In Memory of David Bowie

July 6 1972 was a significant date for a generation. David Bowie performed Starman on Top of the Pops, and our collective jaws fell open. Who was this fabulous creature?

I was only 11 but it made a huge impression on me. I cajoled my mum into buying Ziggy Stardust from her Freeman's catalogue for the princely sum of 10 pence a week from my pocket money. This was rigidly adhered to. We Baby Boomers knew the value of money and also hard work.

DB became a huge part of my life. I spent a fortune on acquiring all the different formats of music as they appeared: vinyl, cassettes, CDs and then iTunes and Spotify.

I bought the albums of his friends and associates. I ordered Iggy Pop's The Idiot by mail order, without ever having heard him, on the strength of their collaboration. It was waiting for me at home after a ghastly two night camping expedition for Duke of Edinburgh's Award.

I saw him three times: the first was the Serious Moonlight Tour in 1983.  I had passed my driving test just 3 weeks before so it was the first time I drove a long way  (Plymouth to Milton Keynes) on motorways and on my own.

It was a bittersweet experience. I couldn't get anyone to go with me and being a shy sort, didn't get talking to anyone. The support acts were Icehouse, The Beat and Madonna (!). After the concert, and boy was Bowie fantastic, it took me ages to find my car, the trusty Datsun 120Y.  I had a superb souvenir: one of the helium balloons that was released at the end, from a "man in the moon" shape by the side of the stage. But it was taken off me as I left the grounds.

The next day I found out that nearly everyone staying in my hotel, the Cock Inn at Stony Stratford, had gone to the same show because we were all wearing the t-shirt at breakfast. Sheepish grins all around.

The second time I saw him was at Wembley and the third in Birmingham, in 2003 - his last concert tour in the UK. Both times with great company.

The first time that my brother Robert went to London with me and my mum, we scuttled off to Camden to watch Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence.  Mum thought she would have a nice snooze but was captivated by the action from the start  (someone being decapitated, I recall).

After the concert in 2003, we then had the long silence from DB: no albums, no interviews, hardly any TV appearances ("Extras" anyone?) until he dropped "The Next Day" on his birthday in 2013. I was having breakfast and BBC Breakfast News suddenly started talking about how a new album had mysteriously appeared from David Bowie on his birthday, and goodness knows how he'd managed to keep it quiet.  My jaw fell open (again).

And sadly it fell open again last Monday when, over breakfast, BBC Breakfast News told us that news was breaking of the death of David Bowie.  "Whaaat?" I yelled. Couldn't believe it.  I had long suspected he was ill:  there had been reports of heart problems following the last world tour. But just three days before, a new album Blackstar had appeared.  I have just listened to it for the first time since his death  (couldn't bear to, before).

What a superb way to go: so beautifully orchestrated, and dignified.  No funeral, which would have been a circus, sparing his wife and 15 year old daughter.  Immortalized forever by that album and the video, and the photos of him in a sharp suit laughing at death in the face.

I bought some roses (forefront, in black wrapping) and took them to the Bowie mural at Brixton, his place of birth. I wanted to thank him for all the pleasure he gave me over the years.

I've been slightly surprised by the volume of media attention and recollections.  I knew he was a huge star, a legend, an icon, but I was cynical that the world at large didn't realise. I know now this was wrong. And I've felt a bit jealous in a way with every man and his dog recounting how kind and special he was, and how he smiled at them or spoke to them. And how many people shared my "awakening day" of July 6 1972.

RIP our special Starman.

I'll be back tomorrow with my Spotify list of my favourite songs and albums. If you can wait :-)

Old duffers banned from Strictly Come Dancing?

The Strictly Come Dancing group on Facebook spluttered back into life this week with the news, from a couple of unreliable sources, that the BBC has apparently told agents it doesn't want any more old duffers in the line-up this year. They don't win, and it will lead to a more entertaining show, apparently.

Well it depends on who the "old duffer" is.

Niles Rodgers

I can think of quite a few people over the age of 60 who could tan the hide of the likes of Frankie from The Saturdays, the first contestant officially announced this year. They may or may not be natural dancers but they're certainly fit, in the healthy sense, cool and trendy.

I'm thinking of David Bowie, Mick Jagger, Niles Rodgers, Alan Hansen, Anna Wintour, Vivienne Westwood (in her 70s), Daphne Selfe (model, 86), Sigourney Weaver, Bill Nighy, Pierce Brosnan, Rod Stewart, Sting, Liam Neeson, Olivia Newton-John, Susan Sarandon, Joan Collins (over 80). I could go on.

Of course none of them would ever deign to appear in SCD. They're far too cool and famous.

But, dear BBC, if you insist on your token oldies being "old duffers" like John Sargent, Quentin Wilson, Jimmy Tarbuck and Paul Daniels, then yes they are never going to win. Incidentally, some of the older female contestants have been very good and entertaining: Cherie Lunghi, Pamela Stephenson, Felicity Kendall. We need inspiring older role models. I wouldn't watch SCD if it was only full of young and shallow desperados from EastEnders.

By the way, I think the whole thing is what I call a stir-up. The BBC always plays a blinder in terms of seeding daft PR stories around the likely line-up, which is always entirely different than the one people speculate about, and I think this ageism story is part of their PR build up. It's a little ill conceived if that's the case, with the Miriam O'Reilly case still leaving a nasty taste in the mouth. Not to mention the sour note struck by Arlene Philips being booted out for being too old.

David Bowie: Where Are We Now?

Goodness knows how it was kept a secret, but when millions of Davis Bowie fans woke today they learned that their hero, 66 today, had come out of retirement and issued a single.

Not only that, an album is to follow in March and can be pre-ordered!

Friends will know that David Bowie has been an obsession of mine since I was 12. I've written about him several times on this blog. In 2007, I was worrying why we never heard anything about him.

I've downloaded the single, of course. It is a gentle, dreamy, poignant evocation of Bowie's time in Berlin. The accompanying video shows his face superimposed on the body of a puppet.

There have been rumours for years that Bowie is not in good health. There is something of a farewell about this song and the video, where he seems wistful and almost tearful at times. I just pray that isn't the case.

The Beatles: So Over?

I was listening to a radio programme about Dame Vivienne Westwood recently (left) in which she disclosed that Malcolm Mclaren had dared her to set fire to the waxworks of The Beatles in Madame Tussaud's.

"I thought it was a good idea," she said. "I mean, they were rubbish. But I was afraid people might get hurt."

Then, a few days later, my mum, a well respected authority on popular music, said she had never liked the Beatles. I would like to say she was more of a Rolling Stones' fan but the truth was she liked the Ray Conniff Singers and Andy Williams.

The Beatles were slightly before my time, but my brother, who's six years older, bequeathed me all his albums.They were played hundreds of times on "Sid," the Alba record player.

I always listened to side 2 of A Hard Day's Night when I was getting ready to go out, age 15. At that time I had perfected the half gold, half green eye lid.

But recently, a lot of Beatles songs make me want to gurn. I can't stand Hey Jude, All You Need is Love, Back in the USSR, Strawberry Fields, Twist and Shout and Lady Madonna. Some of them sound very dated, a sort of cloying sentimentality.

It's not helped by Paul McCartney croaking out Hey Jude at large public gatherings. Really, he should take a lesson from David Bowie who retired in 2003 and has stuck to it (even though I would dearly love to see another album from him).

But The Beatles still have the power to take your breath away. I never liked "A Day in the Life" but when it was played on the radio recently, I was transfixed. It sounded so contemporary. And I still love Eleanor Rigby - that most evocative of songs; Something;. I Feel Fine; Fool on the Hill.

Where are you with the Beatles? Love or loathe?

A Kaleidoscope of Colour ends London's wonderful Olympics

Eric Idle brings the roof down

The day after the end of the Olympics. BBC Breakfast is still coming from the Olympic Park but there's no-one there and the sun has gone. "Why are you crying?" demands J, as a solitary tear creeps down my cheek.

I, like many others today I suspect, am pining for the colour, warmth and exuberance of the most amazing two weeks we have ever known. An intoxicating cocktail where Londoners lost their stiff upper lip, everything ran to time and the recession was forgotten. Even the weather came good, after months of relentless rain.

Even on Twitter, the cynicism had disappeared for a fortnight, but during the early part of the closing ceremony it was back with a vengeance, people moaning and whining. Fortunately the show morphed into something so eccentric and over-the-top that it won everyone round and the tweets became funny and catty, like the Twitter we know and love.

So what of the closing ceremony? Looking back, it was like something that started gently and gracefully and then speeded up in a blur of flashing colours. No doubt this was intentional, but the start was a little too restrained. After a stunning backdrop of London's cars and lorries speeding past landmarks in a papier mache world (yesterday's news?), the first few acts including Madness and the Pet Shop Boys didn't seem to be hitting the right notes.

Ray Davies, 68, looked slightly overwhelemed as he was deposited by a London cab to sing his wonderful "Waterloo Sunset."  He may have a limp from when he was mugged in New Orleans a few years ago but he showed he still had his voice, unlike Paul McCartney and Elton John when they performed at the Jubilee concert.

The arrival of the athletes seemed a welcome distraction on Twitter, where people were scathing and restless, but it took too long to assemble them and form them into the Union flag. I was yearning for Usain Bolt to move everyone along. Meanwhile the four songs that we had heard so far seemed to be endlessly reprised. "I love Britain and I love our four songs," said someone on Twitter.

Eventually the athletes were all successfully kettled, and then the party really started. Whoever was staging the show was now determined to turn it into a raucous celebration of British eccentricity and diversity. This is what we're really good at.

Two deceased artists, John Lennon and Freddie Mercury, appeared on video screens. When pictures of David Bowie appeared, the whole of Twitter went mad - "is it him? We need him!" and it would have been the most fantastic, best kept secret had David Bowie appeared. He didn't though: we had a few super models standing around while Fashion played.

I would have done without George Michael, who had the audacity to sing a new song, and "Pink Floyd." Elbow and Muse both seemed to lack a bit of welly in the vast stadium. Annie Lennox was also surplus to requirements, although the pirate ship was a nice prop.

I was getting concerned that none of the kettled athletes would have even heard of any of the acts as we were fielding quite a lot of mature talent. Fortunately some younger acts appeared including Jessie J and Tine Tempeh, with someone's dad (Fatboy Slim) coming down from the pub to spin a few records.

Russell Brand was a cross between the child catcher and Willy Wonka as he demonstrated that he can't sing but has enough charisma to compensate, trundling along in a Magical Mystery Tour style camper van.

The Spice Girls looked and sounded great, although Victoria Beckham had a slightly pained "I didn't really want to be here, I have a career you know" expression. The highlight of their short set was Boris and Cameron dancing and being captured on Youtube.

For me the show was undoubtedly stolen by Eric Idle and "Always look on the bright side of life."  Shot from a cannon (I was hoping Boris would have been the cannon fodder), this was totally surreal. Eric was surrounded by Bollywood dancers and hoardes of nuns. Suddenly everyone on Twitter was saying it was so over-the-top it was wonderful.

After the speeches from Lord Coe and Jacques Rogge  (does he ever smile?) and the formalities of the handover of the 31st Olympiad to Rio, it was left to Take That and Darcey Bussell to extinguish the cauldron, a poignant and moving moment. Then the party revived with The Who proving "their generation" still has a lot more to offer than zimmer frames and hip replacements. And thank goodness we didn't have to endure Paul McCartney, Elton John and Cliff Richard this time!

Fantastic night to round off the most aamazing two weeks. I have been privileged to be part of it. Tickets for the Paralympics opening ceremony have now been secured as I was determined that this time we will get into the park.

I'm Baaaack!

My reader (Fran) noticed that I haven't been blogging for a while. I've been a bit busy with a new role, it's true, but the main reason was, I had lost my mojo.

Couldn't think of anything to blog about.

While I was away, I was on my US concert tour (see photo) as support act to the Irish superstar Colin MacHale. Or rather, here we are, howling away at karaoke last week in Disneyland, Anaheim, CA. We were there for our annual sales & marketing conference.

It wasn't all Mickey Mouse and eggs Benedict, I can tell you. Breakfast at 6.30am and then in the arena for 7.30, with the finish around 9pm  (or 5am, depending on your demographic and liking for partying).

But a fantastic time was had by all, and we're all very excited about our company's future.

I'm writing a few posts while I'm on a roll, so pop by tomorrow for the low down on the Queen's Diamond Jubilee.

David Bowie gift wrapped for you this Christmas

Apart from the scourge of Christmas songs we don't want to hear ("Stop the Cavalry" and "Mistletoe & Wine" in my case) this is a fantastic time of the year. The long holiday always feels well deserved after a hard year. So put your feet up, put a paper hat on your head and enjoy a big scooner of sherry.

My Christmas gift to you all is the remarkable footage found by a BBC cameraman of David Bowie and the Spiders from Mars in 1973 on Top of the Pops.

The BBC wiped all their tapes routinely, to save money. So much of the TOTPs archive was lost. Miraculously, a cameraman recorded this footage for himself, and recently found it in his attic. Marvel at how wonderful the band is. Playing live, with no backing tracks. Amazing. No wonder I lost my heart to Mr Bowie when I was just 11 after seeing his mesmerising performance of Starman on TOTPs.

110/365: Back to the 70's

First: did anyone see a marvellous programme on BBC2 last week called "Electric Dreams?" Those saps didn't seem to promote it very well, but it was a real nugget. A family went back to the 70s, 80s and 90s in three programmes looking at how technology has developed.

I love shows like that, particularly when (ahem) I was there, which I wasn't for the Victorian House and the 1930's House. Contrary to what some of you might think.

In the 70s the family were subjected to a power cut - I remember those - and there was a big fanfare about getting a colour TV, which cost the equivalent of £3000 today. That was why most people rented them. That and the fact they broke down so frequently. I sniggered also at the arrival of the huge chest freezer, just like the one we had in the garage. Mum and Dad would go off to Windwhistle Farm and come back with half a cow (literally) to fill up the freezer. There was very little in the way of convenience foods then except for fishfingers and arctic rolls.

Meanwhile, still in the 70s, I've been reading two books which take me back to the wonderful days of Ziggy Stardust. I was an avid reader of NME and remember very well the writing of Nick Kent - in particular his huge sprawling article on Iggy and the Stooges, long before they were well known. I was a bit disappointed by his autobiography, Apathy for the Devil. The writing is lumpy and flowery in places; there are no pictures, even though his friend was Pennie Smith the photographer, and there are too many mentions of BOFs like the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin. I think the drugs may have addled his brain. I was hoping for more anecdotes and more about the Main Man (D Bowie.)

Also disappointing was Weird and Gilly's account of the life of Mick Ronson, the virtuoso guitarist in David Bowie's Ziggy -days backing group The Spiders from Mars. Now Weird and Gilly are a couple of die hard fans rather than writers or journalists, and this shows unfortunately. They seem to lack the probing instinct and many big questions go unanswered. I got the impression they didn't want to upset Ronson's family because two of the more interesting  happenings are brushed aside.

The fact that he left his wife and went off with a woman in Sweden, having a son with her, is dismissed in one paragraph. And there is a lot of mention of Ronson drinking a lot, but no-one seems to confront the issue. Was he an alcoholic? Then there was the time he joined Mott the Hoople, while still under contract to MainMan. He lorded it over the band, being chauffeured in a different car and not even speakng to "the lads" who quite justifiably got a bit upset. Weird & Gilly don't seem to question his behaviour or motives.

The desired take-out from the book, as fa as Weird & Gilly are concerned,  is that Ronson was a nice bloke whom everyone liked, and he was FAR MORE than just the virtuoso guitarist in the Spiders from Mars whose solo career bombed.  Interestingly Nick Kent refers to Earl Slick as the greatest guitarist that Bowie had.

We should all have heard of him

It's been six years since I last saw a proper pop "concert," (unless you count Bjorn Again and Jane McDonald), David Bowie at the Birmingham NEC in 2003. So it was with some excitement I set off to the slightly smaller venue of Swindon Arts Centre to see Colin Blunstone.

When I announced my intentions to see him, my colleagues and friends were baffled. "Who's he?" was the refrain. Well, Lucylastic and Mike, who came with me last night, weren't too sure either, but they really enjoyed it and a lot of the songs came back to them: "Wonderful," "She's not There," "I don't believe in miracles."

The tiny venue holds around 100 and it was full. We were, gasp, in the second row! The trouble with such a small venue is that a murmured aside becomes a magnified stage whisper. When the support act, a young boy in a scruffy suit and woolly hat with a selection of guitars, announced that his CDs were on sale for £4, somebody said "bless," and his head shot up. "Did someone say 'bless?'" he asked sternly.

Colin, who's in his 60s now but very trim and twinkly (although Lucy did question the provenance of his suit and doubted if it was a Paul Smith) came out without any fanfare and the venue rocked for the first couple of songs. All the old favourites were sung and some new material from his first album for 10 years. His band were very tight, I think they say, although the lead guitarist was extremely irritating. One of those dudes who models himself on Mick Ronson circa 1972, brandishing his guitar and performing showy solos.

Colin has the most sublime voice and it was at its best in the ballads. The breathy quality for which he was noted was obviously a studio gimmick because in real life his voice is very strong.

At the end a group of Colin's fans gathered round to wait for the great man in the foyer. Lucy and I did too as we had lots of questions: what happened to Caroline from the song, who was the girl in the Lamb's rum ad; why hasn't he had an album for 10 years, does he want me to write his biography, etc.

Unfortunately he didn't show up but the irritating guitarist did, so we made our excuses and left.

Lucy will be blogging about the gig too so check out her post --- URL is in my links section ("Thoughts and worries from the wrong side of the hill").

Reasons to be Cheerful

It seems plenty of pesky visitors are writing books about how horrible they think the UK is. Yes we all know about the NHS (but at least you get whisked off to hospital when you're about to peg out without having to proffer a credit card, even if you do die of MRSA when you get there), public transport, hoodies and thugs with knives, unlicensed taxi cabs, appalling numbers of drunks, teenage pregnancies, fatties, WAGs, girls in Newcastle wearing mini skirts, fake tan and no coats, and scandalous nursing homes.

But there are also good things. I was trying to think of a few so it was opportune that Robert Crampton in The Times gave an amusing assessment yesterday. Here is my list of Reasons To Be Cheerful:
- we did very well in the Olympics - 47 gold medals - France and Germany, put that in your pipe and smoke it
- beautiful scenery and great regional variances - coastline, woodland, slag heap
- we brought the world Strictly Come Dancing and many other top shows (X Factor, Weakest Link, Dragon's Den etc)
- it's cheap to travel by air
- we know how to have a good laugh, even if it does involve wearing antlers
- We may pay more at the supermarket than the rest of Europe but our supermarkets are far superior to the dreary supermarkets you find elsewhere, with a huge array of choice and continental ranges
- We provide the best baddies in films - most thrillers from the US pay homage to this;
- we say "bring it on" to all the latest social media sites - we're not precious about secrecy and security;
- we don't allow celebrities and royalty to get away with murder - we rely on our tabloids for fearless exposes, unlike other lily livered neighbours where the press is gagged;
- our gardens are beautiful;
- we are the land of The Beatles, Shakespeare, Turner and David Bowie;
- OJ Simpson and Karen Matthews are doing porridge where they belong;
- the Eurovision Song Contest rules are being changed so we might have a better chance of winning next year
- we may have a high number of lardasses but if there was a mutant virus or we were all stranded up Everest, we would last longer.

Any others you can think of?

Worried about David

As a lifelong fan of David Bowie, I have become somewhat concerned about his whereabouts. I know he's happily esconsced in New York with wife Iman and daughter, but we've seen so little of him for the last three years. During his last tour in 2004 (when I saw him at the Birmingham NEC), he had the incident (in Norway I think) where a dart nearly blinded him, and then he had what was described later as a mild heart problem, similar to that suffered by Tony Blair.

But since then, we've hardly seen him and there have been no new albums except compilations. Strange for someone who has always been so prolific. Indeed, when I have seen him (at society gatherings or awards ceremonies, pictured in Hello) he looks bloated and unwell, most unlike his normally angular self. I don't buy the argument that maybe he just wants to take life easy and put on a bit of weight. I think maybe the heart problem was worse than we were led to believe.

I'm so hungry for a new album, a tour and an appearance on Jonathan Ross. My fervant hope has always been that David recaptures the public's imagination by having another blockbuster album. It doesn't have to be brilliant but purely commercial, like Let's Dance. The whole Facebook generation seems oblivious to him (you can only locate him there as "Bowie" if you want to find his music) and this is criminal when you consider that of all today's artists, he has had the most impact and influence. Plus he is still the coolest man in pop, even at the age of 60.

I read somewhere he has turned down an honour, which I think is very sad. It seems crazy when musical lightweights like Cliff Richard and Rod Stewart get honoured and Bowie doesn't. So I hope the right thing is done. Gordon!

Meanwhile: David where are you?

The wasted career of Iggy Pop

I was introduced to Iggy Pop via David Bowie way back in 1977. I came home after a three-day camping "holiday" for the Duke of Edinburgh's award was thrilled to see that "The Idiot" had arrived in the post. I listened transfixed, amazed at the industrial sound and the air of menace that dominated the record. This was the first record where he collaborated with Bowie and it saw Iggy's rebirth from punk has-been to godfather of punk.

Over the years I've seen Iggy performing twice - and he is, undisputedly, a wonderful performer. I've also bought most of his albums. With very few exceptions, they have been very poor.

Therein lies the rub.

I've just read the new biography by Paul Trynka and it left me with a nasty taste in the mouth. A biography has long been overdue: there are books about Iggy but they are mostly superficial and bland. I knew all about the excesses of his life, the drugs, the alcohol, the psychiatric hospital. But what becomes clear from the book are Iggy's delusions about himself and his supreme arrogance and ego.

He might be happy living in Miami and thriving on royalties from ads and films, and finally condescending to reunite with the Stooges to give them some income, but if Iggy seriously reviews his career, Ian Hunter from Mott the Hoople was right when he said Iggy never had the talent to make it big.

The three albums he did with David Bowie were excellent, the rest, dire. Yet Trynka says that Iggy always resented Bowie and considered him less talented. There is no comparison between the two. All Iggy ever had going for him was the ability to perform and to adopt the persona of "Iggy Pop". He cannot write good songs on his own: a lot of his material is mawkish and overblown. Maybe if he had worked with good people more consistently, and had better career direction from lazy record companies, he might be a bigger star today with more than just the honorary title of godfather of punk.