Labels: pdmg

(This article originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post. It's the first piece that I've written about "local" music, if we should even call it that, and hence it is long overdue.)

Thousands of miles away – both literally and figuratively – from the braggadocio, bling and suffocating conservatism of the commercial hip hop scene, Nottingham’s Dealmaker Records are quietly but persistently advancing the cause of a clutch of innovative, thoughtful, and occasionally pioneering new artists who, although they might never secure prime rotation on MTV Base, are equally dedicated to that well-worn old maxim, Keeping It Real. Think DJ Shadow rather than 50 Cent, Ninja Tune rather than Death Row, and you’re already halfway there.

First emerging in late 2003 with the acclaimed UK Duty Paid compilation, Dealmaker have steadily acquired an impressively diverse roster of artists, with twelve acts currently signed to the label.

Leading the way in terms of visibility are the duo Kids In Tracksuits, who have recorded Radio One sessions for Steve Lamacq and Rob Da Bank, and supported the likes of De La Soul, Amp Fiddler and Big Daddy Kane.

Representing the underground, Johnny Crump is a turntablist with a unique approach, whose mixtapes aim to redefine the boundaries of what can be technically achieved with two decks and a cross-fader.

In sharp contrast, singer-songwriter Sophie Johnson-Hill is a former St Peter’s Church choirgirl who, following an enforced break due to throat problems, is re-emerging as an artist with clear commercial potential. Her debut double A-sided single matches the dramatic, orchestral A New Dawn (inspired by the Nina Simone classic Feelin’ Good) with the witty and summery Bounce Your Head, whose easy-going conversational approach should appeal to fans of Lily Allen and Kate Nash.

The latest Dealmaker single, which hit the shops on Monday, is an intriguing release from a solo artist called Red: a former Nottingham resident, who started out as a drummer before switching to turntables following a year spent in California, where he was heavily influenced by the thriving Bay Area underground scene.

“I was quite lucky”, he explained. “While I was there, a kind of new movement was coming to fruition. They had a band of scratch DJs, each with one turntable and a mixer. One would be playing a drum part, and another would be playing a riff, and so forth – and so together, they would be making a complete track. I’m doing much the same – but I’m putting everything into one, using looping technology.”

Remarkably, every sound on the lead track Seen is produced entirely by scratching, as a video on Red’s Myspace page (myspace.com/redsource) demonstrates. Even more remarkably, only one turntable is needed to do the job, as Red’s scratching is looped back via foot pedals connected to a laptop, thus building up layers of sound. This “live looping” approach, which has been used on stage by artists such as KT Tunstall, Jamie Lidell and Imogen Heap, lends itself particularly well to a solo scratch artist. As for the vinyl that Red uses, this consists of one-off pressings of sounds which he has sampled – again via a turntable – from a variety of obscure sources, specifically to be used on the track in question.

For his live shows, Red combines these turntable techniques with beatboxing, live vocal loops and elements of showmanship, so that the crowd have something more to concentrate on than just one man, a deck and a laptop. Building on the success of his solo sets, the next logical step was to put a band together, in order to reproduce the music by more traditional means. The band in question, Full Fat, retains the turntables as the lead instrument, augmenting them with keyboards, guitar and drums.

“Part of me thought I could get a band together of scratch DJs, like I saw in California – but I couldn’t actually find any DJs who had the right mentality to do stuff like that. In the end, it was great that things happened this way, as it’s never really been done before. The turntables justify their place in the band – they’re not just there for a gimmick. I wanted to show that they could hold their own against other instruments such as guitars.”

Red’s forthcoming album Fingerprints aims to push the envelope further, in an attempt to demonstrate that turntables can be used in a more varied, emotionally expressive way. “Scratching is usually associated with noises – with percussive, “wicky-wacky” type sounds – but I wanted to show that you could use that technique to create moods and styles that people wouldn’t have associated with it .”

As for the people who run Dealmaker, Red has nothing but praise. “Ste Allan from the label has been a big supporter of mine for years. I think he represents a very small minority of people in the music industry these days, in that he supports talent, and he loves music, and that’s why he’s doing what he’s doing.”

Having built their reputation as an independent hip hop label, Dealmaker recently acquired two-storey premises directly opposite the Broadway Cinema, right in the heart of the city’s creative community. As well as providing a base of operations for the label, the property also houses a fully equipped recording studio. This opened its doors three months ago, following ten months of preparation.

While the label continues to showcase new music from the hip hop underground, the Dealmaker studio is open to all comers, and has already played host to everything from rock bands to string quartets. Taken together, both arms of the operation provide a much needed focus for musical independence and creativity at a grassroots level, in a city which has all too often struggled to provide its emergent talent with the exposure and support which it deserves.


Red’s Seen was released on 7” and MP3 on Monday 6th August. Further information on the label and studio, along with audio and video samples, can be found at www.dealmakerrecords.com.

Labels: eveningpost, interviews, popmusic

(This article originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post. If you've been following Troubled Diva this week, then it contains little that you haven't heard before, so you are hereby excused from reading it. I just like parking these pieces for posterity, that's all.)

He may not have had a Top 20 hit since 1999 (and even that was a re-issue – no prizes for guessing which), but all of a sudden, Prince feels like a global superstar once more. Although each new album is routinely hailed as “a stunning return to form”, only to be forgotten a few weeks later, a cunning marketing ploy has ensured that Planet Earth, his most straightforwardly accessible release for years, has shipped over 2 million copies in the UK alone. OK, so it was given away free with a Sunday newspaper, but tough times call for desperate measures.

His profile duly raised, Prince has now installed himself at London’s O2 Arena (formerly the Millennium Dome) for the next couple of months, playing a series of 21 dates to crowds of 20,000 at a time. With the opening night of the season – a marathon, hit-packed extravaganza – instantly gaining ecstatic reviews from the national press, the Purple One’s re-ascendance to the major league already seemed complete.

However, second nights can sometimes tell quite a different story – and last Friday’s showing was a classic example of the dangers of promising too much, too soon.

As measured by the time between the first and the last notes played, Friday’s set clocked in respectably, at just under two hours. During that time, Prince himself was absent from the stage for at least thirty minutes, leaving his band to serve up an eclectic but pointless array of covers. One of them, a syrupy lounge-jazz rendering of What A Wonderful World, quickly turned into a mass stampede for the bar. This was good news for the large section of the crowd who seemed more interested in getting the beers in than focussing on the music.

Although billed as a “last ever chance” to hear Prince play his greatest hits, the show was noticeably short on crowd-pleasing classics. Of the twenty songs played, only seven had ever troubled the Top 20, and the gaps between them were sometimes dangerously long.

In their place, we had unloved recent album tracks (Satisfied, Lolita, Musicology), seldom heard fan favourites (Joy In Repetition, Anotherloverholenyohead), and a lengthy trudge through Wild Cherry’s Play That Funky Music, for which Prince forgot most of the words.

None of this was helped by the abysmal sound quality: booming, sludgy and echo-laden, with a general absence of top-end clarity. Neither was it helped by the seeming inability of the lighting crew to keep a spotlight trained on their star performer, frequently leaving him cavorting in the darkness.

Nevertheless, the evening was not without its highlights. Led by a stunningly tight four-piece brass section which included veteran James Brown sideman Maceo Parker, the band displayed all the stellar musicianship that you would expect from a Prince show, particularly during the funkier numbers such as Black Sweat and Controversy. A reworking of I Feel For You (as made famous by Chaka Khan) hit the spot with the crowd, as did the cheekily updated Kiss, which now proclaims that “You don’t have to watch Big Brother to have an attitude”. Songs from the Purple Rain soundtrack dominated the end of the set, with the sole selection from the new album saved for the final encore. It was a shrewd gamble, as the straight-up old-school rocker Guitar went down a storm, already sounding like a future classic.

Ultimately, the biggest let-down was the man himself. Although undeniably energetic, there was something essentially half-hearted about Prince’s performance, which displayed all the signs of Just Another Day At The Office Syndrome. For the second night of a two-month run, this did not bode well.

For the 2000-strong audience who hung around for the “Official Prince Aftershow Party” at the smaller Indigo2 venue next door, an even bigger disappointment was in store. After patiently waiting through a “surprise” 80-minute set from Dr John, who had played a scheduled show at the same venue earlier, the crowd were eventually shown the door at 3:30 am, Prince having apparently declared himself too tired to perform. The following night, he appeared on stage for just one number. At £27.50 a ticket for what amounted to a lottery – something that was not made clear at the time of booking – this was a rip-off on a grand scale, which left a sour taste at the end of a long and lacklustre night.

(Footnote, for the interested few who have made it this far: a detailed e-mail has been dispatched to O2 Customer Services, requesting a refund for the aftershow no-show. Click the comments for the full text. Interestingly enough, Prince might even have been in breach of contract for failing to appear...)

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, o2, popmusic, prince

Wise words from my beloved K, who memorably reduced an entire posh country house dining room to an awed hush, merely by declaiming them, with some measure of force, when offered a post-prandial coffee by the well-meaning waitress.

Would that I had heeded them last night, at the blogpals' get-together at the Secret Mystery Location. But, no. Fearful of peaking too soon (for the wine had been flowing from earlier than I am used to, bearing in mind the louche bohemian hours that I am wont to keep), I thought that a tall mug of fresh-from-the-cafetière would Perk Me Up and help me Stay Focused.

Which is probably why I woke at 4am this morning, and stayed restlessly semi-conscious for the next three hours, until knocked up by my Secret Mystery Hostess for a lift to the railway station.

(Two small pieces of information that I might safely divulge: Secret Mystery Hostess keeps a superlative cheese board, and she makes a mean chocolate tart. Honest, I thought it was from Marks and Sparks!)

Zee to the oh to the onked, that's what I'm feeling right now. I might not even be able to make it all the way through Big Brother tonight, let alone the totally ace, are-you-watching-it-yet, oh-you-should-you-should, Studio 60 On Sunset Strip (which does require a good deal more concentration than "does Amanda fancy Brian back", or "they're all being mean to Amy, especially that Carole, ooh you wanna watch her, she's taking over").

So, let mine be a cautionary tale.

Hey, at least my reasons for crappy half-hearted posts are varied ones...

Labels: journal

Honestly, how did I ever find the time for practising this sort of bloggery on a regular basis? People often used to ask me this, during Troubled Diva's most prolific periods, and now I find that I'm asking myself the same question.

I am once again resorting to the email-to-Blogger facility (hence the lack of post title), as I shall be jumping on a train to a Secret Location straight after work, in order to spend an evening with three blogpals. To this end, and because I no longer even have the time to keep up with Essential Capsule Collection blog reading (I'm currently following just six blogs regularly, dipping into the rest on all too infrequent occasions), I have taken hard copies of the front pages of their respective blogs, in order to do some essential preparatory reading over lunch and on the train. Because, you know, I'd hate to be caught out or anything...

Meanwhile, in the offline world, PDMG#1 (aka The Cottage Garden, for newer readers) is being entered for next year's Association of Professional Landscapers Awards. And, hey, you know how much I love being entered for awards. (Not our doing! We've been approached! We've got to send a photo CD off and everything!) Photos of PDMG#1 have also, or so we've been told, appeared in a Japanese gardening magazine. Perhaps one of my Tokyo readers could investigate? (Ah, for the old days of Global Reach...)

It was a pleasant surprise to find Ambling Sheep from the Hangzhou office hanging out at reception this morning. What with JP having returned from Hangzhou at the end of last week, we're quite the expat community all of a sudden. A lunch date is in the offing.

In other work-related news, I have been passionately arguing against the "disco" option for the office Christmas party. Look, it's quite simple. I sit in near silence next to these people for months on end; so how can I possibly expected to dance in front of them? It's too much of a leap. And I'll be drunk by then, and hence prone to overly literal interpretive hand motions (as this guy witnessed at Club Revenge in Brighton a couple of months back, to the strains of Girls Aloud's I Think We're Alone Now... "running just as fast as we can, holding onto one another's hands... oh, for SHAME).

And another thing. Security access photo passes, what sort of cruel punishment are they? For in a reversal of The Picture of Dorian Gray, I am obliged to shackle myself, five days a week, to a photo of myself on my first day of employment here, back in July 2001. Oh, the fresh-faced optimism! I could weep! How long will it be until the security guards stop me at the door? ("I'm sorry sir, but the borrowing of photo passes is strictly forbidden.")

And finally: Never, ever stay at the Brighton Charter Hotel. You want more proof? Here's more proof...

The 2000-odd capacity Indigo club - whoops, sorry, IndigO2, can't be missing a Brand Reinforcement Opportunity - is billed as the Arena's, ahem, "intimate space". And fair play to their design team: it's a swish-looking, well-appointed venue, which does its level best to make you forget that you're actually still trapped inside a corporate hell-hole in the middle of nowhere. OK, so some seats would have been a nice touch, but they were strictly reserved for the 75-quid-a-pop "VIP" crowd, separated off from the rest of us in their own dedicated balcony area.

But hey, we proles in the £27.50 (incl. booking fee) standing area - some of whom had been queuing for over an hour (but not us, diligent researchers that we are), only to discover that we all had equally good views of the stage anyway - didn't care about any of that. After all, we had gained admittance to the hallowed inner sanctum, and to the opportunity that some of us had been dreaming of for years: to see Prince in after-hours mode, kicking loose and jamming with his band, all in the name of pure musicianship rather than stadium show-boating. As I said before, these Prince after-shows are the stuff of legend.

The atmosphere in the Indigo2 was buzzing. On Wednesday night, the band had played for an hour and three quarters, with Prince joining them for lengthy sections. Sure, we didn't expect him to be on stage for the whole period. We knew that. There would probably be 30 or 40 minutes of warm-up first, that kind of thing.

For now, Prince's dedicated DJ was spinning a set of predominantly funky house over the superbly crisp and warm sound system, mixed with the occasional "special", such as an exclusive new mix of Sexy MF, cut up with samples from the C&C Music Factory's Gonna Make You Sweat. Chelsea Rodgers, my favourite track from the new album, got people smiling and even a few of us dancing. Not too much of a crush in front of the stage, plenty of people chilling out on the floor towards the back of the venue, saving their energy for later.

At around 1:15 - same time as Wednesday, nice bit of consistency there - the lights went down. "Please welcome, from New Orleans, Dr John and his band!"

Woah, tres tres cool! As the veteran New Orleans performer settled at his piano, leading his band through a delightfully rolling Iko Iko, the four of us exchanged grins, marvelling at our extra luck. Fancy Prince being able to land such an impressive special guest! That's influence for you.

(Well, how were we to know that Dr John had already played a scheduled concert at the same venue, earlier that evening? We can't all be experts.)

I wondered how the rest of the show would pan out. Dr John's band were over to the right side of the stage, with most of the left side left empty, including spare microphone and instrument stands, and even a spare keyboard. Presumably the John band would hand over to the Prince band at some stage, maybe with some combined jamming. Woah, a Prince and Dr John collaboration would be something special all right... we'd just have to wait and see.

Time passed. Dr John's old favourite Such A Night got an airing, but I didn't recognise much else. Actually, my attention was starting to wander. So far, so Jools Holland. We needed to step up a little.

My attention was wandering so much that I didn't particularly notice the stage hands clearing away some of the unused equipment on the left hand side, even as the band played on... although was it just me, or were they beginning to flag now? Did I detect an uncertainty, an awkwardness, a reticence to hog the whole show?

As one number finished, a figure in the wings made a motion to the band with his outstretched fingers. It looked like the international sign language for "five more minutes". Phew, and not before time.

A couple more numbers later, the same figure made the same hand signal. And was it just me, or was the end of each song being greeted by ever louder applause, as if to hasten the end of the set?

At around 2:30, after about an hour and a quarter on stage, Dr John finally called it a day, "so that Prince can come on and do his stuff". Big cheer. About bloody time and all! I noted with some amusement that Dr John hadn't played his best known song, Right Place, Wrong Time. That really would have been rubbing salt in the wound. Two chuffing thirty in the chuffing morning! Ee, the accommodations that we make for genius!

The curtains closed, and the music came on again. A notably less scintillating selection than last time, but we were barely concentrating. Although, hang about, did we really need to hear Chelsea Rodgers again? And why were they starting to focus more on Prince's biggest hits? What a strange way of building the mood for a jam session...

Time passed. A good forty-five minutes or so, I'd say. And then, a friendly word from a young guy who was just on his way back from the bar.

"Thought you might like to know. They've just told me at the bar that Prince left the building about 20 minutes ago. He's tired and he won't be playing."

Even as we began to process the news, the music started to fade and the house lights started to flicker on and off. No announcement, just a general numbed-out bemusement as word slowly began to spread. Nearly three chuffing thirty in the chuffing morning, over four and a half hours after our last sighting of the man, and now, NOW he deigns to tell us.

I stared at my £27.50 ticket again. "PRINCE AFTERSHOW", it said, in big capitals. By the exit door, a member of the Indigo2 staff was all placatory apologies, they weren't to know, he just upped and went, etc etc. And by the way, sir, you can't take that out with you. I handed him the flat dregs of my plastic mug of lager and stumbled out of the venue, still in a daze.

The reason that we bought the tickets in the first place? There was an item on Radio 4's Front Row, telling their listeners that Prince would be playing a late night set after each one of his 21 London dates.

Throughout the complete online ordering process, via the O2 website and Ticketmaster, at no point was it ever suggested that Prince might not play.

During the whole of that Friday night, not one announcement was made to that effect. Oh, of course, they never actually said that he would be playing, either. We were just rather led to assume that. Because, you know, who would pay £27.50 for a DJ, an act that we hadn't come to see (who was already in the venue anyway), no seats, no food, and the chance to buy the only alcohol left on sale for miles around?

As to how much money Prince himself will be earning from lending his name to this rather costly ongoing lottery (the following night, he joined his support act Nikka Costa on stage for just one number), one can only speculate.

Over on the main fan forum, the hardcore faithful had little sympathy for our collective plight. These aftershow no-shows are commonplace, apparently. It's all part of being a Prince fan, apparently. God, didn't we know that? This was an aftershow party, a chance for like-minded souls to hang out together and discuss the tour. If there was no atmosphere, that was our fault for not making an effort. In fact, it was probably our fault that Prince had decided not to play. Not enough dancing, everybody squashed in front of the stage, how uncouth! All those drunks, slumped on the floor, how disrespectful! How could he be expected to face that?

And, for heavens sakes, hadn't we read the posting on Prince's official site? (Posted on Monday July 30th, well after we had bought our tickets, but that's by the by.)Oh, it was unexpected, all right. Can't fault 'em on that one.

Over an hour into our homeward journey, at Toddington services on the M1, the four of us finally found somewhere that served food. Desultorily chowing down on my egg mayonnaise roll and smoothie (£6.48, plus a free apology from the cashier at the ruinous expense), a few yards away from the heap of prostrate bodies on the floor of the amusement arcade, I wondered whether, at that time of the morning, there was any more desolate place to be found in the British Isles. Cheers for that, Prince. Cheers for that, O2.

My final waking thought, as my head hit the pillow at 7:00 am: I am too old for this shit.

I mean to say. A well respected and much admired, nay loved, figure of immense cultural influence, who earned his reputation years ago but who has been coasting ever since, now well past his peak, teasing his remaining supporters with half-shows and no-shows, and arrogantly assuming that they will put up with whatever shit he deigns to throw at them? Whoever heard of such a thing?

Labels: gigs, journal, o2, popmusic, prince

It was an ill-starred evening from the off. A section of the southbound M1 was officially closed, with an accident to the north of it causing traffic to crawl for miles before coming to a complete standstill. Fortunately, or so it seemed, we could see the standstill kicking in just beyond the last-but-one junction before the closure, allowing us to leave the motorway in the nick of time.

Less fortunately, the crawl continued, bumper-to-bumper solid, all the way into St. Albans, and through it, and out the other side again. By the time we hit the unexpectedly and blissfully empty M25, we had less than an hour to get from Hertfordshire to the O2 Arena in North Greenwich, in time for the predicted show-time of 20:30. I was already mentally preparing myself for missing the first thirty minutes of Prince's set. Not to worry, though; we also had tickets for the after-show, and so could expect many, many hours of music ahead of us. What was the odd half hour or so? A drop in the ocean.

At 20:25, we screeched into the O2 car park (advance cost: £22.30 including booking fee). By 20:45, we were in our seats, beers in hands. Given that our four-and-a-quarter hour journey had allowed us no time to stop for food, a liquid dinner (plus one banana each, smuggled through security by Dymbel) would have to suffice.

Three minutes later, the show began. Bless him for waiting for us. Our luck was changing. Smiles all round.

Just under two hours later, the band left the stage for the last time. During those two hours, Prince had been absent for the opening number, two lengthy instrumental interludes, two teasingly over-streched intervals between the two encores, and the first number of the first encore: a good 25 minutes, at the most conservative estimate.

Of the 20 songs performed, just 7 of Prince's 37 UK Top Thirty hits were represented: Cream, U Got The Look, Peach, Kiss, Purple Rain, Let's Go Crazy and Take Me With U, plus a spirited version of I Feel For You. Four other numbers were covers, with Prince performing on just one of them: a perfunctory slog through Wild Cherry's Play That Funky Music, for which he forgot nearly all the words.

The sound quality in the O2 Arena was abysmal: booming, sludgy and echo-laden, with a general absence of top-end clarity. However, our seats gave us a good overall view of the stage, which bore the shape of that funny little squiggle from the "Artist Formerly Known As" years. Although billed as an "in the round" show, the main performance area was the extended catwalk formed by the squiggle's downwards arrow, with additional curly runways running off to each side. However, for those of us who were seated at the top of the squiggle - a circular area, with the band seated in the middle - Prince's face-forward appearances were limited, and frustratingly brief. About once every ten or fifteen minutes, he would quickly trot round the uppermost circumference, barely pausing to acknowledge us. No matter; we had an excellent view of the screen, and much better all-round vision than the people down on the main floor. A shame, then, that the spot-lighting was so poorly arranged, with Prince all too often cavorting in near-darkness.

For a large chunk of the audience, getting the beers in seemed to be of equal importance to actually watching the show, with what amounted to a mass exodus during the first and longest of the instrumentals (Maceo Parker from James Brown's old band, parping his way at leisure through a languid and syrupy What A Wonderful World). The people directly behind us swiftly reached the Totally Shitfaced stage, but at least their noisiness was benign. (Elsewhere in the Arena, a spectacularly inebriated woman threw up over the backs of the people in front of her. We wuz lucky.)

Oh, but we mustn't grumble. The show had its moments, and the band were shit-hot - especially the four-piece brass troupe, as led by the aforementioned Mr. Parker, and especially during the set's "funk" section, with Black Sweat and Controversy scaling the very heights of tightness. For the diehard fans, following the seldom heard Joy In Repetition (from Graffiti Bridge) with Parade's Anotherloverholenyohead was altogether A Bit On The Special Side. For the more casual crowd, solid, bankable tracks from Purple Rain dominated the end of the show, and it was fun to hear an updated Kiss: "You don't have to watch Big Brother, to have an attitude..."

Only one track - the straightforward old-school rocker Guitar - was performed from the new album, copies of which were handed out to everyone who entered the arena, just in case our ideological scruples had prevented us from picking it up with the Mail On Sunday a couple of weeks earlier. Hearteningly, it turned out to be one of the strongest and best received performances of the night, already sounding like a bona fide hit in its own right. Saving it up for the last song of the last encore was a bold but justified move.

But oh dear, what a pointless palaver those encores turned out to be. We already knew that on the opening night of his 21-date run, two days earlier, Prince had fooled half the crowd by waiting until the house lights were up and the venue emptying, before dashing back on stage for a seemingly impromptu third encore. So we weren't about to be fooled again. A stand-off ensued, with absolutely no-one budging, even though the house lights had been on for ages. And yes, oh GOODNESS what a shock, back on he bounded, for a repeat version of the same stunt. Which of course meant that we certainly weren't going anywhere after the next exit. After all, there had been three encores on Wednesday, with nearly two and a half hours of playing time, so surely he wasn't going to call it a night after two encores and less than two hours?

No such luck. After another expectant stand-off, during which we noticed our nearest camera operator patiently sitting tight and checking his text messages (so THAT was a sign, right?), a tannoy announcement was made, asking us to clear the venue. Which of course prompted a certain measure of booing. Oops. It was a ragged end to what had sometimes felt like a ragged, under-powered and half-hearted performance. Two dates into the run, wasn't it a little early for Just Another Day At The Office Syndrome to be kicking in?

Despite being urged, via a special reminder e-mail, to "hang out" in the O2 after the show, the crushing reality was that, at a couple of minutes before 11pm, seemingly all of the venue's food and drink outlets were closing for the night. If there was a funky little after-hours joint to be found in this gargantuan, antiseptic Branding Opportunity of a venue, with its faintly menacing air of regimented slickness, then we certainly didn't stumble across it. Back to the car park we trudged, vainly casting around for non-existent burger vans, for the only sit-down we were likely to find between now and the after-show party, queues for which were already stretching far outside the building.

Ah, the after-show party. The anticipatory buzz was palpable, even in these corporate hell-hole surroundings. Prince's after-show sets are the stuff of legend, after all. Our night of mixed fortunes was about to get very special indeed. Of that at least, we had no doubt.

Jump straight to Part Two.

Labels: gigs, journal, o2, popmusic, prince

Well. So much for the brave new "one blog post per day for the whole of August" initiative, which spluttered to a premature halt yesterday, on Day Four.

My excuse? Yesterday was my first day over at the cottage in three weeks, the first decent weather we've had in living memory, and the first chance to get to grips with the unkempt wilderness that PDMG#1 has become since our last visit. Oh, and I hadn't actually gone to bed until 7am on Saturday morning, for reasons that shall be made abundantly clear in my next post, to be titled "Prince at the O2 Arena: The Great Funk And Soul Swindle." All things considered, it just wasn't a day for switching on a laptop. The Germans have a word for it: Hitzefrei. And quite right too.

So, yeah, I owe you one extra post in recompense for my lapse. Consider it banked.

I am writing this from the cottage kitchen, upon our return from an uncommonly agreeable "early doors" at the Hartington Youth Hostel, of all places. No, really, you'd be surprised. Beautiful old Elizabethan manor house, locally brewed beer (I started with the "Hairy Helmet" and progressed to the sublime Hartington IPA), outside seating in the capacious and leafy gardens... a hidden gem, so it was.

The bright pink rose on the boundary wall of PDMG#1 is nothing short of spectacular this year. Here's what it looked like, ten minutes ago.


And now, if you'll excuse me, it's al fresco supper time. (Oh dear, when did our meetings become so rushed? It's not you, it's me...)

Labels: journal