30. 12. 2012

December has passed in a flurry of december-like activities, many involving libations of one kind or another, and early morning hours. And for the first time ever I have managed to escape completely the absolute horror that is the mince pie, an over-sweet abomination of the British cuisine that is even worse than the snow white or pink sugar glazing they plaster all their buns with, and eel pie.

Three interviews. First, the wonderuflly named Beth Jeans Houghton & The Hooves of Destiny whose excellent Rockabilly/1930s/Post-Folk debut album will be released in February. It's not easy not to get side-tracked when four people sit around a table, all chipping in with jokes, anecdotes and attempts at serious responses. I did find out, however, that their guitarist was part of the band that accompanied original Can singer Malcolm Mooney on a UK tour not long ago. A total loon, apparently.

I also met François Marry aka François & The Atlas Mountains whose new album comes out in January. François is a Frenchman who arrived in Bristol many years ago as a language assistant - just as I arrived in London as a language assistant even more years ago. As a fan of the total DIY ethos he has released a handful of albums miles away from even the indie mainstream, before his last came out via King Creosote'sFence Collective, and now he has landed at Domino. His music is a subtle blend of Scottish guitar music à la Delgados and a hint of Dominique A.

And then there were Peaking Lights, aka Aaron Coyes and Indra Dunis. Their album "936" is a hypnotic and intense blend of King Tubby-Dub, Mazzy Star-vocals and psychedelic synth wooshes (the synths built by Coyes himself!). Its effect is so narcotic it probably won't be available legally for long. Aaron and Indra turned out to be exceptionally friendly and open-minded interviewees and raconteurs. Later that same day they played live at the Rough Trade East shop, and they had no trouble reproducing their heady blend of influences on stage. "But where's the fucking bass?" grumbled a young man behind me at one stage, and he was right: it was difficult to believe that such a heavy, ripe bass could emanate from a bank of keyboards. Aaron turned out to be an intrepid explorer of the outer reaches of music. Here's one super warm recommendation from him: "20 Ragas to a Disco Beat" by Charanjit Singh. He is also a great fan of cassette tapes. I've promised to copy him a bunch of my 1980s Bhangra tapes in time for their next visit in London.

Thanks to A.N. Wilson, a literary discovery: China Miéville's "Embassytown". I don't normally look for books in Sci-Fi or Fantasy sections, and I've never enjoyed novels where the characters live in the outer reaches of the universe, have weird extra-limbs and abilities, are called weirdly weird fantasy names, and use invented words the meaning of which the reader has to figure out by himself. Well, "Embassytown" makes for an extraordinary exception. It's not a an easy read by any means, but it is such a gripping and complex exploration of "language" (or: "Language") that I've found it both unputdownable and strangely inspiring. And, as Steve in in Willesden Bookshop informs me, Miéville likes to sit and type in one of the cafés down the Kilburn High Road.

Ingenious and ever so slightly devious advertising campagn by the Fire Brigade under the teasing slogan "Last Night a Burger Saved My life". It informs us that a large number of house fires are started, apparently, by drunks treating themselves to a fry-up after the pub and forgetting to switch off the deep frying pan. The fire brigade's advice: buy yourself a burger on the way home, and preferably from McDonalds, to avoid the problem altogether!

On the Playlist page: My top 20 for 2011.

30. 11. 2011

19a on the plane back from Switzerland, my favourite seat. Next to me a slightly over-weight chap who starts dipping into a vast bag of sunflower seeds the moment he has succeeded in squeezing his bottom between the two arm rests. He cracks seeds incessantly, by the handful. It's an irritating noise, not really offensive, but intrusive nevertheless and distracting me from my book ("Verbrechen", Ferdinand von Schirach - first rate). Having passed on the cheese rolls he is still at it over Paris and I'm starting to get truly annoyed. I have already given him a couple of sideway glances, and the third time he reacts: "Would you like some," he says with a soft voice: "They're the best I've ever had." Somehow he sounds so melancholy in his pleasure that all irritation is instantly erased.

A couple of rows ahead of me, by sheer coincidence, my old school pal Stasa (he of Rocksteady film fame) and his partner Madeleine. This was somewhat embarrassing, since Madeleine was also the editor who was expecting a story from me earlier on that day, and I had fobbed her off with the excuse that I was travelling in the afternoon when in fact I was planning to do a spot of shopping...Stasha, on the other hand, has always had an ability with his antics to make me blush with shame. True to form, he rose from his seat just as the "seat belt" signs had come on, wandered over to me to tell me a thoroughly inappropriate joke in a very loud voice involving sex & drugs & rock'n'roll.

I'm persecuted by coincidences of late. Another example: At El Lokal I was introduced to a tall and friendly Austrian called Niki Göth. After a long conversation he mentioned he was a landscape artist (www.landartniki.com), and I told him that a good decade ago in London I had known an artist whose work bore certain similarities with his. It turned out he knew Clare, too - through her husband Alex: Alex had spent his gap year in a hotel Niki's parents ran in the Austrian mountains, and the two became close friends until they lost contact at just about the same time I was introduced to them.

Also whilst in Switzerland: an utterly wonderful day trip to Montreux to interview Francesco Laratta, the press chief of the Montreux Jazz Festival. The weather was gorgeous, wandering round the town a real thrill - and Francesco sent me home with 8 1/2 kg's worth of books (an astonishing 4 volume history of the festival) plus a 10 DVD box set of all Miles Davis performances in Montreux, plus a 6 CD box set of recordings by the winners of the yearly piano competition. Thanks again, Francesco!

Miles Davis also made an appearance in my encounter with Eliana Burki, the woman who plays Jazz on the Alphorn. Aged six, she discovered the alpine horn for herself, aged nine she was a fan of Davis and Chet Baker and began to step away from the ten official commandments (only slow tempi, players must wear traditional garb, etc.) laid down by the Swiss alpine horn association, thus ostracising herself from this deeply conservative community. Today, she lives in Los Angeles, performs all over the world and incorporates elements of North African as well as South American music in her own. She has even developed her own instrument, the Burki-Horn which allows her to play chromatic scales as well as the 16 nature tones over five octaves the alpine horn is normally limited to. Hers is a fascinating story of passion, resilience, determination and talent.

Two gigs: Nik Bärtsch & Ronin at Exil. In fact, I had seen the band only days earlier in London at King's Place. Compared to the "serious" London performance, this time they were a little looser, a little less hard and focused in their delivery, but I enjoyed it just as much, especially as I could sit by the bar, sip a beer and let my thoughts drift. The other gig was Trummer at El Lokal. Trummer was new to me, a song writer of superior quality who sings mostly in Bernese dialect, has a fine ear for a lovely melody and a band that includes a female singer, acordion, upright bass and Hammond organ, and can do loud just as convincingly as quiet.

17. 11. 2011

Just before I'm off to Zurich once again an interview with Peter Asher in his London pied-à-terre in Kensington. Peter was one half of Peter & Gordon who, in the mid-1960s, had a considerable number of hits, including "A World Without Love" and "True Love Ways", before he went off to become The Beatles' A&R man at Apple Records. We met in order to talk about a Buddy Holly tribute album put together by Asher with contributions from, amongst others, Lyle Lovett, Natalie Merchant and Ringo. One of those meetings where so many questions could be asked that the inevitable outcome is frustration - frustration about myself that whole swathes of history drifted past and away before I could think of the proper question to ask...I did manage to establish, however, that Peter's sister Jane (remember "The Deep End"? One of the most memorable films I've ever seen) does supply the whole family with birthday cakes.

14. 11. 2011

A very strange moment the other night whilst watching Martin Scorsese's superb dcoumentary about George Harrison. There's a picture of The Beatles in Rishikesh, visiting their guru in 1968. And all of a sudden I realise that there are three people in the photograph I have actually met and had a conversation with: Paul McCartney (in whose pay I was for a couple of months in the early 1990s), Ringo Starr and Beach Boy Mike Love. Whilst I can in no way claim to be best buddies with any of these people, it is nevertheless intriguing to think that somehow that vast gap in time, place and philosophy between that picture and what it stood for, and my life up here in my loft with my CDs, my books and my Mark Cazalet painting of Kensal Green graveyard, has been bridged, producing hellos, introductions and handshakes.

13. 11. 2011

Interviewing Country & Western superstar Toby Keith from Oklahoma the other day offered up a bit of a surprise, I must say. Having read - of course - about his spat with the Dixie Chicks and their anti-Bush comments, and having also read a few of his more patriotically-minded lyrics, I was expecting a proper redneck. In fact, I had a surprise even before the interview: Awaiting him in front of the BBC building where we were meeting up there was about a dozen papparazzi. I had no idea he was of such gossip column interest. Anyway, the man turned out to be huge in stature and genuinely interesting to talk to. For starters, he proclaimed himself a life-long Democrat whose views "probably" weren't as far away from those of Steve Earle (with whom he appears in a concert in Basel) as I "might probably have expected". He reckoned that simply because he plays free concerts for the American troops the industry - with whom he is at war, running his own record label and boycotting the Country Music Awards - portrayed him as a right wing Republican. He also appears to try to put his money where his mouth is: he hold me about his attempt to re-open a factory in Oklahoma to produce cheap and cheerful jeans and sell them at cost price, just to get an old factory in his home state going again. The attempt failed because the cheapest pair he could produce whilst paying workers at least the minimum wages still came in $ 6 more expensive than the import jeans sold everywhere.

On Thursday, Abbey Road Studios for a presentation by EMI Records of a bunch of new acts to a suitably large and drunk "trade" audience (interestingly, there was no wine, only Vodka, Bushmills Whiskey and lager). I must admit that even in my slightly sozzled and under-nourished state I couldn't quite see the future in the first few bands on offer, each of which played two songs. First up were a Hip Hop-Band from Philadelphia named Chiddy Bang - poppy but also tedious. They made an all too obvious bid for attention by singing about Ray Charles to a black and white film of Ray Charles performing live. Not a combination that flattered them, unfortunately. There followed two groups - To Kill a King and Morning Parade - who, apart from terrible names, had in common that they behaved and sounded just like the 3d rate Simple Minds copies that every label signed up in a mad rush after "Sparkle in the Rain" in 1984, meaning:pathos-driven choruses, big vocals and guitars, heroic poses by the singers and triumphant chord-bashing gestures by the guitarists. Neither pretty nor interesting, in other words. The Good Natured boasted another ghastly name and another type of 80s sound somewhere between Siouxsie and Soft Celll, but had at least tried to dress interestingly. Still, who signs bands like these, devoid of originality, daring or even charm? Intensity levels rose drastically with the ebullient presence of Emeli Sandé and her sharp brand of neo soul, and Professor Green, whose rapping has already reached the top end of the British charts. And then I went home.

4. 11. 2011

Monday night, the preview of the new Michael Jackson biopic, produced by David Gest. It's called "Michael Jackson: The Life of an Icon" and, according to itself, tells the story of the "King of Pop" in the words of "those that knew him best, including family members Katherine Jackson, Tito Jackson & Rebbie Jackson (but none of the other younger Jacksons, nor Dad).

It's a strange film. The first third consists of an endless sequence of one-liners and anecdotes from the likes old neighbours of the Jacksons in Gary, Indiana, early extra members of the Jackson 5, and almost all the Soul stars of the day, including Dionne Warwick, Eddie Floyd, Kim Weston, Martha Reeves, Percy Sledge (but not, strangely, Diana Ross, or, indeed, Quincy Jones). All tell us how brillant little Michael was, how feisty, self-confident on stage and yet shy off it.

The second part sees the onset of "troubles", starting with cosmectic surgery: "After the second I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't", says Gest who knew the Jacksons from his teenage years in Encino and often, according to his own film, happened to be around when Michael needed someone to confide in. Hmmm.

The third part, finally, is mostly about the child abuse trial in Santa Maria, the police's vendetta against Jackson, the preposterous lies of the accusers - and his acquittal on all counts. However, MJ was broken by the experience and never recovered. The ten concerts, finally, which were announced in London and then turned into fifty, were the final cruel set up, the film suggests: Jackson never wanted to do fifty concerts, it implies, and the prospect ultimately drove him to the unholy cocktail of drugs that killed him.

I found it a frustrating film. Only the part about the trial has some depth and argues the point well, mostly thanks to lawyer Thomas Meserau, biographer J. Randy Taraborrelli and Frank Cascio, a friend of Michael's, who all speak eloquently, with passion and insight, and without recourse to trite clichées. The interminable list of stars telling us yet again what a genius MJ was, however, I found tedious. Firstly, we knew this before; secondly, few reached beyond a categorical claim to try and search for connections behind "the scenes" . "He wanted to become the greatest and he became the greatest" was the somewhat unhelpful level of insight offered by most. Except for Tito, who suddenly and casually reckons Michael didn't really have much to complain about regarding Joe's corporal punishment, since the older boys were hit much harder; Bobby Taylor, who recommended the boys to Motown, tells us first that "Joe was mean to them, he was evil to them", only to then claim that in actual fact Joe was a good guy, and that the boys would never have turned out the way they did without being punished in this way.

In the end I was left with many questions, including: If Joe Jackson's educational methods were so good, why did Michael die the way he did? How plausible is it that Michael didn't know he was signing a contract over fifty, not ten concerts? Are we really meant to believe that Michael, a man who had often in the past showed fantastic business sense, was no longer corpus mentis enough to read an important contract carefully to then end? David Gest's film at almost every junction implies that Michael made mistakes because the wrong people had captured his attention with the wrong advice. But why, for heaven's sake, was Michael Jackson so good at listening to the wrong people?

Why, too, this Hollywood-like need to portray Michael Jackson - and the Jackson family! - as pretty much perfect human beings whose only fault it was to occasionally hire the wrong staff and to be too trusting vis-a-vis allcomers? Surely, such treatment does not show Jackson, the icon, but turns him into a figure of bland superficiality which does a grave disservice to the man and his art.

On Tuesday and Wednesday I had the opportunity to speak to David Gest (a small roundtable interview, shared with an Aussie and a team from Japan consisting of one journalist, one interpreter and one I-don't-know-what), Thomas Meserau and partner Sue Yu (was there ever a more apt name? These two I had to myself), and Tito and Rebbie Jackson (roundtable again, with the Japanase and two Italians).

In the film, Smokey Robinson apropos of nothing, and with no follow-up commentary whatsoever, says: "Michael Jackson shut himself away from people who said no to him". I asked Gest what he made of this. Gest - convinced Michael would have liked his film because it showed both the negative and the positive - responded that Jackson "in the latter part of his life, the last 3 years he shut out family and closest friends. He became a recluse. He had the wrong people around him. People who kept everyone away...They would't let him have his cell phone around him." But who were "they"? "The body guards, the people around his home, the people who worked for him. They were very much in control because he hid inside his house." If this were indeed so, surely this would justify criminal proceedings? And what possessed Jackson to tolerate such a prison-life inflicted on him by the very people he had presumably hired to facilitate a comfortable life? Meserau and Yu, in sharp contrast to the rampant self-promoter Gest, were considered in their responses and highly articulate. For the duration of the trial, Michael, they said, put his complete trust in the team and didn't listen to any of the "wrong people" who still sought to influence him. "When he later moved to Bahrain he started calling Susan from there, would she help him with his business affairs" tells Meserau. "She did, for about 9 months. Then we withdrew because we didn't like some of the people around him." Meserau and Yu were at pains, too, to describe the vilified Joe Jackson as a nice guy with a "great sense of humour".

Tito, a quiet, avuncular sort of chap with a funny hat on, and the utterly charming and open Rebbie were a pleasure to talk to. They remain convinced that it wasn't Michael singing on some of the songs on the postumous "Michael" album. They are also convinced that the album was withdrawn from the shops after their protests. When I ask what they think of the affidavit signed by various record company lawyers that it was indeed Michael singing, was that a lie? Tito pulls a grimace, Rebbie says: "Read between the lines. Read between the lines."

30. 10. 2011

Chelsea v Arsenal - by quite some distance the most exciting football match I've ever actually been to. Chelsea had lost the previous week to QPR - an ill-tempered match that prompted Chelsea manager AVB (as everyone has taken to calling him) to rant even more incoherently about bad refereeing. Chelsea, in other words, needed to win. Arsenal, on the other hand, seemed to have dragged themselves out of the post-Fabregas- and -Nasri-departure slump that had culimnated in the 2:8 defeat at Man U, and needed to keep their momentum going.

The first half was entertaining, mostly because of the flimsy defending on both sides. There were chances galore, after 45 minutes the score was 2:1. The unspeakably ghastly John Terry had scored in the last minute (Terry is in the news for an alleged racist slur against QPR defender Ferdinand; Terry denies it, police and football authorities are investigating). In the second half, Arsenal were a changed team. Intense, defensively tight, swift in attack, they were quickly leading 3:2. Ten minutes before the end a Sunday shot from Mata gave the Blues hope of a draw. Then came probably the best moment in the whole season: Terry failed to get to a bad back pass and fell flat on his belly, looking aghast as Van Persie "stole" the ball and walked it into the goal. In time added on, Van Persie scored another to complete his hattrick.

The press room, normally a place of laid-back banter and blasé non-commitment, was buzzing afterwards. Personally, I'd never before experienced a similarly heightened sense of awareness at a football match as in the last 30 minutes or so.

22. 10. 2011

These last few days I've been pinching myself more than once, thinking how lucky I am to be doing what I'm doing. This time, luck and a good friend handed me a job which involved a trip to Washington DC., staying in the fabulous Willard Hotel, and speaking at length to a bunch of prize-winning architects. The Holcim Awards are a three-yearly architectural prize, award to architects and projects that are especially innovative in terms of "sustainability" and environmental care. Three main awards are handed out each in five different locations around the world, with one over-all winner. I was called upon to cover the North American segment of the awards. All of the main winners - Lola Sheppard & Mason C. White (gold, for a system of "huts" set up along an inuit skidoo trail), Gloria Lee & Nathan Swift (silver, for a system of pre-fab school buildings in Los Angeles) and Julie Snow & Matthew Kreilich (bronze, for a border crossing structure in the remotest Maine) - were a real pleasure to listen to as they explained their designs and the motivation behind it. I also shared a JD & Coke or two with Keith Van de Riet who received a prize for a fantastic concept to make coastlines tsunami-safe with mangroves. Truly memorable encounters, all of them!

I even had a few hours to look around Washington DC. A few people had warned me that the slums would start right behind the White House. Well, the only sign of poverty I saw was the homeless populating the park benches up and down the monumental Pennsylvania Avenue (at number 1700, The White House), and the green patches on the way to Georgetown. Clearly, I only saw a very small part of the town. Georgetown, with the university on the edge of it, was supposedly good for shopping and quaint old-fashioned houses. Yes, I did find a few old-fashioned houses, but the shops were disappointingly one-paced, with all the familiar fashion label stores but not a single music shop or anything else of particular note - with the only book shop a Barnes & Noble. This, in sharp contrast to the branch a few blocks down from the hotel, was at least well-stocked.

30. 9. 2011

On Wednesday it was back into the London groove with an interview with Pixie Lott, with one or two of my more poppy publications in mind, and let's leave it at that. On Thursday, down to the Slaughtered Lamb for the first London gig in years of Pierce Turner, a Irish, NY-resident singer and songwriter I've long admired, a man with a unique way with melody and words, and, I have to admit, not every one's cup of Guinness. Fifty people or so enjoyed every minute of his performance, although he was clearly fighting the elements that are gig technology. Inexplicably, however, he played support at what I had assumed was his own gig to an Irish band called The Darling Sins with whom he was playing keyboards and who, to my eyes, displayed a serious lack of charisma and musical character. Oh well. It was a fun night anyway.

29. 9. 2011

The highlight of my stay in Switzerland was lunch with Nik Bärtsch, and on the same evening performance number 355 of his group Ronin at their club, Exil in Zurich (http://www.exil.cl/ - sic). The group's instrumental pieces are an intense mesh of riffs, rhythm patterns and melodies where composition, interpretation and improvisation are of equal importance. All band members (sax, bass, drums, percussion and Nik on piano) are incredible players, but their technique is always strictly in the sense of the piece. Afterwards, I mentioned one piece ("Modul" they call them) I had enjoyed especially. Someone said something about its 29/8 rhythm (if I remember rightly), whereupon my jaw dropped: "You must be spending the whole time counting like mad!" I said. "Counting!" cried Sha, the saxophonist: "If I'd be counting I'd go mad."

From Zurich, I treated myself to a Sunday outing to Munich where my friend Ueli Steiger who normally resides in Los Angeles - we emigrated to London on the same plane, and he went to film school - happened to be working on a film. Predictably, we ended up at the Oktoberfest, and what a hoot that was! I was hugely impressed by the ability of the locals - young, old, cool, uncool - to get into the spirit of the Fest by dressing up in their best Dirndls and Lederhosen, with not a hint of dodgy Heimat-motives and unpleasant political undertones. Equally impressive, the ability of all to jump on their tables and dance along to oompah-music without any sense of self-consciousness whatsoever. Not embarrassing in the slightest, but really and truly liberating, coming from the straight-jacket of cool that is London, and not just in bloody Hoxton. Oh, and Ueli's friend Till got the band to play "Er hat ein knallrotes Gummiboot" just for me!

28. 9. 2011

It's been a weeks! First, it took me a while to get back into the swing after the holidays. Then I was laid low for a fortnight by some weird and virulent virus which made me want to sleep endlessly. And then, for the last fortnight, I was back in Zurich. Ironically, the time of endless sleep coincided with an intense program of interviews, so, basically, my days consisted of sleeping and talking to strangers. Amongst those I met were Leslie Feist (lively and charming, fantastic new album), Peter Gabriel (relaxed and interesting), Snow Patrol (laid-back and enthusiastic), Brian Wilson (friendly but sadly incapable of formulating sentences longer than four words; I dearly would like to find out just how an interview published a few months ago in Record Collector magazine came into existence: in this interview, Brian's sentences sometimes reached double word figures, the responses often covered several paragraphs), Florence + Machines (I expected a ginger pocket dynamo spilling over with wordage and encountered a tall, thin and still not at all reserved English woman; her father's favourite band is The Incredible String Band, by the way), Tori Amos (who is always extremely friendly and takes her art very seriously indeed). In between came interviews with Grahame Madge from the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds and Tony Wileman from the London Wildlife Trust about the Rednecked Parakeets in London for a story for Beobachter Natur.

There's a couple of concerts to report, too. The first, Dolly Parton, was a strange mixture of cheese, cheer and rootsy bluegrass. Dolly is able to tread an amazingly subtle line between utter kitsch, knowingness and humour. A few days later, Ex-Slap Happy- and Henry Cow-member Peter Blegvad at Café Oto, with Chris Cutler, Karen Mantler and John Greaves. Whilst the playing was immaculate, Blegvad's singing, after a long absence from the gig circuit, was a little rusty in places. Nevertheless, a superiour evening of musical enjoyment topped off with my purchase of an "autobiographical interview" published by the London Institute of Pataphysics.

28. 8. 2011

Back from holidays at Chateau Dumas in Auty. A couple of day trips past the pigeon houses of the Tarn-et-Garonne area to places with large churches and many British tourists, Moissac for instance, or Caussade.

Otherwise, it was mostly reading books. Apart from the "Oxford Book of French Short Stories" and Georges Simenon's unlikely but gripping story of "The Bar on the Seine" it was mostly the new one by Alan Hollinghurst, "The Stranger's Child". I was really looking forward to this one, having hugely enjoyed everything Hollinghurst has written before, especially "The Swimming Pool Library" and "The Line of Beauty" (still the most accurate analysis of the emotions of the Thatcher years I've come across). In the event, I found it - frankly - a bit of a chore. Of course, it is beautifully written, very beautifully, in fact - so beautifully, that I frequently felt well nigh asphyxiated by the preciousness of the prefectly, oh so perfectly, formed sentences. However, after the claustrophobic first half of the book, I began to enjoy it more when the clever architecture of the novel became clearer, and by the end - where we observe the last trickles of a long dead "war poet"'s reputation disappearing in the sand, and we find out that no one quite knows who fathered whom, since the mother isn't telling... - I was won over.

I also read the last diaries of Sandor Marai. A man taking notes on his wife's descent into senility and his own slow progress towards, well, suicide, as it turned out. I don't really know why I picked this book from my "unread" shelf. Well, I did, and I'm not sure what I've taken away from it. The writer takes the aloof stance of the Central European "Bildungsbürgertum" of the last century, all too "aware" of the disappearance of many of the values he cherishes, and equally "aware" that a distastrous loss of cultural depth is only to be expected in modern times, given the "dumbing down" of the masses all around him. Fierce and piercingly
accurate observations alternate with irritatingly snobish passages which left me seriously wondering whether I will ever touch the other two or three Marai books I've bought, but not read, over the years on the recommendation of friends.

Before going away there were, of course, some riots in London. The British papers weren't short of fire and brimstone pronouncements on the moral dissolution of certain parts of British society, demanding long-term incarcaration for the looters and a reintroduction of National service. Politicians spoke of "no excuses" and instantly repealed plans to reduce the police force. Such gung-ho reactions weren't exactly a hopeful sign for the further progress of the Tories' program for narrowing the gap between "rich" and "poor". However, just as irritating - and predictable - as the politicians' big puffs of verbal smoke was an analysis of the events I read in the Swiss weekly newspaper Wochenzeitung which prides itself - usually quite rightly - in giving the side of the news that doesn't get a look in in the mainstream press. The media, it said, had mis-represented the disenchanted, looting youths as brainless thugs out only for materialistic gain - when in reality they were the instigators of a righteous outbreak of communal self-defense, just like the riots in the 1980s. What a crocked pile of alternative-romantic shit! Nowhere in any of the coverage of the riots - which was so total it is utterly unlikely any visual detail might have been missed - did I discover any trace of political intent, not one political slogan was uttered, not one banner with a social message carried, not one "demonstrator" was prevailed upon by the no doubt willing reporters to read out even the most basic manifesto in front of a microphone (except right at the beginning when it was still a peaceful demonstration to protest about the mysterious death in an encounter with the police of a Tottenham gangster). And even the Crusties and anarchists who turn up at any vaguely oppositional and anti-mainstream event to knock in a few bank windows stayed well away from this one. For once, I felt, the commentators of the riots generally had it about right: these were riots mostly about acquiring status symbols and other material goods, made all the more exciting by the modern means of communication which made for a proper game of "cowboys and indians"...

Other news: the end of an era - Manchester United - Arsenal 8:2.

8. 7. 2011

To Glazier's Hall just by Tower Bridge for the official launch of House of Switzerland. This is where the Swiss will be trying to present themselves as a nation not only of solid conservative values, but of creativity and innovation during next year's London Olympics. The house will be open to the public. A basement music club will be run by the Montreux Jazz Festival people, there will be a "games lounge" where Swiss games designers will be presenting their work, and lots of contemporary art. The assembled press also got treated to a Mosimann breakfast. Very tasty indeed, especially the bread & butter pudding.

4 30, and I'm at The Fellow pub in King's Cross to interview Dev Hynes aka Lightspeed Champion. His latest project is called Blood Orange, a series of Prince-ish songs that play around with concepts of dance and 80s discotheque sounds, often to beguiling, always to fascinatingly strange effect. Had this album been released eighteen months ago when it was pretty much finished, the reviews of Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti album would quite possibly have described it as "influenced by Blood Orange". Once again, Dev proves to be a real pleasure to talk to, a man with a wide range of interests. It turns out he will be playing live during the Yo Yo-Club night at Notting Hill Arts Club. Naturally, I will go. First, however, it's back to Glazier's Hall for a wine/canapé reception for Swiss House launch. I'm half an hour early, and so I wander into Southwark Cathedral which I've never seen from the inside. I happen to arrive in the middle of Evensong, and I stay. I don't really understand believers' lingo, but somehow I still find the atmosphere of a large church and the eerie sound of a choir inspiring in a meditative sort of way.

Embassy receptions always make me slightly nervous because I never quite know how to conduct myself in a conversation with diplomats and PR people. Nevertheless, almost always I end up being introduced to people from entirely different walks of life with truly interesting stories to tell. This time it was an architect, Noel Isherwood, and a landscape architect, Ralf Günter Voss. Fascinating and eye-opening stuff, including a memorable analysis of the Westfield approach to shopping mall construction.

I arrived at the Notting Hill Art Club to find a very, very long queue of very, very young people. As is the habit of types like me I stomped straight to the front of the queue and demanded to be let through to the guest list person. "Back of the queue, mate," barked the man who most definitely wasn't my mate, "all these people are on the guest list, too." I stood there for twenty minutes at the very least, having to watch bevy after bevy of young girls being fed straight through to the front of the queue by the same door mates. Astonishingly, I was then asked to produce "photo identity", otherwise there would be no entry. Right enough, my driving licence was fed into a small scanner by the door, and I was deemed low risk enough to be allowed in. Arriving inside the club I was even more astonished to discover it was half empty. Where had all the people gone that had populated the never-ending queue? Or was this one of these instances where club promoters make sure the queue looks ridiculously long so that casual passing punters will be led to believe that something incredibly important is happening inside?

Dev Hynes, aka Blood Orange, performed solo, with only a laptop and an electric guitar for company. He was good, though I would have wished for a band - just like Dev himself. Apparently at this stage the budget doesn't yet allow it. It was clear, however, that he held the audience's attention quite easily, and not just because he liked to step off the mini-stage and wander through the crowd with his guitar. I'm pretty sure most of those present didn't really know who he was. And, funnily enough, he was introduced as a man straight out of Brooklyn, even though he has only lived there for three years and his accent is still as English as they come.

7. 7. 2011




















The discovery of another excellent small music/comedy/burlesque venue I had no idea existed: The Bowery in New Oxford Street. I went there for a club night called Subterranean Holborn Blues, specifically to see Rotifer, the band of my Austrian colleague Robert Rotifer. They play a punchy sort of Post-Mod Rock with an emphasis on melody and good, witty lyrics. Their new album will be the first to receive proper distribution in the UK, thanks to a deal with new label Edwyn Collins has recently set up. Rotifer were excellent, as always; ex-Hefner man Darren Hayman, by the way, is now their permanent bass player.

As Rotifer were strutting their stuff, I became more and more irritated by a couple of young hooray henrys and their ditzy blonde right behind me. Their conversation was so loud, that even when Rotifer played very loudly, they were louder still. In the end I turned round and suggested they pipe down a little. This was met with drunken mirth, guffaws, yeehaws, and then, when the song came to the end, a series of theatrical "shoosh!" and "quiet!"

First up had been a band called Peter Parker's Rock'n'Roll Club. with a dangerously thin singer who was the spitting image of a Hunky Dory-era Bowie and a drummer from the Meg Whtie school of monolithic thrashing who looked mightly relieved every time she survived a song unscathed, they served up a highly entertaining take on Ramones/Stooges-type minimalist rock.

The headliners, finally, were Long Tall Shorty. Members of the early 80s Mod-Revival, apparently, they now play extremely sharp Post-Punk-Rock - and even their in-between song patter was fun. They also brought on a guest - Spizz. Spizz, once of Spizz Energy, Spizzles etc provided us with a joyous and brilliantly sharp rendition of his hit single "of a couple of years ago, you know", "Where's Captain Kirk". Almost worth the entrance alone were his fluorescent trousers and his green neon belt which spelt out the time and place of the next Spizz gig (not to mention a t-shirt which informed us that he is also a member of Wild Mutation).

By now, the hooray henrys were bouncing about like skittles, with a huge grin on their faces. By way of a peace offering I asked one of them how he knew about Long Tall Shorty. "That's my Dad!" he shouted proudly, pointing at the singer. In front of me was a friendly-looking woman with a hardcore Glaswegian accent. Only after a while did I realise she was "from the record company", that is: she was Grace, Edwyn Collin's wife, and the author of a truly invigorating book about life with Edwyn before, during and after his illness. We live more or less in the same street, but I had't met her since they invited me to their place for an interview with Edwyn years ago. A truly refreshing evening all round.

5. 7. 2011

Now, where were we when I visited these pages last? Good grief, a whole month has passed since - where has it gone? Somehow, not too much seems to have happened, although I have interviewed the wonderful Adele Bethel of the excellent Sons & Daughters. I travelled to Plymouth to inspect the factory that makes quite possibly the most comfortable but also the most expensive mattresses in the world, VI-Springs (don't ask). I spent a couple of weeks in Zurich where I enjoyed Reno at the Helsinki Bar very much.

One day I sat in the tram when someone fell heavily into the seat next to me. "Grüezi." he said. "Hi." I responded. "Ah", he said, "I thought you were the nurse at the psychiatric hospital. You look just like him." "Aha." "And where's your Harley-Davidson parked, may I ask? Hehehehe."

Back in London, I spent last Wednesday afternoon at Abbey Road Studios where the zebra-crossing crossing tourist hordes were out in force, turning local drivers into cold-blooded near-murderers and driving naive bus drivers into impatient but ineffective horn-tooting rage. The reason for the visit was the presentation of a few advance morsels from the re-mastered Pink Floyd catalogue, due out from September. I'm sworn to secrecy before the autumn, will, however, say that for once a re-release program is actually coming up with genuine pearls, one of which involves the master violinist Stephane Grappelli (whom, by the way, I saw live at the Cambridge Folk Festival in 1973).

Right. These couple of paragraphs should at last have brought me back into work mode. Quite a few interviews coming up, by the way: tomorrow Dev Hynes of Blood Orange (aka Lightspeed Champion), and I'm waiting for dates with The Horrors, Duke Spirit, St. Vincent and Baxter Dury.

2. 6. 2011

I'm a little worried about those boys in WU LYF. For a year or so they have been building up this myth around them. Never talking to the media, they communicated solely with a series of cryptic pronouncements on a website spiked with preposterous imagery and symbolism nicked in equal parts from the boy scouts manual, obscure sects, Hammer horror films and books about mediaeval iconography. A handful of you tube videos also played around with concepts of "mass movement" and "protest" - colourful tribal youths vs. soldier types ("Split it Concrete Like the Golden Sun God"), Hindenburg Zeppelin, helicopters and war ships ("Heavy Pop") and violent street demonstrations ("Dirt"). The music that went with these videos was intriguing: an idiosyncratic mix of traditional-type guitar rock, church organ, Senegalese Sokous-guitar and a voice like a baby-Beefheart. The lyrics? To be honest, I haven't been able to make them out yet amidst the roar that is the WU LYF sound. I don't know, therefore, how they relate to the imagery...

The band, in time for the release of their debut album "Go Tell Fire To The Mountain", have learnt to talk. I met two of them - singer/keyboarder Ellery Roberts and bassist Tom McClung - in the London flat of their manager, "War God" in the myth, Warren in real life. They explained quite convincingly that they hadn't wanted to speak to the media up to now because they had been shocked by the swiftness and intensity of the "hype" started by their first performances in their manager's Manchester café. And how could they trust any of the many labels that tried to foist a contract on them based only on hear-say and a couple of live gigs? That was, apparently, why they decided to do everything by themselves, ensuring an income through a publishing deal with Universal and distribution for their album through PIAS.

Worried. This is because I got the impression that Ellery and Tom - both friendly and arty chaps, quite shy even - had invented and designed all their visuals in a mixture of confidence, idealism and playful pallyness. Asked to explain their somewhat totalitarian sounding name - WU LYF stands for "World United - Lucifer Youth Foundation" - they said this:

Tom: The LYF is something we created initially to be an outreach to the fans, and also in a good way it shows how much support you're getting at the time from people who really wanted to be involved. Initially it was just people who bought the EP, and they got the 12". It was the only way to get the 12" and the Statement of Intent, the poster, to people. I guess right now it's a glorified fan club. But in future we'd like it to be an almost collaborative thing.

The word Lucifer brings up connotations...

Ellery: I think Lucifer is quite often defined as some devil, some satan, but we never looked at the satanic side because we think that's an easy sensationalist cliché. I've always looked at Lucifer as the alternative, the idea of an alternative. That's how we approach Lucifer. And youth, the notion of youthfulness, the freedom and naivety of that, we wanna anchor ourselves to in what we do. So the Lucifer Youth is the principle, the concept, the foundation.

I have a horrible suspicion that the band are a bit naive about this. That they haven't quite grasped the sort of associations (pop) audiences and media used to instant judgments will come up with. And that they might soon get very, very bored with having to explain themselves. But then, a bit of controversy of this kind never did JoyDivision or New Order any harm. Interesting album, definitely. Possibly the nearest music has yet come to replicating Alex Ferguson's fabled half time hairdryer treatment.

22. 5. 2011

This morning when I went to get the papers the elm tree opposite my house waved good morning just like every other day in the past ten years. One gust of wind later, and the tree is no more.

21. 5. 2011

A fine idea, the Independent Label Market in Berwick Street, the original home of the London record shop. In amidst all the vegetables, fruit and fish, about two dozen indie labels set out their own stalls for one Saturday only - but hopefully not for the last time. On sale were mostly vinyl records, but also cakes and t-shirts. Many of the items were collectors' items, and not everything was cheap. The Mumford & Sons special tour 10" record, for instance, would have cost a full £ 30. I bought the new,second album of Gyratory System, "New Harmony", a 7" 2001 single by The Smith Garrett Band (no idea who they were/are, but it looks good and was recorded in Toe Rag Studios) as well as a "Lucky Dip" bag. £ 10 for 5 vinyl albums and EPs from the Where it's at is where you are label. In mine: Albums by Milky Wimpshake and Rose Melberg, mini-albums by Eux Autres and Miss Mary, plus a 12" 45 by Defisis. Of course, I have no idea who any of these are/were/might be/might have become.

Why bother about this indie business? Or, indeed, any record label business at all? Surely, the average record buying punter isn't in the slightest interested in the logo on his record/CD/download, he/she just wants the music he/she wants? Well, to my mind, indie labels are more important than ever, and not just so that we can get to hear music that isn't the product of some major label's marketing department's idea of what I should be listening to. It's also to do with the fact that we haven't quite got to terms yet with the changed media situation in the digital and internet age. Whilst the printed music press, with a very few exceptions, has tried to buck the downward trend of their circulation by turning more and more mainstream (even if it's a kind of alternative mainstream that includes the likes of Babyshambles, Bon Iver and Arcade Fire), the internet music media tend to dazzle with the vastness of their palette. Personally, I feel mighty confused and eventually disinterested every time I surf these music websites. There is just too much to digest, too much jargon and waffle. And if I just continue to follow my own nose, the likelyhood that I find something interesting that hasn't somehow been on my radar before is pretty small (and those "I you like this you might like that" pointers do exactly what they promise - they show you more of the same; worse still are amazon reviews: written either by complete fans, total haters or the artists themselves). Thus, I find any kind of pointers from "outside" a great help. And one of these pointers is the style of an indie label. There are labels - Domino, Fat Cat, Leaf - where I can be pretty sure that whatever they put out will be interesting even if - and this is the point - I don't like it. Because I trust that these people aren't putting out rubbish, I'm willing to spend time with their albums even if at first I'm spooked by them. Which isn't the same as falling for some marketing department's idea of what I should like. Purchasing a record from a label whose attitude I like is more like my part in an ongoing dialogue. The sort of dialogue that becomes less and less frequent in everyday life, now that so many record shops have gone down the tube.

18. 5. 2011

Some people call them Gentlemen's Club, others Pole Dancing Clubs. I spent a seizable part of Tuesday afternoon in one of these establishments. It was called Platinum Lace and opened up in the finest burgundy and brass tackiness behind a small door flanked by a couple of beefy bouncers between Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus. I was called here for a press conference in which Snoop Dogg promised to tell all about the ins and outs of his latest album, "Doggumentary". "Just the perfect place for Snoop," trilled the silly woman who was MCing the event. Snoop, wearing an astonishingly shiny sky blue fitness circuit outfit, was ushered on to the stage by a gaggle of pole dancers before settling into his gold throne and sipping tea from a Union Jack mug. "I believe this is the moment when the girls leave the stage," said the MC. "Don't go too far!" quipped Snoop. He was bonhomie personified, saying absolutely nothing that could be construed as controversial, opinionated or even interesting. He did reveal, however, one abiding ambition - to open a chain of supermarkets called Snoopermarket.

One thing that struck me about the Gentleman's Club was the bizarre cut of the one-piece garments the dancers had been poured into: The top half a sort of uniform jacket as worn by the stewardesses of Air Supercheesy, with the front cut out and an undershirt, the bottom half a pair of shorts so tight the bottoms they were hugging seemed fit to burst. The uniforms not only looked uncomfortable but also made the women appear oddly out of proportion: heavy on top, short little legs below, and in the middle two pneumatic Siamese-twin water melons. A couple of dancers were discussing the task at hand behind my back. "Strictly no tricks, I was instructed," said one. "Oh, not sexy then." responded the other. I found it quite impossible to conceive of any kind of frame of mind in which such an environment could possibly be perceived as "sexy". What does this say about Snoop in particular and his corner of Hip Hop in general? Or me?

To The Black Lion on Kilburn High Road. Cellist Audrey Riley who, apart from being a member of the contemporary music group Icebreaker and Cathal Coughlan's band, teaches composition and arrangement at the music school round the corner, was organising an end of term concert. Two dozen of her students had come together outside their normal rock and pop classes to try their hand at composing their own contemporary classical pieces as well as playing Gavin Bryar's "Jesus Blood Never Failed Me". Wonderful all round - the perfect anti-dote to Snoop's soulless, idiotic Gentleman's Club.

16. 5. 2011

A prophetic banner up on the wall of the pub round the corner: the restaurant has now closed down and is being turned into a darts parlour.

15. 5. 2011

Friday brought a refreshing encounter with Seasick Steve in a trendy boutique hotel somewhere in the back of Kensington. Seasick, aged seventy, is one of the more surprising and optimism inducing success stories of the last few years. An American resident in Norway, an album he had recorded for a tiny London indie label somehow became an underground hit a few years ago, landing Seasick a spot on Jools Holland's New Year's Eve Hootenanny on BBC TV. At that stage, he had no ambitions whatsoever to become a pop star. In fact, he told me, he was so low in spirits that he didn't even have the energy to put up a fight when the producers wanted him to play a song he had never wanted to record, never mind play live. Shortly after, Seasick found himself and his rubbishy old guitar on a major label, and his good-humoured brand of Folk/Blues in the top ten. As we climbed the stairs to get to his hotel room, Steve told me wearily that he was on his fifth European country in five days, that he was tired and didn't really want to talk. As soon as we sat down, he turned into the most enthusiastic raconteur you could wish for.

After the interview, my German colleague Franz Zipperer, his friend and I went in search of a pub. We landed in the Duke of Clarence at 148, Old Brompton Road, a place so unashamedly, unironically posh it was a real education. Making my way through the gaggles of shiny young things braying and neighing about this and that, I was pleased to find myself guided by an arrow and a sign reading "to the loos" instead of the vulgar "toilet". Having successfully negotiated this journey, I entered "Dukes" (as opposed to "Duchesses") to find the wall above the urinals decorated with leaflets and posters advertising only the best of the best oyster and champagne bars.

Later on, I had a look in The Ship, found nobody I knew, and so wandered over to the Blue Posts in Berwick Street. Here, I was reminded of the near-religious nature of music fandom. My old pal Ged introduced me to Richard with the words: "I'll warn you now, if you two start talking about music I will just go away..." Which he did, very soon. A very peculiar conversation ensued. Richard and I were interested in pretty much the same sort of bands, the same sort of leftfield music. And yet, we found near-schismatic differences in almost everything we talked about. He thought The Fall were the best band ever, I didn't. He thought the Atzmon/Wyatt/Stephen album last year was the best thing Wyatt had done in decades, I thought it was practically unlistenable. He thought Domino Records was a shit label addicted to safety and opportunism, I disagreed vehemently. He hated Anna Calvi, I rated her highly. He thought Geoff Travis was a sell-out and a fraud, I thought he had done many good things, etc. asf. We both admired the same things in music: a sense of adventure and a willingness to experiment. And yet he displayed a purism and disregard for anything that deviated even faintly from his vision of out-and-out risk-taking that I found worryingly fundamentalist in its utter inflexibility. Most of all, we disagreed about the state of music today. He thought there was nothing new and exciting...

Saturday night, The Hootananny in Brixton to see my friends, The Future Shape of Sound and Dr Will & The Wizards. Never having been to this place before, I expected a dank pub with a small back room and a microphone. Instead, it is a massive building with a large bar area as well as a huge beer garden. Other acts appearing here live soon: Yellowman and The Congos. Even though entrance was free, there was a long queue to get in: security search. Inside, the place was packed with a pleasingly mixed crowd, all of which liked both bands enormously. Alex McGowan's The Futures call their sound "Space Age Gangster Soul", which about sums it up: beefy funk rhythms lit up by the contrasting raps/vocals of Momtai and Big. And them came Dr Will (see a couple of weeks ago, El Lokal, Zurich). Zurich had been great, but it was still greater to see this extraordinary band playing in front of an audience of hundreds rather than tens, and getting into their full, mesmerising stride.

10. 5. 2011

London seems rather becalmed just now.

Oh, there were council elections in some parts of the country last week. These were coupled with a vote on changing the electoral system from a simple "first past the post" to a fairer but complicated half-way model between "fptp" and proportional representation. First past the post is, of course, ludicrously unfair. It means that in any electoral district, the candidate with the most votes gets the seat in parliament, the runners-up receive nothing, not to mention any other voters who don't agree with the policies of either Party. In other words, if in District A the candidate for Party 1 receives 500'001 votes and the canditate for Party 2 5'000, the Party 1 candidate will take up the post whilst everyone who voted for candidate 2 will not be represented in Parliament or Council. Set this next to the three much smaller Districts B, C and D (large rural areas with few inhabitants, for instance). In each of these, Party 1 candidate receives 50'000 votes, the Party 2 candidate 50'001. Result: The 650'001 who voted for Party one in these four Districts end up with one Member of Parliament, the 155'003 who preferred Party 2 have three! Yes, the British people were of the overwhelming opinion that this system was better.

As regards the Council elections: The Lib-Dems whose part in the coalition government with the Tories has spectacularly backfired, have taken a beating, whilst Labour whose turn as the opposition party it would have been, traditionally, to make up ground on the ruling party, didn't do so, in fact, lost Scotland to the Scottish National Party who are aiming for Scottish independence. This means that the Tory leaders will feel all the more justified in their anti-social and anti-educational economic programme. Lovely. Meanwhile, London's tube Unions aren't helping the cause of sympathy for the underdog one jot when they're announcing the longest series of strikes ever in retaliation for the sackings of two tube workers.

Meanwhile, the music: All I can report, really, is that I went to see Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Wizard of Oz" at the Palladium. I was very positively surprised by the lightness of touch of the production, the wit and the spectacle. Yes, it was actually good fun. Alas, the people who commissioned the story don't like what I've written and have ditched it without even asking for a re-write. Needless to say, I thought I'd delivered an amusing background piece about a show that is first and foremost meant as an "entertainment". Apparently there wasn't enough meat in it. I must have misunderstood the brief. It probably means I won't hear from this particular publication again before my retirement.

29. 4. 2011

It's the Royal wedding day. As I've been asked to write a sort of "diary" of the day for Aargauer Zeitung, I couldn't avoid traipsing down to Hyde Park in order to sample the atmosphere during the showing of the build-up and the ceremony itself on three massive TV-screens. The park was filled with people, and it wasn't quite the sort of crowd I had expected. Not elderly Royalists dressed in 1950s nostalgia and motheaten orthopaedic collars, but huge numbers of trendy young things, often wearing fancy dress and carrying bottles of bubbly. A stroll towards Fopp Records in Shaftesbury Avenue (I bought "The Confessions of Dr. Dream and Other Stories" by Kevin Ayers) revealed that by far the most enthusiastic Royal wedding revellers were the queens of Old Compton Street: every pub decorated with posters of the happy couple, buntings and balloons.

The two weeks in Zurich raced by in no time at all. Particularly great were two nights at El Lokal. One of these was the Dr Will & The Wizards show. The other was the night I dropped in around midnight on my way from Berne. In Berne I had interviewed the great Dead Bunny who alerted me to the hitherto unknown pleasures of Motorpsycho. Walking past El Lokal I couldn't resist the temptation to go in for a last drink. John Grant who had been playing there earlier in the evening was standing on the forecourt, chatting with people. By the bar, I was introduced to brothers Patrick Hannan (John's tour manager) and Nick Hannan (John's new manager) as well as John's keyboard player whose name sadly now escapes me (Grant's website, woefully inadequate, is no help). It turned out that Patrick was once the drummer of The Sundays and Nick had been in a band called Jim Jiminee. Whilst the latter decamped shortly after to his hotel room, the rest of us finally left the venue at 5 30 in the morning, having exchanged many wonderful anecdotes and stories. Sadly, as I'm writing this I can't remember any. Ha!

Other highlights of my time in Zurich were the Tinguely Museumin Basel, the exhibition "Hund, Katz und Maus" at the Kunsthaus Zürich and a bizarre lunch on the terrace of the Fischstube Restaurant by Lake Zurich.

The place had been renovated and was reopened on the very day my party arrived. Everything, but everything, that could have gone wrong, went wrong, especially a succession of wrong dishes delivered to the wrong tables. When I asked who was filming us after a camera had been stuck in our faces without explanation several times, the response was: "Oh, erm, Swiss television I believe." The same waiter was unable to answer the question if the side orders of various vegetables were included in the price or had to be ordered as extras. One particularly dim waitress was constantly wandering up and down the terrace with a single glass of rosé on a a tray, unable to figure out where it should go. One of us received a salad instead of a fish dish ("It didn't look quite right when I put it down", said the waiter when queried); instead of half a liter of wine we received one glass (after a very long wait and a reminder); the potatoes and vegetable sides arrived ten minutes after the dishes they should have accompanied - they turned out to be over-salted, and the mashed potatoes were replaced by rock hard boiled potatoes. The bill, too, had amazing comedy value: three fish dishes had become six fish dishes, two starters too many were listed, the Grappa I had finished off with, on the other hand, was left off (instead of being given the drinks menu when I had asked for a Grappa, I was instantly brought a measure of dark Grappa, the waiter's choice, it seems). Eventually, the bill was corrected, now looking considerably more humane. And when I expressed an interest in a discount, given the comedy circumstances, it shrunk still further, and by a pretty generous amount. The thing is: the whole experience could have been a total disaster, a real source of anger and frustration. As the waiter was such an unusual mixture of utter inpetitude and monumental charm, however, the whole lunch turned into a memorable feast.

Thursday, 7. 4. 2011

Last Friday truly was one of those days. It began properly in the middle of the afternoon when I interviewed Tony Iommi and Ian Gillan in a basement bar in Soho. The Black Sabbath guitarist and the Deep Purple singer have started a "supergroup" called WhoCares with the intention of using it to drum up support and money for various good causes as and when they arise. Their first move is a benefit single to help finance the re-building of a music school in Armenia, twenty years after it was wrecked by an earthquake. The two were in splendid form. Iommi looks more and more like George Harrison and sported a ready smile and a dry wit. Gillan, meanwhile, appears to be a very earnest man, taking great pains in describing his frustrations with modern governments and their treatment of the environment in general and nuclear energy in particular.

Having nothing pressing to do after the interview I had a quick look in The Ship in Wardour Street. This has always been, and still is, a rock pub full of faces one vaguely knows from somewhere but can't place. I was hoping to run into Chris Carr, the legendary PR man. I first got to know him in the early eighties when he had an office in Kilburn High Road and did press for all the Mute bands, including Nick Cave. Inevitably, after work, and sometimes during, he and his bands would wind up in my then regular pub, The North London Tavern (which is an excellent gastro pub nowadays). I remember one particularly spectacular episode when there was a sudden cry followed by a mighty crash - Robert Smith had fallen backwards on his bar stool and was now lying sprawled across the floor. Anyway, Chris wasn't in the Ship, so I went over to Sister Ray Records in Berwick Street where I spent some money. As I came out, I ran straight into the very man I had been looking for. Naturally, we headed back to The Ship where - equally naturally - Chris knew various people, including Gary from Sister Ray. It wasn't long before Dele Fadele, too, turned up, and then Chris Bailey, the Saint with whom Chris has always been best friends. A major night ensued.

I'm struggling greatly at the moment with a story for Swiss "books" magazine about Alice Munro in time for the publication of the translation of "Too Much Happiness". Trying to figure out what to write about her is a bit like trying to write about a band that barely ever does interviews and believes that their music says everything that needs to be said.

Wednesday, 30. 3. 2011

Back from Switzerland. The time of the year for the M4Music festival/conference in Zurich. As usual - thanks Rolf - I was invited to be in the jury of the demo tape clinic, the rock section this time. There were some really good entries, especially Dead Bunny, winners of both the rock section and the overall prize. I was particularly taken by a band from Bern, Call me Ramsey, whose understated way with a strong melody and a guitar groove carried an echo of J.J.Cale and was utterly refreshing.

I tried to catch a few of the live acts, but gave up very swiftly on most of them, including the clearly excellent Heidi Happy, The Naked & Famous and Tinchy Strider. Not because they were awful (well, I did think Tinchy was more of a stinker than a strider, but then I'm probably not his target audience) but because the "halls" were just too packed for comfort. Of the four venues, only the biggest allowed for a bit of space around elbow height. All in all, though, I wasn't there for the music anyway, but for the chatting.

On Monday, I was invited to take part in a two hour "Treffpunkt" program on Radio DRS1 to discuss the pros and cons of tabloid gossip journalism. My job was to compare the British way with the Swiss, and I must say, the Swiss way seemed idyllically respectful of peoples' feelings when set next to the News of the World's fake sheik and the phone tapping scandal. Alongside me were the singer Michael Von der Heide, an ex-miss Swiss, a TV producer and a well-known veteran female gossip columnist. The latter amazed me even before the program started. How can a woman seemingly so incapable of, or uninterested in, listening to anyone else ever get enough material together for a gossip column? She'd ask a question, and barely three words into a response her mouth would already be twitching as she was barely able to contain her excitement about the next morcel of juicy insight she wanted to impart. "Of course", she beamed at the ex-miss during a music break, looking her up and down: "What I was looking forward to the most when I was pregnant was the day when I would be able to wear all my beautiful clothes again, you know, all those Guccis..."

Everything went to plan at first: the veteran gossip columnist was in her element, explaining at length how it was totally wrong to describe her work as second rate or inferior journalism. In fact, she reckoned, it was very difficult to write a snappy column (no argument there), and that "people journalism" was simply a response to a human need for warmth. Later on, however, a hugely popular and truly respected gossip columnist from Basel who had given up the job to concentrate on cookery books, phoned in. Highly articulate, he explained eloquently why he had found the work so unsatisfying and at the same time somehow so addictive, and how it had become emotionally draining not to be taken seriously by other journalists. At this, the veteran Gucci fan lost her cool. Searching for words, she stood in front of the microphone for several long seconds, just gasping for air before yelping some barely intelligible words of protest. Unable to find the vocabulary to describe her feelings, she just kept yelping. In fact, her yelping was unstoppable. Michael von der Heide leaned into her sweetly to indicate his own desire to speak; the host tried to intervene verbally; the producer waved her arms in the air - nothing worked. But the veteran gossip journalist's helpless and indignant yelps said more than she could ever have said with words.

28. 3. 2011

There is a seriously irritating quirk to the software for this website. Buried deep inside it is a secret combination of keys that instantly wipes out everything newly written in the "text editor" box. Immediately and irretrievably. Because it happens so irregularly, unexpectedly and always when you're typing away at full pelt, I've no idea what this combination might be. It happened to me on the day before I left for Zurich, just as I had finished a rather long and damned funny entry about my attempt to see a couple of football games. Drat! The world will now never know how my trip to see the Hammers play Stoke City came to take seven hours and included a taxi ride costing £ 40 (the taxi driver himself knocked it down from £ 55 which he thought was exorbitant). Naturally, I also missed two of the three goals. The first, because the security people sent me the wrong way around the stadium for the press entrance, the second, because another security man was showing me to my seat at the very moment when the shout went up. QPR v Crystal Palace a week later was less fraught. QPR are leading the 2nd division by nine points, but after this game I fear for them in the Premier League. They have one player, Adel Taarabt, who has the ball control of a seal, the show-off spirit of a peacock and the desire to play of a puppy. He is worth the entrace price alone. But the rest of the QPR team are a fairly ordinary bunch of hoofers and sloggers.

Thursday, 3. 3. 2011

Robert Fripp's diary is one of the more refresshing pages on the internet. Whatever he may describe - trips abroad to conduct his Guitar Craft seminars, performances, shopping in "Bredonborough", visiting John Wetton or Adrian Belew, business at the DGM HQ, or simply "gentling" with his wife - the man from King Crimson has an amusingly light and droll turn of phrase, even when talking about seriously serious matters. Thus, in his latest posting (dated February 16th - the postings are always a few days behind the event) he quotes David Cassidy, of all people, and his claim that the record business was set up from top to bottom to take money from the artist at every step of the process - a belief Fripp has held for a long time and is frequently backing up with the latest news from his various attempts to prevent companies like Universal from distributing his music without consent, or simply trying to get paid.

Robert Fripp writes this: "Although knowing what I know, having spent years climbing in & out of the trenches, I remain unable to comprehend the everyday unkindness & inhumanity that characterizes the music industry.

Q: What of common decency?
A: It is uncommon.

My own experiences, mentioned occasionally in this Diary, are extensive. Yet, I still don?t understand how people, even Good Guys That You Can Trust, perhaps pillars of society & charitable organisations, behave as they do. And they do."

Reading these lines prompted me to do one of my periodic Google searches of myself. Google searches of myself have brought up some intersting acts of piracy in the past. I once found out, for instance, that Marie-Claire China (or was it Elle China?) had stolen one of my stories lock, stock and barrel, even including my name. A swift e-mail from my agent prompted an equally swift removal of this story (I'd rather have had some money, to be honest). I'm certain that this wasn't an isolated example. I suspect that Eastern Europe, for instance, is awash with interviews and stories from me and any number of journalists with access to the "stars" which we can't detect, simply because we don't Google in the relevant languages or because they haven't put our name at the bottom.

Much more insidious than plain and honest piracy, however, is a practice which has spread like a wildfire throughout the print media: the exchange of content between each other. They argue that in the present difficult situation for newspapers and magazines it was no longer possible to generate enough original copy to make an interesting newspaper within the constraints of their budget. Thus, they deem it perfectly acceptable to exchange copy with other (often regional) publications without paying the original writer any extra money. This phenomenon has been accelerated by the fact that various publishers have bought up various other publishers. Whereas in the past, similar contributions to different publications belonging to the same publishing house were paid separately, now it seems to be accepted practice that a contribution to one publication can be used by all publications that are in any way associated with this particular publishing house. And - needless to say - the publisher will also publish your story on their internet platform, therefore severely curtailing any chance of placing a similar story in another publication in the same country.

Examples. A few weeks ago I received a complaint from an independent record company. I had misspelt their name in an album review published by a regional newspaper in Basel I didn't even know existed. I do admit that my attention to matters of spelling isn't what it should be. However, it turned out that in this case, my spelling had been correct, but some editor somewhere along the line had taken it upon himself to "correct" it.

Back to Google: I've just discovered that my story about FC Chelsea, written a couple of weeks ago for Neue Zürcher Zeitung, has also been published - hardcopy as well as website - by Appenzeller Zeitung, Toggenburger Tagblatt, Neue Schwyzer Zeitung, Neue Urner Zeitung, Wiler Zeitung, Der Rheintaler, Neue Nidwalder Zeitung, Neue Obwalder Zeitung, St. Galler Tagblatt and Neue Zuger Zeitung. Whatsmore, I suspect this is only the tip of the iceberg. I discovered these instances of publication only because I googled very precisely "Hanspeter+Kuenzler+Chelsea". If I google just "Hanspeter+Kuenzler", I tend to get only the Michael Jackson stuff. Rant over.

1. 3. 2011

It should have been James Allan, but Glasvegas were held up in traffic, consequently everything ran late and James had other, more pressing duties to fulfill. So I spoke to guitarist Rab Allan and the new, Swedish drummer Jonna Löfgren (James will follow next week, hopefully). I was glad it turned out this way. Rab turned out to be a very funny chap. He was very happy that James had stopped playing the guitar because "he is utterly rubbish" and only distracted the others. It's a curious thing with Glasvegas and their music. On the surface, their wall-of-sound-indie-rock is at least as bombastic as U2 at their most pompous. But somehow - the lyrics? the hints of amateurishness? the Scottish accents? the complete absence of PR-grins? - they turn it in their favour so that somehow their "bombast" comes across as "sincerity" and "passion".

Thursday brought a trip to Southgate, a part of London I'd never been to before. It's in the North, the classic London assemblage of near-identical terraced houses (the front-and-back-garden variety), Art Nouveau tube station and a branch of the Priory drying-out clinic. I was visiting B.J. Cole, the pedal steel guitarist, for a story in German magazine Guitar Dreams. "Maximum two hours" Cole's manager had stipulated via e-mail which would already have been very generous. As it happened, we ended up talking for more than three hours, all of it a joy. Of all the instrumentalists I've ever interviewed, B.J. quite possibly has the broadest musical mind, ever willing to try out ever more unlikely collaborations and projects. Having started off with Cochise, a band that took its cue from the Flying Burrito Brothers and still managed to sound ineffably English, he has made records with Luke Vibert/Wagon Christ, re-arranged Debussy and Satie for steel guitar, is a member of the London Improvisers Orchestra and plays on Elton John's "Tiny Dancer". And that's just the tip of the tip of the iceberg. The list of sessions on his website goes into the hundreds and is divided up in all sorts of categories, ranging from "comedy" (Billy Connelly and Ken Dodd, amongst others) to Pop/Rock, DJs/Electronica and "Divas".

Friday night and Saturday went on The Foo Fighters. On Friday, the NME show in the Wembley Arena. Today's Guardian carries a rather sniffy review of the performance, talking of "longeurs" and implying that it was all a bit run of the mill stadium rock. Well, this isn't quite how I perceived it, and I generally hate anything remotely stadium rocky. To me, they sounded sharp and fresh and very enjoyable. On Saturday, we saw a not quite finished version of a documentary film about the history of the Foo Fighters, ending with the recording of their new record at home in Dave Grohl's garage. Personally, if I had been a member of the band, I would have gladly strangled Dave's kid who delighted in constantly interrupting work with her demands to go swimming. According to the two guitarists I got to talk to, Pat Smear and Chris Shiflett, it was these very interruptions that kept the "fun levels" up. Hmmm.

22. 2. 2011

At the risk of repeating myself - Blues of Cain were superb once again on Sunday. Leaning on the bar, tending to my Newcastle Brown Ale, this bloke who looked just like the clichée redneck - white, gigantic frame, fleshy neck, crewcut - began to chat to me. When he mentioned that he was from Zimbabwe I had to ask, naturally, if like me, he liked Thomas Mapfumo, The Bhundu Boys or The Four Brothers. "Oh, nono, nono", he responded, grinning and wagging admonishment with his finger. "That's their culture. I leave their culture well alone. I stick to my culture!" What exactly was that culture? "Oh, you know, Rock music. AC/DC. That's my culture. ZZ Top." I was so shocked I couldn't even muster the modicum of presence of mind that would have been required to ask whether he considered The Blues their culture or my culture. Shortly after mentioning Queen as another great band he admired, the Zimbabwean redneck and his pal started cracking off-colour jokes about gays. A fine pair of Richards.

More interviews. Rumer was quietly charming and clearly very much her own woman. It just so happens that a couple of years ago on one of my 7" singles buying treks to Rough Trade I picked up her first single, an early version of "Come to me High" on Little League Productions Records. It turns out she lived in a commune when she recorded and released it herself, and there were only 300 copies pressed. She and the friends she had brought along were astonished to see a copy that had actually been properly purchased rather than received as a present. Although I'm not normally in the habit of asking interviewees for autograms, this time I couldn't resist.

Mike Skinner aka The Streets hasn't always been an easy interviewee. Sometimes in the past he seemed morose and distant, one of those music people who'd rather make noise than talk. This time, however, he was not only in fine spirits, but open and friendly. I will follow his future projects - films, production work - with interest.

Later on the same day, The Naked & Famous - one of my more difficult interviews. Not because the band might have been unfriendly or otherwise uncooperative, not at all. No, the problem was their sheer and unadulterated niceness. A bit like a family pot of vanilla ice cream all in one go. The first time on tour, they're a bunch of 22 year olds fresh from music college in New Zealand and still living with their parents. They seemed to have no worries or interests in their lives than being nice to everyone, listening to music on their laptops and making music on their laptops. I struggled to come up with any questions that brought up anything other than another dollop of inconsequential niceness. The situation wasn't helped by one of the (major) record company people (who unforgivably and with laughable inefficiency had failed to inform me beforehand that the band had played a gig at Heaven on the night before the interview). She somehow felt the need to sit behind my back, giggling whenever she felt the bass player had said something particularly witty. I nearly turned round and said: "And what's so funny about peace, love and understanding?" In the end I just said: "What's so funny?"

I wish I could say that I was rivetted by the latest Robert Lepage show, "The Blue Dragon", but I can't. I wasn't. So slow-paced and soporific was this play set in Shanghai that I nodded off once or twice. It's about a Canadian expat, ex-artist and soon-to-be-ex gallery owner, his Chinese artist girlfriend and his ex-wife on a business and baby-search-to-adopt visit. As always with Lepage, the staging looked superb, the effects were brilliant - although I still feel a little cheated when theatre employs so much video to get a point across. My problem was with the content of the play. Portentuous murmerings about Chinese calligraphy suggested a depth and meaning which I failed to find in the rest of the play. The heavy French accent of the woman playing the ex-wife bordered on the involuntarily hilarious, especially when she made big noises about the greatness of the girlfriend's art. All in all, a vast amount of technological pizzazz and words pronounced very deliberately seemed to surround a flimsy story with precious little depth. Much more interesting and funny was the public talk between the director and Richard Eyre that followed the performance.

14. 2. 2011

Dave Clarke's Blues of Cain were in exceptionally fine form last night at the Prince of Wales. Incredibly tight and funky, with a line-up including two Hammonds, steel drums and brass, a New Orleans-medley was particularly fiery. There was also an all too short guest turn from Taka Boom (who will be mightily fed up, I'm sure, that every time her name is mentioned in print or conversation it is immediately followed by "the little sister of Chaka Khan" - although it is true). I also discovered that the band's regular guitarist, Winston Delandro, played with the incomparable Annette Peacock for a bit. The last time I met Annette, she had just moved into the Woodstock hills. On the first sunny day she threw all windows and doors open to better enjoy the fresh air. After a while she heard a strange rustling noise from the kitchen. She went to have a look and found a bear rummaging through her groceries.

More interviews. First, Gregg Allman to talk about his splendid new Blues album, easily one of his best works. Producer T-Bone Burnett apparently came up with a theory why Allman's voice sounds much stronger here than on the previous recordings: It's the first time he has used an upright acoustic bass which, Burnett and now Allman, too, are convinced leaves the frequencies of the vocals untouched, whereas an electric bass interferes with them and takes away some of their power. And here's Gregg's reaction to my question what he and his brothers felt about the British Blues boom in the mid 60s: "(very big laugh) You're getting on a touchy subject there! Hahaha! Ah, my brother used to say: "British Blues - there's no such thing as British Blues! The Blues was born in the South."." One exception he allowed: John Mayall:"He is killer."

Next came Mogwai, Ron Sexsmith and Clare Maguire. From reading through my voluminous Mogwai file (incredible how much has been written about this lot!) I was expecting Stuart Braithwaite to be a stocky and pugnatious chap, full of big theories and withering comments about the competition. He turned out to be a slight, thin and thoroughly friendly chap of the type that prefers making music to talking about it. Unlike certain other artists of a similar bent he was an eager conversationalist, though, so it wasn't a problem to chat about this and that for half an hour in the café part of the dreaded Hoxton Bar & Kitchen. I discovered that this ghastly place is just as dreary and dark during the daytime as at night.

The record company had described the Canadian singer/songwriter as "incredibly nice", and they weren't wrong. Completely accidentally I found out that he has written a couple of songs recently with the wonderful Linda Thompson. Maguire turned out to be much taller than she looked on stage, a woman of Amazonian build. She was practically bubbling over with enthusiasm for her work and appears to be properly driven. She's written hundreds of songs and promises that she won't stick to the poppy and powerfully ballady blueprint of her first album. Ideally, she says, she would like to have a different style for each new album. Laudably ambitious. Let's hope the record company lets her do it.

And then there was that Rooney wonder goal. Just incredible, seeing a wild boar fly like that.

6. 2. 2011

I ended up devouring James Yorkston's "It's Lovely To Be Here - The touring diaries of a Scottish gent" in two days flat. It is an odd book, though - quite the opposite to the "memoirs" of another Scottish song writer I recently read, Stuart Murdoch. Murdoch treats every person he meets, every peach he eats and every tree he runs past, as the starting point for a series of ever wider ranging observations and ruminations about anything, really. Yorkston confines himself to gnomic descriptions of the minutiae of the touring life. There are anecdotes, often to do with air and bus travel and hotels (including the goose left in a hotel wardrobe, leading to an invoice for the redecoration of the room below - not paid). There's the story of the frightening first proper tour, supporting John Martyn (one of John Martyn's combo was a complete tosser and "John Wayne" is a beast of a song). There's the lovely Ireland tour with one Adrian Crowley, and there's the "Western Ass", purchased in Berlin. Mostly, however, the book deals with the trials, accidents and pleasures of human interaction on the road - generally, he seems to want to get away from it all and read a book in a corner. It's all quite amusing in a quiet sort of way - but from about 2/3 through I was beginning to miss a perspective beyond the one man, his guitar and his many quirks.

Three interviews in two days: Sick Puppies, Orchestre Poly-Rythmo de Catanou and The Kills.

"They are a bit thick", warned the record company woman on the way up in the lift. "Really?" I said, surprised by such honesty from a member of the Tribe of PR whose brain is generally locked into the default setting "lies, lies, lies". "Yes", she said. "Yesterday in Manchester they all thtarted to feel a bit coldy." The Sicks are a trio of young pups, two blokes and one woman, two Aussies and one Californian, whose music is one big smoothie consisting of three Silverchairs, one Nirvana, two Green Days and perhaps a couple of beer kegs. Nice people all round. I do have to wonder, though, how the two things go together, claiming, on the one hand, to be doing what they always wanted to be doing, namely being in a band - and admitting, on the other, that they hadn't written a new song in more than two years because they were "just too busy".

L'Orchestre Poly-Rythmo de Catanou have just recorded their first album for 25 years. Their brand of Poly-Afro-Funk was hugely popular not just in their native Benin in the 70s, but in the whole of West Africa before the band's activities were severely curtailed by a government that had no truck with the arts. The fact that they are touring the world just now is down to a French radio journalist, the charming Elodie Maillot, who interviewed them somewhere in the sticks of Benin a couple of years ago. The band asked her to help them re-spread their name in the world. Maillot went one step beyond - she sank all her money and some more into recording this album, turning producer herself in the process. The album is quite wonderful, the interview with Vincent Ahehehinnou an eye-opener. Even though Benin is now a thoroughly democratic country ("the most democratic in Africa", he said), artists of all kinds receive no support whatsoever because the government apparently does not see the point in the arts. Thus, when Vincent was proposed for an award for his activities in an artists' organisation he found that he was not only expected to pay for the medal himself - but also for the banquet that was supposed to go along with the award. He declined.

The Kills' new album is their first that I really like from beginning to end. The duo have experimented this time with a variety of sound textures, including a mellotron, and the results are warm and yet still quite spikey in their old mould. Meeting Jamie Hince and Alison Mosshart was a not-quite-expected pleasure. Not only did they come with a certain "reputation", but also on the very day of our encounter, Hince was on the cover of The Sun because of the announcement that he and Kate Moss were going to get married. I wouldn't have been surprised if they had been both full of themselves and totally fed up with us media types. Being prepared for a couple of arrogant trend geeks I was met, instead, by two completely genuine music fans whom I would gladly have shared a curry and a beer with.

3. 1. 2011

To the 5th Floor Café at the Piccadilly Waterstone's book store to interview Iness Mezel. She grew up partly in a Berber village in Algeria, partly in the Auvergne. Her music reflects this. Driven by fierce grooves and a finely woven mesh of percussion, electric guitars and, of course, Iness's strong voice, it is refreshingly loud, exuberant in spirit and serious in its message at the same time. This is how she paraphrases the first song on the album, which is in French: "I don't follow the crowd/I take my ancestors' route/I shall take the veil off, study, vote and exist/whether you like it or not."

Given the location of the interview it was pretty predictable that I'd end up spending much too much money. Ich bought - at last - Leroi Jones's essays on "Black Music"; a biography of Leslie Blanch, the wild author of the wild "The Wilder Shores of Love" (the biographies of four even wilder women); a small book about the history of the London Underground; another small book, "Walking the London Scene - Five walks in the footsteps of the Beat Generation, including links to The Beatles" (an irresistibly silly title); and the brand new touring memoirs of James Yorkston. I've always liked the style of this great and (sometimes) quiet singing member of the Fence Collective. Judging by the first couple of chapters, his writing style is similar to the music, suffused with a finely honed sense of droll humour and wonder about the place life has set him down at.

Talking about literature - following an appetising essay by Daniel Kehlmann I bought a handful of books by one Helmut Krausser during my last visit in Zurich. This was not as easy as I expected. None was readily available in any shop, although he has written loads. My friendly Buchladen im Volkshaus ordered a pile for me zur Ansicht. With titles like "Schmerznovelle" (very funny and sharp) or "Einsamkeit und Sex und Mitleid" it was impossible to resist. I bought all of them except one huge door stop (I draw the line at 462 pages). At the moment I'm trawling through a kind of "Best of" volume of excerpts from the diary he published between 1992 and 2004. The tone and import of the entries vary wildly. They range from beautiful descriptions of Rome to ruminations about life and death, from acidic outpourings of rage about the modern day literary circus to party anecdotes, travel stories and quotations from Tacitus and Montherlant. Krausser collects Roman coins, is a connoisseur of The Gun Club and will discuss at length the unfair treatment meted out to the likes of Genesis and Pink Floyd by the Punks. It's all delightfully opiniated, funny and juicy. I will be sorry when I get to the last page of this tome, page 462. Partly, the enjoyment of a book of this type is the fact that it practically demands of the reader that he compares his own memories with those of the author. The view from the top of the arc between the two flagsposts allows for an entirely new perspective on one's own past. With the good and the interesting, however, the bad memories, too, are revived. Somehow, I don't know how, reading a few entries from December 1999 last night I was reminded of one of the most cringe-making, embarrassing, regrettable occasions in my life. Together with the late and sadly missed Markus Luchsinger I went to a gig a The Forum, Thomas Mapfumo, followed by Amazulu. Amazulu were ridiculously, irretrivably bad that night, and, rather than just quietly going home, I felt compelled to yell out into the lacklustre applause that greeted their second number: "rubbish", "go home" until the woman in front of me turned round and said: shut up. What possessed me? Why didn't I just go home?

28. 1. 2011

One whole month between entries, oh dear. Aside the very boring task of having to prepare my accounts, January has passed in a blur. First, I had to finish my Punk story for the March issue of Swiss Bolero magazine. The last group I interviewed for this was Moral Dilemma - Cloe, Craig, Pasty -, an excellent band with an excellent album called "Agree to Disagree" on Pumpkin Records. We met up in their rehearsal room in the basement of Enterprise Studios at the back of 12 Bar Club in Denmark Street. It was a time capsule, pure early 1980s, grimy walls, rat poison cans decorating the corridors, a smell of squat-like dampness everywhere, plus a tapestry of graffiti, "bassist needed" notices and other leaflets.

Back to Switzerland. On the 21st and 22nd I was invited to take part in two Michael Jackson-evenings at the Zwischenbühne - a small theatre in Horw near Lucerne. In between, videos, a dancing MJ-double, a talk with a cosmetic surgeon about the psychology of cosmetic surgery, and several bands each playing their own versions of three Jackson songs, I was reading from my two books, followed by an on-stage interview. I must confess that I was sceptical about the potential of such an event, but enjoyed myself greatly. All the bands - Laharson, Monotales, Henrik Belden, Flink - put in a great effort to bring their own perspective to the songs, and the results ranged from the Monotale's raucous countrypunk to Laharson's electronica shimmer. For me as a first-time-in-public-reader it was a steep learning curve. I discovered very swiftly, for instance, that it wasn't a good idea to pick the deep-and-meaningful chapter over the easy-and-entertaining one for a slightly sozzled Friday night crowd. Barely a page into the second chapter (one each from each book) I was beginning to wonder if it would ever end, losing track of where I was, my mouth turning to sandpaper, etc. On the Saturday I chose much better, getting laughs - the good kind of laughs - all the way through. I do hope the reviewer who wrote that mine was a good example why authors shouldn't read from their own books attended the first night...

My plans for Zurich/Lucerne were somewhat derailed by an irresistible commission from the Opernhaus Zürich. For the programme magazine of an upcoming production of Tannhäuser they wanted an essay comparing Tannhäuser with Jimi Hendrix. Which, of course, had to be delivered by Friday (ie. within two days), Monday at a big push. So I spent most of the time in Lucerne in my hotel room, listening to opera and reading a Hendrix biography. Which - actually - was a real treat, especially as it was freezing cold outside.

Back in London I attended the Digital Content Monetisation Conference at a hotel round the corner of Gloucester Road station. A peculiar experience indeed, spending two days taking copious notes whilst barely understanding a word. The jargon was incredible. Basically, the whole thing came down to people supposedly discussing ways of making money from the internet. The verbal offerings ranged from the shameless airbrushed PR-presentation (Virgin) to, well, other shameless airbrushed PR-presentations.

In the second last panel talk on Wednesday, the nice chap from French Le Figaro explained brightly how his newspaper managed to make good money from all sorts of services it offered without having to involve anyone else in their enterprise. These achievements were roundly and not so discreetly poo-pooed by some massive American who clearly believed Europe was at least a century behind the US in terms of digital development (if not everything else). In America, there was a new buzz word, he thundered. How many people in the room had heard of DMP? he wanted to know. Pratically no one held up their hand. "Ahh..." the American boomed triumphantly. Turns out, DMP stands for Data Management Platform which in turn describes an information gathering facility which harvests information about internet users from their user habits and relays them to companies which then are able to market their stuff in a very direct manner to all the relevant groups, irrespective of their (small) size. In America, apparently, there are already quite a few large websites which only provide content to attract readers so they can harvest information about them and making their real money from selling this information.

To the Hoxton Bar & Kitchen last night (what an unpleasant, dark and claustrophobic hole) for a showcase for the latest great post-Winehouse hope, a certain Clare Maguire. 2, Hoxton Street, said the invite. Naturally, not being a Hoxton-habitué (I've always detested the sort of trendiness that confuses a beret and a sneer for insight, awareness and understanding), I presumed I could take the invite literally. Alas, Hoxton Street was a long street with the occasional trendy restaurant and, I believe, an old peoples' home but no sign of the über-trendy Hoxton Bar & Grill which I had heard of but never visited. Rapidly approaching the supposed starting time of the showcase, I saw a dark figure approach, striding determinedly and with a grim expression in the opposite direction. It was Miguel Cid, my French Swiss colleague. He, too, had no idea where the venue was. Number 2, Hoxton Street, was very clearly a clothes shop. The bouncer from a nearby pub pointed us in the right direction. The address on the invitation was wrong. It should have been 2, Hoxton Square. Not that I'll voluntarily go back. Anyway, Clare Maguire: another booming voice holding great promise. I wasn't convinced by the songs, though. A bit too conventionally AOR for my taste. Also, judging by the theatrical get up of the singer, I expected more in terms of performance than just the occasional hip swivel. Still, as a friend remarked: at least she writes her own songs, at least she's done her homework, at least she's not one of those Simon Cowell productions. True, true.