You want to end your week with a smile on your face, right?

OK. Before I get off to the pub, a quick link to the best story I've read all week. Not so much Schadenfreude as Scheißenfreude. Have a good weekend.

Obsessions Of The Diva.
Or: working that Blogger "Show posts containing:" feature in search of easy content on a sunny Friday afternoon when you'd rather be down the pub.

Totals represent the number of posts on this weblog containing the word in question.
You may draw your own conclusions.

Blog 227, Love 132, Music 100, Nottingham 65, Gay 63, Sex 49, London 47
Hate 39, Cottage 38, Eurovision 29, Design 20, Money 17, Fashion 17, Portakabin 14
Gossip 12, Big Brother 12, Internet 11, Food 11, Culture 9, Drugs 9, Booze 8
Politics 7, Sport 7, Scandal 4, Philosophy 4, Religion 1, Sleaze 1, Kittens 0

From our local paper:A scan of the full article can be found here - worth reading, if only for the puerile thrill of discovering the unfortunate name of the licensing committee's vice-chairman.

Erm...have any of the licensing committee ever witnessed a gay strip show, one wonders? Hardly a picture of Dionysian excess. Usually a bunch of jaded scene queens standing stock still, arms folded, a half-sneer playing on their lips, as they do their best to give off the impression of icy indifference to the proceedings.

(Oh, and there's always that one solitary over-enthusiastic punter, grinning away, lager can in hand, desperately trying to catch the stripper's eye. He never gets picked.)

(Mind you, I've not been out in a while.)

What privations must our community suffer next?

Troubled Diva says: VORT CARE-YURT.

The rumour on the Popbitch board this morning says:

Jonny - 11%
Alex - 28%
Jade - 30%
Kate - 32%

It is all simply too, too thrilling, my dears.

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box - Item 33.
Planet Patrol - Play At Your Own Risk (1982)

This 12" single came out shortly after Afrika Bambaataa's groundbreaking Planet Rock, and is something of a sister record to it. Same production team, same sound, very similar backing track - this is in fact a deliberate re-working of the rap classic as a full vocal track, with Planet Patrol coming on like an electro version of The Temptations. The overall effect is a wonderful combination of traditional soul values and rich sonic experimenation.

Personally - and it almost feels like heresy to say so - I liked Play At Your Own Risk even better than Planet Rock, and have therefore been surprised by its subsequent omission from the hip-hop history books. As it is the only electro track that I know of with a full male vocal (as opposed to a rap), this most certainly qualifies as a "curiosity".

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box - Item 34.
Horace Andy - Lonely Woman (1972)

It's time we had a bit of reggae. Burnt from the original UK 7" release (on the Song Bird label), this is vintage Horace Andy, over 20 years before his collaboration with Massive Attack on their Protection album. I saw him play an acoustic set in Nottingham a couple of years ago, and was blown away. One of the true masters of the genre.

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

Re: the Will And Grace letters: I've had a lengthy reply (in my comments box) from a representative of the PFOX organisation, which supports individuals who wish to become "ex-Gay". This was the group who raised the initial complaint about the episode of the show which lampooned the movement (I don't think this has yet aired in the UK).

My views on the plausibility of successfully altering one's sexual orientation, and on the motives and assumptions behind such a desire, are strongly held and fairly predictable. However, I'm still a little surprised at NBC's response.

Here's the original posting, and here are the comments.

4 Derby Grove, Lenton Sands, Nottingham. 1981-1982.
Academic Centres, Students and Young Professionals

Our first shared house was a dump. Admittedly, nearly all rented student houses are dumps, but this one was truly a dump amongst dumps. Shabby, grubby and stale, even visiting friends from other shared houses would wonder out loud how we could tolerate living there. The reality was: we only took the place because all the other available houses were being snapped up fast, and we were getting panicky about finding anything at all.

My father, who was up at Cambridge in the 1950s, still had a fondly romanticised view of student life: May balls, college scarves, punting, porters, bicycles and bright young things in gay pursuit of the glittering prizes. After dropping me off at “4DG”, he drove home in tears, unable to believe that his son - for whom he held such high ambitions - was now consigned to such pitiful squalor.

Of course, the six of us didn’t really mind in the slightest. This was all great fun, and somehow not quite real – like playing at grown-up life. Unconsciously, we still somehow imagined that dishes would wash themselves, surfaces would be dusted, and carpets would be vacuumed – presumably by a team of invisible mothers, who would materialise in the middle of the night. Slowly, we sank further into the mire, alternately reacting with denial and anger, but stubbornly refusing to lift a finger. This would have meant being “exploited”, and we were damned if we were going to let it happen to us. If we needed a clean cereal bowl, and the sink was stacked with three days worth of mouldy crockery, then we would carefully remove the stack, wash the one bowl that we needed, then put the stack back in the sink. Very occasionally, someone’s nerve would crack, at which point they would noisily embark on what was called a “Megawash”, making sure that everyone else in the house was fully aware of their selfless martyrdom.

Officially “4DG” had six bedrooms. In reality, it had five bedrooms and one poky, narrow box-room on the top floor. We drew lots. I lost, turned the air blue for a good five minutes in an act of symbolic catharsis, then cheerfully accepted my fate. I painted the room scarlet, lost enthusiasm before finishing the job, and shoved some furniture in front of the gap on the wall.

Our landlord had the eerie demeanour of a latter day Norman Bates, with a mild manner which you could never entirely trust. However, his tyrannical mother was an all too real presence in our lives. A slight woman with an avaricious face and a capriciously prescriptive attitude toward her tenants, she would occasionally turn up unannounced, to carry out random inspections or unwanted “renovations”. One afternoon, we walked in to find her standing on the battered old dining room table (“Solid teak, and very valuable”), painting the ceiling a sludgy shade of snot green. She was a constant source of comedic source material for us all.

At the end of the Autumn term, we threw a party. Somehow, half the University got to hear about it. There were queues up the street. I would walk into a room, and not recognise a single soul. A group of passing football hooligans commandeered the kitchen – and thus the booze – and began swinging broken bottles about. The police were called, and the numbers duly thinned to a manageable level. None of this bothered us too much – it was all part of the experience of student life. If it happened to me now, I would probably be traumatised for days.

We were a resilient bunch back then, with little need of the niceties of human comfort. Looking back on what I uncomplainingly put up with then, and comparing it with the lifestyle which I have now come to expect as my due, I can’t help thinking that maybe I have softened up just a little too much for my own good.

Jump to next station.

Labels: stations

Via Adrian: The Rocking Vicar is a ongoing collection of rock anecdotes, supplied direct to the site by all sorts of folk including many well known UK music journalists (Danny Baker, David Quantick, Caitlin Moran, Andrew Harrison, Giles Smith...) and the occasional musician (Captain Sensible). There's also a weekly subscription-based newsletter. A bit hit-and-miss, but there are some real nuggets for the trivia-afflicted. Also more than a bit middle-aged Mojo magazine, but this is not necessarily a bad thing.

I particularly liked this eye-witness story about the original troubled diva herself, Mariah Carey:

Plot twist! Plot twist!

At long last, Chapter 7 of the Naked Novel is online. Just as you thought the story was moving inexorably towards an obvious conclusion, the goalposts shift once again.

The Naked Novel would make a great "airport book", perfect for reading on the beach. So why not print out all 7 chapters, and take them away with you this Summer? They'll take up less room in your suitcase than White Teeth!

So now there's a HOT or NOT for weblogs. Unfortunately (for me), all of the blogs thus far seem to be of the tech-geek variety, meaning that I can't really grade them fairly. No doubt this will change over time.

I stayed up way past my bedtime last night.

1) Post-concert champagne and cigars in the Lace Market Hotel, if you please! Well, la-di-da!

There is a complete consensus around our table of eight (all ages and backgrounds) - we have witnessed something quite extraordinary. I get talking to the oldest member of our group (in her mid-sixties?) about concerts. Her son started taking her to them, a few years ago. She has seen loads: Rolling Stones, Bon Jovi, Aerosmith. She is quite the latter-day rock chick, in fact. Her favourite concert ever? Ooh, that would have to be Metallica. They were so heavy!

2) A "nightcap" in Bluu, our swanky after-hours gaff. Everyone is so glamorous and well turned out tonight. Mmm, sleek metropolitan late night living. Bring it on!

I fall into conversation with an interior designer. Turns out that she was a Perse School girl from Cambridge, who used to hang out in Martin's coffee bar after school, just as we did a few years previously. Marvel at smallness of world, etc.

3) Well, I can't go to sleep without watching Big Brother, can I? Perhaps I'll stick a few of those Neil Diamond live tracks on first, while I pour my beer. Sweet Caroline sounds much better now. "WOH-WOH-WOH..."

Today, I have had what I call one of my Happy Hangovers. Hangovers that you gladly accept, as they are suffused with good memories of the night before. Where your synapses are pleasantly fuzzed, allowing your mind to form slightly unexpected connections. I do some of my best thinking on Happy Hangovers. Which is a horrible post-justification for excess - but, well, no pain/no gain or something. OK, it's wearing off now.

Before the show, I was hearing about some of the guys who answer (heterosexual) online dating ads. The following quotes aren't anything like verbatim, but they'll give you the general idea.

"For some unknown reason, this guy sent me a 130 page yoga instruction manual - and I hadn't even seen his photo yet! I don't even do yoga! Took me ages to download the bloody thing!"

"This one guy sent me a photo of himself, and said that this was what he looked like when he was 21. But this guy's 35 years old! I guess it's alright to send a photo that's maybe a year or two out of date, but 14 years is pushing it, don't you think?"

Ladies - it's a jungle out there.

So, still reeling from the shock that I would be seeing him tonight, I swing by Virgin on the way home to pick up some revision material. There’s a new TV-advertised compilation doing the rounds, but I go for something called The Greatest Hits 1966-1992. It’s in the sale, and the track listing is almost identical.

At home, I stick the CDs on while doing the ironing. The unfamiliar early 1960s hits sound good, but I’m looking forward to his early 1970s material the most.

Uh-oh. What’s this? Halfway through the first of the two CDs, the collection mutates into a live album. There is a ropey version of Red Red Wine which sounds like a cover of the UB40 cover. Then, one by one, his biggest hits are systematically murdered. The gravely, growling voice is shot to bits, the performances are hokey, the ad-libs too frequent, and the constant crowd noises irritating. Halfway through the second CD, we revert to studio versions, but the damage is done. Just what have I let myself in for?

---

He emerges onto the stage on a slowly ascending platform, clad in a sequinned midnight blue jerkin and Simon Cowell trousers. The hair is definitely all his own – in the middle of the third row, we are close enough to check. At certain angles, he has started to bear an uncanny resemblance to Bob Monkhouse. Still, he’s looking pretty good for his age (61). There’s a seventeen piece band behind him – string section, brass section, the works – nearly all of whom have been with him since the 1970s. Now there’s loyalty for you. It’s the first clue.

We are surrounded by the diehards. There are a lot of respectable looking middle aged ladies, beaming from ear to ear, who already know the exact drill for a Diamond show. When to stand up, when to sit down, when to flex, when to point, when to sway sideways, when to sing along, when to add backing vocals, when to applaud a particular line in the middle of a song – even when to make synchronised rowing motions. Seasoned, polished professionals. The ladies in front of us have already seen Diamond five times on his current tour. We take our cue from them for the rest of the show, flexing and pointing with the best of them. Hey, when you’re in Diamond Country, you have to honour its customs…

However, the audience is far more mixed than I was expecting. There is a teenage boy on the front row who knows all the words. There are loads of people in their twenties and thirties. The gender mix is maybe 40% male to 60% female, and the men are throwing themselves into the show with just as much enthusiasm as the women. We’re not dealing with a Barry Manilow situation here.

Diamond performs for two and a half hours solid, remaining on stage throughout, with only the briefest of disappearances before the encore. He sits down only twice, and takes very occasional sips from a single glass of water. His face trickles with thin lines of sweat, which are never wiped. I don’t even think he is aware of them. He is totally and utterly concentrated on his performance at all times.

The voice is in remarkable shape. It never deteriorates into the “gravel gargling” that I was expecting, and which I heard on the CD. Close your eyes, and it could be 1978. Maybe he’s looking after himself better these days. He may not have the widest of expressive ranges, but technically he’s flawless, as are his band. The sound quality is absolutely perfect, banishing bad memories of a muffled Roxy Music at the same venue last year.

This isn’t my kind of music, and beyond a certain nostalgic value, these aren’t really my kind of songs. Despite this, Diamond delivers one of the most flabbergasting, truly awesome shows I have ever seen. You don’t survive this long in show business without learning a thing or two about stage technique, and Diamond is a masterful performer. His secret lies in the extraordinary way with which he connects with his audience. This isn’t showbiz flash on his part, and it isn’t a Pavlovian response on his audience’s part. The reciprocation between performer and spectator is tangible, and real, and astonishing. Diamond feeds off his audience reaction. It fuels his entire performance. He is not satisfied with anything less than total absorption and enjoyment, from every single individual present. He positively demands it - but not in a preening, narcissistic, “You must love me!” Madonna style. He seeks to earn it anew, night after night. The more the audience gives, the more he gives back. I’ve honestly never seen anything like it.

He works every inch of the stage, delivering – if necessary - whole songs to specific sections of the arena, until he gets the reaction he seeks. I can only resort to cliché: he has us eating out of the palm of his hand. There is a strange kind of mutual respect at work here. The gaily bopping Pats, Jeans and Margarets aren’t abasing themselves in idol worship. Instead, they seem oddly empowered. They are also having the absolute times of their lives, letting go without letting it all hang out. It is a delight to behold.

Diamond’s songs deal largely in stock sentiments, but the thing about stock sentiments is this: when properly expressed, they are universal. That is one of the true powers of popular music, and it should not be dismissed lightly. There is a fine line between populism and schlock. This line comes perilously close to being crossed during the perhaps inevitable September 11 tribute, with its dedication to the police officers, fire fighters and service personnel involved. I feel myself beginning to wince, as each group is applauded in turn. As the crowd applauds “those brave servicemen who risk their lives, every day”, the nice lady next to me notices my half hearted clapping and nudges me. “That’s us lot he’s talking about”, she says, smiling, and motions towards my hands. I don’t suppose she gets thanked very often by her heroes. She’s probably more used to the poorly concealed wincing. Anyway, we’re not applauding the institutions here – we’re applauding the individuals. The tribute song turns out to be He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother. I get the message.

Sweet Caroline is pure end-of-the-pier pantomime. It has become a raucous audience participation piece, which goes like this. Audience parts in capitals.

Sweet Caroline ( WOH WOH WOH!)
Good times never seemed so good (SO GOOD! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!)
I’ve been inclined ( WOH WOH WOH!)
To believe they never would…

I fully expect either the Hermes House Band or DJ Otzi to pick up on this, and to release an annoying Europop Benidorm Anthem cover version any month now. Maybe they already have, and I just don’t move in the right circles.

However, it is Forever In Blue Jeans which is the one for me. Memories of the golden Summer of 79 come flooding back – of the boy I adored, who loved this song, meaning that I loved it too. We’re all on our feet, right to the back of the arena, giving it up for Neil.

He plays everything. You name it, it’s there – except for Song Sung Blue, the first song of his that I remember. Other than that, they’re all present and correct, and not buggered around with either. Even Red Red Wine and I’m A Believer, which were hits for other acts. The show seems never ending, and yet none of us (we compare notes later) can take our eyes off Neil at any point. I scarcely register the presence of most of the other band members. Compelling, charismatic, spellbinding. He could take us any place he wanted.

Towards the very end, he almost does just that. The platform at the front of the stage rises up like a pulpit, as Neil suddenly comes on like a crazed tub-thumping preacher man, delivering a bizarre sermon which starts off tongue-in-cheek, and ends up largely sincere. There is something about raising your hands if you truly believe in the Lord above. Hands are shooting up everywhere, without hesitation. Yikes. I am surrounded. It’s a little bit scary, and I have no trouble resisting this time. It’s the one time when the manipulation becomes overt, and the individuality of the crowd is submerged in hysteria. I don’t care for it much.

There was a cartoon in a recent Private Eye showing an ageing star sitting in an office, with a brash young man behind the desk. The young man is saying “Basically, you’ve got two choices. You can retire, or you can become ironic.” Neil Diamond has elected to do neither. 40 years in the business, and he’s still at the top of his game. I would love to know how many of today’s young pop pups will be able to do likewise.

Labels: top25

Oh, do I have to? I'm tired.

Very well then. Later...

Forever In Blue Jeans. Sweet Caroline. Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon. Love On The Rocks. Red Red Wine. I'm A Believer. Song Sung Blue. Cracklin' Rosie. I Am...I Said. Beautiful Noise. You Don't Bring Me Flowers. If You Know What I Mean.

Oh. My. Giddy. Aunt.

Through an unexpected chain of circumstances, I have just agreed to go and see the one and only Neil Diamond in concert.

Tonight!

In the middle of row three of the stalls!

Full report tomorrow, naturellement.

A few days ago, I linked to Save Karyn – a site that works best when read in the voice of Karen from Will And Grace.

Today, I’m linking to a letter from the Executive Story Editor of Will And Grace, which should definitely be read in the voice of Jack. He’s replying to a complaint about the show from a member of the “ex-gay” movement. Now read on…

Trevor Eve-Marie Saint Christopher Lee Marvin Gaye Advert.






DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince Edward Heath Cliff Richard James Dean Martin Luther King Arthur Lee Harvey Oswald Mosley.

Geddit?

If you can come up with something similar, then tell Jonathan.

The Ayes - 13.
The Noes - 7.
I duly declare that the Ayes have it.
Let the corruption commence!

Coming soon:
10 Reasons Why I Love The Guardian.
10 Reasons Why I Love The Body Shop.
10 Reasons Why I Love Blogger Pro.
That last one might take some time though...

Hot Pop Goss (1)

R.I.P. Gus Dudgeon, record producer, killed in a car crash. Best known for his work with Elton John, although I could never forgive him for drowning my erstwhile hero Kevin Ayers in layers of syrup on his dismal 1980 album That’s What You Get Babe.

What I hadn’t realised until now: Dudgeon is credited as being the first person ever to use a sample on a record. In 1971! Click here to find out which one (you’ll need to scroll down to the Record Breakers section).

Update: I found out this morning that Dudgeon was also the voice of David Bowie's Laughing Gnome. What a legacy!

Hot Pop Goss (2)

Over the years, I’ve learnt not to evangelise about my favourite music. It never works, and is just as likely to dissuade as persuade. However, I’m about to make a rare exception…

My favourite single of 2002 is released today: Weak Become Heroes by The Streets. My clubbing Golden Years (1994-1998), perfectly encapsulated in four spine-tingling minutes. An unnervingly accurate depiction of what the Good Times actually, really, truly felt like. A miniature Human Traffic in song.

On the first CD single, there's the superb video, which is a more or less perfect match with the images which I already had in mind. Click the "Biog" section on the multimedia portion, and you get a lengthy explanation of how the song came to be written, plus an explanation of some of the more obscure lyrics.

On the second CD single, there’s a gorgeous, scintillating house remix by Ashley Beedle, making this is a tune that is well worth buying twice. £1.99 in Virgin. Hurry hurry hurry!

Although I’m not someone who has recurring dreams as such (too active a visual imagination, I suspect), I do regularly have dreams which fall into certain thematic categories. Five in particular come to mind.

1. Being good friends with famous people. The choice of famous person is, however, bizarre and seemingly random – meaning that I frequently buddy up with people in whom I have no particular interest. For example, Bono pops up with inexplicable regularity, and yet I only possess one solitary U2 single (The Fly, or The Fluke as I like to call it).

2. Suddenly realising that I am naked in a public place. Yes, that hoary (whorey?) old chestnut. This never afflicted me until after one memorable night in Trade five years ago, when…but then, we don’t really need to go into all that. No, trust me, we really don’t.

3. Public transport frustration. Getting on the wrong bus, or train, or tube. Realising my error, and getting off at the next stop. Trying to re-plan my route. Getting it wrong again. Gradually moving further and further away from my destination, despite all my best efforts. If this is some sort of anxiety metaphor for The Great Journey Of Life, then I would really rather not dwell on it.

4. Exam panic. Seventeen years after sitting my last exam, this still comes back to haunt me. It’s the day of the exam and I haven’t done any of the coursework, or any of the revision. I am running round in a panic trying to blag some lecture notes, knowing full well that this is too little, too late. Awful.

5. Returning to a former job. It’s the first day at my new job. Walking into the office, I realise with a sinking feeling that I have gone back to one of my old jobs. Nothing has changed – same office, same people, same routine. All the reasons why I left the job in the first place come flooding back to me, in a moment of sickening clarity followed by a sense of mounting despair. I kick myself for making such a stupid decision. Doesn't apply to the job before last though, which I actually rather enjoyed.

Something of the flavour of this last category returns to me whenever K and I go to Cambridge – which is every few months or so, visiting my mother. After leaving boarding school in Cambridge at the end of 1979, I had only made a couple of very brief return visits until my mother decided to move there around five years ago. During those years, I had effectively expunged most of my memories of the city from my consciousness, to a remarkable degree. On returning, there were some streets and buildings which, at first, I barely recognised. On subsequent visits, the memories have returned with ever greater clarity. Now, almost every paving slab holds a memory.

No, more than a memory – an echo. No, more than an echo – a sudden, strong, shuddering sense of regression. It as almost as if I am back in the mid-to-late 1970s: a wounded, mixed-up kid suffering in an environment which he perceives as callously indifferent, bordering on overtly hostile.

This affects my entire perception of the city, filling me with disquiet, antipathy and even a certain revulsion. I don’t want to go back. I don’t much want to be here at all. Trying to rationalise the feeling, I start finding every fault I can with the place. The shops are rubbish. The student are unworldly dweebs, who are in need of a good strong dose of reality, beyond this cloistered cocoon of comfortable academia. The tourists drive me to distraction, with their dumb gawping at buildings which have long since stopped impressing me. The groups of teenage foreign language students clog up the pavement and slow me down as I stomp through Regent Street, scowling at all the mid-market food and beverage “outlets” which have sprung up in recent years: All Bar One, Bella Pasta, O’Briens, Wetherspoons, Pizza Express (two branches on the same street, ferchrissakes).

Looking through the window of All Bar One, I see intense, brooding undergraduates, sitting on their own, heads buried in fat looking volumes. This isn’t right. They should be doing this in silent, bohemian little cafés, with sparse whitewashed walls and rickety wooden tables. Not in a branch of bloody All Bar One.

K says to me “God, it feels good to be free.”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel free of wanting to live here. For years, I longed to live here or in Oxford. I felt I was missing out. But now, I feel nothing about the place. I don’t even like it much. In fact, it irritates me slightly.”

Glad as I am that we’re on the same wavelength, I can’t resist a dig. These jokey little spats are our lifeblood.

“You’re just saying that because the restaurants are crap and the shops are rubbish. Never mind about being on the vanguard of thought - you just wouldn’t be able to maintain your swanky lifestyle! God, you’re superficial!”

“And you’re complaining?”

“Course not! I feel just the same way! That’s why we’re so good together!”

We laugh, and continue stomping towards the Molton Brown shop, cheerful in our misanthropy.