French and Italian football fans have been forced to watch their national teams let the side down in spectacular style. I am a great believer in divine retribution, and the chickens have come home to roost for Les Bleus and the Azzurri. The Italians won the World Cup last time by dirty tricks, and the French qualified for this World Cup in an equally ignominious manner. God watches football, you can be sure of that, although she would have been forgiven for switching over to watch the tennis these past couple of days. The grass of Court 18 at Wimbledon will be breathing a sigh of relief after the hammering it's just taken by the two gladiators, Mahut and Isner. I read that Thierry Henry was discreetly received by President Sarkozy yesterday, well out of sight of the paparazzi. In contrast, Nicolas Mahut should get the Légion d'Honneur for saving the honour of his country.
Bert sent me a text message yesterday saying "For you, Tommy Atkins, ze Vorld Cup is nearly over!" German humour can be very dry. I expect I won't be able to help myself, I'll have to watch the match on Sunday, with my hands raised in surrender in a re-enactment of my favourite erotic fantasy.
"You'll never get me to talk, Herr Ballack! Names? Never! I spit in your face, you German pig-dog! Ooh, what are you doing ... ?? OK, Rooney's got a weak Achilles .... "
Let us take a break from sport to remember that one year ago today, Michael Jackson left us. I am wearing one white glove to commemorate the sad anniversary. On my ill-fated tour of the Hollywood Homes of the Stars last month, we stopped in front of the house where he died, and bowed our heads reverently. We then went to visit the public toilet where George Michael got caught soliciting gay sex.
Last night I watched two programmes that helped to crystallize the essence of Jackson in my mind. The first was the other eternal man-child that is Gareth Malone, who seems to be getting younger if anything, trying to form an opera company with a bunch of unruly teenagers. The reaction of Glyndebourne supremo Gus Christie when the little oiks sang like angels in his wood-panelled music room was priceless. The staging of a modern sung libretto in a gang war setting is not new - West Side Story did it back in 1961- but Nicky Singer's Knight Crew is where the leather jackets meet the dinner jackets.
I then switched to a German TV channel that was showing "This is it", the film of Michael Jackson rehearsing his ill-fated show that never was. Contrary to tabloid reports he did not appear to be wacko, weird, wearing a wig, drugged or otherwise out of it. It was illuminating to see a show taking shape without the special effects, costumes, lighting and screaming crowds of hysterical teenagers. His dancing was superb, and he appeared quite the normal mega-star preparing for another tour. More normal than, say, Keith Richards. Perhaps on stage is the only place where Jacko found normality.
As I watched the rehearsals for Earth Song, with its attendant "Les Miserables" theatricals, I realized that Jacko's performances were really veering towards opera, allbeit of the light variety. His songs were often stories that went beyond the usual rock repertoire. MJ's tableau of Jesus suffering the little children to come unto him was in itself no worse than Mick Jagger singing "I shouted out who killed the Kennedys, 'cos after all it was you and me". Although you might say Mick Jagger was never actually charged with shooting JFK. A question of bad timing in Jackson's case. I would be very surprised if the producers of Knight Crew hadn't studied the video of "Beat it". Who knows, had he lived he might have been another Andrew Lloyd-Webber. In more ways than one.
Everyone has their favourite MJ song. I was once working in a small underfunded office in Northampton, where the transistor radio was the only relief from the tedium of the daily grind. One grey afternoon we were all working away assiduously, the only sound the scratching of quill pens, when the unmistakeable intro of Billie Jean pervaded the silence. One foot started to tap in time to the beat. A pencil started wagging on another desk. A couple of heads started to nod. By the time MJ sang the immortal words "She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene ..." the entire office was wriggling in their seats with varying degrees of rhythm. What cared we that the lyrics were about a man denying paternity? For me it is the perfect pop song. Although I'd love to know who first thought of doing the routine from Thriller as a wedding dance.
Michael Jackson never totally rocked my musical world, being a fan as I was of the other MJ, but throughout the 80s and 90s his songs were always there in the background. Now, without his press stunts to divert attention from the music, I am starting to appreciate his talent rather than just trying to moonwalk whilst doing the ironing. One has to put press reports of his private life to one side when listening to titles such as "Pretty Young Thing". He was essentially a performer, rather than a composer or writer. The lyrics he did write were at best incoherent and at worst pretentious or simply nonsense. He was not above pinching material or claiming authorship of somebody else's tune. The unauthorised inclusion of a whole section from West African saxmeister Manu Dibango's Soul Makossa in "Wanna be startin' something" shows that he was influenced by world music (even if he behaved like a 19th century colonialist and tried to rob the African). But even the uber-intellectual New Yorker was gracious after his death.
Bert sent me a text message yesterday saying "For you, Tommy Atkins, ze Vorld Cup is nearly over!" German humour can be very dry. I expect I won't be able to help myself, I'll have to watch the match on Sunday, with my hands raised in surrender in a re-enactment of my favourite erotic fantasy.
"You'll never get me to talk, Herr Ballack! Names? Never! I spit in your face, you German pig-dog! Ooh, what are you doing ... ?? OK, Rooney's got a weak Achilles .... "
Let us take a break from sport to remember that one year ago today, Michael Jackson left us. I am wearing one white glove to commemorate the sad anniversary. On my ill-fated tour of the Hollywood Homes of the Stars last month, we stopped in front of the house where he died, and bowed our heads reverently. We then went to visit the public toilet where George Michael got caught soliciting gay sex.
Last night I watched two programmes that helped to crystallize the essence of Jackson in my mind. The first was the other eternal man-child that is Gareth Malone, who seems to be getting younger if anything, trying to form an opera company with a bunch of unruly teenagers. The reaction of Glyndebourne supremo Gus Christie when the little oiks sang like angels in his wood-panelled music room was priceless. The staging of a modern sung libretto in a gang war setting is not new - West Side Story did it back in 1961- but Nicky Singer's Knight Crew is where the leather jackets meet the dinner jackets.
I then switched to a German TV channel that was showing "This is it", the film of Michael Jackson rehearsing his ill-fated show that never was. Contrary to tabloid reports he did not appear to be wacko, weird, wearing a wig, drugged or otherwise out of it. It was illuminating to see a show taking shape without the special effects, costumes, lighting and screaming crowds of hysterical teenagers. His dancing was superb, and he appeared quite the normal mega-star preparing for another tour. More normal than, say, Keith Richards. Perhaps on stage is the only place where Jacko found normality.
As I watched the rehearsals for Earth Song, with its attendant "Les Miserables" theatricals, I realized that Jacko's performances were really veering towards opera, allbeit of the light variety. His songs were often stories that went beyond the usual rock repertoire. MJ's tableau of Jesus suffering the little children to come unto him was in itself no worse than Mick Jagger singing "I shouted out who killed the Kennedys, 'cos after all it was you and me". Although you might say Mick Jagger was never actually charged with shooting JFK. A question of bad timing in Jackson's case. I would be very surprised if the producers of Knight Crew hadn't studied the video of "Beat it". Who knows, had he lived he might have been another Andrew Lloyd-Webber. In more ways than one.
Everyone has their favourite MJ song. I was once working in a small underfunded office in Northampton, where the transistor radio was the only relief from the tedium of the daily grind. One grey afternoon we were all working away assiduously, the only sound the scratching of quill pens, when the unmistakeable intro of Billie Jean pervaded the silence. One foot started to tap in time to the beat. A pencil started wagging on another desk. A couple of heads started to nod. By the time MJ sang the immortal words "She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene ..." the entire office was wriggling in their seats with varying degrees of rhythm. What cared we that the lyrics were about a man denying paternity? For me it is the perfect pop song. Although I'd love to know who first thought of doing the routine from Thriller as a wedding dance.
Michael Jackson never totally rocked my musical world, being a fan as I was of the other MJ, but throughout the 80s and 90s his songs were always there in the background. Now, without his press stunts to divert attention from the music, I am starting to appreciate his talent rather than just trying to moonwalk whilst doing the ironing. One has to put press reports of his private life to one side when listening to titles such as "Pretty Young Thing". He was essentially a performer, rather than a composer or writer. The lyrics he did write were at best incoherent and at worst pretentious or simply nonsense. He was not above pinching material or claiming authorship of somebody else's tune. The unauthorised inclusion of a whole section from West African saxmeister Manu Dibango's Soul Makossa in "Wanna be startin' something" shows that he was influenced by world music (even if he behaved like a 19th century colonialist and tried to rob the African). But even the uber-intellectual New Yorker was gracious after his death.
Dear old Jacko. I think of him with affection, and sadness for his lost childhood. For me he will always be that talented little boy with the afro who sang "I want you back". Like Elvis, everyone has their favourite Jacko period. Mine was round about "Bad", but I don't want to believe he was bad. The doctor who killed him was bad. The principled nurse who earlier refused to give him Propofol was good, and she was sacked. Many creative people - and not all of them nutters - loved him. Anyone who was a close friend of Quincy Jones (who did write a lot of material attributed to Jackson) can't be all bad. Just a pity none of them stuck around to look after him. He died alone in a great big house, apart from the doctor and his domestic staff.
But there we are, he's been dead a year and is certainly not singing any more. By now he could probably be an extra in his own video without the help of makeup. Fillum-Boughs among you will spot a cheeky reference to Walerian Borowczyk's 1975 seminal meisterwerk "La Bete" in the opening sequence.
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