Friday 21 July 2006

in the air somewhere over the Atlantic
Last night, in amongst packing, practising and being relieved that the temperature had dropped below sweltering, I signed the licensing agreement for our version of Daniel Johnston's Walking the Cow. Great: a contract that I could read in two minutes, and understand every word without effort. If only more music business contract were like that.

And I watched Charlie Brooker's Screen Wipe on BBC4, just to see if his virtuoso misanthropy comes across as well in person as in print. Of course it does. He has a face (to misquote one of his more memorable phrases) that looks like someone just opened a packet of shitbiscuits under his nose. His concluding 5 minute rant about the insiduous nature of makeover TV was quite brilliant, and he invents compound swearwords better than most people too. The programme looks like it has a budget of 10p and is a bit hit-and-miss to be honest, but well worth it nonetheless. Given that I rarely watch more than an hour of television a week, why I enjoy programmes about television is a bit of a mystery.

So far, today's travelling has been regulation miserable. No disasters, but no spirits-lifting moments of joy either. The check-in queue was non-existent in Glasgow, so having got up at 5.30am especially to stand in it, I sat and read the paper for an hour instead. 

Have I mentioned before how much I loathe and detest Heathrow airport? Ferried around on cattle trucks, broken escalators, stifling heat, and it's smelly. Ugh. And once on the plane we had to wait 45 minutes before the thing could actually take off. At least I made my connection with a few minutes to spare, and now I'm on a tatty old Air Canada 767: they clearly keep the nice shiny new planes for proper influential people who are going to big proper cities. We're stopping off in Newfoundland before heading for Halifax and my evening rehearsal with DG and Tempest. 

To pass the time I've relaxed my newfound puritanical attitude to alcohol by having a couple of glasses of (really foul) wine, and reading Seb Hunter's Rock Me Amadeus, which Tommy Pearson bullied me by text message into buying when I was on holiday. At least I phoned my local bookshop at home to order it and then picked it up on my bike rather than using Amazon. But it's very funny (on the whole), even if he spends a fair chunk of a chapter taking the piss out of my old pal Susanna Pell. 

To my shame, I have to admit that on my iPod is the DIY Songs compilation that Warners (I think) have put together. I saw it lying around in an editing room the other day and couldn't resist borrowing it. Yes, this is how the major record companies evaluate music: not 'is it any good?' but 'can you put up a shelf to it?' In its defence, it does have the Stranglers' Golden Brown on it, pretty much the only hit record I can think of that uses a harpsichord properly as an accompaniment instrument. So that's all right then. No it isn't. A lazy dad-rock compilation with the occasional hammering reference thrown in for 'humour' is not excused by the inclusion of genius like Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick either. I'll go back to listening to Music in Twelve Parts. Now that's what I call travelogue music. 12.