Swordfish Trombones

Those few moments between befuddled sleep and the reality of a new day’s duvet-push-back; when dreamscapes conspire to create the improbable.

Over there, in amongst a sea of people gathered in the Grosvenor Hotel’s capacious ballroom, I can see a bewildered Tina. She should be walking toward the stage but she can’t get there because of the manacles around her ankles. No one is shouting, everyone is curiously calm; they’re distracted by what is being projected onto the big screen.

Its two weeks early but, I look around anyway… Ah, good… there is the posthumous award that she’s going to pick up on Rob’s behalf… oh and great, Music Week’s editor did like my idea of gift-wrapping it up in a QPR scarf; Billy Bragg is standing by, wearing a suit that’s one size too small and glancing down every few moments at a sheet of paper he’s holding – his hand-over speech. He’s patiently waiting for all of the talking head interviews to run their course.

But… why on the big screen are there background BBC HD images of brown bears standing in rocky pools as salmon leap upriver, right into their eager mouths and end-of-winter-hungry bellies? Its all being relayed in ultra-slow motion, every silver-white droplet of water is visible.

One salmon makes the leap and one of the brown bears stretches out its huge paw. It’s nails are fearsomely long; this Rupert Bear is clearly related to Edward Scissor-Hands. He can’t reach and just cuffs in annoyance at the passing salmon.

Only, its not a salmon… that’s my face; I’ve become the One Who Got Away.

And I can see myself three-dimensionally wriggling in High Definition, trying to get over the toothless razor-wire that I know is just below the water-line. I can feel it… its in my throat. It’ll catch me if I’m not careful… breathe in… breathe out… ouch… its got me, like a Peruvian boa-constrictor; wrapped around my chest – oh, mistress mine.

I try to swallow but the pain is excruciating; every inbound gulp of saliva is akin to being rigorously rogered with barbed wire without the benefit of lubricant. The anaconda’s vice like grip on my chest isn’t easing up either. The early warning signs of a large cough ease up through my esophagus… oh no, this is going to be nasty. It was… one big racking cough that – were my teeth not cemented into my gums – would have deposited said nashers six feet hence.

Bxxxxr, today of all days, I’ve come down with man-flu.

And… I absolutely loathe being unwell. But wait… c’mon, Storey… be sensible… what would Nurse Lusty prescribe? Oh… I know… its that truly ghastly tasting concoction that comprises Elder Flower, Elder Berry, Leaf of Olive, Onion, Maple Syrup, Cayenne Pepper, Bitter Orange, Yarrow, Pleurisy Root, Goldseal and Lobelia Seed – so bloody organic that there should be a warning on the small brown bottle from the Ministry of Horrible Tasting Substances that actually do the trick.

Gargling with Listerine, this isn’t… so, the four required drops of that go into a glass of Tangerine Juice – in a vain effort to disguise the taste (which, needless to say, doesn’t work) and, give it half an hour or so and I can set about enjoying the day… sort of.

Because, today’s the day that Project-X was finally pronounced dead; long live… AlphaBetaMusica.

The new name’s been there or thereabouts for a bit now, I’ve tested it out both within meetings as much as I have with close friends and acquaintances – explaining that Project-X and the original web-holding-name were simply treading water-type names… and that it was a case of being patient and letting the proper name come.

And arrive it did… as often these things do… whilst bathing the body beautiful fairly recently. OK, employment of that last adjective might be a bit gung-ho but… hey… who’s counting.

Anyhow, after a lot of dithering and wondering whether this was the one, the web site has finally been registered and the relevant sent over to M’sieur le guru d’ internet and all stations to Crewe for him to weave his not inconsiderable magic.

He may even play about a bit with the typographic logo – loosely based on Russian poster art lettering. That’s also been completed; its retro as much as its 21st century… although I’m still debating about reversing the ‘s’ which may (conceivably it may not) give the whole a bit of extra oomph. Ohhh baby, squeeze that lemon.

As much as Obama was (apparently) as excited as a young schoolboy at meeting the big lady during his G-20 stint this week, similarly I am with this… it feels like a big step forward; its not as if it wasn’t real before – just that it feels considerably more real now.

And… I wasn’t even late for the meeting earlier this week either although, true to form, I did encounter Manuel’s first cousin, half-removed.

Wicker-weave shopping basket, sexy sexy boots and bat-wing flapping coat approach the reception desk in the building to which I’ve been summoned. I explain that I’m expected by so and so and…

Yes… he says cautiously… and your name is…? I can feel myself ahead of the game immediately, this bloke speaks English.

I repeat it slowly and Manuel’s first cousin starts tapping away at a computer.

He glances up. No… there is no one of that name workin’ ‘ere.

I consult the book of words – my diary. I’m in the right place at the right time and… I give him the name of the man I’m due to be meeting. Again.

Oh… so you’re not meeting Mr. Storey? He looks at me quizzically.

No… that’s my name and I’m meeting… and the first two letters of his name also begin with ‘s’ and ‘t’… just like mine. He starts tapping away again and… we both let out a sigh of relief as contact is made and I’m waved toward the lift.

An hour or so later and I’m back out in the Spring sunlight – excellent progress has been made and ABM (as it now should be) has garnered further support. The man whose name begins with the first two letters of my own surname requests various documents of me and so the next thirty-six hours pass by in a blur of writing, checking and double-checking, more writing and revising of budgets, phone calls to legal eagles and number crunchers until… Late in the evening, lengthy document-X is complete, exported as a big PDF file that eventually wings its way through the ether to be ready and waiting for him in his corporate lair the next again morning.

And, while that’s been on my mind, Obama and Gordon Brand have been cuddling up to one another in a truly worrying take on Puppy Love – the newspaper pictures and tv footage showing Brown all gooey and doe-eyed, reveling in the pomp and circumstance of the Man Who’d Be King coming out to play – the ceremonial circus that wasn’t accorded when he, Brown, flew of to Washington but a few weeks back. Its much more fun having your own sand-pit to play in, isn't it Gordon?

While my favourite image of them all has been the one of Obama walking away from one of the innumerable press conferences with his arm firmly around Brown’s shoulders – the image stating unequivocally just who is in charge; I’ve also started to wonder what they really make of each other and… what is said when Barrack and Michelle are alone in their room. Indeed, what Gordon and Sarah talk about in bed when the lights are turned down low. I expect the latter read novels... the former.. hmmm, methinks perhaps other things occupy their bed times.

Further to which, what on earth is the point of this G-20? With the world reeling within financial meltdown, was this little extravaganza truly cost-effective? The US is in turmoil in pretty much the same way as all of Europe and the rest are so… most especially given Obama’s stance on the fat-cats of Wall Street and their diabolical bonus payments, how justifiable is the cost – in this instance – to the US tax payer, the man, woman on the street – when he travelled in the manner in which he did? How many cars was it..? The helicopter… though, I suppose that was a necessity given where he landed.

Good day, Mr President… welcome to England. This is called… Stansted. Your helicopter is this way. Damn site better that than the dear old M10 / M25 crawl into central London. I used to take the bus out that way on those rare occasions flying in and out of France back in the day… from the Finchley Road tube and all the way up through Golders Green and so forth… nose to tail crawling traffic. No wonder the helicopter came in handy. Memo to self – when ABM achieves big-success nab a helicopter off the shelf, nothing to ostentatious… just a decent sized run around and one that’ll transport self from ‘a’ to ‘b’ fairly seamlessly. Whirlybirds could be go I reckon.

They whizz about almost as rapidly as the Formula One circus that, this weekend, sees itself in Malaysia. And… it seems it wasn’t just me who found that time-change as per the elf Ecclestone to suit Euro-tv viewers objectionable – the drivers did too with The Guardian quoting Nico Rosberg commenting on the glare of the low-setting sun earlier this week and saying: In Melbourne it was obvious that it just increases the danger so much. The visibility is so difficult you can't even see the edges of the track in some corners. I was driving into the sun and that's not what racing is about. So I really hope they reconsider that. Even moving it forward by one hour or something will help us massively.

Ah well… monsoons are forecast so, presumably it’ll rain a bit on Bernie’s parade… rather like it has of late in terms of sleeze and the incumbent government. Actually, I suppose I should re-phrase that bit as it appears that there are rather a lot who aren’t so governable in Central London as has been demonstrated during the last few days. Not so sure I totally agree with the trashing of the Royal Bank but… one has to have a modicum of sympathy for their actions – not least because of the G-20 Cirque and its overpowering display of wealth that has been so prevalent.

So, a true sporting weekend lays ahead… the Grand National – and thank the Lord that the organizers didn’t bend it like Beckham and alter their rules (Ecclestone like) to allow the Sun newspaper (can it really be termed that - its debatable isn't it) to purchase and re-name Parson’s Legacy (one of the nags that’s taking part) as… Jade’s Legacy. In any event the steeplechase is on the same day as the funeral… or should their be a new synonym for funeral in this instance – circus? Stiil, thank the Lord once again, all of that will be past history soon.

Besides the blokes who’ll be hurtling around the steamy Malaysian tarmac, league football is back on the agenda - although Southampton FC might not bother turning up having just been liquidated in the blender of professional soccer - as is… the Tour of Flanders. Oh to be there, my all time very very favourite race; reading the previews and looking at the www pictures of the bergs – the short, sharp and improbably steep cobbled hills that all come in the latter half of the race and serve to shape it whereby only the really strong survive. Oh to be there.

I've a strange kind of nostalgia for that particular part of Belgium at this time of the year; its as if half the country comes out onto the by-ways and highways to watch and, to be part of that – festival – is to have the hairs on the back of one’s neck stand up on end. There’s the scent of frites everywhere, beer abounds, the noise of the crowds all jostling for position for a quick glimpse of the gladiators on wheels as they hurtle by; the rushing from one viewing point to another with the idea of seeing the race as many times as possible… but, its back to the search for the internet feed.

I wonder if beleagured Secretary of State Jaqui Smith’s husband will be watching on pay-per-view or if he’s had enough of that after the recent revelations of his hand-shandying to late-night movies that display a somewhat dubious subject matter. Well, that’s according to the Daily Stale – Britain’s ethically correct (sic) guardian.

I mean… its probably highly unlikely that he (Richard Timney, husband of lying about her living conditions etc etc Secretary of State Jaqui Smith) saw anything too… ummm… hardcore via that medium – not, I hasten to add that I’ve actually looked on those ‘channels’… honest injun.

All he’d have had to do was turn on his computer and fire up youporn.com – if that’s what gets you going, then its all there… its whatever takes your fancy. Youporn.com is, incidentally, a more visited www site than Tescos – amazing thing, research, isn’t it?

But… wasn’t it just brilliant how the guardian of all our morals – the Daily Stale – got so worked up about a bloke playing Rosie Palmer with the five sisters in front of the telly? So what that was a bit of solo fun for him... Oh… and couples don’t use that form of entertainment as a method of adding a bit of ‘spice’ to a normal relationship? The hypocrisy is quite incredible.

Its time for more medicine. I suppose if I’d become an aficionado of Twitter, I’d emit a tweet that simply said I’m ill.

Well... I really am.

Not content with being laid low by man-flu, I think I may well have contracted the plague too as I've just noticed a rather unpleasant 'thing' where there shouldn't be a rather unpleasant 'thing'. Hmmmm.

Clare Island (Will You Meet Me On...)

I was running a tiny bit late… what can I say but admit it… not too late as to be hugely rude but… just enough to bring about that level of self-annoyance with which one berates oneself from time to time.

Left bang on time but kyboshed by that law unto itself – public transport… hey, what can you say..? Doubtless the same the world over.

Added to which, while the address to which I’d been bidden had been carefully written down in my diary that, in turn nestled deep within the bowels of my trusty basket-weave shopping bag – I still managed to bowl up at the wrong place.

Shopping basket is actually more appropriate for trawling around the markets at Brantome or Thiviers as I did in days of yore; eager to meet up with Asparagus-bloke in early-April – one kilo of his very finest, a baguette from sing-song lady’s Boulangerie just opposite the Puy Joli café together with a bottle of nicely-chilled out of the fridge and Luncheon used to be well and truly sorted.

Nowadays, shopping basket serves as my de-facto briefcase; the proper one has been gathering dust down in the dungeon at Merle Hq for many months now.

In any event, coat-tails flapping bat-like behind me, I stride purposefully into the building to which I believe I’m due to arrive; clickety-clacking my way across the anticipated marble floor and… brilliant… there’s a sign saying ‘information desk’.

Shopping bag, sexy sexy boots and self then encounter the first missing-link of the day.

Blokey-bloke who manfully mans this haven of knowledge is bent over, stuffing leaflets and other frightfully important things into pigeon-holes; he’s clearly intent on his task as a polite cough to attract his attention fails miserably.

I opt for the more direct approach… Hello..? Again… no response as the bent-over figure in his lair stuffs more and more leaflets into their respective pens. Hmmm…

Excuse me… could you help me, please?

Que…? He stands upright, massaging his back… Que..?

Oh shit, I’ve met Manuel.

Hello… I grin somewhat foolishly… I’m looking for the offices of… and could you direct me please?

Niet…

Drat… he’s a Mexican-Russian… I know… I’ll speak v e r y s l o w l y.

I ask again for directions, pronouncing the words ever so carefully… single syllable stuff; my mouth making shapes like a landed Salmon gasping for air.

He grins… nods… shrugs his shoulders… grins again and points… Que..? Niet… Police… there…

Damn… I’ve no chance. Glancing over my shoulder in the direction in which Manuel has pointed I can’t help but notice an enormous Policeman wandering in the distance, flanked by a squatter colleague who is talking confidentially into a hidden microphone attached to his jacket; one is as tall as the other is wide and both are carrying sub-machine guns. Maybe they're staking out Manuel?

I wander over… Do you think you could help me, I’m looking for..?

Out the door, turn left… left again… straight in front of you… ok? His colleague is eyeing me up and down, caressing his carbine with more than due attention as I thank Police-bloke # 1.

Time to about-face, retrace steps, head through the revolving door and out into the outside world again. Three minutes later, I’ve dodged the rushing traffic and made it to the sunny side of the street and finally found where I should have been a few minutes ago. The Security Guard here has been trained at the school of nonchalance. He has no gun (that I can see) and is reading his newspaper. He glances up and merely nods as I walk by – destination the sixth floor.

A little over seventy minutes later and the tall-bloke in the black drainpipe jeans with whom I’ve been discussing Project-X is walking with me as I leave. We’re still discussing all the possibilities of X but pause in their secondary reception area; the walls are festooned with posters… images from my own past… that black-drainpipe-jeans-chap has collected over the years.

Pride of place are given to three, two of which I know really well – the first has become one of the most iconic images of Jimi Hendrix ever shot; Gered Mankowitz’s original 1967 black and white of Jimi wearing his trademark military coat staring straight into Gered's camera at his Mason's Yard studio.

Some years back, this became the image that was used as the front cover for the uber-selling compilation, The Ultimate Experience as well as the flagship image for the exhibition that toured the world… The exhibition that began with not one but two preview nights in a skinny little Notting Hill Gallery in London… the crowds so vast that the entire street had to be closed off by the Police and people queued to get in… the day that Q Magazine published their one and only retrospective Hendrix cover story.

Rob and I framed two copies of that cover… both blown up to 30x40 size – his hangs just outside his old – soon to close down – office at Coalition, mine hangs on one of the back walls of the barn at Merle Hq.

An artist’s proof – of which I believe only two were manufactured – of the David Costa / Gered Mankowitz colourised and manipulated black and white original used to hang at the top of the stairs at every home I’ve owned since. A positioning that used to annoy the hell out of my (aged) Mother who complained bitterly every time she came to stay… I wish you’d move Jimi… it scares the life out of me every time I go up to bed. That now lays face to the wall in the attic at Merle Hq.

The other is a hand-coloured Adrian Boot image of a Bob Marley black and white; Bob sitting with a half-smoked spliff hanging from his lips strumming an acoustic guitar. It’s early Bob – probably from the mid-seventies… dating his pictures is usually pretty simple as they’re always governed by the length of his locks. In this instance, they’re pretty short so, it’s probably from around the time that the Burnin’ album was recorded. And, another that we used in the globally touring Marley Exhibition.

The Irish quartet are represented (a picture that I erroneously first identify as being by David Corio) but almost immediately realise is, actually, an image that looks suspiciously like an outtake from a Paul Slattery shoot that, I suspect, would have originally been commissioned for the now defunct Sounds – one of the UK weekly inkies that long since bit the dust… the days of Melody Maker selling hundreds of thousands of copies each and every week being long long past.

Indeed… one would have thought that periodicals as crucial as the likes of Melody Maker would have been properly archived. Curiously enough… not so.

A number of weeks ago and a flurry of back and forth e-mails between the production company that are putting together the forthcoming Island50 tv programme and self started up again. Did I have any idea where old pictures could be found of 22 St Peters Square since Island, themselves, had nothing on file. Oddly enough – yes. In fact, two places…

Steve Taylor’s article in an early-eighties edition of The Face and Rob’s own early-seventies Melody Maker article (referred to here in an earlier Voltaire); the former I have – the latter I’ve lost along the way. No matter… maybe a chance to get hold of it all over again.

Spot of research and… everywhere I looked drew blanks. Hmmm, bollox. I can’t access my own copies of The Face so… surely I can get a hold of a copy of the Melody Maker from… shit, I can’t exactly recall when… this is the kind of research that needs one to be a bit more precise than vague.

Ultimately, I hit paydirt… Melody Maker do have a sort of archive and finally I find someone who’s prepared to trawl through old bound editions and… locate what I’m after and… email over photostats turned into .jpegs.

It was quite curious re-reading that article after so long… the style of writing for instance very much in the seventies vein… but yes, the images were there and the photographer was easily identified and… contacted by the production company and… even better, it appeared that he still had the original negatives. Jobs a good ‘un.

Not only that but… Rob’s being posthumously awarded with the hugely prestigious Strat Award at the forthcoming Music Week awards in a couple of week’s time… and, the headline in that article – Island Of Dreams – came out sufficiently well to be sent over to the editorial bods there for them to add it (or not as the case may be) to the images that’ll be used in amongst the talking heads waxing lyrical about Rob for when Tina steps up onto the dais to receive his award.

Which is what all these pieces to camera that I’ve been doing have all been about… and, while its been a bit fraught getting files of the size they came out at FTP’d over… job’s now done.

Actually… no… Its not quite safe to head out of these particular woods just yet because… just back from my Project-X meeting, brimming with positivity and what am I greeted with? An e-mail in-bound from the ever-so-patient lady who runs the production company who are putting all these talking head interviews together that tells me:

Hi Neil, I’m so sorry, but the saga continues! It would appear that 3 of your files have been created at 8frames/second:
Chris Blackwell G
Rob A B C
Rob & the Chicken
Would it be at all possible to have them re-supplied selecting 29.9 frames/seconds. Otherwise we will have the Benny Hill affect on all the footage from those three sections. I’m so terribly sorry about this, hope I don’t make you want to through the computer out the window!!

Oh dear… its her incredibly courteous way of informing me I’ve fxxxxd up; I’d not re-set the bit-rate gadget within Final Cut Pro – plus, her adjectival use of Benny and Hill makes me wince. Darn… the chances of my looking even more foolish than usual have shot up like an over-excited priest’s robe stumbling across a gaggle of skimpy-sunbathing-behind-the-high-walls-of-the-convent novice nuns.

Time to get to grips with technology. Firstly, Fetch – which is the software that I’ve been using – appears to crash horribly with any attempt at overloading it past the 100Mb rate… hmmm… time for a spot of Googling… there has to be a FTP thingie out there that’ll take and transmit and not trash all this work… surely to goodness there is.

And, sure enough there are, dozens of the blighters. But… while certain ones download terribly easily, they don’t always open as applications. And, when others do, one finds the interface about as user-friendly as Jenson Button’s steering wheel – not to be approached by the faint-hearted or clinically incompetent, the latter category in which I currently reside.

Dammit, its enough trying to figure out the latest Facebook interface without having to learn an entirely new computer language. Talking of which, what on earth were the boffins behind that doing when they chopped and changed something perfectly usable into… total shite.

Anyway, eventually one FTP thingie both downloads and launches. Cape Canavaral… here I come.

The application that promises to do all I require of it (other than make me a bacon sandwich) is called… CyberDuck… I feel better already.

The icon that appears on the desk-top is a rather good imitation of a Rubber Duck… gloriously yellow with a little red beak; more properly suited to aqua-pursuits for a young child than computing for adults. Clearly a lot of thought has gone into this little blighter.

Double-click – as one does… and it sparks into life. So far, so OK.

Next step… find the up-load gadget… that’s easy enough… transfer file from one folder to another… easy-peasy… and depress play. It starts to transmit – in just under an hour it’ll hit the magic marker of 100Mb so, nothing much to do until then… time to cook a spot of Red Cooked Pork.

Rubber Duck doesn’t just get to the 100Mb marker, it passes Go like a machine fed on Emu oil and collects its 200 squiddlys. This is all looking really rather promising and… ultimately the first file – the one which is marked up as Rob and The Chicken – heads off into the ether and… so far as I can work out, lands the other end.

Whether this is a usable bit of Storey-waffle for the Music Week Awards, I’ve no idea but… they (patient-lady at the production house and her gang) now have the tale of Rob and self attempting to hail cabs in the middle of a bleak midwinter somewhere along the Goldhawk Road, destination St Peters Square, W6.

We'd had a couple of preparatory bracers chez Rob & Tina Hq... and... Rob had decided he'd hide in the bushes while I’d been dispatched kerb-side to hail the cab.

None stopped although quite a few slowed down.

Proof positive that its not that simple a job getting a cab to stop and actually pick one up while dressed as a Chicken as Rob adjusted his Darth Vadar outfit… the one with the close fitting helmet that meant that his glasses as well as the visor steamed up every time he breathed out.

It was a bit better the next year… we tried the same trick… Carmen Miranda hid in the undergrowth, the Nun hailed the cab… they began queuing up when I started flashing a be-stockinged leg.

Next up… the missing Blackwell file. Follow the same procedure and… bollox…

Rubber Duck refuses to get its feathers wet.

Try again… same result. Try for the next two hours… same again and again and again; I’m turning into a TeleTubbie.

Right, you yellow-bellied swine… I’ll download you all over again and try it that way. Another hour later and I’ve got Rubber bloody Duck’s breeding all over the screen… One little yellow bxxxxxr is there and there’s another down at the bottom of the screen and yet another hiding under that application over there. And, none of them are prepared to play. Start to delete them but… the bloody things keep breeding and won’t go away. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagh.

Time for an excessively large vodka that comes perilously close to the bottle of tonic that I’m waving at it. This does the trick because, within a few moments, one of the cousins of the original Rubber Duck, sparks into life, accepts the connection and the second transfer starts up. Phew.

I delete all the other Rubber Ducks and, as the transfer wobbles away, hit the hay. Magically, Rubber Duck – first cousin, almost removed – behaves in the morning and the third transfer heads off into the ether with barely a backward glance.

All of which, of course, has little to do with Project-X.

So, come on Storey… what happened… its all very well being entertaining with stories about Chickens, stockinged Nuns, Darth Vadar getting all steamed up, Carmen Miranda and Rubber Ducks but… can we get to the meat and potatoes… please?

Oh… very well then.

It was a very positive step forward overall; it was great meeting with someone who – unlike the Education Strategist – got the plot from the off and didn’t seek to unravel it with a fistful of ‘wouldn’t it be better if you approached it this way, that way or any other way’. Someone who cut to the chase from the opening salvoes and who saw all the inherent possibilities and wanted to explore them further by sharing with his colleagues on a near-as-dammit immediate basis.

All to the extent (though without revealing too much that occurred behind closed doors), that I’m cautiously optimistic that it won’t be the last time we meet by any stretch of the imagination.

He’s a thoroughly good bloke too – music courses through his veins like the elixir of life; he knows his stuff… and… yeah… I'd say a great step forward.

Added to which, next Tuesday’s noon-time meeting has also just been confirmed – which means that the sexy sexy boots will probably come out to play all over again.

I pretty much know where I’m heading to and… baring further encounters with Mexican-Russian illegal émigrés, aim to be there at the appointed this time around.

Up On Cripple Creek

Yesterday, I was taken to lunch by a long-standing friend… we’d worked together on the Nelson Mandela: Freedom At 70 show in London and collaborated on the Greenpeace in Moscow initiative; had always planned on working a lot more together but, inevitably I suppose, our respective career paths had diffused over time.

Having caught up somewhat at the Crematorium of recent memory, there was still a lot of catching up to do… something like ten years worth.

Bidden for midday, I bowled up predictably late as well as sans spectacles – thus necessitating the hovering waiter to read out the lengthy menu. By the time he’d finished explaining each dish in glorious technicolour detail, I’d forgotten most of what he’d said and just figured it’d be easiest to plump for number one on the list.

The salmon that arrived wasn’t exactly as I’d imagined it or how he’d explained it.

And, somehow that simplicity seems characteristic of so much nowadays.

Earlier today, I read – as is my wont – news reports that… and I really don’t understand this… but… they seem – increasingly – to infuriate. Is it just me or…?

Because, from where I sit, it’s as if sense and sensibility have taken the decision to divorce. Whereby, we really do now live in the Dress Circle at the Theatre Of The Absurd.

I wonder… honestly, I really do wonder. Don’t you..?

Try this then: a random headline that lead me to read the following – Postal workers in the UK have complained they were being pressured into walking faster to complete their rounds under cost-saving measures. The Communication Workers Union said delivery staff were being told to walk at a speed of 4mph, an increase over a previous target of 2.4mph.

Do Post Office bosses stand around with stop-watches..? Haven’t they anything better to do? Or hasn’t anyone thought through the fact that this is so unutterably juvenile that this sort of time and motion study is purely effin’ wasting money..? When the resource that’s being thrown down the drain could be better employed? Perhaps not. Perhaps common sense has been simply thrown out with the bath-water?

Ok… if that’s not mad enough for you, try this… The BBC isn’t going to broadcast Crufts next year. Oh dear… Why? Well, they and the Kennel Club (the organisers) are in dispute over the inclusion of certain breeds of pedigree dog in the competition.

Apparently, Auntie Beeb has insisted that certain breeds are excluded. Why again?

It seems that the dispute has arisen in the wake of a BBC documentary which claimed the breeding process used to produce pedigree dogs had resulted in a high incidence of inherited genetic disease.

Eh...? Is this the real world or not? There is, I would suggest, one reason as to why Crufts shouldn’t be televised and that is that normal dogs aren’t shown. By that I mean, proper dogs who just might be a bit scruffy. Digger – the longest resident of all at Merle HQ – would have been a worthy winner, that is if he could have been bothered to get up from his more normal position of being asleep on any available comfy surface.

Had enough yet… no, nor had I. I’m clearly a glutton for this sort of self-punishment. Lets have a look at this then… here is the headline: Naturists are vowing to fight plans to close one of Britain's first nudist beaches.

It seems that a 200 yard stretch of sand in Suffolk – that has been declared a clothes-free zone for the last 30 years is to be de-designated – that’s Local Council-speak for… keep your swimmies on (I think).

Why? Apparently, erosion of the nearby coastline had left "very little beach" for residents, meaning the nudist area should be made available for "families and others". That’s what the council reckon anyhow. However… they’ve not taken into account the nudies… oh no.

The sans-thong brigade’s spokesman is a certain Malcolm Boura who has outlined his party’s stance by saying… and I’m quoting his quote here; We would welcome any proposal to move the beach slightly further south. OK… and so who’ll be paying to move said beach?

Besides – how exactly dos one move a beach…? Have that particular local authority nothing better to spend their money on – like… oh, I dunno… perhaps healthcare for the elderly… educating the children round about… you know, just small stuff like that… yet, by all accounts, it seems that sort of thing is low priority and the movement of beaches is a worthy subject to discuss in Local Council meetings.

So… by now, you’ll be wondering why I even mentioned my Salmon in the first place. Here we go… Whilst forking slivers into my face I was told a really quite extraordinary tale – of how utterly self-centred humans – some humans – can be.

My similarly-fish-indulging friend works as a publicist for some of the biggest Hollywood names… all appear to have ego’s the size of small baronial estates and make requests (demands) that don’t just border on the illogical but cross the threshold of the absolutely ridiculous. We’ve both spent time working with people like that and have long-since become world-weary of that form of self-centredness.

Anyhow, it transpired that the wife of the director of this film had a cold. My fellow-diner was asked (ie told in no uncertain terms) to locate a doctor. The Hotel in which the cast and crew and sundry hangers-on were staying was of such 5-starred magnificence that it actually had its own, in-house, Doctor and staff on pretty-much permanent call. A fairly decent place to stay, I’d imagine.

Doctor on site equals a pretty good solution. Not. Why so? Because, apparently, this Director’s wife needed a specialist and named the person who was to attend her. Don’t forget, she had a cold… just a normal, boringly ordinary cold. They’re never nice, annoyingly frequent but… they are what they are.

My friend – who’s proper job is to man-handle belligerent tv crews, annoying journalists, terminally difficult radio people is also a bit of a whizz at solving the nigh-on-impossible – therefore sets about finding person X. And, for the sake of this, he’ll be known as Mr. Green.

This – by the way – is a true story, I’ve simply withheld any proper names for discretion’s sake.

So… Mr. Green is ultimately found. It takes much dextrous and highly ingenious phone-work that would have tested even Hercule Poirot’s little grey cells but, found he eventually is – or, at least his personal assistant is. After much cajoling, persuading and so forth an appointment is agreed upon.

Relief all round. Not. Oh no… 11.30am is completely out of the question. Earliest that the Director’s wife can be seen is 4.00pm. Why? Because she is having her hair done.

Back to the drawing-board and another call to the seemingly unflappable secretary to Mr. Green. By the time we’re attacking the chips that came with the Salmon concoction with gusto.

During this call with the level-headed lady on the other end of the ‘phone it transpires precisely why the appointment cannot be changed. And my friend is told the following: I’ve already moved Mr. Green’s next appointment by half an hour to accommodate your client. Perhaps you could explain to your client that Mr. Green is rather busy and the appointment I’ve moved by half-an-hour to make time for your client is a liver-transplant. He is (and here’s his real name is mentioned) one of the world’s leading transplant-specialists and therefore I would hope that your client understands that a common cold is of slightly less importance.

A week later, my friend was fired – for not doing the job properly.

And, today… I’ve discovered that NHS Direct is urging people suffering colds and flu to check their symptoms online. Why? And… what exactly is it that one needs to check? Baffled too – join the queue.

It is because of this: the number of callers to the NHS suffering colds, flu, coughs and fever has more than doubled in the past three months. And more people are expected to be struck down with such ailments in the coming months. Yes, the second bit is logical – it’s a bit nippy outside unless one lives by straddling the Tropic of Capricorn and yes, this is the time of year when people catch colds.

So… what have the NHS… the Great (?) British (?) National Health Service done…? Wait for it… they have launched an online symptom checker. What does that mean..? I’ve had a look and… in brief (or even in briefs – thus not a site for naturists) one can answer questions to work out if you need to be treated or can treat yourself. Wow… that’s really handy… self diagnosis for all.

In amongst more Project X work, I found a quote from someone called Anne Joshua, who is the NHS Direct's Associate Director of Pharmacy: The tool helps with self-care and also helps to decide when professional advice is needed or if the condition is serious enough to seek urgent medical help. The website advice will set out the options for self care - whether a visit to a pharmacy to speak to a pharmacist is needed, or whether it is best to contact a GP. And if necessary it might prompt you to go to A&E.

Ok… a resource that’ll tell you if you have a cold… I’d have thought that the rapidly emptying carton of Kleenex would have told you that… the runny nose, the sore throat… we’ve all had the symptoms but, I rather fear as we head into 2009, that we’ve lost any sense of self-responsibility. I mean… how difficult is it to go to a Chemist and acquire the correct remedies for… a cold?

Besides, self diagnosis can be fraught. It is not exactly a precise science. Fast backwards.

Rob and I are installed opposite each other in our normal lair in the War Room at Island – this’d be about 1979. My then lady-friend wanders in at close of play, ready for the lift home. What are you up to Rob? Oh hiya He replies, looking up from the book he’s been studying. I’m not at all well and I’ve been working out what is wrong with me. This is not abnormal – Rob, at that time, was deep into hypochondria, so much so that eventually certain doctors refused to see him, because nothing was actually wrong with him.

Oh… ok… how are you doing that, she asks, settling into a seat next to me on my side of the table. Well, I’m listing out the symptoms and when I’ve done that, I’ll be able to work out what is wrong with me… I really don’t feel at all well you know. Give me a minute and I’ll show you… its really good is this book.

A few minutes later, Rob hands over a sheet of paper for my then-girlfriend to study.

That’s brilliant Rob, She exclaims. Amazing. You’re unique.

Yes, well… I suppose I am. Says Rob, his chest puffing out a little. You are, absolutely unique. She says in measured tones, You’ve just diagnosed yourself to be suffering from Pre-Menstrual Tension.

Illogical madness has got to me… it shouldn’t have but it did. I need a jolt of reality. And, collect a little shaft of light that has been borne by winged e-message. It follows a meeting I had yesterday at one of the leading Music Schools (for that read Institute) in London. And, it tells me that this little thing I’ve been working on, this little undertaking I’ve dreamed up is… right. And, that the time is now. .. in capital letters.

I really hope that everything pulls together with (your project X). It's a mammoth undertaking and is a fantastic concept, which would be incredibly beneficial to anyone interested in music at all and would especially be of huge interest to the Institute and our students.

Is there finally light at the end of the tunnel..? Is the train pulling out of the station..? Wait and see.

May the weight of the desert sands lay lightly upon him

This week’s been a bit of a strange one and for many, many disparate reasons; we’re entering the final-furlong countdown to Christmas, there is a funeral on the near horizon and no direction home.

People everywhere are starting to get festive in the streets, trying to out-drink one another at office parties in pubs and clubs, indulging the time-honoured game of grope-the-big-busted-blonde-from-accounts before she passes out on Advocat before, themselves, vomiting into gutters and over freshly-pee’d upon office steps.

Yet retailers all over the planet are in trouble – heap big trouble – with the wonder of Wollies no longer looking so very breathtaking (when did it ever?) and DSG, the holding group for Dixons appearing equally flimsy and who knows what’s going to happen to WH Smiths, one of the stalwarts of the High Street – will they be the next to fall at the Beacher’s Brook of retail? Place your bets here, please. And General Motors – will they survive much beyond Valentine’s Day or will they become part of the massacre? And will VAT go beyond the 20% mark..? I’d not bet against that one either.

A week also in which people have also been saying some truly wonderful things about Rob.

Working out of Coalition where his larger-than-life presence is already sorely missed; installed at a desk free-basing Project X and funeral-attendees spreadsheets with tributes that pile up on a daily basis nestling alongside e-mail inboxes overflowing with messages from people near and far, from long-past and current, all offering their own thoughts on his passing.

I look up from my borrowed desk and there, above the door that separates the Management and PR divisions, hangs a newly framed magazine back page.

From the earliest of Island days, we always used to frame front-pages but this back page is a bit special. And it more than deserves its place among the pantheon of magazine-art that surrounds it. It has been taken from this week’s edition of Music Week, that most august of British organs and the trade bible to the industry in the UK.

It’s a picture taken by Adrian Boot during the years when Rob and I sat across from one another in the War Room at Island. Boot had been in that afternoon, a brief photo-shoot for one of our artists or bands, I forget whom and, come the end of the day, was hanging out in our part of the building.

This was long before the days of digital photography; he had four or five frames left and, so as not to waste film, positioned himself right behind where I was sitting and focused on Rob who was on the ‘phone, chattering away to some journalist or other, smoking one of my full-strength Marlboro’s – an ashtray awash with nicotine detrius in front of him, leaning on his diary, with pens and scraps of paper covered in Rob’s collegiate hand spread around.

He initially caught Rob unawares – and one of those initial shots was used this week by The Guardian to illustrate Robin Denselow’s marvellous tribute. But, by the time Boot lined up to take his final frame, Rob had caught on and he was nabbed, snarling back at the camera.

And that is the one that’s been framed; the one that HMV – a long time client of ours – chose with which to pay tribute to him, the caption simply saying Rob Partridge – 1948 / 2008.

Looking to the dark-cold night sky I’ve also been thinking about what Tom Waits said: Here on earth a very bright and warm light has gone out but there is a strange new bird in heaven – the Rob Partridge.

One of the other things that Tom also said about Rob was that he was a pioneering navigator. Its an adjectival phrase that’s meaning has been utilised by more than one person – Paul McGuinness, for example, spoke on Radio 4 of Rob yesterday in like terms, saying that he went way beyond the parameters of his specified job.

All of which somewhat flies in the face of something pretty scary that I read earlier – an interview given by the recently installed EMI Music chief executive, a certain Elio Leoni-Sceti – a Roman by birth with an (apparently) idiosyncratic speech delivery that the Music Week journalist described as being like a gattling gun on fast forward.

The last year or so have been pretty lousy for EMI – the new owner (a bloke called Guy Hands) announced job-cuts for over 2,000 employees last January and fairly recently the company turned in a year-end loss of a staggering 750+ million pounds.

Maybe my use of the word lousy as an adjective wasn’t that wise a choice… Because it also appears that they’re going to slash into their roster of 14,000 artists signed to the label (and its subsidiaries, I assume). According to the Italian stallion, having a roster that top-heavy isn’t sustainable. I should think not.

Not least because – according to Maltby Capital (the vehicle that Hands used to acquire EMI in August last year) recently revealed that 88% of artists on the company’s roster made a loss. Hmmm… is this bloke going to be hands-on… or hands-off?

In any event, it’s an interesting statistic since it almost racks out against another I learned recently whereby any company business is often reckoned to be as follows: 80% income coming from 20% of their customers.

So what are the giant, EMI going to do? Are they going to bestride the world’s stage like a colossus or… Let’s have a little ponder, shall we?

Well, for a start they’ve employed a new Chief Executive to lead the slash and burn.

He, almost needless to say, speaks fluent corporate, fleshed out with meaningless buzz-words and jargon; a man who is evidently adroit with flow-charts, skilled with mission statements and dexterous at PowerPoint presentations.

This probably all makes perfect sense if one is fluent in waffle too – to me, though, its simply bollox.

Here’s what he says (judge for yourself): The one thing we have, that we didn’t have before is actually being able to inform our decisions on visibility of financial data about the roster.

He has also claims: This industry has been blessed by a revenue stream that was coming, and it was not forced to really scratch its head very hard to find the next one. We (EMI) are doing it now. What I have learned is to listen to consumers. I have been passionate about that.

He goes on to say: We want to bring the artists and the fans closer together. The word ‘closer’ builds on the concept of knowledge. That knowledge will help drive actions of both the artist and fans to create value. The actions (mean) basically giving the artist the knowledge of where the fans are and where to reach them… and to drive fans to action by bringing music to them so they can act upon it.

He then asserts: Wherever music meets people, that’s where we want to be. Our mission is to ensure action and value is created wherever music and people meet and wherever they experience music.

Apparently, he used to work for Proctor & Gamble. I rest my case.

But, actually – in my view – it gets worse. Far worse.

Because he wants to start: leveraging existing technologies and existing infrastructure since he thinks this is the key to the future and he believes it will be a way for EMI and the music industry to begin to reclaim control of the way music is experienced.

Oh… really?

Apparently, he and his team have been researching the company’s consumers. It seems they have done rather a lot of research – and have identified that there are six different types of music consumer and… they (the boffins in white coats and matching clip-boards) now know how they behave.

The newly-formed department within EMI responsible for this information is called Consumer Insight and Analytics.

Am I the only person absolutely terrified of people who behave like this?

Let’s listen to what the 21st Century Marcus Aurelius has to say on this 'ere subject: In our learning about the consumer there are different aspects. Some of them are about consumer behaviour, motivation and desires in the way they consume music at different touch points, whether that is live, digital or physical. One of the elements of the learning plot will be to enable us to interface with [consumers] on a constant basis as a learning lab.

So, instead of peace and understanding, we now have research and understanding.

But, apparently, this is going to be of great help to EMI because it’ll mean that the entire A&R process will be better informed and executed. Not just that – stop howling at the back – but, according to the man in the sharp suit, they will be better able to identify market gaps.

Because – and I quote again. You can be instructed by a market or consumer need. Is there a need for kid’s music? You can actually see market gaps and market needs in individual genres and try and address them by focusing one element of the creative process in that direction.

To me – and maybe I’m just being a bit old-fashioned here – this is treating the precious commodity of music as… product.

If this is the destiny for that most cherished of jewels as we lurch uncertainly into the 21st century, then I’m ever so glad that I’m long gone from this particular aspect of it.

Would Stax, Motown or Island have ever been founded on the guiding principles as outlined above? Not in a million years – thank the stars in all their heavens.

They were founded and staffed by people who worked on gut instinct and sheer enthusiasm; people who cared about artists and careers; honourable men and women who were in touch with the very heartbeat that will always pulse through the music world; soulful people who nurtured acts and helped them navigate their way forward; people who could inspire yet also understand that business and integrity are a hard marriage but who have hearts and minds big enough to encompass both; people who looked at the impossible and thought – why not?; people who were lucky enough to get paid for indulging a hobby.

Pioneers.

People like… Rob.