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. . . . .