in a flash

this morning

as i was shaving

something brilliant

entered my head

and

then the dog barked

the family arrived

somebody screamed

and the sink overspilt.

warm foam spreading on

the lino;

whatever i had, gone

though i knew it was brilliant.

"Paul! Paul! Are you home?"

"No, I'm out."

"Ok!"

Ian Brown Music Of The Spheres - from Hero to Hero

In my first year at Sheffield Hallam University I wound up in a not-quite-halls, not-quite-large-shared-house in the middle of a very rough estate on the outskirts of the city. The building was in fact an ex-convent, which had eight bedrooms, one kitchen, and two shower rooms on a floor. There were three floors. I was on the bottom floor, which was inevitably the basement. As is the case with a bunch of 18-year old lads and girls, it didn't take long to become acquainted, and the party - which is the only honest overview of the first year I can give - well and truly began. Across the corridor from myself was a girl called Emma. She was, like me, heavily into her music, and we had struck up quite a quick rapore. One night, as the green smoke rose, she gave me the copy of an album, Music Of The Spheres, to take away and have a listen to. It was her favourite album at the time, which is something that, almost a decade later, i must apologise to her for since she didn't get it back for months.

I was aware that Ian Brown had been the front man in The Stone Roses. I really liked The Stone Roses, but hadn't done any further investigations into what had happened to them all after the split. Emma was a Rose maniac, and knew exactly what had happened to them all - that was how she'd got hold of this album. In fact, brown had made two solo albums post-Roses previous to Music Of The Spheres - Unfinished Monkey Business (1998) and Golden Greats (1999), which I would gladly discover later. You know, it's astounding how you stumble upon these pots of gold, it really is. I suppose the main thing is that you actually do. Destiny I suppose.

I don't think my record player had anything else on it for months once I had borrowed/stolen Music Of The Spheres. The opening track, F.E.A.R, is an anthemic, hypnotising, orchestral magnum-opus. Brown's lyrical stand-point is very clever, and the music almost classical contemporary. Stardust is a lead-guitar meets electro face-off, in which Brown's classic Madchester drawl booms through, and Bubbles a strangely arresting loop that cannot help but sharpen the senses. The Gravy Train, in which Brown states: "It aint cocaine running through your brain/As you eat caviar on the gravy train," is typical of the minimalist song structure that Brown adopts throughout this record; simple, but thoroughly stimulating. Hear No, See No and Northern Lights venture into groundbreaking territory for me. They are almost anti-songs; they defy structural constraints, and deliver the listener into a world of experimentation
and creative freedom. Dave McCracken's production is second to none; dreamy, spacious soundscapes pulled back to earth by Brown's masterful lyric.

Whispers is the highlight on the record, followed closely by Brown's sublime dedication to his wife, El Mundo Pequeno. At first it just doesn't seem right that this Manc shoe-gazer should be singing such a delicate song in Spanish, but it really works. Forever and a Day is rousing, and Shadow Of A Saint a tremendous clincher at the death of the record. Forty minutes of brilliance - and, refreshingly enough for me, something I genuinely wouldn't have found. It takes pride of place in the collection, and would certainly drop into my top five albums of all-time without a shadow of a doubt.

A little later in 2001 myself, Emma, and a few others headed to Sheffield's Octagon theatre to watch the man himself perform Music Of The Spheres live. Having seen him many times since, it is fair to say that sometimes Brown is ordinary on stage. On this night he had a blinder. What a gig, what an atmosphere, what an album. After the show we hiked round the back to the stage door, hung around, and eventually met Ian Brown, who was genuinely warm and receptive as he signed all of our merchandise and chatted away. Needless to say we bounced all the way home, and breezed through the resulting hangover the next day! So this album holds fond memories of a great time in my life; it is the soundtrack to a major part of my story. I hope that you get chance to pick the album up and have a listen, then one day it may become a part of yours too.

Chrissie Hind & Me!

It's from a few years back at the Summer Pops, Liverpool. Monday 9th July 2007 to be exact. I was fresher faced with shorter hair. Front row seats, great gig, and she knew she was getting photographed!!!!

Bob Dylan Time Out Of Mind, and the Reinvention of Folk Legend to Bluesman

In 1997 Bob Dylan very nearly died. In late spring he was struck down with a serious heart infection, pericarditis, and spent some tense and unnerving time in hospital. Upon his eventual recovery he said that he was convinced he'd be seeing Elvis again before long. He remained among the living, in my opinion, because he still had so much more to give. His work on Earth was not complete. Now they say that, as an artist, it often takes something truly traumatic to happen to you in your life to be able to create a masterpiece. After 35 years of recording hit album after hit album that is only what could have inspired Dylan to present Time Out Of Mind, his finest achievement to date as far as I'm concerned, to the world. A cut above everything else he had done for years, and so different and on the edge, it is a timeless work of enormous magnitude. It won a Grammy Award for Best Album in 1998, countless 5-star reviews in all of the major magazines, and put Dylan well and truly back on the map as a relevant singer-songwriter once again. It shows the measure of the man that deep into his fifties, and on the release of his THIRTIETH studio album, that he could still cause such a stir.

I can't even begin to go into the full story of how I first discovered Bob Dylan. Anybody who steps out of their house in a morning will, at some point in their lives, come across the man. My discovery of this legend was normal in the scheme of things; I was at college, and had one particular mate at the time (who was also the drummer in my band) called Mike, who was Dylan mad. He put me onto some of his very early work - The Freewheelin' if I remember rightly - and I liked it very much, but that little something extra was missing for me. I found what I was looking for in Dylan's outstanding trio of Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, and Blonde On Blonde - his first three electric albums released in the space of just over a year (1965-66). At the time many Dylan fans abandoned him for going electric - more fool them. For me, this was his best stuff. I dug into his back catalogue, and slowly but surely began to acquire record after record after record. I now own 90% of his releases, which amounts to over fifty albums, of which Time Out Of Mind is my ultimate treasure.

It is an album steeped in pain, fear, skepticism and disquiet. Dylan really lets the depths of his soul pour out into these songs, creating a dark but captivating atmosphere. It is a record that could only have been written by an artist who had realised his own mortality. Bob himself described the songs on Time Out Of Mind as "more concerned with the dread realities of life than the bright and rosy idealism of popular today." Love Sick, the album's haunting, candle-lit opening, is a thunderous beginning, and a head-turning re-introduction to the new Dylan. His voice is strained; the organ melancholy; the lyrics uncertain, but at all times endearing. "I spoke like a child/You destroyed me with a smile.....I'm sick of love/But I'm in the thick of it." This is a man who was blessed with a prophetic way with words.

Dirt Road Blues is a rambling ditty, which amply demonstrates the new direction that Dylan was looking to take. Standing In The Doorway is nothing short of heart-breaking. Brilliantly produced by Daniel Lanois, it is one of those songs that you can't help but just sit back and ride with. Million Miles and Tryin' To Get To Heaven are equally as potent. Dylan's heart bleeds all over the page in these ominous forebodings. Already, at this stage of the record, it is evident that this is a late night listen. It's an album for 4am, when the party is over, but the hardcore are sat left needing something to help them wind down over one for the road. The amount of times this album has seen in the dawn for me is unimaginable.

'Til I Fell In Love With You, the undoubted highlight of the album for me, is a stomping Wurlitzer-led exploration of Dylan's musings. Not Dark Yet, the critics choice as the record's masterpiece, is the lament of a man who has realised his brush with death. It is lonesome but somewhat comforting; yet again Dylan's lyrical genius protrudes. Cold Irons Bound is opaque and gloomy, but compelling. Make You Feel My Love is delicate and sincere. Can't Wait is a cool, smoke-choked, bar-room blues. That leaves Highlands; adequately named since it is like a never-ending saunter through the mountains of his mind. He name checks his fellow folk legend: "I'm listening to Neil Young/Gotta turn up the sound," before declaring with tongue-in-cheek that "I'm on anything but a role." Towards the conclusion of the record Dylan declares "My heart's in the highlands/Only place left to go." It is a fitting resolution to this fifteen minute monologue. My heart, it must be said, is in the words and the whims of this record; in the fabric of the earthy music; in the sentiment bestowed by an ageing master. I remain totally besotted by this album, and probably always will.

So, there I was, 18 years old playing bass guitar in Mike's granny flat as we rehearsed the songs that were destined to overtake the world. Then the call came through. Bob Dylan was playing the Liverpool Summer Pops Festival for a one-off date. Needless to say we dropped our instruments and got straight on the phone. Imagine our despair to find that it had sold out in minutes, then our joy to hear that there was still a way; £140-a-ticket VIP. Our yes' were impulsive, but later ludicrous. It put me in a financial dilemma for a while, but boy was it worth it. Champagne reception, three course meal, free bar, a giggle backstage with Elvis Costello, and third row tickets in a tiny tent. One of the nights of my life - I'm certain Mike, my mate who shared the experience, would definitely agree. Our destiny was fulfilled. We had seen the great man in the finest way possible and nobody could take it away from us. I was left gobsmacked for months. Bob even got his Grammy Award out on stage. A concert that simply was Time Out Of Mind.

Since that historic night back in 2001, I have seen Bob Dylan three times. 2004 in Newcastle Telewest Arena, 2006 in Manchester Arena, and 2009 in Liverpool Echo Arena. I'm sure that I'll get the opportunity once again. As for his new records, I love them. I love his sound, I love his disposition, and I love the fact that he is still so creative. Love & Theft (2001), Modern Times (2006) and Together Through Life (2009) have all got their moments. Dylan is an artist who has evolved; his sound is unrecognisable from his initial conception as an acoustic folk singer. That is not a negative thing though. This man's fifty year career will be every bit as influential as Shakespeare, or Mozart, or The Beatles, in times to come. Mark my words.

Carole King Tapestry and the Female Revolution

There is only one way to describe this album and its importance in the history of popular music, and that is: groundbreaking. Released in 1971, Tapestry is Carole King's defining moment, and one that would catapult her to the very top of her profession as an out and out songwriter. It is an album that achieved the top spot in the American charts for fifteen weeks, stayed on the charts for over six years, and achieved four Grammy Awards for Album of the Year, Record of the Year (It's Too Late), Song of the Year (You've Got A Friend), and Best Pop Vocal Performance. It has gone on to sell millions and millions of copies worldwide, and remains one of the firm favourites in most 'Greatest Album Ever' polls. James Taylor described King's songs as "very accessible, very personal statements, built from the ground up with a simple, elegant architecture," describing perfectly the global appeal of this much loved tune-smith. I fell in love with Tapestry the moment I heard it. Now, let me tell you about it. . . . .

At the time I was playing regular Thursday evening slots at a town-centre Irish bar here in Southport, led by the untouchable Steve McKenna. As far as acoustic musicians were concerned, he was by far, and probably still is, the best around in these parts. He was helping to condition me as a performer, and between a small crowd of musicians/music lovers we were building up a classic night that was eagerly awaited by many. McKenna was heavily into the Americana acoustic scene of the late 60's - early 70's, which over time began to rub off on me. I started listening to the likes of The Eagles, James Taylor, Neil Young, Crosby-Stills-Nash, America, Joni Mitchell, Jackson Browne, and, of course, Carole King. It was around this time that I first heard the magnificent It's Too Late - a song that I just couldn't shake throughout every waking minute of my day. It completely overtook my mind. There was something about that killer intro - that fabulous A minor to D major change that was utterly enchanting. To this day I still rate that song as one of the finest ever written, the undoubted greatest song intro in the history of music, and the pinnacle focal point on Tapestry.

Now I don't want to drag this review on forever - there is simply no need at all. Tapestry doesn't need to be sold to anyone - it's achievements and stature in the grand scheme of things speaks for itself. I'd like merely to name some songs. I Feel The Earth Move - yes, that belting, groovy number you're so sure you know. You've Got A Friend - the smash hit single for Carole's long-time comrade James Taylor, who lifted it from Tapestry and sang it to the world. Will You Love Me Tomorrow, that beautiful ballad covered by so many legendary artists over the years. (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman - covered most famously by Aretha Franklin, who took King's rousing original and made it all her own. So Far Away is a gorgeous song about longing. Home Again, Beautiful, and Way Over Yonder provide a thrilling centre-section for the album, glorifying King's spotless vocal. That leaves the title track, Tapestry, and Where You Lead - album tracks that could so easily have been hit singles for anyone less prolific than Carole King. Smackwater Jack, the penultimate track on the album, is an impulsive, upbeat jive that rouses the beat within you. An all round classic album showcasing a very, very rare gift for songwriting and performing, and one that provided so much inspiration for other female artists such as Joni Mitchell, Sheryl Crow, Chrissie Hind etc.

It is astonishing to think that Carole King began her musical career purely as a songwriter for others in the traditional American writing houses. What a tragic waste for all concerned that would have been. It is a blessing that, in the same way as Neil Diamond (who wrote initially, but like King realised that to profit from it they must go out and perform their material) Carole King eventually came to the foreground. Tapestry will form part of an unbreakable legacy in popular music, I am certain of it. It has got to be recommended listening for any budding musician or songwriter out there, regardless of genre or preference. I have only one wish left: that when Carole and James Taylor close up their tour this year in the States, they come and visit us over here in the U.K. That ticket, rest assured, will belong to me.

Arctic Monkeys Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not, and the Restoration of Faith in New Music

When the Arctic Monkeys first began causing a buzz I was totally and utterly oblivious. I was buried so deep in music of the past that I had no time for emerging bands or new records, unless, of course, it was one of Paul Weller's latest offerings, or a new studio album by the likes of McCartney or Dylan. I still don't necessarily accept that this was a bad thing; there is such a wealth of fantastic music to catch up on from the last fifty years that a man might pursue the hunt for an entire lifetime and still never make the catch. I have often remarked that I feel cheated for not having been born in 1945 - to have been verging on 18 when The Beatles released Love Me Do, and to have been part of the sixties revolution. However, in hindsight it was naive for me to have totally ignored the modern day scene for so long. I'm so glad that I finally woke up and smelt the coffee. The title of this blog could not be any more accurate - the discovery of Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not single-handedly restored my faith in modern day music.

At the time this record first came out (2006) I had just returned from playing cricket in Australia and was on somewhat of a health kick. Me and my mate Matt were getting out every Sunday morning on our road bikes for a forty mile hike around the surrounding country villages, and generally doing everything in our power to avoid ending up in all the pubs on the way round. Occasionally we failed miserably. On the particular morning in question I had become aware of the new phenomenon through a gang of younger mates who had jumped on the Arctic Monkeys' bandwagon. They spoke of this young Sheffield band (which encouraged me further since a part of me will always hold a special place for the city in which I studied for three years) who had used MySpace as a vehicle to launch their career and thrust them into public consciousness by the most revolutionary method. They spoke of this budding young songwriter called Alex Turner who was writing about all the current issues in the life of young adults; getting pissed, pulling birds, mood swings, police encounters, falling in love, living in a shitty city. I decided that on my way back into town I would park the bike up at Tesco, buy the album, and see what all the fuss was about. I'm really glad I did.

That afternoon, after a lengthy Radox bath, I must have listened to the record three times over. From the initial ferocity of the view from the afternoon, through to the glorious curtain call of a certain romance, I found Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not absolutely spellbinding. This - in Alex Turner - was a songwriter way beyond his years. A modern day poet with plenty to say, and an extraordinary way of saying it. Lyrically it is brilliant. Musically it is raw but totally addictive. For weeks I had no way of talking about it with any sort of conviction - I just knew deep down that I loved it. I had found something brand new that had hit me like a bullet to the brain in the same way as Weller, Floyd, The Beatles and company. I was astounded and excited.

The first single - i bet you look good on the dancefloor - is a riotous and rip-roaring introduction to a vibrant new band. I loved the song so much that I instantly learnt it and introduced it into my own live sets, watching it go down a storm with people of all ages wherever I played it. This song - and in fact, this band - seemed to have mass appeal across the generations. fake tales of san francisco is a superb, catchy anthem, which is one of a handful of songs that demonstrates Turner's ingenious, contemporary lyrical ability: "there's a super cool band yeah with their trilbies and their glasses of white wine/and all the weekend rock stars are in the toilets practicing their lines." Outstanding. dancing shoes is tense and unnerving, but such a good representation of what happens post-midnight in the night-club. you probably couldn't see me for the lights but you were staring straight at me divulges similar themes, though, in the same way as its unnaturally long title, is musically and lyrically subversive. still take you home is a cunning and quirky foot-tapper in which Turner's humour pours through: "I'm strugglin', I can't see through your fake-tan/Yeah you know it for a fact that everbody's eating out of your hands." In short, it is a social comment on the male psyche; once the beer goggles are on there is no stopping us saying fuck it and taking the bird home anyway.

riot van is just a lovely, whimsical gem. It tells the story of underage drinking - which happens on every street corner throughout the country every night of the week. Turner finds a stunning, mellow arrangement in which to deliver his short story with masterful conviction. The following three songs - red light indicates doors are secured, mardy bum, and perhaps vampires is a bit strong provides the unsung highlight of the entire record. "Remember cuddles in the kitchen to get things off the ground..." Well, Alex, the answer is yes we do - we all remember that time in our life when that happened. That is the beauty of this entire record. It seems to document, in a roundabout way, all of our youths.

when the sun goes down - one of the band's live highlights - is one of those records that cannot help but make you sit up and listen. The resulting DVD, Scummy Man, is based on the horror story described in this incredibly cutting and powerful song, and documents it quite brilliantly. The album, for me, could have happily ended there and I'd have still been rapped. The fact that we get from the ritz to the rubble - a hilarious but such a true depiction of what happens in every night-club queue on the planet - is a genuine bonus. The magnificent concluding track, a certain romance, was the cherry on the top for me when I first heard this album. Just when you think it can't possibly get any better, these young lads from Sheffield deliver a bombshell like this. Absolutely incredible. "Well though they might wear Classic Reeboks/Or knackered Converse, or tracky bottoms tucked in socks/well all of that is what the point is not/the point is that there aint no romance around there." What on earth do you say about that?

I've suffered for my love of this record, it has got to be noted. I got absolutely drowned at the Leeds festival in 2006 to see the Arctics perform their debut festival, only to sit in a taxi for four hours half naked afterwards with my freezing clothes in a pile beside me for the priveledge of travelling just four miles back into town. The only saving grace was when some coke-head hi-jacked the spare seat, forgot that it flipped back up, went to sit down and knocked himself clean out. In 2007 I saw the boys perform twice - once at Lancashire Cricket Ground, supported by Amy Winehouse, The Coral, Supergrass, and a fabulous Japanese Beatles tribute band called The Parrots. I got blind drunk and mixed it with the teenagers all day long, but paid for it with one mother of a hangover that lasted nearly a week. Then came Glastonbury - a torrid experience in flash floods and six inches of impossible rain - but yes, I was on the front row to see their triumphant Friday night set. And then to their live DVD performance in 2008 at Manchester's Apollo Theatre. Again, I was there, though in more civilised fashion this time sat at the front of the gallery with my mad mate Glenn, who kept half an eye on the stage, and half an eye on the violent mosh-pit erupting beneath us. He loves the Arctics because he's a big kid. He would, several years back, have been happy to trade elbows with the best of them I'm sure, but in his old age has grown (a tiny bit) more sensible.

So, there we go. A shock for all of us that I could like something so much post 1970, but true enough indeed. I've not been overawed by the band's two follow up albums if I'm totally honest (favourite Worst Nightmare, 2007, and Humbug, 2009), but that's not really the issue here. The Arctics created a monster, and they did it all their own way. Their debut record is a masterpiece that will be talked about in generations to come. Put it this way, if I live until I'm eighty I'd like to think that I'll still enjoy pulling Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not from its cardboard sleeve and slipping it on after my forty miles on the bike. . . . .

Ricky Gervais

To tell you the truth, I'm not a fan of what Ricky Gervais has become. Mixing it in Hollywood with his A-list mates, swanning around in big blockbuster movies with the cream of the crop, throwing his lavish lifestyle and massive wads of cash in our faces. That's not what all this was all about, now is it Ricky? In fact, Gervais has become a complete parody of himself. David Brent was the most hysterical character of all-time because he thought he was big time. Gervais took the piss out of celebrity culture by devising a character that was obsessed with thrusting himself into the limelight, grabbing any opportunity for (what amounts to in The Office) a pitiful fifteen minutes of fame. Now, in the face of his own creation, Gervais himself has become the character he so brilliantly depicted. A self-centered, greedy, fame-hugging muppet. Unfortunately, however, this still doesn't stop him being, in my opinion, the funniest man alive today. Shit.

Me and my mate The Gingerbread Man, who I worked with for several years and and one point house-shared with, became obsessed with The Office shortly after its release here in Britain back in 2001 . At first nobody knew if it was a genuine documentary or a sitcom since, in the age of reality TV, anything is possible. When we realised that it was in fact a sitcom, or what has become known as a 'mockumentary', and could then enjoy David Brent for the complete knobhead he was supposed to be, me and Ginger found it utterly hilarious and engrossing. A genius conception by Gervais and his writing partner Stephen Merchant, in which the daily grind of office life is juxtaposed against the strained relationships that so often happen within these places of work. The statistics for office affairs are frightening in this country: 70% of people who work in an office will at some point in their careers become romantically involved with A.N Other. The sexual tension between Dawn (played by Lucy Davis) and Tim (Martin Freeman), which culminates in a rather emotional and heart-rendering final episode at the death of the second series, plays on this human floor brilliantly. Gareth (Mackenzie Crook) is your stereotypical office wanker; full of himself, a liar, a jobsworth, and all round unlikeable guy, he portrays the person that we have all met during one of our stints in an office. Keith (Ewen Macintosh) is the middle aged, over weight loner and nerd, Chris Finch (Ralph Ineson) the womanising, foul-mouthed tosser, Jennifer Taylor-Clarke (Stirling Gallacher) the brilliantly executed, classy area manager, Neil Godwin (Patrick Baladi) the suave Brent-nemesis, and Lee (Joel Beckett) the rough and ready, jealous boyfriend of Dawn. In short, Gervais and Merchant covered all the bases. Their pool of characters in The Office is incredibly accurate and fantastically executed by all concerned.

It is not so much what happens in The Office that creates such an appeal. It is more what doesn't happen that is so fascinating. Brent's cunning glimpses towards the camera; his constant attempt to look cool in the face of filming; Tim's constant despair; Dawn's dizziness; Gareth's pathetic disposition. It is meticulously crafted into, in my opinion, the greatest and most hilarious, and often believable show ever made. It left me, and I'm sure millions of others, thinking my God, I bet there really are David Brents out there, and I bet all this really does happen. . . . .

The highlights? The Red Nose Day dance, for sure. Brent's insistence on getting the guitar out. The Office Party celebrating 'no redundancies'. Brent's 'motivational' speech. Gareth's investigations surrounding the pornographic image with Brent's head super-imposed. Jennifer's countless, cringe worthy meetings with Brent. Keith's 'minge' comment before devouring a giant scotch egg. Bones (I refuse to elaborate - you just have to see it). Brent's eventual redundancy. Brent's blind date and guest club appearance. The return of Dawn for the Christmas party, and her subsequent move for Tim. The whole two series are absolutely genius, and I complement Gervais and Merchant for their insistence on ending it there. That decision has preserved a legend, and stopped them pulling it down by flogging a dead horse. The fact that Gervais has taken it over to America and contradicted everything the British series stands for only bolsters my initial charge at the start of this article. It is not an American concept, for Christ sake! Never mind, Ricky, you just keep that cash tumbling in.

So, what came next? Well, the two funniest stand-up comedy performances I have ever seen, that's what. Animals (2003) and Politics (2004), two outrageously bright, observational performances that are, quite frankly, deliriously funny. He takes on a variety of controversial subjects including, at the start of Animals, the creation of man - one of the most amusing sketches ever on the stand up circuit in my opinion. Both performances are controversial, thought-provoking, laugh-out-loud-funny, cringe worthy, and constantly entertaining. Gervias brings a piece of Brent to the stage to deliver his witticisms, which is, to be honest, a clincher for me. Both tours were huge sell-outs, gained massive critical success, and will live long in the memory as ideal follow-ups for The Office. So, what next?

Extras (2005) was the second mockumentary style double series to emerge by the Gervias/Merchant writing team. I was initially convinced that it had to be a flop. I was so obsessed with how good The Office and Gervais's stand-ups had been, I was sure that they must at some point run out of steam. I was wrong. Extras, in a slightly subtler way, is every inch as funny as The Office. It was a brave move using so many celebrities (or, on the other hand, a vehicle for Gervais to display his new-found importance within the industry), but I've got to say, a stunning success. Taking on the role of a ailing 'actor' Andy Millman, Gervias plays a watered-down, but every inch as effective role as Brent throughout the tremendous double series. I wont name the A-listers that feature, since Ricky's ego is, I'm sure, already through the roof - but what I will do is complement all of them, firstly for their sense of humour and integrity to feature, and secondly for their hilariously self-effacing deliveries.

So, the highlights here? Well, Millman's bizarre relationship with the ditzy but hugely loveable Maggy Jacobs (Ashley Jenson), who throughout the two series cannot help but put her foot in it. Look out for the head in the soup. David Bowie's genius cameo with the 'Pug Man' song. Maggy's hysterical 'Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, what are these' clanger. The racist test. Yet again, Maggy with the golliwog, and Maggy with the shits. Darren (Steve Merchant, and Millman's hopeless agent) and Shaun Williamson (Barry from Eastenders who plays himself) wanking over a pen. Les Dennis' outrageous episode. Millman playing a genie in Aladdin. Keith Chegwin's foul mouth. Bunny, the camp theatre director. I could go on and on forever - it's just bloody brilliant!

Since then Ricky has embarked on two more sell-out stand-up successes - Fame (2007), that myself and The Gingerbread Man went to watch live from the third tier of Blackpool's Opera House, and Science (2009), which I couldn't get a ticket for for love nor money. He also has a podcast with Merchant and the now notorious Karl Pilkington, which has also proved frighteningly successful - everything the man touches turns to gold.

So, it seems like that's it: Ricky Gervais is the funniest man in the world. However, the man is a sell-out. All this fucking Letterman shit, Hollywood movies, hosting the Golden Globes, getting his own American Chat Show. Fuck off Ricky. Stick to what you're good at - making us all laugh. Even Brent would be grimacing if he saw you now. . . . .

Terry Reid Seed Of Memory - The Unluckiest Man In Music?

Terry Reid surely must be the unluckiest man in music. This is a man who had a voice so unique that he was first touted to be in Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple before Plant and Gillan made their fortunes; at the time Reid was simply 'too busy'. This is a man with a voice so distinguished that he was nicknamed 'Superlungs' (the title of his brilliant anthology). This is a man with a talent so very rare that many of the greatest names in Rock music, such as Rolling Stone Keith Richards to name just one giant fan, herald him as a complete one-off. And yet it seems that hardly anybody has heard of him?! It's a crying, crying shame. It really is.

Now i am the biggest muso i know, as this blog would probably suggest. I am constantly charting my way through the annals of music searching for something new and exciting to listen to or play in my own band; actually, just when you think you've heard it all, it is amazing to discover that something totally fresh comes along to capture the imagination. Terry Reid, with his 1976 classic album Seed Of Memory, did just that. One of my best mates - for the sake of his staunchly protected privacy I'll call him Walker - is one of only two people on the planet (including my mad mate Glenn) who ever manages to introduce me to music that I have never heard before. They too are gold-diggers in the music sense. Walker is responsible for many fantastic new discoveries for me over the years, including Leonard Cohen, Nick Drake, PJ Harvey, and of course the featured Terry Reid. He will often call me with his latest discovery and encourage me to take a listen, in which I will of course oblige. Sometimes his choices are, to put it bluntly, a complete pile of shite. More often than not they open up a whole new world for me - something for which I am in his debt.

It was during one of these meetings between me and my mate Walker at his former abode in Southport where he first played me some Terry Reid. He claimed to have discovered "the best voice he had ever heard," and preceded to play me Silver White Light; an immense track with an outstanding and unique vocal. Immediately I was hooked. Walker suggested that we go and watch him live since he was doing a one-off show in a tiny venue in Manchester called The Night & Day Cafe - the tickets were something scandalously cheap like £12 - so I snapped his hand off right there and then. Several months later at the back end of 2008, when we arrived at the venue on a cold winter's night already several beers in, it seemed almost astonishing to see an aged and bedraggled Reid stood outside the venue chatting pleasantly to a few fans and having a smoke. When he came back inside he mingled happily, sharing drinks and stories with many people who were keen to talk to him. I heard one woman say to him: "boy, you were so cute in the 70's!" and chuckled to myself, wondering how much that would have actually done for his self-esteem. He seemed to take it in good spirits however, and laughed along regardless.

We must have been at the bar, believe it or not, when Reid snuck off backstage to prepare for his performance, which started very shortly afterwards. He juggled his set between solo acoustic performances, and then formidable interpretations with a full band. Aside from one minor incident in which Terry quite rightly told some rude bastard who was screaming over the top of one of his delicate acoustic numbers to "Fuck Off!" I can honestly say that this gig was one of the most inspirational nights of my entire life. And that is from a guy who has travelled the world to see EVERYBODY it has been possible to see in Rock'n'Roll over the last decade, and I really do mean EVERYBODY. All at once I felt absolute admiration, envy, but also sorrow for this guy in front of me who had the power to hold his audience in the palm of his hand. His voice really was stunning; his songs equally as alluring. This was a talent you just don't come across everyday, and I spent that evening, and many evenings after that, wondering what the hell had happened for him not to have become a massive star. I got my hands on a copy of his album Seed Of Memory that night from the travelling store, shared a drink with the man himself who signed it for me after the show, and left utterly speechless.

I really do believe that this is a record that every music lover should own. From start to finish it is an absolute corker. Provocative, fascinating, enthralling, at times just beautiful, sympathetic, melodic, poetic, symphonic - a total work of art. Written entirely by Reid himself, and produced by another of his superstar fans, Graham Nash, Seed Of Memory has everything. It rocks, it rolls, it shares a groove, has moments of harmonious delicacy, and shows a man at the pinnacle of his creative potency. The opening track, Faith To Arise, is a dazzling opening, with Nash adding his own peerless harmonies to create a real West Coast sound. The title track Seed of Memory is a commanding and righteous gem. How can a man capable of writing a song like remain so anonymous? Brave Awakening is a charming country drawl, whereas To Be Treated Right is a glorious, laid back and heartfelt odyssey. It leaves you considering the irony; if only Terry himself had been treated right by the industry itself he would surely have been as big as any of his contemporaries.

Ooh Baby (Make Me Feel So Young) is quite a funky, sexy jaunt in which the true CSN sound emerges. Nash's production here is majestic. The Way You Walk is also a hustling, groovy blues in which Reid howls his seductive call to the woman in question. The Frame is a cool, casual and sensual number with a delectable horn section drifting through. A great penultimate track before Fooling You, a Fender Rhodes led ballad of colossal stature, which closes the record in overwhelming fashion. There is only one way to get over this album coming to a halt: press REPEAT immediately.

Seed Of Memory, in my opinion, is one of the finest lost treasures in Rock music. If you are into The Eagles, Neil Young, Crosby-Stills-Nash, James Taylor et al then this is right up your street. If this review inspires just one person to be brave enough to part with a few quid to order it off Amazon (or, if you're lucky, pick up the copy sat waiting in Southport's Quicksilver Music, Market St, for just £5!) then I feel my job is done. Music is for sharing. Only recently, having written and recorded my own album, have I realised the immense amount of work and mental turmoil that goes into creating something such as this. For it to be so globally unappreciated is just a terrible, terrible shame. Please, take a chance and get hold of Seed Of Memory, and drop me a line on my blog to let me know what you think. Fortune favours the brave. . . . .

Paul Kappa Mountains Of The Moon, The Kappa Band, and the Liverpool Connection

I guess I'd better start by explaining who this guy is. James Brown, the late and very great Godfather of Soul, was billed as 'The Hardest Working Man In Showbiz.' If that was indeed true then it is Paul Kappa who has surely stolen the mantle. Paul, of course, is extremely modest, and would probably squirm at the suggestion that he is in any sense 'showbiz'. For that, I apologise. This guy is the salt of the earth when it comes to hard-working musicians. He is a relentless live performer nation wide, both solo and with his fantastic three piece band 'Kappa' (featuring Martin Byrne on bass, and Vinnie Smith on drums), playing a variety of venues from pubs to clubs, music halls to castles, arenas to street stages. As a band they have no fear, and shy away from no opportunity to get the gear out and pull a crowd. They have for eight years now played a weekly residency in the world famous Cavern Pub, and, being based in Liverpool, gig furiously around the former capital of culture's many venues. In short, you've got to see it to believe it.

In 1994 Paul Kappa won the Liverpool Echo Arts Award for best newcomer when he was fronting his former band Cat Scratch Fever, at a time when the band were embarking on over 1600 shows in six years - a remarkable feat by anybody's standards. He has appeared at Glastonbury, Cropreddy, as well as featuring on MTV and many other European commercial TV and radio stations. He is one of Liverpool's most recognisable faces, combining virtuoso guitar playing with a robust and limitless vocal, and, as a friend of mine once commented during one of our alcohol soaked Saturday afternoon's down in the Cavern, "electrifying showmanship." It was also during one of these hazy afternoon sessions that I managed to get my hands on a copy of Paul's recently recorded solo album, Mountains Of The Moon. Now, I know I have previously dealt with Floyd, Weller, Hendrix, OCS etc in my reviews of life changing records. To me, it makes no difference. Paul Kappa is not a globally successful, multi-millionaire rock star - as much of a shame it is to admit. However, he is one hell of a songwriter and performer, and this album had such a profound affect on me that it merits writing about every inch as much as Dark Side or Stanley Rd.

Mountains Of The Moon (released 2007) is an acoustic album, which is a great part of the appeal for me since my heart lies, if I'm totally honest, with the pure acoustic sound. Afraid Of The Dark - the album's mellow and somewhat haunting opening track - has almost middle-eastern sounds drifting through the layers, creating a really interesting and curious sound. This becomes, actually, a feature of the entire record. The Midnight Sun, which follows, is a beautiful tale of lament smothered in glorious harmonies, and interjected by a simple but killer solo. When Paul sings "I just need someone to shine," with all the delicacy and sincerity he can muster, the record seems to stand still along with time itself. Lullaby Of Ra is moody, though somewhat comforting - almost like the light creeping through the blinds on a summer's morning, whereas The Most Beauty is a broad landscape of imagery, both musical and lyrical.

The Road To Memphis is, without trying to invent a paradox, a rather fervent acoustic blues, with the riff providing the driving beat. For a minute you are actually on that road, until Paul's inventive and slightly off-centre solo throws the track into a lofty and somewhat imaginative state of disquiet. Mountains Of The Moon - the album's title track - is a masterpiece in every way. There is an anxiety running throughout; beginning "I fly far above you / Looking down on these wings," Kappa maintains a sense of turmoil through genius chord changes and a breathtaking vocal. The song is, literally and metaphorically, a celestial journey through the clouds. The Kappa Band, on their live DVD Pacifika (recorded in Birkenhead's Pacific Road Arts Centre) perform a thrilling version of this track with a horn section and organ thrown into the mix. A song to transcend any band line-up, and always captivating regardless.

The Marion Square Dance is a lively and eccentric track, and one that you could have imagined entertaining a Pagan festival during the middle ages! There are visions of camp fires and dancers in the moonlight. It has a feverish hook and clever lyrics, and sounds like nothing I've ever heard written in contemporary music before. Nobody & Nothing is a fantastic declaration of unbreakable love: "Nobody and nothing gonna stop me loving you." It echoes Led Zeppelin's acoustic works in many ways, and triumphs towards the end with some delightful, hazy vocal effects. Feelin' Free, which has become one of Kappa's most popular live anthems, is testament to Paul's great songwriting abilities. The album closes with a raw, Neil Young-esque piano vocal called Glory Be Grace, which also nods at traditional soul and gospel music. It is a rousing end to a brilliant all-round record.

I take my hat off to the man for this album, I really do. It was written, performed, recorded, produced, mixed and mastered by Paul himself, who plays no fewer than six different instruments including a Turkish Saz and Mandolin. If I'm honest it is almost upsetting to think that this music isn't out there taking over the world; that people in the vast reaches who unfortunately wont ever get to hear of this great talent in their lifetimes, would probably love the fruits of his creative labours. That is the music business for you, although it is also important to remember that notoriety of any sort is achievement in plenty. I'm sure I'm not the only one who parted with a fiver at the end of one of Paul's gigs and staggered home pissed as a fart, only to find out that I had an absolute gem in my pocket the next morning.

Now Kappa are a phenomenon in these parts. They always pull a crowd, and quite simply ALWAYS deliver. They are a band way ahead of their time. Their interpretations of other bands' music is always raucous and exciting, and their impossible 40 minute medleys nothing but astounding. Martin Byrne is quite honestly the best bass player around without a shadow of a doubt, and Vinnie Smith the rock that never crumbles at the rear. Paul Kappa is the showman extraordinaire, playing seemingly absurd guitar parts (sometimes with his teeth, sometimes behind his head) over the top of a purely unique vocal. I can't believe I've actually seen them hundreds of times for free. It borders on criminal. I have even been lucky enough to share a stage with these guys in recent times, supporting them in my own guise of Little Wing, which has been an honour and a privilege. They are a band that I hope will roll on forever, and continue to entertain all those who know about music's best kept secret until the dawn descends.

Paul Kappa's Mountain's Of The Moon and live DVD Pacifika are available now online at www.kappaband.com, or live at his gigs - look out for them in your area! Other Kappa albums to look out for include Living At The End Of The World (2003) and Bok Rok (2009).

Ocean Colour Scene Moseley Shoals, Meetings, Gigs, and my mad mate Glenn

"I see double up ahead / Where the riverboat swayed beneath the sun /

Is where the river runs red........."

Ocean Colour Scene really are my band. If we are talking about a specific sound, a specific look, a certain style, and a definitive list of influences, these guys have always been on the same page as me. I'd have to list them as the band 'I grew up with.' Their music is melodic, guitar based Rock, drawing on the likes of The Who, The Small Faces, and Paul Weller. They were a vital part of the Britpop movement in the mid-nineties, and have managed longevity through the power of their anthemic songs. Steve Cradock, a long-time member of Paul Weller's touring and studio band, has somehow managed to pioneer his own wildest dreams. He has his own band of almost twenty years still making great records, and has become a close confidant of his own hero in Weller. It's a remarkable story, and one that I hope carries on for many years to come.

Ocean Colour Scene have seen several line-up changes since the making of their majestic album, Moseley Shoals, though this particular lineup - consisting of Simon Fowler, Steve Cradock, Oscar Harrison, and Damon Minchella - will always be considered their classic. Released in 1996, and named after the birthplace (Moseley) of Simon, Steve and Oscar, it went on to reach number 2 in the charts, and was voted the 33rd greatest album of all-time in a poll by Q Magazine in 1998. I first found the album after their name continually cropped up wherever Weller's did; thus I had no choice but to investigate. Also, to add to that already outstanding attribute, Chris Evans (who is in a lot of ways chiefly responsible for the band's eventual success) insisted on using The Riverboat Song as the theme tune to his hit TV programme TFI Friday, which propelled the band into the public domain. I vividly remember people at school constantly asking "who sings that song on TFI?" I suppose it was a cheats way in, but a way in all the time. God bless Chris Evans for his foresight.

I ordered Moseley Shoals through the mail order Britannia Music Club, which has a story of its own that I may one day tell, and I remember ripping the cardboard away on the night that I arrived home from school to find it lying in the porch. This was really cool shit - I'd be able to tell those people who asked the TFI question that I had the album, never mind knew who it was. Bravado aside, I had no idea the quality of the whole record that lay inside. The Riverboat Song is a thumping guitar riff of the same ilk as Satisfaction. It is what is - a great song to put on to get the adrenaline pumping before a night out, or equally as good to thrash about to when relieving some pent up, teenage frustration. The Day We Caught The Train is your typical singalong gig anthem - energetic and pumping, it confirms the album's upbeat, dynamic entrance. The Circle - which is more a songwriter's lament - is equally as commanding when sang live in the singalong sense. This band has a knack for writing songs designed for the live arena - although in that bracket, Moseley Shoals stands alone.

The beauty about this album is that there isn't a bad track in sight. Lining Your Pockets is a virtuous slow song in which Fowler sings charmingly. 40 Past Midnight is a belting, raunchy rocker. It's My Shadow demonstrates the band's alluring ability to find an enchanting chord sequence. Policemen & Pirates, which boasts superbly witty lyrics ("but it doesn't really matter / when the judgements are said / 'cos we all take our chances to find out romance is in some others bed") is sparkling and animated. The real gems in my opinion are, however, the fantastic, dreamy Fleeting Mind, which provides a platform for Cradock's ingenious guitar playing. Harrison also lays down a one-off drum track. There is also One For The Road; a moving account of a young death, and a testament to the human spirit in the aftermath. This is a tear jerker whilst filling you with a strange sense of hope. A true highlight.

The Downstream and You've Got It Bad are often overlooked, but are equally as subversive and spirited as the rest of the tracks on Moseley Shoals. The bluesy Get Away, featuring some sublime harmonica work by Fowler, is the rousing, ethereal, and in latter points crashing ending to a brilliant contemporary record. I say contemporary forgetting that it is in fact nearly fifteen years old, yet it still sounds fresh enough to have been released yesterday. Brendan Lynch, who contributed sleeve notes to the album, hinted at the power of OCS's live performance when he stated: "There's so much nuance in music, it's difficult to get it right with technology, capturing those moments that make something unique and exciting. Music is made to just go out into the air. . . . ." I have had the pleasure of seeing the band four times over the years, although to be honest they are a form band. My first experience was back in 2001 in Manchester Apollo Theatre on the mechanical wonder tour. We got drunk, sang our hearts out, bounced round in the moshpit at the front, crowd surfed, and had a thoroughly great night. The band were on fire, and I'll never forget the storming version of The Baker by The Small Faces that they ended with that night. A nod to their heroes as we nodded to ours. It was pure magic.

Our second meeting back in Sheffield City Hall in 2003 was less than impressive. Mind you, it didn't begin well when, as a young member of the student magazine, I arrived really early in search of an interview only to find Steve Cradock and Oscar Harrison wasted in the bar on Stella, arguing angrily with a security guard. Needless to say I avoided approaching them, and was less than impressed with their shabby, drunken performance. The third time I shared a room with them was five years later in 2008, again at the Manchester Apollo Theatre. This whole day became a story in itself. I went with two mates - Johnno, who can only be described as a drunk, and Glenn, who is as mad as a box of frogs, and, on the drunk front, even worse than Johnno. We arrived in Manchester very early that day - inevitably too early - and sat in the Apsley Cottage Pub next door to the Apollo ALL DAY. By tea-time we were all absolutely wrecked. Glenn was throwing ale down his neck like it was going out of fashion; me and Johnno just couldn't keep up, which is a position neither of us are used to. We had to resort to drinking shorts which fuelled the fires even more, so come 6pm we were a collective waste of space.

By this time the pub had filled full of OCS fans catching a beer before the gig, including the most disgustingly ugly, gobby bird I've ever had the displeasure of seeing in my life, who, on Glenn's rather loud and slurred instructions, decided to get her tits out in the middle of the pub. Then came 'George', the renowned, full-of-shit con artist who goes round befriending people and claiming he is collecting for a charity. He came over to tell us all how he used to be an ex-wrestler, but soon gave up when he realised we couldn't string a sentence together. Then, as if by magic, Steve Cradock himself rocked in for a pre-gig beer and ended up in a photograph with the three of us without any choice in the matter. I'd love to say the anecdotes end there, but I'm afraid not. After meeting two other mates, Rich and The Gingerbread Man, we entered the Apollo and carried on boozing heavily. At 8:50pm, ten minutes before OCS were due on stage, Glenn turned to me cross-eyed and said something like "I've no idea.....what the fuck......where am I?......I'm getting off," and preceded to zig-zag towards the exit through the crowd. I just about managed to regain my senses, stop him, and explain to him why we were there.

He must have listened because he stayed and OCS rocked the joint. A great gig, as was Steve and Simon's acoustic set in The Hard Rock Cafe, also in Manchester in 2009, where we got our memorable photo with Steve signed. The beauty is that we're all still here - Glenn included (just) - and that these nights will happen again I'm sure. Moseley Shoals is the type of record that will never lose its appeal - it is a formidable statement by a band at the height of their powers. Long may these third generation Mods reign supreme.

The Beatles Abbey Road - A mutual coming of age

How do you make a pedestrian crossing mega-famous and iconic? Well, you make four of the most famous people on the planet walk across it, take a picture, and use it as the front cover to the best album they'll ever record. Simple. Christ, if only life was as easy as that. . . . . .

The story is that The Beatles were supposed to be going to the Maldives to shoot the front cover of this 1969 classic, Abbey Road. Apparently they couldn't be arsed, so during a tea-break in recording they popped outside, crossed the road, and Bob's your uncle. The most famous album cover ever. Fuck all that travelling when you've got a pedestrain crossing outside. I write this having found out this weekend that Abbey Road Studios may soon cease to exist, which makes this review all the more poignant, not just because of The Beatles' classic album, but because of its history in general. Some of the all time classic albums have been recorded there by the likes of Pink Floyd and Kate Bush; it seems senseless that such a place is not listed. Chris Evans rightly pointed out in the press this week that The Beatles are like Shakespeare - essential to our culture and heritage as a nation, so how can Abbey Road be torn down? It would be like tearing The Bard's house down in Stratford Upon Avon. It's senseless and wrong. If Abbey Road the album isn't enough evidence to take into court then what is???

Now I'm kind of nervous about this blog. I mean, what do you say that hasn't already been said about The Beatles? The greatest band in the world for-all-time-ever-plus-a-bit-longer? The most talked about, frantically obsessed about, global phenomenon still, forty years after hanging up their boots. The answer to that is I don't know. All I can do is share my experience of growing up listening to them, sharing my every breath with their music as a soundtrack, and, in relation to this, their finest album in my opinion, my passion for their untouchable creativity. Four lads from Liverpool - a place so close to me I can smell it - who literally changed the face of the planet. It is quite unbelievable. A fairy tale nobody could ever have envisaged. A story too wild to consider telling. And yet it happened, and I'm about to document just a small part of it.

I was fourteen when I first got hold of a copy of Abbey Road. The cover was an obvious pull, although I was obsessed with George Harrison's ballad Something - once cruelly and mistakingly dubbed "my favourite Lennon / McCartney track" by Frank Sinatra when covered by Ol' Blue Eyes during a concert performance. As soon as I found out it was on this album it was a banker. However, Something is but a small part of this roller-coaster ride. Now, before I go on and break the album down I have a few things to say. Firstly, George Martin works absolute miracles on this record. If he wasn't already, this album secures him as the fifth Beatle. Secondly, McCartney's bass playing on this record is phenomenal. Again, he is seen in such a general light of greatness that his specific abilities remain often ignored, but he genuinely defines bass playing on much of this record. Totally awesome. Harrison, it must be said thirdly, contributes two of the best three songs, much to the suprise of most Lennon / McCartney fanatics. If his work had often been left in the shade before Abbey Road, it was simply impossible to ignore Something and Here Comes The Sun. Finally, I must comment on Ringo. John Lennon famously claimed that he wasn't even the best drummer in The Beatles, but boy, on Abbey Road his work is untouchable. I'd even go as far as suggesting this album would be a good listen if you listened to the drum parts alone. Well, maybe. . . . .

The album begins with the brooding Come Together, combining a genius McCartney bass line with sublimely executed drum rolls. Lennon's sneer throughout a world of almost incomprehensible lyrics provides just the controversial and warped entry that, you can certainly imagine, the fab four would have been looking for. Something somewhat calms the frenzy, and displays Harrison's underated craftsmanship. His voice is subtle and in parts beautiful, as are the impeccable harmonies by McCartney. Maxwell's Silver Hammer - arguably the only weak point on the album - is a nonsene story about a psychotic murderer, which at best is vaguely disturbing, or at worst an unwelcome distraction. I have never been a huge fan, though it pains me to say it. Oh! Darling is a song of angst, in which Paul screams his heart out for a lost love, Octopus's Garden the quirky, Ringo-penned singalong, and I Want You (She's So Heavy) a spiralling, fraught, helpless anti-love song. The madness that transpires through the tortured repetition is vital to the building atmosphere of The Beatles' most experimental record.

Here Comes The Sun - Harrison's second masterpiece on Abbey Road - wakes the listener up from the maddening longing in I Want You, placing us in a sun laden garden, relaxed, happy and optimistic. The guitar work is stunning, the harmonies unparalleled, and the melody exsquisite. The sort of song that will still be used in hundreds of years time without hesitation. Now how many songwriters can claim to have written something like that? George died on the morning of my 19th birthday - November 30th 2001 - and this was the first song I heard after discovering the news. It made me smile at a time I felt like crying.

Because, Sun King, and Golden Slumbers - all tracks on the second side - are concrete examples of Lennon / McCartney's extraordinary songwriting abilities. All are laid back, melodic and serene, providing the album with necessary but delighful breathing spaces in amongst the chaos. You Never Give Me Your Money is a three part opera, which has long been my favourite moment on the entire record. In its own way, this song set a precident for medley-style epic songs such as Bohemian Rhapsody et al. It is tongue in cheek but always sincere; an ability that The Beatles had over every other band. When McCartney sings "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven / All good children go to heaven," you can't help but believe the guy!

And then the famous medley. This, of course, is where George Martin plays his part like no other could. The combination of Mean Mr Mustard, Polythene Pam and She Came In Through The Bathroom Window is brave but brilliant. It is frantic, filled with humour, frenetic, energetic, and at all times coercive. A triumph of imagination. Carry That Weight continues the theme with verve, and The End - now a staple at the conclusion of McCartney's own solo performances - is a rousing and euphonious almost-end to a quite incredible record. Again, it could have only been The Beatles brave and silly enough to slip Her Majesty at the death - a cheeky yet enterprising laugh at The Queen's expense, though I'm sure, like everybody else, she took it in good spirits.

And so the end of a masterstroke in songwriting, playing, singing and engineering. It comes as a shattering disappointment when you hear the sound of the player grinding to a halt. Abbey Road was one of the first Beatles albums I got my hands on. I kind of did things backwards with regards to them, although if I'm brutally honest, it's the post Pepper period that interests me most anyway. Not to say, of course, that the early stuff isn't up to much - in fact, quite the opposite. I just really think the later stuff - Abbey Road being the defining moment - shows a band who were once boys turned into strong and masterful men. An aspiration I still have for myself one day. . . . . . . . .

The Jimi Hendrix Experience Electric Ladyland: Rock's Crazy High

When Jimi gentle asks "Have you ever been to Electric Ladyland?" at the beginning of this monumental 70 minute recording, the initial response is surely "no, Jimi, I haven't." In fact, on first listen, it is impossible to have a clue what he is actually asking us. As the album draws to a thumping close with Jimi's immortal signature number Voodoo Child (Slight Return), it kind of leaves you thinking "well, Jimi, I guess I just went, and you know what? I'd kill to go again..........."

I was at college when I first discovered Jimi. That seemed pretty late since I'd been listening to Floyd, Clapton, Dire Straits, The Stones etc since my early teens. If I remember rightly Voodoo Child was on an advert - and it is paining me to think what for, though I just don't remember. What I do remember is the first time I heard that searing and unforgettable guitar riff. In fact, it was so striking that it seemed like something or somebody superhuman was playing it. Turns out I wasn't far wrong on that count. Jimi was something else. Something that this world wasn't ready for. He took the guitar and quite literally turned it on its head. He was a genius and a revolutionary, a visionary and a freak. He did for guitar based Rock music what the Wright brothers did for the plane. In my opinion, that means pretty much invent it.



There was this guy at college who used to come in with Hendrix T-shirts on all the time. Great big pictures of Jimi's face splattered across his chest, with messages such as 'Guitar God' scrawled across them. I put two and two together, did the research, and found that this song I'd been hearing on the TV was on an album called Electric Ladyland. Needless to say I went straight to town and bought my copy. The front cover - a magnificent, fiery picture of Jimi in action - was, at first, captivating. I still believe it is one of the most powerful album covers ever. So simple and uncluttered, but at the same time saying so much. And the inner sleeve, declaring in bold type: HE SHALL NOT GROW OLD, AS SOME WHO ARE LEFT TO GROW OLD, was equally as exciting. Indeed the sentiment in the sleeve notes is perfectly agreeable - posterity has taken care of Jimi Hendrix, and the legend of this guitar virtuoso who died needlessly young will be forever protected by the wealth of genius he left behind. I find it unbelievable to think that I now share the age in which he died - 27 - and he had achieved so much. He probably managed to live and achieve more in that short life than most people could in a century.



And so, the album. It's an odd start - strangely subtle and delicate, like being ushered through the doorway by a kind and gentle host. Then the power of this magical three piece - featuring Noel Redding and Mitch Mitchell - crashes into the room with Crosstown Traffic. It is impossible to know what should come next, but equally as impossible to believe what does come. A scintillating 14 plus minute freak-out jam named Voodoo Chile featuring Steve Winwood on Organ, which simply has to be one of the greatest live studio recordings, if not the best, ever. It is dark and brooding, moody and bluesy, in parts spacious and utterly compelling. Parts of this song have the same effect as Led Zeppelin's Dazed and Confused - you sort of know deep down inside that it can't be right having a song of this length on a studio album, but you just can't help but love it all the same. Jimi's vocal is impeccable, which is a testament to his musicianship - he is all too often forgotten for his great voice, and heralded only for his guitar wizardry. Winwood's contribution is outstanding. He runs side by side with Hendrix throughout the whole fourteen minutes, trading licks and controlling the tempo with his expert subtlety. As for the guitar playing, it is thoroughly mesmeric. In parts soft, in others frantic, but always note perfect. A song of unimaginable brilliance, and in my opinion the highlight of the first side.



Little Miss Strange is a total departure from what has come before - Noel Redding sings it, and it adds a quirky feel to the record. Long Hot Summer Night is vibrant, as is Come On Baby (Let The Good Times Roll), though Hendrix excels most on Gypsy Eyes. It is a sexy song; driving, but strangely sensual. This period on the album displays his songwriting credentials; Burning Of The Midnight Lamp and Rainy Day, Dream Away are fantastic songs, superbly crafted, and wonderfully eclectic. This album can't be defined simply as an 'episode in guitar playing.' It is a journey through many styles and genres of music, and demonstrates a musician taking all the flavours of his influences and producing a cataclysmic sound encompassing the whole lot. The imagery is immediate; the sound is evocative and omni-present.



The highlight of the whole record for me comes in the form of 1983. . . (A Merman I Should Be). This was a pinnacle moment in my life when I first heard this song. I am like everybody else; I like a drink, I am very sociable, and have often, in my younger years, been enticed into the world of drug-taking. This song showed me why I'd never need to take drugs ever again in my life. Listening to this epic was, and still is, the greatest high. It is very trippy, at times lucid, and often confusing. - but immense all the same. In a nutshell, it is an acid trip without the acid. It is hard not to imagine yourself walking softly on marshmellows and soaking up life's light show as Jimi declares: "me and my love make love on the sand / to salute the last moment that we're on dry land."



Moon Turn The Tides. . . gently gently away is an extension of this mad trip, culminating in the instant turn-on of wha wha guitar in Still Raining, Still Dreaming. This is where Jimi truly makes his guitar sing. Mike Finnigan's organ contribution is also worthy of praise - a superb addition to a great song. House Burning Down is a stomper, in which Jimi cries "look at the sky burn a hellfire red/Lord, someone's house is burning down, down, down. . ." This album was the first, I can be sure, to turn my sky hellfire red. Then comes probably the greatest cover version of them all - All Along The Watchtower - in which Hendrix takes Dylan's song and blows it wide open. It is, along with Joe Cocker's take on With A Little Help From My Friends, the most inventive and powerful remake ever in my opinion. His passionate vocal and howling guitar solos are simply astounding. Dylan must have wondered what on earth he had helped create when he first heard it. I certainly did.



And to the aforementioned Voodoo Child (Slight Return). Probably an overplayed signature song, but one that will never lose its relevance or appeal. Hendrix's experimentation reaches a climax here, and when the six minutes are over, it, at first, left me feeling like I'd been thrown from an aircraft only to land heavily back on the ground, wondering where I'd just been for over an hour. Electric Ladyland is an incredible journey, which is still as fresh and as vibrant as it was the very first time. Hendrix is a well-worn icon these days, similar to Che Guevara or Lennon, or Jim Morrison for example. If you do, of course, subscribe to the commercial airing of his face then there is one thing I would expect from you: that you are, excuse the pun, 'experienced' in Electric Ladyland. If you're not: shame on you.

Pink Floyd Dark Side Of The Moon and the discovery. . . . . .

Looking back now it staggers me that I was fourteen when this record gripped me. I mean, what on earth would a relatively happy fourteen year old need from a progressive concept album made by a bunch of dinosaurs with a silly name, that, say, a Super Nintendo and a milkshake couldn't provide? The answer, my friends, is I still don't know. What I do know is this: Dark Side Of The Moon was like an alien spacecraft smashing through my roof in the dead of night, exploding into a kaleidoscope of colours, lights, images and feelings. It came from absolutely nowhere, and, to this day, is every inch as mesmerising as that first time I got my hands on it.

The night, if I remember rightly, was way back in 1997. I had gone to Tesco one evening with my Dad since it had begun opening late, and, as usual, buried myself in the CD isle, staring at the album covers and scanning the booklets. That was something I loved to do; I would regularly walk into town on a Saturday afternoon and jump from record shop to record shop staring in wide-eyed wonder at all of the names and faces on the record sleeves. Back then Southport was full of music orientated shops - Andy's Records, Market Records, MVC, Our Price - and Woolworths and WH Smiths also had extensive music departments. On this particular night my eye was drawn to the most fascinating record cover I think I'd ever seen - the now iconic prism of light that graces Dark Side. I picked it up and even then it felt like a piece of pure gold in my hand. Something inside told me I just had to have it. I harassed my Dad to buy it for me - needless to say he eventually gave in, and there I was, travelling home as the neon lights flashed by with one of the greatest albums ever made in my possession.



I knew nothing about Pink Floyd before I put the album into the player that night. Nothing at all. I had, of course, heard the name banded about, but had no idea what people were talking about. Little under an hour later I felt like I'd been sat in the studio with the band as they recorded it. That was how consuming this record was the first time I played it. I'd never heard anything like it in my life. From the emerging heartbeat at the beginning of the record to the dramatic, almost orchestral 'eclipse' at the end, I felt totally and utterly compelled. The concept - a man sinking into uncontrollable paranoia and depression - is not the ideal light relief one might command from a record. However, its sheer tenacity and alchemy is impossible to ignore. Somehow, somewhere inside my mind I felt like a door had been unlocked. I could breathe this music in - that's how powerful it seemed. Gilmour's guitar work on Breathe is quite simply immense. His vocal is equally as good. In fact, as the record progressed, I felt like I'd been taken on a journey through many different soundscapes and realms. On The Run and Time are both brilliantly inventive and experimental, whilst The Great Gig In The Sky - an adorable Rick Wright-penned piano piece - stands out as the album's defining moment. The ad-lib vocal solo by Clare Torry is, to this day (in my opinion) the greatest ever vocal recorded. It is beyond sublime. Many a night has passed by in which this song has eased the troubles at my door. It is purely magical.

Money - one of the few songs ever written in 7/4 time - is the perfect sequel to Torry's startling performance. It is a song that says so much about capitalist greed, selfishness, ego and paranoia. Waters excels himself with such superbly crafted lyrics. Us and Them is a haunting reminder of the initial concept, Brain Damage a terrifying account of mental breakdown, and Eclipse the perfect, manic crescendo at the end of a stunning forty odd minutes.

Several years later, when I went off to Sheffield to study for a degree in English, I found that many of my fellow students heralded this album in the same way that I did. Many a drunken and, admittedly, stoned night culminated with Dark Side at 4am. It provides the perfect escape from a world so cold and ruthless; a perfect escape from a life so often so bland. A defining moment in my life came in Hyde Park, London, a few years back when I saw Roger Waters perform Dark Side from start to finish with an all-star band - an evening I'll remember forever. David Gilmour, when interviewed in recent years, commented that he couldn't quite believe the monster they had created when he first listened to the record back. Well, David, I still can't believe it, and the chances are I never will.

Age

I went to meet a mate of mine on Sunday afternoon for a pint in Wetherspoons. As usual, I was running late, and he was half way through a pint of Carlsberg. "I got I.D'd for this," he told me in disgust as I approached the bar for one of my own. I suppose a small part of me thought this was my chance - after all these years this could finally be the time for someone to ask me if I was old enough to drink. I approached the bar, caught the eye of some 18-year old stunner, ordered my pint of Wobbly Bob then stood in wait. Needless to say, she gave me the pint, took the money, then fucked off up the other end of to serve another of the town's helpless drunks. "No good," I told my mate Brass, and threw a quid into the quiz machine. I knew then that I'd have to get used to the fact that my youth was pretty much over. And no, I didn't win anything.

"When people tell you how young you are looking, they are actually implying how old you actually are." (Cary Grant - Actor)

Now, age is a funny thing. I have friends of all ages - one in particular in his seventies whose company I adore, and the notion of age is, with him, always a great ice-breaker. "How are you doing," I'll ask him. "Well, I checked the obituaries in The Times this morning and I wasn't in there, so I guess I'm doing good." It is the likes of my mate Dave who makes me feel ashamed for complaining that I am getting on a bit at the ripe young age of twenty-seven. He makes a mockery of my grumbles. Though don't get me wrong, it's not all bad. I overheard a conversation on the bus the other day between two frustrated looking women in their late thirties in which one claimed that 'boys don't become real men until they turn twenty-seven.' I bounced off that bus looking down on any bloke I even suspected to be younger than me, feeling an exhalted sense of masculine pride. That, of course, until I saw countless numbers of spotty, skinny guys in their late teens and early twenties with gorgeous girls hanging off their arms. I figured it would nicer to be a boy with such luxuries than a man without.

Age, I guess, can be intimidating. I hate the fact that I can now say I left school over ten years ago. I still want to be that really young, scruffy, care-free adolescent scuffing my new shoes and kissing girls in the park; not a fully grown, scruffy, care-free adult scuffing my new shoes and not kissing girls in the park. I hate to think that my college days are a decade old. My mind is still there! And it genuinely is true when you are that age: you have no idea what you have got until it is gone. For some strange and unexplainable reason it is human nature for the young to crave to be older, and the older to crave to be young - except it is only the young that can win, since they will be older in time. Unfortunately, no amount of botox, liposuction or pretending can help anybody regain their youth.

I must admit that it is more the physical changes that have begun to alarm me. I used to hate being really skinny as a kid. I always wanted to have a bit more meat on me - maybe a bit more muscle. I used to get tired of the old 'more meat on a butcher's pencil' kind of crap. Of course, I was always very tall, and always a very athletic build, so I didn't look unusal with my skinniness. It's just that I always longed to grow some biceps to flash through my Beatles t-shirts, or some pecs to bust through my school shirts. Now, having rocketed from 11 and a half stone to 15 stone in the last year, I crave the days back when, if I turned sideways and stuck my tongue out I'd look like a zip. When I get into the shower now I do look like a more wholesome man. I can wobble the flesh around my chest. The problem is that I can wobble most bits these days. I have to be tactical now about what I wear; for example, there are certain shirts that used to double up as tents that I simply cannot put on before my socks, otherwise I can't physically stretch the material enough to get down there. Also, all of my 32 inch waist trousers have been made practically redundant, unless I'm feeling brave enough to breathe in for a full day. My t-shirts are more like vests, and for the first time in my life I seem to have aquired an alien second chin. "Oh, you're looking fullsome." "You look a lot healthier these days." "Gosh, haven't you filled out!" I feel like saying for fuck's sake, just call me a fat twat and be done with it.

Of course, I am exaggerating as usual. I don't look fat at all - though I guess being six feet three helps spread the wealth so that it's not so easy to identify. It's just that my body has changed dramatically, and I am the paranoid one that continues to notice. And then there's the face. Now, I have always had an older looking complexion, which is the most self-esteem preserving description that I can think of at this moment in time. I have, as you might have guessed from the opening, never been asked for I.D despite drinking round pubs, clubs and bars since the age of sixteen. My nose - probably my main feature - has, I believe, had much to do with that. Whilst riding home drunk with some friends in Australia several years back I was, shall we say, 'teased' regarding my rather large conk. I responded by telling them to fuck off, and explaining that I was proud of my nose - after all, I pointed out, it is Roman. At that point the taxi driver, who hadn't said a word throughout the entire journey, looked at me and said, in a typically irritating Aussie accent, "Yeah, mate, Roman all over your face."

Anyway, I've lost track. I loved it back then - being able to get away with looking older, that is. Now I can see the cons as well as the pros. Long hair doesn't help a young look, though that will be sacrificed for nothing. Sparrows feet, wrinkles and jowels are another story. I reckon it is around my age now - as we reach the late twenties - that all of these things start to ingrain themselves into our appearance. And fitness! My God, this is where it really does become shameful. Of course, the older you get, the more negative deposits (ok, I'll stop being so scientific - what I actually mean is kebabs, ale, pizzas etc) you collect. Plus, to free myself of TOTAL blame, I did snap my cruciate ligament playing cricket, closely followed by my ankle playing football - hence, both careers over. I play golf now, but the only time my heart races is when I have a par put, which to be honest isn't really that often. Therefore I am a shadow of the nervous little whippet I used to be. In fact, a rather larger, more rotund shadow at that. You see, if I wanted to be cynical I could, you know: i.e, exercise daily, eat wisely, die anyway. But that would just be sour grapes I suppose. . . . . . .

Anyway. The point of this little rant? I don't really know if I'm honest. Maybe I needed to get it off my chest, excuse the pun. Maybe it is a deep-rooted pyschological fear of mine to become fat. Or maybe, in an hour's time, I'll be embroiled in a drinking session that could very well go on all night long and include several saturated fat filled take-aways, and I just want to make myself feel better. The old 'let's go for a fag whilst we talk about quitting' mentality.

Yep. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to go with the latter.

Paul Weller's STANLEY ROAD and the birth of ME

It is impossible for me to explain the importance and influence of Paul Weller's seminal album Stanley Road on my own life. In fact, it has taken me fifteen years to even consider writing about it. Quite frankly, it is a record that has saved me. A record that has many times revived me. Given me hope. Thrilled me. Chilled me. Comforted me in the early hours. Put me in the mood before a big night out. It has been there for me at the lowest ebb, and still been there during the greatest highs. And yes, I know, it's just a record. But this is the wonderful power of art. The magnificent power of music. The power to connect. The power to stabilise your emotions, invade your soul, take a firm grip of your heart and mind. Stanley Road did all of these things. I didn't ask it to. I had no idea this was going to happen to me. I was just your average kid living an average life in an average Secondary School, just like everybody else, when this record came along to, seemingly, sing my whole life back to me.

The year was 1995, and I was thirteen years old. Admittedly, I'd always been a kid that had leaned towards music. At the age of five I won a dance competition impersonating Michael Jackson at a local social club. At the age of ten, I had a party to celebrate my birthday; mainly so that I could show off my brand new Alba turntable, and my still immaculate copy of the Beatles' Blue Album on double vinyl LP. At that time in life, coming towards the end of Primary School, a guy called Alan Price and myself often got into trouble for failing to return to lessons on time. We would always be discovered in some hidden corner of the schoolyard with a group around us singing Hey Jude or Eight Days A Week. It was, however, the incident in 1995 that would change things forever.

My parents had just recently purchased SKY TV. I suppose it made me feel pretty posh at the time, even though it was definitely the 'in thing' to have. My Dad and I had a particular interest in the Premiership football that was blossoming on SKY Sports; Soccer Sundays (which, incidentally enough, had Weller's Out Of The Sinking as its theme), and Monday Night Football with Martin Tyler and Andy Gray, which the whole world, at the time, seemed to be watching. However, I'd managed to have several plays with the space-age remote control and found all sorts of channels of all different kinds, most notably the music channels. My sister was watching MTV the night I came downstairs - the night that would change everything. When I looked at the TV I remember being mesmorised by what I saw and heard; a suited and booted, sharp looking guy in his mid-thirties with a Beatle-esque mop-top haircut, kravat, and what I would later discover to be pyschadelic 'pop-art' flashing past him in the background. The song, fittingly enough, was called The Changingman. "Who's this?" I asked my sister, thoroughly consumed by it all. "Paul Weller," she responded. "I've got his album on tape upstairs if you want it?" Needless to say I made her dig it out immediately - a cracked and dusty case, housing the album Stanley Road. That night I listened to it on repeat, putting the wheels in motion for what would be one of the most important discoveries of my life.

Now, school wasn't tough for me. I'm not going to pretend it was. I had plenty of friends, played in all of the sports teams, was lucky enough to be in all the top classes, and generally had a ball. I very often wake up today, at the age of 27, and wish I was back there without a care in the world or a thing to worry about. The nature of being that age, however, always brings its problems. Girls. Puberty. Rebellion. The discovery of drink. The inability to consider reason. I was no different to any other male entering adolescence. This, of course, was where Weller became so important to me. He, as a songwriter and musician, had become something I could believe in. He was someone that I could idolise. A kind of demi-God. His songs soothed me - took me away to some other place for the time that they were on, helping me escape the tumultuous emotions spinning around my head. I could laugh along to Stanley Road, cry when I needed to, do my homework, dance around my room, sing my heart out; it provided a release, a way out, a doorway to another realm. It gave me something I'd never felt I'd had before: freedom.

As time went on this album became more of a staple in my life. A day rarely went by without it passing through the player. I'd bought it on CD by then, of course, which meant I could read the booklet, dissect the lyrics, stare at the pictures, and imagine the world that Weller had envisaged whilst putting the record together. It was my interest in Stanley Road as a 'package' that triggered my obsession with record collecting - something that I still practice religiously to this day. Music had, all of a sudden, become 3-Dimensional in my life, and Weller was to blame. It wasn't long, of course, before I had discovered more of his stuff; Wild Wood, an album that had just as collateral an impact on me as Stanley Road did, and a little later on, Heavy Soul (1997), which was the first Weller record I actually bought on release - an occasion that brought me great excitement. I'd also taken a great interest in his influences too - mainly the whole Mod scene. The Beatles and The Stones, of course, but more specifically, The Who, The Kinks, and The Small Faces. It seemed like everywhere I looked I made another golden discovery. I had become Frodo Baggins starting my quest from the Shire to the heart of Rock'n'Roll, meeting all sorts of wierd and wonderful names and faces upon the way. The branches of the tree went on forever, and continue to still.

As my school years drew to a close, and my college years began, the Mod ethos had begun to grip me. I was, of course, a Weller devotee. I wanted to look like him, wanted to sing like him, wanted to play like him. I had taken up guitar and was progressing well. I just needed an image, and I loved everything that he and his contemporaries stood for. The clothes were cool, and the haircuts immense. I started to grow mine over my ears, and was concious of dressing snappy all the time. Female attention, as it does, began to interest me, which was when I truly began to realise the beauty of the song You Do Something To Me - in my humble opinion, the greatest song ever written. Over a decade later I still listen to that song regularly, and it still has the same magical effect on me. I also perform the song live too, since I am a working musician these days (probably, I might add, another thing I can blame Paul Weller for), and I never, ever get tired of singing it. It never fails to astonish me how audiences, whether young, old, or somewhere inbetween, melt when we begin to play it. It is beyond a masterpiece. Beyond just a song. It is a groundbreaking piece of art that has captured the hearts of generations who have the heart to be able to love. You'd have to be a stone-cold prehistoric not to, at least, appreciate the sentiment.

The rest of the album, in my opinion, is equally as strong. The Changingman, Broken Stones, and Out Of The Sinking - the other three singles on the album (along with You Do Something To Me), are all stunning and timeless records in their own right. Porcelain Gods and I Walk On Guilded Splinters provide a mesmorising, moody, and swirling medley in the early stages, and Woodcutter's Son is a driving, splintering, guitar-led stomper midway through. Time Passes is a whimsical, delicate ballad centered round memories of a past relationship. The title track Stanley Road is bouncing, piano-driven recollection of Weller's childhood, Pink On White Walls a medium paced thought-provoker, and Whirlpool's End a moving and tragic epic in which Weller's studio band excel themselves. It provides a perfect lead into the almost gospel and compelling Wings Of Speed, that can fill the heart with joy and the eyes with tears all at once. I'm no music journalist, and I'm not here to sell Stanley Road to anyone. This album is now part of me; part of who am and what I do, and so sooner or later my biopsy just had to come. It has taken me long enough to buck up the courage. Taken long enough to really consider the importance properly.

I first saw Paul Weller when I was 17 in Preston Guild Hall - a night that will live with me to my dying day. A night when my idol, for the first time, stood before me and delivered an electrifying education. I have travelled to see him over fifteen times since both in the UK and abroad, and will continue to do so until one of us ceases to exist. In fact, we share a room once again in May of this year - and a very prestigous room too; The Royal Albert Hall, London, for my first experience in this magnificent venue. I hope to share nights with this legend of popular music for many years to come, enjoy his records, and forever appreciate the impact that this man and his music has had on my life.

I thank you, Paul Weller, and, I love you Stanley Road.