What I don't want for Christmas...

Yes, I'm watching a lot of daytime TV right now. On This Morning this morning (ah, I see what they've done there) some young chap was giving Fern and Phil a lot of suggestions for Christmas presents they should be buying, mainly consisting of 'personalised' items such as pillows and pop art and chopping boards, all of which appeared to be emblazoned with pictures of Fern's children and dogs or monogrammed 'PS'. I'm sure even the usual This Morning demograph would have looked at all this nonsense and realised it was a lot of overpriced shit.

Then there's John Barrowman. Now, John Barrowman as Captain Jack I love. But John Barrowman the air-brushed, pitch-shifted, all-round entertainer, Lloyd Webber search for a singer with a tight perm panelist and, as described today on Loose Women, "top TV man and now music master" I'd shoot with a big smile on my face, safe in the knowledge that I wasn't committing murder but carrying out a public service. I keep seeing the low-budget advert for JB's new album Another Side. I can only assume that the other side in question is John's back side, as not only does the tracklisting stink, the snippets of John's silky smooth West End stylee balladeer efforts displayed on the ad are akin to the outpourings of several thousand ripped open intestines. What a world already brimming with the bowel movements of the bad music brigade doesn't need is yet another CD full of cover versions of Your So Vain, All By Myself and If You Leave Me Now dumped on it. Here's more dross that begs the question - who buys this rubbish? I'd hope that common sense would prevail and the answer would come back nobody, but even I know that several thousand units will shift. A quick glance at Amazon provides some hints and tips and general merriment at the target audience's expense: "this CD is not only timeless and beautifully performed but the chosen tracks have meaning not only to the man himself but to my own heart which comes across in the recording" writes Mrs A McNeilly, suggesting that JB's powers also extend to psychic readings of people's hearts. "Before yesterday I had not heard John Barrowman sing, or indeed knew he sang," writes Mrs L Piper, with no hint of irony or malice, and, as well as enjoying John's grooves, even adds some insight into her own exciting life, "Its brilliant, I usually like rock (favourite Meatloaf) or songs from 30 or more years ago...". "...if you're like me, you'll lap up anything he does regardless," says Haecce Ity, creating the impression that she has cat-like tendencies. IR Scott comes up with a controversial view: "This CD is very enjoyable although, for me, the material is not as good as the performances," although I'm not sure I can fathom how you can compare what someone's singing to how they sing it, nor detach the singer from the song in this way. But I'm tired, so perhaps this makes perfect sense to those without a one week old son. Sarah Bailey has taken Your So Vain to heart and takes a self congratulatory approach: "best wishes for the future sarah bailey xxx" Finally, I especially like Kirsten Weissenberg's claims for the life-changing effects that JB's toons can have on a listener: "If I was not a fan up until now (which I totally am) I would be now. Long may this beautiful music continue!!!" I say to Kirsten, If I was a fan (which I totally aren't) I'd be seeking psychiatric help if I'd parted any money for this. No, I don't want John Barrowman Another Side for Christmas. I want Cliff Richard's Love The Album. That's where it's at. A 67 year old celibate bachelor telling me about love.

Tags: live music, John Barrowman, Cliff Richard

When the dust settles...

Rather quiet in Queens Gardens today. Shame.

I have done a fair amount of watching this weekend - The Paddingtons may not have entered my field of vision as planned but I watched England win, I watched the X-Factor, I watched Hell's Kitchen. My, how I love that last one. Like Brian Dowling, I wished that Jim Davidson would just get the f**k out of the kitchen. But some people - Ziggy from Big Brother is another - just don't know how to quit, do they? They just talk about it, and then, unfortunately, stay. Jim, stood there in his suit reading from his notes and then sitting with a scycophantic Marco Pierre White (surely the last remaining Jim Davidson fan in existence) reminded me of quite a few people I've worked with over the years. I hate it here, I hate everything about it, I will say something I regret. Leave then. Say something you regret, it doesn't really matter. But they never do. I imagine that not only will Jim Davidson attempt to stay once he's been evicted (sometime soon, surely), he will also remain as they're striking the set and he'll still be there come the next series. In fact, he'll be haunting this show in the afterlife, where he'll also still be a racist and a homophobe and still be harping on about how the PC brigade did for him, rather than his tiny, ignorant mind.

Meanwhile, now the dust has settled over the riverside, you can see what a few high explosives can do to an old mill. Quite a nice clean break, quite a hefty pile of rubble, still a fair amount of building to blow up.

Tags: Hull, live music, Hell's Kitchen, reality tv

Rockin' aftermath...

As I said, East Park did rock and I hope it does again - and, indeed, that the Rocks event becomes a regular and prominent fixture on Hull's triflingly small music calendar. I enjoyed myself, I think the majority of the gathered throng did too. But modern-day Woodstock lovefest it wasn't. There was no mistaking that this was an event taking place in a city 40 years behind the pace set by yer Leeds and yer Madchesters et al. It was as if a good 50 per cent of the crowd had never been out of the house before, never mind witnessed live music at close quarters, such was their incapacity to have a good time that didn't revolve around having a fight with someone who'd looked at 'em a bit strange. Yeah, alcohol and sunshine is always going to result in casualties of some kind but must it always disengage brains quite so drastically as it does in Hull? There was an undercurrent of something-or-other by mid-afternoon, as a couple of gents started kicking a rugby ball indiscriminately at all and sundry (not, in itself, a crime, granted), managing to seriously upset the parents of very young children who'd almost caught the ball face first. That undercurrent remained. I witnessed a few incidents but, heck, I'm not a law enforcement officer, I don't begrudge anyone fun and we were in our own little coccoon of loveliness. Yet I'd also have expected the police presence, which, although not massive, was certainly prominent, to have had the odd quiet word in the necessary ears. Before things got nasty. But they didn't.

So there was the inevitable fight, which resembled something from the glorious, gory Altamont. People sure can kick when they're in a mob, can't they? And only after that incident did the uniformed classes decide to take matters seriously. Yet they, too, appear to have never been out of the house, never mind to a gig, resorting to the level of haphazard, clueless gig security not seen since the Angels looked after Mick and Keef at the aformentioned and very final end to the Sixties. Signalled to the odd moshing incident by some gents handling security at the front of the stage, the police would head in en-masse, never once finding their suspects but, from where I was standing, pissing off some people and amusing others by their ineptness. It was a big relief when The Paddingtons rounded off the night with Panic Attack that myself and eldest son hadn't been stabbed for pushing over a copper's hog. Gimme shelter in mind, we left the second lanky fashion guru Josh Hubbard placed his feedbacking guitar on the floor. Although I witnessed nothing myself and have neither heard, seen nor read any reports in the local meedja, I have it on good authority, from two police officers I spoke to this morning, that the evening really kicked off at the gig's close with a choice selection of fighting in the streets surrounding the park.
Wonderful. I'm sure the organisers will have no trouble getting a license to stage the event next year. Looking forward to Hull Flood Aid next week, a city centre open-air gig that may well be attended by the same bunch of immature bastards keen to spoil something that had "bloody good" written all over it.

A good thing...

East Park did rock. The Paddingtons were ace, the veg curry from The Lamp's mobile eatery equally satisfying, the sunshine and the PA surpassed our expectations. We shall discuss the rather poor policing of the event in a later entry.

Will the East rock?

Hull's a bit like Berlin back in the days of the wall. Plenty of concrete everywhere. Only we have a river instead of a wall, and Police Community Support Officers instead of the Stasi and traffic wardens instead of Checkpoint Charlie. The wall comes down today, without the need for David Hasselhoff to come and sing, and all those cool kids that hang out on Princes Avenue in their smart indie clothes will be making the trek over the river to watch East Park Rocks, headlined by everyone's little chums The Paddingtons. It's in East Park and it involves Hull's choicest bands and it's free. And the sun's shining. Heck, it might even be good! I shall let you know. I'm off to purchase some party snacks to make the day go by without hunger pangs. My only caveat is that the fake, advertising-led "ooh we're so cooool we're down with the kidz just don't tell everyone we're a part of the Hull Daily Mail, it's a secret, we're coooool, we're really coooool, we go clubbing, we're on myspace and bebo and buzznet and dontstayin and everything" Hull Vibe are involved. But, well, an event needs its sponsors, eh?

Talking of the river, I noticed the other day that some of the riverbank appeared to be sliding River Hullwards at the site of a new property development (more 'luxury' apartments) and next to the bridge we call North Bridge. Yesterday, they were making sure that the new building would be on the riverside rather than in the river by shoring the whole thing up.

As one building goes up another comes down, it seems, adding to the blitzkrieg skyline we so enjoy in these parts, and half of this beauty on the right goes the way of the controlled explosion tomorrow.

Youth...

The train was crammed full of young 'uns en route to Carling Leeds this morning. As they all pushed through the barrier at journeys end I did feel slightly envious and wished I was going with them up to Bramham Park. Although, as they all looked about 12, that would have been a bit of a weird move. I couldn't even think of a way to broach the subject with them. And, well, I sort of assumed they'd say no as their parents will have told them before they set off not to talk to strangers. Ah, the wrecklessness of youth, giving up four days of their school holidays to go and listen to some rock music and drink cider round a two-man tent. So, without so much as an introduction, never mind a tearful goodbye, I left them with their ruck sacks and ground sheets and skulked off to the opera company, leaving them with their dreams of the greatest gig ever to be performed by Arcade Fire, The Twang, The New Young Pony Club and all the others. I couldn't help but check the festival website this morning, where this little ditty amused me: "With only hours to go, the final things are being put into place. Thanks to all those that made this possible." The final things? I wonder what they could be? And who are all those making the putting into place the final things possible? Are the final things heavy? Is one of them Devendra Banhart's bong? Or are the things more likely to be the Cajun Dance Party's filé powder, chopped green peppers, onions and celery rider? I may never know, unless BBC Three's backstage coverage is exceptional.