Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?

Poor old (sic) Gary Barlow… might as well be hung for a sheep as much as a lamb.

Unless his ego really did get in the way, he’d probably have been wiser passing on the offer of curating the music for last evening’s Diamond Jubilee concert in London.

Because... attempting to span the breadth of pop represented throughout HM’s 60 years on the throne was a big ask and GB was on a rank-outsider from the moment the invitation was proposed and the flag dropped.

Even so, it was as if Barlow G had convened a cast of performers while reading from a pop(ular) music health and safety manual. Don’t upset anyone, least of all the ducks in the fountain and the Corgis across the road. Keep it strictly middle of the road. In that respect he succeeded but, crikey, it was mind-numbingly tedious.

Yet it began on a wave of possibilities… Norman Wisdom (in the guise of Robbie Williams) unexpectedly came out of the musical traps like Usain Bolt; thronged by implacable trumpeters from one of the cavalry regiments, he grabbed the occasion by the scruff of the neck and… hit the bulls eye.

That it continued with a whimper like a damp firework is testament to the sheer ordinariness of some of the bill assembled, the manner in which some of the songs chosen were sung and the sheer ineptitude of most of the in-between-acts link–deliverers.

Of course, only a lunatic would have expected a degree of subversion, a hint of radical, a touch of extremism to follow – all being basic staples of rock ‘n roll. Yet, it was if punk… ska… reggae… BritPop… psychedelia… had never happened; as if that vast swathe of music that Britain should be justifiably proud of never existed.

Instead we were treated to the abysmal caterwauling of Jessie J. And, can anyone enlighten me as to the reason Will.I.Am was granted stage-time? Similarly Cheryl who, allegedly, is now such an important personage in the pantheon of pop that she’s disposed of her surname; both of these horrific musical miscues emphasized by their inability to actually hold a tune (what tune?)… in tune – yep, both sang flat as pancakes.

There was the irrelevancy of something called JLS while Ed Sheeran looked like a frightened rabbit startled by headlights. The exceptionally gifted pianist, Lang Lang was on the wrong stage entirely while Alfie Boe and his suit weren’t the only part of his act that failed to fizz. Ruby Turner showed the also-rans how to actually sing but, oh how one longed for the Pet Shop Boys backed by a troupe of Welsh miners; Tennant and Lowe dressed in oil-skins, belting out Go West. Now… that was happy and glorious. And where was Adele or Rumer, Aswad or Coldplay, Eric Clapton or Oasis even…? (the list of non-invitees / attendees is / can be as long as you like).

It was partially saved by… here’s…. Grace; Ms Jones – who’d evidently tipped an economy-sized bottle of baby-oil all over (possibly to aid entrance into her latex sheath-dress) fabulously hoola-hooped all over Slave To The Rhythm which, sadly, so obviously lacked the real grit-rhythm that should have been provided by Sly ‘n Robbie.

Annie Lennox sang with angel-wings and then some; grasping the implausible situation and breathing life into a, by then already dying on its feet, musical corpse. Yet, unlikely as this is, the nation’s favourite posterior totally blew her four minutes centre-stage: oh Kylie… why did you screw up so royally? And frankly, the least said about GB’s decision to allow Rolf Harris to wobble-sing his Two Little Boys to the back of The Mall the better.

Even by now, with the concert cadaver barely breathing, one’d have thought that dear old Sir Tom of Jones and Sir Riff of Pilchard – beat-veterans twain who, in their prime, were rightly touted as Brit-rivals to Elvis’ crown – would have amassed a bit of vocal clout… and excitement… between ‘em.

But no… the former dignified grey but facially orange struggled to engage let alone get out of third gear; the latter proved pink wasn’t a wise choice by his stylist. His hits medley fell at the first like an elderly racehorse who should have been put out to grass long ago. So… why on earth didn’t Sir Cliff perform with Bruce, Brian and Hank – the three remaining Shadows? After all, wasn’t it John Lennon who once said “Before Cliff and The Shadows, there was no music in Britain worth listening to".

A shame – and yet what was equally fascinating was the amount of ‘rockers of yore’ who’d clearly nipped to the chemists in order to purchase age-defying hair-products; indeed, one wonders if Cliff holds shares in the same follicle-aid company that Sir Paul of MacCartney and Sir E John of Weybridge and other compounds clearly do.

And Gary B… he trashed one great idea by over-egging it. The essence of meandering around the Commonwealth and thereby creating a song from so many disparate sources and players was hardly new but nonetheless alive with fascinating possibilities.

But, that’s not dissimilar to creating a mouth-watering sauce from contrasting components – and to quote Michel Roux “You can always add ingredients but its impossible to take them out. The trick is knowing when to stop.”

One had to feel for the remarkable Aboriginal singer / guitar player and the equally gifted strange-stringed-instrument player from Kenya; the extraordinary rhythm kings from the rubbish heaps of South Africa and the young Rasta hand-drummer. All drowned out by the non-sensical – way too early in the mix – inclusion of Gareth Malone and his massed ranks of Military Wives. The incision of a chorus within the tune wouldn’t have harmed it either.

The finale of Madness vertiginously performing Our House atop the roof of the Palace reeked of irony – a remarkable playground for their lighting designer and he (she) justifiably did that opportunity proud; the gently-moving strings-wash of the Irish quartet’s Beautiful Day set to images of Her Majesty through the years purveyed more than a hint of double-irony; Stevie Wonder put a spell on everyone but muddled what the actual occasion was and Sir Paul Of Macca – always the show-closing safest each-way bet – belting out Beatles tunes brought it all to a wonderful… anodyne… finale.

Yeah… it was safe – it was never going to be toxic; it was never really going to even come close to celebrating British music (as it should have done / as it was touted to) over the last 60 years. Nope… this was The Royal Variety Show under another guise; a Diamond Jubilee Concert that was as safe as milk and about as interesting. No harm done because it was as harmless as it gets.

And Gary B will probably earn a knighthood in the next Honours List… for not upsetting anyone. How very British. How very rock ‘n roll.

The Last Waltz

My name is Virgil Kane and I served on the Danville Train…

Late-Summer 1968 – There has been quite a noise over the last few weeks in the Melody Maker; their writers have been talking about this new group from America. A few pictures have been posted – the group all seem to wear hats and beards and, according to the scribes to whom I subscribe, the music they make is unutterably glorious: a heady mix of Southern soul and Northern driftwood.

I don’t actually know what this means but, my (nearly) sixteen year old musical mind has started salivating. Nothing but nothing has been played on the radio yet my pocket-money has begun burning a hole in my flared jeans.

My Dad works in Argyll Street, just off Oxford Circus and, one morning, he finally relents to my constant pleas… Locally (this being the backwaters of Hampshire) no record shop I know of stocks this record I've been reading about so, please… please… take my money, all 32 shillings and 6 pence of it (that’s about £1.70 or so / $2.30) and bring home a copy of this album. Please.

That very evening, it arrives. It has been purchased from Harlequin – a record store in Berwick Street (now long defunct). And, the purchaser wasn’t actually my Dad at all; he’d sent his secretary out to affect said transaction. It’s a mono pressing (hell, what did I know, what did I care)… and is contained in a sleeve adorned by what looks suspiciously like a child’s painting. Only its not, it’s by Bob Dylan. There is no wording on the front cover – just this painting. And, on the back not a whole heap of information either– so far, not so terribly good. But, inside… the warmth of the black-vinyl exudes… something.

The needle drops and I’m all expectation. Can this be really as good as has been written about? Forty minutes or so later, having indulged myself in both sides of the vinyl, I’m in quite a state of shock. At this distance, its quite hard to explain in mere words just what an impression that record made. Put simply, up until that point in my life I’d never… ever… heard anything like it.

Its akin, I guess, to someone hearing (say) Miles Davis for the first time; hearing Winwood sing; seeing Hendrix or watching Bob Marley for the first time – this was music from another place. Completely.

Fast forward. It’s the end of June 1983, I’m in New York and traveling with Niall Stokes, the editor of Ireland’s most fortnightly music publication, the much-revered Hot Press. We’re out on the road with the Irish Group; these being the final US dates on this leg of The War Tour… and have tipped up in Manhattan with the venue for the evening being Pier 84 (don’t think they have shows there anymore). It holds about 3,000 people – places like Madison Square Gardens are on the tour itinerary horizon but not booked… just yet.

Late afternoon and there’s a knock on my hotel room door. Stokes’ beaming face is at the entrance.
“Shall we meet in the lobby at 6?” he inquires.
“Bit early, isn’t it?” I suggest.
“Well… yes… but… actually, there’s a bar downtown and I thought we should go there first ‘cos there’s a band playing that would be well worth seeing before the show”. The good Stokes is giving little away and I’m not entirely convinced. Nor am I really of a mindset to go see a bar-band but… to humour him… sure, why not.

At the appointed hour, we meet in the lobby and jump a cab that is propelled downtown by a driver of Eastern European extraction. It appears unlikely that this fella is possessed of a license as red lights are run at a terrifying pace but, eventually, we’re deposited relatively unscathed outside a not-terribly-enticing bar in a particularly seedy part of lower-Manhattan. This isn’t looking that promising but a beer is a beer is a beer – we push our way in and up to the bar.

As Niall does his best to lure the barman over, I start tugging at his coat. There is a band setting up in the corner… keyboards, drums have been placed in position, a bass guitar is on its rack… mic stands are in place. And, there are faces that look extremely familiar along the bar; isn’t that…? That surely can’t be…? I tug again “Niall will ya look for pity’s sake… isn’t that…?” Two pints in hand, he turns round… and says, “Thought you’d fancy this… only found out by chance…"

At that moment, the musicians started to take their places… there is a short drum roll… The first song kicks in, with the bearded drummer easing up to his mic on the off-beat and that familiar voice, straight out of Arkansas, opens with… My name is Virgil Kane and I served on the Danville Train…

There are maybe 75 people in this bar. Stokes is grinning ear to ear; me – my jaw has just dropped to the floor. If there is a musical heaven, then I’ve arrived.

Unhappily, due to our appointment at Pier 84 being at 8pm we have to leave before the end of the show (I later discover that this edition of The Band minus Robbie Roberston were due to play two sets). But, it was… in retrospect… enough. In fact, it was more – it was a true privilege to witness musical magic that close up.

Fast forwards. A few days ago, the news broke that Levon Helm was loosing his battle with throat cancer. This morning, the unwelcome news came through that he’d quietly slipped away, surrounded by friends and family.

This, therefore, is simply to echo all that is being written today across the globe: Levon – for all the music, over the years… thanks.

Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology CD 5 – Eight Days On The Road

There are some... perhaps many... who would argue that an act or artiste recorded live is when their true colours really emerge; no last-chance studio-saloon for overdubbing, re-working those vocal harmonies that went horribly off-key, re-recording a guitar solo because said guitarist was playing with maximum fretwork enthusiasm but minimal concentration by soloing all over the intricate bass-line – thus ruining an otherwise cracking rendition of song Y... and so forth.

Well, that is unless unscrupulous producer Z decides to employ all the gadgets at his or her fingertips that have, far too often over the past few years, turned real live recordings into a travesty bearing the name whereby 'recorded live' actually means it was replicated in the studio but the applause came from the night in question (and very often thats dubbed in too).

So... what do we have here..? Actually, this is as pure as it gets.

Yes, we fixed a couple of things; on one track from the JRB's (now legendary) Marquee appearances, Pete Hunt's bass-drum mic became detached and, quite literally, moved right to left across the stage. Pretty obviously, this rendered the track – as it stood – unusable... but, 'cos the performance was outstanding, how to fix it?

We (that is Jess, self and Richard Whittaker) sat there in the windowless gloom of FX – no one should be under the illusion that studios are all glamour – one Sunday afternoon, chewing on sandwiches, drinking a lot of coffee and scratching our heads. There was a soloution and it was going to take at least three hours: Richard took one, simple, bass-drum 'thud' out of the same song, recorded the previous night, and back into the track we wanted to use. This was done by replacing one note after another. Thud... thud... thud... Was that cheating... nope, we didn't think so.

On another tune we wanted to use, Bruce Roberts' guitar lead wasn't plugged in properly for the first thirty seconds or so; how did we fix that – same methodology. Thank goodness that the multitracks actually survived.

And now ladeeeez and gentlemen..., for your delectation – here is Jess... recorded live as live is...

1. Intro / The Alan Bown – Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded September 19th 1966 live at The Marquee Club, London… segues into…

2. Reason To Change / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded May 20th 1976 live at The Marquee Club, London… segues into…

3. It’s Growin’ / The Alan Bown – Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded September 19th 1966 live at The Marquee Club, London (from the only known Alan Bown club recording, originally issued on Side 2 of the seminal 1966 London Swings | Live At The Marquee LP, the A side featuring Jimmy James & The Vagabonds – although their performance was actually captured on a different night)

4. The Ballad Of Big Sally / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 30th 1976 live at Birmingham Town Hall (from one of the two shows that were recorded – the other being Leicester university – during the last JRB UK tour from which, ultimately, the Blowin’ album was released)

5. You Can Leave Your Hat On / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 30th 1976 live at Birmingham Town Hall

6. Down In The Valley / The Alan Bown – Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded September 19th 1966 live at The Marquee Club, London

7. Can’t Get Next To You / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded May 20th 1976 live at The Marquee Club, London (the third and final night of the JRB’s residency at The Marquee that May and on a night when the temperature rose to such a degree that water was running down the walls; a collosal early-Summer thunderstorm broke overhead right as the final notes of that night’s performance played out).

8. Get To Steppin’ / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded September 18th 1974 live at The Lyceum, London (a Robert Parker tune, ‘Steppin’ was recorded at one of the earliest JRB shows – pre-Billy Livesey joining on keyboards – supporting Georgie Fame’s band at London’s legendary Lyceum)

9. In A Circle / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 20th 1976 live at Leicester University

10. Me And Crystal Eye / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 20th 1976 live at Leicester University

11. You Better Believe It / Jess Roden And The Humans – sourced from the WAV Master and recorded November 1st 1996 live at The Robin, Merry Hill, Birmingham

12. Miss US Dream / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 20th 1976 live at Leicester University

13. The Boomerang / The Alan Bown – Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded September 19th 1966 live at The Marquee Club, London

14 & 15. All Night Long & Friend Of Mine / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased encore, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded November 30th 1976 live at Birmingham Town Hall (the penultimate night of their final tour)

(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information).

Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology CD 4 – Outside Its America

Those among you who’ve followed this tale thus far will probably have come to realise that this hasn’t been the easiest of jigsaws to piece together. For those who’ve just joined this remarkable adventure – we’ve been dancing in the dark in extremis many, many times.

Firstly, only a tiny proportion of Jess' recorded output had ever been digitised in the first place. That meant trawling through literally hundreds of analog boxes (many of which were marked up wrongly – possibly by over-reefer'd tape-ops of the time) and transferring everything we found (off of 1/4", 1" and 2" + acetates + cassettes and more). Plus, any multi-tracks had to be monitor-mixed whereby we then had a format so’s we could actually start the listening-back process.

And, the deeper we delved, the more the unexpected and absolutely unanticipated came to light. Many, many instances of that occurred but two of the most remarkable are represented on this particular track-listing.

One late pm, Richard (Whittaker, the chief analog renovation expert / uber-studio-boffin @FX) and I are sitting in the studio. He’s got a 2” multitrack fresh back from the FX oven – some of the tapes were deteriorating so badly that they had to be baked for a few days so as to preserve them before we could run them through the equally ancient analog machines; Heston Blumenthal would have been proud of us.

The tape rolls, dials are twisted, nobs are twiddled with, faders moved into position and a monitor mix of this particular 24-track tape is begun but, within a couple of minutes, both of us are scratching our respective heads. There are weird ghosting sounds coming from the deep background – as if someone has recorded over something else… We complete the monitor mix and, while it sounds great, there’s something weird going on. An MP3 is run off and, later the same night, I tip up at JR HQ for a glass of the well-chilled and our (by now usual) recap of the day’s musical archaeology. He presses play on his machine and… starts to scratch his head too.

“Hmmm… Is this the only multi with that track title?” asks the singer of songs.
“Yes… why..?” I query
“No ¼” then?”
“Nope, none at all… this is all there is... or, rather all I've been able to unearth”
“Ahhh… OK… Then... What I reckon is" He says carefully "what you’ve found is one of two 24-track tapes...” His head-scratching continues, mine multiplies.

“As I recall" He goes on "we recorded this tune once with Joel (Dorn) – it’s one of Mags, John Cartwright’s songs… and that version had pretty much all of the instruments played by him. But, we dumped that because… I dunno… it all got a bit mad, everyone kept hearing different things that they thought should go in to it so we started again and so this must be from that second session. “

“Anyhow… what happened was… eventually, we had so many tracks going that we slaved two 24-track tapes together so as to create a 48-track master. There were whole horn sections flown in… we recorded them… then they got erased… I’m pretty sure that Lee (Goodall) came in with a bag of flutes and overdubbed one after another… There may have been a choir at one point too. Real studio lunacy. But, the more we did, the more we lost sight of it...”

“The strange thing is, tho’… listening to it now, what is it – thirty-something years later… it’s as near as dammit to how I heard it in my mind.”

A few days later, one late Saturday afternoon and JR and Richard have been slaving over a hot console, fuelled by more cups of coffee than any self-respecting doctor would prescribe along with brought in sandwiches. After three hours of dextrous nob-twiddling, the tape-ghosting has gone, the track’s been cleaned up… and To Enter Heart And Soul (Peace Within Me Now) has been completed as a final mix for the first time in over three decades.

A week later into the process and the crates of analog boxes are starting to dwindle; we’re coming to the end of the digitisation process. We’ve one of the few remaining multitracks spooling… in the near-darkness of the studio… we're listening to silence.

"Why are we listening to nothing... shouldn't we just fast-forward the spool and be done with it?" I admit it now, I'm absolutely exhausted at this point in the proceedings.
"We could" replies Richard, "but... you never know..."

Off I go to grab us both more coffee and five minutes later am back in Richard's lair and he's as good as dancing on the console.

"Just wait 'til you hear this... I've cued it up. You thought it was just gonna run out... Well, they must've just left the tape running at Basing St... 'cos... just listen... this is really special!"

Richard rarely displays excitement – possibly 'cos he's seen / heard it all before – this pm, more super-strength coffee now firmly attached to bear-like paw, he's grinning ear to ear. He hits play and... within seconds, its obvious we've found another diamond in the rough.

That same evening, I've a USB drive in hand and tip up chez JR for dinner and another recap 'n playback on the day's events. We get to Track X... there are two takes... "Crikey, where the heck did you find that?" asks the singer of songs. "You know... I honestly can't remember doing that at all... but obviously I did! That's some very late-night strumming, that is...Diga must've just left a tape running or something... and... you know what, it's not half-bad actually, is it? Bit annoying I got the words ever so slightly wrong but, I'd say that take #1 is certainly one for the consideration list."

Quite a few months later, we're starting to pull the track-listings together... Although sequentially, it’s slightly out of place, there is really only one candidate to close CD4; the 1' 30" of 'late-night-strumming' found that late afternoon while listening to playback silence.

1. Old Broadway / The Rivits – Sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded January 14th 1979

2. Light Brown Colour / Seven Windows – Sourced from the WAV File Master and recorded during 1982. Featuring Jack Waldman, Gary T Amos, Lee Goodall, Mark Egan and with strings arranged by Paul Buckmaster, this is from the incredibly hard to find and long-since deleted Seven Windows album recorded variously at Skyline Studios & Classic Sound Studio, New York; Rock City, Shepperton & The Garden Studio, London that has been especially remastered for The Anthology by A. T. Michael MacDonald at AlgoRhythms Mastering, Brooklyn, New York

3. One World, One People / Jess Roden – Sourced from the Sterling Sound ¼” Cutting Master, recorded July 11th 1979

4. If Ever You Should Change Your Mind / Jess Roden – Sourced from the Sterling Sound ¼” Cutting Master, recorded July 11th 1979

5. Misty Roses / Jess Roden – Sourced from ¼” Master, recorded February 5th 1977

6. Vital Sign / Jess Roden & Pete Wood – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded on February 18th 1981. One of three short pieces recorded at Compass Point as mini-track-breaks for the planned second Rivits album that never really got off the ground.

7. Some Vision / The Rivits – Sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded January 14th 1979

8. Bird Of Harlem / Jess Roden – Sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded on July 11th 1979

9. Easy Way / Seven Windows – Sourced from the WAV File Master and recorded during 1982. Featuring Jack Waldman, Lee Goodall, Mark Egan and Steve Dwire, this was recorded in New York and London and has been remastered especially for The Anthology by A. T. Michael MacDonald at AlgoRhythms Mastering, Brooklyn, New York

10. In Me Tonight / Jess Roden – Sourced from the ¼” Master and recorded on February 5th 1977

11. Believe In Me / Jess Roden – Sourced from the Sterling Sound ¼” Album Master and recorded July 11th 1979

12. Oo She Do / The Rivits – Sourced from the ¼” Album Safety Master and recorded January 4th 1980

13. Parachutes / Seven Windows – Sourced from the WAV File Master and recorded during 1982. Featuring Jack Waldman, Rob Mounsey, Robbie Kondor and Michael Dawe (among others) this, too is from the long-since deleted Seven Windows album recorded variously in New York and London that has been especially remastered for The Anthology by A. T. Michael MacDonald at AlgoRhythms Mastering, Brooklyn, New York

14. The Hardest Blow / Jess Roden – Sourced from the ¼” Album Master and recorded on February 4th 1973

15. To Enter Heart And Soul (Peace Within Me Now )/ Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded on June 8th 1978

16. The Quiet Sound Of You And I / Jess Roden – Sourced from the ¼” Album Safety Master, recorded on February 4th 1973

17. What’s Going On / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased Take #1 of 2, sourced from the 2” Multitrack and recorded on March 23rd 1973

(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information – obviously, some relate to initial sessions while some are final-mix dates. Since some of the original multitracks haven't survived, this is the closest possible dating available).

Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology CD 3 – Get Ta Steppin’

1. Raise Your Hand / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded July 2nd 1975 (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)

2. Rat Race / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded July 1st 1975 (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)

3. In A Circle / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased Version, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded August 9th 1975 (later recorded by Producer Geoff Haslam, this is the original version with Steve Winwood on Hammond Organ and produced by Steve Smith – taken from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)

4. Celebrate / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded July 1st 1975 (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)

5. Send It To You / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased Mix, Source tape ¼” Master, recorded January 16th 1975 (later recorded by Geoff Haslam, this is the original version produced by Steve Smith)

6. Every Time A Man Gets Lonely / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased , sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded December 20th 1975 (produced by Geoff Haslam and originally recorded for the Keep You Hat On album)

7. Can’t Get By Without You / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the Acetate transfer to ¼”, recorded July 2nd 1975 (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)

8. If You Don’t Get What You Want / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded August 9th 1975 (with Steve Winwood on Hammond Organ, produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)

9. Work Out / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded July 1st 1975 (produced by Steve Smith and from the original sessions for the first never-released JRB album)

10. What Took Me So Long? / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 17th 1975 (produced by Chris Blackwell, recorded at Basing St)

11. Yes Indeed / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the Acetate transfer to ¼”, recorded October 2nd 1975 (with strings arranged by Harry Robinson – who’d similarly arranged the strings for Jess’ version of On Broadway and produced by Steve Smith)

12. Me And Crystal Eye / The Jess Roden Band – Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master, recorded October 17th 1976

13. Honey Don’t Worry / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased Version, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 11th 1975 (later recorded by Producer Geoff Haslam, this is one of the earliest takes produced by Steve Smith)

14. Stonechaser / The Jess Roden Band – Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master, recorded October 17th 1976

15. Black Jack / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded December 20th 1975 (produced by Geoff Haslam and recorded originally for the Keep Your Hat On album)

16. Blowin’ (Gospel Version) / Jess Roden & Billy Livesey – Previously Unreleased take, sourced from the 2” Multitrack, recorded January 21st 1977 (recorded during the mixing sessions for Blowin’ – the final, Live, JRB album)

(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information – obviously, some relate to initial sessions while some are final-mix dates. Since some of the original multitracks haven't survived, this is the closest possible dating available).

Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology – CD 2 – Basing St To Beyond

Song 3 / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 13th 1972 (originally recorded as part of the 'Rabbit sessions' for the proposed 1st solo album)

The Farm / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded March 28th 1972 (originally recorded as part of the 'Rabbit sessions' for the proposed 1st solo album)

I Won’t Be Alone Anymore / The Butts Band – sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded, May 1973

Strength & Guidance / Jess Roden - Previously Unreleased Demo (later titled Sweet Danger), sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded March 23rd 1973 (originally demo'd at Basing St and later recorded by The Butts Band)

New Ways / The Butts Band – sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded, May 1973

Sweet Danger / The Butts Band – sourced from the ¼” Safety Master, recorded, May 1973

What The Hell / Jess Roden – sourced from the ¼” Master / Sterling Sound Cutting Copy, recorded May 25th 1972

I’m Ready / Paul Kossof – sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded August 27th 1973

Toe The Line / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded January 18th 1974 (originally recorded during the same Olympic sessions that included On Broadway)

For Granted (I’m On Your Side) / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded January 18th 1974

Trouble In The Mind / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded March 26th 1974

You’ve Got What I Need / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded January 17th 1974 (recorded during the same Olympic sessions that included On Broadway)

On Broadway / Jess Roden – Sourced from the ¼” Master / Sterling Sound Cutting Copy, recorded between November 11th 1973 / January & May 30th 1974

Reason To Change / Jess Roden – Sourced from the ¼” Master / Sterling Sound Cutting Copy, recorded March 26th 1974

Sad Story / Jess Roden – Sourced from the ¼” Master / Sterling Sound Cutting Copy and recorded March 26th & May 1974

Feelin’ Easy / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded March 26th 1974

Under Suspicion / The Jess Roden Band – Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded February 3rd 1975 (planned as the US single mix)


(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information – obviously, some relate to initial sessions while some are final-mix dates. Since some of the original multitracks haven't survived, this is the closest possible dating available). Further Anthology track listings to be announced shortly.

Hidden Masters | The Jess Roden Anthology CD 1 – Town & Country

1. Baby Don’t Push Me / The Alan Bown Set – Previously unreleased mix; sourced from the 1” multitrack, recorded February 28th 1966

2. Headline News / The Alan Bown Set – Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 1” multitrack, recorded September 14th 1966

3. Gonna Fix You Good / The Alan Bown Set – Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 1” multitrack, recorded December 19th 1966

4. I Really, Really Care / The Alan Bown Set – Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 1” multitrack, recorded March 1st 1967

5. All Along The Watchtower / The Alan Bown – Sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded June 3rd 1968

6. My Girl The Month Of May / The Alan Bown – Sourced from the ¼” Production Master, recorded June 3rd 1968

7. Amber Moon / Bronco – Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master and recorded April 9th 1971

8. Lazy Now / Bronco – Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 2” multitrack that was recorded August 21st 1970

9. All The Love I Sing (Love) / Bronco – Previously Unreleased mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 19th 1970

10. Time Slips Away / Bronco – Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master, recorded April 9th 1971

11. New Day Avenue / Bronco – Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded April 9th 1971

12. Bumpers West / Bronco – Previously Unreleased Mix, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded September 2nd 1970

13. Sudden Street / Bronco – Previously unreleased mix, sourced from the 2” multitrack that was recorded March 19th 1971

14. Joys & Fears / Bronco – Sourced from the ¼” Cutting Master recorded March 15th 1971

15. Life / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased Demo, sourced from the ¼” Master, recorded August 27th 1972

16. Song 3 / Jess Roden – Previously Unreleased Instrumental Demo with guide vocal, sourced from the 2” Multitrack recorded on February 10th 1972
(Take #2 of 2...)

(All track selections subject to change and final clearances. Recording dates listed have been sourced from tape box information – obviously, some relate to initial sessions while some are final-mix dates. Since some of the original multitracks haven't survived, this is the closest possible dating available). Further Anthology track listings to be announced shortly.

Aspirin And Aftershave

The route from Frithville Gardens – the last appointment of this particular #IBoR day – to the collecting of Tiggles Bearwood from meetings in the backwaters of Chelsea is fraught with rush-hour traffic. Our metropolis-exit, bypassing the Great West Road, finds the #HiddenMasters-mobile halted at one set of traffic lights after another.

We’re stuck beside white-van man whose vehicle is belching a pungent cocktail of diesel fumes, stale nicotine and van-interior air-freshener. In the general 2 o’clock direction as the crow might fly is a building above who’s front door is emblazoned a large semi-circular, globe-like logo.

It’s one of the London homes of Universal – an entrance through which I’ve trudged more than a few times of late in quest of cementing our template masters’ rights agreement. This late afternoon, however, the building looks quieter than usual; the lights on the top floor (where the senior executives prowl and growl over dissemination of percentages of net or gross earnings) are dimmed. The usual ebb and flow of hot and cold running secretaries and personal assistants stemmed by the mass-exodus across-town… Because…

It’s the late afternoon before the evening of... that precedes the morning after… of The Brits.

Britain’s prime-time televised, annual be-dinner-jacketed man-hugging / scooped into little-black-number air-kissing ladies pop-awards event… The dress-codes alone should tell you everything you need to know.

Its our very own Grammys… And, lest we imagine otherwise, an ab-fab joyous celebration of all that’s super-duper in Popular Music emanating (more or less) from our wonderfully green and pleasant. Smashing.

Now… I speak (write) with a degree of previous with regard to this annual back-slapping fest. Among the many highlights of previous years would be when Sam Fox and her improbable-sized Page 3 chest stood alongside Mick Fleetwood's waist at the height of his substance addiction, jointly (sic) reading the wrong cue-cards at the Royal Albert Hall.

When Jarvis Cocker invaded the stage and pulled down his trousers as Michael Jackson ‘entertained’ children on stage while posing in a scene reminiscent of the crucifixion.

Another at The Grosvenor Hotel when the aforementioned Jacko tipped up with Giant Haystacks as his minder for the evening; an event during which the Storey bladder became over-full with the non-chilled and I found myself at the next again urinal, standing right beside the aforementioned member (sic) of the Jackson Five.

The night when John Prescott had a bucket of warm-Champagne emptied over his head by Chumbawamba – proof positive that politics and anarchist punk ‘n roll really shouldn’t mix.

Debacles every one of ‘em… and, last night was no different – the only difference was the music but, true to form, the Brits (yet again) proved itself long past its sell-by date.

That’s not to say (and similar to most years) that some aspects worked. Remember Robbie Williams embracing all the best bits of Norman Wisdom and totally up-staging Tom Jones before the latter turned entirely orange? Or Liam Gallagher’s ‘if you think you’re ‘ard enough’ gong-acceptance speech? The Pet Shop Boys and a bunch of Welsh Miners singing Go West – if never seen, worth the YouTube visit for that alone.

And last night there was Adele; simplicity itself… a great tune… fabulously understated band… and that soaring vocal. (Unfortunate camera angles that dwelled over-long upon the rippling posteriors of her amply-proportioned backing singers but… hey... that’s ITV for you).

Yet, while that simplicity exuded sheer quality, the show, as a whole, did not.

I can’t claim to have any insider knowledge on something called Bruno Marrrrs and his preposterous quiff (I believe his second name has more than one R). But, c’mon laddie… ease up on the spray-tan… and… it’d be not a bad idea to be able to actually sing.

Honestly… was his a voice to be celebrated? Having been lucky enough to have worked with more than a few of the greatest interpretative singers of all-time and then seeing / listening to that… Hello… music industry… is there anyone out there? In another year, all those iTunes downloads and hastily-bought CDs will be swamping computer trash-bins and Charity shops alike.

As for One Direction… kinda says it all that their records are doing well in what can most kindly be termed Lady-boy countries. Another couple of years and those band-members not in rehab will be appearing way down the bill in provincial pantomime.

We were treated to Lana Del Ray poured into her Jessica Rabbit gravity defying dress on the edge of tv-blubbing as she collected her skittle (the re-design of the actual Brit award was a complete nonsense); there was the (rather sad) sight of Noel Gallagher clearly missing Liam’s vocal on what was otherwise a semi-decent slab of rock ‘n roll that included Chris Martin hunched over his piano deftly adding the twiddly bits in an attempt to transform the ordinary to the almost quite good.

And then came Rhianna – with a costume as ill-fitting as the Euro-bail out of the Greek National debt – I still can’t figure out just who her auto-tuned vocal actually says anything to? In chalk and cheese comparisons Etta James passed away (sadly) not too long back – and yes, I know she’s not British but then neither is Rhianna – but the latter would be well-advised to invest in the former’s entire catalogue and secrete herself away… To listen and learn that great singing does not involve three-dozen scantily clad dancers nor does it involve crotch-moves that would look out of place in a pornographic B-movie.

And Blur… yes, probably was more or less appropriate that they got a gong for their ‘outstanding contribution’. But… it strikes me that the very word appears to be misrepresented here and I find it entirely incongruous that while they (deservedly) received recognition, that someone like Bob Marley was overlooked. After all, it can hardly be down to nationality when the likes of U2 and Van Morrison have both collected ‘outstanding contribution’ gongs.

And Damon – for pity’s sake, learn to do your belt up… ‘cos, the exposure of the Albarn, M&S styled horizontally-striped underpant that revealed way too much Allbran is, really, not an attractive sight. Nearing your middle years, you really should know better. And, if you really do need to bare your arse, then show a bit of dignified cheek by studying the Jarvis Cocker methodology. Please.

The lights are out and, at the 2012 Brits no one’s home. It’s a just a TV show that tries to please everyone and fails miserably due to that very fact.

Its no wonder then that lower key events such as the Mojo Awards or The Mercury Music Prize exist… and continue to thrive. Why? They know what they are and don’t pretend otherwise and neither do they try so hard.

Jess Roden / The Rivits / Old Broadway / Hidden Masters

Y’know… there really is a sense of magic – albeit an indefinable one – the moment one’s brogues touch down on Broadway.

I can recall the first time like it was yesterday; and, while the last time was just a few months ago, it’s still etch-a-sketched down memory lane just as vividly as if it was yesterday.

Those were the days when Pan Am flew from Heathrow; in fact this was to be my very first Transatlantic crossing and all of it was spent squished into a middle seat in between La Faithfull and her (then) husband, Ben E Ficial – more properly christened Ben Brierly.

Those were the days when food at 36,000 feet up was served on proper plates with real cutlery – not the abominable plastic, bendy-breaky-bollox knives and forks one is forced to employ today. You also got more than one bread roll.

Days too, when one’s pre-luncheon snifter (make mine a pretty sizeable Bloody Mary with extra Worcestershire Sauce please) was accompanied by a gasper or twain. We all smoked – heck, half the flight did in those days; walking back down the aisle from the lavatory was like strolling through an early 60’s London smog. No wonder they banned it – the air conditioning system that could have coped with that amount of fumes hadn’t been invented.

La F was off to do a week of promo for the Broken Biscuits (English) record… that’d later nail her a Grammy nomination; Ben was there ‘cos he was her fella… and me? Well, I was the bloke from Island and it was my job to ensure that everything ran tickety-boo.

Pretty obviously, it didn’t – and much of that was down to entirely unexpectedly bumping in to La Pallenberg in a hotel lift. This little reunion of kindred spirits and shared pasts distracted my charge somewhat.

Employing her deep dulcet Germanic tones that reverberated upward from her not inconsiderable bosom, La P beckoned toward the lift (elevator), saying (well, more commanding actually)… Ahhh, Marianne… so good to see you…come up to my room, I have a little something for you…’ Now, I reckoned I was relatively wise to the ways of… but… this was on an entirely different scale altogether; a small mountain of Peruvian marching powder was upended on the table and… basically… they weren’t going to stop until…

A lot of other mad stuff happened on that trip… but… trooper that MF is, the work did all get done.

Years later, she toured the 20th Century Blues record… taking in such exotic locales as Tel Aviv and Jerusalem as well as more conventional gigs in the more obvious places. And, for sizeable chunks, I was on hand too – more or less in the same capacity. About three-quarters of the way through the show each night, there’d be a bit of a break in proceedings (Paul the pianist would nip off to have a wee) which gave La Faithfull – who is a raconteur of astonishing prowess – the opportunity to regale the audience with tales of derring-do.

Most usually, this involved a lengthy narrative that involved serious narcotics shared with the late, great Harry Nillson, his untimely death, the manner in which it occurred, an earthquake and a strange burial. And always, but always, she prefaced the whole with the opening lines of… ‘Now, you… lovely audience that you are… need to understand that those were the days when we did proper drugs – not this nimby-pamby stuff you get handed nowadays’.

Anyway… I digress. So, after what seems an eternity mid-air, we land and my first encounter with US Customs and Immigration – I’m travelling with a former drug addict who just happens to be the head Rolling Stones’ ex and a punk who also goes by the name of Ben Dover. Needless to say, our time in Immigration was somewhat extended before, ultimately, passports were stamped and we were allowed outside… and squashed into a cab – no one thought to come and meet us – and hi-tailing it into central Manhattan.

It was like entering a picture postcard or… even better, a film-set. For some reason lost to the mists of time, we were in different hotels… so, after being deposited at the gates of the Essex House (on the 20-something’th floor of which CB kept an apartment at the time), I shuffled out, onto Central Park South and walked over to… Broadway.

At that junction and looking south toward the bottom end of Manhattan, the street sort of curves slightly right-handed down toward Times Square. It’s only a few blocks… and yet, as you trudge down toward all that the neon flashing in the distance, its like walking into the set of (say) Blade Runner. OK, so that film was still a couple years away but, you get the idea.

The next again morning, I woke unfeasibly early… one’s body-clock is absolutely fucked by this international travel malarkey and so, at about 4am I’m wide awake. What to do? There’s only one person in Manhattan I know and, I can’t call him just yet… Oh, I know… I’ll switch on the tv. Whatever the programme was, it goes straight in to an ad break. And, the very first bit of American TV I saw was… an ad for… Preparation H… hemorrhoid cream. Smashing.

Since MF hasn't got anything to do ‘til the afternoon, that means I’ve a free morning and, by now fed up with watching adverts for intimate ailments, I head off for a walk in the general direction of the Upper East Side 'cos that's the locale of the only person I know in this strange metrop I've tipped up in.

I’m not entirely sure where his lair is, of course, but guided by the sun I figure it has to be... that-a-way.

Skyscrapers… concrete canyons… hustle… bustle… the bums on the sidewalks… the drunks with their brown paper-bag covered liquor bottles… and the bag-ladies pushing their trollies… the air bisected by the billowing steam rising from the pavement grills like so much fog… the suits and briefcases scurrying, coffee in hand... the punks... the tourists like me (pretending to be anything other). Everyone talking loudly. I’m lost but at home.

Intent on calling the only person I know in New York, I find a pay ‘phone – don’t forget, this was aeons before everyone walked around with a cell ‘phone clamped to his or her ear… and long before the side-stepping of people texting while walking became an Olympic sport.

I push my coins in… and, after a few moments, the Singer of Songs answers. He sounds perplexed; ‘Crikey… what on earth are you doing here..? I explain. ‘Splendid’ says he, ‘Are you nearby? Can you come over for coffee? He gives me directions but, basically, that’s pretty hopeless ‘cos, within minutes, I’m lost… I’m a stranger in a strange land and a cab further uptown has to be the best solution.

We spend the morning together, drinking a lot of coffee… and he plays me a few tunes he’s working on with another chap called Pete. His deal with Island is over but, even so, he’s been writing… looks fitter than fit and slimmer than slim from daily runs around Central Park – and the songs sound really good. They’re thinking of maybe making a record… perhaps shopping it round a bit.

Fast forward a good few months and a new record pops up on the release schedule. It’s by The Rivits – the Singer of Songs did make the record he said he was planning to.

And, the final track on side one is something I’d heard months back as a rough sketch; it tells the tale of Connie and Clem The Clean and extols the dreams of the ghosts whose own shoes… some frayed, some torn, some perfectly polished… trod those self-same sidewalks that I’d walked.

Jess Roden / Sudden St / Hidden Masters

Ok, Ok... I know, its been a long time but, honest injun, busy as busy is in the background... with masses going on down in the über-shed otherwise known as #HiddenMasters HQ.

So... here's a little something that's only just been finished off. Its a short clip of Bronco's Sudden St from the forthcoming Anthology.

It features ultra-rare footage of the band recording at Basing St during the Summer of 1971 (and a massive hat-tip to DJ Demitri who found this gathering acres of dust in the back of a darkened cupboard).

The original sound-bed was, to all intents and purposes pretty much fucked as was some of the grainy black 'n white imagery too, so I've married the surviving video to one or two stills and under-laid it all with this never-heard-before version of Sudden St.

Ok, so what news on the Boxed Set... the Anthology?

Right – annoyingly, we are a teensy-weensy bit behind where we’d hoped to be right now but this is purely due to the fact that the Anthology involves a number of masters’ owners – meaning that preparation of the documentation (which has to be completed before we move to the final steps) is a bit more complex for all concerned.

Nonetheless, the legal eagles and business affairs bods on all sides of the fence(s) have locked horns in the last two or three weeks and are now at it like rutting stags because there are innumerable Is to be dotted and just about as many Ts to be crossed.

And so, once all parties have signed off (doubtless employing judicious usage of their lucky pens), we’ll be pushing the final three buttons.

The first bit being the re-mastering of all the UK-based analog masters that we’re including. These'll be worked on by Richard Whittaker @ FX who's just become a dad for the first time to lil' Ed (so, thats caused a bit of a natural break as it is). The 7Windows tracks being included have already been re-mastered by Michael MacDonald in New York – so, we're somewhat ahead of the game there.

And, at that point, we can finally reveal the full track-listing!

So, after all the knob-twiddling, its the fine-tuning of all the artwork and then straight to manufacture.

In the meantime… what can be confirmed is: The Anthology will be issued as an initial limited edition of 950 copies – all of which will be hand-numbered.

And... within this run, there will be a number of really special (and very limited) editions.

We’re working out all the details right now (see, I said its been busy as... down in the über-shed) but, just as soon as these particular Ts have been crossed and Is dotted, we’ll be announcing what we have planned – here... on the JR FaceBook page as well as on the main JR website.

Further to all of that, the singer of songs and self are formulating something else that we reckon to be a bit special and as a way of saying thanks to everyone who’s shown so much patience while we’ve been putting all this together.

So... here's the vid – and if anyone's wondering why it appears out of sync... it is..! 'cos the original sound-bed was a different toon.

IF, by any chance, your browser starts to buffer and the vid goes a bit wonky - try it on YouTube - link is: http://youtu.be/vVO2y2rU90s

Jess Roden | For Granted #3 (I’m On Your Side)

The blossom is on the trees, luminescent Cherry-Vanilla at its best.

Yet the studio in which we’re ensconced during this period of self-imposed confinement hides behind a couple of struggling trees of uncertain genesis. Neither of which appear to have known blossom once.

They stand like a pair of forlorn, Kevin-The-Teenager saplings; their leggy, Eyeball Paul, branches windswept by the diesel-breeze-rush of a speeding bus every twenty minutes of so.

It’s a surreal yet short walk from the bus-stop; past where Reginald Iolanthe Perrin hastened the demise of CJ and Sunshine Deserts, along the crumbling pavement to the studio door – tucked away in this downtrodden backwater of a demoralised north-west London trading estate

While the setting may be unlikely – neither does this place much look like what one’d imagine a studio to appear as.

The facade is about as far removed from the Fab-Four graffiti-scrawl of Abbey Road or the Edwardian splendour of Olympic in Barnes where Procul Harum recorded A Whiter Shade Of Pale; in which Jimi Hendrix reconstructed All Along The Watchtower to turn a Dylan masterpiece into his own magnum opus or where The Rolling Stones laid down six consecutive albums between 1968 and ’72 as is possible to get.

This space – our space for the duration – is decidedly more warehouse-veneer and on the utilitarian side of functional. It is what it is and does not pretend otherwise.

Inside is what counts and progress is such that we’re heading toward the sharp end. Upstairs is where we completed all the digital work on the ¼” tapes… now we’re downstairs and starting to delve in to all the crates that contain the 2” multi-tracks.

These, unlike their country-cousins, the ¼” tapes, come in a variety of configurations – many are 24 track but we’re also encountering their step-brothers – the 16 and 8 track variants.

And, in the middle of that lot, we’ll be returning to those tapes that are currently sitting in a temperature-controlled oven a little way down the corridor… baking away ever so contentedly in a Julia Childs’ styleee.

Baking..? Yes indeed – because they’re elderly (in tape-terms that’s 30+years old) and, frankly, they’re in pretty dodgy shape.

And, the only way to remedy this level of tape-degradation and all round dodginess is to bake the blighters for between 24 and 72 hours.

Crikey – am I starting to sound like a bit too Gordon Ramsay here..? I sincerely hope not, because, trust me, I’m no expert – but I do have a very good teacher.

Ladies and Gentlemen… may I introduce my newest best friend; a raven-haired Goth, who sits in front of rows of blinking lights, manipulating computers, software and ten dozen other gadgets all of which require an advanced degree in pure Einstein before they’ll even spark into life.

He can tell a tape’s age just by looking at it and can hear things coming through the mix that are inaudible to mere mortals – hmmm, that sounds about 2db out to me…

It does? I look over his shoulder at a bank of intermittently blinking lights, our very own studio aurora borealis. The lights appear – to me – to be lined up in a pretty satisfactory line but equally I’ve learned to trust the set of ears beside me. If he says its out, chances are that it is – and very probably by exactly 2db, whatever that actually means in plain English.

Yeah, I’ll just check via this gadget. He peers shortsightedly at yet another set of entirely mystifying flickering lights (obviously I’d been looking at totally the wrong set)… and, flicking his pony-tail out of the way, he leans over and makes a microscopic adjustment with an equally minute screw-driver and… sure as eggs are eggs, the lights (that he’s been studying) all line-up as they should… he’s correct.

Me – I heard nothing wrong at all. Matron – the earwax candles, please.

I stand and stare in constant admiration as one would at anyone at the top of their game. Occasionally, I am allowed to make the coffee… but only after having to be shown how that machine worked three times.

The advanced being-Delia stage in this entire process has been critical.

Because, without this tape-baking exercise, what’d happen is this: when the tapes roll through long-out-of-date (tho’ state of the art in the sixties and seventies) Studer machines, the tape would start to shed a very fine layer of oxide… meaning the play-back-heads would (in layman’s terms) eventually clog up. And eventually there would be a tragic outcome – what was recorded long ago would be lost forever.

This, therefore, is last-chance saloon for these tapes… fuck it up and… that’s it, gone for all time. Which is why, when the mane of hair in front of me nods sagely and says, off to the oven with you my boy… there’s no argument brokered.

These are precious commodities found in amongst a myriad of other jewels hidden away in dusty boxes in a dirty warehouse presided over by youngsters who simply have no idea what they’re custodians of.

There is no real criticism implied there, it’s simply that they don’t – by and large – have a clue about The Hidden Masters that they’re looking after.

Jess Roden | In A Circle

Give or take a month or so, it’s taken nearly two years to get from there to where we are now. And, within that journey, suitcase life became very much part and parcel of the whole.

So, at this particular point in the burgeoning process of pulling the Project-X rabbit out of the hat and while being of budget-conscious frame of mind, I’ve checked into modest accommodation not too far from the studio.

Indeed, it’s no more than a couple of miles away from where the singer of songs and I munched happily away on a pile of popadums while concocting what we reckoned might be… a… bit of… a… plan.

Besides, I figured a quiet night would give me a few hours to get my head around some more of the music that we’ve been digitising before trotting westward chez JR for post-lunch discussions; we’re slowly arriving at the point where we’ll be shortlisting those that have made the grade and confining those not worthy back to the cupboard.

However, I’d only been inside the Hotel Splendide long enough to unpack, uncork a glass of the well-chilled and spread my spreadsheets (detailing all the work we’d been doing in the studio) over the bed before another visit to reception was rendered necessary. Or, rather, what passed for it – this splendid hostelry being on the unassuming side of wallet-threatening in terms of a home from home for the night.

Uber-drat… my carefully planned evening of reviewing work thus far was not running to plan… at all.

It took a while to attract the manager of this emporium’s attention – his gaze being fixed to the PlayStation machine that’d been hooked up to an oversized tv-screen on the other side of what served as his office.

He was playing carton golf.

Eventually, a little louder-than-discreet cough was enough to put him off his stroke whereby his ball landed ever so satisfyingly in a digital bunker. Hello, I grin (reckoning that his position in the pixelated sand looked frightfully tricky), My room is flooding.

He stared at me with a mix of disbelief and annoyance criss-crossing his face, his jaw opening and closing soundlessly much like an out of fresh-water-Salmon would.

Nevertheless, digital Phil Mickelson put his machine on pause and, blowing air like a beached whale, grudgingly trudged after me – all the way back to my room. There we halted as I struggled through various jacket pockets, searching for the key while the audible drip, drip, drip of water splashing happily away could be clearly heard behind the door.

There was enough water pouring through the extractor fan, right above the lavatory, to render needless any thought of pulling the chain should I require the use of said appliance – it’d be like peeing in a heavy rain storm. Ahh yes… the beached whale exhaled loudly… that would be the people in Number 5 taking a shower. Would you like another room?

We trudged back up stairs, down a few steps and up some more before suitcase, self, spreadsheets and the well-chilled were finally installed overlooking the rumbling thunder of mid-summer traffic below. With no air-conditioning and the nonadjustable heater set to maximum, the only thing for it was to open as many windows as possible. The thunderous rumble immediately turned to a Niagara-roar – time to take spreadsheets, headphones and self off to get something to eat .

But, not before perusing the book of words pinned to the back of the door – from which I gleaned that da-management weren’t much bothered if anything was stolen from one’s room. Paragraph eight stated that they’d not be liable for anything nicked that was valued at over fifty notes and nor were they insured for the contents of cars or horses.

I look about me and, before shutting the door firmly and trousering the key, confirm a Shetland Pony wasn't hiding in the shower cubicle.

A police car wailed in the background as I crossed the road that was nearly obliterated from view by a passing cloud of high-grade ganja; safely over to the sunny side of the street, it took but moments to size up the local culinary delights. It was a choice of one from one.

Settled beneath an abstract Himalayan scene that had somehow been stenciled onto cheap hardboard, it took mere seconds before two grinning waiters brandishing identical menus quickstepped across the shagpile that only a visually impaired person would have chosen.

There was a gay couple to my far left, both busy with their mobile ‘phones – perhaps searching out alternate dates since it quickly transpired (via the one with the restaurant-carrying voice and fringe of over-floppy hair) that he wasn’t planning on going home with his companion.

The later-than-me influx of customers included an all-girl group who brandished their ‘phones with aplomb taking picture upon picture of each other studying the menu. With fingers and thumbs set to dexterous, multiple Facebook profiles were being updated long before their starters arrived.

To my right another couple settled in – and, it was immediately clear from their touchy-feely, stroke me / stroking you / sit on the same side of the bench that they would place the Greek island of Lesbos fairly high on their summer holiday shopping list.

Given that they were on the next again table and I’m dining alone while being studious with my spreadsheets, it’s wasn’t hard to overhear their conversation. Within three minutes they’re discussing particularly intimate and very recent… errrr… occurrences… that… occurred… in a shower… Ah yes… they’ll be the occupants of Number 5.

The next afternoon, JR and I are seated at a table at the top end of the garden; there is a bit of a breeze getting up that’s rustling the tops of the Silver Birch trees that line the far end of the greensward.

As much as we’re starting to narrow the choices down now there has also been a mutually agreed consensus, a rationale behind that making of choices in place from day one. The tune, the song, the performance – whichever it may be – has to stand up in its own right all these years later.

In effect, that means making choices on the basis of fast-forwarding ourselves further into the future and being able to collectively look back and say; Y’know what… that’s actually not bad at all.

And, right now, we’re back in amongst those tapes that emanated from those sessions at The Fallout Shelter, the studio deep down in the basement at the back of Island’s London HQ in St Peters Square.

I have to say, that I don’t remember – until I heard them recently – that we’d actually finished many of these tunes. I thought they were still awaiting final vocal or finished mixes…

Attention is diverted for a moment. Perched on the fence is a pair of Squirrels intently studying the bird-feeder that’s suspended from the about-to-be-shorn Cherry Tree. They’re trying to figure out a way of bypassing the latest Roden-anti-squirrel device that has been deployed in the ongoing battle to defeat the enemy’s attempts at extricating food that’s not been left out for them. Bloody rascals… Y’know, they’re a lot more intelligent than you’d give ‘em credit for. This latest gadget we have looks like it could be the one tho’; its kept them out for a good couple of weeks but, you never know, they’ll probably figure it out. Another coffee before we get back in to it?

Two more cups of the well-frothed are placed on the table and we return to the subject of some of the songs that I’ve unearthed that would – had it not been scrapped – have constituted the first JRB album. The breeze has notched up a bit, rattling the sunshade against the table centre… or is my leg involuntarily twitching; much more of JR’s super-strength coffee and I’ll start to astral-project.

The Steve Smith album wasn’t finished – there was probably more material to add to it, but I think there was probably a sort of… a kind of impatience starting to develop in that I wasn’t having hits… and the band had been in the studio for a couple of months and there was a feeling of… ‘this ain’t gonna get him a hit either…’ which was, probably, a fair judgment on a musical level.

The entrance to that particular studio was to the side of the canteen – oft-presided over by Lucky Gordon, one time pimp to one of the Profumo Affair’s central characters, Christine Keeler – and where many of Island’s acts of the time recorded including Bob Marley, Aswad (who were almost fixtures there), Eddie & The Hot Rods, Steel Pulse, U2 (recorded a number of B sides with Steve Lilywhite who began his career there), Rico, King Sunny Adé, The Snivelin’ Shits, Rebop Kwaku Baah, as well as non-Island acts such as The Smiths (Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now was recorded with the then in-house engineer Stephen Street), Shriekback and countless dozens more.

Yes… that’s Steve (Winwood) on In A Circle. I’ve known him for years and… he must’ve been hanging about or whatever and y’know, we just wanted a keyboard player and, in some ways, it would have been very nervous for the band approaching him, I’m sure because he was a very busy guy – but, anyway, we’d got to a stage where we had a whole bunch of material but there was something lacking… so we asked Steve to come down… and he said, yeah.

He was just magnificent. There was a couple of passes and, basically, that was it… he just knows what to do, especially when it comes to Hammond.

Some days later we’re sitting at his dining room table – its boys night in and the hour is late; the remnants of our meal has been cleared away to the kitchen, two glasses of the well-chilled are before us as are two computers. Their respective cables stretch across the bare wood before trailing along the floor boards while various lists adorn random scraps of paper, post-it notes struggle to adhere to screen-edges and, in my open notebook track-listings are starting to take shape. Song titles have either been scratched through or have a tick beside them; other lists are emerging – the whole is slowly starting to take shape… So, which version of In A Circle do we go with?

JR looks back to the bigger of the two machines and scrolls down a bit and presses play. As the song moves from the extended chorus to where the Sax and Hammond start to interweave, he says, Has to be the one with Steve… don’t you think? For me, there’s something really special here.

Absolutely… Don't think anyone's heard it before either 'cos I'm pretty sure that it wasn't part of the cassette that Webbo had up on his site for a bit… I’d say, it’s a better version too… I pause. I mean… just listen to that, it’s just… floating… So, that’s a tick to that one…?

Yep… He agrees, That, Holmes, is a definite tick… So… moving on… what do we reckon for track four then..?

Gimme’ Some Truth

According to the BBC’s web site (from a story – www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-12701664 – posted on Monday, March 14th ), Cory Doctorow is not just an author. He’s also a blogger and a journalist… and… stand by your beds, Matron’s on her way… he’s an activist too.

And, according to Auntie’s on-line presence, he’s passionately opposed to DRM (Digital Rights Management). Indeed it appears he’s pretty opinionated on the subject too since, in among many other quotes on that website within the self-same article, Mr and Mrs Doctorow’s son states: "The one thing that everyone should have uppermost in your mind when you're designing your business is that computers are never going to get worse at copying things."

Wow… Cory, that really is revelatory stuff… and not just because of your grammar.

Now then, that’ll be… Command (or Control) C for copy… and Control (or Command) V for paste… and, its been that way since… ohhhh… how long now..? Well, the Mac was introduced to the world on January 24th, 1984 and PC’s also use that same shortcut structure…… Ohhhh no… wait a sec, that’s not what he’s on about… oh heavens… nooooooo…

Goodness gracious, Mr and Mrs Doctorow’s grammatically challenged offspring is banging on about something much more important…

What’s that then? Well…. He – Cory D (lest we forget) – believes ‘digital content should be shared freely and that copyright laws should be liberalised to reflect this.’

Blimey… who is this radical thinker who’s discovered the road-map to Utopia?

Well, according to the BBC, he’s a Canadian who lives in London, he writes best selling science fiction novels and co-edits a blog called Boing Boing… He also (apparently) contributes to the Guardian (online) and was, in 2007, named as a Young Global Leader by the World Economic Forum. Crikey…

But wait… there is more… He is also a former director of the Electronic Frontier Foundation and (golly, how does he find the time) a co-founder of the UK Open Rights Group as well as being a leading proponent of Creative Commons. Errrm… yes… and that is..?

In short, with a Creative Commons license, you keep your copyright but allow people to copy and distribute your ‘work’ provided they give you… a proper credit for so-doing.

So… what kind of ‘work’ falls into this category? Well, according to a Google search with that very phrase in the title, Creative Commons licenses can be applied to all works that would normally fall under copyright, including: books, plays, movies, music, articles, photographs, blogs, and websites.

I see… so… one get to keep one’s copyright… however… it’s also cool (maaaan) for others to copy the work that you have copyrighted (as your own) freely. How splendid, how very forward thinking: that’s a bit like allowing free run with the photocopier in the nearest Public Library.

I think those who read this little Voltaire out on its windswept knoll can safely assume that our newest Canadian pal, Mr Doctorow gets paid (ie, earns money with which he pays his bills) to write for the Guardian (online)… to co-edit Boing Boing… or… write his sci-fi novels… or sit on the Creative Commons committee.

If not, then he either has very understanding backers or is someone of independent means who doesn’t need to work for a living.

Either which way, the viewpoints he’s presented and as outlined within this BBC article are about as lop-sided as the Titanic was about ninety minutes after striking the ‘berg.

The fact of the matter is… IF creatives do not earn (and copyright is rendered worthless – as described above) then those ‘things’ that we all enjoy (music / books / films etc) are gradually (no… make that rapidly) going to dry up.

This Utopian idea as purported by Mr Doctorow of… oh, everything should be, like, free maaaan… is as misguidedly imbecilic.

Any internet economy based on that model or ethic will collapse like a pack of cards disturbed by the breeze when the door is opened.

Consider – if you will – how newspapers are facing meltdown right now… For why? Well… you don’t need to buy one… do you? They’ve been giving away all their 'content' for nothing on the wibbly wobbly web for aeons… and all of ‘em (save Murdoch behind his pay-wall) are wondering why they’re hemorrhaging money.

Duh… it's simple… you cannot give away your ‘goods’ for free and expect to break even let alone make a profit with which to invest in the future. Or, pay the bills. Or eat.

If MC Doctorow wants to give all his work away for nothing… fine, that’s his choice.

But, it is entirely wrong to purport the theory that it is the right way forward. It is absolutely not because that juvenile attitude is simply promoting the rape of creativity.

Jess Roden | Song 3

The room to the back of the anonymous back-street building in which I’ve been placed is, at best, serviceable; it is approximately fifteen feet square with walls painted a uniform, hint of a tint (but now-fading), Magnolia. Truth to tell, the colour scheme is actually more off-white with no tinted hint at all.

There is just the one, metal-framed window. It is set annoyingly high on the far wall – presumably so as to preclude any view other than that of the gun-metal grey, rain-bearing clouds, scudding past on this dreary, mid-February, afternoon.

Beneath the window is an oversized, malt-brown melamine-topped desk – more junior accountant than office manager. The right-hand border is scored with blackened cigarette burns that spread along its edge like so many decaying woodlice; I’ve seen fag-end burns like this many times before – most often on old B3 Hammond Organs played by the likes of Steve Winwood.

On the desk and in a mug that’s known better days, there’s a half-drunk cup of coffee. It has been poured from a machine down-along the frayed-brown-carpeted hallway. Even behind the now-closed door, the percolator gives off its own signature odour of stale dregs at twenty paces.

The entire place reeks of early-Seventies, Habitat-inspired, office functionality.

My Moleskin notebook lays bare and untroubled (yet) by note-taking on the desk; my coat is hanging on a hanger that, itself, is suspended from the single hook on the back of the plywood door. My brown-leather briefcase is huddled against one of the desk-legs; much like a cat, hungry for its master’s affection.

Spread across the stone-carpeted floor are plastic crates – some are green, others are Air Force grey while a few began life as shout-out-loud iridescent orange.

Some are stacked, one upon another while others have been spaced apart in random order; all are heavily pock-marked – as if suffering from crate-acne – and scratched from being thrown into and around the back of Transit vans; their heavy contents man-handled with ease by burly men with muscles to match.

Functional boxes which, in their own simple way, are simply that – since there is no other requirement… strong but serviceable; sturdy and utilitarian.

And each of these containers that are approximately three foot long by eighteen inches by another eighteen or so in depth hold innumerable smaller boxes.

Most of these are twelve-inches square; some are over two inches deep, some are slimmer volumes. All are stacked vertically and… sprinkled amongst them are a handful of smaller boxes – a mere seven inches square and slender in width too.

All of them have been labeled at some long-past time or other; the labels themselves have been stuck on the actual box fronts – some have been scrawled on, some have a good deal of writing that’s been crossed out and replaced by other, almost-as-old, scribbles; some have a doodles and drawings while some of the labels have been neatly typed out.

Like ancient hieroglyphics high on a wall on the inside of a Pharaoh’s tomb, they offer their own clues… hints that these boxes contain the treasure which, Indiana Jones-like I’ve been hoping to find for many months.

Fast backwards: a restaurant from the Indian sub-continent on the main drag that connect Chiswick to Hammersmith; Popadum frenzy, Chapatti heaven and Korma bliss. Two Kingfisher beers have been part-supped yet we’re not quite ready for the next infill; the singer and writer of songs and I sit opposite one another.

“Sometimes,” he muses, “I do wonder what still exists… Me and my bands, y’know… over the years… we recorded a lot; over at Basing Street and just down the road at the back of St Peters Square… And… now that I come to think about it, I do wonder what… might have survived.”

“There was a lot that never got released… but… I suppose all that stuff probably got wiped… or, maybe recorded over… or, perhaps those tapes just got chucked out. I dunno… but… yes, absolutely, if you wanted to do your Sherlock Holmes thing and… see what really is there… then… yeah, I’d be up for that…”

He sits quietly for a moment or two; a sliver of Naan bread held lightly in his fingers, hovering just above his side-plate. “Y’know… there was some really good stuff that we did… so yes… it’d be interesting to see what they have… but, honestly, I don’t suppose there’s very much. Another beer..?”

Fast forwards a few months… the singer and writer of songs wanders back into his sitting room with two large glasses, each having been re-charged from the bottle of well-chilled in the fridge; a couple of reserves are laying in wait in the garage that's attached to the house... just in case.

A real-fire hisses and pops in the grate… the gentle scent of top-notch Welsh lamb being oven-roasted in the kitchen across the hall mixes with the wood-smoke to permeate the air. A cat trails in after him and struts past the small, elderly dog curled up on the hearth.

The singer of songs settles into the depths of the sofa as I sit on the floor, just in front of the drawn curtains in the bay window. There’s a MacBook attached to the stereo-system; speakers placed either side of the fireplace.

A portrait of him, his young son and his wife taken at the time of the photosession for his first solo-album hangs, ever so slightly off kilter, above and to the side of the left-hand speaker. Books of eclectic persuasion stand to attention like so many soldiers line abreast on their parade-ground shelves. The lights are low with music in the air.

“Y’know… I’m amazed at what you’ve found…already… and you say there’s lots more?” His trademark eyes are lined by no regrets as he leafs through the box-front scans from today’s work-in-progress for project-X.

“This… y’know what it is..? It’s pretty much the whole album I did with Rabbit who nowadays plays keyboards with The Who… the one that CB (Chris Blackwell – owner / founder of Island) kinda rejected… I mean, we kept one track… but… really, it’s quite incredible that you’ve found this.”

“I mean, some of it is a bit… y’know… but… this one still stands up, don’t you think..? I have to be perfectly honest, though… I can’t really remember writing this let alone recording it… Let’s have a bit of a memory-jog.” He presses play on the MacBook and the unedited song is counted in by an unknown voice and then sparks into life.

Three minutes or so later, the tune gradually fades into the distance… the singer and writer assumes a far-away stare. Abruptly he says, “Heaven's, what kind of compression did we use on that piano..! That’s Mike Kellie from Spooky Tooth on drums… Pat Donaldson who played with The Fairports as well as lots of others is playing bass… that’s Rabbit on keyboards… and me strumming away on an acoustic guitar…”

“Why is it listed like that on the box? Well… I never came up with a title for the song. I think… maybe… I was planning to call it Hallelujah or something like that… but… ‘cos it was the third song on the tape and had no proper title, the engineer or the tape-op would have written it up as that.”

“I think we can stick this on the list as a definite for inclusion… don’t you..?”

Ladies and gentlemen… this… really is… the very first Hidden Master we found… Song 3… by Jess Roden.



(nb, this is an edited clip – there being very real reasons why the full track isn’t being posted… a) this song has yet to be re-mastered (this is a lo-res MP3 audio) and b) to make it less attractive to the pirates - copyright must be respected. In time, however, this track – as well as the original non-vocal demo – will be part of the Hidden Masters : The Jess Roden Anthology set that is in preparation currently).

The Party’s Over

So, it’s the morning after the night before: The BRITS has been, gone and put back in its cupboard for another year.

Collectively, the UK business of music is nursing a monumental hangover; drinks were drunk, little black dresses got crushed and without a shadow of a doubt, some woke up this morning with an unfamiliar person next to them – its not always that the best fun is had in the kitchen at after-show parties.

Yet, while this is the British equivalent to The Grammys, it strikes me as being extraordinary that neither organising ‘committee’ on either side of the pond can get their own flagship ‘awards show’ anywhere near right.

The Grammy’s, for example, have in excess of one hundred categories… that’s a bit like awarding a child at school a prize for attending class; you know – the modern ‘no one is a loser’ ethic which, actually, stifles competitiveness.

It’s also a way (they would argue) of covering all the bases… when the reality is that they (the Grammy organising wallahs) are simply finding more and more genre boxes into which they can conveniently put ‘music’.

Have a look at category 108 and tell me about its relevance… please. It is: Best Long Form Music Video and subtitled (presumably for the hard of understanding) as follows – For video album packages consisting of more than one song or track. Award to the Artist and to the Video Director/Producer of at least 51% of the total playing time.

This little Voltaire out there on its windswept knoll would argue strenuously that there are only two of these cardboard boxes… one is marked good… the other is labeled bad. End.

Anyhow, as a consequence of this boxing-off of genres, The Grammys go on for… hours… really they do; quite literally from mid-afternoon to lateish in the evening. How those attending get through that without resorting to the intake of advanced pharmaceuticals to stave off the boredom of all those acceptance speeches (Mum, Dad, my Record Company, Juan Pelota my underwear stylist, my managers, the person tending my Cairn Terrier, Auntie Joan, God and, before I forget… you – the fans!!! And, Mum – this if for YOU… etc etc) is entirely beyond me.

Besides which, there are – in reality – almost two shows… the first (lengthy) segment isn’t televised… that’s when the boxes labeled ‘Best Sleeve Notes’ or Best Traditional World Music Album / Vocal or Instrumental – that being category 72 of the 108) are ticked and the (doubtless) worthy winner steps forward to thank God, his / her Mum and Dad, Lover, Dog (again), MTV, the Fans etc etc).

To underline the absurdity of all the categories, back in 1996 Eddie Veeder said, when accepting Pearl Jam’s Grammy for Best Hard Rock Performance, ‘I don’t know what this means, I don’t think it means anything.’

The second part begins with the televising of the (ridiculous) parade down the blood red carpet when the interviewers ask, in the main, ‘Who are you wearing’ to each of the freshly-coiffed contestants. The answers that spill from between their professionally whitened teeth seem to (somehow) add up to enough product placement-endorsement to satisfy the likes of Armani, Malandrino, J-P Gaultier, Pucci, Cavalli, Givenchy and D&G as worn by the Beiber-ling.

After which, the main show begins with a mere twenty or so Awards… yet, this is so muddled as to make no sense… Best Recording is up against Best Song…? Errr. Hello?

The BRITS, on the other hand, only had – by comparison – a handful of trophies to give out… in which were categories described as… Best Male… Best Female… yes, but Best Male or Female what exactly…?

Well, in the former we had the likes of Paul Weller up against Robert Plant, Tiny Temper, Mark Ronson yet someone called Plan B won… other than observing that the ‘list’ is horribly mismatched, I find it hard to understand how someone like the constantly reinventing-himself Robert Plant isn’t recognised as being… the best.

As to the other ‘best’s of the evening… Adele is being lauded by the ‘real commentators’ for her performance of Someone Like You – sparse and real, just piano and vocal. Sure, it is a great song but, I couldn’t help feeling that – while great – that greatness could have been embellished with strings to turn her performance into something quite remarkable.

Money on a big string section that would, quite frankly, have been better spent by the organisers than on the horrid troops (sic) of totally unnecessary ‘dancers’ dressed up as quasi-Fascist riot police for Take That and… the aforementioned Plan B who reenacted some kind of eccentric court scene while strangling his lyrical language by rapping it at us in pure, unadulterated, estuary.

Best hair on the night belonged to uber-puppet Beiber – he turned up, looking far to fresh-faced from a transatlantic flight to be real – no dark glasses for him unlike Cee-Lo who swung very low in his.

Chaps – dark glasses indoors are a sign… a signal… of utter affectation; they’re not cool… not funny… not glamorous… they just make you look plain stupid.

And, of the acceptance speeches… Laura Marling’s was – without doubt – the most real, most normal. I admit I was rooting for Rumer in this category but, Ms Marling – who looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights – was head and shoulders (sic) over the likes of Jessie J whose crocodile tears were as false as her eyelashes. Critics’ Choice..? Well, in that respect, those critics should be lined up against a wall and… because time will out on this, as I guarantee that, in five years time, people will be asking… Jessie who? And, the song was… Do It Like A Prude..? Nah, don’t remember that one.

And… the best album… the BEST British album of the last year was… really… honestly… you’re telling me that Mumford & Sons’ record was THE BEST British album of last year… ok, I’ll accept it was better than Take T’at – who’re collectively fast becoming the Queen Mother of The Brits… I mean, they’re like a standard fixture aren’t they, rather like that bloke seen at every Rugby match, wearing a Union Jack coat and a top hat being the epitome of a British Bulldog by the touchline.

And, James Corden… well, he looked (and acted) more like a safe Vicar who’d had one too few glasses of Sherry at Christmas… bumbling and smiling inanely. Time, if ever there was, to bring back a proper presenter or to say sorry to Jarvis Cocker and acknowledge that his stage invasion whilst wacko-Jacko was acting out his Christ-like tendencies surrounded by children was a genuine act that everyone in the hall that night (including self) wished they’d have been nearer the stage and been able to protest in like manner.

Oh… and its about time that the background TV presenter stopped using the word Platinum… honestly, luv… no one out their watching from the comfort of their sofa knows what it means… neither is it impressive.

But, hey, this was all about the ‘live’ music… wasn’t it…? Maybe so – and Adele and the rather loud Arcade Fire certainly showed how it could be done… However, the Mumblefords, scored a spectacular own goal by playing like a bunch of subway-buskers who are so ordinary that one hurries by without dipping the hand in the trouser pocket.

And Rihanna… I’m told that was a medley of her hit… hmmm… clearly lip-synching, it was not far short of a total travesty; guileless style over minimal content… and with choreography (was that what it really was?) that was about as exciting as watching a parody of all those old Top Of The Pops routines. Grabbing your crotch while wearing a ?dress? that shows all and sundry that your bottom is the size of Trindad isn’t raunchy, its just plain sad.

And so… the morning after… and as much-heralded 24 hours previously, up on iTunes are the live performances from last night to download and enjoy… for as long as one likes…

Well, actually, that’s not quite correct – not all of the performances are there due to technical hitches (according to my mole); hitches like auto-tuning and lip-synching... ha ha!

Be that as it may, some are... go to The Brits site and up there on the top right hand corner a graphic shows that the Cee Lo performance with Paloma Faith is available via iTunes…

Except, its not… it is geographically challenged… meaning that if (for example) one is logging on from the US or Australia… its not available.

Brilliant… how utterly fxxxxxg dumb is that? Someone in (say, Detroit or Adelaide) wants that recording and so how do they get it..?

Here’s what they’ll do: they’ll go to YouTube, engage a gadget called AudioHiJack (a free download - about which I've written and emphasised the dangers thereof in relation to pircay before) and… press record… Four minutes and thirty-two seconds later and it’ll nestle happily within their iTunes folder.

For free… that’s zilch… nada… nothing… FREE…

Fuck me, but record companies are about as stupid as they get… one day, those that forge these licensing arrangements will actually understand that the web is a global entity… global equals worldwide…

Is it any wonder that the ‘record companies’ are losing money / the war against piracy?

And, as a final comment on the success of this year’s BRIT Awards… we need look no further than Music Week who have just announced that the 2011 awards had the lowest viewing figures for five years and was outstripped by not only the film, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding (6.5 million viewers against 4.7 for the BRITS) but also Holby City which attracted 5.6 million.

Re-make / re-model..? Yes, please.