I recently finished what is quaintly called a novella. Not quite a novel, not a complete ‘ella, but something in between. Suggests something small. And it is. Not in content, but somewhat in length and definitely in size. The book is part of Continuum’s 33 1/3 series, all written around seminal (subjective) rock albums. This one was leant to me by a friend, highly recommended, and is titled ‘Music From Big Pink’. Written by John Niven, it’s an account of the time around the making of The Band’s first album, released in 1968.

The first in the series to mix fact with fiction, the tale is a dark, sordid, frankly depressing and thoroughly enjoyable account of the events and people in the NY upstate town of Woodstock at the time The Band were living there and creating their debut in the house that gave the album its name – Big Pink. Recorded during the height of psychedelic excess and indulgent whimsy, this collection of songs was to leapfrog the years and land well ahead of the pack, leaving the dippy hippies to burn out and crash; smoking wreckage someplace back there on the trail in the sunless woods.

Although the music was way out ahead, if this ripping yarn is anywhere near accurate, The Band members themselves, like many of their less gifted peers, were stuck fast in a spiral of increasing drug use, fame and resulting alienation, which, for one band member would ultimately lead to helpless despair and suicide.

Throughout, Niven skilfully weaves an intricate and totally believable story, helped greatly by the bones of truth on which he hangs the flesh of make-believe. This gives the whole thing authority, something that no hitherto fictional attempt at portraying a rock band has done in my experience. Iain Banks ‘Espedair Street’ was the first and last book of his that I read, put off seemingly forever by - for me anyway - the totally unbelievable portrayal of rock musicians. Remember ‘Rock Follies’ on TV? And ‘Rock Star’, the blockbuster by Jackie Collins? Okay, I’ll own up. I did the hardback cover for that beauty.

Niven spent ten years in the music industry before writing this piece, so presumably he called on his own experiences to add insight and insider knowledge to the narrative. However he pulled it off, well done. But that’s enough praise. The Internet is bursting with accolades for this book without any further hype from me. Can’t wait to read others in the series. ‘Meat is murder’ has also raised critical hurrahs. Now that really has got the potential for a sojourn to the heart of darkness.

What are the chances of “If music be the food of love’ by Dave Dee Dozy Beaky Mick and Tich making it into the bookshops as part of this collection? Slim, I hear you say. Was he in the band too?

On my way to bed after a hard day's night in the studio, I heard music coming from the room that plays host to the computer. Around here it's what most would refer to as 'the study'. Others would call it the spare bedroom. I call it Ben's room. Ben is my son and moved out some ten years or so ago.

Anyhow, I'd left i-Tunes playing from earlier in the day and so came in to turn it off and shut down the computer. Sitting down at the machine, despite the late hour, I thought I'd check visitors to my blog. Surprisingly there were two logged in for today's date - Sunday, 02.05am. Who are these people? Don't they have beds to go to? Things to do? People to see? Or are they like me? Nighthawks. Up late, burning the midnight oil, when most folk are either out burning the other end of the candle or tucked up in bed, dreaming about doing the same.

Whoever you are, hello. And goodnight. I need to turn in and prepare for another day of toil. But it's good to know I'm not alone in the wee small hours.

Night night, sleep tight.

I just heard on the radio that it’s fifty years since Buddy Holly had his first hit in the UK. Fifty years! I remember well ‘the day the music died’, when he became the first rock and roll icon to meet an untimely death. I was in the general store opposite my school that served as a tuck shop. While I was stocking up on Black Jacks or Penny Chews, the girl behind the counter broke the story of the plane crash that killed Buddy, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper. The news spread quickly around the playground as we came to terms with the hard fact that death could come early, even to those who appeared to have it all and all before them.

As with other gifted people who have died before their time, Buddy was assured instant longevity, leaving a body of work that saw him at the peak of his powers and escaping the almost certain inevitability of artistic decline. Some would argue that his last few recordings were already showing signs of a shift towards the mainstream, with the introduction of strings and middle-of-the-road orchestral arrangements. But it’s pointless to speculate on what might have been had any artist not died when their number was called; Jimi Hendrix, Elvis Presley, John Lennon, Ian Curtis. The list is now long.

What is certain is that Buddy Holly moved rock music forward a few notches, inspiring the next generation to pick up the torch from that frozen field in Iowa and carry it forward, held high and still burning bright.

Never work with animals, children - or your heroes. Over the years, in the course of my chosen profession, I’ve done all three and I’d pretty much go along with the advice.

With animals and kids the problems are broadly the same - unpredictability and insubordination. In other words, getting the little charmers to do as they’re asked - this usually in the course of a photographic session or filming. Professionally and legally, for obvious reasons, each requires the attendance of a minder. In the case of children, usually one or both of the parents.

With animals, the owner or keeper, depending on the type, size and likelihood of harm– not to the creature, but any humans who happen to be within range. In my own experience this includes dangerous snakes and spiders. But the first two are a doddle when compared to heroes. By definition, this probably means a star of some kind or another and generally, the bigger they come, the harder you fall.

The majority of my exposure to celebrities has been in the music industry. My meeting with Cliff is documented a blog or two back and apart from the dog crap incident, that one went pretty well. Unfortunately, for reasons of libel, I can’t share other close encounters of the turd kind, where hero worship came to a sudden and shuddering halt.

Presently I am halfway through a delicate operation involving a rock star of the mega kind, the management company, a series of illustrations, and a design studio. A tricky juggling act, hearing what each has to say, then translating what I thought I’ve heard and converting that into a finished piece of work. Not easy, believe me, especially with a print deadline that passed by weeks ago. Not until I see the item on the shelves of my local HMV will I feel free to tell all. Well, maybe not all if I want to work again.

In the meantime, it’s back to the studio at the bottom of the garden, avoiding children and animals en route.

Snap! My neck gave forth a mighty crack as my chin jerked up from my chest waking me from my mid afternoon doze. For an instant I felt certain that such a noise would mean that I’d surely need the attentions an osteopath, but a few turns of the head revealed no apparent ill effects.

I’d been plunged into this soporific state sitting through one of the most tedious football matches that I’ve ever had the misfortune to watch. And that includes many contests featuring our national side over the last forty years, as well as many dreary afternoons in the 70’s spent watching Don Revie’s Leeds on The Big Match, not to mention George Graham’s Arsenal in the 80’s. Not that I support either team you understand, especially Leeds United, but they were difficult to avoid in those days. Not so now, wallowing somewhere down there in the bleak barren wastelands of soccer obscurity.

Yesterday the sparkling festival of football hoped for on the occasion of the first FA Cup Final to take place at the very late new Wembley Stadium went awol at a point somewhere between the two dressing rooms and the dodgy pitch. A first half watching both teams tip tapping the ball around in their own halves would have been enough to drive me to the shed to fire up the lawnmower for a spot of vigorous grass cutting of my own if the sandman hadn’t intervened and sprinkled me with sleeping dust.

If the game wasn’t tedious enough, I, along with millions of other unfortunates, had to endure the dual commentary of Motty and Lawro as they constantly reminded us how bad it was. We didn’t need their observations to know that nothing much was happening before our very eyes. Maybe it appeared differently to the supporters of United and Chelsea. Passion tends to replace judgement when emotions are running high. On the day, although officially neutral, I admit to leaning in the direction of southwest London. This based on not much more than a vague notion to see the two main spoils of the domestic footballing year shared out.

My choice of Chelsea for The Cup would not always have been so. For those of us old enough to remember Busby’s Babes, that ill-fated team of the Munich air disaster, Manchester United crept into our hearts, with fans of all teams lamenting the loss of so many young gifted players.

But it was different then. This was the 50’s when football was still a game rather than a business. It would have been inconceivable in those days, when supporters stood on wind lashed, rain soaked terraces in belted macs, smoking roll-ups and sipping scalding Bovril, for their club to be owned by American or Russian billionaires. The USSR was a communist dictatorship and the USA, well, what the hell did they know about ‘soccer’ for goodness sake? How times have changed.

My own regard for United departed with Best, Charlton, and my own all-time favourite, Law. When that team ran onto your home ground the thrill was electric, only dimmed by the fear of what havoc they would wreak upon your own humble team during the following ninety minutes. But it was almost worth the humiliation to see such players practicing their art.

As for Ferguson’s current crop, well, I remain indifferent at best. This largely brought about by the man himself. Sir Alex, although undoubtedly a gifted manager, strikes me as a tetchy somewhat graceless and dour man, lacking any natural ability in the art of winning friends and influencing people, which, in turn, earns affection and respect from neutrals. Bill Shankly had it in spades. Don Revie, sly and shifty eyed, did not.

But what of Mourinho, all moody southern European silences punctuated by outrageous outburts against officials and controversial put-downs of opponents? Yes, he can whinge right up there with Wenger and get snappy like Ferguson, but the man has style. And somewhere deep in those dark brooding eyes there is a glimmer, a twinkle even.

The Paul Whitehouse impersonation, as seen on TV, ending each ‘interview’ by striking a ludicrously vain pose, is not far off the real Jose methinks. I’d be sorry to see him depart these shores just yet. He brings a touch of class to what has become a bland, characterless, predictable and humourless sport. Yesterday, nobody, not one player on the field of play appeared to be having FUN. Stan Bowles, Rodney Marsh, Mick Channon, George Best had FUN. And we had fun right along there with them.

When was the last time you saw Ryan Giggs crack a smile? Well?

The photograph of me, Chris and Cliff (see ‘Spot the star') was taken at the Peter Pan of pop’s house sometime back in the mid 70’s - hence the scary outbreak of flares. Chris and I were working for EMI Records at the time and had made the trip down to St. George’s Hill in Weybridge, accompanied by a photographer, to take some shots of Cliff for a boxed set of cassettes which was to feature music spanning his already long career. My personal musical tastes had always been more Keith Richard(s) than Cliff Richard, but it should make for an interesting day out of the studio.

I remember when my Dad first saw the young Master Richard on ITV’s ‘Oh Boy’, he was convinced that the lad had, if not homicidal, at least a leaning toward psychotic tendencies due to the wild, sullen look in his eyes. Oh how wrong he was. Cliff, way back in those fuzzy black and white days, had merely been doing his best to appear as dangerous as Elvis. Something managed a good deal more convincingly, in my opinion, by Billy Fury. Anyhow, Cliff, by the time I met him, was as safe as milk. He had come out as a committed Christian, was a staple of all-round family entertainment and was the proud grower of his own vegetables, as we were to find out first-hand later that day.

We entered the gates to the private estate – where John Lennon and Ringo Starr also once had houses – around mid-morning and were met at Maison Cliff by his personal assistant, a brusque, balding man, who ran through the itinerary and requirements regarding the shoot before introducing us to the man himself. Cliff was pretty much what I expected – pleasant, friendly, happy to oblige. But like most stars I have met, he had a keen awareness of self and of his time. He was co-operative, but eager to get on with the task in hand, which to him was just another photo session, one amongst the thousands he had taken part in during his career.

After a brief chat, during which we described the sort of pictures we’d like to get, at Cliff’s suggestion we set off for the golf course that bordered his property. We began shooting and away from his PA, who had thankfully elected not to stick around, Cliff began to relax a little. In fact, by the time we returned to the house, he seemed to be positively enjoying himself, happy to discuss his life in music and film. After taking some indoor shots in the study – Cliff relaxing with a book in a leather-bound easy chair – he invited us to look at his music room, a recently built extension on the side of the house. By now, all thoughts of time seem to have faded away and we found ourselves drinking tea in a large room containing Cliff’s LP collection, a reel-to-reel tape recorder and assorted guitars.

To me, there are few things more fascinating than flipping through someone else’s music collection, especially if that person happens to be a professional. Cliff, now in his element, happily pulled albums from the shelves to enthuse about his musical passions - some old, some new, some expected, others not. His rock and roll roots were well represented, as were his religious beliefs. Chris relayed the story of his older sister driving him mad as a schoolboy by playing the B-side to one of Cliff’s early hits over and over in her bedroom in their family home. An accapela version was duly delivered for old time’s sake, years before the infamous Wimbledon sing-along.

Now it came to pass, that around this time in the proceedings, I had to excuse myself to use the lavatory - as Chris always described it. Following instructions I found myself climbing the white-carpeted stairs to a bathroom on the first floor. Comfort restored, I closed the bathroom door behind me - and froze. For there, on the virgin shag pile in the hall, was a brown smudge. It looked like… Oh s**t! It was.

A quick inspection of the underside of my shoes confirmed the culprit. I must have picked up the doggy doo’s whilst out on the golf course. With some tissue soaked under the tap and with a cold sweat breaking out on my brow, I set about removing the evidence. Luckily the amount was small and my shoe and carpet were quickly restored to their former condition – well almost. But had I left a trail? The rest of the hallway and stairs seemed to be miraculously clear. Thank you Big G.

I returned to the music room, checking for further deposits along the way, to find the others about to undertake a tour of Cliff’s other pride and joy, his vegetable patch. We got some priceless shots of Cliff proudly showing off two enormous marrows, one under each arm, before finally bidding him farewell, two hours or more after we had been scheduled to leave. A thoroughly enjoyable day, marred only by my encounter with canine excreta – but I think I got away with it. If not, Cliff was far too polite to mention it –via his PA of course – and the boxed set was duly completed to take its place amongst his catalogue of repertoire.

Now a visit to Keith’s place around 1976, that would have been really interesting. Not many prized marrows in evidence there I’ll wager.

Following on from my last blog, take a look at the picture below and spot the star, based exclusively on head size. On the left - Chris. Many things, but not a star. On the right - me. A few things, but not star. In the centre - Cliff. A star.

Now is it my imagination, or does Cliff steal a lead in the biggest head contest.
I think he does, don't you? Also, he has the best tan, most denim coverage and widest flares. And dig the clogs.

Stars, in my somewhat limited, first-hand experience, have big heads. I’m not talking of the boastful, braggart, brattish kind, but the physical dimension. Actors, rock and pop idols, artists, entrepreneurs; stars of all kinds are included. Why this should be, I have no idea, but I’ve been mildly amazed how often it has proved to be the case.

As the head is the primary focus of human interaction, being the part of the body that hosts the means by which we communicate – mouth, ears, eyes – size, if not everything, maybe significant when competing for attention. It may help those well endowed in the head department to steal an advantage, giving them a presence that is difficult to ignore.

I’ve encountered a few ‘stars’ over the years, usually in a professional capacity and have been inevitably drawn to the size of the cranium. Mick Jagger - huge leonine head topping his skinny frame; Richard Branson – massive head filled with twice as many teeth than lesser known mortals; Alan Bates, the late actor – big head, little body; Francis Bacon, painter - what a scary whopper he had on his shoulders. Eduardo Paolozzi, another artist - a large man with the biggest hands I ever saw, only eclipsed by the size of his head; James Brown – big head; Dave Clark (he of the famous Five) – big head; Robert Plant – big head.

So far, those mentioned are all men. For women, a big head does not seem to be such a vital requirement for stardom. If there is an explanation I don’t know what it is. It’s a mystery to me and will probably always remain so.

Of course, there are male stars around with standard rather than super-sized heads. Justin Timberlake, Sir Cliff, David Beckham, Pete Doherty. Mind you, I’ve met none of these people in the flesh (except Cliff), particularly the pound or so that wraps around their skulls. Although sometimes it’s not until a face-to-head meeting takes place that size becomes truly apparent.

Where then, does an average sized head leave the majority? In the stalls, in front of the telly, behind a crush barrier - destined to be the audience rather than the star.

Let’s face it, there can’t be many people who were born after 1940, in other words, young enough to have dug Elvis and all the cats (cats?) who have appeared on the rock, pop, r&b, dance, trance, hip-hop, rap and whatever other musical scenes that have happened along since, that hasn’t dreamed of making it big. Or the very least, grabbing their fifteen minutes of fame. Okay five.

Who can honestly say, hand on heart, that they’ve never sung into a hairbrush, thrashed a tennis racket ( yes, racket as in NOISE), swung a pelvis, moon-walked, posed, strutted, pouted, flounced, sung along, out of key and out of breath, with a pair of headphones clamped to their bleeding ears? I’ll tell you shall I? Nobody. We’ve all done it. That said, with age, maturity and the decline into stultifying conformity, many fall by the wayside and give up all misbegotten fancies of getting up on stage and playing out their youthful fantasies and in the process, making a complete arse of themselves.

I, on the contrary, have suffered no such lapses of misguided ambition. To confirm this, I have just returned from a four hour session in a rehearsal studio, where together with a bunch of like-minded thirty to sixty something’s, we have had the time of our lives plundering, murdering and pillaging the repertoires of artistes ranging from The Sex Pistols and Wire to Lesley Gore (who? I hear you simultaneously exclaim) and The Killers.

I now have a persistent ringing in the ears and have all but lost my voice. Pete, the drummer left with a heated pad strapped to his left arm. Mark the guitarist had blisters on his fingers and had to sit on his amp for the final hour, the bass player didn’t even make it due to not waking up until 18.45 –very rock and roll – with lead guitarist Neil, a semi-pro with genuine talent, probably thinking, yet again, how we managed to talk him into playing with a band of dead-beats like us.

The purpose of tonight’s activities, our first rehearsal with eight more booked, is to prepare for a performance in mid June at my official retirement party. A legendary rock venue in the heart of London has been booked for the occasion. I naturally can’t say where, because you’ll all want to come. Sorry, strictly invitation only. Mind you, in the future, like the time The Pistols played the 100 Club in Oxford Street, those claiming to have been there on the night will fill Wembley Stadium – the new one - twice over.

No, you’ll just have to take my word for it that it will be, if nothing else, VERY LOUD and we, at least, will have the time of our lives – one more time.