The details fall away

When he’s not making a living on UK television chat shows, pretending to be a great by reeling off anecdotes about brushing shoulders with legends at Motown, Lionel Richie can usually be found releasing horrific contemporary dance versions of his old ‘classics’. Having perhaps finally found these routes to be dead ends, Richie’s new pastime is cashing in on crisp commercials, perhaps to woo Robbie Williams into a collaboration. After all, they’ve been ‘playing around‘ lots…

Hand shakes and hugs
open trap doors of banter,
the clink of a wine glass or
screech of a pizza slicing.
In jokes isolate a waiter
whilst piano keys bop.
Pepper rains silence on chat
until it sits before more jokes.
The how is she’s, what about’s
and when shall we meet again’s
zap together levels to the same.
A bill, bus and key jingles
wrap it all up until the next beer,
dance, date or breakdown call.

It’s a terrifying thought that every Britain’s Got Talent spin off around the world casts its own Ant & Dec clowns on the side of the stage making retarded facial expressions of ‘surprise’ and ‘amazement’. Not only does Simon Cowell rape the music industry’s dead corpse, he’s breading an international army of brain dead TV presenters. On the plus side, I appear to have mastered Hindi in 6 minutes and understood every Gujarat version of ‘I want this 110%’, ‘Dream come true’, ‘More than anything’ and ‘To get this far, it means the world’.

India’s Got Talent

• Establish elbow ownership of the arm rests before taking off. It’s near impossible to regain ground.
• Don’t watch Chariots Of Fire on the in flight movie system. You’ll feel inspired to run and there’s nowhere to go.
• The man with no shoes and socks who used a near flooded toilet before you was up to something. Tread carefully.
• Whether you’re a Woody Allen fan or not, you’ll want to sleep. Just don’t expect to.
• Closed eyes means ‘peanuts, please!’ to flight assistants. A blanket signifies a three course meal distributed more tiresomely than Matrix Reloaded and Revolution.
• Post Orgasmic Chill by Skunk Anansie is superb. Where have all the bald women gone? Even Gail Porter’s back to fluff.
• Try your best to ignore the family of holiday makers in front, counting down to returning home for a ‘real English curry’ having spent a fortnight beside a pool in Thailand.
• No, you’ll probably never laugh so much at Friends again, until your next 15 hours overdose of recycled air.
• When you see that same bare footed guy on your next trip to the toilet and the floor’s in a much worse state, tread even more carefully.
• I know, just take a deep breath and let them do what they do. Hand luggage and ‘stay in your seat’ means different things to different people.

A snippet of this review features on  the PaulMcCartney.com Up & Coming fan reviews section

The first time I experienced a Paul McCartney gig was at Camden’s Roundhouse as part of the Electric Proms. My good friend Mike came along and the unexplainable sense of excitement we shared over a beer beforehand converted into euphoria that took a sick day from work and a good week to calm down from. From the opening of ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ from my favourite album to the violinists during Eleanor Rigby and crowd sing a long of Let It Be, the jigsaw pieces of recollection clouded in a memory simply of delight, sat easily atop my personal chart of greatest ever gigs attended and most enjoyable nights out had.

In the run up to Mike and I’s second outing to experience McCartney, the excitement was incredibly high again. The little concern we had that a venue of London O2′s stature might be too superficial for an artist of such greatness evaporated the moment we entered the arena – perhaps party thanks to the wonderfully quaint touches of incense perfuming the air and food outlets stocking Linda McCartney vegetable burgers. The man came on, the static grids of attendees rose and it happened all over. My voice grew hoarse through huge sing-a-long moments, my eyes watered during Here Today and my party sat glancing at each other in near disbelief and amazement throughout the crowd muting Blackbird. McCartney newcomers Mark and Wesley had one incredible introduction to rock royalty.

When I logged off my computer having secured tickets to my third McCartney outing, I felt a hint of Deja vu; reflecting on the privilege it was to witness such performances, hear utter classics and dance along in the presence of my favourite of all artists. The weeks preceding the day in Hyde Park followed the usual pattern; how little should I listen to my CD collection during the countdown? Could anything top the previous two ecstatic occasions?

Before any clenched fists were raised into the air for Jet, any doubt I had that listening to CDs throughout the few weeks prior would leave the set not feeling fresh or that turning up for my third gig wouldn’t live up to previous dates vanished like all the clouds had from the perfect blue sky of that evening in June. Joined this time by friends Marilu, Hannah and company, we swayed, sang and smiled for three solid hours of incredible moments.

Whilst it’d be silly placing the slices of magic in order of enjoyment, one of the first that comes to mind is that of Hey Jude. In one moment I was laughing to myself out of sheer unknowing of how else I could express satisfaction. In another I had been raised to the shoulders of Mike and Rodrigo, upon which the audience seemed to disappear and make way for a personal one on one moment with the man on stage and me.

The next morning I thought back to the big night and felt the same huge smile that spanned my face the first two morning’s after appear again. Text messages and phone calls between the gang I’d attended with helped clear the mist of Macca Mania, empty the ‘best one ever’ envelope and seal a new case file in. Call it a day now and feel lucky for what I’ve had? Probably. Until I set my alarm early for the next morning of ticket sales madness. After all, I’ve yet to hear Maybe I’m Amazed live.