Music Millionaires

At a time when we are constantly being told how those record company big wigs have been haemorrhaging cash and jobs due to people not buying CDs anymore and turning to the internet and, more specifically, illegal downloading as a means of bypassing large store prices and as a way of discovering new music, it’s interesting to read the Sunday Times British Music Millionaires list, which puts Edgar Bronfman and co, chief executive of Warner Music Group, at the top of its rich list with an income of £1.6 billion. I know, how can you not help but feel sorry for them?

Warner own the like of Led Zeppelin, Michael Buble and Burt Bacharach. Maybe their fans just don’t know how to use Spotify yet, or maybe it’s a bit more complicated: clearly the only people making money out of the music industry at the moment are the select few (let’s call them, for arguments sake, the ‘Simon Cowell’s’ of this world, who, incidentally, was at number 11), who get to carve up a sizeable empire in a dwindling economy while the artists are the ones being dropped, sacked and generally shafted. The closest thing to an artist in the top five is Lloyd-Webber at number three. Sir Paul drops to number five. Ahead of him, the head of Zomba and Jive Records, Clive Calder, and theatre plugger Sir Cameron Mackintosh.

And, excuse me, but where are all the women? Out of the top 30, there is not a single female act, and the only ones mentioned are those benefiting in conjunction with their husbands: Sharon Osbourne, Victoria Beckham, Olivia Harrison (widow of George). This is an incredibly depressing thought, especially when considering how such a bias could be readdressed. So, I guess the lesson is that if you want to make money from music, don’t bother starting a band, or even learning an instrument for that matter. It’s not about the music anymore, kids, so wear those trousers high.

They love Amanda Holden in America, so much so that she looks set to present ‘The Early Show’ on CBS. Quite a leap, I think you’ll agree, given her resounding grasp of American current affairs, and despite being the ker-razy token every-WAG on a Simon Cowell bossed reality show like ‘Britain’s Got Talent’, the only show where the contestants still manage to better the accumulative talents of the expert panel just by, I don‘t know, farting the national anthem or something. Overseas they, like, totally love her accent, but if that were the sole prerequisite of presenting a popular American network breakfast show, then why not get someone like Boris Johnson to do it? Or, better still, get Bernard Cribbins. You can’t get more British than that.

Of course, the real reason isn’t just because of her accent, although I’m sure that helps. It’s mainly because she’s pretty, prissy, size zero blondness, just like Cat Deeley was before her. On the plus side, we’ll be seeing a lot less of Holden over here, who is so dedicated to being all things to all people in America that she’s even planning to record a country album. And the record label releasing this? That would be the Warner Music Group, thus quite aptly proving my point. Again.

Here’s a dream come true for all you distracted students, particularly the ones who are up in time: Channel Five are holding open auditions, via YouTube, for people to appear in an episode of ‘Neighbours’. The winner of Be A Star on Neighbours gets to fly out to Melbourne for six weeks to play Poppy Rodgers, a made up character who is apparently Mal Kennedy’s best friend. If you fancy it, simply learn the script (which is here: http://assets.five.tv/fivetv/beastar/PoppyRogers_AuditionScene.pdf), film it, and the producers in Australia might even look at it, or just hope that at least more than a thousand people enter, which is probably the equivalent of the show’s current TV ratings.

Poppy’s a bit of a mentalist by the looks of things, trying to convince Karl to jump out of a plane and asking where the nearest nudist beach is (“Oh Karl, you are such a prude.”). As you’ll only be there for six weeks, my guess is that all of Poppy’s extreme sporting interests will eventually collide in a horrible cliff hanger episode where her parachute fails to open as she rapidly descends at terminal velocity into a sand dune on a Queensland nudist beach. I’m personally feeling a bit cheated, as are no doubt many other guys, who will be looking forward to Channel Five’s search for a male actor next time: an extreme surfer perhaps, who steals Toadie’s beach towel and goes into hiding in Susan’s garage, or maybe you could befriend Paul Robinson in return for shares in Lassiter’s. Which will then probably explode. You could be back doing your old job in no time.

Ashes to Ashes

You won’t catch me getting on one of these outbound flights from Glasgow at the moment, what with a giant plume of volcanic ash lurking over the country like something out of Independence Day. It does make you realise how completely vulnerable we are to ol’ mother nature. A similar incident on a truly catastrophic scale helped to wipe out the dinosaurs, lest we forget, when a meteorite collided with the planet creating such a dust storm that blocked out the sunlight for two whole years. This kind of thinking helps to put a late running bus or bad haircut into some perspective.

But I’m a nervous flyer at the best of times and, within the next four weeks, I’ll be heading out to both Almeria and back, and then a week later to Brisbane. I usually end up sitting next to the sort of frequent flyer who seems to think that the whole idea of travelling in a pressurised container hurtling 400 miles an hour over 30,000 feet in the air is some form of grave personal inconvenience, like a traffic jam, while I’m reading over the safety instructions and clenching tightly throughout. And I completely refute those people who tell you that the more you travel the easier it gets. Sit them in the priority seats near the emergency exit, then, and see how the sudden weight of responsibility sits on their shoulders; and during that brief moment before all hell is unleashed, everyone will turn to you as you fumble about with the handle and scream “I only sat here for the leg room!”

And that’s without an apocalyptic cloud of dust clogging up the engines. So, no thanks, I’ll be fine down here for the time being.

The UK’s first televised party debate featuring our three would-be leaders would hardly have contested ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ in the entertainment stakes, although during Cameron’s impassioned closing statement (the bit where he said he’d “support us” when we start a family, perhaps by altering the mood lighting in the lounge or warming the bed up), it did look for a brief moment that he might break into a rendition of ‘I’ll Be There’ by the Jackson 5. That would have been quite a nice way of ending it, actually, particularly when they were all shaking hands at the end. Did you see Brown quickly launch off the stage to talk to the studio audience, leaving Cleggover and DC looking like they were waiting for the father of the bride to return to have his picture taken with the rest of the guests.

Clegg certainly looked fresh, savvy and not even half as sidelined as many people would have thought, like he was the head boy who had been invited to ride at the front of the coach with the teachers, and probably won over many “hearts and minds” in the process (a terrible cliché, so overused that you’ll now hear it to describe new managerial recruits on ‘Football Focus’ almost as much as within the halls of Westminster), but did you notice how he continually looked down the camera lens and directly into our slightly befuddled, over thinking faces, instead of the “old parties” (Clegg’s words), who darted around the room like they were addressing a party conference. When Brown and Cameron were throwing muck at each other, Clegg bizarrely seemed to adopt the high ground, even nonchalantly putting his hands in his pockets at one point, like he was down the pub.

Brown was assured but prone to backlash tactics, dismissing the Tories for their healthcare reforms and ways to address the deficit. David ‘Call Me Dave’ Cameron used a puppy dog expression throughout with all the sincerity of a talk show host. I should point out that I am writing this on the evening of the debate and have therefore not been subjected to the inevitable barrage of media scrutiny over every minute detail, from the colour of Brown’s tie (pink, not red, why?) to whether Clegg seemed to drinking more water than the other two. Whether decisions will be made on the basis of such idiosyncrasies is debatable, but it will be intriguing to see whether such a hyped TV debate which garnered such tremendous viewing figures should consequentially pay dividends on polling day.

And it wasn’t much a debate, either, with an audience too self-conscious to even uncross their legs in case an audible creak of their chair might contravene some pre-arranged gagging order. Jerry Springer, this wasn’t, not that ITV’s Alistair Stewart isn’t prone to certain theatrics, bellowing cue commands like the voiceover on ‘University Challenge’. But still, this was a landmark occasion, one that will no doubt be the norm from now on, turning our politicians into personalities in the process. And a landmark for another occasion: not a single advert shown on ITV for over 90 minutes!

Of course, I know the real reason why you people keep reading this blog. It’s because of the bees, right? Well, now that you mention it, the Sunday papers are urging us to not cut back our shrubbery this summer for fear of disturbing our limited number of bees from aiding the pollinating process. The number of bees has dwindle frightfully in recent years (I would imagine in direct correlation to how we continue to build on things that we probably shouldn’t), which is quite scary considering their importance in the general fabric and make up of life itself. But since returning from my regular Sunday jaunt it appears that bees are thriving alongside our nearby allotments, which is pleasing to see, even if they do like to fly directly into your face. And that’s the thanks we get.

Potential Suitors

I was approached by Real Radio the other day to discuss the fashion of our three would-be leaders on the campaign trail – Messrs Brown, Cameron and Clegg. Cameron looked positively presidential when he was in Leeds recently, mucking in and shaking hands with his sleeves rolled up, tie off with top button undone like he'd just returned from a particularly stressful chess match, revealing white shirts with no blazer. We think his team may be studying the Obama camp quite closely.

He's not the only one who's been taking fashion cues from America, of course. Remember Tony Blair? Anyone? He was around a few years back? Do you remember that quickly assembled press conference held outside Number 10 when Leo was born, and he bandied out of the house with the sort of windswept grin and ruffled formality of a man who may have just possibly delivered the baby himself. I can picture Cameron doing the same thing, maybe heroically jumping in front of traffic to save an old lady on a bicycle in the process. Accusations of airbrushing won't help Cameron with regards to his latest campaign posters, although kudos is due on his mini-quiff – which is hardly the sort of post-modern hair do that you'll find Brown striking up in the run up to May 6th. Although slowly creeping further up his forehead (that's called a recession, surely?), the look is both contemporary and adaptable for a busy, 24 hour media roll call. Blair had a similar look, funnily enough.

I maybe sounded a bit too harsh when addressing Our Great Leader, Gordon Brown, who I said "probably shouldn't smile so much." That's unfair; he can't help it that smiling seems to go against every muscle on his face, only for it to quickly disappear as soon as it's arrived. Brown should stick to playing it serious. His wardrobe surely matches: office tailoring at its most monochrome, like a politician from the forties. This works, I guess, as there is a war on. I even saw him on telly wearing a blue tie. Tory colours, of course; does this instigate a break from traditional standard issue colours? Maybe, yes. After all, when did you last see Cleggover brandishing a liberally bright yellow tie and pochette combination? I quite like Nick Clegg, but he's starting to resemble a Geography supply teacher.

Of course, more attention is being paid towards the leader's wives: SB, SamCam and The Other One. I read that a leading national fashion glossy is ringing each party head office every morning to find out what the three women are wearing. I quite like The Other One, who isn't playing ball in the slightest and still going to work as per usual. And just so you know: her name is Miriam Gonzalez Durantez, a Spanish catholic, who bizarrely resembles Cherie Blair. SamCam and SB are undergoing much bigger media campaigns in rather inoffensive high street clothing, but if they really wanted to court some serious press attention, may we suggest a House of Gaga makeover like Beyonce in the video for 'Telephone'? Or is that image just too much to comprehend?


I think that ‘Live from Studio Five’ is fast becoming my favourite early evening TV show. It’s just about the funniest thing that Channel Five have ever broadcast. A light entertainment panel show which eschews the pressing issues of the day in favour of the sort of idle chatter that you’d (quite rightly) walk away from if you overheard it at a bus stop. These stories usually involve a celebrity who said something to someone else that may have been taken badly and forced the aforementioned celebrity to go on a diet/get a divorce/hide in a jungle/write a book about it, or they might tackle a Burning Issue (akin to the BBC’s painfully awful high brow if better represented version 'The One Show') and vox pop members of the public to offer no resounding opinion or shed any light on the debate whatsoever. I’m amazed that the presenters can even read. It’s hosted by Ian Wright, supported by Kate Walsh from 'The Apprentice' to his left, and a guest numb nut in what appears to be a revolving dunce’s chair now that Melinda Messenger has wisely scarpered. (For not getting on with Ian Wright, apparently. She’s from Swindon, you see, and we can spot possible career ending humiliation a mile off).

But it’s the level of over enthusiasm from the presenters which is so compellingly, idiotically brilliant. Take Wright, for example, who appears to just say whatever words happen to pop into his head at any given moment, and, during an item regarding forty-something actress Jennifer Aniston who is still (shock horror!) single, Wright can’t help but yelp out the word “fit” every now and then, before he actually makes a point: “she’s clearly obsessive or something.” His input during a wine taste test has him shouting (actually shouting) words like “woody” and “body” repeatedly, like his batteries might need changing. Kate’s no better, who seems to be excited about absolutely everything, even during an interview with Amanda Byram, who presents the cataclysmic thunder dump 'Total Wipeout' on the BBC in which athletic morons jump from large apparatus into pools of water, repeatedly, over and over and over, but the hyper trio of babbling presenters gush so much that they’d have you believe it was the best piece of theatre since Gielgud. By the way, all of this happened on the same show.

I know that Charlie Brooker has said all of this before but frankly it can’t be said enough. Honestly, just stick it on next time you get home, and if you can survive the first five minutes (this is usually regarded as the breaking point for most of television’s worst programmes, where you feel so physically disgusted that you might actually consider setting fire to the whole lot and locking the door behind you), then I can assure you that you’ll never be caught watching ‘The One Show’ ever again.

April Fool

I was well and truly duped on April Fool’s Day this week, thanks in no small part to our design team (the head of the connivers being Matt ‘the bastard’ Andrews) who had me quite implausibly convinced that I had deleted all of the content from our website. The trick played out over several eager hours and, in my naivety, had me believing that not only was someone else operating my computer but, also, that a virus which I may have instigated was in threat of jeopardising our whole content management system. In my defence, if I wasn’t so busy at the time I might have in fact registered the absurdity of the charade and clocked on, but this is unlikely: I naturally take things at face value, can be a little too trusting maybe, and the set up was faultless.

The Guardian had fun on Photoshop manufacturing Labour Party poster campaigns which played upon the recent Gordon Brown bullying stories, using superb taglines like “Do you want some?” and “Step outside posh boy.” It’s been a viral smash, and to my surprise, the odd person even fell for it: “I wholeheartedly approve,” says one comment, “Excellent decision by the Labour team.” You see, it’s that easy. Other newspapers were less political: the Daily Mail went with an “AA rocket man” story - a new patrol of mechanics in jet packs - while the Sun brilliantly gauged the intelligence of its readership by getting people to lick one of its pages, claiming it had perfected a new printing technique which could inject flavours into the paper. And the name for the process: “Flair Spool”. Tasty.

Of course it’s hard for me to judge anybody given the circumstances, so if you sat there on your lunch break licking your copy of the Sun on Thursday then don’t worry, you’re not a fool in my eyes, you’re actually quite a trusting person, so well done you.

As an Easter treat for all Swindon Town fans (and there aren’t as many as you think), the Robins managed to tuck three goals passed a flailing Leeds United yesterday at Elland Road. We managed to get three seats in the away stand, despite some difficulty in trying to order them using a Leeds postcode. Clearly the Swindonian on the opposite end of the telephone had fears that we might be Yorkshire hoodlums in disguise looking to stir up some trouble amongst the away fans (a friend of mine tried to order tickets using his Leeds postcode when United came to Swindon, but also made the mistake of asking to sit in the Don Revie stand, which is at Elland Road and is named after the manager of Leeds United’s trailblazing team of the 1960s and 70s, instead of asking for the Don Rogers stand - a Swindon Town legend - which is what he clearly meant to say. Bizarrely, they still sent him the tickets).

I’m a firm believer that you should support the football team of where you were born, and through no fault of my own, this happens to be Swindon. Having watched them for many years at the County Ground with my Dad, with a Mars bar in my pocket for half time, through dominating Division 1 with Glenn Hoddle to promotion at Wembley Stadium into the burgeoning years of the Premiership, followed by a disastrous shit-storm of decline and relegation two seasons on the trot, I’ve kept a beady eye on their progress since leaving the town nearly seven years ago. Thanks to Leeds United being quite awfully shafted by just about everyone from the Chairman to the tea lady, their decline has meant that I’ve been able to watch a Swindon team of varying degrees of quality strut out onto Elland Road for the past three seasons in League One, only for our boys to be generally outplayed in the process. Leeds with delusions of greatness; Swindon, with their dedication and very limited skill.

But not yesterday, oh no. Experienced manager Danny Wilson, who is no stranger to top flight football after a spell at Charlton, has galvanised the players into a tight unit, forgoing the old tactic of booting the ball up the pitch for a spectator to retrieve in row J, to a cool, composed passing of the ball. Our forwards are good, too; Billy Paynter now back from injury and looking dangerous, scoring the first of our two goals. But it is Charlie Austin who grabs the headlines, scoring our third goal with a strong header, which is not bad for a player who was working as a bricklayer at the start of the season, plucked from non-league obscurity following a spell at Poole Town.

A word should be said about Leeds United, who have slipped considerably having been almost home and dry before Christmas. They’re now 11 points behind top of the table Norwich and fourth in the league. Swindon are now second - not bad for a team that have always been the underdogs for, well, just about as long as I can remember. Which is why yesterday was a proud day for anyone who has had to sit through years of soggy pies and consistent mediocrity. We’re now second in the league with a chance of automatic promotion. Maybe, just maybe…

We went to a press event for the Leeds and Reading festivals on Monday, and our editor couldn’t help but notice how old it made him feel, and he’s only 26. We normally go because the Cockpit in Leeds put on a good spread and you can drink free bottles of Tuborg. He’s right, of course, on two levels: the festival is essentially a mucky rock mosh for NME readers, so the turnout was suitably aged, but the line up doesn’t help. The Saturday at Leeds reads like the same line up from about ten years ago: Cypress Hill are there, for one, a hip hop troupe synonymous with many hazy prepubescent memories. Guns N’ Roses? Please. Limp Bizkit? Blink 182? And people are paying £200 for this?

Blink 182 are like one of those bands that you actually quite liked as a kid when you wore baggy skater jeans and DC shoes, but you couldn’t possibly admit this nowadays in front of, like, normal people for fear of extradition. They would drop their glasses in disgust, the room would turn silent: “I’ll get my coat.” And they’re headlining? Last year it was Radiohead for Christ's sake. Has our longing for nostalgia and irony stooped this low? Singing about going down on your best friend’s mum when you’re in your late thirties is no way to act - surely if you still listen to albums like Enema of the State then you should do that in the privacy of your bedroom without having to inflict such punishment on the rest of us. Honestly.