It comes to something when you try and escape the winter’s never-ending round of extreme weather, only to be thwarted by a fresh bout of…extreme weather. That was the situation last week in New York, when the Colmans attempted to fly to Bermuda to attend the annual “Love Festival”. This charming little island is only an hour and 45 minutes away, a remarkably short distance considering the diametric climate. So, inspired by the fact that this is less than some peoples’ daily commute, we booked our tickets and set off for Newark Liberty International. There was no shortage of snow and ice en route, thanks to the city experiencing its fair share of the stuff over the past few weeks. Fortunately the roads had been cleared and even the Holland tunnel was running smooth and light.

The security lines at the airport were just as long as ever, but once through we settled down into the departure lounge with the ambience bordering on tickety-boo. It looked as if we were going to be on schedule. But then with just five minutes to boarding time, came the announcement that the flight had been cancelled due to hurricane force winds at Hamilton Airport. Tee-ed off? Yes, we were. Happy, not to be landing in a Force 7 gale? That goes without saying. So, back to Manhattan it was, but with the promise of an extra flight being laid on the next day. Suffice it to say, 24 hours later everything went according to plan and we actually arrived about ten minutes early.

We relished that crumb of extra time saved, as the “Love Festival” (a Valentine’s weekend as opposed to a hippy gathering) was due to kick off that evening. And what better way to get underway, than with a Gosling Rum cocktail party. Dispensed over ice and ginger ale, the locally-distilled firewater makes a wonderful concoction known as a ‘Dark and Stormy’. This is a fitting description, bearing in mind the previous day’s atmospheric craziness. The word is that Mr Gosling’s brew is about to be marketed in the U.K. But beware, because one shot of the stuff will have you getting up and singing with the band. Fortunately such a nightmarish scenario didn’t occur that night, as Wycliffe Gordon’s supercool musicians (the four-piece who were enlivening the proceedings), featured their leader’s talented girlfriend. And boy, could she wail.

The following morning, any thoughts of a clear blue sky enhancing Bermuda’s pink beaches were washed away with the latest area forecast. Plan ‘b’ had to be brought into play, and this ended up being a visit to the cinema to see - would you fathom it - “Valentine’s Day”. It didn’t take but five minutes to suss out that this elongated waste of time is a blatant cloning of “Love Actually”. If Richard Curtis, the writer and director behind the latter, is aware of the situation, then he needs to pay a visit to his legal eagle asap. For anyone contemplating stomaching the thing, there is just one box-office draw in amongst the overstuffed cast list. Julia Roberts. Apparently she appeared as a favour to director Garry Marshall who made her a star in “Pretty Woman”. For her trouble, Ms. Roberts picked up three million dollars in lieu of the six minutes she was seen on screen. That works out at $11,952 per spoken word.

On the third day, the Lord said ‘let there be light’ (winds that is) and indeed there was. The inclement conditions receded and joy abounded. With romance now in the air, the brave and the bold ventured forth in search of enchantment as well as photo opportunities. You’d think Aphrodite was at the Water Hole, because couples were seen to embrace each other underneath the celebrated Moongates. These stone-built edificies take the form of a wedding band-shaped arch, and scores of them are mounted in parks and gardens across the island. According to legend, a long and happy life in addition to a joyful and prosperous future is assured if you make a wish there with the right person. Call me sceptical, but I’m told that the experience is more beneficial than playing the lottery. As things turned out my wish did come true that evening. That’s because the seven course dinner we attended was topped-off with a performance by uptown legend, Chuck Jackson.

And bless my soul, was he good. Backed by a well-drilled combo who’d obviously done it, seen it and experienced the action, Chuck proceeded to charm the ladies and win over the guys. What a mentor this man is for up and coming r&b acts, in that he can exude style, panache and savvy in one fell swoop. Above all, his vocal chops remain in excellent shape allowing him to make the top notes like a man bounding up a flight of stairs rather taking an elevator. His coup de grâce was quite naturally ‘Any Day Now’, a song he originated as far back as 1962. The man must be some sort of prodigy, because the passing of time hasn’t taken its toll at all. At least that’s what it seemed like from where we were sitting. Oh, and by the way, Chuck and his wife also suffered the consequences of the unpredictable weather. Due to a late night round of north-westerlies, he wasn’t able to fly in until 2-45am that morning. So thank you Bermuda, and thank you Chuck Jackson. You’re a trooper.

In advance of the big night there were suggestions in the press, that the winning performers might echo the Milli Vanilli fiasco of twenty years previous by lip-synching. This was denied by the Recording Academy, although there was some doubt on the night as to who was doing it for real and who wasn’t. Miming on television has long been a touchy subject, with the subterfuge stretching as far back as Dick Clark’s “American Bandstand”. Aside of B. B. King and Jerry Lee Lewis who liked to perform ‘live’, the guests on Clark’s show simply went through the motions whilst a record was being played. The same system was adopted in the U.K. by “Top of the Pops”, that is until a run in with the Musicians Union brought about a new set of rules. During the show’s fourth season it was agreed that everyone would have to sing ‘live’ to a pre-recorded backing track. This worked sufficiently well until the last week of March 1967 when Jimi Hendrix turned up to plug his latest single, ‘Purple Haze’. Following a spirited introduction from compère Pete Murray, a tape-op in the control room fired-up the wrong machine and on came the backing track to Alan Price’s ‘Simon Smith and the Amazing Dancing Bear’. A bemused Hendrix looked straight into the camera and said, “I don’t know the words to this one man!”

Meanwhile, back with Grammy Awards # 52, or should we say “Beyonce Beanfeast’ because that was how the programme panned out, every single performance was so extreme and over-the-top you’d think that Cecil B DeMille was back in business. If your cup of meat happens to be the iniquitous Lady GaGa, Pink stealing a march on Cirque du Soliel or those unintentional Glam-Rock revivalists the Black Eyed Peas, then this Grammy was for you. If, like me you yearned for a song that didn’t require a songwriters’ stimulus package, then it was time to look elsewhere - and fast. Fortunately there were some less shallow moments - Jeff Beck and Imelda May paying tribute to Les Paul, the 3-D film of Michael Jackson’s ‘Earth Song’ and a lifetime achievement for Bobby Darin - but overall there seemed to be a whole lotta fakin’ going on. Having attended several CMA’s in the past, I can only say that staying the three-hour course is a challenge that only a survivor from some ‘Jungle Reality’ show might get through. What the production team will strive to do in 2011, short of staging the entire affair aboard a Mars Mission space shuttle, is anyone’s guess.

When commercial television arrived on the scene, it was something of a novelty to join in with the jingles. Many of the ads were more memorable than the latest pop hits, so it wasn’t uncommon to hear “Don’t forget the fruit gums mum”, “P-Pick up a Penguin” or “Yoo-hoo, Ty·Phoo” being sung in the street. Back then catchphrases weren’t allowed to go stale because updates were being made all the time. For some reason it’s the opposite way around these days. One particular tag-line, which is well past its sell-by date and should be avoided at all costs, is the highly unctuous - “Ask Your Doctor”. You can just imagine how many G.P.’s draw breath every time they hear this mother-of-all vagaries. Of late, the drug industry has been spending a fortune encouraging concerned individuals to meet with a physician to discuss the merits of a pill they’ve seen on TV. But guess what? This kind of high-pressure approach is scaring consumers away. People are far more focused on the side effects that get mentioned in the ad, so they end up believing the wonder cure will do more harm than good. As a result, the fifth most heavily advertised drug, Ambien, has become synonymous with side effects like hallucinations and dietary problems rather than anything positive. The company’s on-air campaign cost $151 million last year, and Ambien sales have since fallen by 37%.

Close behind in our tedious TV-ad top ten, lurks the mind-numbing - “For a limited time only”. This phrase has also been flogged to death, yet the mavens of Madison Avenue still think the public is going to rush out and purchase something that’s in danger of disappearing off the shelf. Retailers wouldn’t do anything of the sort, especially if there’s a big budget involved. For the truly adventurous ad agent who is determined to use as many catch-phrases as possible, there’s always the Infomercial. Better known as paid-programming, these prolonged-productions usually air outside of peak hours, or sometimes right at the moment the remote disappears down the back of the sofa. The formula frequently centres around a maze of gadgetry or household effects, but it’s often an overpriced boxed-set of Golden Oldies that is the focus of attention. The big sell gets underway with a declaration that the package is “Not available in stores”. How reassuring this is. Then the prime focus of the pitch kicks in with a parade of actors endorsing the product and claiming they once owned all of the tracks on scratchy 45s. Finally we get the piece de resistance which is always delivered with a booming - “But wait, there’s more!” There is? “Order now and you’ll receive an extra CD, absolutely free!” In that case here’s my credit card, which is also past its sell-by date.

It must be flattering for marketeers to think that their slick use of the lexicon has now found its way into the media. Let’s say you switch off the TV and open today’s paper. The first thing you see is a photo depicting a pair of blue suede shoes with an accompanying headline that reads - “Fans get all shook up over Elvis”. Give me strength! That’s not all, because the adjoining page contains a plug for a Slade reunion that urges - “Dust off your flares and dig out those tie-dyes!”. Can you believe that? Dig a little deeper and you’re likely to encounter another level of crassness - “First picture of…”. This totally vacuous edict suggests we are in line to see photo after photo of some oik who’s become newsworthy because his dog has got trapped down a drain. In desperation you turn to the sports section, and it’s there that you learn about a soccer transfer that’s supposedly gripping the nation - “Everyone’s talking about…”. Just to rub salt in an already gaping wound, the article wraps with the highly stultifying - “And the rest is history”. The hack responsible then writes about a European International in which he originates a statement that is all his own - “Instead of heading the ball, Rooney pulled the trigger with his foot”. The guy does however have the last laugh, because he notes that on his flight back from the game he witnessed the pilot saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our cruising altitude and we will be turning down the cabin lights. This is for your comfort to enhance the appearance of your flight attendants”. Whether it’s an ad or a journalistic statement, humour outweighs the serious stuff every time.

Like it or not, idiosyncrasies in the modern world are a necessary evil. Ad agencies and the media in general have to keep coming up with attention-grabbing one-liners, because marketing is essentially the art of getting people to spend money they don’t have on things they don’t need. Fair enough. But, as a plea from the heart, is it too much to ask for a few newly-minted phrasings? TV commercials have become more annoying than ever, due to a dearth of imagination, and our broadsheets and red-tops are in danger of extinction. Not so much from the internet, but from diminishing journalistic standards. Perhaps, therefore, it’s come to the point where we have to say - “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”? Then again, such an admittance might bring about - “If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it”. So, for the good of mankind, let’s just turn the latter around to read - “It is broken, so please fix it”.

The term ‘French rocker’ is America’s way of describing the former Jean-Philippe Smet, a man whose calling since 1959 has been to wave the flag for Républicain rock & roll. Now aged 66 and looking for all the world like Josef Fritzl with his moustache, Johnny Hallyday is still big potatoes in the mother country. This might equate to petite pois everywhere else, but he is most definitely grande pomme on home turf. The story that warranted such bold captioning was based on a sacroiliac operation that allegedly went wrong. This resulted in the misfortunate Monsieur requiring corrective surgery at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Centre in Hollywood. The media circus that followed was bizarre to say the least. Rather than reporting on any health progress, the CNN and Fox News teams who’d been sent there were more interested in covering the Canal Plus TV reporters from France whose objective was to cover the patient whose name was unknown in the States.

The madhouse got underway with Hallyday looking ashen and withdrawn in a wheelchair on arrival at LAX airport. Word came through that President Sarkozy had sent a get-well-soon message, so it was clear things were looking serious. When doctors at the medical centre administered an induced coma, you could almost hear the heavy hearts beating in harmony from Calais to Cannes. The nation then gasped at the news that their favourite son was going to take legal action against Dr Stephane Delajoux, the surgeon who’d performed the original surgery back in November. To add insult to injury, Dr. Delajoux was mugged by two hooded men outside of his home back in France. The surgeon’s lawyers duly issued a statement saying there was absolutely no negligence during the operation. The hurting singer retaliated by submitting a letter to French judges in which he claimed that he’d come ‘close to death’.

I once had the pleasure of meeting Johnny Hallyday, by way of a TV show back in the 80s on which Shakin’ Stevens was the featured guest. After the show, and with little expense spared, we were wined and dined at an extremely chic restaurant in the Champs-Élysées, the kind of which had seemingly been fitted with Dom Pérignon on tap. As with their champagne the French have always loved effervescent rock n roll, right from the time when Gene Vincent, Vince Taylor, Dick Rivers and Eddy Mitchell were helping Johnny establish the ‘black-leather movement’. There was just one downer. Whereas Gene hailed from the USA and Vince had grown up there, Johnny, Dick and Eddy found themselves hampered by their Gallic grammar when it came to sounding authentic on record. Johnny, though, has always had a healthy share of rock & roll attitude even if he’s never been blessed with the right-shaped larynx. So if there is still work to be done in his role as the ‘Parisian Presley’, then may we wish the man well. Vive Le Rock n Roll Johnny Hallyday, and bon rétablissement.

Allow me to explain. You can forgive all of those rapid television commercials that attempt to cram as much as possible into a designated time slot. But what is it with the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it programmes that are now being micro-processed out of all proportion? It’s got to the point where it actually hurts just to stare at a TV screen. Even trailers are affected, as I discovered the other day when I saw one for the Ellen DeGeneres Show. The thing flew by so fast, nobody could possibly have known what on earth it was publicizing. And it doesn’t end there. Later that evening up popped “The Bourne Supremacy” with Matt Damon. Having checked the release date of 2004, I reassured myself that a five year-old movie would surely be devoid of any kind of editorial butchering. How wrong could I be. The manic frame-switching was as bad as ever. So much for a supposed cinematic masterpiece. Don’t those in the motion picture industry realize they are churning out stuff that will be derided in years to come? Just think what a split or a quartered screen from the 1970s looks like here in the current day.

Having got that out of the way, here’s a challenge. Why not have a go at cutting a rug to the #1 single on the Hot 100, ‘Empire State Of Mind’, by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys. Sure, you’ll probably be able to pout and thrust to the thing as if you were once an extra in a Michael Jackson video. But try letting your hair down and boogie-ing to a record whose tempo is akin to sailing a ship through a sea of Mars Bars. No, this isn’t a generational issue. It’s more a case of feeling sorry for an audience that buys into such a snail-paced tedium. Whilst the so-called ’scenesters’ have been busy being cool, they’ve totally missed out on the kind of heart-stopping music that stirs the soul and propels the body into a unique form of expression. In some ways the rap race is akin to a fast food purchase that’s been given a green-label makeover. The package might purport to be ‘Country Fresh’, ‘Locally Grown’ or ‘Farm-Raised’, but, as any organic rock & roller will tell you, it’s what’s underneath the wrapper that counts.

Here and now, let’s spare a thought for those souls who’ve purchased a ‘Baby Einstein’ DVD for Christmas with the intention of turning some innocent youngster into a prodigy by Boxing Day. When the discs, manufactured by Disney Home Entertainment, hit the stores, the content seemed to be a veritable mother’s little helper in terms of dispatching a toddler to the top of the class. Following a cri de coeur over indifferent results, Disney ended up having to offer refunds to dissatisfied customers who’d bought the products in the belief that a fast-track had been found. As a prime example of the warp-speed society we now live in, the conflicting claim on the DVD box serves as a reminder that raising a child takes a lot of patience and commitment. So if a man comes on the radio who’s tellin’ you more and more about some useless information that’s supposed to fire your imagination, then it’s probably Del Boy trying to flog off a load of unsold toys for tots. Whatever it is that ultimately stirs your juices this Yuletide, why not let little Johnny enroll at the school of rock n roll. It’ll be worth it, because the experience will stir the adrenalin and almost certainly hasten the onset of testosterone. Happy holidays.

Not being partial to forcible indoctrination, I set out to avoid the x-perience for as long as possible. That remained true until just recently. Without so much as a by-your-leave or ‘what’s on Sky?’, a simple stroke of bad luck subjected me to the programme that we’re told has transfixed the nation. Midway through a family visit I walked into the parlour just as the Sony Watchman was being tuned into Psycho - sorry, SYCO-TV. Never expecting to witness much in the way of talent, I proceeded to sit there open-mouthed as a string of chimera-driven candidates attempted to win the hearts of Mr and Mrs Joe Public. The resulting ordinariness was compounded by the fact that each and every one of the hopefuls was surrounded by a covey of leaden-footed dancers who terped around a set that resembled a launch pad for Standard Fireworks. The most glaring thing of all was the producer’s consensus that pre-owned material was the order of the day rather anything that remotely sounded original. Surely it’s obvious that a watered-down rendering of an Elton John hit, a Motown classic or a Freddie Mercury standard belongs at the very far end of the pier.

It was all too much for a caring soul who sees no good reason why music should be so demeaned. An instant antidote had to be found. The answer lay in a visit to youtube where I dialed up the clip from “The Girl Can’t Help It” where Eddie Cochran cuts loose with ‘Twenty Flight Rock.’ It struck me rightaway that here was another seventeen year-old kid who’d once faced a camera in the name of pop music. The glaring difference with what I’d just seen was that Eddie had been filmed without the benefit of dry ice, or any superfluous hoofers who insisted on prancing through an armoury of pyrotechnics. Back-dropped by a solitary curtain and with just a guitar and an amp to hand, the street smart son-of-a-gun placed his brand on a song that he’d not only co-written, he’d produced the recording as well. Eddie simply exuded confidence, and with a hefty chunk of rock & roll attitude thrown in for good measure he’d unwittingly created the benchmark by which a pop wannabe would forever be judged.

The question is, would Simon Cowell, the beat farmer from Max Factor, have given Eddie Cochran a record deal back in 1956? I doubt it very much. That’s because Simon has never understood and therefore doesn’t appreciate rock & roll. How can I say this with any kind of authority? Well, when I first began producing hit records with Shakin’ Stevens, a young Simon Phillip used to visit the studio where I worked every Monday morning. At the time he was plugging for a newly-launched music publishing company and he would arrive armed with a briefcase full of demos. Unfortunately there was never anything worth cutting in amongst the stash, and he had to turn around and go away empty-handed. Steadfast Simon as we now know ended up a very wealthy turkey farmer, so the rest is mystery. What care he at this stage of the game?

Happy Thanksgiving Pilgrims.

During the past couple of weeks, Letterman has become toast in the eyes of the competition. On the plus side he’s fared well, trouncing Conan O’Brien’s Tonight Show in the Nielsen ratings and outpacing Jay Leno’s fractious new primetime slot. But TV personalities across every network have a field day poking fun at the man, ever since he admitted on screen his involvement in a series of dalliances in the workplace. Unfortunately for Davy boy, the whistleblower on this occasion is not your standard disgruntled employee. Letterman’s nemesis turns out to be a CBS producer named Robert Joe Halderman. The fact that Dave was seeing the same intern from the “Late Night Show” as Halderman was, tipped the love bandit over the edge. Halderman has subsequently been arrested and charged with attempted blackmail. Needless to say, the press has been having a field day. According to the New York Daily News the recently married Letterman had a ‘crash pad’ installed at the top of the Ed Sullivan theatre, on the basis that the facility enables him to ‘relax’ at all times of the day: Cue the payoff. Based on the fact that the theatre with the love nest was once linked to Elvis Presley, the paper printed the headline - “From Houndog to Horndog”.

Whilst all of this palaver was going on, CBS flew its ‘business as usual’ flag by staging a Tim McGraw webcast under the banner of “Live on Letterman”. When a pair of fast-track tickets courtesy of the company’s Interactive Music Group landed on my doorstep, along I went. I’d seen Tim on two previous occasions at the Nashville Arena in front of 18,000 screaming fans, but this was an altogether different experience. First and foremost the Ed Sullivan Theatre is a far more intimate venue (just ask David Letterman), so the place was well-suited to a concert of this sort. Being as this took place in a seen-it-all city I would have thought that the audience would have been a little on the ‘cool’ side, but not so. Everyone present seemed determined to raise Cain, and from the minute the McGraw band ambled on stage the place went bananas. The roar was so deafening when their paymaster finally materialized, you’d have thought Faith Hill had joined her husband on stage. It wasn’t the night though, for any overworked clichés.

The nine pickers got straight down to business and from the opening sass of ‘Something Like That (BBQ Stain)’ to the ironically-titled ‘I Like It, I Love It, I Want Some More Of It’, Tim Mcgraw proceeded to play to the gallery and the stalls, as well as Letterman’s rumoured rendezvous. The core value of the event, particularly for the artist, was the timely moment for unveiling some of the material from “Southern Voice”. Released in the past few days, this is Tim McGraw’s first new album since Curb Records stemmed his flow by swamping the market with a string of “Greatest Hits” collections. The poignant ‘If I Died Today’ cleffed by the Warren Brothers, Brett and Brad, proved to be the star turn in this department. Although as far as the amorous couple in front of me were concerned, the heart-tugging sentiment of ‘My Best Friend’ was clearly the whole kit and canoodle. The album’s title track complete with a set of wailing Hohner harmonica fills epitomized that familiar link between country couplets and a Stones backbeat. The song happens to be a neat roll call that manages to namecheck Hank Williams, Chuck Berry, Dolly Parton and Jerry Lee in one fell swoop.

Back in my Nashville days I once rubbed shoulders with the McGraw family in a corporate suite at a Predators’ ice-hockey game. The evening was particularly memorable because whenever the home team scored, the JumboTron would show a video of Tim singing ‘I Like It, I Love It, I Want Some More Of It’ complete with a set of puck-inspired lyrics. This was the song that wrapped up his 40-minute webcast, and the crowd responded as if the Preds had already won the play-offs. Right now I’ve had my fill of jerky funked-up rhythms and the kind of discophonic panderings that dominate our daily routines. So to these ears the welcome sound of a baion kick drum and a raft of tasteful soloing, added up to a breath of fresh musical air. And before we get through with the plaudits, kudos to the man himself for adopting the right amount of down-homeness. I departed the theatre knowing that this easy-rider with a leather Stetson and the kind of designer denims that make the ladies go ga-ga, is proof enough that cowboy chic is alive and kicking. There’s only one difference. It’s now known as Brand McGraw.

There are, however, still a few boardwalks in situ that regularly attract the determined venturer. Brooklynites are blessed with a prime example, namely the wooden decking that graces the celebrated turf of Coney Island. It’s intriguing to discover that this four-mile tract of land inherited its moniker from the Dutch word for a rabbit. This is highly appropriate, because many a young buck, I’m sure, has chased a cottontail or two around Coney’s warren of Waltzers over the years. History shows that despite their pungent aroma of diesel oil and fried onions, amusement parks make for an ideal hangout when it comes to dating. Just ask that Brooklynite of no fixed record label, Lou Reed. The famed fretboarder became so taken with his locale, that he once wrote and recorded ‘Coney Island Baby’ for an album of the same name. Right now the island’s main attraction is inline for a much-needed makeover after being held back by years of corporate bluff and bluster. So instead of being replaced by yet another parade of land-eating apartments, Coney Island is going to hang onto its tangled rollercoasters and its Wonder Wheel, in addition to a host of idiosyncrasies including a mermaid parade, a troop of fire-eaters and a phalanx of amateur psychoanalysts.

Here in 2009 the letters WINS are used by Microsoft to initialize their ‘Windows Internet Name Service’. Back in the day, visitors to Coney Island would recognize WINS as the call sign for a key Manhattan radio station. First and foremost WINS was home to Alan Freed, the jock with the stock who emceed four hours of rock & roll every evening. During the late fifties it was possible to stroll along the boardwalks of the Atlantic Coast whilst digging Freed’s show on a pocket transistor. Needless to say on the other side of the Atlantic it was a different story. England certainly had its share of penny arcades and amusements, but there was no flagship broadcaster to match what Freed was doing. As no one in their right mind would stroll around with a portable radio tuned to the BBC’s Light Programme, the only alternative if you wanted to get your fill of rock & roll was to hang out at a fairground. You knew that the guys running the rides would crank up the volume good and loud, so this was the one place you could really home in on the latest product from Elvis, Chuck Berry or Fats Domino.

But was it? Let’s not forget the power and the influence upon our society of those luminous vending machines that bore the names Seeburg, Bal-Ami and Wurlitzer. Yes, we’re talking about those perpetual purveyors of piercing pop music - jukeboxes. I have to say that I’ve leaned on a quite a few of the things over the years, but never so memorably as the model that resided in a shooting gallery on the Central Pier in Blackpool. During my short trouser days, this west Lancashire town was about as near as you could get to Coney Island. The Colmans, like so many other northern families, would head to the resort for a standard seven day visit each and every summer and we’d have a spiffing time. It seems ridiculous now but whilst my parents were busy sunning themselves on the beach, their eleven year-old son would be wandering around the town’s amusement arcades without a care in the world. That’s where I came across the aforementioned jukebox. The striking thing about this vintage piece of equipment was that instead of 45s, the machine played 78s. This confused me because the whole idea was that a mechanical arm would flip the records to give access to the other side. It eventually dawned on me that any such action would almost certainly smash a ten inch slice of shellac to smithereens. My next question was, how did that week’s holidaymakers get to play the hidden songs? The answer came in the form of a hand-written note that was taped to the coin box. “For anyone wishing to hear the b-sides, the proprietor will turn the records over on Wednesday”. Happy days.

The necessary iron was thrust into the fire when Johnny Carson stepped down from the “Tonight Show” in 1992. Despite a strong pitch from the self-assured David Letterman, it was Leno who got the gig. Given a team of talented writers, a terrific band and all the hoopla that NBC could muster, the show became the personification of the ‘late-night’ medium. And so it remained right up until May of this year, which was when the host took a well-earned sabbatical. Before he departed Jay affirmed his loyalty to the network, in addition to dropping hints about a new show that would debut in the fall.   

There followed a build-up of gargantuan proportions. Throughout August and well past Labour Day, the nation was subjected to an endless round of media soundings in preparation for the ’second coming’ of TV comedy. On a local level, street corners within reach of the NBC studios were adorned with life-sized posters. Sight-seeing buses carried the show’s fancy new logo and ticker-tape news strips spelled out the message in Times Square. It reached the point where you’d think Leno had lobbied the Senate in search of an official go-ahead to revolutionize prime-time.

By the second Monday in the month the show had been hyped to high heaven. This was worrying because it would be nigh on impossible for any new programme or series to live up to such a welter of bull and ballyhoo. And that  is precisely what happened. The critics had a field day when the series was unveiled.  “It’s not a good sign when the Bud Light commercial is funnier than the comedy show it interrupts“, said the L.A. Times. “No one expected Leno to reinvent the wheel”, huffed NPR. “It’s just that after so many years on the job, you’d expect he’d make a better one”.

The most disturbing thing of all was, the one feature of the show that elicited two thumbs up from commentators and viewers alike was the ‘musical’ finale with Jay-Z, Kanye West and Rhianna. For those who are clueless at the mere mention of the name Jay-Z, and there are many, the guy exists as an exponent of B-boying, graffiti writing, DJing and eMCeeing. Translated into non-Jay-Z jargon, he is a Hip Hop merchant. Viewed through these eyes and ears, the ‘performance’ was a travesty. As Leno’s show is being promoted as offering sixty minutes of edgy humour, those with an objective outlook could have been forgiven for thinking that the lurching, pouting, snarling and posing was yet another lightweight comedy skit.

You have to point the finger at the record industry for continuing to neglect straight-ahead pop music and creating a void that is being so hopelessly filled by rap. That’s not to say that the stuff doesn’t sell. RocNation / Sony Music issued a statement in the wake of the show, that Jay-Z has now scored more #1’s than Elvis Presley. Now this brings us straight back to the world of aching sides. Even allowing for creative accounting and the trough that the record business is still entrenched  in, this is a desperate claim. If the system had been in place to accurately tally record sales across the globe when Elvis first broke through, no one in our lifetime would be able to make such a ridiculous statement.
 
If complacancy can be side-stepped and the Emperor’s new clothes stashed away in the closet, then NBC’s executives should by now  have assembled around the board room table in order to thrash out ’plan-b’. An instant makeover is the only answer if their fall-about laughing “Jay Leno Show” has any chance of remaining in the ten o’clock slot in the months to come. And Jay? Think hard when you book your next set of guests.

Following the success of RedOctane’s “Guitar Heroes” (a format that has done wonders for rusting Heavy Metal outfits), the B.R.B. video is destined to elevate wannabes into potential “Pop Idol” candidates. The process of depicting John, Paul, George and Ringo in a subliminal form is nothing new of course. Beginning in 1965 a Beatles cartoon series aired on ABC-TV in the States, and around the same time Madame Tussauds unveiled its very own Beatle waxworks - although the less said about that the better. It is a little known fact that up until 1967 no one had ever used the term ‘Band’ in conjunction with a beat group before. In their efforts to stay one jump ahead, the Fab Four took out a series of full page ads in the music press to promote their latest work as being by The Beatles - “A Band”. Once again, the ‘rock music’ lexicon was in need of adjustment.

On June 1st 1987 I was invited to Abbey Road to be present at the CD launch of “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”. I shall never forget the experience, not just because of the aural improvements that had been made since the album’s vinyl release (cue: ‘twenty years ago today’) but because of the reaction of those present. At the time I was producing in London as well as broadcasting on the BBC, so naturally I imagined that I might be joined by a few fellow deejays and some industry faces. It turned out that everyone present hailed from Fleet Street. As the music unfolded in its new set of digital clothes I began grooving away. When I looked around, to my astonishment I couldn’t see a single finger twitching or a foot tapping to the pulse of ‘Rita’, ‘64′ or ‘Mr. Kite’. Sure, there were plenty of notebooks being scribbled in, but there was no sign of any passion or any muscle moving to the beat of the Beatles. Those blasé pencil pushers were clearly devoid of any soul.

Newly-mastered yet again, the groups’ abiding legacy now sounds as fresh as a daisy. I make no bones about it. Right there is an indirect reference to the finest Beatle soundalike ever recorded - ‘Fresh As A Daisy’ by Emitt Rhodes. Full credit to Paul, Ringo, Yoko and Olivia Harrison for the time and effort they’ve given to getting this crucial project right. Let’s be honest, the industry has come a long way since the days when names were mis-spelt and lyrics were misheard. Who remembers when photos were printed the wrong way around, thus making southpaws out of John, George and Ringo, and Paul seemingly playing a right-handed bass. Whilst the gravy train is rolling, let us spare a thought for the manufacturers of Beatle wigs. If a certain Rod Blagojevich has his way, Beatle haircuts could soon be back in style. The mop-haired former Governor of Illinois who was impeached back in January, is currently in New York promoting his 259-page memoir. The tome likens his demise to a Shakespearean tragedy so, altogether now, “Yeah, yeah, yeah verily”.