Don't Cross The Streams: Music For The Spotify Generation

Music streaming sites have changed my life. I now listen to more new music than ever before and will happily explore the latest fads and trends at length, often deciding that it’s all bollocks anyway and going back to some classic 90’s grunge.

But I’m barely paying for any of this.

I get Deezer Premium free as part of my phone contract and I pay £9.99 a month for Spotify Premium. So for less than a tenner a month I can stream pretty much every song ever written. Rare Smiths B-sides from 1985? Had it playing on my laptop earlier. The latest EP from punk pioneers Dog Muck? Got it saved on my playlist. That song you’ve just written in your head?  Already synced on my phone.

For music consumers it’s like getting the keys to Willy Wonka’s factory, Gene Wilder’s one obviously. But without having to hold hands with your screffy Granddad while he leaps round like a tramp who’s out of ritalin. (If you haven’t seen the Directors Cut where poor Granddad is exposed in the Daily Mail and subsequently prosecuted for incapacity benefit fraud, you’re missing out.)

“Yeah, but not every band are on these sites.”

The Beatles aren’t on there but I live in Liverpool so if I wish to listen to The Fab Four I’ll open a window. Pink Floyd don’t feature either but that’s because the Internet is only big enough to fit 4 of their songs at any one time. And if you want to enjoy the entire back catalogue of AD/DC just buy one of their songs and listen to it at slightly different angles. Job done.

Without questions, these sites are great for the consumer.  But what of the artists themselves? How can anyone possibly be making money from this? Not every band can afford to sneak their album into everyone’s iTunes while they sleep, like some nefarious, billionaire, Irish tooth-fairies. People often use the example of Lady Gaga only getting £108 per 1 million plays of her tracks but is anyone really concerned about Miss Gaga’s next mortgage payment? Even if she did hit the skids she could probably eat most of her wardrobe.  I’m much more worried for the thousands of musicians at the bottom of the ladder who are getting royally shafted out of their royalties.

Having dabbled in the music industry as a teenager I have the upmost respect for anyone still writing, creating and performing music past the age of 25 because there is ZERO money in it. I realize that money isn’t everything but it doesn’t half help when you want to buy food or put the heating on. I remember speaking to the singer of a very successful band that were huge in Japan in the late 90’s but had to fly home mid-tour to sign on.

Unless you’re pretty massive it’s a struggle. This struggle has been conveniently romanticized since the middle ages but it gets to a point when you have to consider jacking it in and doing something that can put food on the table. For 99% of artists the closest they’ll get to a tax haven is doing their self-assessment on a caravan park.  When asking for a bit more money to pay bills, a record label executive once told my band that he ‘wanted us to be hungry and desperate because it’ll make us more creative.’ It didn’t – I left and got a job in a bank.

Some clever labels will allow their artist’s tracks on streaming sites for a short period before removing it, hopefully encouraging listeners to make a purchase.  When Palma Violets* removed their album I just muttered ‘spoilsports’ under my breath and moved on to the next band, such is the embarrassment of riches on these sites. (*I had to Google this bands name as they had dropped off my horizon so dramatically I’d forgotten what they were called.)

Because whenever you give something away for free for long enough, it’s impossible to suddenly apply a charge. I went to a wedding that had a free bar from midday to midnight. Everyone was having a lovely time, sampling cocktails that we wouldn’t normally bother with and ordering expensive whiskeys.  If you looked around the room at all the half-finished drinks, it was clear that nobody valued what they were getting at all.

Then at ten-past-midnight I went to get a round in and was informed very politely that the free bar had now expired and the drinks would cost me actual money.  You’d think I’d been asked to whip out a kidney. I was outraged. Never mind the 12 hours of cash-free boozing that had gone on before, they wanted money? For drinks? Fuck this shit. I went home.

So where does it end? David Byrne wrote a great piece about his concerns (Read it here ) likening the current situation with music streaming to the other examples of the human race mining resources till it’s bone dry.

And despite agreeing with a lot of his points, I can’t stop myself from being part of the problem. I didn’t mind paying between £6-10 for albums in the past. It doesn’t seem like a high price for something that might just change your life, or at the very least relieve some of the tedium of a long car journey.

But if something is nearly free then it’s always going to prevail. And in 2024 when there’s no music to be found in the whole world and all we can do for kicks is huddle round in car parks dancing to the Nokia ring tone on the last dregs of battery left on our retro mobile phones, we’ll look at each other and say, ‘BUT WHO NEEDS MUSIC WHEN I CAN STREAM ALMOST-FREE PASTIES FROM THE GREGGS THE BAKERS ONLINE SERVICE?’

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RIP Rik Mayall

I was 11 when I first watched The Young Ones, my mum bought me a video. (Yes, we’ve got a video!) It was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen in my life: diverse characters, cartoon violence, political references, and it was well funnier than Ever Decreasing Circles.

Even better than each episode was walking through school the next day and hearing everyone mimicking lines from it across the playground.

And above all the brilliantly silly characters, Rik was the best of the lot.

About two years ago I overheard two lads who must have been about 12 years old on the train. One had obviously just discovered The Young Ones the night before and was telling his mate like he’d seen the face of God.

“So there’s a hippy called Neil and this guy Rik is always hitting him in the head and doing poetry, I’ve never seen anything like it, you have to watch it.” Hearing this made my day.  

And don’t even get me started on Lord Flashheart. His 45 second cameo on Blackadder II remains my favourite piece of television. My brother, dad and me watched that so many times we broke the tape. (Me and our Alex also once watched the 'Chess' episode of Bottom about 15 times in one blag sick day off school.)

Thanks Rik. For entertaining us not just while we were watching you, but for the countless hours that my friends and family spent reciting your most famous lines and howling with laughter along the way. RIP.

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The 5 Stages of a Doomed Comedy Night

Opening Night

You’ve come up with an hilarious pun to call the night (Mirth Defect!), you’ve paid someone to design a logo, the venue are excited and the room looks fantastic. Despite the nerves during the day you tell yourself it’s only a trial night anyway, so if it’s not busy it’s not the end of the world.

As showtime comes along the place is heaving, all the acts go down a storm and tell you, ‘hey, you’re onto a winner here, mate!’  There’s a couple of minor improvements you need to make but the space works and the bar manager is beaming as he slaps you on the back and tells you well done. As the thrilled audience pile out into the street they all congratulate you and tell you they’ll be back next time, ‘and my mate Billy, he’d love this, I’ll bring the lads down and my sister and her fella too.’  

You float home on a wave of adrenalin and can’t get to sleep.

Second Night

It’s not as busy early on but probably everyone knows the score by now. The clock ticks on and a few people file in but that group of 12 that were at the first one can’t make it now, they got their dates mixed up. It’s okay, prob not their fault as it’s too early for everyone to have the date stuck in their heads. Still, the room fills up slowly as you tell the acts how great the first night was.

The show is pretty good and the audience and bar manager are happy. You drive home with a head full of marketing ideas and can’t get to sleep.

Third Night

Ticket sales aren’t looking good so you ask some mates and acquaintances if they want a few freebies. Better to have the room full even if you’re losing money, right? Though don’t wanna use Groupon, that’s the death of comedy you reckon. Although can’t do any harm knowing how it works, just in case?

You open the doors and after 20 minutes there’s only 7 people in the room and 5 of them were comps. That group of 6 you used to work with haven’t turned up to use their free tickets either. Pricks. 5 minutes before showtime you manage to convince 3 stragglers from the bar to come up for free. They really enjoy the show and talk loudly throughout.

You tell the acts how good the first night was, get the bus home feeling dejected and can’t get to sleep.

Fourth Night

You panic and realise that you have no social media presence so you hastily set up a Facebook and Twitter account and start following all and sundry. This results in zero increase in ticket sales but a 300% increase in open spots asking you for gigs.

You put some RESERVED signs on the seats at the back to push the audience forward which frankly, looks ridiculous as there’s no bastard here. Even the tumbleweeds have swerved tonight in favour of something less awkward.

A couple turn up fully intending to pay to come in but see how empty the room is and make a run for it while you’re trying to show them to their seat.

The bar manager pulls you to one side and says listen, don’t worry about tonight, they’re completely behind this for the long term and they understand these things take a while to get going.

You tell the acts how good the first night was as they look at you like some kind of idiot. You walk home feeling empty and pathetic and worrying about all the money you’ve lost.

You can’t sleep.

Fifth Night

You arrive at the venue to find a salsa night in full swing in the room. To really rub it in your face the place is fucking packed. The bar manager shrugs his shoulders at you and the dream is over.

You cancel the acts and tell them how good the first night was. You walk home, laughing at the new posters you’d put up that day.

You sleep like a baby.

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5 Reasons I Still Love Prisoner: Cell Block H

1.The Nicknames

My favourite character was always ‘The Freak’ Joan Ferguson, the villain on which the show revolved. You knew it was going to kick off when she whipped out her black leather glove and pulled the I’m-going-to-shove-this-up-your-bottom face that we’ve all recognised on someone at some point.

‘Top Dog’ was the nickname adopted by the leader of the women inside, with the emphasis rather unkindly being on the latter half of the moniker. 

But none of these come close to competing with ‘Vinegar Tits’ which is a shoe-in as name for my new all-girl punk band.

2.The Scenery

So what if when the cell slams shut the doors shake like a Parkinson’s seminar on the San Andreas Fault? Who cares if the walls are more transparent than a tramp asking for change to ‘get the bus home’?

If you can use your imagination, none of this matters and you can concentrate on the storylines (which are thinner than the walls) and the theatricals on show.

3.The Acting

People say the acting is bad but I disagree. It does have moments that make Hollyoakes look like Apocalypse Now but that's all part of the charm.

The show wouldn’t have worked if every scene with Lizzie Birdsworth was an expert clinic in method acting.

I love the fact that half the cast come across like they’ve been given the job just because they turned up.

4.The Actors

Three decades ago there were only 7 actors from Australia, and one of them was Russell Crowe and he’s from New Zealand. So early 80’s Prisoner is a who’s who of classic Aussie soap turns.

You get used to it after a while. Susan Kennedy from Neighbours looking quite fit, Celia from Home and Away as Vinegar Tits.

But when Summer Bay’s original ‘Flaming Gala’ himself, Alf Stewart rocked up as the evil prison governor wearing a pair of Ray Charles’ finest gigs and chomping on a stogie, I nearly shat the couch.

5.The Knowing Wink

I’m sure when they were filming the first series they thought they were making The Wire, but just like Skynet in the Terminator films, the show grew to be self aware. It knew exactly what it was.

When I was 17 I went to see ‘Prisoner Cell Block H: The Musical’ starring Lilly Savage. More importantly, the original ‘Freak’ was one of the leads which told the story of jet-setting Lilly getting falsely fingered (never fun) for smuggling heroin into the country and put on remand at Wentworth. Cue a bunch of show tunes about leather gloves, a bizarre narrative and a total lampooning of the original show.

But just like The Freak’s famous body cavity searches, it was done with love.

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Why Topman Isn't Top Dog For Men in Their 30's

It was a mistake. It could happen to anyone.

I wandered into Topman looking for a pair of jeans. What greeted me was horrifying. Hordes of beautifully thin fancy boys wearing yellow skinny chinos, nautic loafers with more hairstyles between them than a Travelodge plughole. They were all staring at me. I was a pigeon amongst peacocks.

Not a wood pigeon either. One of those scabby city pigeons that have had their feet pecked off by their mates and despite not having facial features that lend themselves to communication, seem to be definitely saying KILL ME, PLEASE?

What was I doing here? As unwelcome as a veruca in The Sock Shop, I felt like Carrie post-pigs blood: confused, scared. And fat. Massively fat.

When I was a kid I used to feed the ducks on the canal but I’d always end up getting chased off by a gaggle of geese, hell-bent on making off with my breadcrumbs and dignity. This feeling was familiar but these geese were splendidly bedecked in split denim leather cardigans and three quarter length skinny cords.  I was dazzled by their beauty but knew I had to get out.

“They’re all gonna laugh at you!”

I started running past the jeans that you can’t get into unless you have a severe flesh eating disorder. I leaped over the ‘XL’ t-shirts that wouldn’t fit a Hobbit whose mother smoked through pregnancy.

I thought I’d found the exit but found myself staring down the ‘up’ escalator like Indiana Jones at the top of that waterfall.

I was surrounded by the real life mannequins (great name for a pub covers band) and in a state of panic. I was just about to start swinging a pair of tassled desert boots around my head when I noticed the focus swiftly changed to a different part of the store. As I peered around the stacks of bleach wash spray on jeans I noticed an older, larger gentleman had wandered into the shop.

My god, what was he wearing? Baggy cargo pants and a loose fitting Umbro sweater. And what’s that in his hand? In the middle of the shop, he’s only eating a fucking Greggs.  

What a schmuck. He didn’t belong here. We must punish him.

I joined the herd...

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Chatting Up Girls

There’s a Latin word for the young male who is adept at flirting with the opposite sex and that word is ‘arsehole’.  Of course, this comes from my own bitter teenage experience of chatting up girls being as successful as a Mogwai in a Miss Wet T-Shirt Competition.

If they didn’t go for the creepy open-mouthed staring then I’d have to try and start a conversation with words and everything. If you’ve ever tried to start your old banger of a car in the depths of winter you’re getting close to how impossible it was. If you imagine that car is also partly underwater whilst crack-crazed gibbons partied on the bonnet you’re getting closer.

Even worse was if a pretty young lady started talking to me I’d just freeze and turn bright red like a chameleon caught by his missus for not deleting his browser history.

So I’m not coming at this from any position of authority. But this was gold.

I was sat in a college canteen waiting for a meeting and there was a group of girls just minding their own business, talking about typical girly stuff: make up, hair, which one of One Direction they’d like to visit Second Base with. (Why the fascination with furniture shops?)

Then out of nowhere this lanky, overly confident lad strode up to them.  He was full of verve but this wasn’t genuine confidence. This was knock-off-fake-label-from-the-market-will-defo-shrink-in-the-wash confidence. I knew it, the girls knew it and he knew it.  But the jig continued.

He started to talk. Loud, brash, bold.

And even better - he’s putting on an American accent! At least I think he’s trying to be American. I don’t think he’d been classically trained, but if so I hope he kept the receipt. He sounded more like a Canadian in anaphylaxis shock.

“So, when’s your birthday?”

It could’ve been worse. He could’ve said star sign.

“Er, mine’s in May...”

“Oh yeah?  Mine’s in April.”

This guy is flying. He turns to the second girl.

“When’s your birthday?”

“June.”

“Mine’s in April.”

Wow. His birthday is in April! Always good to start with the most interesting thing about yourself I guess.

At this point the third girl is semi-turning away whilst trying to will her phone to boot itself up quicker than is technologically possible. Because she isn’t a Jedi, it doesn’t load up and he hits her with the question that by now we all know is coming.

“When’s your birthday?”

BOOM!

“November.”  

“So’s mine!” he says, to the surprise of everyone listening (me).

I wanted to shout YOU SAID APRIL A MINUTE AGO YOU MORON but that would’ve blown my cover so I whispered it into my sleeve instead, FBI style.

Instead of realising this guy was a fraud, Girl No 1 is vexed.

“How can you have two birthdays?”

Panic flooded his face, like he’d left the oven on in April and it was November.

“April’s my American birthday. I celebrate my UK one in April.”

“Ohhh, so you’re American?” said the Stepford girls, in unison. (Not the trade union, they just spoke at the same time.)

“You betcha sweet ass I’m American!”

Short of cramming the phrases sidewalk, Uncle Sam and relaxed gun laws into the sentence, this was all a little clichéd.

“We all thought you were from Newcastle.”

“Oh, I spent a bit of time in Geordieland last autumn. I mean, fall.”

Jesus. This reverse Dick Van Dyke routine was a riot and even the girls were starting to snigger. Catch Me If You Can this was not.

Then he asked for their phone numbers. Not one of them in particular, just a blanket question like he was conducting a survey. In a remarkable turn of events, two of them gave him their digits and he strutted off into the sunset.

I guess the world loves a dickhead.

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My 5 Worst First Dates

Everyone has been on at least one bad date.  I’ve been on plenty.  Here are my top 5.

1.Liar Liar Pants on Fire

This girl strolled into the bar with the following opening gambit:

HER: I need to tell you this – I lie all the time.

ME:  Okay.

HER:  Yeah, my last boyfriend and I split up because I couldn’t stop lying to him about everything.

ME:  Ah, right.

HER:  We loved each other but it just couldn’t carry on like that.

ME:  Hmm, okay.

HER:  Just thought you needed to know before we start.

ME:  Ah well, do you want a drink?

HER:  I’ll have a Smirnoff Ice please.

ME:  Is this a trick?

I doubted every single thing she said after that, so I decided to join in and start making stuff up.  By the end of the night I’d told her I was a stuntman, was forty-third in line to the Danish throne and worst of all, that yes, I’d love to see her again.

2.You Remind Me Of Someone

I’d got chatting to this girl on a night out with some mates.  She seemed lovely and we arranged to meet the following weekend.

As we got our first drinks in I remember looking at her and thinking she really reminded me of someone, but couldn’t immediately figure out who.  Kind of like when you see an actor out of context, it can drive you to madness (or Google, which I find is more user-friendly).

The night wore on, the drinks kept coming but still I couldn’t place her.  Who did she look like?

As we left the bar and walked into the night air, it suddenly hit me like a cricket bat to the face.

She looked like me.

I never saw her again, except when I looked in the mirror.

3.Guess Who?

There’s not many scarier propositions than waiting for someone you met the previous weekend but can’t remember what they look like because you were more legless than a snail who stood on a landmine.

Of course, when you met them on Saturday night they looked like a movie star.  But without the ale and disco lights it turns out that movie was The Hills Have Eyes.

Standing there waiting is like playing a roulette table.

Right, she had black hair and she was average height. I think. Oh here she comes now.  Wow! She’s lovely, well played me!

No, that’s not her. Oh god, is this her now? Is that a limp or is she just off balance? Christ, what have I done? Just run for it...too late, she’s spotted you. My word, she really is the spit of Phil Neville...

A mate of mine once spent the tail end of a Saturday evening chatting to a lovely tall, blonde lady. It was only when they met for a drink the following week that he noticed she only had one arm. (Maybe she lost it sometime between the Saturday and the Tuesday, in which case she was marvellously upbeat about the whole thing).

4.Why So Intense?

It’s a first date so I like to keep things light. Talk about trivial matters.  But that’s not for everyone.

One girl I was out with decided that the student union bar, 20 minutes into a first date was the perfect place to give me a blow by blow account of her grandmother’s horrific experience in a Polish refugee camp during WW2.  Whilst not disputing the importance of such events I did question this context to give it another airing.

It was made all the more sombre by the rugby team bashing out a Cheeky Girls medley on the karaoke, just as she got to the most gruesome bits.

5. Scored From The Rebound

I once went on a date with a girl who was undoubtedly very lovely, and undoubtedly not over her ex-boyfriend who had left her.

How could you tell this, Sam?  I hear you ask.

Because she told me as she was taking her coat off would be my answer.

She then spent the next hour going on about him and how she was going to show him exactly what he’d lost.  I started to sympathise with his decision.

Then she took me to a bar because she knew he’d be there.  The night ended with her trying to glass him, me holding her back, security escorting us from the building and her punching me in the ear.

I still see him now and again in town. We don’t speak or utter a sound, we just nod and move on, like old cellmates.

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