music | the brilliantly leaping gazelle

December 6, 2025

33:64 presents “Terry Wogan.”

In news that has generated far more coverage than it warranted, four countries have pulled out of next years Eurovision Song Contest (ESC). Something to do with Israel’s continued participation in it, because of course!

A few things leap to mind.

Who seriously thinks that the ESC has any deeper cultural meaning other to than to remind us why we voted to leave Europe in the first place. The only reason I used to watch it was for Terry Wogan’s brilliant commentary. He took it as seriously as it demanded – which was not at all – and thoroughly took the piss.

It also reminds us why Europe has never churned out many musical megastars. Possibly it has to with language, because nothing indicates a desire for global success more than singing in a way that most people can’t understand. But even if they did, there’s a more fundamental problem that explains why there aren’t, indeed have never been and probably never ever will be any Greek, Norwegian or Polish international musical behemoths.

European pop music is shit. All of it is. Always has and always will be. ABBA? ABBA is the exception that proves the rule. Yes, ‘Waterloo’ was undeniably pure pop. But that was back in 1974. And they sang in English. And the world is unquestionably a much better place because of them. But aside from them? Celine Dion? In what universe is she anything other than a better than average karaoke singer who got lucky? Can anyone who isn’t a fan of hers name more than one that isn’t the ‘Titanic’ caterwauling abomination?

Because no matter how much Europe wishes it were otherwise, English is the language of pop. ‘Classical’ music proves this. It had no lyrics and therefore was thought of as good. By the very tiny minority of the rich who were able to judge these things, on account of them and living the sort of lives the rich have always lived.

And the movie ‘Spy’ provides more evidence to back this up. Aside from it being one of Jason Stathams greatest cinematic triumphs – his parody of himself is excellent – it also proved that to those not in on a joke, that the joke can be unintentionally hilarious.

There’s a bit in it where Verka Serduchka is doing something that the charitable might call singing, while looking like a homemade Christmas decoration made out of tin foil. When I saw it I thought the film had nailed it, had perfectly captured the same trite cheesy music, the same knowingly overblown campness and same the sheer awfulness of the kind of thing only ever seen at the ESC.

Only later did I realise the truth. That he had in fact came 2nd in the 2007 ESC, performing the same song, and in an even more laughably absurd way, that I had assumed was a grotesque invention by the filmmakers. (I had tried to embed the YouTube clip of it here so you could experience it for yourselves, but YouTube spared you that.)

There’s also the irony. Spain, Ireland, the Netherlands and Slovenia – the four to pull out so far – have all issued grand pronouncements each saying different versions of the same thing. Israel, war, genocide…the usual nonsense that gives politicians an excuse to engage in the kind of international virtue signalling grand-standing of the kind that focusing on more important domestic political concerns, like lowering taxes, improving public services or cutting unemployment simply doesn’t do.

More serious is the fact that the country they are so opposed to, which doesn’t share the values that they deem to be crucially important, is is the only country in the the Middle East where the ESC could take place. Technically it could take place, but in a largely empty area. The ESC has a very loyal LGBT+ following and pretty much anywhere other than Israel, would face either imprisonment or death. So why would anyone risk that?

In what can only be described as a performative hissy fit dressed up as a principled stand, these four countries have perfectly illustrated everything wrong with the ESC. A deluded sense of self-importance – disturbingly myopic, totally obsessed with its own image and wanting everyone to know just how important it it is – and thus implacably opposed to anything that contradicts its invented reality.

Which is its a song contest. Nothing more. And not even a very good one.

*****************************************************************

In my last post I predicted that the fixation with smearing Farrago, as spearheaded by ‘The Guardian’ and enthusiastically supported by most of the ‘print’ and broadcast the media, would continue unabated until polling day in 2029.

‘The Guardian’ managed to cobble together four articles out of one comment by Reforms Deputy Leader on Thursday, one of which had a link to an earlier story. Plus a cartoon and a video podcast. Yesterday’s top story detailed another pupils memories of nearly 50 years ago. They stretched that one out into two articles, an ‘exclusive’ and an opinion piece, which were still there today, just as prominent and just as embarrassingly pathetic.

It seems that proper investigative journalism, the tenacious and expensive unearthing of a scandal, the kind that the press were eager to convince the Leveson Inquiry they were tirelessly committed to, doesn’t actually exist and hasn’t for at least two, possibly three decades. Exposes concerning members of House of Inbreds, footballers sexual misconduct or other ‘celebrity’ nonsense, aren’t journalism.

Do we have the press we deserve because we don’t demand more or do do we have the press we deserve because we demand so little? Whatever the causes may be, they’re probably contested, likely contradictory, and no doubt better discussed by those more qualified to do so.

Back then to Farrago. His travails perfectly illustrate what I mean when I bemoan journalistic standards. Rumour, allegations and conjecture that pretend to be news while hearsay, gossip and innuendo masquerade as evidence.

How it is possible for grown-ups – let alone responsible journalists – to take seriously a story predicated upon what boys of 13 allege another boy of 13 said nearly 50 years ago. Unless they all allege that he said ABBA deserved to win the ESC and that he really fancied the blonde woman.

Now that I’d believe!

July 9, 2025

33:64 presents “Sean Parker.”

I must confess myself to have been utterly bewildered by the seemingly universal praise that the news of an Oasis reunion and subsequent tour generated. My bewilderment then turned into incredulity as the press – the proper press, not the music press or social media influencers – fell over itself to find the superlatives needed for the glowing reviews for their tour. Had one just woken from a coma, one might be forgiven for thinking that Oasis were some kind of unmatched paragons of musical excellence, and that their return was a welcome corrective to the moribund musical wasteland that is 2025.

The thing is, Oasis were shit back in the mid ’90’s and they’re no less shit now. It didn’t much matter to anyone that the entirety of Oasis’s music seemed even then to sound like a ropey Beatles tribute act, and now sounds like a crap AI imitation of a ropey Beatles tribute act, because they appeared at just the right time for the music business.

Britpop and Cool Britannia rescued the music business – as it then understood itself to be – from its own contradictions. It proclaimed itself to be constantly seeking the new big thing, prizing innovation and originality above all, but the new big thing was always shockingly similar to the previous new thing. However, whilst Britpop and the whole Cool Britannia vibe was essentially a media confection, a PR stunt with a ruthlessly commercial goal – that of driving previously declining record up sales – something altogether more genuinely egalitarian, quietly industrious and uniquely British was happening in bedrooms throughout the land.

In August 1995, Blur and Oasis engaged in a highly publicized chart battle for the number one album spot in the UK, dubbed the “Battle of Britpop.” Blur’s “Country House” ultimately outsold Oasis’s “Roll With It,” securing the top position. It was big news. The supposed rivalry between the bands was pure Pop 101, the notion that what one didn’t like was just as important as what one did, and proof was a purchase of either one. As successful as it was lucrative, it was also one of the last throws of the dice for an industry soon to face the challenges posed by Napster, illegal downloads and digital content.

The bedroom underground was part of that, a new way of producing, releasing and accessing music that technology had not just made possible but affordable.

I am firmly of the belief that Acid House – I.e.not ‘proper music – was by turns ignored, belittled by the music press, demonised by the tabloid press as a moral panic and and then specifically legislated against by the government because it was essentially working class To anyone used to the idea of rock music and of a band consisting of a singer, two guitarists and a drummer, a strange hybrid of the ethos of early 1970’s hip-hop fused with a punk sensibility and given a modern twist was threatening. Threatening in the business sense and also socially.

Young people had always danced late into the night and taken drugs. It’s what young people are meant to do. But when they started doing it outside of nightclubs with licensing laws, closing times and a mini-cab queue, then it became something else. To me, dancing all night in the open air until dawn was an updated version of the ’Block party’ spirit of early hip-hop. Often taking place in outdoors and using a pirated electricity supply – normally from street lights – to power the music set up. The DJ was the ‘star’ and the variety of his record collection, together with his ability to mix genres seamlessly to create a good time party vibe, was all.

Fast forward to Britain nearly two decades later, and here’s where the punk mindset comes in, a truer distillation of the ‘fake it till you make it’ attitude than preached by motivational speakers, a DIY belligerence if you will. The modern twist – well in 1990 it was modern – was to meld these musically disparate yet creatively inventive attitudes with a scavengers eye for second-hand electronic music gear.

All of which, whilst fascinating, is but a preamble to my bold assertion. I believe that if the great classical composers who are so revered now, had had access to samplers, sound cards and other technological wizardry then, the resulting music would’ve been broadly similar. I cite as evidence for this Beethovens Symphony No.7 in A major op.92 – II, Allegretto and The Sabres of Paradise’ ‘Smokebelch II .

Annoying, I’m unable to provide a YouTube link to the Beethoven piece, because YouTube!So you’ll just have to trust me on this.

Despite being written over 200 years apart, they both share one striking similarity. And it isn’t that they were using the technology of time, but rather the repetition of the each pieces musical theme. And that’s one reason why I hate Oasis, Coldplay and other purveyors of guitar based music ear botheration. There’s nothing unique to now about any of it and whilst it might seem as if I’m contradicting myself, actually I’m not. The way people reacted to it on an instinctive level, the perfect combination of music, all night partying and the drugs, the explosion of creativity and enterprise, how it all fed off itself and and in turn, fostered new iterations of itself, that was new.

So we come back to Oasis. And the reasons for the unbridled sycophancy of the press. They didn’t understand it then, and they want to return to then, because the now in which they find themselves is so constantly disorientating. The then of Cool Britannia, of expense accounts and liggers, of a time of certainty, not just culturally but socially and politically.

One thing hasn’t changed though. Oasis were shit then and even shitter now.

June 28, 2025

34:63 presents ‘David Attenborough’

Glastonbury is upon us again. And the use of the words ‘upon us again’ is deliberate. There is no escape from it. The media are obsessed with telling us how wonderful it is. As the broadsheets (as were) would have it, it has seemingly transformative powers, somehow combining a near mystical experience with an empowering odyssey of self-enlightenment. The tabloids are less fawning, but no less obsessed. They judge that their readers have more sense than to fork out the £378 price of the ticket for what is essentially a 3 day camping holiday with no knowledge of who’ll be playing when they book or what’s going to happen, other than they’ll be constantly ripped off.

Much better to watch it on the BBC. At least there’s a much better view, much better sound, a toilet mere feet away and a bedroom with a bed, cleanish sheets and a door. Nothing screams Glastonbury than trying to sleep often feet- but if, unlucky inches – away from strangers with only canvas between you. But the BBC has ruined Glastonbury and I’m not going to launch into some fatuous nonsense about how it was much better in my day. Because it wasn’t. I’ve only been three times. The last was in 2000 and only because Orbital and Pet Shop Boys were playing was it any good.

There are a few reasons why the BBC has ruined Glastonbury, and in so doing, helps if one better understand the increasingly losing battle to secure broadcasting rights the BBC fights. Additionally, I’m also be incredibly hypocritical, because despite the fact that I subscribe to Amazon Prime, Apple TV, Disney + and Netflix – whom I’ll collectively call ‘the streamers’ – that won’t stop me criticising them.

The main reason why the BBC has ruined Glastonbury is contained in the name of the BBC itself. It is a broadcaster. The giveaway is in the word ‘broadcaster’. It’s coverage of Glastonbury is heavily skewed in favour of musical acts who will either have name recognition and a back catalogue of hits, be the sort of radio friendly muzak that only a deaf person could like, or else be so worthily cutting edge that their next appearance on the BBC will be on ‘Later…with Jools Holland’.

One could very easily spend the entire festival not visiting any of the main stages and be well satisfied with the wide variety entertainments on offer. Aside from the official stages providing a breathtaking amount of comedy, theatre and other performing arts, there’s also the impromptu acts, who just pitch up and do their thing, much like the wandering minstrels or troubadours of old. Some are simply drumming up an audience for a performance later on in the festival, some are less polished than others, and some are simply chancers and opportunists with hope and enthusiasm if not always talent.

But you’d get none of that from the BBC’s coverage. Which isn’t their entirely their fault, but well… sort of is.

Music acts, especially the better known ones, provide good television. They also offer a ready made narrative for the viewer encountering them for the first time. Whilst they might never have heard of this particular band before, the cheering crowd watching them clearly have, and besides, they’re on TV – or more likely iPlayer. So in most peoples minds, Glastonbury is a music festival. Sure, there’s other things happening, but off-screen. The BBC reinforces this impression because it needs to justify the cost of securing the rights to broadcast the more than 120 hours of TV and radio it’ll produce. There just aren’t the viewing figures in avant-garde mime, experimental theatre or penis puppeteers.

Since 1997, the BBC has been Glastonbury’s official broadcaster and it’s easy to see why. Previously they’d gone with Channel Four and whilst there may have been some mutual ideation of being outsiders, Channel Four had neither the technical competence to manage such a complex outside broadcast, nor could they offer the hours needed. The BBC, by contrast first devoted BBC2 for the entire weekends evening saturation coverage, with additional bigger names on prime time BBC1. Things really moved on when BBC3 and 4 both joined the fray but Glastonbury exploded when the BBC launched iPlayer.

Before then, it was a niche thing, the sort of thing a wild cousin might do, to get all that youthful folly out of their system before they settled down like a grown-up. Now, thanks to the BBC’s relentless promotion of it across TV and radio, it has become a rite of passage for the sort of people who’d like to imagine that they once possessed youthful folly, despite them no longer being young or ever having had much desire to folly. Over the years, and by a gradual process of inculcating it into the the mainstream of British life, the BBC has somehow managed to make Glastonbury into something both culturally irrelevant yet incredibly lucrative.

That’s the problem. The BBC, in seeking to widen the festivals appeal into the mainstream and having devoted its numerous ‘platforms’ to promote it, is now facing a problem of its own making. Basically, it has been too successful at it, and the BBC knew, or should’ve known, that this was a very likely possibility. Because it’s happened to them before. A few times, and always with sport.

Remember when snooker was a proper old mans game? When, as the saying had it, ‘proficiency at snooker was the sign of a misspent youth’? Something vaguely disreputable, not seedy as such but nonetheless rooted in most peoples minds as determinedly working class, and not just that, but northern working class. Played in dimly lit rooms, the air thick with cigarette smoke and tables full of empty pint glasses? Of course you don’t. Now it is a thing, a very popular thing. But not in 1969 it wasn’t. But BBC2 had just started televising things in colour and its then controller, David Attenborough – yes that one! – had the idea that the televising snooker would be a great showcase for the new technology.

Thus “Pot Black’ was born. It was a hit and ran until 1986 and was so popular it turned a minority pastime into national obsession, snooker players like Steve Davis and Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins into celebrities, such that the BBC broadcast World Championship Final between them in 1983 on prime-time Saturday night, uninterrupted until it ended at just after 1am. Used as we are now to television never ending, in 1983 it had never happened. Live sports overran, but never until !am. I know, as me, my brother and my Dad watched the drama. And it was. Tense, gripping and mesmerising. Millions of others thought so to. So did the people running World Snooker. They were able to sell the rights to broadcast snooker to the highest bidder, and because ITV wanted the audience, the price skyrocketed.

Same thing thing with Wimbledon. Previously only interesting primarily because it took place when football wasn’t happening and consequently there was no other sport, it has now become a thing. Its only still on the BBC because certain sporting events are legally mandated to be free to air for at least 95% of the UK population. Same with football, the World Cup and the F.A. Cup Final. But not the Premier League or any Champions League matches. Premier League broadcast rights were snapped up by Sky in a five year deal worth £6.7 billion. The rights to broadcast Champions League matches live are divided up by TNT and Amazon Prime. The BBC makes do with highlights.

Rugby League, Golf, Athletics that are not the Olympics, Formula One, Motorcycling, have all followed the same inevitable trajectory. Once simply niche fillers as part of BBC1’s excellent’Grandstand’, but over time popularised by constant, repeated exposure, once the audience had been hooked, an audience moreover that was willing to pay to watch it, then those governing bodies showed all the loyalty of a prostitute, and like a prostitute, took the money.

It’s foolish then to imagine that there’ll be any difference when the broadcasting rights to Glastonbury come up for renewal. The BBC will be priced out, a victim of its own success yet again. A shame, not because I’d miss Glastonbury on the BBC, but because it is yet another reminder that the BBC has finite resources, and as such is unable to compete on the world stage. Soon, not even the Pyramid Stage.

1 Comment