Band of Brothers....and Sisters

I drove to East London and back on Saturday. Seven hours in all, much of that courtesy of the city's south circular, reserved for those who find the M25 too relaxing. What brought on the desire to spend that long at the wheel of a far-from-luxury little car was the prospect of a few hours in the company of people I don't see often enough, including one I hadn't seen for 30+ years!

It was the latest in the inevitable crop of 50th Birthday celebrations that began a couple of months ago, and will run well into next year, what with the Class of '78 hitting that milestone in a spectacular burst of nostalgia-wallowing and resolute dysfunctionality.

I'm not one for re-unions for re-unions sake, although I still would have gone to see Led Zep at the O2 a couple of years ago if I'd only had a ticket. I'm listed as missing on my former college's website and while registered as an "alumnus" of my school, I ticked as many boxes as possible to minimise contact. In both cases this is partly because the institutions concerned will send regular begging letters otherwise, but also because if blood isn't much thicker than water, neither is shared history. Conversely, though, you choose your friends where you can't choose your family, and my largest surviving group of friends, however dispersed and rarely seen,remains my contemporaries from secondary school.

I suppose I'm dwelling on this because the Christmas card season is upon us, and I shall send and receive cards to and from people I have made little effort to communicate with in any other way for over a decade. Ex-colleagues from John Lewis and former university friends. Not that I wouldn't welcome a chance to catch up in principle, but in practice there aren't enough weekends in a year, and most are sufficiently far-flung to need a weekend, especially if it involves dragging the family along, be it mine to them or visa versa.

On Saturday it was just me, at least as far as Chiswick, where I picked up a passenger unable to get there under her own steam, and the two hours to get there were then matched by a further two hours to Lewisham. All my anti-metropolitan prejudices nicely reinforced there, anyway! But it was worth the effort. The main difference with a "gang" who were once so close, even if it was really only for a couple of years before we all left Chester for different lives, is that the conversation almost picks up where it left off, however long ago. I don't know why this should be. Partly it's pressure of time,the choice between small-talk and serious discussion without the opportunity for both. Also a sense that more can be "taken as read" - you know who I am so I don't need to explain myself. A very pleasant and relatively unusual experience, if only it could be repeated more often and without the intervention of the road system.

Hate Crime

A venomous debate has begun to rage following the publication of an article in the Daily Mail, shortly before his funeral, concerning the death of Boyzone member Stephen Gately.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1220756/A-strange-lonely-troubling-death--.html


The article, written by "journalist" (or hate-filled bigot, as it appears) Jan Moir, basically implies that his death was not, as the coroner stated, from natural causes but was in some way associated with his lifestyle, most notably his gay sexuality. It has the dubious privilege of being one of the nastiest, most spiteful pieces of unadulterated garbage I have ever read. It also holds the record for stimulating the most ever complaints about an article to the Press Complaints Commission. There is a response from Guardian writer and all round champion of reason Charlie Brooker, which says it better than I ever could here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/oct/16/stephen-gately-jan-moir

I am far from being a Boyzone fan. I am a self confessed Guardian reader and loathe the Daily Maul with a vengeance, so I can hardly claim to be objective, but it is hard not to resent the proliferation of this kind of prejudice in a national publication, widely read (2nd biggest circulation) by a lot of easily influenced, if well intentioned, folk. That includes my mother-in-law, who really should know better, and my mother, who probably wishes she'd written the piece.

Ironically, this coincides with a great deal of hand-wringing over the appearance of the BNP leader on this week's Question Time and Carter Ruck's attempt last week to prevent the publication of a Parliamentary question, happily ignored by Private Eye and numerous inhabitants of Twitterdom.

Normally I'm a big ole liberal and think "publish and be damned". In this case, though, I'm inclined to hope that the damnation will indeed occur and that Ms. Moir spends an eternity on a spit, being forced to listen to looped Boyzone. I'm very unhappy about the BNP appearance too, but just hope the other panellists are able to expose Mr Griffin for the loathsome creature he surely is.

Selection Vs Completion

I just got round to watching Season One of The Sopranos. Only taken nine years, but in my defence, it has been shown at quite ungodly and inconsistent times on terrestrial T.V., and it is the sort of programme that demands viewing in chronological order. Thus, having missed the beginning, I studiously avoided the following six seasons for fear of spoiling the whole series for myself.

On the strength of ten episodes the strategy was right, as I am already snared into a compulsive need-to-know what happens next. On the strength of hyperbolic reviews on Play.com and amazon.co.uk (I prefer the opinions of those who buy a product to those who are paid to have an opinion), I could buy the remaining six boxes of DVDs now, or even the complete series in one box and eBay the duplicate Season One. But I wont.

Firstly, this involves splashing out over £100 in one go, for a small saving if you buy the series. But second, I know myself well enough to wonder whether I will still be as interested by Season Four. The last time I was in a similar position was when, having won a copy of Six Feet Under Season One via (ironically) a BBC website, I bought the next two seasons. Still haven't quite made the end of season 3, so the last two seasons will be a long time coming. In the intervening years they've halved in price too. And I really like Six Feet Under!

Herein lies a problem. I'm a collector, in principle a completist. My wife would probably redefine that as an accumulator, but for someone who suffers the collecting "disease" (and I've exploited such folk for much of the last twenty years), the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. My own greatest weakness is music, and the racks contain several CDs that have barely left their cases but that have to be there "to complete the set". The same with books.

Consequently, those two "missing" seasons of Six Feet Under bug me, even though I know I wouldn't get round to watching them for months or years if ever. Part of this is conditioning as a good twenty first century consumer. We all buy crap that we don't need because we've been trained to think, believe even, that it will make life feel better. Be better. Not so, but we do it anyway.

Collecting takes this phenomenon a step further though, into the realms of a psychiatric disorder. On occasions, when I did my selling face-to-face in a real - rather than virtual - shop, I saw collectors on the brink of hysteria for fear of missing a "crucial" episode in the history of a pulp super-hero, or a variant of a model commercial vehicle ("Yes, I want both numberplate versions!"). This obsession is not terribly different to that found in some forms of autism and/or obsessive/compulsive disorders. The dispassionate observer might be tempted to say "But it's only a comic" and even add "so get a life" for good measure. That would be extremely ill advised.
Not least because the collector may react violently !

The adage that "less is more" conflicts head-on with collecting and with much of modern life in the "developed" world. Collectors want, need to have the lot, and more generally the preponderance of mediocrity in so many contexts may be proof that in demanding choice we end up with more stuff that is simply unremarkable.

In a previous post I referred to Peter Gabriel's quality control, which is reflected in the relative sparsity of his catalogue. The exception proving the more general rule that choice, far from being consumer led, is more often down to supply. The collector will buy their fifteenth Darth Vader action figure because this one has his head twisted to one side just so. He didn't know he wanted it until he saw it, because he didn't want it. Completeness now dictates that he must have it.

More generally, the joy of branding means that we'll buy more clothes than we need and all manner of domestic goods and services that we'll never use. This is not a new phenomenon, but it does seem to have run away from any level of rationality in the last twenty years or so. Gordon Gekko's "Greed Is Good" from Wall Street was embraced by many a child of Thatcherism and what we have now is a greater level of disatisfaction amongst ordinary folk with "how little" they can afford than I think had been the case even during periods of genuine austerity. Of course there are lots of people struggling, particularly since the latest generation of Gekkos managed to screw the financial system so thoroughly, but for most of us, we don't know we're born!

No, I don't have an answer. You might argue that just as advertising tobacco products has been banned to limit temptation, so we should stop advertising anything without qualitative merit. Not really going to happen is it? That way lies totalitarian state control and mediocrity of the worst kind (Soviet car, anyone?!).

Perhaps, ironically, the change will be made through choice. Just as the banking crisis and M.P.'s expenses have brought about changes in perception that cannot be undone, at some point we may begin to realize and believe that when we are told that items exist because of demand, we'll say "well, not from me" and refuse to buy. But I'm not holding my breath.

Now, I'm off to sell some stuff to people who didn't know they needed it!

PETER GABRIEL at WOMAD 2009

As mentioned below, the main draw for me to WOMAD 2009 was Peter Gabriel. I've seen him a few times and he has never disappointed. First time was promoting his first solo album at Liverpool Empire in late 1977. He had so little material that the set was padded with a cover of "I Heard It Through The Grapevine" and a couple of songs from Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, most memorably "Back in New York City" which closed the show as a leather-jacketed PG in "Rael"mode, leapt from the top of his grand piano. Another show at the Empire, Knebworth festival (head freshly shaved, giant panda on his back) supporting Frank Zappa, and a breathtaking performance at Birmingham Odeon (first time I heard "Biko") all wonderful and pre-dating the stardom and arena dates that the success of Sledgehammer and the So album eventually provided. The biggest and least successful show for my money was that one, at Earls Court, a venue so soulless only Pink Floyd have ever tamed it successfully. Then the 2008 "Human Rights Now!" tour in support of Amnesty International, with Springsteen, Sting (bleeaugh!), Tracy Chapman and Youssou N Dour. I missed the "Us" tour due to financial embarrassment (the Secret World DVD is a must, though), but caught up with him again at the NEC in 2003. By that time he'd given up dying his hair, sprouted a neat white beard and a comfy looking paunch. Not too far from yours truly, really! What sets us apart is his vision and talent!!

Taking years between album releases, his quality control is extraordinary. With the possible exception of his second record, rushed to capitalise on the success of the first, the proportion of Peter Gabriel songs that do not make the world a better place is tiny compared to most of his peers. They sound crafted (sometimes over-produced, perhaps, but live performance invariably remedies that) and while there are signature sounds, each has a distinct identity to set it apart from the rest. I wasn't that keen on his voice when I first heard it on a badly copied cassette of Genesis' Nursery Cryme, but as I recall, my objection was that he "sounded old", by which I probably meant mature beyond his years. Anyway, he's continued to grow into that voice and is now surrounded by a core of musicians who can replicate and expand upon his studio sound with apparent ease, and routinely appear to enjoy doing so.

Central to these is bass (or more usually "stick") player Tony Levin, who has been integral since the first solo record. The Chapman stick is a bizarre looking instrument, like an 8(?) string bass guitar which is played more like a double bass and plucked with both hands. The only other player I've seen is King Crimson's Trey Gunn, with whom Levin played in the Double Trio manifestation of KC (dig out the Deja Vrooom DVD if you can). Actually I've just found www.stick.com via google which tells you all about it. There are 10 and 12 string versions too. A snip at $2500 !

Other stalwarts are David Rhodes who started out supporting PG with his group Random Hold in the early 80s and Richard Evans (keyboards).There are usually at least a couple of other musicians and latterly PG's daughter Melanie, who does backing vocals and occasional shared lead on duets,including Downside Up, played at WOMAD.

So what about the performance? Well, it's a small stage by festival or even theatrical standards, but they still manged to open supplemented by a string section, drafted in for the debut of a couple of songs from the upcoming (this year?, next year??, next century???) Scratch My Back project, which involves PG covering other musicians' songs in exchange for their covers of his songs. On the strength of his version of Paul Simon's "The Boy In The Bubble" it should be interesting listen (tune and tempo completely refashioned) although not a substitute for "real" new material.
This over-crowded the stage, but once the guests moved on PG, at least, was able to wander about a bit and interact with musicians and crowd. The set was deliberately different to the one played at WOMAD in 2007 (only 3 songs in common, we were told), but there were few questionable choices. Games Without Frontiers sounded re-arranged (again), Solsbury Hill was fun as usual, but in keeping with the professed purpose of the show, namely the promotion of Witness.org (go on, check it out!), the finale was Biko, which I hadn't heard live for over 20 years. Hairs on back of neck, all that stuff. I've never liked the way it's presented (crowd encouraged to give black-power type clenched fist salute with their lily-white liberal manicured paws), but the power of the song is undeniable.

You Can Blow Out A Candle
But You Can't Blow Out A Fire
Once The Flame Begins To Catch
The Wind Will Blow It Higher
And The Eyes of The World Are Watching Now.....

Unfortunately, the world has been watching for quite some time now, and while the problems in South Africa may be no worse (though not as much better as we might like to believe), there are plenty of others queuing up. As Alexei Sayle once pointed out (re. "Ebony and Ivory") "as far as race relations go, piano keyboards aren't gonna solve nuttin' " and however moved I am by hearing "Biko", the world is the same the next day.

WOMAD

World of Music, Arts & Dance

A noble enterprise that's been running as a concept since 1980 and as a festival since 1982, I've been tempted to sample WOMAD for many years but frankly deterred by the prospect of a whole weekend of unknown (to me) artists performing in mostly foreign tongues, accompanied by the standard festival discomforts of mud and sleep deprivation.

I was finally tempted this year by the availability of day tickets (£60, free for kids) and the presence on Saturday of one Peter Gabriel, a man more deserving of a knighthood and national treasure status than many already enjoying such accolades. As a founder of WOMAD, PG has put his money where his mouth is, not only by supporting the organisation but also by bringing the artists involved from all over the world to market via his Real World label, many of the products being recorded at his Real World studios. Famously an early WOMAD festival resulted in such losses that he had to re-engage with his former Genesis bandmates for the Six Of The Best concert at Milton Keynes in 1982 to bail the whole thing out, but it seems some stability has now been established. That said, his sole U.K. appearance for 2009 at WOMAD, whilst ostensibly in support of his Witness charity, may well have been to prop up feeble ticket sales, as it was apparent that many, myself included, made the trip to Malmesbury last Saturday primarily to see him.

There was much else on offer, though. Several venues (even the largest much smaller than the three largest at Glastonbury) presented musicians from all over the world, while catering and merchandise stalls mixed a good selection of quality product with the usual bottom-end tat. Throw in a steam fair and mostly decent weather and the recipe for a very pleasant family day out was complete (although we were down to one child having sent Sprog One to Scout Camp)!

By definition, the music is a mixed bag, and sponsorship from Radio 3 rather than the more usual 1,2 or even 6, points at the potential heavy-going involved. No question that most artists, however esoteric, received a warm welcome, but of those I saw (and the festival set up inevitably means choosing between simultaneous performances), some were easier for western ears to metabolize than others.
It emerged that lyrical incomprehension is not the greatest barrier, as I ended up buying a CD ("Eagle") by Chinese artist Mamer who spoke not a word of English and had all his introductions translated by a band member. Nevertheless, "tunes" from some contributors seemed almost random successions of notes, faithful to a key but without readily discernible melody to these jaded lugholes. Perhaps repeated exposure would open them up but the opportunity wasn't there, supposing I'd felt strong enough.

This partly misses the point, though. As a celebration of cultural diversity, WOMAD is exemplary. Much has been made of music as a universal language, much of it cobblers, however as an excuse to present people of one background at their best, to those of another, it is more than fine.

One further reservation. Maybe because of the ticket price, the social and cultural mixture of those attending did not reflect that providing the entertainment. If I found Glastonbury noticeably white and middle-class, WOMAD was positively WASPish! It may present a rare opportunity to hear African musicians,but there weren't too many of ethnic background doing so. It doesn't matter to the extent that at least the WASPs are being educated, but the apparent alienation of those you might hope to turn up and root for their own (sorry about the pun), is disappointing, if hardly surprising.

(P.S. WASP = White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, although White Anglo Saxon Professional might apply better here)

Zappa Plays Zappa

A week before Glastonbury I spent two very rewarding evenings in the company of Dweezil Zappa (The late Frank's eldest son) and the band of (mostly) young musicians with whom he has been touring the world intermittently for the last three years or so.

When Frank died, the "Official Communique" from the Zappa Family Trust was that those who loved the man's work should ensure that it kept being played. Vested interest there, as they stood to claim royalties, but a wise enough principle. Aside from recordings, there were numerous tribute/covers bands all over the world. There still are, but the initial enthusiasm was dampened somewhat last year when the ZFT tried to prevent Germany's annual Zappanale going ahead as it was in breach of copyright i.e. not paying them the financial dues they wanted.

Frank died in 1993. Zappa Plays Zappa has been on the road since 2006. Had it not been for The Muffin Men and others in the U.K., and like-minded fanatics throughout Europe, South America and beyond, interest in Zappa would have dwindled significantly more than it had done in the intervening 13 years. Those musicians (good ones too - the music's mostly too complicated for the casual slouch to master) who made anything from their "piracy" of the man's work are unlikely to have made a fortune. Few would have been able to support themselves on the back of tribute gigs alone and they were generally semi-pro at best.

Now that the ZFT has its own project for playing the music - Zappa Plays Zappa - the goodwill appears to have evaporated and the tributes that had been tacitly condoned have been challenged in the courts. Happily the German court where the challenge was made threw it out and Zappanale took place and will do so again this August. I'm not quite brave enough to attempt attending, as the language barrier on top of all the drawbacks of festival existence and foreign travel are a bit much, but it's good to know it's there. A bad taste lingers, though.

Anyway, I digress.

I first saw Zappa Plays Zappa at Shepherds Bush Empire in 2007. At that stage, while slickly rehearsed and blessed with a better sound system than Frank would have enjoyed for most of his career, they were still using a "party trick" to get noticed. A video clip of FZ would appear on a couple of occasions during the set and FZ's guitar solo would slot into the song the band was playing live. Similar to the Elvis Live! show, I'd imagine, and probably the Michael Jackson rehearsal footage-dressed-up-as-a-live-show that we have to look forward to somewhere down the road. The effect was eerie, professional but a bit too exploitative for my taste, and detracted from the monumental achievement the band had made in learning many of the most problematic songs from the catalogue, weird time signatures and so on. A better feature was the presence for much of the set of former FZ sideman Ray White, who looked and sounded like he was genuinely having fun.

For 2009, the band was slightly smaller, a largely redundant second keyboard player was missing, redundant because the remaining one (Scheila Gonzalez) can play keyboards and saxophone simultaneously if the mood takes her! There were no "special guests" from the numerous ranks of former FZ band members either, but the need has clearly dissipated

The first night, at Birmingham Symphony Hall, while a good show, suffered because of the venue and some technical problems with in-ear monitors which delayed the start by 30 minutes. The Symphony Hall is a very plush venue, but its oval shape places many audience members a long way from the stage, and only when "forced" to stand by the threat of an abbreviated performance did it come to life, and then just in the stalls. By contrast, the audience at Bristol Colston Hall the following night was so rabidly "up for it" that it had trouble staying in the seats! As with the Old Man's shows, the set list was substantially varied between the two nights, just as I had hoped. The Symphony Hall pretty much demanded a nod to the highbrow element of FZ's work, which it got, while the Colston enjoyed a rockier show which trod the line between polish and anarchy very well. FZ should be proud.

But Is It Art ?!

Up to London yesterday for a visit to the Royal Academy of Art's Summer Exhibition, courtesy of JRT who as a "Friend" can get me in free. Which turned out to be only marginally less than what it is worth.

This was the second time I'd been to a Summer exhibition, last year being the first. Despite apparently "airy" rooms with high ceilings, the RA is oppressively warm and fairly crowded. If you were there to see a masterpiece, this wouldn't matter much, however the masterpieces were thin on the ground.

The idea of the exhibition, that pretty much anyone can submit work from which judges select the cream for display, is perfectly sound. The fact is that the number of submissions is so huge that some work receives barely a cursory glance and not all of what is selected is ultimately hung, as each room is curated by an academician, and some choose to space the work more widely than others. Consequently a couple of rooms are laid out like the pages of a crowded stamp album, with as many diverse (generally smaller) works displayed as will fit on the walls, while larger rooms contain relatively few (if often huge) canvases. So far, so messy, but there is clearly an unenviable dilemma of presentation, in step with the dilemma of initial selection.

Sadly, I doubt whether much of what is on show would gain a place on the wall of another gallery, let alone a home or office.

I must declare at once my ignorance of Fine Art. I'm interested in it, and if let loose in one of the great galleries (Tate Britain, for instance) will have no trouble identifying pictures humbling in their achievement and/or moving in their perception. The old saying that "I don't know much about art but I know what I like" still applies.

The Summer Exhibition, which includes drawings, paintings, sculpture and video should represent the best of what has been submitted. If it does, you have to conclude that the RA is losing its clout, in that much better work is not being submitted but just being sold on completion. That may be healthy, but the implied prestige of recognition by the elite is apparently being diluted or lost altogether, as the Academy hangs substandard work rather than leave the walls bare.

The exhibition includes a number of deliberate visual jokes, including a hand-written postcard asking that it be included as it wouldn't take up much space and would make the "artist"s mother proud. Unfortunately, much of the remaining content is also a joke, but made at the expense of the presiding body. There are unfinished sketches, badly finished (half-finished?) sculptures and paintings which might embarrass a ten year old. The subject matter includes numerous cats and dogs, badly posed nudes and portraits "stylised" as a barely plausible excuse for incompetence. As I observed to my host, all those years ago, when I avoided drawing people for my art homework because I couldn't "do" them, I needn't have worried as the inability was clearly shared by several of the exhibitors. Yes, I do know that Picasso could draw representatively but chose to adopt a more symbolic style. I have no reason to believe that some of the pictures on show in Piccadilly have anything more than plain ole incompetence to justify their appearance. And even much abstract work, which cannot be criticised for inaccuracy, still screams out for a dose of "Emperor's New Clothes"-style honesty. As in, "That's a bloody mess, mate. My cat could produce a more interesting effect."

Happily, there are many exhibits worthy of admiration, but that they are surrounded by so much offal detracts unfairly from their achievement.

Coincidentally, the gallery's upper floor is currently devoted to a wonderful exhibition of work by Pre-Raphaelite J.W. Waterhouse, much of it so exquisite it is almost unimaginable that any one picture took less than a lifetime to produce.Hopefully some of the exhibitors at the Summer Exhibition will visit it and realize that what they are doing is not worthy to hang in the same building!

M.J. - Remember The Time

The Glastonbury festival wasn't properly underway when the news of Michael Jackson's death broke. There was no official announcement, just growing mutterings which many, myself included, dismissed as fabrication. Only days before, I had read that Cliff Richard is rumoured to have died every year, as a Glastonbury standard. I assumed this was a variation on the theme.

Only once I had wriggled into my sleeping bag (with little prospect of sleep given the hoard of drunkards surrounding me), did I receive a text repeating the allegation, followed by a call from Her Indoors, confirming that he'd had a heart attack and was definitely deceased.
Further confirmation arrived in text form from 8 a.m. on the Friday morning, when the first of half a dozen appalling jokes appeared, courtesy of Gloucester's premier barber and dodgy joke-merchant.

It was a surprise, of course, but barely a shock. Media speculation about Jackson's health had been rife for years and Ladbrokes had been taking bets on whether he'd ever make it onto the London stage. They paid out too.

As with most celebrity-related issues, one's view on Michael Jackson the man is informed only by the speculation of a media which can sell copy, advertising minutes or whatever on the back of scandal. At best, though, he was extraordinarily naive and/or badly advised in the conduct of his private life. It is certainly possible to share a bed with a child in all innocence, but if you're a D-list has-been, let alone one of the world' biggest stars, you can rely on someone trying to make a fast buck from selling a story, however innocent the truth. There is no way of assessing that innocence from suburban Gloucester. Suffice to say that he was never convicted of anything (although some accusations were settled out of court).

Michael Jackson the artist, by contrast, was and is public property, for us to analyze and celebrate 'til the cows come home. I saw him perform live twice, an experience which elevated my view of him as a mere pop star to concede that he was indeed special.

The first time at the old Wembley Stadium in 1988, still licking my wounds after the surprise departure of the first Mrs G. (no problem finding someone else who'd have her ticket!), I was in the mood for some light entertainment. And I was well and truly entertained. The moonwalk was literally unbelievable, to a point at which I had convinced myself that there was some unseen conveyor-belt device hidden in the stage! There wasn't.

He was promoting the Bad album, which I still prefer to the more popular Thriller. His voice was clear and all the "vibes" were positive. He knew how good he was and did everything to demonstrate it.

Fast forward a few years and we're back at Wembley for the Dangerous tour in 1992. The album had been a bit of a disappointment but on the strength of my previous encounter I was still hopeful that a breath-taking performance would be forthcoming. It was, but with significant reservations. On several occasions MJ feigned "collapse", freezing, between songs and even mid-song, as if he could no longer continue, inviting the audience to cheer him back into action. This was in addition to slow set and costume changes, far removed from the slickness shown four years earlier. I didn't buy it, and was quite bored with it by the end of the gig. The performance remained special but the attitude had deteriorated to a victim schtick which was unworthy of his talent.

Nevertheless, the second half of his adult life pretty much endorsed the portrait of the artist as misunderstood victim. While the last twenty years saw little "product" of note, his untimely exit, before the undignified milking spectacle that the imminent O2 series of concerts threatened, ensures that, with image so much the core of any pop career, his reputation will survive.

************************************************************************************

Incidentally, only with his death have I realised that Michael Jackson was a few months older than me. How anybody, let alone someone with such a frail physique, could have hoped to perform fifty high-energy sets at anything approaching the standard which the public would expect of a man who they remember from videos made when he was half the age, is a mystery. That he was persuaded to try (by debtors, management or whoever) is as worthy of investigation as any witchhunt of his medical team.

Glastonbury: The Pros and Cons

A week ago I was watching Crosby Stills and Nash from a sunny hillside, sipping cider and wishing it would last forever (the event, not just the cider). This despite the dismal sanitation, sleep deprivation and enough rain to render Worthy Farm squelchy for much of the weekend. So it must have been a good experience, even though I was unable, by my return on Monday, to commit unequivocally to repeating it. Indeed, my observation to a fellow camper, returning to a car near mine at sparrow's fart on Monday morning, that it must be like childbirth, demanding a refusal to repeat until the pain is forgotten, seems to have been on the money. I can now say, with a week's hindsight, that it was great and that I would go again. Why's that then?

The music was, predictably, a big part for me, and put crudely, if you add up how much I'd have had to spend to see the acts I enjoyed individually, it must be well over twice the cost of attending the festival. Plus patience is rewarded by allowing the stalwart field-stander to get very close to the performers, even with those massive crowds.

Secondly, the atmosphere is, as everyone insists, special. Very little aggravation, the shared experience apparently sufficient to allow conversation between strangers that would be rare in normal social situations. Just as well, given I was alone for most of the time.

Thirdly, there's stuff you're just not likely to see anywhere else. The fancy dress, the art displays and the musical acts that you chance upon and enjoy, though you never would have looked for them deliberately.

Finally, being out in fresh air for four days is not something that happens to me very often, and is probably therapeutic even if it may have contributed to the tiredness.

From those pluses we must deduct the following:

1) It is a HUGE site, miles from end to end, and if you want to take full advantage of it you're going to walk a long way. I'll take a pedometer next time, but there's no doubt that I walked miles, not a problem but for having to wear wellington boots for so much of the time. Hikers next time, maybe.

2) Not all of your fellow campers qualify as well behaved. Consequently they add to the inevitable mess in the toilets which simple over-use would dictate, and relieve themselves into beer cups before slinging them at those further forward in the crowd. Nice!

3) Many of them are inconsiderate noisy bastards whose "good time" will not be compromised by respect for others and their sleep. So you'll be lucky to average four hours a night.

4) Finally, while the toilets may be "much improved" over the past few years, support for Water Aid's campaign for worldwide sanitation is not going to be furthered by giving people a first-hand experience of third world conditions. No, they probably aren't that bad. Not quite.

For me, the first list comfortably outshoots the second, but I would have to respect anyone for whom the reverse was true. The sanitation issue would be more significant for many women, I'd guess.

Broooooooce!

'Tis the day after my return from the Glastonbury Festival 2009. I was not in a fit state to write yesterday, mostly due to a cumulative lack of sleep and the distraction of feet that have seen more use than in many a year and are suffering the consequences!

I might write a few pieces based on my Glasto experience, what with it being possibly the most interesting thing to happen to me this year. That's is if I remember I'm supposed to be writing a blog, which on past evidence is hardly a given.

Anyway, as the title suggests, I'm starting at the top, with festival headliner Bruce Springsteen. Had I not seen him play Cardiff Millennium stadium last summer, I might not have been able to persuade myself that £200 for a festival ticket would be money well spent (£175 on the face of it but there are so many extra charges...). As it was, the combination of The Boss and Neil Young in one weekend, along with various other luminaries finally got me off my arse instead of sitting in front of the extensive BBC coverage mumbling "maybe next year".

Why should this be? He is quintessentially American, blue collar in sentiment if not status and while as a fan I'd be thrilled to meet him, I doubt we'd have much in common to discuss beyond a shared love of music. A friend asked me quite recently why I liked Springsteen when the rest of my musical taste seemed sound, a question which reflects a fairly common situation. On Bruce Springsteen there is no middle ground. Like Marmite, it seems most people who have heard him either love him or hate him.

A large part of this comes down to trust and belief. Is he sincere? If you think so, and are touched by the power and sentimentality of his lyrics, predominantly narratives on ordinary folk struggling with ordinary situations, far removed from a mansion in New Jersey or touring on room service, you'll be bowled over by his live presentation. On the other hand, if you find a multi-millionaire in jeans insisting that "tramps like us were born to run" just a bit far fetched, you are going to struggle!

Now, I'm not known for my fondness of kitsch, but I find myself a believer. Some of this is based on logic. Said millionaire doesn't have to play energetic three hour sets as he approaches his sixtieth birthday, but he does. He engineers a seemingly spontaneous choice of songs from a repertoire covering the best part of forty years, where most of his contemporaries are content to churn out the hits on autopilot and watch the bank balance swell still further. Some of the material is less anthemic than the majority, but this maintains a sensible balance between the frantic and the reflective moments, of which The River has been the highlight on each of my three encounters so far. If Springsteen is merely an actor, he's a bloody good one, more plausible than many an angry younger man elsewhere in the music scene. Each of my Springsteen gigs has left me overwhelmed that a man over 10 years my senior can generate more energy than I ever could have. Consequently, I have no problem with his label as The Boss.

Death & Taxes

Bloody Hell! I've just done my V.A.T. return to discover that I owe them. I know that might be the normal expectation, but because I mostly sell zero-rated goods (comics) and pay V.A.T. on certain overheads (storage costs and stationery, mostly), I've become used to paying no more and even a small rebate every quarter. Not this time. It all comes of trying to rid myself of some of the vatable residue still hanging about from the shop and the years thereafter when I was still "doing" models. No, not that kind of model, unfortunately. Up to a point, this is actually good news, as I can't afford to hang on to them for the rest of my life and on average I'm probably getting back most of what they cost me. Still, paying more tax....

Of course someone needs to be paying tax, indeed we'd better all start paying more soon, however much we'll moan about it, as government borrowing seems just about stretched to breaking point.

A recent feature on The Daily Show demonstrated an American's mock outrage at the tax rates in Scandinavia and confusion at the population's contentment with their higher levies. It illustrated a point which I think the LibDems have been trying (and clearly failing) to make over the past few years. People will accept taxation if they are happy with the corresponding expenditure. In this country we are not.

Everything - transport, defence, healthcare, education to a lesser extent, is done on the cheap i.e. not as well as it could be. Then we moan about how much it cost to deliver mediocrity. If we spent more and had the standards that would satisfy the majority, we would have to pay more tax. We might resent it less than paying what we do for transport that's clogged, worn out armour and understaffed hospitals. But who's going to risk putting that in a budget?

It's exactly the policy Obama claims to be following and for which the right are labelling him a socialist. Sticks and stones. He'd rather be mis-labelled and get the desired result. I doubt that we have any politicians this side of the pond ready to stick their necks out, so it's mediocrity or worse for the forseeable future....

Stoutness Exercises

I've been going to the gym for nearly six months. I joined in early December, partly because I didn't want to get caught up in the post-Xmas rush, and partly because my conspicuous and depressing lack of fitness required urgent attention. Never thought I'd see the day, but I have Tim Wilton to blame/thank for putting me up to it. It had so clearly done him good that I went for it almost spontaneously.

I'm about to set off for my first visit in over a week, though, which is Not Good Enough. There have been a few such interludes, but this is probably the first that has been extended by straightforward laziness. It started off with having toothache and being concerned that writhing about clutching my jaw every ten minutes might be bad form, but once that recovered I just couldn't be bothered. The previous breaks have all had more genuine reasons associated with them - minor injuries and being away, but while I could have made it twice earlier in the week I didn't.

It's not just laziness, although that's certainly a component. It's also boredom. They do their best to make it "fun" by piping up-tempo pop everywhere and providing televisions to watch - usually Sky News in my case. But this does not detract sufficiently from the sheer tedium of plodding away on a cross-trainer or tugging at a few weight plates. The staff are almost worryingly cheerful, which is fine when you're "up" too, but slightly irritating if not. The showers are O.K. but someone seems to wander through with muddy feet every now and again (how? why?) so that despite constant cleaning they never quite make the grade.

It's got to be done though. Type 2 Diabetes, "dangerously high" triglycerides and barely controlled blood pressure suggest that without it I can look forward to a heart attack or stroke pretty soon otherwise. Just don't ask me to enjoy it. I do wonder how honest the people who say they do enjoy it are, to themselves as much as to other people. It's uncomfortable at best, mildly painful at worst, and a lot less fun than watching a DVD with a glass of wine. So don't give me all that "warm glow" guff. It's a necessary evil.

Breaking The Mould

Following on from News addiction, whilst The Telegraph may have done us all a favour by showing us who our elected representatives really are, the original story is running out of steam. There may be new "revelations" on a daily basis, but the message that our M.P.s have been engaged in wholesale misbehaviour got through a week ago. There are a couple of points here.

First, the M.P.s who say they have done nothing wrong by claiming, as those claims were approved as being within the rules, may be legally right but are morally wrong. A plasma T.V. is not essential to the conduct of parliamentary business. It is not, therefore, a morally justified business expense, even if the "watchdog" approves it. These M.P.s either lack a moral compass or choose to ignore it and are therefore unfit to govern and should be summarily dismissed.

Second are those, like our own in Gloucester (so far anyway) who not only seem to be doing their job, but have not abused the system. This is where further enquiry would be justified. Didn't they know what the others were up to, and by turning a blind eye to it, weren't they tacitly condoning it? If so, you might argue, they have failed in their duty and also deserve to be slung out of office. Without inside knowledge of the day-to-day running of the "Westminster Village", it is difficult to guess how genuinely innocent this second group, or individuals within it, are.

For instance, can we believe that none of this group knew that some of their colleagues claimed second home expenses for property barely closer to Westminster than their "main" homes? Didn't some of them wonder how their colleagues could afford to finance lavish lifestyles both in London and at their country mansions? They may say not, and as they haven't worked the system to their advantage we may have to give them the benefit of the doubt. But that doubt remains.

Here Is The News

This has been far too introspective for its own good so far, so let's see what we can do to bring the rest of the world down to the same level.

I am addicted to The News in most of its various forms. T.V. is simplest, with no effort or imagination required, but I seem to be spending more and more time on the BBC web pages, and then there's Facebook. It's still news, but much of it dreary minutiae. This is redeemed by the first opportunity to see the latest additions to people's families and assess just how drunk the youth of today were last weekend. And some of it is funny, like conversation can be in a pub - not worth remembering but a pleasure as it happens.

Physical print may be threatened by the opportunity to read from the web, but the words still spill forth by the bucket-load. A recent trend is for BBC reporters to use their blogs as scripts; their commentary on the days events appears mid-afternoon and they regurgitate it at six and ten for the computer illiterate.
Yet I still buy a paper (The Guardian) several times a week, not for the stuff I already know about, because it happened yesterday and I've seen/heard the news ten times since, but for the peripheral, obscure content for which there's never time on the airwaves. Increasingly this, too is being provided on the web, but so far it lacks the cohesive house style that you get from a paper. Guardian readers, with our beards and love of real ale, are members of a gentleman's club and more legitimately than our Members of Parliament, for we pay to join!

Reviewing The Situation

I don't think it's unusual, even if it doesn't constitute the typical mid-life crisis. Truth be told, you don't meet that many people who can honestly say that they are happy with their lives, and many who do are abdicating responsibility via religion. That's to say that, having placed themselves in God's hands, they can only assume, quite genuinely, that whatever shit comes their way is not only God's will, but they deserve it. I'm not saying that I don't deserve my life, but I got here under my own steam, without divine intervention.

Yet as previously mentioned, there is some doubt as to where "here" is. Lovely wife, two fully functional kids, very pleasant standard of living and no sense of purpose whatsoever. This is not solely the absence of a "proper" job. Proper jobs seem to double many people's misery, even when performed in exchange for genuine rewards. I am well, or over, educated so realistically I should be achieving more, contributing more. Selling comics - and even then half-heartedly - is hardly a vocation, but the vocation just ain't there. And anyway, it's too late. If my self-employment has achieved anything, it is to render myself unemployable. I wouldn't employ myself!

Modern Life Is Rubbish ?

So where am I? Lost in Barnwood. Barnwood is a suburb of the fairly fair City of Gloucester, in South West England. If I know that much, how can I be lost? Well, at the risk of being a bit arty-farty, my spiritual compass is adrift. That's not to say that I can't find the drinks cupboard (far from it, in fact). But I have to keep remonstrating with myself for applauding popular tunesmiths Blur for the observation that "Modern Life Is Rubbish". Mine isn't, of course. Not materially. Poor little rich kid, in fact. Well, not rich in a master-of-the-universe city slicker tosspot kind of way, but comfortably provided for without having to do anything very much at all. Thanks for asking.

Told You So

I'd actually managed to forget that I started this, although forgetting is one of my talents so we shouldn't be too surprised. I went to set up a Blog and found I already had one. I could start another, but it would go the same way, and I'm quite happy with the title so why worry? As someone cleverer, or at least more wealthy, once said, "the time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say". But where to start?