i.e. completely staged and nothing whatsoever to do with real music).

In aiming to secure a spot on this year's bill at the Royal Variety Performance, Boyle's fame has spread across the globe quicker than swine flu, thanks to Youtube clips and internet forums - and for the fact that NO-one expected such wonderful sounds to come from that face. That sounds a little harsh perhaps, I know, but there isn't a person out there who can deny that they were expecting a Miserable Les, as opposed to Les Miserable.

But good luck to her, she's alright in my book. Cowell will stitch her up at some point like the **** he is, but let her ride the wave while it's there. However, forget appearances on Oprah, Larry King or potentially in front of the Royal Family, Boyle's greatest achievement is surely that she has just been referenced on The Simpsons.

Entering the Springfield's Got Talent contest hosted by Simon Cowell, Homer Simpson announces, "I'm 39 years old and, well, I've never been kissed," before adding: "My dream is to be a great singer like Susan Boyle."

Genius. Pure genius. Boyle can die a happy, un-kissed woman - she's just been aspired to by the Greatest Philosopher of the Modern Day.

But let us not become too carried away with this brief tangent, for Homer Simpson is, after all, a rock 'n' roller in the truest sense: too wild for Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Lenny Kravitz, Tom Petty and Elvis Costello at Rock-and-Roll Fantasy Camp; freaking out "squares" with Billy Joel's 'Uptown Girl'; a stout lover of Steve Miller's 'The Joker'; an ardent hater of The Carpenters; and above all, the greatest all-time fan of Grand Funk Railroad, perhaps America's most-hated band this side of The Eagles.

Describing Grand Funk's musical importance and legacy, Homer states: "Grand Funk Railroad paved the way for Jefferson Airplane, which cleared the way for Jefferson Starship. The stage was now set for the Alan Parsons project, which I believe was some sort of hovercraft."

Now THAT'S how you go down in rock 'n' roll history.

Beginning life in Flint, Michigan, in the power-trio mould of Cream, Grand Funk contained "the wild, shirtless lyrics of Mark Farner; the bone-crushing bass of Mel Schacher; the competent drum work of Don Brewer." For some reason(s) despised and dismissed, they nevertheless sold out Chicago's Shea Stadium quicker than The Beatles, and had a massive #1 hit in 1973 with 'We're An American Band' - a simplistic, middle-American anthem which struck a chord in an era dominated by failure in Vietnam and the post-Watergate downfall of the Office of the Presidency.




But don't listen to me. As Homer would say: "For more information on Grand Funk, consult your school library."

Kirsty Almeida

@ Odder Bar, Manchester, 19th May 2009

There really is nothing better than great live music - especially when it is free - and particularly when it is delivered with the passion, relaxed assuredness and talent that Kirsty Almeida and her band bring to the table.

Housed in the "quirky and intimate surroundings of Odder," Almeida's music and vocals perfectly fill the room and wrap themselves around the packed crowd. It is jazz, it is soul and blues, but via Parisian Walkways, Las Ramblas and the Caribbean. Backed by a string quartet, a 3-piece horn section, guitars, keyboards and even a steel drum, Almeida's 'sound' will hopefully give the corporate bods a real headache when trying to pigeon-hole her into a particular category.

And she is all the better for it. Perfect for a slot on Jools Holland, for example, her eclectic mix and variation of influences would be wasted on today's youth, and her band too talented for anyone in the Top 40. Think Amy Winehouse or Corinne Bailey Rae, but with an understanding of the world outside of CD sales figures, and a determination to do her own thing. "This is the story of my life," she announces as an introduction to 'Wrong Mr Right', as the intimacy levels raise just that little bit higher, her eye-contact with the audience members drawing them closer and involving them in the tale.

Born in Gibraltar, but raised in numerous locations around the world, Almeida seems to have absorbed every style of music that has passed her ears, and is now giving it back to the masses in her own way. She has the sound of an artist that has honed her craft, paid her dues and pursued her own path.

She is undoubtedly a great talent, and is highly recommended by yours truly. See for yourself, and catch her live as soon as you can:

http://www.myspace.com/almeidagirl

Anarchy In The J-O-B

Long have been the discussions about what is Punk, and when was Punk. For most, the Sex Pistols instantly spring to mind, and the image of spotty, unclean youths in late 1970s Britain, pogo-ing en masse in clubs and gobbing on one another. Spiked, multi-coloured hair and safety pins through ears and noses. Ripped denim and Sticking It To The Man.

As a musical movement - while the Sex Pistols again stand as the poster boys - general consensus will take you via The Clash, The Damned, The Ramones, Iggy and The Stooges, and T-Rex even. After all, You Won't Fool the Children of the Revolution. There will also be cases made for the inclusion of legends like Bob Dylan and Bob Marley, due to the evocation of a protest mentality so prevalent in their work.

It is a tricky one to pin down. Defined as "the defiance of social norms of behaviour," and musically involving "abusive or violent protest lyrics," Punk can be anti-establishment, anti-authoritarian, anarchic and anti-societal. It would seem, therefore, that it can come from anywhere.

As a case in point, look at the following lyric excerpts:

"I swear sometimes that man is out to get me"

"It's all takin' and no givin'

They just use your mind

And you never get the credit"

"It's a rich man's game

No matter what they call it

And you spend your life

Puttin' money in his wallet"

There are undeniable hints of anger, protest, a dissatisfaction with life as it is........a Punk Mentality, no doubt. Yet the artist behind these words, venomously spitting out her oral assault, is none other than country icon Dolly Parton, singing her 1980 #1 hit single '9 To 5'.

Let's face it, we all know the song, though that knowledge usually stretches only as far as the sing-along chorus. And that is the major point. This is Punk in its finest, a savage criticism on behalf of the common masses about Those In Charge, sitting as they do in their luxurious idleness while the workers graft away on their behalf for little or no reward.

And nobody even realises it!!

She could have changed the world, could Dolly. But that chorus was just too damn catchy.

Random Friday Ponderings

Why do dogs enjoy so much the simple act of sticking their head out of a moving car window?!

Is it the smell of the breeze? Unlikely in these parts, surrounded as we are by chemical and industrial plants at one end, and the local sewage treatment works at the other.

Is it the feeling of the wind in the face, perhaps, tingling the senses and creating some sense of canine euphoria?

Or could it be - as occurred to me this afternoon when presented with such a scene on the road - that the whipping of the wind through furry, flappy dog ears, at city-based speeds of 23-38 miles-per-hour, could create within the little pooch brains the sound of some grand orchestral magnificence?! Can you imagine! There we have the mental anguish of Beethoven, deaf to his own brilliance, and yet along comes Spot in his suped-up Vauxhall Nova, and *BAM* - a cacophony of instruments and timbre and pitch to rival the greatest symphonies known to man.



Just imagine. Woof.

Dig For Your Own Soul

As an 80s child, I was part of the generation that witnessed the flourishing and constant improvement of home computers and games consoles. The boom of the latter in particular - from C64's to Gameboys to Mastersystems to Super NES's - was such that every kid I knew, and possibly that existed, was immersed in arcade dimensions away from the real world.

As it turned out, I was (am!) absolutely shocking at most computer games, and gave up trying soon after the craze caught on. No sooner had I learned how to punch in Street Fighter II, than I had developed thumb-lock and was routinely being super-cosmic-sonic-boomed by my opponents. It was not for me.

You would think, therefore, that I would loath all forms of computerised gaming, but recently things have changed - or should I say, new respect has been afforded. While I am yet to play them, titles such as Guitar Hero, Rock Band and the Grand Theft Auto series are playing a major part in musically educating the younger generations by including 'classic' tracks as integral elements of the gaming experience. Slash, the iconic G&R/Velvet Revolver legend, recently recounted an anecdote in which a pre-teen child approached him after recognising him as the cartoon guitarist on the cover of Guitar Hero. The kid even asked him if he could actually play real guitar! "Why yes, sonny, I've been known to throw out a lick or two."

What these games are doing, by awakening newer generations to the possibility of life outside of Britney Spears and the Top 40 Chart, is ensuring the longevity of great music, and inspiring more and more people into the great art of Music Investigation. Too often do people sit on their fat backsides, waiting for the various forms of media to tell them which music is good, and what they should buy. And in the online world of Amazon and eBay, it is becoming rarer to buy music in person, where you could walk into a shop and talk - yes, talk! - to someone about your tastes, and be recommended towards other artists and sounds.

I stand by Investigation as the path to purity. Had I not read an article on Frank Zappa when I was 16, it is unlikely that I would have ever come across his music, let alone bee-lined for the nearest record store and bought any of his albums. That, in turn, subsequently led me to Captain Beefheart, whose Clear Spot album now ranks among my favourites. I found Cream because I read that - before his later drivel, like 'Tears In Heaven' - Eric Clapton used to be in a blues-rock power trio in the 1960s. Sunshine for MY investigative love. Hell, how many people have just discovered the world of Northern Soul purely due to the use of Don Thomas' 'Come On Train' in the recent Visa ads (where the guy dances through the streets on crutches).

That these tracks and artists still gain exposure is of great importance, but also is the willingness to dig a little deeper once something of interest has been discovered. Working backwards can prove a revelation. Modern day Paul Weller fans could discover The Jam, for instance. Just imagine hearing 'Town Called Malice' or 'Going Underground' suddenly for the first time, what a rush! And the best part of it is that you would have earned that moment, because you did the groundwork. The record companies put a lot of time and effort into subverting the masses towards their artists for the sole factor of money. Don't take the guff from those swine, do it yourself and the possibilities are endlessly more enjoyable.

How else would I know about 'Evelyn, A Modified Dog' or that 'Nowadays a Woman's Gotta Hit a Man'?!

Bright Light City

Bags: packed. Tickets, money, passport: check. 09:00 flight to Las Vegas: confirmed. Fat wads of cash, beautiful women, 24-hour rum bars and total neon excesses all within imminent grasp, yet there is important work still to be done. The soundtrack must be compiled.

There is going to Las Vegas, and then there is doing Las Vegas in style. Anyone of similar mentality, of multiple persuasions and A.D.D. zig-zagging passions, with too much Hunter Thompson on the brain and too many viewings of Swingers, will understand this notion. A trip should go with the flow, however an Atmosphere should still be created - as imperative as betting on black and always doubling-down on 11.

Track 1, Side 1: 'Viva Las Vegas' - Elvis Presley. Just because. It's where everything started. Throw on some Tom Jones and some Rolling Stones, straight off the Fear & Loathing soundtrack. No sympathy for the devil, after all. A spot of Grand Funk, some real funk, Sly Stone, Three Dog Night and some Dylan. 'Awww, mama, can this really be the end.....'

But this is the modern-day equivalent, still aiming to be "a gross, physical salute to the possibilities of life," but with much more bass. Volume, clarity, bass.....and an iPod docking station in the suite. It is no longer Frank Sinatra's town, Rat Pack territory. But nor will I accept that Celine Dion and Donny Osmond are running the show. So which way to turn - what would Horatio Alger do?

Drop some Ol' Dirty Bastard. Track 1, Side 2: 'Shimmy Shimmy Ya', followed up closely with Kanye's '808s', some UNKLE-remixed Ian Brown, Mark Ronson, some Dap Kings or Soul Investigators. And save The Avalanches for the morning, an alarm clock of samples to force the wounded and the weary into the scarcely-seen daylight hours. The patio section of the Flamingo, of course, to drink Singapore Slings with gatorade on the side.

A classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent. In £25 suits, eating 39-cent hotdogs, approaching 21-year old Bunnies. Leering and Foaming in Las Vegas, a Gonzo attempt for this foul year of Our Lord, 2009. Just a few more Freaks trying to find the Freak Kingdom.

Offer Me Protection

It was interesting recently to read a chart compiled by BBC Radio 2, which suggested that Procul Harum's 'A Whiter Shade of Pale' was the most-played song in public places of the last 75 years. It is undeniably a great song, containing both a lyrical ambiguity (everything from dancing the fandango to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales) and an instantly recognisable lead organ riff, which, combined, acted as a commercial breakthrough for the emerging sound of British psychdelia in 1967.

There are other interesting elements to the chart also. Somehow, no song by the Beatles features in the Top-10 - although a multitude of explanations could account for this, from copyright laws to royalty payments etc. Of the Top-10, 7 of the songs are from 1976 or earlier, which is understandable simply because they have had a longer period to be played. Bryan Adams' '(Everything I do) I Do It For You' was a number 1 hit for about a billion years, which explains how it could be played so often since 1991, and Wet Wet Wet's 'Love Is All Around' was on the soundtrack to Hugh Grant's 1994 breakthrough Brit-com film Four Weddings and a Funeral, so again there are reasons.

Which all leads up to one important question: what the hell is Robbie Williams' 'Angels' doing at number 6?!?!

I mean christ almighty, it's barely over a decade old, yet has somehow been played more times than Bing Crosby's 'White Christmas', which was released in nineteen-FOURTY-TWO!! Even Elvis only made it to number 7. It boggles the mind, and depresses those of us with any musical taste whatsoever. The "Fat Dancer" from Take That has a lot to answer for, but clogging up the airwaves with insipid drivel is surely the main offence.

Gary Brooker, Procul Harum's lead vocalist and writer of 'A Whiter Shade of Pale', stated upon learning of this most recent accolade that it was a "great and unsought honour." Yet you can well imagine Williams' indignation at only being number 6, and not higher. Some people go into the music industry to push boundaries, experiment with sound and language and create new art forms. Others just want to make money and move to L.A.

As Brooker sang: "...her face at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale." She'd obviously just seen where 'Angels' was in the chart.

Weak for Motown

Of all the musical events and releases due in 2009, none can be as important as the anniversary of possibly the greatest American record label. 50 years ago this year, Berry Gordy opened the doors of Motown Records in Detroit, Michigan, and popular music was changed forever. With a roster of artists that would include Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Gladys Knight, Smokey Robinson, The Four Tops, The Temptations, Stevie Wonder, Diana Ross and the Supremes - to name but a few - Motown created a sound that built on African American musical traditions, yet was universally accessible to all colours and races.

Much has been, and subsequently will be, written about the history of the label and the importance and cultural relevance of the Motown catalogue. Yet a common theme accompanying this important anniversary appears to revolve around one question: 'What is the greatest Motown song ever recorded?'

It is not an easy question to answer. I was lucky enough to grow up with Motown playing in the background - my old man's favourite song of all time is Smokey's 'Tears of a Clown' - and fortunately adopted a taste for such music myself. I own plenty of Marvin, Stevie, Diana Ross (even though I can't stand her voice!). I've seen Motown's house band, The Funk Brothers, live in concert, as well as The Four Tops and The Temptations (albeit modern incarnations). So where do I start?!

Common consensus generally gives the vote to Martha Reeves and the Vandellas' 'Dancing In The Street', a truly great song, and one which I can understand the reasons behind the number of votes it receives. But it's not for me. Personally, my favourite Motown recording is The Isley Brothers' 'This Old Heart Of Mine (Is Weak For You), which rather goes against the grain when you consider that it was the only major hit the group had on the Motown label.

For a song that was passed over by The Four Tops - who deemed it inferior to the rest of their output - it has everything: one of the most memorable intros in pop music, that simply makes you want to dance; a vocal delivery from Ronald Isley that is full of passion and emotion; poignant lyrics concerning the subtler sides of romance (the breaking of a heart just from the breaking of an embrace); and above all a chorus that every man, woman and child is compelled to sing along to. A part of me even wishes that I didn't like the song so much, for my masculine pride would like to think that if a woman left me 100 times, I would not take her back once, let alone all 100 times! But the song permeates any defences, enters the soul and lifts you up to say 'Here, this is me, this is who I am'.

It is a lifetime of love, loss and recovery in a 2-minute 46-second bubble, which your feet won't stop moving to. Musical Perfection.

Sad Spector-cle

It certainly seemed inevitable - in a similar way to how justice caught up with OJ Simpson - that legendary music producer Phil Spector would in some way be brought to account for the death of the actress Lana Clarkson, which occured in his house 6 years ago. And so it was, yesterday, that after 30 hours of deliberation the jury found him guilty of her murder.

I do not pretend to know all the facts of the case, and as such would never sit here and argue over the verdict. But what I do know is that Phil Spector made great music, and I hope that in the great History of Time it is this fact that he is most remembered for. Many great people have wandered from their path before him (MJ anyone?!), and many will subsequently do so in years to come.

But any man that can create The Ronnette's 'Be My Baby', Ike & Tina's 'River Deep, Mountain High', 'You've Lost That Loving Feeling' by the Righteous Brothers and The Beatles' Let It Be album should always be held in the highest musical regard. His 'Wall of Sound' technique was equally both innovative and instantly recognisable, and an inspiration to many. Brian Wilson even described 'Be My Baby' as "the most perfect pop record of all time."

Not a bad legacy.

Shame about the gun obsession.

"accept no substitute"

I think if there was one person whose record collection I would most like to see, it would be Quentin Tarantino. I've said this for years (he's yet to allow me access), and my position was certainly reaffirmed last night when I caught Jackie Brown on the TV. In the process of shutting down for the night and turning off the lights, I was halted in my tracks, hypnotised by the opening bars of Bobby Womack's 'Across 110th Street', which were emanating from the box. I was trapped. 3 hours later, when I eventually made it to bed, I was vowing once more that somehow, sometime in my life, I'd find a way to persuade Sir Quentin to let me into his vault.

As with Cameron Crowe (see On the Kerb Again, below), a guaranteed part of Tarantino's movies is a cracking soundtrack ("It is the rhythm of the film," he says), and in Jackie Brown we are given his homage to 1970s funk and soul music and Blaxploitation flicks. Not always bothering with mere snippets, he opens the film with the blissful entirety (all 3-minutes and 46-seconds) of 'Across 110th Street', before winging us via the Brothers Johnson, Minnie Riperton, the Meters, Bill Withers and the Delfonics. The look that Samuel L. Jackson gives Robert Forster, upon starting his car to find the Delfonics' 'Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)' playing on the stereo, is possibly the best bit of acting he's done in 15 years.

Equal parts disgust and wonderment, I imagine it's the same look I'd fire at Quentin if ever I get my grubby mitts on his vinyl.

If you're reading this QT, just gimme one shot.....

It's a Sin

It's something I never thought I'd say, but the new single by the Pet Shop Boys, 'Love Etc', is absolutely brilliant. Instinctive reaction a month ago was that The Brits panel had lost their minds when suddenly throwing out a bunch of accolades after all those years, but I will happily hold my hands up and admit to being wrong and pleasantly surprised when I heard the track.



True talent, I guess, doesn't fade.
Get hold of a copy.

'A Piece for Assorted Lunatics'

36 years ago this week, Pink Floyd released The Dark Side of the Moon. Often considered the group's defining work, and a regular on Greatest Album lists, Dark Side spent over fourteen years on Billboard's list of the Top-200 best selling albums and is the 3rd highest selling album of all time in the USA.

That the album was a commercial success is undeniable. That the success was unintentional, however, is often overlooked. Perhaps more than any other rock act of the late-1960s and early-1970s, Pink Floyd maintained a focus on musical experimentation, working to their own sense of artistic credibility rather than to what might 'appeal' to a mass audience.

Dark Side kept to that vision. Dealing with birth, greed, violence, insanity and death, the album is an entire human life in the space of 42 minutes and 59 seconds. Songs were interspersed with snippets of dialogue taken from impromptu interviews with the band's road crew, adding an ethereal but also human element. And on a technological front, the album was recorded using some of the most advanced techniques of the time. It is one of the first albums to use quadraphonic surround sound systems, and features the rhythmic sequencing of numerous sound effects, such as clocks, money drawers and even a human heartbeat.

At a time when the current chart contained the likes of the Partridge Family, Little Jimmy Osmond and Olivia Newton John, Dark Side was as far removed from commercial as you could get. And yet the album was adopted by millions and became a cultural phenomenon, even expanding into other spheres. There is a well-known coincidence that when played simultaneously alongside the original 1939 film version of The Wizard of Oz, the music perfectly intertwines with the images on screen (what the hell was the guy on who first noticed that?!). The album even topped a poll for 'The Best Album To Have Sex To' (I'm yet to personally confirm that one).

In an era when record execs sit around in plush offices discussing what Sound and what Look the public should like next ("Let's bring back the 80s, because it wasn't shit enough the first time!"), it's good to remember a purer time when musical acts were given the freedom to work on their art without interference. Long may the current Indie scene carry that torch forwards.

Bad Vibrations

Daytime TV has long been the scourge of the daylight hours. The teenage pregnancies and wife-beatings of Jeremy Kyle, the re-runs of Going For Gold or the chance to buy 2 shopping basket trolley bags for under 10 quid if you call me in the next 7 minutes. It's enough to drive anyone into employment. Well, almost anyone.

There has been a recent shining star on the horizon of late, however, in the form of the excellent Seven Ages of Rock documentary series. And having just caught the episode on 90s Indie/Brit Pop, a thought occurred to me: where have all the inter-band battles gone?

Back in my formative years, there was only one important question - whether you liked Blur or Oasis (personally I preferred Supergrass to either, but that's just the way I am). Your social standing lived or died depending on your answer, and many a fight could start from a throwaway comment about Damon Albarn being a pansy.

A generation earlier the Rolling Stones and the Beatles tussled for superiority of Britain, embarking on artistic one-upmanship and subtle parody in an attempt to be declared The Greatest. The Stones even temporarily abandoned their blues-rock blueprint in exchange for a crack at psychedelia, 1967's Their Satanic Majesties Request, lest they allow the Fab Four to claim the market unchallenged.

What stands out from these examples is that artists previously used their craft as the expression of their talent - they let the music do the talking. Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys drove himself into a nervous breakdown, so determined was he to create something that would surpass the Beatles (admittedly 'Good Vibrations' is arguably the greatest single ever recorded, even if it did take a year to make and cost him his sanity). But in a world of MySpace and OK magazine, it's all too easy now for 15-Minute Popstars to sit on their pedestal of hubris and hurl out insults at their chart rivals. Now, I'm happy to slang abuse in the direction of Eoghan Quigg or Peaches Geldoff as much as the next guy, but if I had genuine talent, a studio and a record company at my disposal, I'd emote my ideas through music. After all, isn't that what real artists do?

And if all that failed, I'd start shooting a la Biggie and 2Pac - at least that had some violent poeticism about it.

On the Kerb Again

When watching many films, it is often easy to strip away the special effects and technology, to see through the extra-thick layering of 'romance' and attempted social commentary, and reach some very simple elements. Such is certainly the case with Cameron Crowe's Elizabethtown, which I watched last night. Once you move past Orlando Bloom's dubious American accent and the overall unlikeliness of the entire story, you are left with two staples of Crowe's movies: a Journey and a fantastic Soundtrack.

The idea of the Great Roadtrip is straight out of the American tradition - of westward expansion and Manifest Destiny. On its shoulders ride the ghosts of Lewis & Clark, the Gold Rush prospectors, a dusty Kerouac and the tripped-out insanity of Hunter S. Thompson. Throw in some great tunes and you've got the ultimate combination: the Open Road and Rock & Roll.

The two certainly go hand-in-hand, just look at Easy Rider for proof. For an Englishman limited to fist-pumping down the M6 toll road with Meatloaf's Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell blaring out of the stereo, the appeal of an American Rock & Roll Roadtrip is endless. Wide highways, bright sunshine, beer in truck stops and the world's cheapest petrol prices. The current plan therefore is for a journey of musical discovery later in the year, from Cleveland (the home of Rock & Roll) to Memphis (the home of Sun Records) to New Orleans (the home of jazz). With additional stops also at any nearby college towns (the home of hot college chicks!), and Louisville, Kentucky (the home of Colonel Sanders) to stock up on chicken snacks.

I suppose the only question is: what songs to put on the playlist, to fit in with the grand tradition of those that have gone before?
"Oh, mama, can this really be the end...."

Suggestions please.

Blog of Eternal Stench

As I sit here, mired in the confusion that comes hand-in-hand with the 'all important 2nd album' syndrome, I couldn't fail to notice that my debut blog may appear slightly on the 'negative' side. It's certainly true that I detest Reality TV and Viewer-Voter music shows with a murderous passion, and hold them accountable for the decline of British Society. Them, and mushrooms. But why focus on the downsides of life, for surely that man was right when he said that we should accennnnnnnnntuate the positive.

The intention then is to be a Beacon of Hope, a light in the window for my poor wandering boy, lost in the wilderness somewhere between Steps and Miley Cyrus. There has, after all, been almost a century's worth of recorded popular music, and it's only in recent years that things have truly started to suck. So we shall stand as a musical Treaty of Versailles, a League of Nations, designed to call to account the aural atrocities and make sure that They Don't Happen Again. (Admittedly, Versailles and the L.O.N ultimately allowed for the rise of Nazi Germany and Big Adolf's World Tour 1939-1945, but the intention was in the right place).

From Hank to Hendrix, Marvin to Miles, Dylan to The Dillards, ? and The Mysterians to ?uestlove and The Roots, we shall champion the great and rise above the unworthy. On a sun-blessed Friday afternoon, what more could anyone ask for?

Idol-ness Killed the Radio Star

The great philosopher and musicologist Theodore W. Adorno once wrote that "a country's music has become a political ideology by stressing national characteristics, appearing as a representative of the nation, and everywhere confirming the national principle." If this sentiment still stands true in the modern age, I move to suggest that we are, as a nation, in cultural trouble.

Culture has long been defined as “the best that has been thought and said in the world." But from a musical standpoint, when was the last time that anybody actually said anything of value? Addicted to technology, lazy to the core, the 'Me Generation' has been probed, invaded and hypnotised by the biggest cultural Death Star of them all: Pop Idol.

Worse still is that the plague is spreading. X Factor, Fame Academy, Big Brother even.... where will it end?! Now don't get me wrong, I'm happy to laugh at an over-weight pie factory worker in a cowboy hat, belting out an off-key rendition of Elvis' 'Burning Love'. That and any number of cringe-worthy 'auditions' from the early stages. But as an expression of Britain's talent, this should be relegated to the lowest echelons of circus performance, next to the Bearded Lady and the Man With a Small Head. We're amusing ourselves to death in front of the TV set, and the price we're paying is the loss of great music.

The so-called Winners from these shows, those that earn recording contracts, offer nothing to the Great Library of music history - Gareth Gates, Leon, Michelle McManus, David Sneddon...... I mean come on! And even those with an ounce of longevity, like Girls Aloud or Leona Lewis, are better to look at than listen to, let's be honest. The root problem is that music should have nothing to do with image or television. Yet we encourage the creation of Plastic Popstars with no substance through shows which are little more than Glorified Karaoke, and then offer them up to the universe as the greatest exponents of our national cultural expression. Well forgive me for thinking that we should aspire to greater quality.

Lily Allen hit the nail bang on the head with her recent single 'The Fear': people's aspirations nowadays are solely to be famous, to be a Celebrity, and it is Reality/Viewer-Voter TV shows that fuel this misguided notion. Irrespective of talent or hard work, just get yourself on TV somehow and the world's your oyster. Or at a bare minimum you'll be allowed into China Whites once or twice. And all the while, in pubs, clubs and small venues across the country, hard-working and talented acts scrape out a musical living, but stay ignored by the record companies because it would be too much work and cost too much to find and promote them. Perhaps they don't have the right Look.

Groucho Marx had a point when he noted: "I find television very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book." Our musical culture is being eroded at a fast rate of knots, and it's Death By 40inch Plasma Widescreen.

But then again, what would I know. Anyway must dash, there's a Cheeky Girls special on channel 39.