OK, so maybe blagging press accreditation for the whole week might be a stage too far. I’m just about prepared to let you off on that one. But to come all the way over to Riga, only to listen to the songs being performed once? What’s that all about? Rehearsal tickets have been easy to come by for the last couple of years at least (Chig got hold of them for me on the day both times), so there’s really no excuse for such blatant slacking.

The point of attending one of the full dress rehearsals (either on Friday night or Saturday afternoon) is this. With a considerably less frenzied, more restrained atmosphere in the hall, this is your opportunity to make a sober, considered, objective assessment of everybody’s chances. You can assess the dance routines, evaluate the vocal abilities (or lack of them), appraise the costumes, and carefully evaluate the lighting, staging, camera angles and video editing for each act. Like the seasoned connoisseur that you are.

Watching a rehearsal also has the benefit of keeping you in the conversational loop with all the other ESC fans, as you all breathlessly swap predictions afterwards. Who is this year’s dark horse? Who is the fan favourite that will flop? Which is the one you personally love, that is just “too classy” for Eurovision? Which is the one that you loathe (“such a tired old cliché - we should have moved on from this sort of thing by now”), even though you just know it’s going to do really well? Which is the one that you hadn’t liked much at first, “but it’s really started to grow on me now, and it might yet surprise us all”? Which is that one that you “just don’t know, it could go either way, top five or bottom five I reckon”? Who is this year’s top male totty? Whose act is so ridiculously cheesy that you just know that it’s destined to appear on “ironic” video-clip compilations for years to come?

(This year’s answers, purely on the strength of the Friday night rehearsal, were as follows. Austria, Latvia, Iceland, Germany & Sweden, Ireland & Estonia, Ukraine, the Cypriot backing singer, Israel.)

And what about bloody t.A.T.u., eh? Eh? With the short-dark-haired one mysteriously absent (on “doctor’s orders” – yeah, right), it was left to the longer-frizzy-haired one to perform Ne Ver’, Ne Bojsia alone on stage, out of costume. A half-hearted, static, rather forlorn performance, which was roundly booed before, during and afterwards, it did however heighten expectations for the next day. No-one had actually seen the duo give a proper performance all week. What game were they playing? What rampantly raunchy lesboticisms were they hiding up their sleeves?

One thing was abundantly clear, though: the UK’s entry was bloody awful. Crap song (which runs out of what few ideas it has after about the first minute), embarrassingly amateurish performance. Maybe not bottom three (my predictions being for Malta, Bosnia and Croatia), but not far off.

There was a worrying lack of bar facilities in the hall (Chig and I queuing at least 25 minutes for our second beer), and a seemingly total lack of inside toilets (a row of rock-festival style portaloos outside, thoroughly unsuitable for the High Glamour of the occasion). However, the hall looked good – small enough for everyone to get at least a reasonable view, with a good acoustic and a decidedly impressive stage set. Despite only getting my ticket a couple of hours earlier, I had lucked out with the seating – dead central, main floor, four rows behind the mixing desk, with a perfect view of the stage, and close enough to be able to see the facial expressions of the performers. Knowing that the following night’s seats wouldn’t be as good as this, I made the most of my good fortune, and resisted watching the performances on the two large video screens as best as I could.

I still had absolutely no idea who was going to win, though. One of the strongest starts to the contest in years (Iceland, Austria, Ireland & Turkey), but surely nothing from the beginning of the draw could possibly succeed with the tele-voters? Russia were still an unknown quantity. Norway’s droopy ballad worried me enormously. Everybody kept banging on about Poland’s frightful peace anthem, but I thought that the performance was false and the male vocal too ridiculously rasping. Spain would be a dream ticket – I loved it – but maybe it was too much of a groove, and not enough of a song? Portugal and Belgium had been my toilet breaks: too boring, not a chance. Nope – just like last year, I didn’t have a clue. The field was wide open.

Jump to next part.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2003

Note: The following assumes a) powers of instant teleportation between stages and b) a nice comfortable hotel every night, with helicopter transport to and from the site. I've never had the full-on outdoor festival experience, and I can't say that I've ever been seriously tempted. Not without a generator for my hairdryer, at any rate.

Friday.

Making a comparatively gentle (yet suitably freakoid) start with Julian Cope (Acoustic Stage), I'd then wander over to Nightmares On Wax (Lost Stage) for a while, before checking out The Buffseeds (New Tent) - mainly because Diamond Geezer keeps saying how good they are, and I'm prepared to trust his judgement. Over to the Other Stage next for Athlete (who were such nice boys when I saw them supporting the Doves and The Coral last year) and Tom McRae, maybe hanging around to catch the start of the Cooper Temple Clause for curiosity's sake (maybe I've been wrong about them all this time?) Over to the One World Stage, donning the beaded skull-cap from Camden market for a loose-limbed jig-around to the noodly world-fusion stylings of Ozomatli (the spirit of Real Glastonbury, maaaan), before diving into the Dance Tent for the Audio Bullys. Back to the Other Stage for Idlewild (who I suspect are better than I have ever given them credit for) and Royksopp (this year's Orbital Moment, perhaps?), finishing off with my first visit to the Pyramid Stage (whose line-up has been fairly lousy all day) for the mighty R.E.M. Flail about wildly to the inevitable encore of It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine) before boarding chopper back to nice comfortable hotel.

Saturday.

Ease slowly into the day with Los Lobos and The Waterboys (Acoustic Stage). More world-fusion spirit-of-Glasto noodling with the Afro-Celt Sound System (Pyramid Stage). Slam right back into life with Erol Alkan's DJ set (Dance Tent), before heading back to the Pyramid for Jimmy Cliff (70s reggae classics in the sunshine) and the Polyphonic Spree (was any band ever more suited?). Try to forget the fact that I've just missed Interpol (Other) and Radio 4 (New), who were both playing at the same time as the Spree. It's high time we had some full-on, high-octane rock-n-roll mayhem, so it's The Libertines next (Other Stage), followed quickly by the extraordinary Kings Of Leon (New Tent). Now then: another conundrum. Flaming Lips (Pyramid), The Coral (Other) or Goldfrapp (New)? A tough choice, but I'll eventually opt for the Flaming Lips, followed on the same stage by the big headliners, Radiohead (but why, oh why, did Radiohead have to clash with the Super Furry Animals?)

Sunday.

The first thing to say about Sunday is that the Pyramid Stage line-up looks hopelessly mediocre (Moby, Manics, Feeder, Macy Gray, Sugababes, Asian Dub Foundation), so I'll be giving it a miss entirely today. Let's start with a few experiments: My Morning Jacket (Other), Coral-wannabes The Zutons (New) and Damien Rice (Other). The next band is a no-brainer: it can only be Yes (now reunited with Rick Wakeman!) on the One World Stage (and I'm seeing them next Friday, as well). Quickly restoring credibility points with The Rapture and Grandaddy (Other), it's time for more genre-hopping: The Roots (Dance) and the Buena Vista Social Club (One World). Finally, and although sorely tempted by The Streets (Dance), my fantasy Glasto comes to a glorious end with the Doves (Other).

Hmm. It's almost enough to make me wish I was going. Are you?

In the run-up to its much vaunted New! Improved! service, Blogger continued to drive everyone right round the bloody twist. This week's amusing little foibles included: rolling templates back to February, accepting saved changes to templates but continuing to display the old versions, and the temporary disappearance of www.blogger.com (although pro2.blogger.com remained available). Plus the usual archive woes, of course - but that goes without saying. Meanwhile, Movable Type users tried not to snigger too loudly.

Vaughan's domain expired and immediately got nicked, so he quickly added a dot uk, and is now safe and sound at www.whereveryouare.org.uk.

My only-a-few-miles-away-from-home-boy Nixon moved his blog-with-two-names (It's OK, it's just your mind/Popdizzy) to its own domain at www.popdizzy.com, and stopped calling it It's OK, it's just your mind. So we can all simply refer to it as Popdizzy from now on. Which makes it easier to fit onto blogrolls.

My Ace Life went on the shortest Blog Hiatus known to man: two whole days! And we're glad to have it back.

Anna of little.red.boat came to London, and is hosting a little.red.picnic (or, depending on the weather, a little.red.afternoon.in.the.pub) this Sunday afternoon, and no, I don't think you have to be on any sort of List to show up. (Hey, I wonder if there will be any more devilish chicanery with the filing cabinet?)

Intersection, my favourite US weblog that isn't written by a homosexual person, seems to have vanished without trace. I do hope this is only temporary.

Salam Pax got interviewed by The Guardian, and will now be writing for them every fortnight. His blog, Where Is Raed, remains as compelling as ever.

Anna of Kookymojo re-surfaced, if only briefly. She says she fell down a hole. I have no idea whether this was of the physical or metaphorical type, but I'm glad that she managed to clamber back out.

Invisible Stranger Nigel waxed evocatively about time spent in West Berlin: both dancing in the KC club (yeah, me too, Fridays mostly, or else Wu-Wu or the Trocadero or Querelle, or Flip Flop + SchwuZ + Metropol on Saturdays, or drinks during the week at Tom's Bar or Andreas Kneipe or Anderes Ufer or Movie or Bi Ba Bo) and, a few years later, witnessing the fall of the Wall.

As ever, Karen of Rise made the tea. And the cocktails.

Who needs political cartoonists when there are images like this knocking around? News photo of the year!
(via Scaryduck, in Green Fairy's comments box)

Has anyone been to Calvi in Corsica? If so, then what did you think of the place? Would you recommend it as a good place to stay for two weeks in early August (with hire car)?

Any information you might have would be gratefully received.

So you’ve booked your trip to Riga, but you’re only flying out to watch the contest on the Saturday night? Lightweight! A true ESC-head would have sorted out press accreditation for the entire week. After all, how else are you going to get hold of all the latest essential gossip from the rehearsals, press conferences and parties?

What do you mean, it’s not essential? Of course it is! Freshly minted gossip is your stock in trade, and the competition is fierce. For instance (and to take a fictional example), if you eagerly boast of having seen one of the Estonian backing dancers wandering round the Dom Square that afternoon, then someone else is bound to tell you that actually, he sat next to the same guy at lunch in the Press Centre yesterday (“and he’s a really really nice bloke, so down to earth…”) – at which point someone else will pipe up that actually, he has just interviewed the guy for his website (“and I’ve got some great photos of him as well…”) – which will lead someone else to say that actually, he was snogging the guy at the official Croatian party last night – and so on, and so on. Although admittedly, snogging one of the contestants does just about trump everything.

What’s that, you say - you’re not a journalist? Oh, come come - you can do better than that. Do you really think that all those important looking people with their laminated press passes slung round their necks at all times, even when they’re miles away from the Skonto hall are all proper journalists? How much you have to learn! Because for the truly dedicated, there are ways, and there are means. Start badgering your local paper or radio station, and take it from there. Build up your contacts. Sooner or later, your persistence will be rewarded.

Once again, this is one Stage Of Eurovision too far for me – besides which, I’ve always been a hopeless schmoozer. I’d only get star-struck and tongue-tied - yes, even in front of that Estonian backing dancer. After all, he’s going to be on the telly, isn’t he? That still counts as famous in my book. However, I do know this guy who does have press accreditation, and he’s got some great photos of the Latvian entrants, and perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the head of the BBC delegation told him only yesterday that…

Jump to next part.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2003

Erm...you wouldn't believe the number of unanswered e-mails I've got stacked up at home, sent to me in good faith by readers of this site, who might reasonably have expected at least a token response. They go back months. So, as I can no longer live with the guilt, I'm going to make a solemn pledge to answer all of them by this time next week.

(Yeah, I know I don't have to reply to any of them, but I'm not really the aloof type, and I don't want to give the impression of being so. Oh God, but what if they all reply to my replies? Where will that leave me? Oh, the pressure of public life!)

From dippy Eurovision to trippy space-rock in just four days...Stereoboard and I made the pilgrimage up to Sheffield last night to catch Daevid Allen's University Of Errors at the Boardwalk, supported by the "mantric and tantric" free festival veterans, Here And Now. Daevid Allen was a founder member of the Soft Machine and went on to form Gong, with whom he still occasionally performs. White-haired and impressively gnarly now, he looks as old as the hills (he's actually 63), but his spirit remains undimmed by the passing of the years; yup, he's still the same cosmic-mystic visionary nutter-loon of old. The last of the original hippies, and resplendently so.

Not being exactly won over by their almost entirely improvised first album, recorded within hours of the band's first ever meeting with Allen (OK, I've played it twice), I had fully prepared myself for the possibility of a wasted journey. There was nothing to worry about, though: backed by a member of psy-trancers Eat Static (are they still going?) on keyboards, the wrinkly old space-rockers were on fire, with Allen's trademark "glissando guitar" (whereby he saws at the neck of the guitar with a short metal bow, in order to produce whooshy cosmic noises) well to the fore.

A fascinating selection of material as well (and non-trainspotters can stop reading right here). The set started with Hope For Happiness from the first Soft Machine album (recorded after Allen's departure from the band), and took in Gong's Pot Head Pixies ("I am, you are, we are, they are, KRAZY") along with the lesser known Pretty Miss Titty (from their Magick Brother Mystic Sister debut) and (although I still need to check this) Stoned Innocent Frankenstein from Banana Moon. My joy was completed when, towards the end of the set, the band tackled the Robert Wyatt classic Oh Caroline and Kevin Ayers' Shooting At The Moon (which started life as a very early Soft Machine track called Jet Propelled Photograph). The latter turned into a lengthy jam, with two members of the band jumping off the stage and weaving themselves around the audience - one with a snare drum, the other (a Mick-Hucknall-circa-1985 lookalike, dressed in crimson pyjamas which were ripped at the knee) beating time on the floor with drumsticks. All very shamanic, I'm sure (and also rather quadraphonic, for that matter).

I stuck my newly purchased Gong Live At Glastonbury Fayre 1971 CD inside my copy of Heat magazine ("all the latest from the Big Brother house!"), which I had in turn hidden inside this week's NME. If this is indiscriminate cultural confusion, then I am entirely happy with it.

...to Faustus M.D. of the ever-marvellous Search For Love In Manhattan (and former guest blogger on Troubled Diva) for sending me a live recording of his recent smash hit cabaret revue (which K, in his wisdom, likened to "a cross between Tom Lehrer and Just Jack"). Some of the show's lyrics made their original pre-performance debut on Search For Love, and so it was quite a treat to be able to hear Backwards Day and (especially) In The Lesbians' Bathroom set to music at long last. I'd sing them to you now, but my voice is still quite croaky after screaming at t.A.T.u on Saturday night.

(Yes, I know: it’s all getting a bit, hmm, what’s the word, leery on Troubled Diva right now, isn’t it? Are we lurching downmarket in pursuit of cheap hits? Or are we alienating our more elevated readership, who are all shaking their heads in sorrow and clicking off in distaste? Well, one can only go with the flow. And this is a story worth telling.)

Sunday afternoon, the day after the Eurovision finals, and four of us decide to take the short train ride out to the coast at Jurmala. Alighting at Majori station in blazing hot sunshine, we discover a long strip of shops and pleasant cafés, thronged with promenading Rigans who have journeyed out for the day. The beach is a short walk away, down a street which is lined with rather fine looking clapboard houses (holiday homes for the urban elite, maybe?) It turns out to be a broad strip of perfect golden sand, stretching out to infinity in either direction, delightfully unspoilt and under-developed, with plenty of room to spread out, flop, and ogle at the scores and scores of absurdly attractive Latvian chaps strolling past.

In fact, this whole Fit Latvian Dude thing is getting quite surreal now, and we have become quite giggly about it. Is this some sort of cleverly staged initiative, launched by the Latvian Tourist Board in order to get the massed ranks of Eurovision queens (half of whom have media connections of some description or other) squealing about the place when they get home? Has every ridiculously handsome young Latvian in the country been recruited to parade around the city in tight clothing, or along the beach in their skimpy little shorts? It’s the only remotely plausible explanation that we can come up with.

Gazing out at the Gulf of Riga, we become aware of some sort of animal in the water, maybe about fifty metres away, where the sea is still quite shallow. As we notice it, so does everyone else around us on the beach. A crowd begins to gather at the water’s edge. The creature is remaining completely still. What is it, anyway? The Latvian Nessie? A sea-lion? An otter? Eventually, we conclude that it must be a beaver, which must have swum too far up the estuary and has now become stranded in the sea. Poor little beaver. It looks at us, and we look at him, and nobody moves.

Suddenly, we realise to our great surprise that a great big fire engine has pulled up on the beach behind us, just a few feet away from the water’s edge. A fire engine on the beach?

Before we know it, two strapping young firemen have jumped out of the vehicle. Oh my God, Latvian firemen!

They have stripped down to their underwear. Oh my God, Latvian fireman in their pants!

Ordering us to stand well back, and with one of them clutching a thick grey blanket, they wade out into the waist-deep water. Oh my God, Latvian firemen in wet pants!

(Meanwhile, just as a little side-show to the main action, their driver is, with much languid stretching - ooooh, it’s just too hot to be wearing this sticky uniform one moment longer - slowly stripping down to the waist. I scarcely know which way to look.)

Very slowly, the two firemen approach the beaver, one on either side, taking great care not to startle it with any sudden movements. Once they are close enough, one fireman quickly throws his blanket on top of the animal, while the other runs forward and scoops it up in his arms, to hearty applause from the crowds.

The pair then jog back up to the beach, and - without even towelling themselves down - jump straight into the cabin of their vehicle. The fireman nearest me is now sitting there, glistening in his damp pants, with a dripping wet beaver on his lap. (Hello Google!) Just before closing the door, he looks straight towards me and smiles a broad, winning smile, revealing perfect white teeth. Delighted by this attention, I beam straight back at him (hmm, must be better at holding my stomach in than I thought) - before realising that standing directly in front of me are three amply bosomed young beauties in bikinis, who are gazing adoringly up at him, hands clasped together in perfect “my hero!” poses. Ah well. Can't have it all my own way, I suppose.

As the fire engine speeds away, I can’t help feeling that I have just been an extra in a particularly cheesy episode of Baywatch: Beaver Patrol. I can even picture the script meeting:

OK, so we’ll have some sort of cute drowning animal - let’s make it a beaver, OK? And then these firemen dudes show up - and then they strip off, and - whaddya mean, firemen don’t rescue beavers? Look, schmuck, they do on this show!

We trust you have enjoyed this little homo-erotic fantasy interlude. We will now return you to the Seven Stages Of Eurovision without further ado.

Jump to next part.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2003

So there we are, me and the Life Partner, strolling into town yesterday evening, and it's his birthday, and I've just given him (amongst other things) a beautiful Roman wine amphora dating from around the 2nd-4th century A.D, and a glossy coffee-table picture book which contains a photo-spread of the architect-designed house that (having visited twice) we are seriously considering buying, and we're discussing the new garden in our second home in the country which has just been designed by the guy who's doing Princess Diana's memorial garden, and I'm wearing Yohji Yamamoto and Martin Margiela, and we're on our way to have dinner at one of the city's top boutique hotels, where their newly appointed head chef is coming in specially to cook a surprise menu for the two of us (pea soup with poached egg, parmesan & black truffles, foie gras with scallops and wild mushrooms, sea bass with salmon topped with crab tortellini), and I ask you (and I asked him): can we get any more Elton Bleedin' John and David Soddin' Furnish than this? And how much longer until we lapse completely into self-parody?

Class enemies, that's what we've become. (What would Political Mike have said?) We want shooting, frankly.

It's time to trot out last July's solemn pledge once again:Well, so far so good - although I'm still taking things one day at a time. In this respect, being out of the country for the first four days of the new series has helped enormously. As has scanning the tabloid front covers on returning: Sexy Wotsit Is Up For A Bonk, Steamy Thingumyjig Posed Topless For Phwooar Magazine, Scheming Nonentity Was Love Rat, that sort of thing. It all sounds too, too ghastly.

And yet (like Diamond Geezer) I'm still getting search requests for, erm, unclad pictorial representations of one of this year's contestants (whose name rhymes with Babooshka). Look, I don't even know what she looks like!

Am I doing the right thing? Are they all dreadful? They are, aren't they?

So you were planning on watching the contest in front of the telly, or at your mate’s Eurovision party, or on a big screen at a public venue? Oh, please! Make an effort! If you want to be where the real action is, then get yourselves out to the host city. To this end, it’s best to book your flight tickets and make your hotel reservations well in advance. (We’ll be sorting out next year’s flights to Istanbul as soon as the dates of the contest are confirmed.)

And let me tell you, as a veteran of four Eurovisions and counting, that the effort is worth it. If nothing else, then it can be a perfect excuse for spending a few days in an interesting new city – and in this respect, Riga 2003 (like Tallinn 2002 before it) exceeded expectations. It’s a truly charming city, with a beautiful Old Town district in its centre (now a UNESCO World Heritage site), full of medieval churches and containing the highest concentration of Jugendstil (German-style Art Nouveau) architecture anywhere in Europe. As well an abundance of good, cheap, lively places to eat and drink, particularly around two of the main squares, which had been set up with stages and giant screens for the Saturday night final. You could feel the buzz of expectation in the air as you walked around - especially on Saturday afternoon, with all of your gang dressed in red white and blue, merrily waving Union Jack flags and balloons, having your photos taken on every street corner, and bumping into fellow ESC fans seemingly every few minutes.

Which leads me on to the other wonderful thing about travelling away for Eurovision: the camaraderie of the fellow ESC fan. Oh, we’re quite the little community, you know! I said it last year and I’ll say it again this year: the prevailing atmosphere – in the hotels, on the streets, in the squares, in the bars and cafés, and particularly at Club XXL later on – reminds me of Week One at university, with everyone happily introducing themselves to each other, and launching straight into animated conversations about this year’s crop of entries. There are no strangers at Eurovision - just friends you haven't met yet.

Ah yes, Club XXL: Riga’s main gay venue, and our final destination for three of our four nights in the city. Bar at the front, club at the back, with the two linked together by a dark corridor, with many even darker doorways leading off it. A corridor which was bedecked with the words F*** ME in large fluorescent lettering, lest you should be in any lingering doubt as to its purpose. In other words, the big sleazy cruising zone was also the venue’s main thoroughfare. Clever planning, n’est-ce pas?

(I have one story to tell you about this area, and one story only. The story of the rather over-refreshed and over-excited Englishman who espied the rather promising looking Latvian lurking in a semi-lit and semi-private place. The Latvian who, after a couple of minutes of wordless introductory grappling, looked gruffly up at the Englishman and grunted “How much you pay?” The Englishman who - hastily gathering himself together - replied, in his haughtiest, most withering tones: “My love is free. Goodbye.” The Englishman who, striding back out into the corridor with all the bruised but righteous dignity he could muster, was sure that this deadly riposte would now be causing the Latvian to re-assess his entire position in life. Even if this new-found righteous dignity was rather undercut by the fact that he still hadn’t quite finished gathering himself back together. Ahem.)

Another unexpectedly delightful feature of Latvia was the stunning physical beauty of its young men and women. (Latvia is apparently quite famous for this, but no-one had warned us in advance.) Well, I say “…and women” in a vain attempt to be fair, but I’m actually extrapolating here. In reality (and I'm well aware of what a sad old lech this is going to make me sound like, but if you had been there, then you would understand), it was quite impossible for any of us to tear our eyes away from the endless procession of heartbreakingly handsome, Slavic-meets-Germanic, tough-but-tender, slender-yet-defined, long-legged, close-cropped, neatly groomed 18 to 25 year old lads, in their ubiquitous uniform of tight sleeveless tops and equally tight trousers (they all looked so gay!), all blissfully unaware of their beauty. (Which was, in any case, the norm rather than the exception over there.) I’m not even generally given to paying such close attention to guys under the age of 30, but there was no getting away from the reality of the situation. (That was the other weird thing: over the age of 25, all this beauty suddenly melted away. We even started to ask ourselves: where were all the men in the their thirties and forties? One began to feel that they had all been spirited away, Logan’s Run style.)

Perhaps I should break off and mention the Surreal Baywatch Episode at this juncture. Yes, I think I’ll do that next.

Jump to next part.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2003

So you were intending to wait until the night of the contest itself before hearing the songs for the first time? Unthinkable! Songs of this quality and depth have to be played and replayed endlessly over the preceding couple of months, so that every vocal inflection, every rhythmic twist, every lyrical subtext – in short, every last nuance - may be teased out, studied, analysed and hotly debated. Just like the national finals, this song-grabbing process can take many hours, spread over several weeks, as you feverishly trawl through fan sites, mailing lists and file-sharing services in order to accumulate your stash of MP3s.

You will typically start off with rough quality MP3s of the live performances from the national finals, as often as not still in the native language of the country concerned. Next come the re-recorded studio versions, which might have been translated into English for the sake of broad international appeal. Hopefully, there also will be at least one dance remix to track down, for that fantastic non-stop ESC party mix that you’re planning to burn to CD.

If all this piracy bothers your sense of ethics, then you might also want to place orders for each of the officially released singles, as they appear in each country. Yes, you too can experience the thrill of picking your way uncertainly through the ordering procedures of almost impenetrably complex foreign language websites, maybe running the risk of accidentally ordering the whole album instead of just the single (as I once did in the case of Sweden’s Charlotte Nilsson).

Next come the preview videos, as broadcast by each of the participating nations. Except for the nasty old UK of course, who limit this to showing incomplete excerpts of each song, spread over five nights on BBC3 in the week before the contest. This therefore means doing clever things with satellite decoders, in order to intercept the foreign transmissions. Alternatively (or in addition), you can make the pilgrimage to the Retro Bar in London, for their big preview video screening night.

Finally (and this is generally where the more faint-hearted ESC fans first join in), you can buy the official compilation CD, as released on the Monday before the contest. In this way, you still have the chance to be word and note perfect by the time that Saturday night comes around.

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Labels: eurovision, eurovision2003

So you thought that the Eurovision Song Contest (ESC) experience began and ended with the twenty-six songs that were performed in Riga on Saturday night? Oh dear me, no. They’re just the tip of the iceberg. For the truly committed (and I choose my words carefully here), it is also necessary to watch the national pre-selection finals. And I don’t just mean the national finals from one’s home country, either (such as our own effort, A Song For Europe). No - to prove your mettle as a true ESC diehard, you should also make every effort to watch as many of the other national finals as you possibly can (such as Sweden’s Melodifestivalen and Croatia’s DORA). As most (if not quite all) of the 26 participating countries hold these finals, and as the average number of songs in each final is around 10, then…well, you do the maths. It’s a major commitment, with hours and hours of punishing video footage to plough through. An endless grim parade of Bosnian Britneys, Cypriot Celines, Dutch Dariuses, Estonian Enriques and Maltese Mariahs pass before your eyes, with only the occasional flash of brilliance along the way. Like sifting for gold, in a dispiritingly thick swamp of sludge.

(Lest you should think otherwise: the odd song or two aside, this is actually one of the very few Stages Of Eurovision to which I cannot bring myself to subscribe. The madness has to be stopped somewhere along the line, after all.)

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Labels: eurovision, eurovision2003

audblog audio post (delayed due to problems with Blogger)