7.30 am. The sun is shining, spring has sprung, and my ride on mower is once again able to mark its neat lines on the lawn. My left hip seems to have temporarily parted company with the rest of my body, making my morning jog more of a "limp, limp, hobble", but as Fiery Freddie used to say "Don't stop me now, I'm having such a good time".
Those lyrics come to mind, as I recently heard a new dance remix of that ditty floating across the airwaves; one, which had successfully changed the joyous onward thrust of the original into a stagnant slowly cycling whirlpool. I might say cesspit, but my purpose is not to be unkind. It is merely to confess that this is music that I do not understand. Its form is not based on melody, lyric, or underlying harmonic patterns. It is based on repetition, and, presumably, rhythmic variety. Having two left feet, seven thumbs and three fingers, any rhythmic variety passed me by, and the repetition was all too obvious. And I liked the track as it was.
That's me ruled out of the dance remix club then.
10.30 am. EMI have successful taken my day, which was gently taking flight, and pinned it down to earth. Grrrrr. Protracted negotiations with their legal department about an ongoing license agreement is one sure fire way of making any sane person leave the music business. If, of course, there is one left to leave.
3.20 pm. Exciting news in the my intray. Tony Blair a closet air guitarist. Who would have thunk it? And his favourite solo? Why, 21st Century Schizoid Man, of course. I can see him now. Guest of honour at the yet to be announced (only joking) King Crimson show at the Albert Hall, with Cherie claiming lots of freebies, and selling them to the ticket touts. The only mystery is, if he is such a fan, why does he play a Fender Stratocaster?
"We pay our own tab."
