So I was going to interview Bill Hicks at Radio Forth. He was appearing in a tent on the Meadows as part of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, in a circus tent. Regular Music were taking a chance on the new enfant terrible of American stand up comedy. Because William Melvin Hicks was ferociously anti anti-smoking folks were confusing him with the better publicised “No Cure For Cancer” comedian Dennis Leary. The two having had a war of words not dissimilar to the early Eighties contretemps between Jerry Sadowitz and the Bing Hitler character devised by Craig Ferguson.
In fact Hicks was entirely magnanimous with regard to Leary. I watched the latter perform his impressive routine while UK producer Lisa Meyer (co writer of the Young Ones and then beau of Rik Mayall) ran a stop watch on his performance. Afterwards we adjourned to the Beau Brummel boozer on Edinburgh’s Hanover Street, where Dennis proved to be one of the most genuine and affable performers you could encounter on the Edinburgh Fringe. “I have kids, and just want to secure them a decent future” he said over a couple of beers.
Hicks was incredible. I had concocted a transparent Desert Island Discs rip off called Getting Personal, where guests would select their favourite tunes to play during an hour (commercial or course) or conversation.
He agreed to participate, and insisted that all his selections were by either The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, because, he said, everything else was shit. Including presumably his own band The Marbleheaded Johnsons. It was of course provocative.
Bill was captivating. Others participating in the pre-recordings often wanted the music to be cut in after the recording to save time. Not him. He leapt around the studio during every tune, playing air guitar as if his life depended on it. He was the courteous Texan gentlemen throughout, while expressing some of the most trenchant views to leave the lips of any stand up of his generation. He also refused to be drawn into any discussion or debate regarding Dennis’s act, other than arching his impressive eyebrows and smiling sweetly.
Up to that point all I had heard was a cassette of his live performance ‘Relentless’, and been captivated. Seeing him perform in that tent on the Meadows, incorporating the lurid carving on the poles that supported it into his act was unforgettable.
He launched into his splay thighed porno routine and the collective expulsion of breath from the audience could have launched the world’s first Jumbo glider.
They were seasoned ‘alternative’ comedy observers but nothing prepared them for such an uncompromising onslaught.
Two years later I was on a train from Edinburgh to London and read that Bill was dead. He had quit smoking but cancer sought him out through the pancreas.
That was 15 years ago yesterday. Few have been so missed and horribly misunderstood.
Thursday 26 February 2009
Wednesday 25 February 2009
I Will Follow
So I am sitting in the back seat of Tony The Greek’s Ford Granada with Bono Vox out of U2. We are in the car park opposite Clouds, or Coasters as it soon be known, and doing a location interview for Radio Forth in Edinburgh.
On the last occasion, Bono and the rest of the band had come into the station, along with NME journalist Gavin Martin, and indulged in one of those octagonal table interviews that are unnecessarily democratic and usually disasterous.
But now with a few more records sold and tickets bought, the mountain happily goes to Mohammed. We talked and talked, then rejoined the band for a meal in a Chinese restaurant. Little did that establishment know that in the not too distant future it would be selling enchiladas and fajitas as the Grove, in its time possibly the third most popular Mexican food emporium in town.
Little did Bono know that in 5 years time U2 would make a huge global impact at Live Aid, and 20 years after that he would make poverty history, glad handing world leaders until their palms stung with his sincerity.
As we six sat round the table prodding egg fried rice and assorted glutinous MSG heavy accompaniments, guess which personality emerged as the most memorable?
Apart from Tony obviously. Well it was not the amiable Bono man, nor the still hirsute quiet charmer, The Edge, or indeed the cherubic tub thumper Master Larry Mullen.
Rather, it was the gregarious and twinkly-eyed bass playing Adam Clayton. The young Irish band had by accident or design acquired a God bothering reputation. Adam’s more hedonistic inclinations had earned him more of a rock and roll bad boy name for himself. He was told to behave or else. Little did he or they know that he would go on to date glamorous and exotic women such as the feisty nutter Naomi Campbell, and become the musical rock upon which U2 is founded.
That night the band played Electric Co, I Will Follow and those other simplistic chiming stompers which made their name.
In addition to The Edges distinctive guitar playing and Bono’s mullet extraordinaire of course.
In 2009 U2 have made No Line On The Horizon, their first studio album in 5 years, and enlisted the production help of the distinguished men – Eno, Lanois and Lillywhite – who helped elevate them to superstar status.
It returns to the basic premise of those chiming stompers, with additional technological twists, happily forsaking banks of TV screens and giant lemons, if not the wearing of leather trousers.
There are some good whoah –oh – oh –ooooh moments, and some frankly embarrassing lack of lyrical profundity.
Jim Kerr must look on wondering how Simple Minds came to downscale so spectacularly.
On the last occasion, Bono and the rest of the band had come into the station, along with NME journalist Gavin Martin, and indulged in one of those octagonal table interviews that are unnecessarily democratic and usually disasterous.
But now with a few more records sold and tickets bought, the mountain happily goes to Mohammed. We talked and talked, then rejoined the band for a meal in a Chinese restaurant. Little did that establishment know that in the not too distant future it would be selling enchiladas and fajitas as the Grove, in its time possibly the third most popular Mexican food emporium in town.
Little did Bono know that in 5 years time U2 would make a huge global impact at Live Aid, and 20 years after that he would make poverty history, glad handing world leaders until their palms stung with his sincerity.
As we six sat round the table prodding egg fried rice and assorted glutinous MSG heavy accompaniments, guess which personality emerged as the most memorable?
Apart from Tony obviously. Well it was not the amiable Bono man, nor the still hirsute quiet charmer, The Edge, or indeed the cherubic tub thumper Master Larry Mullen.
Rather, it was the gregarious and twinkly-eyed bass playing Adam Clayton. The young Irish band had by accident or design acquired a God bothering reputation. Adam’s more hedonistic inclinations had earned him more of a rock and roll bad boy name for himself. He was told to behave or else. Little did he or they know that he would go on to date glamorous and exotic women such as the feisty nutter Naomi Campbell, and become the musical rock upon which U2 is founded.
That night the band played Electric Co, I Will Follow and those other simplistic chiming stompers which made their name.
In addition to The Edges distinctive guitar playing and Bono’s mullet extraordinaire of course.
In 2009 U2 have made No Line On The Horizon, their first studio album in 5 years, and enlisted the production help of the distinguished men – Eno, Lanois and Lillywhite – who helped elevate them to superstar status.
It returns to the basic premise of those chiming stompers, with additional technological twists, happily forsaking banks of TV screens and giant lemons, if not the wearing of leather trousers.
There are some good whoah –oh – oh –ooooh moments, and some frankly embarrassing lack of lyrical profundity.
Jim Kerr must look on wondering how Simple Minds came to downscale so spectacularly.
Monday 23 February 2009
And The Winner Is....Dieing To Be Famous
So Mickey Rourke won best actor at the Golden Globes, The Independent Spirit Awards and the BAFTA’s for his astonishing performance in The Wrestler. Does it matter that Sean Penn pinned him for the big one by picking up the Oscar for his portrayal of Harvey in Milk?
Not really. Just like the real WWE, the awards ceremonies are intricately calculated marketing carve ups, and while Rourke was deservedly the hip crowd’s champion, the Hollywood establishment has never truly forgiven him. Not for the wayward excess blighting his work since Angel Heart, nor the crappy movies he made to pay the rent as a consequence.
Yet what is more Hollywood than his story, snatching a victory from the jaws of defeat against all the odds? Darren Aronofsky’s film put Mickey in the middle of the ring, and he took the audience on a painfully inspired ride.
It was brutally honest in the depiction of the U.S. small town wrestling circuit, populated by the has-beens and wannabes who dream of making it to the pay per view Vince McMahon run circus. Or by some small miracle returning to it.
This so-called “live sports entertainment,” commands big arena audiences paying substantial ticket prices. Stunt men performing impressive athletic feats, punctuated by story lines that would make a hack soap opera writer wince and performances more wooden than a forest. The Wrestler was art imitating this life parody, with WWE superstars like The Undertaker (aka Mark William Calaway) well on the wrong side of 40-years-old.
Back in the suburbs, to keep the costs of the production down Aronofsky enlisted a number of players on the scene as extras. Just days ago, Scott Siegel who played the part of a drug dealer in the film was charged with real thing, having been arrested for allegedly possessing substantial quantities of steroids.
But at the fatally damaged heart of The Wrestler is a far more damning indictment of our celebrity culture, where 15 minutes of fame are eked out into an entire lifetime.
Those who have tasted a life less ordinary, normality becomes an alien concept.
Just as Rourke’s character Randy The Ram finds going civilian working behind the counter of a deli counter impossible to maintain, so do many of our reality television stars struggle to recover from being famous for being famous. With no discernable talent to sustain them beyond this fleeting public recognition.
Yet we continue to poke them through the bars of this 21st century Bedlam, savouring the tastier moments of their fall from grace.
I remember talking to the musician Bobby Gillespie in an Islington café at the time Primal Scream released the XTRMNTR album in the late 1990’s. He speculated that the logical extension of the then comparatively new reality phenomenon would be live executions on television, like a futuristic nightmare imagined by JG Ballard.
Now that is perilously close to coming true.
Jade Goody is the ultimate reality television personality. By finishing no higher than 4th in the third series of Big Brother, the Essex girl who thought Rio De Janeiro was a person and East Angular somewhere abroad, built an improbable career.
Her ignorance was bliss for many, the British public loved a “celebrity” they could patronise in every sense of the word.
She launched an autobiography and a fragrance. She had two children by another serial reality television personality, Jeff Brazier, a relationship which did not last.
The reality career has more staying power, with a succession of shows featuring the word “Celebrity” in the title and even a keep fit DVD.
Returning to the scene of her celebrity crime just over 2 years ago was a disaster on all levels. She took her mother Jackiey and toy-boy-friend Jack Tweed with her, neither having her peculiar charm, and displaying an altogether less palatable ignorance.
Jade became embroiled in a racist bullying row with Bollywood actress Shilpa Shelty, and had neither the wit nor diplomacy to fire fight the career implosion that followed.
Out of the house where she made her name 5 short years before, Goody faced a completely different set of circumstances.
Villified for the ugly public television performance some thought revealed her true colours, she embarked on a PR firefight.
Unfortunately Tweed’s immaturity led to altercations others may have had the experience to walk away from, but he just landed in jail for assaulting a teenager with a golf club.
And no, you could not write this shit.
Certainly not the cruellest plot twist of all which took Goody to the Indian version of Big Brother where she discovered her cervical cancer. The timing was deadly as the voracious nature of the disease.
Years became months became weeks. She swore to spend her last days earning as much cash as possible for her two boys future security. Laudable and sadly laughable in equal measure. Your mother then gets married for television, and to all intents and purposes intends to die on television. The chances of you having a trauma free childhood are virtually nil. Your dad and boy step-father are to be locked in a battle for custody with your maternal granny and great grandparents.
Your mother also wants you to be baptised. She believes God will make it easier to stay in touch once she is beyond the grave. May He help all of you.
Not really. Just like the real WWE, the awards ceremonies are intricately calculated marketing carve ups, and while Rourke was deservedly the hip crowd’s champion, the Hollywood establishment has never truly forgiven him. Not for the wayward excess blighting his work since Angel Heart, nor the crappy movies he made to pay the rent as a consequence.
Yet what is more Hollywood than his story, snatching a victory from the jaws of defeat against all the odds? Darren Aronofsky’s film put Mickey in the middle of the ring, and he took the audience on a painfully inspired ride.
It was brutally honest in the depiction of the U.S. small town wrestling circuit, populated by the has-beens and wannabes who dream of making it to the pay per view Vince McMahon run circus. Or by some small miracle returning to it.
This so-called “live sports entertainment,” commands big arena audiences paying substantial ticket prices. Stunt men performing impressive athletic feats, punctuated by story lines that would make a hack soap opera writer wince and performances more wooden than a forest. The Wrestler was art imitating this life parody, with WWE superstars like The Undertaker (aka Mark William Calaway) well on the wrong side of 40-years-old.
Back in the suburbs, to keep the costs of the production down Aronofsky enlisted a number of players on the scene as extras. Just days ago, Scott Siegel who played the part of a drug dealer in the film was charged with real thing, having been arrested for allegedly possessing substantial quantities of steroids.
But at the fatally damaged heart of The Wrestler is a far more damning indictment of our celebrity culture, where 15 minutes of fame are eked out into an entire lifetime.
Those who have tasted a life less ordinary, normality becomes an alien concept.
Just as Rourke’s character Randy The Ram finds going civilian working behind the counter of a deli counter impossible to maintain, so do many of our reality television stars struggle to recover from being famous for being famous. With no discernable talent to sustain them beyond this fleeting public recognition.
Yet we continue to poke them through the bars of this 21st century Bedlam, savouring the tastier moments of their fall from grace.
I remember talking to the musician Bobby Gillespie in an Islington café at the time Primal Scream released the XTRMNTR album in the late 1990’s. He speculated that the logical extension of the then comparatively new reality phenomenon would be live executions on television, like a futuristic nightmare imagined by JG Ballard.
Now that is perilously close to coming true.
Jade Goody is the ultimate reality television personality. By finishing no higher than 4th in the third series of Big Brother, the Essex girl who thought Rio De Janeiro was a person and East Angular somewhere abroad, built an improbable career.
Her ignorance was bliss for many, the British public loved a “celebrity” they could patronise in every sense of the word.
She launched an autobiography and a fragrance. She had two children by another serial reality television personality, Jeff Brazier, a relationship which did not last.
The reality career has more staying power, with a succession of shows featuring the word “Celebrity” in the title and even a keep fit DVD.
Returning to the scene of her celebrity crime just over 2 years ago was a disaster on all levels. She took her mother Jackiey and toy-boy-friend Jack Tweed with her, neither having her peculiar charm, and displaying an altogether less palatable ignorance.
Jade became embroiled in a racist bullying row with Bollywood actress Shilpa Shelty, and had neither the wit nor diplomacy to fire fight the career implosion that followed.
Out of the house where she made her name 5 short years before, Goody faced a completely different set of circumstances.
Villified for the ugly public television performance some thought revealed her true colours, she embarked on a PR firefight.
Unfortunately Tweed’s immaturity led to altercations others may have had the experience to walk away from, but he just landed in jail for assaulting a teenager with a golf club.
And no, you could not write this shit.
Certainly not the cruellest plot twist of all which took Goody to the Indian version of Big Brother where she discovered her cervical cancer. The timing was deadly as the voracious nature of the disease.
Years became months became weeks. She swore to spend her last days earning as much cash as possible for her two boys future security. Laudable and sadly laughable in equal measure. Your mother then gets married for television, and to all intents and purposes intends to die on television. The chances of you having a trauma free childhood are virtually nil. Your dad and boy step-father are to be locked in a battle for custody with your maternal granny and great grandparents.
Your mother also wants you to be baptised. She believes God will make it easier to stay in touch once she is beyond the grave. May He help all of you.
Friday 6 February 2009
Radio Radio
Born To Be Wide is a monthly happening, a club that is not a club, an informal gathering of the ill informed and inquisitive in and about Scotland's musical and artistic goings on.
Orignally devised by strangely European music journalist Olaf Furniss and rugby enthusiast/record company talent scout Brodie Smithers, it has taken place in The Venue, The Street, and now The Voodoo Rooms in Edinburgh.
The pair have been aided and abetted by video director and facial hair pioneer Martin Smith, but currently Olaf is flying the flag solo.
Last night he staged the latest in the new BTBW development, industry panels preceding the mild hedonism and card swapping the inevitably follows.
Walking into the upstairs former ballroom at the old Cafe Royal, where Princess Margaret was alleged to have favoured for her under the radar trysts back in the day, was extraordinary.
Under the broad banner of how to get your music played on the radio, the fearless Furniss had put together an on stage line-up of wireless movers and shakers.
The venerable Vic Galloway, BBC Radio Scotland's walking talking outlet for all things nouveau who also does his Radio 1 in Scotland thing. Duncan Campbell, programme controller of Forth 1 and 2 in Edinburgh, John Paul McGroarty of Leith FM, and Tallah Brash of Fresh Air.
Vic, who must only buy jackets with multiple pockets to accommodate all the CD's and pen drives that get thrust in his face when attending such events, clearly represented the best chance of exposure to a wide audience.
John Paul could not contain his passion for both his station and the music it plays. "There is not a band in Leith that I have not seen or heard," he said, and you would not doubt him.
The station's connection to the Leith Festival provides a platform to showcase this relationship with local musicians.
Aussie born Duncan Campbell is a big fish - programme director at GCap Media no less - who moved to Bauer Media as their regional programme head honcho across Scotland. But his nominal responsiblity is the relatively small pool that is Radio Forth.
Since arriving in May last year, he has been responsible for removing the one programming area which offered a slight glimmer of hope to the audience gathered here tonight.
Rather than Bauer's Scottish stations running their own dedicated programming from early evening to 6am, all now take one syndicated show originating from Glasgow.
A move incidentally which also wipes out a day part where new broadcasting talent has traditionally cut its teeth.
Duncan plays the straightest of corporate bats, telling it like it is. Unless you are on a major label, forget about a playlisting at Radio Forth. If this news comes as a crushing blow to all the independent music makers in the room, they mask it with stunned indifference.
Duncan tells them Katy Perry is the sort of artist the station likes, and will playlist her singles until the cows come home. And probably even after singles stop being physically released.
Their extensive research tells them it is the right thing to do. Not listening to the song or anything silly then deciding if it will make the station sound better.
Research conducted while standing on a street corner and asking folk what they think of absurdly tight rotation of a limited number of songs might reveal even more interesting statistics. They don't like it. They switch off. Has RAJAR not given a glimpse of that?
American and Australian commercial models swear by playing the most popular hits more than once every couple of hours. UK audiences have never been comfortable with that.
The irony is that the venue for the seminar is the self same place where Radio Forth RFM (as it was absurdly called) staged some of the best radio musical moments in the history of commercial radio here or anywhere else.
Listeners could obtain free tickets to see the likes of Tori Amos, Evan Dando, Boo Hewerdine or Hue & Cry play the Cafe Royal's 150 capacity room in the early 1990's. Then listen to the event captured on the station's Live On Tour series.
The goodwill generated by such a promotion far exceeded any holiday or cash giveaways.
Maybe I am biased having been the station's music controller at the time, but the playlisting policy reflected a similar sense of adventure.
Revered radio guru Richard Park remarked that he was amazed Forth got such good audience figures playing such edgy diverse songs.
But that was then, and this is very much the corporate now. Leith FM is an imperfect diamond in that dustbin of networked uniformity, and has a much closer connection with its modest audience as a result.
It is what real radio is all about. It has the personality which has been drained from what were formerly known as Scotland's local stations.
As a footnote, Olaf Furniss used to be a regular listener to the indie music show I presented on Radio Forth in the Eighties. What he is doing now suggests the programme was doing something right.
Keep touching that dial.
Orignally devised by strangely European music journalist Olaf Furniss and rugby enthusiast/record company talent scout Brodie Smithers, it has taken place in The Venue, The Street, and now The Voodoo Rooms in Edinburgh.
The pair have been aided and abetted by video director and facial hair pioneer Martin Smith, but currently Olaf is flying the flag solo.
Last night he staged the latest in the new BTBW development, industry panels preceding the mild hedonism and card swapping the inevitably follows.
Walking into the upstairs former ballroom at the old Cafe Royal, where Princess Margaret was alleged to have favoured for her under the radar trysts back in the day, was extraordinary.
Under the broad banner of how to get your music played on the radio, the fearless Furniss had put together an on stage line-up of wireless movers and shakers.
The venerable Vic Galloway, BBC Radio Scotland's walking talking outlet for all things nouveau who also does his Radio 1 in Scotland thing. Duncan Campbell, programme controller of Forth 1 and 2 in Edinburgh, John Paul McGroarty of Leith FM, and Tallah Brash of Fresh Air.
Vic, who must only buy jackets with multiple pockets to accommodate all the CD's and pen drives that get thrust in his face when attending such events, clearly represented the best chance of exposure to a wide audience.
John Paul could not contain his passion for both his station and the music it plays. "There is not a band in Leith that I have not seen or heard," he said, and you would not doubt him.
The station's connection to the Leith Festival provides a platform to showcase this relationship with local musicians.
Aussie born Duncan Campbell is a big fish - programme director at GCap Media no less - who moved to Bauer Media as their regional programme head honcho across Scotland. But his nominal responsiblity is the relatively small pool that is Radio Forth.
Since arriving in May last year, he has been responsible for removing the one programming area which offered a slight glimmer of hope to the audience gathered here tonight.
Rather than Bauer's Scottish stations running their own dedicated programming from early evening to 6am, all now take one syndicated show originating from Glasgow.
A move incidentally which also wipes out a day part where new broadcasting talent has traditionally cut its teeth.
Duncan plays the straightest of corporate bats, telling it like it is. Unless you are on a major label, forget about a playlisting at Radio Forth. If this news comes as a crushing blow to all the independent music makers in the room, they mask it with stunned indifference.
Duncan tells them Katy Perry is the sort of artist the station likes, and will playlist her singles until the cows come home. And probably even after singles stop being physically released.
Their extensive research tells them it is the right thing to do. Not listening to the song or anything silly then deciding if it will make the station sound better.
Research conducted while standing on a street corner and asking folk what they think of absurdly tight rotation of a limited number of songs might reveal even more interesting statistics. They don't like it. They switch off. Has RAJAR not given a glimpse of that?
American and Australian commercial models swear by playing the most popular hits more than once every couple of hours. UK audiences have never been comfortable with that.
The irony is that the venue for the seminar is the self same place where Radio Forth RFM (as it was absurdly called) staged some of the best radio musical moments in the history of commercial radio here or anywhere else.
Listeners could obtain free tickets to see the likes of Tori Amos, Evan Dando, Boo Hewerdine or Hue & Cry play the Cafe Royal's 150 capacity room in the early 1990's. Then listen to the event captured on the station's Live On Tour series.
The goodwill generated by such a promotion far exceeded any holiday or cash giveaways.
Maybe I am biased having been the station's music controller at the time, but the playlisting policy reflected a similar sense of adventure.
Revered radio guru Richard Park remarked that he was amazed Forth got such good audience figures playing such edgy diverse songs.
But that was then, and this is very much the corporate now. Leith FM is an imperfect diamond in that dustbin of networked uniformity, and has a much closer connection with its modest audience as a result.
It is what real radio is all about. It has the personality which has been drained from what were formerly known as Scotland's local stations.
As a footnote, Olaf Furniss used to be a regular listener to the indie music show I presented on Radio Forth in the Eighties. What he is doing now suggests the programme was doing something right.
Keep touching that dial.
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