It's a strange age, 45.

Even up to a couple of years ago, taxi drivers would occasionally call me "young man". (Usually at journey's end, as I squiffily fumbled for change. They know what they're doing, the little tarts.)

Last week, as I was heading into town for my lunchtime cob (local vernacular; means "bap"), some old boy blundered round a corner, rather too quickly. "Sorry, youth", he muttered myopically, as our guts briefly barged. I can surf off such slip-ups for days.

But there again, see. On my way into the Bodega Social Club the other night, I was kindly spared the effort of walking all the way round the corner to the back of the roped off entrance walkway. As he chivalrously unhooked the front section of rope and beckoned me through, the smirking doorman bestowed this deadly rite of passage upon my stooped shoulders:

"Step this way, Grandad! You come on inside, and take the weight off your feet!"

"Grandad's on the guest list", I icily retorted - aiming for Imperious, but landing somewhere around Huffy. Yeah, that told him.

I always knew this would happen. Right from the age of 14, as my occasional dates with Uncle John Peel ("Britain's Oldest Teenager!" I joked, in the letter I never wrote) became nightly, unbreakable ones, I knew I these were no mere passing generational fancies. No, these passions were for life. (For a fickle little madam, I can be surprisingly steadfast.)

The other night at the Foals gig, with 95% of the audience under the age of 23 and a significant proportion in their teens, I counted just two other middle-aged men, up on the balcony, away from the fray. "Let's stand at the bar and look like we're Industry!", I muttered to Sarah as we wedged ourselves in, dizzy from the fug of Biactol, rotting trainers and two-week-old T-shirts.

I don't attend such events to be Down Wid Da Yoot, to leech off their energy, or indeed to feel much in the way of collective connection. I go because, on a good night, I get to witness a certain freshness of spirit - an instinct, an attitude, an attack - which has yet to be dimmed by recognition, repetition, routine. By them, or by me.

And besides: I was 19 once, and it hasn't really changed that much. (Just don't tell them that. Best if they don't know.)

That's why 45 rocks. Halfway between 20 and 70, and close enough to feel you can touch it all.

Caught up in the middle, jumping through the riddle, Grandad's on the guest list tonight!

Labels: journal, myself, opinion, popmusic

DAMN, that was hard work - and a reminder of why I gave up writing feature length album reviews for Stylus a long time ago. So DRAINING, darlings.

But some things simply have to be done, and promoting the new Ayers album to the indie intellectuals of America (even though it can only be ordered on import) was one of them. If it helps nudge the album a fraction closer to getting a proper distribution deal in the US, then the job will have been a good 'un.

All that aside, the finished piece is as honest an assessment of the album as I was able to give it, grade inflation and all. (Update: link now corrected.)

(If I'd been reviewing The Unfairground in the first week of release, it would have earned a B. If I'd been reviewing it two weeks ago, it would have been a B+. But some things take time, and in any case I'm a firm supporter of the commercially unsustainable concept of only writing album reviews after you've lived with them for a couple of months. Which is why I don't tend to write many album reviews!)

Labels: albums, popmusic

I'm "between clients" this week, and hence engaged in little of overtly economic value. It's at times like these that the office becomes more like a Day Centre than an actual office. (It gets you out and about; you can get yourself a nice cup of tea whenever you want; there are like-minded souls to chat with; and even the occasional piece of light occupational therapy, just to keep those brain cells ticking over.)

As someone whose default setting is an unspecified low-level anxiety and a vague sense of impending doom (which will somehow involve being "found out", although I couldn't tell you what for exactly), this comes as sweet relief indeed. Last Friday night, as my inner anxiety-butterfly did its usual fluttering about, in search of somewhere upon which to alight and tremble, I realised that for once, I had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT WHATSOEVER, EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE REALLY IS AS FINE AS CAN BE. Which was almost disconcerting, as if my security blanket (*) had been snatched away. (Yes, readers: I can even feel anxious about not feeling anxious. It's a rare skill.)

(And in actual fact, I woke up at around 3:00 on Tuesday morning in a complete state, having just dreamt that I was in major trouble at work... for, um, typing "joy division" into my office manager's Google. Bearing in mind that I never normally get nightmares - the worst that normally happens being a tedious, never-ending series of Public Transport Frustrations - this was clearly a case of my anxiety glands having to work the night shift.)

So, anyhow, I'm using the time to get through all manner of overdue items on my to-do list (once a certain Procrastination Quotient has been factored in, of course - why, I'm even catching up with long-ignored blogs - hello, everybody!) And the old freelance side of things gets ramped up a couple of notches in the process, of course, to the extent that I can be quite the Picky Madam: why, this very morning, I turned down a last-minute interview with the drummer from the Kaiser Chiefs, no less. (The reason being that I dislike the Kaiser Chief with a rare intensity, particularly that godawful "Ruby-Ruby-Ruby-RUBAY!" effort, which remains my most loathed song of 2007 to date.)

Life of Riley, basically. Which soon shall pass, obv. So I'm loving it while it lasts.

(Reader's Voice: "So, does this mean a return to your earlier, funnier, me-me-me posts? We liked you when you did them!")

(Author's Voice: "I wouldn't bet on it, Buster...")

(*) Bad metaphor. Anxiety-butterflies don't land on blankets; they land on... I dunno... toadstools or something? Sorry, I'm out of practise at this kind of thing. Anyone got any spare pop stars?

Labels: journal

"I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision." -- David Bowie, 1977.

What follows is a cautionary tale (co-written with K), which is primarily for the benefit of anyone who might be thinking of installing a service called BT Vision.

(If you're not thinking of installing BT Vision, then please sit back and enjoy the schadenfreude.)

BT Vision is British Telecom’s rival to the Sky Plus service, which involves receiving your TV signal through your high-speed broadband connection, via a special set-top box and a wireless “home hub”. Once installed, you can receive all the Freeview channels, plus a wide range of digital radio stations, with the ability to pause and rewind live transmissions in the same manner as Sky Plus, Tivo etc. The box’s hard drive lets you store recorded programs, with a significantly larger memory than Sky Plus.

The interface is well designed and intuitive, with a more contemporary look and feel than Sky. There’s also – and this was one of the clinchers – an extensive “On Demand” service, which lets you download a truly vast range of movies, TV shows (including entire series), music videos and so on, either for free (most of the time), or for no more than £1.99.

Since we already use BT for our landline and broadband, the combined service works out dramatically cheaper than using Sky for the TV. Since we were already extremely happy broadband customers (rock solid, fast connection speeds, never goes wrong, wireless and “home hub” installations a painless doddle), we thought we’d be onto a winner. So long, evil billionaire tyrant Rupert Murdoch! Hello, lovely fluffy cuddly British Telecom!

How wrong can you be?

Brace yourselves, readers; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

(What follows is, believe it or not, the edited, highlights-only version. Because we wouldn’t want to bore you.)

---

August 6. A morning installation had been booked for this date. Nobody turned up. A phone call was made. “Oh, it’s been cancelled by the installations team.” No further explanation given.

August 10. Installation completed.

(Note: Over at the cottage, at around the same time, we also received 400 – yes, 400 – identical telephone bills through the post, in 400 separate envelopes. Perhaps this was some sort of omen for what was to follow...)

After a brief and blissful “honeymoon period” of a couple of weeks or so, problems started occurring, with the box regularly going down and requiring re-booting. This also affected the previously rock-solid wireless Internet connection, which also started dropping out (or “going out of synch”, as it was explained to us), requiring nothing short of a full PC re-boot each time.

TV recordings also had a habit of frequently ending a couple of minutes before the actual finish times for the programmes, which was particularly frustrating during the sort of drama series which habitually ends on a “cliff-hanger”. A phone call was made.

“Yes, we know about the problem. It will be fixed with the next automatic software upgrade. No, we don’t know when that will be.”

To the best of our knowledge, this problem has still not been fixed.

“On Demand” programmes also started freezing in the middle of playback, rendering them unwatchable.

We repeatedly rang Technical Service (0845 600 7030), on average twice a week. Calls usually lasted between 45 minutes and one hour each, due to a lack of staff at their end. Various suggestions were made, which were generally variations on the theme of “switching the system off and then on again”, and checking the line speed. One of the suggestions meant that we lost all of our stored recordings (but hey, the last couple of minutes were generally missing anyway).

Nevertheless, we were still able to “enjoy” some sort of regular, if intermittent and slowly deteriorating service, even if numerous “relaxing evenings in front of the telly” turned into marathon Call Waiting Hell sessions.

Now the fun really begins!

Monday October 8. The “On Demand” service fails entirely. The screen says “Call Technical Service – Fault Code V04”. We call Technical Service, and go through all the usual processes yet again: switching off, switching on, and checking the line speed.

“Sorry sir, this problem is beyond us. We will get the Resolutions Team to call you within 48 hours”

Thursday October 11. 72 hours later, there has still been no call from the Resolutions Team. We call Technical Service, as the Resolutions Team do not give out their number. (Well, why would they do a silly thing like that?)

“Oh yes sir, the Resolutions Team are scheduled to call you on Saturday October 13.”

“Why didn’t they let us know?”

“The person you spoke to shouldn’t have told you 48 hours.”

Saturday October 13. No call from the Resolutions Team.

Monday October 15. A full seven days after we were promised a call from the Resolutions Team, there has still been no call. We call Technical Service.

“Oh yes sir, the Resolutions Team are scheduled to call you tomorrow – but in the meantime, their may be a fault on your line. Have you tried unwiring your main BT socket and wiring your Home Hub into the back of this?”

Eventually, K grudgingly finds a screwdriver and complies. It doesn’t work.

Okay, so they are being inundated with calls, due to launching a product before it is actually ready. We will give them the benefit of the doubt this time. However, we also try to register a complaint with the BT Vision Complaints Line (0800 545458).

We try this number repeatedly throughout the course of the week, and never get an answer.

A week after the failure of the “On Demand” service, the entire BT Vision box fails, meaning that our only remaining TV service is terrestrial, via the old aerial.

Tuesday October 16. Still no call from the Resolutions Team. We call Technical Service, and demand to talk to a supervisor. The supervisor comes on the line.

“Sir, I can see you have had an embarrassing number of problems with BT Vision. We are a large organisation and sometimes things do go wrong – but I can see in your case that just about every wheel has fallen off the wagon. I will take care of this personally myself, and will call you back tomorrow.”

Wednesday October 17. No call from the supervisor. In the evening, we call Technical Service.

“Oh yes sir, he is looking into it and is currently booking you a service engineer visit. You will get a call tomorrow.”

Thursday October 18. After ten days with no On Demand service and three days with no BT Vision service whatsoever, K finally gets a call! This is a major breakthrough!

“The service engineer will be with you tomorrow morning, between 8:30 am and 1:00 pm.”

“Fine, thank you, but I am not waiting at home. As I work only five minutes from home, he can call me on my mobile when he arrives, and I will be there straight away.”

Friday October 19, 3:00 pm. K has heard nothing from the service engineer, and so calls Technical Service.

“Yes sir, we can see that he has been to your house, and that he has not called your mobile as it states on the job sheet. Sorry, we don’t know why not.”

The next available re-scheduled date is the morning of Tuesday October 23.

Tuesday October 23, 9:00 am. K calls Technical Service.

“Can you please confirm that the service engineer has my mobile number to call when he arrives?”

“Yes sir, that is on the job sheet.”

Tuesday October 23, 2:00 pm. See Friday October 19! Once again, the engineer has been and gone, without calling K’s mobile. K demands to talk to the supervisor.

“Sorry sir, I can see that you rang this morning to confirm - and also that my colleague, the supervisor that you spoke to on Friday, also called to confirm that you should be contacted on your mobile. Can we reschedule for tomorrow? Would you prefer am or pm?”

“We’d better have am please, since we will need the afternoon to repeat this process.”

“(thin laugh)”

While this call is taking place on the land line (it lasts well over 45 minutes, due to being placed in various queues and “on-hold” situations), K passes the time by placing a simultaneous call to BT Corporate Headquarters (0207 356 5000) on his mobile.

“Oh dear, you have had a very difficult time with BT Vision, sir. I will register you for a call from the Chairman’s Office.”

The Chairman’s Office does not reply.

Wednesday October 24, 11:00 am. The service engineer successfully calls K’s mobile! This is a major breakthrough!

K returns from work, lets the service engineer inside the house, and begins to explain the problem.

“I’m sorry sir, but I’m going to have to stop you there. I’m afraid that you’re not going to like this. You see, I’m a service engineer for the broadband service, not for the BT Vision service.”

“But the broadband service is fine!”

“Shall I check the line speed anyway? Yes, it’s 5.5 mb. No problem there, then!”

K rings the supervisor. By now they are old friends, and on first name terms.

“I’m sorry K, but we’ve had you down as the wrong kind of fault all along.”

“But I have told you on numerous occasions, spread out over several weeks, that the broadband service is fine, and that the BT Vision box is at fault!”

“I understand that, K. We’re going to supply you with a replacement box. Someone will contact you soon, in order to arrange a visit…”

All of a sudden, Grand Tragedy has converted to High Farce, as we have finally reached the stage which K and I habitually refer to as “Beyond The F**k It”.

Well, you have to laugh, don’t you?

Update (1): Tuesday October 30, 14:00 pm. An engineer arrives to replace the BT Vision box. Naively, K assumes that before signing off on the job and leaving the house, the engineer will have tested the service.

Tuesday October 30, 16:00 pm. K's parents have arrived for an overnight visit. As they are potentially interested in subscribing to BT Vision themselves, K switches on the TV for a demo session... only to find that none of the "on demand" programmes will play. (This is a recurrence of our old friend, the V04 error code.)

Tuesday October 30, 21:00 pm. By this time, the entire BT Vision service has become inoperable once again. K spends about an hour on the phone with his old friend the supervisor; you know, the one he's on first name terms with. (The supervisor, it has to be said, is as friendly and as willing to help as any supervisor could possibly be.) Between them, they try everything that they can think of, but to no avail.

K: "I'm going to be requesting a goodwill gesture of a full year's worth of free On Demand programmes."

Supervisor: "And I'm going to copy your full history to the team who looks after compensation."

K: "In which case, you might want to take a look at troubled-diva.com - all the details are there."

K posits the new theory that maybe the "home hub" box is at fault, rather than the BT Vision box.

Supervisor: "We'll get another home hub delivered to you, K."

K: "Oh, that's OK; you accidentally sent us two home hubs in the first place, so we've got a spare!"

Update (2): Wednesday October 31. K swaps our home hub unit with the accidentally delivered spare unit. Amazingly, everything now works - and has continued to do so ever since.

---

Summary.

1. Both the BT Vision box and the separate home hub box were faulty, with problems exacerbated by fluctuations in line speed.

2. BT Vision support failed to diagnose the source of the problem correctly, logging it as a broadband fault despite repeated instructions to the contrary. In the end, it was down to us to suggest that the home hub might be faulty.

3. Time was wasted by BT Vision support's inability to get the engineers to ring the mobile number, again despite repeated confirmations - and also by their sending the wrong type of engineer out to visit us.

4. Telephone response times for BT Vision support were abysmally slow throughout, with many, many hours spent in call waiting. Their internal structure appeared to be cumbersome and overly complex, even causing confusion for BT's own staff. Much time was wasted on being passed between various departments.

5. The so-called "Complaints Line" deserves a special mention, for never once answering or returning our calls. Ditto the so-called "Resolutions Team".

6. The BT Vision service simply isn't mature enough yet. It's too new and too bug-ridden, and was released too early. It compares well with Sky on cost and look-and-feel, but Sky is already responding to the competition on price.

7. To their credit, BT Vision staff were unfailingly courteous and helpful in their attitude. They seemed to be as frustrated by organisational problems as we were. Special credit must be paid to "Steve" the supervisor, who latterly went out of his way to help us. Steve is still ringing us most nights, on his own initiative, to trace what's happening with our request for compensation - and we'll certainly keep you posted as to what form of compensation we eventually receive.

---

Estimated number of phone calls to date: 45 calls.
Average length of phone call (at a conservative estimate): 25 minutes.
Longest phone call to date: 90 minutes.
Number of conversations with the Resolutions Team (as promised): zero.
Number of conversations with the BT Vision Complaints Line (as advertised): zero.
Number of calls from the Chairman's Office (as promised): zero.
Total estimated telephone time to date: 19 hours
Total time without any “On Demand” service: 23 days.
Total time without any form of BT Vision service: 16 days.
State of K’s nerves: shot to pieces recovering.
Likelihood of ditching the entire BT Vision service and returning to Sky: high dependent on a stable service in the future.
Moral of the tale: DON’T TOUCH BT VISION WITH A BARGEPOLE!

Labels: broadband, bt vision, consumer, television

(yadda yadda yadda Nottingham Evening Post, you know the score by now)


Boosted by the recent Mercury Prize nomination for his debut album The End Of History, Irish singer-songwriter Fionn Regan faced a curious and respectful capacity crowd, at the start of his UK tour.

Aided by a four-piece band, the fifty-minute show kicked off in surprisingly muscular fashion, before quietening for an extended run of sparse, intense, folk-meets-alt-country numbers whose poetic, deeply personal lyrics defied instant analysis. From then on, the band had little to do other than add the subtlest of backings to Regan’s reflective, accusing, somewhat embittered balladry.

Stylistically and lyrically, the songs leant towards America, bearing distinct vocal similarities to Ryan Adams’ early solo work. Perhaps the best received song was the excellent Put The Penny In The Slot, which namechecked the authors Paul Auster and Saul Bellow.

Saving the single Be Good Or Be Gone until last, Regan unplugged his guitar and delivered the song without amplification. It was a brave conclusion to a highly promising set.

Photo taken in Chicago in September 2007 by Jeremy Farmer, and reproduced under a Creative Commons non-commercial attribution license.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Not so very long ago, I compiled a list of "Twenty-Five Things I Want To Do Before I Die", a list which included, in position #4, "Interview one of my heroes".

What I had failed to do, of course, was list such heroes as I have. If truth be told, it wouldn't have been a very long list, as I don't really "do" hero-worship. And once made, the list would have been quickly whittled down still further: John Peel is departed, and Nelson Mandela isn't much given to hiring PR agencies who liaise with regional print media, shall we say.

Nevertheless, and to my great surprise and deep satisfaction, the deed is done - and as it turned out, all I had to do was ask. But by crikey, it was strange timing, as only a few days after interviewing one of my sister's heroes, I found myself on the phone with none other than the towering musical figure of my adolescence, Kevin Ayers.

I could write screeds about the experience: researching for it (by listening to the entire Ayers back catalogue, more or less in chronological order); preparing for it (my initial list of questions ran to over 2500 words, for crying out loud); stressing up over it (Ayers is a reluctant interviewee and his career has been a chequered one, with unhappy wilderness periods to navigate); actually conducting it (the poor line to Southern France causing me to hunch uncomfortably over the speaker-phone, trapped in a gawky parody of whispering in a lover's ear, with the computer microphone as our pesky interloper); the strange dynamics of interviewing someone as a fan (rather than as someone who merely takes an interest); the equally strange dynamics of two nervous people (for very different reasons) having to construct a dialogue (with two very different approaches, as my extended gabble-fests covered for Ayers' wary reticence); the initial post-interview euphoria swiftly yielding to excruciating self-doubt (greatly alleviated by the sweet de-brief e-mail from Ayers' manager, which suggested that I hadn't made quite such a gushing prat of myself after all); the subsequent transcription exercise (all 36 minutes' worth, spread over several epic laptop-bashing sessions) slowly revealing an altogether different encounter to the one that my reflex paranoia told me I'd had...

...and finally the editing process, the key to which dawned on me late last Friday night, in an advanced state of refreshment: namely, that it needed to be a process of taking myself out of the conversation.

(Which, now that I came to think about it, is something that I've been doing with all of my freelance work, and hence forms a large part of the reason why I seem to have virtually stopped writing old-school me-me-me blog posts. For having focused so hard, for so long, on erasing myself, it feels rather retrograde to start painting myself back in again.)

OK, so Kevin may not have been the most voluble of interviewees - something that I was fully prepared for - but none the less, I found myself quite won over by his laidback, laconic charm, and ultimately grateful that he tolerated my nervous fanboy gabblings with such good grace and humour.

The Stylus interview can be found here, complete with a brief introduction to the man and his work.

If you're interested in reading more or less the full transcript of our encounter (minus the worst excesses of the aforementioned fanboy gabblings), which gives much more of a sense of the conversational flow, then you can find it here, in MS Word format.

Labels: interviews, popmusic

(An edited version of this review originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post.)



There comes a point in every teen idol’s career where the hits dry up and the fans drift away, leaving the former idol with some tough choices. It’s a testing time, and many – if not most – never quite recover. Donny Osmond, on the other hand, is one of the great survivors. As last night’s show demonstrated, he has evolved into a seasoned, natural performer who strikes just the right balance between unashamed nostalgia and age-appropriate maturity.

Anyone expecting a syrupy schlock-fest was in for a surprise, as Donny based much of the two-hour set around his most recent album, an intelligently selected array of classic 1970s covers. Highlights included the funky opener Will It Go Round In Circles, a polished How Long, and the astonishing show-stopper Sometimes When We Touch, whose impassioned sincerity held the audience spellbound. (1)

But of course, with most of the overwhelmingly female audience eager to roll back the years, those old teenybop hits had to be aired. Puppy Love was played for laughs (“just because we’re… pushing fifty!”) (2), One Bad Apple was preceded by a wicked Michael Jackson impersonation (3), and The Twelfth Of Never was seemingly selected from an onstage iPod.

The hysteria peaked when Donny left the stage, strode right through the stalls by perching on seat backs (4), and then emerged at the front of both upper tiers, singing all the while. Thirty-five years ago, he would have been torn to pieces. Judging by his relaxed smile, he no longer misses those days at all.

(Photo of Mister O serenading the circle by my darling sister.)

---

(1) I can see you frowning in disbelief from here, you know. But seriously, I mean it: D.O's rendition of this particular song ranks as one of the most moving performances I have seen all year. There's no way of knowing it, of course, but I suspect that he's lived every word. During the earlier part of the show, we had been comparing Donny to Cliff Richard (5) - but here was where the two performers diverged. Cliff could never have sung this song in this way.

(2) "Every artist eventually gets a signature song. Frank Sinatra had My Way. Andy Williams has Moon River. And I get... Puppy Love." [pulls "gee, thanks for that" face]

(3) ...and an interesting piece of trivia: One Bad Apple had originally been written for the Jackson Five (who rejected it in favour of ABC), whereas Michael Jackson's Ben was originally written for Donny Osmond, and rejected in favour of Puppy Love. ("But hey, I'd rather sing about a puppy than a rat...")

(4) ...steering a straight course right down the middle of the stalls, until he got to about two rows in front of us. At which point, he suddenly angled off and headed straight for my sister, who was obliged - obliged! - to grasp his hand and pull him across the gap between the seats. "I pulled Donny Osmond!", she gasped. "You cannot imagine the number of strings I pulled in order to make that happen", I joshed.

(5) Apart from a brief but worrying moment at the start of the second half, when D.O. re-appeared in a capacious blouson jacket with the collar turned up, the thick belt of his jeans spelling out DEMAND DEMOCRACY in big sparkly letters, performing his AOR-tinged 1988 comeback hit "Soldier of Love" in the sort of galumphing messianic style which evoked memories of David Hasselhoff at the Berlin Wall a year later, single-handedly saving the world from the Red Peril. But the moment passed quickly enough...

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

(This review originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post.)



Already the darlings of the London fashionista set – a dubious honour if ever there was one – Palladium don’t yet mean much outside the capital, as last night’s sparse turnout demonstrated. On the strength of their short but superb set, that looks set to change very soon.

Drawing influences from late 1970s and early 1980s soft-rock and power-pop, the band could easily have fallen through the trap-door marked “ironic”. Thankfully, what could have come across as fey, arch and mannered was beefed up by startlingly fine musicianship, a strong sense of almost stadium-rock dynamics, and an irrepressibly joyful energy and attack.

His skinny frame squeezed into skin-tight silver drainpipes, vocalist Peter Pepper radiated an androgynous, other-wordly glamour that marked him out as a pop star in waiting. Meanwhile, curly-haired “axe hero” wannabe Rostas Fez all but stole the show with his flashy, fluid solos.

They’ll be back, and they’ll be big.



(Photos by MissMish, who thought that she was going to see another band entirely - although she ended up enjoying herself none the less.)

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic