Karaoke and the Consensus Hit

At Uncle Darryl’s 60th birthday in March, I was reminded of the power of the universal hit song

There was drink, sushi and karaoke when Uncle Darryl, my mum’s brother, turned 60 last month. In the three hours I was at the party (I ducked out at 9.15pm), at least 30 songs had been played, all of which were consensus hits: songs that everyone knows and loves, even if they say they don’t.

The hits were a mix of songs from long ago and from more recent years: Rule the World by Take That, Angels by the most successful former member of Take That, and songs not by Take That. All You Need Is Love from 1967, Bohemian Rhapsody and Dancing Queen from the mid-1970s, Livin’ on a Prayer and Summer of ’69 (never a UK Top 40 hit, actually) from the mid-1980s, Yellow and Mr Brightside from the early 2000s; all we needed for the full house was bloody Sweet Caroline.

At some point I realised that all these songs, which without exception are in major keys, were versions of Molly Malone or God Save The King: folk anthems to be sung in celebration of being alive. I remember people bellowing along to Bon Jovi at a wedding and realising that the band may have written it, but it belonged to the audience now. All those songs do: Robbie Williams has said how Angels has become ‘the world’s biggest karaoke session’, while the abovementioned Rule The World was built for the stadiums Take That were playing at the time.

I asked a black friend what sort of consensus hits soundtrack gatherings of black people who have grown up with hip-hop (Eminem, for instance, is notoriously hard to do karaoke to). She asked around and came back with Before I Let Go by Maze and Frankie Beverly, which failed to reach the top 10 of the US R&B charts but came back in a big way in 2019 thanks to Beyoncé including a version of it in her Homecoming concert movie aka Beychella. And what about in Australia? Apparently there’s a line dance for Nutbush City Limits by Tina Turner, and of course there’s the unofficial national anthem You’re The Voice by John Farnham.

Consensus hits extend to books, movies and TV too. I’ve just started listening to a podcast about How I Met Your Mother, a sitcom that ran on CBS between 2005 and 2014; I came to it after the show had finished, and appreciated the acting, writing and storylines. It also acts as a warm hug or hot toddy, full of earnestness and lessons learned.

Episodes of the How We Made Your Mother podcast, which mentions in its third episode how the show belongs to its audience, begin with superlatives and anecdotes from fans who feel comforted by the show and its characters: single guy Ted, young couple Marshall and Lily, Canadian TV host Robin and besuited bro Barney, played against type by Broadway star Neil Patrick Harris.

The show’s success coincided with the Obama administration, as did Parks and Recreation, where lovely Leslie Knope strove for positivity against the show’s antihero, Parks Director Ron Swanson. Amy Poehler, who played Leslie as an extension of herself, links that show with the Pixar movie Inside Out, which was imagineered to perfection and was a critical hit; the sequel was the world’s biggest movie of last year, even though it lost the novelty factor of the first movie, which took the novel approach of personifying emotions like Anger, Sadness and Joy.

Despicable Me, with its irritatingly adorable yellow Minions, helped Steve Carell move on from Michael Scott, the American equivalent of David Brent, and I can’t wait to watch the movies with my nephew. It’s already cued up in my mind alongside the other Pixar animations that were, and still are, consensus hits: Toy Story 1 and 3, Up, Wall-E and Coco. You know what the films are doing to you, but once your prefrontal cortex latches on to them, you are powerless to stop the tears from flowing.

Humans like stories and feeling involved in them, a literal consensus that gives such a status to these pieces of art. None has been more successful in my lifetime than the saga of the wizard boy who came of age at boarding school alongside his two best friends; almost 30 years after the first book in the heptalogy came out, Harry Potter still casts his spells upon the children and grandchildren of the book’s first readers. I suppose part of the series’ success is, like the Bible or Torah, to do with the shared nature of it, with readers of every creed and colour feeling kinship with the characters.

There’s a difference between niche causes and epochal artworks like Guernica or the Mona Lisa, which at this point in their lifetimes are seen to be seen, for a photo op, rather than to be understood. Much of the coverage of Taylor Swift’s Eras tour, which I think of as a giant niche even though she has sold more records than anyone else in the last few years, focussed on how much money she took in, or how much money was added to the GDP of the city she played in, or how long the set was. Consensus isn’t about how big your appendage is, however, but how you wield it.

I always remember a review of a Kings of Leon gig which, to paraphrase, noted that the band would love not to play Sex On Fire, but they would also like to pay the man who cleans their swimming pools. The consensus hit entraps the movie studio or the performing artist, boxing them in and forcing them to do the same thing over and over again until it falls out of fashion; no Kings of Leon song has been anywhere near as successful since Sex On Fire, even if it didn’t even breach the US top 50. It means they can tour Australia and the UK, both of whose charts it topped, until the end of time.

NOW 120 is out on Friday, gathering a few dozen tracks that have been popular in recent months, and I am running over the final edits of a book that tells the story of pop music through four decades of NOW compilations. Back in 1999, they could afford to omit Genie In A Bottle, Livin’ La Vida Loca and Flying Without Wings, which are all consensus smashes, because they could include Baby One More Time, S Club Party and Tragedy by Steps. There were more chances for consensus when there were fewer opportunities to hear a song via a personal feed on TikTok.

Last month the Netflix hit Adolescence got people talking about teenage mental health, and TV shows or podcasts about scandals or evil men can become global topics of discussion. It is ironic to note that R Kelly, whose music will never again be heard in polite society, is Track One on Disc Two of NOW 44; another of his songs, the remix to Ignition, was a party staple before it very quickly wasn’t. Luckily, we have Uptown Funk, Livin’ on a Prayer and bloody Sweet Caroline.

Consensus is cross-generational, after all: this year, Baby One More Time passed a billion Spotify streams, although we didn’t sing that at Darryl’s 60th.

Now That’s What I Call Now: A History of Pop Music in Britain from 1984-present is out as an eBook later this month, but you can read original versions of the pieces at nowthatswhaticallnow.com.

Elton John, the Troubadour from Metroland

In advance of a new collaborative project with Brandi Carlile, I look out of my lounge window for inspiration

Last week I hymned Paul Gambaccini, who turns 76 a week from now (April 2). Gambo’s friend Elton John, who is two years, a week and a day older than him, is still singing and releasing music. In fact, he celebrates his 78th birthday tonight at the London Palladium, but I don’t have to go anywhere to see him; I just need to turn my chair around.

To mark Elton’s final shows at Vicarage Road back in 2022, a massive mural was done of him on the side of Watford Library: glasses, sparkles, ebullience in an image. If you look out of my lounge window, Elton stares back, like the demon eyes of Doctor TJ Eckleburg in The Great Gatsby, or Sauron.

Next Friday (April 4), Elton releases his album Who Believes In Angels, a duets project with Brandi Carlile, who is fast becoming my generation’s Joni Mitchell or, indeed, our Elton. Working with the great Bernie Taupin and producer Andrew Watt, who has already ticked off the Rolling Stones and Pearl Jam as he tries to collect the set of Rock’n’Roll Stars, the pair of them have recorded a set of songs that build on their life’s work: comforting people, including gay and marginalised ones, with their music.

The album ends with When This Old World Is Done With Me, the type of song David Bowie and Leonard Cohen were singing in their seventies; Rock Star Stares Death in the Face a whole genre in itself, led by My Way, sung by a fiftysomething Sinatra. Elton’s take on the genre ends with a brass band, and after he played it through for the first time, Brandi recalls he wept and ‘his whole body crumpled over the piano’. ‘Is it too Lion King?’ said the man who wrote the songs for The Lion King, which will help Disney+ gain subscribers for decades to come.

As we learned from his memoir, a biopic and a documentary, this is the legacy of a shy pianist who, between the demise of The Beatles and the moonwalking rise of Michael Jackson, was the world’s most popular entertainer. He headlined Wembley by himself! He topped the US singles charts multiple times!! He was camp and flamboyant in an era of three-day weeks and economic decline!!!

We will soon see Elton in the forthcoming Spinal Tap sequel, which is not his first foray into acting; indeed, he has played ‘Elton John’ most of his life. He made a cameo in sitcom Ab Fab (‘I’ve always had hair, BITCH!’) and, in the best scene of Tommy, he mimed Pinball Wizard with stadium-rock gusto wearing oversized glasses and shoes.


As the book Watford Forever makes clear, Elton replaced drugs with Watford Football Club, whose Sir Elton John Stand I sat in just the other week to watch an FA Youth Cup tie. (Can I mention I wrote a book, From Kids to Champions, about the competition?) With £1m of Elton’s money, and the expert management of Graham Taylor, Watford cantered up the Football League and finished the 1982/83 season as the second best team in England; the 1983/84 season began with games in European competition and ended at Wembley, where Elton was filmed with tears in his eyes during the FA Cup final anthem Abide With Me.

Then came the score to the movie about meerkats, warthogs and lion cubs, as well as sundry soundtracks for stage musicals that played on Broadway and in the West End: Aida, Billy Elliott, Tammy Faye and The Devil Wears Prada, the last of these currently running in the Dominion Theatre where We Will Rock You used to live. Elton’s memoir Me, in which he revealed that Bob Dylan was useless at charades, made it clear that his career is motivated by the fractured relationship between young Reginald and dad Stanley, who was played in the movie Rocketman by the same actor who had been in the Underworld movies.

When Elton topped the UK album charts with his Diamonds collection, 18 months after putting a bow on his career with a Glastonbury headline slot, it reminded people just how many hits he had had: Bennie and the Jets, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Philadelphia Freedom, Are You Ready For Love, Tiny Dancer, Crocodile Rock and, of course, I’m Still Standing, Your Song and set closer Rocket Man. The biggest selling song of all (and until the end of) time is Candle in the Wind, written in honour of Marilyn Monroe and reset to commemorate the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, whose younger son Elton is godfather to.

Then there’s the philanthropic work with his AIDS Foundation, established in 1992. He is also in the exclusive club of 65 Companions of Honour, alongside fellow melodist Paul McCartney, fellow national treasure David Attenborough and fellow gay icon Ian McKellen. Above all, though, he is father of two boys, respectively an aspiring footballer and a wannabe musician. Paul Gambaccini and I agreed that their dad had done his job correctly.

I came to Elton in the 1990s, so my first exposure to him was probably Circle of Life. Not wanting to spend £100 on a ticket to see him and his crack band play Watford’s football stadium, I took my partner and walked down to sit on a bench outside the hospital beside the ground and listen to the second half of the set. It sounded like rock’n’roll music, but there was also opera, orchestral and pop music, a combination only Elton could have brought together; this was a kid who attended the Royal Academy of Music to learn piano but loved the pre-rock chart-topper Winifred Atwell.

I do not know why he doesn’t join forces with Gambo and launch a podcast called The Rest Is Pop. Elton has hosted over 400 episodes of his Rocket Hour for Apple Music showcasing his deep love for, and encyclopaedic knowledge of, pop music. He has been known to buy multiple copies of CDs for both friends and his multiple homes dotted around the world: in Windsor, Venice, Nice and, in the USA, both Atlanta and LA. All that Lion King money has been used sensibly.

Although he is no longer jetting around the world to fulfil concert dates, Elton is looking after his legacy just as Jimmy Page is shepherding the Led Zeppelin remasters and as McCartney and Ringo Starr are still talking about their band, which broke up 55 years ago. Among Elton’s greatest achievements is that along with Led Zep and the Fabs, he is in the tiny rank of popular entertainers who gained huge success in the USA. They have since been joined by the Bee Gees, Sting, Phil Collins, Coldplay, Adele and Elton’s good friend Ed Sheeran, who have all written top tunes and sold out stadiums.

Elton is also very good at selling his material, always game for an interview; he dealt with an enthused Jack Black on Graham Norton’s show very well, and he and Brandi recently spoke to Radio 2’s Scott Mills from his Vinyl Room. ‘The song just appeared,’ Brandi sighed about her friend, a man who has been inventing melodies, which have been heard by millions, if not billions, for over 50 years. Hence why I can see him out of my window.

Always Meet Your Heroes

It’s quite disconcerting to have your hero bellow questions at you, as I found out this year

I’m on the radio on Sunday. For the third time in as many months, my voice will come out of BBC Radio 4 and BBC Sounds. I first applied to be on the music quiz Counterpoint in 2021, and I was not chosen as one of 27 contestants for that series, or 2023’s, or 2024’s.

I was promised I would definitely be on the 2025 series, the 38th, questions for which have been set by Stephen Garner (pictured below), whose fiendish mind thinks up 67 per show, 14 of which are unused. Somehow, in 28 minutes of valuable audio real estate, 53 questions are asked in full or in part. Because it’s a music quiz, there are also clips to play; in my heat, I was given the love theme to the movie Up and three pieces of music by Wham! You can hear the show here as a podcast.

You will discover what Stephen has thought up for the three finalists on Sunday afternoon at 4.30pm, when there is no Premier League football on 5 Live. Rather humorously my two fellow finalists – Jim from Northern Ireland, and Sarah, who describes herself intersectionally as a ‘Cornish Australian Mancunian’ – are former Mastermind finalists, while in 2022 Sarah reached the Counterpoint final and won Brain of Britain. She was wearing a t-shirt of her favourite band The Divine Comedy, which was a nice conversation starter as we waited for the quiz to begin (we recorded it a month ago yesterday).

In the semi-final, I had gotten lucky when Country in the 21st Century came up as a bonus round. I was asked a septet of questions that ranged from the artist who covered Fast Car by Tracy Chapman, to which trio were ashamed that George W Bush was from Texas, to the Californian country festival that happens every April. In case you want to test your knowledge, here’s the link to the show.

The final round is on the buzzers, the same dot buttons used by Just A Minute contestants to interrupt hesitators and deviators; the show is recorded in the same BBC Radio Theatre on a stage where pretty much every great British entertainer of the past century has trodden upon. The green room in which contestants mingle and where they leave their belongings during the recording, Stephen told me, has held Joanna Lumley, Michael Palin and Sir Elton John, whom Stephen chaperoned at a recording of Paul Gambaccini’s celebration of his 40 years on the BBC.

Photo credit: Christopher Sykesud

Segue: Paul Gambaccini (pictured left) is my hero. I used to stay in on Saturday evenings, even when I could listen back to the show on the pre-Sounds iPlayer, to hear America’s Greatest Hits, a two-hour programme that played rock, country and R&B ‘then and now’. The show always ended with the number one song of the moment. It’s the first place I heard Just Dance by Lady Gaga, I Kissed a Girl by Katy Perry and Fence Post by Aaron Watson, a country artist who lamented that an executive didn’t believe he had ‘commercial appeal’.

I wrote to the man everybody calls Gambo to borrow the format for the show when I did my own version of it in 2015, and he graciously sent me a letter back giving me his blessing. I had attended that BBC celebration, which meant that Stephen called me over to the questioner’s table before the recording of the heat. Weren’t we close to the 50-year hootenanny, I asked. Yes, Paul Gambaccini from the radio told me, and that’s not all: if he, who turns 76 on April 2, held on for a few more years he would break essayist Alistair Cooke’s service record of 58 years.

In a media landscape where the BBC have to serve every possible audience in every possible way – news, current affairs, drama, music documentary, children’s programming – there is room to give Gambo a two-hour Sunday night show on Radio 2 show called The Paul Gambaccini Collection. In the first year, he has broadcast tributes to Quincy Jones and his Radio 2 colleague Johnnie Walker, and in February, either side of a Valentine’s Day special, the themes were Comic Books and songs with Happy or Sad in the title.

The critic David Hepworth once remarked that the man possessed a ‘discographic memory’, perhaps because alongside Mike Read and Jo and Tim Rice (yes, that Tim Rice), Gambo wrote the literal pop discography. That’s why they call him the Professor of Pop, which is befitting a man who studied at Oxford on a Rhodes scholarship in the 1970s and settled in London after becoming Rolling Stone magazine’s man in Rock’n’Roll London, in a country which had just begun to put the genre on the air with Radio One in 1967.

Across half a century, in a broadcasting career which included a spot reviewing the movies on breakfast TV, Gambo has presented for every one of the main BBC networks and several commercial stations including Jazz FM, Classic FM, LBC and Greatest Hits Radio. The last of these stations is where America’s Greatest Hits now lives, broadcast from 5-7pm on Saturday afternoons. He records it in his West London home with ‘studio manager Chris Sherwood’ on hand to push the buttons as he reads the script, as I was told in the green room after the final recording.

He has published two books of essays, Masters of Rock and Track Records, based on hour-long profiles written for Radio One in the early 1980s; the Michael Jackson essay begins ‘I don’t want to talk about the llama’. Only a man used to Oxford tutorial essays could have taken on such an assignment, one which had a ‘hideous deadline pressure’, in a time before Google and digital search capabilities.

In 1996, Paul published a memoir called Love Letters, which I am duty bound to say took its name from a copyright which was a UK top ten hit for three artists: Ketty Lester (number 4, 1962); Elvis Presley (number 6, 1966); and Alison Moyet (number 4, 1987). I had to look that up, but I bet Paul would not needed to do so.

In Love Letters, Paul wrote about seven men he loved. One of them was David Carroll, who fell victim to the AIDS virus that struck down so many gay men in the 1980s: ‘We both suffered to come to terms with a sexuality that was first impossible, then inadvisable and finally a blessing’. When Gambo marked the 80th birthday of his mate Tim Rice in November 2024, he closed the programme with Anthem, written by Rice for the musical Chess, in which Carroll originated the role of The Russian, Anatoly Sergievsky.

Gambo’s achievements in broadcasting and discography rather bury the lede: a few years before he came to England, the Sexual Offences Act was passed; one of the clauses legalised homosexuality between consenting adults over 21 in private. Alongside his close friend Elton John (more on whom next week), Gambo has been a high-profile gay figure in British life; Elton might have sold millions of records, but Gambo was the one who played them on air and introduced people to Elton’s magnificent songwriting.

Who will replace Elton, or Gambo, when they are gone? Well, who can.

 

Journalism and The Truth

Two small words, Truth and Trust, are obsessing me in this post-whatever age

Maria Ressa’s outstanding book How To Stand Up to a Dictator was written about Philippines president Rodrigo Duterte, whose daughter Sara is in the middle of being impeached as vice-president. Maria and her fellow female journalists at Rappler had to undergo the slings and digital arrows of trying to hold the powerful accountable, with troll farms and public pronouncements turning people against the truth.

Truth and its cousin, Trust, are so important in the new digital world. Jamie Susskind, a qualified barrister who is on first-name terms with the Rule of Law, has written a couple of books about this new Digital Republic, one of which was praised for its chunky bibliography; his brother Daniel, who would have been a classmate of mine had we not gone to rival schools just North of London, has received plaudits for his ‘reckoning’ on the concept of economic growth, which has fascinated him at an academic and policy level. I remember Daniel doing some magic tricks as a teenager; now, with plaudits from former Prime Ministers, he’s hoping to work some magic of a different kind.

And then there’s the USA, to which the whole world is gripped; never mind Dallas or M*A*S*H, Seinfeld or Friends, Succession or whatever this year’s hottest show is, Trump II: This Time It’s Worse is the sitcom of the ages. This series has a fun new character: a nasty billionaire with a passion for space exploration, electric cars and also autocracy.

We’re supposed to be scared and distracted, especially those of us with family in the country, and trust the media to mediate, as they have always done. It’s not particularly optimal that Fox News, assorted online gobsheets and the recently freed Steve Bannon, who invented Bannoning aka ‘flooding the zone’, are all working hard to spread the Trump message. Nor is it great that progressive voices are choosing their words carefully: it saddens me to thank that Seth Meyers is earning a living on NBC, the very same network which turned Trump from a tabloid star into a TV star with a catchphrase: ‘Make America Great Again’. I mean, ‘You’re Fired’.

What worries me greatly is the silencing of journalists and big media organisations. Why has Amazon earmarked $40m to do an Imelda Marcos-style portrait of Melania, mother of Barron Trump, a freshman at New York University? Why has Meta told its Facebook users to do their own fact-checking? Why did Reddit act to stop criticism, stating publicly that ‘debate and dissent’ is good but threats are not, of the hired goons who acted on behalf of DOGE aka the Elon department of state? Maybe the threats need to be coded or, as per Nigel Farage, asked in a jokey ‘Whhhhat’s all that about?’ manner.

If you are paid to report the truth objectively and fairly, you cannot be cowed by the people on whom you are reporting. It did not surprise me to learn that in the early years of Nazism, Hitler rapidly took measures to shut down the free and Jewish-owned press, with journalists of all stripes fleeing the country which was now hostile to Jews, communists and anyone who wasn’t Aryan enough. Are the tech bros the new Goebbelses, controlling the message and making it impossible to challenge power (whhhhat’s all that about)?

There is a reason the resignation of Washington Post cartoonist Ann Telnaes made the news after her cartoon was spiked. Although it was foreseeable to know that painting the ultimate owner of her paper as a man in thrall to Trump, next to Mickey Mouse and Mark Zuckerberg, it still smacked of censorship, or at the very least extreme caution. Rupert Murdoch, before his company Fox News paid a gargantuan fine rather than go to court to say that they not defame Dominion voting systems, the truth of which of course is made moot by the settlement, gave another of his axioms which I have not forgotten since: ‘It’s not red or blue; it’s green’.

This means that he, as well as Musk, Zuckerberg and Farage, can change shapes and colour to suit the mood. Words don’t matter; money does. Piers Morgan congratulated Trump on his accession to the throne – sorry, the presidency – four years after flipping the bird after the Capitol riots of January 6 2021. Morgan, who has been employed variously by ITV, CNN and Talk TV, is now an independent entity and, in spite of everything, helped newspapers sell copies and TV channels gain viewers. He is also a very, very rich man, even though the commentator George Monbiot wrote in 2023 that his rise was ‘one of the abiding mysteries of public life’ (whhhhat’s all that about?).

Like Murdoch, Morgan showed his hand back in 1999 when he admitted that he sought to ‘ingratiate’ himself with ‘newspaper owners, potential newspaper owners and billionaires’. Morgan claims, in spite of a court case stating the opposite, he ‘neither hacked a phone nor told anyone to hack a phone’ while editor of the News of the World (before he was 30) and the Daily Mirror, a job he lost after publishing faked photos of Iraqi prisoners. He then headed to Britain’s Got Talent, where he was present to witness the rise of the Susan Boyle phenomenon.

Morgan turns 60 years old at the end of March, and I would genuinely love to be at that birthday party or be there when he opens his cards. Which old Fleet Street legends will pay homage to a man who in 2008 won the seventh season of the US Celebrity Apprentice, beating off his fellow Hydra team members Lennox Lewis, Gene Simmons and the guy who played Big Pussy in the Sopranos? Morgan now hosts Uncensored on his Youtube channel, free of any broadcaster or even requirements for balance; he is more Andrew Tate than Andrew Marr (whhhhat’s all that about?).

The show, sponsored by an American jewellery broker (‘get up to $15,000 in free silver’), has recently included interviews with Ukraine president Vlodymyr Zelensky and, in Riyadh, Tucker Carlson, respectively Putin’s foe and the man who was, to Morgan, ‘licking’ the Russian leader somewhere I can’t write because you might be eating. Before his fall from grace, Carlson was the top TV pundit in the USA with a nightly show on Fox News; watching clips of the interview where Morgan and Carlson met for the first time is like the celebrated Spiderman meme. Indeed, both got to question one another for their respective channels.

Both men are successful in monetising the attention of a global audience, and I do wonder if history will be kind to them. They quack like journalists, talking to people in power and communicating to an audience, but they are at heart entertainers. In a world where news is a marketplace, they are the fearless truth-tellers, and their audience trusts them.

It also helps the powerful people that voters are watching Morgan or Carlson; better them, than reading Maria Ressa on Duterte, or Carole Cadwalladr on Brexit-backing businessmen, or journalists reporting on Hitler in 1934. Ah, no; they couldn’t do that, because their employers had fled.

The fewer journalists there are, the likelier that the powerful can write history themselves, rather than be written about.

On The Plane, The Game You Cannot Lose

The latest round of ‘What? No [Player X]?!’ is upon us, as Herr Tuchel selects the first England squad for the upcoming World Cup qualifiers

Every two years, providing that the England men’s football team qualify for an international tournament, the great debate begins: who should be the next James Bond?

No, sorry, I mean: who should be the next Doctor Who?

No, again, sorry, I mean: who should be on the plane to [insert international tournament here]? It is a parlour game with no right or wrong answers, and places importance on the squad, which has been expanded from 23 to 26 players for no reason at all.

Thomas Tuchel will follow Gareth Southgate as the most loved/hated man in Britain according to how well England play across 90 minutes this spring and autumn. Oodles of newsprint will be wasted by those doing the most pointless job in England: writing about the national team. It’s pointless because any opinion counts, no matter how stupid or, indeed, racist. The USA has its many sporting franchises, and Australia has the cricket team, but really the England men’s team (not the women’s…yet) is the albatross around our neck.

Someone once wrote that, whereas Shakespeare, HRH, the NHS and the BBC are British, only the football team is separate from those of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. They know their place, but England has a nation of many millions who, in 2026, will mark the diamond jubilee of the 1966 FIFA World Cup victory on home turf. Only one of the starting XI remains, Sir Geoff Hurst, while as of the time of writing in March 2025 only two other squad members are still alive. Strangely, both are wingers: Ian Callaghan, who is 83 in April, won five First Division titles with Liverpool across 20 years, and Terry Paine, who played 808 games for Southampton and will turn 86 this month.

For this reason, the 2026 World Cup in North America and Mexico assumes plenty of importance. For the first time, a German coach will lead England (barring catastrophe) to a finals that will be overlong and overshadowed, as ever, by the nastiness of the host nation’s leader and the usual blitheness of football’s governing body (‘today I feel…Trumpian’). The English FA have appointed a career coach who won the Champions League with Chelsea and has managed in France (with Paris St-Germain) and Germany, where he took over from Jürgen Klopp at both Mainz and Dortmund, and took charge of Bayern Munich in 2023/24. Rather shockingly, Bayern did not win the league that season, which meant he was relieved of his post.

Tuchel brings with him an English coach in Anthony Barry, a Scouser who came through at Everton but was released as a young pro. He went on to play for such clubs as Accrington Stanley, Yeovil Town, Chester City, Fleetwood Town and Wrexham – all hail the football pyramid! – before starting a coaching career at Wigan Athletic and moving on to work first with Chelsea and then with the Republic of Ireland and Belgium. He is apparently known for his set-piece work, so expect the focus to be as much on Barry, corners and free-kicks as on Tuchel, tactics and open play; indeed, the 2018 World Cup saw England have a great deal of joy from dead-ball situations.

That tournament included plenty of players who are still under consideration for Herr Tuchel, and thus we turn to On The Plane. Bear in mind that injuries and form can play a huge part in who makes the cut, which is why Marcus Rashford will be nowhere near the squad, in spite of regaining first-team football with Aston Villa. Trent Alexander-Arnold was a 19-year-old one-cap wonder when he went to Russia in 2018, while first-choice goalkeeper Jordan Pickford and defender Harry Maguire had only played three and five times respectively going into a tournament in which they both shone.

There is every chance that an unknown player will have three good games for his club, impress the manager during a friendly in Spring 2026 and force the manager’s hand. As it stands, there are several players who are, so to speak, clutching their tickets. They include Jude Bellingham and Declan Rice in midfield, Cole Palmer and Bukayo Saka in the wide positions and Pickford, who has now played 73 games for his country. In 2025/26 he will play in goal for Everton in their new stadium, and with any luck he will face fewer shots per game under the management of David Moyes. His understudies will be two from Nick Pope, Aaron Ramsdale, James Trafford and Dean Henderson.

Into the centre-back positions and it seems likely that Marc Guéhi and John Stones will be picked, with Ezri Konsa building on his success at Aston Villa. Joe Gomez and Levi Colwill are other options, as is Brighton captain-leader-legend Lewis Dunk. Pickford’s Everton teammate Jarrad Branthwaite made his England debut just before EURO 2024 and was on standby for the tournament.

Other provisional squad members included Jarell Quansah of Liverpool and James Maddison of Spurs. It may be that Maddison is the type of player Tuchel wants in his squad, but he is blessed with playmakers, three of them from Manchester City alone: Phil Foden, Jack Grealish and James McAtee. In any case, Bellingham will start every game and potentially captain the side.

What to do about Harry Kane, England’s record scorer and the man brought to Bavaria by Tuchel in 2023? Dominic Solanke’s absence for this month’s games will ensure Ollie Watkins or possibly Noni Madueke starts one of the two games in rotation with Kane, or with each other. Had he scored any goals off the bench this season, Eddie Nketiah of Crystal Palace would join his team-mates Henderson, Guéhi, Tyrick Mitchell and Eberechi Eze in the squad; the injury to fellow striker Jean-Philippe Mateta gives Nketiah a decent run of games. Adam Wharton, who has missed much of the season through injury, and his replacement Will Hughes are also in with a shout.

With Bukayo Saka due to be making his way back from injury, Eze or Jarrod Bowen might have the opportunity to start on the right, with Palmer on the left or perhaps through the middle. Luke Shaw, whose body is too unreliable, might miss out in favour of Rico Lewis, who will be joined by any number of players who, alongside him, won the 2023 under-21 EURO tournament. They include: goalkeeper Trafford; defenders Branthwaite, Colwill and Taylor Harwood-Bellis; midfielders Harvey Elliott, Morgan Gibbs-White, Angel Gomes, Anthony Gordon and Curtis Jones; and strikers Palmer and Madueke.

Gareth Southgate famously started his time as England manager by informing Wayne Rooney that his international career was over, and professional England-watchers will be primed to go, ‘What, no [insert player here]?’ when they report on Tuchel’s first squad for the fixtures at Wembley against Albania and Latvia. Will any of Newcastle United’s Englishmen – Pope, Gordon, Harvey Barnes, Lewis Hall, Tino Livramento or Joe Willock – make the squad?

Will Manchester United’s horrendous league position relegate Kobbie Mainoo, who is looking to leave the club, to a squad player rather than a starter? Will Alexander-Arnold, Jones and Harvey Elliott mysteriously pull out of the games so as to help Liverpool more speedily pull level with United as they search for their 20th league title, which will delight (the win) or appal (the withdrawl) Ian Callaghan?

The one to watch for the starting place is Conor Gallagher, who played under Tuchel at Chelsea in 2022/23 and now plays in Spain for Atlético Madrid alongside Kieran Trippier who, aged 34 and having won over 50 international appearances, has made himself unavailable for the World Cup qualifiers. In the midfield, England will need a quarterback in front of the defence, a playmaker behind the striker and a sweeper-upper in the middle of the pitch.

Rice and Bellingham are the starters, with Mainoo, Gallagher, Jones and Gibbs-White ready as impact players. If Arsenal’s very young Max Dowman does a Rooney and comes through at 16, following the path to the first team that his fellow teenagers Myles Lewis-Skelly and Ethan Nwaneri have followed, then he might win a seat on the plane. You can call it the Theo Walcott role of Promising Young Talent. There might not be space for him anyway, as competition is intense.

Even though it doesn’t matter, and unlike Tuchel and Barry I am not being paid millions by the English FA to do this for a living, here is my squad of 26 for The Plane to Mexico and North America, with 11 players on standby to account for loss of form or injury.

Goalkeepers: Jordan Pickford, Nick Pope, Dean Henderson

Centre-Backs: Jarrad Branthwaite, Lewis Dunk, Joe Gomez, Marc Guéhi, Ezri Konsa, John Stones

Wide Midfielders: Trent Alexander-Arnold, Jarrod Bowen, Lewis Hall, Rico Lewis, Tino Livramento, Bukayo Saka

Central Midfielders: Jude Bellingham, Phil Foden, Conor Gallagher, Morgan Gibbs-White, Angel Gomes, Curtis Jones, Kobbie Mainoo, Declan Rice

Central Forwards: Harry Kane, Cole Palmer, Ollie Watkins

On Standby: Aaron Ramsdale, Levi Colwill, Jarell Quansah, Myles Lewis-Skelly, Anthony Gordon, James McAtee, Eberechi Eze, Jack Grealish, Harvey Elliott, Dominic Solanke, Nomi Madueke

The Death of the Congregation Generation

Generation Z, aged between 15 and 30, have much to teach the world, but so do their preceding generations

It hit me as I was listening to a Radio 4 podcast which brought together Nick Robinson and David Willetts, Amol Rajan and Nadia Whittome. The Times had commissioned research into Generation Z, the tranche of Britons born between 1996 and 2011, which coincides exactly with the Labour government which helped America kill Saddam Hussein, allowed bankers to get involved with credit default swaps then rescued their industry because it was too big to fail.

Meanwhile, these kids, who are today approaching their 15th, 21st or 30th birthdays, have grown up with broadband and mobile internet, the answers to any question at the tips of their hyperactive fingers. Never has any generation of young person been more aware of the world around them, and never so prone to mis- and disinformation. There’s a reason the BBC hired Marianna Spring, a 1996 baby, to investigate this phenomenon, even as the Corporation loses audience and listener share to Netflix, TikTok and the podcast.

I started to think about the generations before Gen Z. I was born in 1988, which makes me akin to Amol Rajan (b. 1983): a Millennial, a tranche now in our late-thirties and mid-forties, perhaps looking at secondary schools for our kids and watching their parents enjoy the fruits of working hard for 50 years. Our parents are either Baby Boomers, who are children of the 1960s, or Gen X-ers, kids of the 1970s.

Respectively the Boomers, like my mum (b. 1961) and dad (b. 1958), grew up with three channels on TV and innovative pop and rock music on the BBC’s fab new pop station Radio 1; they also had to knock on their friends’ doors or ring the house phone to see if they were in, and had to go to a physical library to research their homework, which they wrote down on paper.

The Gen X-ers could at least use word processors while they watched Duran Duran and Michael Jackson music videos on MTV or, if their parents did not have cable TV, Channel 4’s groovy show The Tube, hosted by the dynamic Paula Yates. When it came to going out and having fun, while their Boomer parents headed to Northern Soul or punk clubs, the Gen X kids went to illegal raves in fields around the new M25 motorway (which, since it opened in 1986, is actually a Millennial).

Back to that discussion on Radio 4, which for all its youth-targeting is still a station most enjoyed by Boomers over 60. Labour MP Nadia Whittome, a former ‘Baby of the House’ who was elected at the age of 23 in 2019 to serve the Nottingham East constituency, was complaining about the lack of inheritance for her generation, who are on the cusp of Millennial and Gen Z. They were teenagers while the Cameron-Clegg Coalition cut back on public expenditure in a necessary but awful programme of austerity.

In 2016, there was a vote where not enough of the electorate wanted to stay within the European Union, some of whom believed the promises of sovereignty from that man in the blazer who led the UK Independence Party. In 2020, a lethal pandemic disrupted their education and forced them on to their tablets, laptops and phones even more than they were used to being on them. We now have a hyperconnected generation who are taught on tablets, which must have destroyed the photocopier market, and for whom science, technology, maths and engineering seem to outrank music, drama, and classical and foreign languages.

I gravitated towards the latter category, a humanities student who attacks questions by considering pros and cons, benefits and burdens, and tries to come down on one side of the fence. My history teacher Mr Brown, when he wasn’t delivering sermons off the top of his head that we had to capture in note form, would insist that we could not sit on the fence when arguing, for instance, if discovery was greater than development when it came to the history of medicine. I can add up and convert fractions into percentages, but I can’t use a logbook or do any form of engineering.

However, ask me to have a go at translating a passage of Virgil’s Aeneid into English and explain what’s going on, and I can still just about manage. My classical education focussed on the Golden Age of Athens – Socratic dialogues, military tactics and the dramatic innovation of a third lead character – and the Roman world of Caesars and love poetry. Catullus came up with the epigram ‘Odi et amo’ (I hate and I love), which GCSE Latin students appreciate when they aren’t looking up all the naughty words the Roman poet used.

My favourite epigram comes from my main man Marcus Tullius Cicero, about whom my classics professor at Edinburgh Dr Dominic Berry is a world expert; he literally wrote the book on Cicero, the lawyer and writer who came up with the epigram ‘O Tempora, O Mores’. This can be translated in thousands of ways: ‘The Times They Are a-Changin’ is basically what it means, if we want to bring another modern poet into things.

And this neatly returns me to my argument: a 20-year-old today scrolls through TikTok the way I scrolled through Facebook or Myspace; or the way my 50-year-old cousin sat for hours watching afternoon TV; or the way my mum and dad tried to find some privacy with radio and pop music when they weren’t watching TV with their mum and dad. My grandparents, who were born between the 1920s and 1940s, came of age in a time before TV, when you had to go outside or, significantly for them, go to synagogue or youth clubs to socialise with other people.

This is what made me pause the Radio 4 discussion. My grandma Sandra is my only living grandparent, a spry and wily octogenarian who became a mum before she was 20. When she was growing up in leafy Chislehurst in Kent, she had to go up to Piccadilly to dance and mingle with men, who would mark her card and offer her a dance to the music of the day, some of which was being pioneered down the road in various Soho coffee houses and trad jazz clubs.

It was at the Pigalle that she met Malcolm, a 25-year-old from Manchester, and within a year they were married. It is more amazing that Sandra and Malcolm did not meet at the local synagogue, or because they had mutual friends; their daughter Nicky moved down from Hull to Stanmore for school, and she met Alex Brick, who was a few years her senior but was besotted by her charm, intelligence and beauty. They married, and now I’m writing this piece lamenting the decline of the Congregation Generation.

The Internet is an amazing leap in technology, but you cannot see, hear, smell, touch or taste someone you meet on there. We cannot recork the bottle or put the lid on the jar, but we can at least acknowledge the benefits of encountering someone in three dimensions. The Zennials, including my nephew Hugo (b. 2023) whose parents were on the same Philosophy course at UCL, have a chance to bring congregation back to their generation.

The Talent is the Institution Now

Ahead of my appearance on BBC Radio 4’s Counterpoint, I ponder how institutions like the BBC are now subordinate to the talent they employ

The shower is where creative people get all their best ideas, closely followed by long walks and, as per Richard Curtis, while the kettle boils. My idea was to write about the demise of the BBC, but I think I’ve cracked some sort of code about today’s media epoch.

We have known since Tim Berners-Lee unveiled the World Wide Web in 1990 that the day would come that information could not be contained in analogue forms: the book, popularised by the printing press in the fifteenth century; the album, which had its heyday in about 1984 when Michael Jackson, Prince, Madonna and Bruce Springsteen wrapped up pop music and iconography in a rotating package that spun at 33 1/3 revolutions per minute; and the moving picture, which had been entertaining millions since before little screens could fit in one’s living room.

The story of my lifetime, perhaps even beyond the slow frog-boiling of what is now called the Climate Emergency, is the democratisation of data, be it words, music or images. The new oil barons and bankers are the tech billionaires, and also the bankers. We’re still a capitalist planet, albeit one where you can direct people to an imaginary coin and coin it in.

But what of the old world? Imagine a person who grew up with three or four TV channels, who had to make their own fun as a child or young adult. They’d head to the pub after work, put the world to rights and go home, with an evening paper tucked under their arm, and settle down on to the sofa with Coronation Street or, from 1985 onwards, its East London equivalent.

They might tune into John Peel’s Radio 1 show and hear which bands are in session and which records Peel was playing at the wrong speed tonight. On the idiot box in 1985, at the risk of turning into Peter Kay, Open All Hours was in its fourth series, while the BBC serialised Howards’ Way the same year it bought Miami Vice, famously described as ‘MTV Cops’.

This was the year of Live Aid, the global jukebox whose ruby anniversary is marked with a musical in London’s West End called Just For One Day. It was a great day for fans of Phil Collins, who could see him in person in London or Philadelphia, and on TV in both; if you were there and you were 30, you are now likely retired. Dylan Jones wrote an okay book on the event, but I hope someone does a better job of it this year.

Live Aid was the day Queen became a global treasure, when U2 became stadium rockers and when Bob Geldof swore on TV. Note the medium on which he delivered his message: television, which had made its presence known to people in the 1950s, had now come of age. Not for nothing did Bono say that his wander into the crowd, which meant the rest of his band were forced to loop an outro several times over, was a search for ‘a TV moment’. At 25, he had only known a world where TV was king/queen.

Five years later, the information superhighway would muscle in on its territory: attention. The BBC, through its TV and radio service, had a hold on British media, which is why commercial radio, ITV, Channel 4 and newspapers run by men like Rupert Murdoch always snipe from the sidelines.

Significantly, back in 1985, the institution was greater than the talent: in 1993, Radio 1 controller Matthew Bannister sacked some of that talent to freshen up the sound of the station. Dave Lee Travis, who was 48, and Simon Bates, who was 46, were replaced by young pups Mark Goodier (now 63), Steve Lamacq (who turned 60 last October) and Jo Whiley, who will be 60 on July 4. Peel, who was to music what David Attenborough was to primates, stayed.

But what were DLT and Bates, and indeed the 46-year-old Bob Harris, doing on a station aimed at young people? Bob, who would be back on the BBC within a decade doing the overnight show on Radio 2, wondered at the time if ‘the type of bands my programme was introducing’ would have ‘an outlet in radio at all’. Bob needn’t have worried, because in the new millennium radio mutated into new, playable-on-demand (POD) forms.

Back in 1993, Chris Evans was about to shake up not just breakfast radio but the entire medium, with a style that was two parts Timmy Mallett to one part Danny Baker. Evans was so successful he could afford to leave Radio 1 and buy Virgin Radio, then follow Bob back to Radio 2 and steer its Breakfast Show for several years. I was a loyal listener even though I found his patter often irritating. That’s why they invented the off switch.

But Chris was at the apex of Old and New Media. Even as podcasting grew in popularity, the big beasts of radio still had their acolytes, be they Terry Wogan, Ken Bruce and Steve Wright on Radio 2, or Nicky Campbell and Peter Allen on 5 Live. These were BBC lifers who had a home until they couldn’t talk any more. In 2024, both Steve Wright and Johnnie Walker presented their final shows weeks or days before their deaths.

The moment that changed it all was when Radiohead decided to let their fans pay whatever they liked to own their 2007 album In Rainbows. Having seen out their recording contract, they gave the album away because they knew that it was their live show that brought in the big bucks; they performed the album in a session From The Basement, uploading the videos on to the relatively new site Youtube, soon to be bought by Google.

As I was writing this piece, Your Woman by White Town was playing. Its path to UK number one was helped by regular plays by Mark Radcliffe on Radio 1; it is inconceivable that a radio DJ could, by his or her own efforts, do the same today. Radcliffe is still on the BBC, albeit for five hours a week mostly on 6 Music, the station I nickname Radio Peel for its challenging playlist and championing of alternative music. It is interesting to note that Peel died in October 2004, months before Youtube came into being. Soon enough, the site started to influence the charts and take audiences away from radio: why wait for your favourite song when it was a click away?

In January 2025, Scott Mills took over the hallowed Radio 2 Breakfast Show. Mills came into radio in the late 1990s and looked up to the best in the business; now he is one of the best, but many millions fewer are listening. This is a BBC-wide problem, and not just because of the Jimmy Savile scandal they failed to deal with.

The BBC is in trouble for many reasons, but one of the key ones is because the talent is now the institution, not the other way round. All of this is to say, I’ll be on BBC Radio 4 this Sunday at 4.30pm competing in the music quiz Counterpoint. I’m up against a former British quiz champion, so wish me luck!

 

How Nigel Farage Can Persuade the UK to Vote Reform

The party of rebellion needs to simultaneously appear to be the party of national interest

Nigel Farage, the German-born Dulwich College alumnus who keeps inserting himself into the national conversation, knows that he, and the people who are funding his party, need to convince the electorate at large that he is the man to grasp the levers of power. He’ll try to blame someone else if he can’t force through the agenda, but he needs to be in power, so let’s all Join the Revolt and vote Reform UK.

Look, I am under no illusions about how effective enfranchisement is not: much ado about Elon shows that if you have means to affect democracy, to bend the arc of government to your will, your lack of a vote matters more than my vote. I looked at the offerings from the main two parties in July 2024 and turned my nose up, but I did not abstain, as I did in 2019. Back then, on a wet December evening, I remembered Tory mastermind(!) Dominic Cummings and thought there was no way he and his shopping trolley – which is how he referred to the former Foreign Secretary and Mayor of London – would get Brexit done.

Nor was I particularly keen on the Labour leader, a career backbencher and ruler of Islington North, and his plan to work for the many and not the few. Labour would always take on board what the few (not the many) suggested, be they Tony Blair and his ID card plans, or corporate lobbyists looking after their own interests. The worker, for whom the party was founded to protect, always loses out to people who have money, power and influence.

Samuel Earle’s magnificent book Tory Nation told me precisely why the Conservative Party believe themselves to be the natural rulers of Britain. I’m working on a project about private schooling which, having been through it myself, is absolutely the teat on which future cattle suckle: Eton, Harrow, Charterhouse, Westminster et al. all help nourish and nurture the next generation of leaders, who might not be good at leading but know how to get into positions of leadership. Exhibit A: Alexander Boris De Pfeffel Johnson, whose well-trodden path from Eton to Oxford to The Times to Parliament to City Hall to Conservative Party leader to ambushed by a cake is one I need not rehearse.

Instead, it’s all about Farage, the man who got into This Place at the eighth attempt in July 2024. I call him Father Farage, or Fr Farage, but the ‘Fr’ can stand for two other words that he is very keen not to be associated with. Is Reform UK a far-right party or just a right-leaning one? Are its politics dangerous or, as they call them, ‘common sense’? Is their TV channel, GB News, one which helps the propaganda effort as pensioners and the terminally bored watch that nice man talk about sovereignty? 4.5m people, as shown at the last election, were sold on it.

But 4.5m people won’t win you control of the legislature, which is what Farage wants. Zia Yusuf, the party treasurer, and Richard Tice, whose journalist partner is now an immigrant living in Dubai, are the other members of the triumvirate. Notice how Lee Anderson has hardly made a sound in 2025 so far, staying on message and probably helping his constituents in the deprived mining town of Ashfield. He might have benefitted from hoovering up Labour and Tory votes because he used to belong to both parties; hey, in a plural democracy, if people don’t like your principles, you can find new ones.

But what is the symbol of Fr Farage? It can’t be a red hat saying Make Britain Great Again, and it can’t be the sort of chainsaw brandished by Javier Milei, who convinced Argentina to vote him into power. We are watching Germany this Sunday – Sunday, not Thursday, because Germans are far smarter than the British – to see the results of their election, and whether the AfD party can overcome 80 years of self-flagellation to bring fascism back. Every National Socialist is dead, dying or senile, so it’s high time to return anti-immigrant sentiment to a country which has 76 AfD members of parliament.

There are several anglophone German-watchers (I bet they’ve got a word for that) who are updating UK readers on the rise of the AfD and their lesbian leader Alice Weidel. Musa Okwonga, the Old Etonian who emigrated from the UK to Berlin because we are a racist country, has been updating his social media followers on the threat of the far-right party, which is marching metaphorically upon the same city the Nazis did in the 1930s. I hope enough Germans look at the AfD and realise what they are potentially voting for, regardless of historical precedent.

After all, Britain stood up to Oswald Mosley at that time, and Farage is the closest thing Britain has had to Mosley in a century. He might not be calling his party the Union of Fascists, because that brand has been tarnished by the events of 1939-45, including 6m dead people persecuted in camps and murdered in gas chambers. But the more I read about it, the idea of populism is exercising me an awful lot: the Daily Mail were cheering on Mosley in the 1930s, and now they’re giving Farage a free pass. Why? Because they think their readers, who include the people that used to be called housewives and are now called Middle England, approve of it.

If Fr Farage can win over Middle England, he will win power. That’s why he cannot support Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, who really is a nasty and contemptible bloke, and why Farage has to exclude anyone who says the loud part out loud. Farage knows he cannot be seen as racist, so he does what I call the ‘What’s All That About?’ routine. He is, in sum, Britain’s market leader in observational humour.

Can you think of another comedian who is currently leading a European nation, perhaps one who is at war with Russia and whose refugees Britain has taken in? If you’re thinking of Ukraine, who were invaded on February 24 2022, and their TV-president-turned-actual-president Zelensky, then you are correct. And which TV-host-turned-president, and friend of Fr Farage, is trying to appease Russia?

And which journalist-turned-Prime Minister was at Trump’s inauguration, in the employ of the Daily Mail because he had left a career in politics behind to make well remunerated speeches and write books for which he received seven-figure advances? It is my contention, perhaps to coincide with the paperback edition of his memoir Unleashed, that Boris Johnson will become Reform UK’s mascot.

He might not run as an MP because of, you know, the parties and the lying and the guidance that was not followed, but he will be an asset to the party as they chip away at the vote share of the Conservative Party, who rather threw the Johnson egg into their basket in order to Get Brexit Done.

Farage and Johnson will be the leaders of an Anti Elite Party that is actually funded by and operating for the elite. Let’s see if they get into power, and let’s see what they do with it. It’s a shame they can’t use ‘Britain First’ as a slogan, though.

‘Thank You, Chair’: In Praise of the Football Chairperson

Please be upstanding for the chair of the board, the unsung hero or pantomime villain of English football

Even by the standards of Watford FC, thousands of people singing ‘I don’t care about Gino! He don’t care about me!’ is unprecedented. Absent from criticism is chair Scott Duxbury, who has been almost mute in the two years since Rob Edwards was dismissed weeks after Duxbury put his name to a statement that the club would stand by their man whatever happened. Three wins in 11 games happened, and Edwards became the fourth Watford manager to be dismissed inside 12 months.

When I read David Bernstein’s book about his time as chair of Manchester City Football Club, which he loved so much he forced his rabbi to screen the FA Cup final at his barmitzvah lunch, I was quietly impressed by how he managed upwards to the owner and across to the rest of the executives. He took no fee, boarding the train up from London most weeks to chair board meetings at a club which, at the time, was a basket case short of a basket.

Normally, fans look to the owner to spend the money, to help them dream and to hire a revolutionary manager. But these are not normal times, and fans are as clued-up on boardroom machinations as they are to the recruitment drive and the tactics room. And thus, in what I think is a rare celebration of the role, I am about to enumerate some of the finest chairpersons in English football.

A few omissions to note: Newcastle chair Yasir Al-Rumayyan presides over a sovereign wealth fund, Tom Werner of Liverpool had to recant his support for the European Super League, while the taints of Todd Boehly of Chelsea and Khaldoon Al Mubarak of Manchester City outweigh their honours and financial outlay. I do not need to spell out why Joel and Avi Glazer are sub-optimal chairs of Manchester United, or David Sullivan at West Ham, where David Gold’s daughter Vanessa now holds 25% of the club.

Slightly better chairman/owners include Dragan Šolak of Southampton, Shahid Khan of Fulham and Alan Pace of Burnley. Then there’s Tony Bloom of Brighton & Hove Albion, whose boyhood club are, without doubt, having the best period in their history. Most Seagulls acknowledge the astute ownership and chairing of the man who is merely a custodian of the institution founded in 1901.

Cliff Crown of Brentford is, like Bloom, a Jewish chair, and he has overseen the club’s modern era of Premier League success in a role which used to be taken by Greg Dyke; it is no coincidence that manager Thomas Frank has lasted six years in the job. And did you read Barney Ronay’s Guardian piece about Spurs chairman Daniel Levy, which called him a peerless accountant whose arrival at the club in 2001 set in motion ‘a transformational miracle’.

Spurs may have an accountant for a chairman, but Nottingham Forest have a barrister, Nicholas Randall KC. In his professional life, he has represented two Manchester United captains (Keane and Rooney) and two former managers of Newcastle and England (Keegan and Robson), while in his spare time he deals with the incomparable Forest owner, Evangelos Marinakis.

Some names of chairpersons are familiar to Premier League watchers: Steve Parish, who owns 10% of Crystal Palace and is a much-heard media voice advocating for the protection of the lesser big clubs; Mehmet Dalman and Jeff Shi are still the respective representatives on earth at Cardiff City and Wolves for Vincent Tan and the Fosun conglomerate; plus there’s Top Srivaddhanaprabha, who became chairman of Leicester City after the death of his father Khun Vichai. James Berylson did the same for Millwall, after his beloved father John died in a car accident in 2023; continuing the bad run of fortune, 12 months later Millwall lost their Montenegrin goalkeeper Marija Sarkic to heart failure.

The Kroenkes, dad Stan and son Josh, are always in the news when Arsenal aren’t doing so well, and are seldom praised when it’s going alright. Such is the curse of chairing a Big Club. I haven’t seen much praise go to Nassef Sawiris, the chair of Aston Villa and richest man in Egypt, though I expect to see his name and that of Everton’s chair Marc Watts pop up in the next year. The latter club move into their new stadium in August under new ownership, although it will be hard to beat the late theatre impresario Bill Kenwright for glamour.

There is, however, the glitz of gridiron potentially coming to the Premier League next season; as well as chairing Leeds United, Paraag Marathe is the Executive VP of Football Operations at Leeds’ ultimate owners, the San Francisco 49ers. In recent decades, other successful men from outside football, like ex-Shadow Chancellor Ed Balls at Norwich City, and TV executive Acun Ilıcalı, who chairs Hull City in the post-Assem Allam era, after the magnate sold the club to Turkish company Acun Medya.

Coventry boasted footballer turned pundit turned chair Jimmy Hill. The Midlands side are now owned and chaired by local lad Doug King, who had to fire Mark Robins in November 2024 despite him getting the club a couple of penalty kicks to the Premier League 18 months beforehand. On taking control of the Sky Blues, King immediately upgraded the training facilities and has made noises about the club owning their home ground that they have rented for 20 years.

Down in West Bromwich, Columbia alumnus Shilen Patel is using the acumen from running his own healthcare company to pilot the Baggies back into the Premier League. Patel bought the club in 2024, a decade after dipping his toe into football waters in Bologna, who played in the 2024/25 Champions League after Juventus poached their manager Thiago Motta. Billionaire banker William Foley II, who turned 80 last Christmas, added Bournemouth to a portfolio that includes Lorient and Hibernian.

Walsall have American co-chairs in Benjamin Boycott and Leigh Pomlett, while Huddersfield owner/chair Kevin Nagle was born in Minnesota but raised in Southern California. He parlayed experience in business to a sports team portfolio that includes soccer and basketball teams in Sacramento. Charlton have Gavin Carter, himself a sports investor who worked with Charlie Methven, the Oxford-educated theology graduate who recently part-owned Sunderland.

At the moment, the Mackems chair is the billionaire owner and former aspiring football player Kyril Louis-Dreyfus, who was born in Switzerland and whose dad Robert was CEO of Adidas in the 1990s. At that time, Steve Gibson had not just rescued his beloved Middlesborough from liquidation but gave them Premier League football and an FA Cup final; Gibson will soon be marking the 40th anniversary of his significant purchase, while his nephew Ben is captain of Stoke City, who themselves are owned by the billionaire Coates family and chaired by John, son of patriarch Peter.

Sheffield United have two chairmen, Steven Rosen and Helmy Eltoukhy. The latter is a CEO who has a PhD in electrical engineering and founded two health start-ups that dealt in genomics and biotechnology; so, when he isn’t cracking the secret to life, he’s helping Chris Wilder get the red team in Yorkshire back into the top division. In spite of Harrogate Town struggling near the bottom of League Two, Irving Weaver has not had any cause to sack the manager; Irving’s son Simon is closing in on 16 years as manager, almost triple the length of Thomas Frank’s time as manager of Brentford and double the length of Pep Guardiola’s time in charge at Man City.

Meanwhile, Bristol City owner Steve Lansdown installed his son Jon as chair, while also in the Championship, data analysis expert Christian Nourry, who worked for Retexo, is chair of QPR at the age of 27. Nourry brings a youthful vigour to a club who won one of their first 16 games in the 2024/25 Championship season, then lost only three of their next 15; the side in Shepherd’s Bush, West London might well rise back to the top division after a rocky few years on and off the pitch. I wonder how odd it must be for 33-year-old club captain Steve Cook to be younger than the CEO.

Like QPR, Notts County also have data analysts for owners, in their case the Danish brothers Christoffer and Alexander Reedtz, and County are giving promotion from League Two a good go. I hope that Simon Hallett earns some credit after the team he chairs, Plymouth Argyle, overcame Liverpool in the FA Cup, even though the unexpected victory is likely to be overshadowed by the failure of Wayne Rooney as manager and possible relegation into League One.

This has also happened to Tom Wagner, the venture capitalist who chairs Birmingham City who cashed out the Rooney chips quickly. Fellow League One promotion-chasers Wrexham have a whole Disney+ series dedicated to their co-chairmen, whom you might know from other TV shows and movies. CEO Michael Williamson has a football background having worked for Inter Milan and DC United, and he replaced Fleur Robinson, who took over from her dad Ben as CEO of Burton Albion.

Burton are now chaired by Ole Jakob Strandhagen, who bizarrely works full-time at Molde in Norway and has a deputy in Tom Davidson, who co-founded the Nordic Football Group that bought the club from Ben Robinson after four years scouting the continent for a worthwhile investment opportunity. Football Ventures did the same and alighted upon Bolton Wanderers, whose chair is Sharon Brittan. Port Vale’s chair is also female, in their case the peerless Carol Shanahan, best known for providing the people of Burslem with hot meals during the pandemic and making Vale fan Robbie Williams co-club president.

Then there are the lifers, two of who are called Mark. Mark Ashton was Watford CEO in the 2000s, and via time at West Brom, Oxford United and Bristol City is now a friend of Ed Sheeran’s at Ipswich Town. Mark Palios, former chair of the English FA, has been at Tranmere Rovers for years, and the side are currently perched near the bottom of League Two. Let us not overlook Blackburn’s chair Steve Waggott, headhunted by the Venky family after working at clubs as varied as Charlton, Coventry and Southend United. Waggott told one interviewer his goal was to ‘get amongst the community to make sure the brand and the perception of the club become positive again’.

Down at AFC Wimbledon Mick Buckley takes charge of a club he supported in the 1970s by using experience gained with US broadcast networks; the vice-chair Michele Little is a Cambridge-educated chartered accountant. Bromley boy Robin Stanton-Gleaves bought his hometown club in 2019 and, thanks to his work off the pitch and the astute management of Andy Woodman on it, they became a Football League club and are holding their own this season as a comfortable mid-table League Two side.

David Wilkinson has ended up chairing the board of Luton Town, the club he has supported through its enormous highs and very low lows: Wilkinson helped to save the club in 2008 as part of the consortium, from whence they have risen from the National League to the Premier League, although they are in a second successive relegation battle only nine months after tumbling out of the top tier. Also on the Luton board is Sony Music CEO Rob Stringer, whom last year Billboard magazine named the third most powerful person in the music industry (Taylor Swift was number one).

Grant Ferguson has a quite embarrassingly successful career in media and telecoms, particularly in Asia, and was also on the board of Inter Milan when it had Indonesian ownership. He was brought in to chair Oxford United, while at Portsmouth the Eisner family hired local lad Andrew Cullen. Cullen was headhunted from the club that play in Milton Keynes after they, in turn, had swiped him from Norwich City. It’s not just players who rise up the football food chain, but the executives too.

Like Brighton, Portsmouth, Luton and Bromley, Leyton Orient are chaired by a local lad. In 2017, after some quite wretched ownership issues plunged them into the National League, they were rescued by Nigel Travis, who chaired Dunkin’ Donuts. Eight years on, Travis is seeking investment in the club so they can make the leap from League One to the Championship, with investor Sulman Ahmed providing funds acquired through his Texas-based dental company. The club hosted, and led, the champions of England, the Abu Dhabi-owned Manchester City, in the FA Cup fourth round in February 2025; the defeat brought the focus on to a home game against Mansfield Town three days later, which they won 3-0.

Some Championship sides are doomed to be too good to go down and not quite good enough to go up. In the past ten seasons, Preston North End have finished between 7th and 14th, winning between 15 and 19 games each season and mostly finishing with between 61 and 64 points. Trevor Hemmings, whose horses won three Grand Nationals and who briefly owned Blackpool Tower, saved the club from liquidation in 2010; when he died in 2021 his son Craig took over ownership of the famously Proud club.

With Preston North End up for sale, there will be no shortage of investment groups bidding for the club, which back in 1889 went an entire season unbeaten and which famously boasts the great winger Tom Finney as a club hero. And what about Watford, whose chair Scott Duxbury has a direct line to club president Elton John but also to the hands-on yet barely audible owner Gino Pozzo? Should Signor Pozzo find a buyer for the club he bought for £15m in 2012, which was valued at about 15 times that a few years later, there may be a vacancy for the chair of the board, a role once taken by Graham Taylor.

So that’s a survey of football club chairs: can’t live with ’em, can’t survive without ’em.

Banternalysis, an investigation into football punditry, is available as an eBook here

Web Plantations and Today’s Digital Enslavement

A new book on Spotify by Liz Pelly makes clear how data is the new driver of wealth, but who benefits?

The writer Ted Gioia made his name through books about jazz, a genre of music that is niche but influential. Having written every possible word about every possible jazz musician, Gioia now writes on Substack as the Honest Broker, where his passion is the technology dystopia.

In a recent post, he referred to ‘the web plantation owners’, which is a magnificent summation of how the people with the money – Zuckerberg, Musk, Bezos – keep the money for themselves rather than rewarding those who populate their platforms with stuff: cat videos, social commentary, hatred of women, that sort of thing.

How does the web proletariat, to continue the analogy and bring Marx back to a world of Musk, react? It becomes a village fete. Stick with me: a village fete has members of the public manning tables full of vegetables, jam and raffles. I remember, very vividly, collecting conkers for a few weeks, sticking them in a chest and bringing them along to a school fundraiser so that people could guess the number of conkers inside the chest. I think it was 501, and someone guessed 500; I was appalled, but I really should have chosen a better number.

The world’s creative people have their own chests of conkers: necklaces, music, movies and opinions are all available all the time to everyone, provided that you can find a company to act as a middleman. Etsy have done well, as have Amazon; the latter might have given people their first exposure to how big businesses can get away with having lax attitudes on tax, disobeying the laws of the land and paying relative pittance in compensation when they are rumbled.

I would love to make music for money but Spotify, which is the dominant streaming platform, is skewing the market against creative folk. Liz Pelly’s new book Mood Machine is out in the USA and is coming for UK audiences; Harper’s Bazaar magazine – note, a general publication not a music-specific one like Rolling Stone – ran a chunky extract from the book in which Liz unmasked the ‘Perfect Fit’ methodology that Spotify employ.

Because it is a data company, it has realised that it can invent music using artificial intelligence in genres like lo-fi electronica, ambient classical and Ted Gioia’s beloved jazz. If a human doesn’t make the music, and nobody cares if they did or didn’t, Spotify can collect the micropayment for every one of those streams rather than dispense them to people who populate their global jukebox with songs. Alas, it is still the best place to go for new music by major acts, and as soon as I finish this piece I will be checking out albums by Ringo Starr, Franz Ferdinand and Sondre Lerche.

Sondre who? He’s a guy from Norway who came up in 2000 as a teenager with a penchant for Burt Bacharach. I discovered his second album Two Way Monologue in 2004, which I remember streaming on MSN Music and buying on a trip to the USA that year. It was 2004 because that was the last family holiday we had as a four; it’s funny how music reminds you of key moments of your life.

I would love to decrease how often I use Spotify, which also pays Joe Rogan for the rights to his ‘just asking questions, man’ podcast, and I actually prefer Youtube, Soundcloud and Bandcamp for new music. None of those platforms existed in 2004, a time when physical CD sales were being decimated by music piracy and the digital download was in its infancy. I remember the surprise in the voice of the chap who counted down the UK Top 40 when he announced that Crazy by Gnarls Barkley was the first chart-topper not to have a physical release.

Think about that: no CD single, no cassette, no tangible product to cherish and look at. This was 2006, a time before Spotify, but you could finally purchase music without leaving your own home. In ye olden days, a music fan had to go to a shop, hope the record was in stock and then bring it back home. I still remember the thrill of Christmas hauls with six discs stacked up in the same bit of wrapping paper, bringing S Club 7, Westlife, Backstreet Boys and Nine Inch Nails (I made the last one up). Then came the gift card and the click-to-purchase, and most significantly of all the unbundling of albums. The 99-cent, or 79-pence, download changed how music was consumed.

And yet, if you are at the top of the musical tree, you can still earn lots of money. Take Ed Sheeran from Framlingham, who has used some of his many millions to help children learn the magic of music. I had a feeling he would move into philanthropy, and since he famously didn’t go to BRIT School (not that he ever mentions it, except all the time), it seemed unlikely that he was motivated to set up the kind of school that Paul McCartney is involved with at LIPA in Liverpool.

Sheeran, who remembers how music was often looked at as a ‘doss subject’, appeared at a school in Wales alongside the great Amy Wadge, who co-wrote Thinking Out Loud. I remember messaging her with a suggestion to prepare a Grammy speech months before it did indeed win Song of the Year.

Sheeran’s new Foundation aims to help children ‘feel empowered with meaningful music education’ and counter the collapse of musical education at primary and secondary level, as well as the closure of traditional music venues. ‘It gives me a sense of purpose,’ says the former cellist and current multimillionaire songwriter, who namechecks his old music teacher Mr Hanley for giving him the impetus to make music and be his own CEO, with 150 people in his employ. You know exactly why the government, which is busy physically repairing school buildings, needs to outsource this to a charity run by the man who wrote Shape of You.

At the same time, the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra (CBSO) are involved with a new school, Shireland CBSO Academy in West Bromwich, which opened in 2023; by the time it reaches capacity in a few years’ time, there will be 900 kids benefitting from the school’s mission to put instruments in the hands of children who would not ordinarily be able to afford music lessons. I was utterly spellbound by the Guardian article which highlighted their mission, and not just because I plan to write a series of books under the Pop Syllabus banner.

Music is ‘incorporated into lessons of all subjects, not just in dedicated music classes’, and instruction comes from CBSO members. I know people who work for music services around Watford, who have enthused dozens, hundreds, thousands of kids; just imagine going to see your teacher play double bass in a Beethoven gig at Birmingham Symphony Hall. Why would you not want to do that??

I play in an amateur orchestra in Watford. In fact right now I’ve got to go and practice Elgar’s Cockaigne Overture because it’s very hard! It’s also very fun, which is rather the point of learning, appreciating and playing music. Not to enable the web plantation owner to pay his yacht mooring fee.

Arctic Monkeys, The Last Great British Rock’n’Roll Band

As the RIAA once again awards dozens of Grammy statuettes to deserving musicians, whither the rock band in the digital era?

In 1985, Live Aid was watched by millions upon millions around the world. Queen rebooted their career and U2 moved into the stadium rock bracket of performers.

Ten years later, in 1995, Oasis put out (What’s The Story) Morning Glory, an album about being young and British, and then five years on from that, in 2000, Coldplay launched themselves as heirs to U2’s messianic rock’n’roll with Parachutes, a post-millennial album which wraps its listeners in a warm embrace. It contains hit songs with the lines ‘oh no what’s this?’ and ‘look at the stars’.

In 2005, Arctic Monkeys put out I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor, a UK number one smash that preceded the album Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, an album about being young and British.

Those four huge anniversaries celebrated in 2025 reflect the specific cultural moment: from the rise of rock’n’roll philanthropy, which was invented by George Harrison in 1971, to three bands that mattered, two of whom are playing multiple dates at Wembley Stadium this year. As I write, Alex Turner and Matt Helders, the respective singer and drummer of Arctic Monkeys who both live in the USA, have no plans to mark the 20th anniversary of their debut album and single. The latter, one of the most exciting moments of the decade, still sounds like lightning in a jam jar.

If they are smart, they will talk to the Gallaghers about supporting Oasis in stadiums across the USA this August and September, because without Oasis’s Burnage swagger there would be no market for Sheffield scallywags muttering about Mecca dobbers and riot vans. The Monkeys gained fans through Myspace, a music discovery portal which majored on community; The Libertines, who are perhaps the last great London rock’n’roll band, did this at the very nexus of the real and virtual worlds, and it was such a shame that I was two years too young to fully fall for them. I do know people who know the band, and who have been photographed by their photographer Roger Sargent.

The Libertines are also the last great music press band, who gave good quote and did, to use a euphemism, interesting things. Peter Doherty of the band gave a sit-down interview to Kirsty Young for her interview show, and he just sounded like a bloke from West London. Twenty years ago I heard back-to-back Libertines on BBC Radio 1; now he’s popping up on the grown-up station Radio 2, the 45-year-old dad running through the Tracks of His Years with Vernon Kay, who is 50 and remembers clubbing as a teenager when Manchester was the epicentre of UK youth culture.

The Libertines reset that centre to London, after the Camden scene of the 1990s had incubated guitar rock bands; this is where I am duty bound to mention footage of a teenage Pete Doherty in the queue outside HMV Oxford Street to buy Oasis’ disastrous third album Be Here Now. No rock band will sell half a million albums again, let alone that number inside four days, because rock is a heritage genre.

I spent 6,000 words wanging on about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame recently, and I observed that rock and roll is now a spirit rather than a musical genre. I predict Mariah Carey will go into the Rock Hall soon, and she is a balladeer who also helped bring hip-hop cadences into her form of black music. The Libertines might get into a British Rock Hall, but the likely entrants in 2025 will be the aforementioned Oasis and Coldplay, both of who are eligible and would ensure people pay attention to this year’s Rock Hall induction. They might also book tickets to the museum in Cleveland, the home of rock and roll.

Sheffield is a principality of rock and roll, having given the world not just Arctic Monkeys but also Jarvis Cocker, The Human League, Heaven 17 and Jon McClure aka the Reverend of the band Reverend and the Makers. Fun fact: Jon’s brother Chris is the tipsy smoker on the cover of the Monkeys’ debut album.

Then there’s national treasure Richard Hawley, whose catalogue was turned into the magnificent musical Standing at the Sky’s Edge, which played at the National and Gillian Lynne Theatres in London. It makes me wonder if Alex Turner’s songs will be turned into a musical, and what it would be about. It would obviously be set in Sheffield, perhaps with the children of characters from the Hawley musical.

With their Nokia mobile phones and Myspace pages, they would be chasing a great night out, scoring weed, trying not to spew all over a taxi and arguing with their parents who think they are throwing away their education to get wasted at the Leadmill on a Wednesday night in 2006.

‘Tonight there’ll be a ruckus,’ sings Turner in the first verse of the album’s opening track The View from the Afternoon. Later he consoles a Mardy Bum who has ‘got yer face on’ and hears a policeman chastise a teenage drinker as he is bundled into a riot van. We end with A Certain Romance, one of Turner’s greatest copyrights complete with a bittersweet diminished chord running throughout the song.

We open with clothing and footwear, ‘classic Reeboks or knackered Converse, or trackie bottoms tucked in socks’, before Turner sighs how ‘there in’t no romance’ in his Sheffield, with ‘kids who like to scrap with pool cues in their hands’. And this is before austerity gutted much of British life. The quotable line ‘there’s only music so that there’s new ringtones’ – a rival to ‘you’re not from New York City, you’re from Rotherham!’ – is both out of date and prescient.

The final verse at least sees Turner admit he has friends who ‘might overstep the line’ but ‘cannot get angry in the same way’. There is no resolution to an album full of pathos and pain, where record company men offer ‘stale’ stories and ‘condescending’ snarls, and ‘a scumbag’ hangs out with ‘girls of the night’ (When The Sun Goes Down).

Thank goodness for Domino Records, who have let Turner be Turner for 20 years, including allowing him and his band to only put out two studio albums in the decade since their US breakthrough AM, a fine rock album that mixed Sheffield wit and LA guitars. Four of AM’s songs have over 1bn Spotify streams, and the poet John Cooper Clarke’s pension has benefitted from the band’s cover of I Wanna Be Yours.

‘I’d met the lads after a show at the Boardwalk,’ the Bard of Salford writes in his memoir, delighted that they had read his poems for GCSE English. ‘The name of a group is important and that one is unforgettable,’ he sighs. ‘There’s a whole wide world in those two words…the North Pole is no place for the higher primates!’

The reasons why rock music has less of a pull on youth culture today is a whole other argument, but for now I will direct you to the debut album by those Arctic Monkeys, which says more to me about my life than government policy or, indeed, Wonderwall or Fix You.

Wicked as the Last of the Consensus Entertainments

In a culturally fractured world, the movie adaptation of Wicked could become the last universally enjoyed piece of art

Do you know, I got really quite emotional at the interval of Wicked, which I saw at the Apollo Victoria as a birthday treat. I’d enjoyed the film adaptation, with Cynthia Erivo sure to become what’s known in the trade as an EGOT: winning an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar (the only one she lacks) and a Tony.

She will thus ascend to the rank of other EGOTs: Shakespearean actor John Gielgud; actresses Audrey Hepburn, Viola Davis, Helen Hayes and Rita Moreno; and composers Alan Menken, Marvin Hamlisch, Robert Lopez, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Richard Rogers, as well as Pasek & Paul, who were behind The Greatest Showman and La La Land, and the guys who wrote The Lion King together, Tim Rice and Elton John.

Angry producer Scott Rudin, film directors Mike Nichols and Mel Brooks and multigenre entertainers Whoopi Goldberg, John Legend and Jennifer Hudson are also EGOTs. The Pointless answer in the category is Jonathan Tunick, who won a Grammy in a very obscure category in 1989; a graduate of the performing arts school which inspired the movie Fame, Tunick is in his mid-eighties and has been working in musical theatre for six decades, starting with the musical adaptation of the movie The Apartment called Promises, Promises.

His CV has mostly involved orchestrating the work of his friend Stephen Sondheim, from Company to Follies to A Little Night Music, which is the one which gave us Send In The Clowns. In 2024, when Merrily We Roll Along, a lesser Sondheim work, was posthumously revived on Broadway, Tunick finally won his second Tony Award, having been nominated ten times after the 1997 win for his work on the Broadway musical Titanic. His other credits include Mel Brooks movies like Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein, as well as the recent live action adaptation of Beauty and the Beast.

But all this Egottery is an amuse-bouche to my argument about Wicked, a long-running Broadway show with music composed by Stephen Schwartz and a plot which is part of the Oz Universe. It has been resident in London since 2005, half of that time as a neighbour to Hamilton, which lives in the reupholstered Victoria Palace about 20 yards away.

We know how good the songs are in Wicked: Popular, Defying Gravity, I’m Not That Girl, The Wizard and I. All have timeless melodies and, crucially for the art form, they advance the plot and detail the inner lives of the characters. I do have a friend who thinks ‘bursting into song is lame’, and I agree with her up to a point; if the songs aren’t catchy enough or seem perfunctory, then they don’t grab hold me.

But during the interval, instead of buying £6 popcorn buckets, I spotted a golden thread for how to construct a piece of consensus entertainment: a book, play or movie which appeals to all four quadrants – old, young, male, female – across several generations of reader, theatregoer or cinema fanatic. Let’s start with the big Technicolor works of the late 1930s: Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, The Wizard of Oz and Gone with the Wind.

All three looked phenomenal, had romantic heroines and sidekicks (if we count Rhett Butler as a sidekick), and involved the audience with stories of good and evil. Plus, in the first two, the songs were good to outstanding; a century on, Heigh Ho and Over The Rainbow remain some of the most popular copyrights ever written, while ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn’ is in the global lexicon. Gone with the Wind, adjusted for inflation, should never be deposed as the world’s most successful moving picture.

Into the postwar years and it’s Cinderella and West Side Story that remain cherished, with modern remakes and yet more plots about rags and riches. Plus the songs were good to outstanding, whether A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes in Cinderella or Somewhere in the latter. I need not detain you with the songs of two Julie Andrews vehicles released inside the same year, Summer 1964 for Mary Poppins, Spring 1965 for The Sound of Music; ditto the Lennon/McCartney movies, live shows, ballads and rockers.

Then there’s the music of both Queen, in particular Bohemian Rhapsody (1975), and ABBA, whose US number one Dancing Queen will be 50 years old in 2026. We’ve already had a Queen musical and biopic, and two ABBA musicals and an ABBAtar show which will run and run in a purpose-built arena in Stratford where, in decades to come, maybe they’ll alternate a Freddie Mercury avatar show, or an Elton John one, or an Adele one.

Then come the big two cinematic and literary universes, neither of which I have much time for, but I respect those who put great store in the stories of Star Wars and Lord of the Rings. I also recognise Michael Jackson was a troubled soul and possible criminal at the same time as I recall the critic Dorian Lynskey writing that Billie Jean was uncancellable. The album Thriller, which will never be overtaken as the planet’s bestselling long-playing record, is timeless, even if it isn’t perfect.

In the middle of the 1980s, the Europeans took over Broadway: the aforementioned EGOT Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote the music for Phantom of the Opera and Starlight Express, the latter occupying the Apollo Victoria in the 1990s and the Troubadour in Wembley Park today. I remember seeing Les Misérables and having little knowledge of prisoner 24601, being overcome with the force of Victor Hugo’s tale of wretchedness and pain. Bring Him Home and One Day More are a tad melodramatic but there’s a reason they have become some of the most remarkable modern melodies to hop into the hearts of millions around the world.

I’m running out of space, so I have no time to dwell on Toy Story, The Lion King, Titanic or Frozen. I’ll probably deal with Wizard Boy at a later date, but I think the stat is that only the Bible and possibly Mao’s Little Red Book have sold more copies than the seven Potters put together.

What unites all of these cultural mastodons? Love, good battling evil and, best expressed in the Wicked showstopper Defying Gravity, endurance: keeping on, fighting the good fight, keeping your head when all about you are losing theirs. People like to sit in a cinema or theatre, or on the sofa with a book in their hand, learning about how to overcome obstacles; there’s a reason Homer’s Odyssey is still read 2800 years after its composition, and it’s only partly because of the fun episodes involving witches, sirens and Cyclopes.

Odysseus was away from his wife Penelope for 20 years: ten fighting a war, ten trying to get home. Dorothy wanted to get home from Oz, Cosette sung of a ‘castle on a cloud’ and the thrust of Mary Poppins is that Mr Banks wanted to go fly a kite, which I think is a metaphor for a more innocent time before adulthood.

Wicked has endured for 20 years because it’s about as populist as consensus entertainment can get. A bit of a duff second half, though, but they’ll fix it in the movie.

Elon Musk as American Rock Star

Never mind executive orders and the weaving oratory of President Trump: the real rock’n’roll star of American government is also the country’s richest citizen

One of my favourite rock writers, David Hepworth, ended Uncommon People, his book on the passing of the rock’n’roll era, with a celebration of Marc Andreessen. Hepworth saw the venture capitalist and tech bro who, like Peter Thiel and Steve Jobs, got very rich from the cyberworld, in his case Netscape in 1995, as a sort of rock star.

To Hepworth, young fans saw the rock stars of the pre-Internet age as ‘markers of identity’, but their magnetism has weakened because music is not ‘as precious’ as it once was; in the digital era, where everything is available all the time, ‘smart young people looked on and dreamed about being tech stars…Distribution was king.’

That’d make a good tweet, actually. Which brings us, again, to Elon Musk. Like Cher or Madonna or Kanye, he goes by a mononym, and I think he is what a rock’n’roll star looks like in 2025: probably on mind-altering drugs, insomniac or worse, neurologically unhinged, and a multibillionaire through his talent for running businesses and promoting them himself. So far, so Kanye, but not even Mr West owns the means of communication and has the ear of the incoming president, and I hope to avoid much of the souring of the Trump-Musk bromance. Who will blame whom first, and for what, and what happens to the sycophants?

Here’s James O’Brien telling his million listeners on LBC about wor Elon, ‘the de facto deputy President’, on January 6 2025: ‘If you are capable of exercising epic power, it is foolish and naïve to pretend that you can ignore him’. O’Brien’s life and finances have benefitted for his time on Twitter in the 2010s, but if you don’t use what is now called X, nobody would be aware of Elon’s recent dealings into British political life, plus attacks on a government minister and the First Lord of the Treasury, Sir Keir Starmer.

Might the reason for Elon’s activity, O’Brien posits, be through reading propaganda and lies from the sort of people who used to be banned from Twitter but pay X money to express free speech? ‘He desperately wants to believe all of the posts about all foreigners being criminals,’ O’Brien says, referring to Elon’s South African upbringing at a time of apartheid. ‘He just believes the worst excesses of the sewer he has created…two-dimensional race hate.’

Elon has taken over from the objectionable genius Kanye as the world’s most obnoxious, and noxious, man (why always men?). Why doesn’t the King (in all seriousness) have a quiet word with him? Or, better, send his brother Andrew to sort him out. He’s free, and it’ll be no sweat. Journalist Marina Hyde nicknamed him Phony Stark, a wannabe Iron Man with leaden contributions to cultural and political discourse.

Yet, as with putting Michael Jackson or Kurt Cobain or Kanye on a magazine cover, Elon sells, so why would a media organisation or even the BBC not report on him? I know the start of the year is a slow news period, but to report on Elon changing his handle on X is beneath contempt.

And with MPs Jo Cox and David Amess being killed in the line of duty in the last decade, what happens to Jess Phillips, who already has a panic button in her own home having swapped a life assisting abused women to serve as MP for Birmingham Yardley so she could better change the law to help those same women. Jess, who is the Barbara Castle or (she will hate this) Margaret Thatcher of the current Parliament, deserves to get on with her mission, her vocation, without a billionaire who wants to live on Mars spewing disdain for her.

Remember Liz Truss? On about four occasions in late 2022, she had a weekly audience with the monarch, which was one of the perks of being Prime Minister. Nowadays she spends her time plugging her book on ‘saving the West’ in America, where the money is and where Joe Rogan earns millions of dollars for, essentially, just asking questions. Nobody can pin you for doing this, or for having legitimate concerns, or asking for the truth.

Truss is not, never was and never will be a rock star, and nor will Keir Starmer or any of his cabinet. Jeremy Corbyn, perversely, was turned into one, to the shame of the British Labour movement. What was his smash hit: For the Many, Not the Few (Oh Jeremy Corbyn). If Starmer had a song it would be a version of the old D:Ream song with the new title Things Can Only Get Better (But They Will Get Much Worse).

What’s in Elon’s setlist? Money Money Money by ABBA, naturally, as well as Dirty Cash (Money Talks) by Stevie V, which is enjoying a resurgence today. X by Xzibit and the DMX rap X Gon’ Give It to Ya, of course, would represent his little website that tells 200m people what he thinks at any given moment. And because you’re free to do whatever you like with impunity in Donald Trump’s America, let’s mark his space exploration fetish with I Believe I Can Fly by the disgraced crooner R Kelly, and throw in Bad Boy for Life by the accused Puff Daddy, as he was then.

I can stick these into a Spotify playlist but I refuse to share it on Facebook, on which I am no longer active. Just as Spotify treats music and music-makers like cotton and cotton-pickers, as I will outline in a few essays’ time, doesn’t our friend Elon do this for opinion, making billions of dollars from his little mood machine?

As has been noted many, many times, humans have a herd instinct and respond to external stimuli with either fight or flight. I have flown to Bluesky, which is trying desperately hard not to be the home of liberal thought but might be doomed to its siloed state, because fighting a herd of wildebeest on X is futile.

I almost punched the air when I heard music critic Chris Molanphy compare the rise of Bob Dylan to that of Taylor Swift: both pivoted from their initial musical idiom after about five years and four albums, Dylan from folk and Taylor from country; both seized the zeitgeist with their songwriting; and both were, to all intent, pop stars whose fans enjoyed, and still enjoy, what is now called a parasocial relationship with their chosen poet and songwriter. Their keenest supporters are known as ‘fanboys’ or ‘fangirls’. Ticket prices for the 2024 UK shows reached dizzying heights.

I daresay if Elon wanted to play the O2 Arena or Madison Square Garden, he could charge similar numbers. It isn’t cheap to watch a live show, yet Elon gives away his tweets for free so he can sell Tesla cars and influence public opinion on whatever matters come into his head.

I wonder what it must feel like to be a Tesla or SpaceX engineer, knowing that your boss is a contemporary rock star. He’s like a Victorian magnate or Wall Street banking scion, but with no desire to build houses or fund libraries; his tunes are bad, his lyrics worse. Let’s turn the music off and go outside for a bit.

 

Introducing the Quorum of Podcast Rabbis

Mostly blokes, mostly old, the Podcast Rabbi has become one of the most important public figures of the current age

Eighty years ago this month, something that tried to stop me being born was unveiled to the world. When the Auschwitz and Birkenau concentration camps were liberated on January 27 1945, three months before Hitler shot himself dead, it was clear that such an event could never happen again. Three years later, the State of Israel was founded, and Jewish people have been safe ever since.

And then I woke up.

What I do think is worth pointing out is the rise of the secular rabbi, by which I mean an old sage, usually a white bloke, who has a pulpit in the form of a podcast. Consider this: When It Hits The Fan, a podcast about public relations hosted by David Yelland and Simon Lewis; The Rest is Politics, hosted by Alastair Campbell and Rory Stewart, respectively a Prime Minister’s press secretary and a former tutor to the current king’s spare; and Media Confidential, hosted by Alan Rusbridger and Lionel Barber, who like Yelland edited national newspapers, although in their cases for 20 and 15 years respectively (Rusbridger at the Guardian, Barber at the Financial Times), rather than the five Yelland helmed the Sun for between 1998 and 2003.

Plus The Rest Is Football, where Gary Lineker gets to call the England men’s team derogatory names because he scored 48 goals for them a very long time ago and Alan Shearer, who has 30 England goals and was once the world’s most expensive footballer, also gets to use words he cannot use even after the watershed on Match of the Day. You will notice I missed out Micah Richards, who is more a yeshiva student than a rabbi.

And let’s bung in Tom & Dom: Tom Holland and Dom Sandbrook of The Rest Is History. They’re here because they explain the past to many millions of people a week. That’s a total of ten white blokes over the age of 13, or what is known in Judaism as a minyan, a quorum that must be assembled in order to pray. Women, in many Jewish denominations, do not count, and if you look at the podcast chart of 2024 you will see hardly a woman in the top 20 most popular ones.

All hail Emily Maitlis of The News Agents, Marina Hyde of The Rest Is Entertainment, celebrity wives (to be blunt in the extreme) Abbey Clancy and Rosie Ramsey, and the token woman on the No Such Thing As A Fish team Anna Ptaszynski, who all featured in the 20 most listened-to podcasts in April-June 2024, according to Edison.

But it’s the rabbis I am more interested in, with apologies to the women who respectively broke Prince Andrew (Emily) and who has been satirising the world from her Guardian pulpit (Marina, who – fun fact – is a very posh lady whose dad is a baron and whose grandfather worked on the jet engine in the 1930s). The brother of the latter’s Rest Is Entertainment colleague Richard Osman plays bass for the band Suede, who are Britpop aristocrats.

Between them, these ten rabbis have worked alongside Prime Ministers Tony Blair and Gordon Brown or (satire) been in the actual employ of Rupert Murdoch. Two of the shows are hosted by the BBC, while The Rest Is Politics pair did so well that they could sell out the Royal Albert Hall, just so that Alastair Campbell could moan about Boris Johnson and finish the night with the bagpipes.

Of the five shows, I religiously listen to Media Confidential and Fanhitters, as the hosts of the latter call it; Yelland and Lewis often appear on other BBC podcasts such as the imaginatively monikered Today Podcast, which has an actual person of Indian descent, Amol Rajan, and a former BBC political editor, Nick Robinson. Now we’ve got 12 rabbis, which is a nice number; as my old English teacher David Brown used to say, 12 is the perfect number, divisible as it is by one, two, three, four, six and – oh yes! – 12 (salut M. Brown, who moved to France, if you’re reading this).

And so these rabbis transmit thoughts into microphones, which are edited for clarity and slander, and then separated to allow for ad breaks with products and services microtargeted to different listeners, or not in the case of Fanhitters thanks to the unique way the BBC is funded. Media Confidential is a podcast that promotes Prospect magazine, which Rusbridger edits (fun fact: his daughter is the crime writer Bella Mackie, who is married to Greg James, who as of this autumn will be the highest-paid BBC presenter).

Goalhanger make squillions off of their Rest Is stable, which includes more rabbis: Gordon Corera, formerly the BBC’s security reporter; William Dalrymple, a quite brilliant writer on the British Empire and the East India Company; comedian Al Murray, who has shed his Pub Landlord skin to become a renowned history writer himself; and Robert Peston, whose dad was in the House of Lords and who co-presents The Rest Is Money with Steph McGovern, who comes from the North-East where this is an actual Jewish seat of learning, the Gateshead Yeshiva. (To my knowledge, Robinson and Peston are the only fully or partly Jewish members of my Beth Din of Pod Rabbis.)

Incredibly, I have just learned that Simon Lewis is the brother of Will Lewis, who has been spoken of in great detail by Rusbridger and Barber in his current role as EiC of The Washington Post, where democracy is (allegedly) dying in darkness. No wonder I have heard nothing on Fanhitters about a quite enormous fan-hitting moment in Lewis’ own family! Hey, what’s a rabbinical court without a bit of broigus (no time to explain, look it up).

The Rest Is Politics can yammer on about the Conservative Party, but of their ultimate boss Mr Lineker I suppose they can say little. When the Match of the Day host was suspended for noting the suspiciously authoritarian language of the then home secretary (whose husband, fun fact, is Jewish), Campbell did the TV media round firing shots at ‘the creeping right-wing authoritarianism’ that forced the BBC’s hand.

The man who was forced out of his own job by the BBC 20 years ago (again, no time to explain, look it up) was thus able to launch into his pet peeve of getting one in, studs up and off the ground, on Auntie Beeb. Lineker, naturally, bided his time and chose to hand in his notice publicly, so that the 2024/25 season of Match of the Day will be his last, although he will be the lead presenter at the 2026 FIFA World Cup.

If you are your own boss, you answer to yourself. But to return to the opening image of the liberation of the concentration camps: every rabbi of the last century knows how great his status is as a community and religious leader. Jewish folk don’t have to agree with every word of the Torah – in fact, debate is encouraged! – but the basic premise is that wisdom, knowledge and habits are a fine way to live a life.

It does seem as though these 12 rabbis are disseminating a message to the listener: we know what we’re talking about, so pull up a chair and listen.

Will Nigel Farage Avoid an Enoch Powell Moment?

The surging insurgents Reform UK are being led by a man who needs to be turned into a cartoon

‘You talk about him every day!’ says my partner about my obsession with Nigel Farage, who was actually born in Bonn, West Germany in 1964 before coming over to England as a very young child. He wasn’t, but why let the facts get in the way of a good story?

Reform UK, formerly known as The Brexit Party, is shaking up how politics is covered in the UK. In the July 2024 General Election, five Reform UK MPs were elected to Parliament: Lee, H, Claire, Faye and Lisa. Sorry, I mean Lee, James, Nigel, Rupert and Richard. Yes, the new boyband Right Direction are, in many ways, Britain’s hottest vocal harmony group, if by harmony you mean they all pop up on GB News, the propaganda channel which I call SovereignTV.

Reform in all but name are the former Conservative MPs Jacob Rees-Mogg and Boris Johnson. My nickname for the party is Boris & Nige’s Anti Elite Party (That Are Actually Elite), in spite of Johnson not formally declaring for the start-up party.

In the USA, Donald Trump and his Project 2025 acolytes have completed a takeover of what is laughably still referred to as the Grand Old Party, the Republicans; in the UK, where we have a king and we thus can never be a republic unless something very, very funny happens, the Conservative Party are the instruments of political force. In the last century, they have pushed neoliberal policies on to the masses, among them buy-to-let home ownership, entrepreneurship and the Big Bang of financial systems.

And yet in 2025, led by a lady called Kemi, they hold just over 120 Parliamentary seats out of 650. The Labour Party hold over 400, but they are being assailed from their right side by the newspapers. But who under the age of 60 reads a newspaper in 2025? I’ll tell you: people who used to read them in 1975 and 2005.

Thus, if you run through a typical Times, Mail, Express or Telegraph, you will see news fit to print for the views, prejudices and recidivism of their constituency. These newspapers also hire magnificent journalists, who send dispatches from warzones, campaign on assisted dying, and who forced the reform of MPs’ expense accounts and register of interests declared.

Every two weeks for about four years now, I have received a satirical magazine with cartoons, parodies and also serious hard news concerning the Horizon scandal, the John Smyth pederasty, the (alleged and very well reported on) activity of the South Tees Development Corporation, and Phil Hammond MD’s chronicling of the Lucy Letby verdict and aftermath.

Private Eye (for it is it) is a bastion of integrity in a slough of despond. Editor Ian Hislop has been in his post since 1988, and the magazine has 250,000 subscribers who were made aware early of the useless, incompetent and (allegedly) criminal Paula Vennells, whose crocodile tears at the public inquiry into the Horizon scandal were oh so little, oh so late.

The magazine, and its accompanying podcast, has told me so much about the British media, and has reminded me that when a new broom comes in to sweep the detritus of the last government out of SW1, it is so easy for the new one to fall prey to scandal themselves. Witness the Lord Alli fiasco, winter fuel kerfuffle, inheritance tax squabbles and the general nonsense behind the scenes as Sue Gray (from The Report) clashed with Morgan McSweeney, a man who is helping Sir Keir Starmer set the country aright after 14 years of mismanagement.

And there, lurking to Starmer’s literal far right in the Chamber, are Right Direction: Lee Anderson, a suspended Labour councillor turned suspended Conservative MP turned Reform UK representative for Ashfield in Nottinghamshire; Rupert Lowe, former chairman of Southampton FC and MP for Great Yarmouth; and James McMurdock, who famously went to jail when he was younger for assaulting a partner but because of ‘Christian forgiveness’ was voted in to represent the people of South Basildon and East Thurrock.

Then come the big two, the Lennon/McCartney of the Anti Elite Party: Richard Tice, whose mum (allegedly) loved horses more than she loved her son, MP for Boston and Skegness; and the MP for Clacton, Love Him Or Loathe Him Nigel Farage, who was actually (not) born in Bonn, West Germany.

Private Eye have already popped him on the front page of the magazine, and the BBC’s Nick Robinson has already taken him to task, on his Political Thinking podcast in March 2024, about his repeated slights against ‘globalists’. ‘Absolute cobblers’ was Farage’s response to allegations that he is hostile, via criticism of George Soros, towards Jews: ‘Globalism is about big decisions in your life…being taken by the EU, the World Health Organisation, the United Nations, higher courts’.

And how, Robinson posited, can Farage support Donald Trump, a man who wants to eliminate ‘vermin’? ‘Never take anything Trump says literally,’ chortled the then Reform UK chairman and TV presenter, before he declared himself absolute leader. Farage spotted that communities full of people of ‘different cultures’ with ‘little in common historically or culturally’ was ‘a recipe for problems’ ripe for exploitation by (alleged) chancers and con artists.

Robinson, who also asked Farage ‘are you Islamophobic and proud of it?’, then mentioned ‘communal violence’, as if he knew that within six months the murder of three girls would precipitate what was effectively Kristallnacht on the streets of England. ‘We’ve seen Hindus against Muslims,’ the Reform UK leader offered, with a huge degree of sophistry.

Farage called Enoch Powell’s 1968 speech, the one with the ‘river Tiber foaming with much blood’, the ‘biggest mistake’ Powell ever made. Perhaps this is because Farage himself knows that he is one Enoch Powell-type oration, or TikTok video, away from ending his own career.

He also knows exactly where the line is, which is why after the Stockport riots his stance of just asking questions fanned the flames without spraying fuel all over it. Someone very smart is, or some very smart people are, advising him. Is it Steve Bannon, who sold Trump to America the first time around and, just in time for the 2025 inauguration, is a free man again after serving some time in prison?

Right Direction and their supporters such as Bannon are claiming to be friends of the Jews because it is politically expedient; watch how they play and prey on the three monotheistic religions. In fact, in the coming quadrennium – before the expected General Election in 2029 which will be a referendum on what Labour have accomplished, or failed to do so, in their five-year term – we should watch everything Farage says or does. He is, after all, employing a playbook that has worked in Italy, Argentina and the USA.

How many more weeks can the deeply objectionable Lee Anderson, who is today leading a Westminster Hall debate on (cue irony klaxon) antisocial behaviour in council housing, stick around and toxify the brand whose slogan is Join The Revolt?

For how much longer can Reform UK stay amateur at a time when 4,117,610 people chose to stick a cross on their ballot paper next to the Anti Elite Party? Today Clacton; tomorrow the North.

Would You Vote for the Taylor Swift Party?

In the first of a series of 50 essays, published here each Wednesday across the year, Jonny suggests a way for very famous pop stars to lasso their fans into a political cause

I write this on Christmas Day 2024, hours before Wallace and his dog Gromit – or is it Gromit and his man Wallace? – return to TV screens and ensure millions of eyeballs are trained on the BBC, perhaps for the only time this year when it didn’t involve dancing celebrities.

About 40 seconds ago, I had an idea with which to kick off this series of weekly essays, which will replicate the Opinion Editorial section of a daily newspaper. They will therefore run to no more than 1200 words, and will cover a plethora of topics. All will be either big-p or small-p political, for which I make no apologies.

I spent 18 months working on This Place, a political diary from an imaginary independent MP in the English Parliament. Simon ‘Al’ Alexander, assisted by his political adviser Vishnu and his media adviser Emma, aka Vish and Em/Emdia, addressed issues within Westminster and in the constituency. I had a great deal of fun writing up to six pieces a week – I took Saturdays ‘off’ but wrote up Al’s Saturday on Sunday – and tried to incorporate my own interests: football, pop music, the rise of Nigel Farage and his Anti Elite Party (Which Is Actually Elite), and how the media covers politics.

Fortunately, Al regained his seat at the July election and gave a speech in which he said the following. You can read the whole thing here: https://thisplace3.wordpress.com/2024/07/05/july-5/

‘Above all, there is a feeling that I and the other 649 MPs are powerless in the face of world events like conflict, energy prices and migration, which often occurs because of the climate emergency.

‘In the face of all this despair, there is always hope, which I saw in the faces of first-time voters, even if some of the more experienced faces were far more cynical!

‘It reminded me of the time I first cast my vote, in 2005, almost 20 years ago: Apple had not yet invented the iPhone and nobody could add you as a friend on Facebook.

‘I do not know what technology will be like 20 years from now, but I do know that I can help make the laws that protect people and react to a changing world where progress is forever marching on.

‘Politics is necessary, difficult, enriching, frustrating and, since I became a Member of Parliament, the best job in Britain.

‘Parliamentary democracy, invested within me and other MPs, remains a noble calling, and I am delighted to stand here and have the opportunity to continue what I have started. Do let me know if I can be of service; I remain, after all, your humble, obedient servant.’

My idea was this: Taylor Swift should take over the Democratic Party, much as how Donald Trump has taken over the Republican Party. She made $2bn ($2,000,000,000) from her Eras tour, which is about 25% of the current value of X, the site formerly known as Twitter which is owned by a very nasty man who presents himself as a tech bro. How to solve a problem like Elon, let alone climate change, the Middle East peace process and why Mrs Brown’s Boys is still on air – sorry, easy target, and easy answer actually: Her late Majesty the Queen was a fan – is the defining question of 2025.

So let us meet SpaceX-Tesla with Exes and Antiheroes. Taylor Swift is, by all accounts, the most famous person in the world; Tom Breihan said so in his Stereogum column The Number Ones last week (read it here: https://www.stereogum.com/2291216/the-number-ones-taylor-swifts-look-what-you-made-me-do/columns/the-number-ones/). She has millions of fans and has made the music industry, often corrupt and always insane, bend to her will. At a time when new bands face bigger hurdles than ever to get their music a) made, b) heard and c) marketed, the daughter of a stockbroker – whose eponymous Swift Group is part of Merrill Lynch, one of the biggest American bankers (as opposed to Donald Trump, one of the biggest American…presidents – has more or less set the agenda when it comes to live shows, recorded music and, indeed, re-recorded music.

If folk did not know about publishing rights, they sure as heck do now, because Taylor has insisted that fans consume new versions of her old copyrights, which run alongside her new material. However, like Alexander the Great and Eric Bristow before her, there are no more mountains to climb. She has followed Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Paul McCartney, Mariah Carey and the team of Beyoncé and Jay-Z and to the very pinnacle of her profession, giving her nowhere else to go. She turned 35 years old at the end of 2024.

Thirty-five is the age of requirement for becoming US President, but a divided America which, in 249 years, has not elected a woman will hardly elect a pop singer. Reality TV mogul? Sure. Woman who wangs on about her feelings? Nope.

So here’s what she ought to do, when she isn’t cranking out novels and becoming the world’s top-selling author (my only prediction for this year is that she’ll come out with a direct-to-fan set of poems or short stories): she should set up a political party but let political figures run it.

Other figures in this party ought to be her pop peers: Sabrina Carpenter, whose album Short n’ Sweet is what happens when a record company, production team and singer hit 12 grand slams; Olivia Rodrigo, whose album Guts has soundtracked the composition of this essay and who is known as Cousin Liv by Filipinos around the world; Kayleigh Amstutz, who is still negotiating very sudden and very large fame resulting from her alter ego Chappell Roan; and Billie Eilish Pirate Baird O’Connell, the most significant songwriter of the post-Taylor generation who is, amazingly, only 23.

Billie and her brother Finneas performed the decade’s greatest pop song so far, Birds of a Feather, on Venice Beach at the closing ceremony of the Paris Olympics, as France handed over to the USA in what is going to be a very interesting quadrennium, to put it mildly. Before LA 2028, there’s the 2026 FIFA World Cup where, presuming he is still president, Donald Trump will shake the hands of Mohammed bin Salman and sundry other global figures, including FIFA president Gianni Infantino, who now lives in Qatar.

Nobody knows what will happen to the world in 2025, but David Attenborough will be 99 in May and Dick Van Dyke will turn 100 in December. Coldplay, who made Van Dyke the star of the music video to their song All My Love, will play ten dates at Wembley Stadium in September once a billion bucket hats are bought for the Oasis reunion shows. Taylor Swift, of course, had her hootenanny over Summer 2024.

Whatever happens in Syria, Israel or Washington DC, Taylor Swift’s music will still be heard by millions of ears; she may defeat Beyoncé to the Album of the Year Grammy, or the billionaire pair will split the vote and allow Billie Eilish to win for a second time in that category.

The Grammy Awards, by the way, take place the week after the inauguration. Let’s see how pop music reacts to Project 2025.

On the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

What is the future for rock’n’roll, a genre of music which is as much a relic of the past as baroque organ music of the 1650s, Viennese opera from the 1780s, symphonic music from the 1870s or an MGM musical from the 1940s?

True, it will always be possible to hear a Bach cantata, a Mozart opera, a Wagner Ring Cycle or The Wizard of Oz in glorious technicolour, just as TV footage of Elvis or The Beatles is preserved for history. We are now six decades removed from those acts playing Las Vegas or sports stadia, five decades from the disco explosion, four decades from Live Aid and three decades from the chart battle between Blur and Oasis, two bands that did poorly in the USA but sold millions upon millions of record thanks to attitude, guitars and, above all, melody.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, henceforth ‘the Rock Hall’, opened in September 1995, a fortnight after this UK chart tussle, and soon it might well add these two British bands to the roster of mainly American acts who populate it. In the entrance lobby of the Rock Hall in Cleveland, dozens of musicians patiently wait. Metaphorically since 1986 and physically since the Museum opened, the rock aristocracy have been celebrated in a museum in Ohio that does for the music industry what Cooperstown, New York does for baseball and what the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville does for hillbillies.

The Rock Hall is a bit of harmless fun but, as with everything, it has taken on significance among people who like to cheerlead for their favourite artists. I can tell you now that Taylor Swift and Beyoncé will both be inducted within the next ten years, as will plenty of acts from the digital era: Lady Gaga, Blink 182, The Killers, John Mayer, Adele, Amy Winehouse, Usher, Alicia Keys, The White Stripes, Bruno Mars, Coldplay and The Strokes have all been critically and commercially successful. They also have powerful record labels and/or fan communities who can lobby on their behalf.

And what about Kanye West, one of the era’s most significant stars? There are murderers and adulterers in the Rock Hall, although I don’t think there are any acts hostile to Jewish people (this is the music industry we’re talking about). Actually Professor Griff from Public Enemy, who got kicked out of the group for his antisemitism, is in, so under the Griff precedent, Kanye will be in the Rock Hall by the end of the decade. He will join Jay-Z, whose music he produced, unless these nasty allegations completely torpedo Jay’s reputation beyond reasonable doubt (and yes, that’s a pun on Jay’s debut album).

I am yet to really dive into the podcast Who Cares About the Rock Hall, which makes the case for missing artists and discusses annual classes of inductions with music critics; in 2024, Hollywood Steve Huey advocated for Ozzy Osbourne, Lindsay Zoladz made the case for Cher and the great Chris Molanphy championed Lenny Kravitz. The podcast has a Patreon page (patreon.com/rockhallpod) which offers extra audio episodes too; it has 200 paid followers.

Kravitz failed to be inducted in 2024, meaning that unless he goes in without the public vote, he will be in the mix for 2025 along with some very famous performers. It would be odd for Mariah Carey, Iron Maiden, Cyndi Lauper and Sting (as a solo artist) not to be inducted, especially because Sting is out on the road next year promoting a trio. Singer/songwriters Beck, John Prine and Warren Zevon have all been considered in recent years – the fact that Zevon didn’t get in was, to Randy Newman, ‘inexcusable’ – as have Bad Brains and Afrika Bambaataa, who might need a public campaign to marshal support for them.

Ditto TLC, who have never even been nominated, given their unrock’n’roll attitude of promoting safe sex, while by that same logic the Spice Girls ought to be considered too. James Brown’s band The J.B.’s were nominated in 2016, a few years after all plenty of backing groups were chucked in, as we shall discover. In 2014, the E Street Band got their own spotlight which usually shines upon bandleader Bruce Springsteen, while Nile Rodgers was belatedly shone upon in 2017, perhaps because it was starting to get embarrassing that Chic had been nominated 11 (eleven!!) times by then.

Some acts, like Nile, seem to have been inducted apologetically, just to get them into the Rock Hall and, perhaps, to stop any more angry emails or charges of racism or, in some cases, hostility to homosexuals. LL Cool J, Chaka Khan, Dionne Warwick and Judas Priest (whose frontman Rob Halford is gay) are all in there now, and in 2024 they were joined by acts who could not accept the honour because of death: Jimmy Buffett, whose life and career was celebrated at the Hollywood Bowl; and the MC5, the proto-punks from Detroit whose last surviving member Wayne Kramer died in 2024. Fortunately Bernie Taupin was still around the previous year to receive praise usually given to the man who fits melodies around his words, Elton Hercules John.

There are several repeat nominees awaiting induction by vote or by surrender: Chuck Willis (six); The J Geils Band (five); The Meters, Rufus and Joe Tex (all four); Devo, Ben E King, New York Dolls, Gram Parsons and War (three each); and a host of acts with one or two nominations. I would surmise that a few of these acts will go into the Rock Hall before 2030; it certainly seems like an oversight that the pioneers of punk (New York Dolls), funk (The Meters), Americana (Gram Parsons) and art rock (Devo) are not within the Rock Hall walls.

Mary Wells is absent too, although her former brother-in-law Bobby Womack is in there; might her omission be due to the lawsuit for loss of royalties she brought against Motown the year before her death in 1992? Surely Motown are not blocking any further nominations for the lady who sang My Guy. Garth Brooks, who is currently facing a deeply troubling lawsuit over charges he denies effusively, might have to wait a while too, although he significantly brought rock’n’roll aesthetics into country music shows, which Kenny Chesney and many others took all the way to the bank.

With country acts being inducted in both 2022 and 2023, and the genre being so hot right now, there is a chance that another member of the Country Music Hall of Fame will join the other 17 in the next few years. Perhaps it will be Conway Twitty, nominated in 2005 for the Rock Hall; he began his career singing rock’n’roll in the 1950s before becoming one of the most successful country acts by record sales, rivalled only by Charley Pride, who is also not in the Rock Hall. I wonder if the likes of Waylon Jennings, Jessi Colter, George Strait, Jerry Jeff Walker, Brandi Carlile and the aforementioned Chesney will be considered. And where’s Glen Campbell, who had a network TV show before fame got too much for him?

Then we come to the rappers. I am aware that rap and rock’n’roll are entirely different genres but, with at least half a dozen rap icons already in the Rock Hall, it would seem certain that Outkast, Salt N Pepa, Queen Latifah, 50 Cent and The Roots will all be inducted in the next decade. Given that Roots bandleader Questlove is a) on TV most nights of the week on the NBC Tonight Show and b) the professor of American music – he is to rock’n’soul what Neil DeGrasse Tyson is to cosmology – it seems a case of how soon The Roots can get in rather than if they will get in.

Questlove, aka Dr Ahmir Thompson, is also on the Nominating Committee, which used to be chaired by Jon Landau. The Committee includes famous critics like Anthony DeCurtis, Alan Light and Amanda Petrusich, as well as Dr Thompson’s and fellow musicians Dave Grohl of Foo Fighters, Darryl McDaniels aka DMC from Run-DMC, Tom Morello of Rage Against the Machine and Steven Van Zandt from the E Street Band. Past committees have included Patti Smith’s guitarist Lenny Kaye, Band member Robbie Robertson and David Letterman’s Musical Director Paul Shaffer, who wrote It’s Raining Men and thus could well end up in the Rock Hall himself.

Questlove probably has a tale to tell about every one of the Rock Hall inductees across the last 40 years, including the list of Early Influences. These encompass country stars like Jimmie Rodgers, Hank Williams, Bill Monroe and Bob Wills & His Texas Playboys, as well as blues guitar players Freddie King, Link Wray, Alexis Korner and John Mayall. Rockabilly queen Wanda Jackson is still with us at 87, having had her first country hit in 1954 and her first rock’n’roll hit in 1960; she was unbelievably ahead of her time, and deserves to be in the Rock Hall.

There are the proto-hip-hop stars DJ Kool Herc and Gil Scott-Heron, civil rights campaigner Harry Belafonte, electronica forefathers Kraftwerk and blues shouters Sister Rosetta Tharpe and Big Mama Thornton. And you could not begin to think about rock’n’roll without a host of black performers who developed jazz and blues: Louis Armstrong, Charles Brown, Nat King Cole, Willie Dixon, Billie Holiday, Howlin Wolf, Mahalia Jackson, Elmore James (shouted out by George Harrison in For You Blue by The Beatles), Louis Jordan, Lead Belly, Professor Longhair, Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, T-Bone Walker, Dinah Washington and Benny Goodman’s guitar player Charlie Christian.

The Soul Stirrers, who briefly included among their number Sam Cooke, were a gospel group before that form of music morphed into doowop, where The Ink Spots, The Orioles and The ‘5’ Royales brought harmony singing out of the church and on to the street corner. From the folk world come two men significant in the Bob Dylan story: Pete Seeger, who was blacklisted for his political beliefs; and Woody Guthrie, who taught Dylan everything he knew and would have been a rock’n’roll star if amplification from the likes of Les Paul had been developed when he was writing ballads and tirades in the 1930s and 1940s.

Robert Johnson is more myth than music, but he was one of the three figures to be nominated for the Rock Hall in the first year of existence, along with Jimmie Rodgers and Jimmy Yancey; the latter is directly responsible for Jools Holland, who keeps the boogie-woogie style alive over a century after it was popular in a time before rock’n’roll.

Back in 1986, the first tranche of inductees included many pioneers and progenitors of what would morph into rock music. These ten acts kicked down the door through which many subsequent invitees sauntered through, and were a mix of black and white: among the former were Chuck Berry, James Brown, Ray Charles, Sam Cooke, Fats Domino and Little Richard; the white fellas influenced by black sounds included the Everly Brothers, Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis and some bloke called Elvis Aaron Presley, who would have turned 90 years old in January 2025 and is being celebrated on BBC Radio 2 on New Year’s Day.

Then, in 1987, came another two dozen or so stars, again a mix of black blokes and black-influenced white ones, plus one woman enjoying a second wind of success. In the former category were The Coasters, Bo Diddley, Marvin Gaye, BB King, Clyde McPhatter, Muddy Waters, Jackie Wilson and Big Joe Turner, while the latter included Eddie Cochran, Bill Haley, Ricky Nelson, Roy Orbison and Carl Perkins. Smokey Robinson, as this post goes up at the end of 2024, is about to turn 85; he holds the distinction of being the only living member of either of the 1986 or 1987 classes.

The woman, by the way, was Aretha Franklin, who will forever be the first of her gender to be inducted into the Rock Hall. The second to fourth were The Supremes: Diana Ross, Mary Wilson and Florence Ballard, but not Cindy Birdsong. This was likely down to lobbying from Berry Gordy, but also testament to how they had 12 US number ones in the 1960s, ten of them between 1964 and 1967.

Two men from Liverpool and one from Minnesota are among those still around from acts who were among the third tranche of inductees in 1988. Aside from The Beatles and Bob Dylan, The Beach Boys, The Drifters and the aforementioned trio of Woody Guthrie, Lead Belly and Les Paul all became honorees, as did Gordy, who is still alive at the age of 95 and who was the Henry Ford of pop music who soundtracked Young America in the 1960s.

Important figures in the boardroom like Gordy have been honoured at the Rock Hall too: Jerry Wexler and Ahmet & Nesuhi Ertegun of Atlantic Records, Leonard Chess, Art Rupe of Specialty, Don Kirshner of Aldon, Sam Phillips of Sun, Syd Nathan of King, Jim Stewart of Stax and both the A and the M of A&M: Herb Alpert (still alive at 89) and Jerry Moss.

Then came the new breed of executive that made their shareholders countless millions in the glory days of rock’n’roll, many of whom are themselves in their eighties or nineties: Chris Blackwell of Island is 87, Clive Davis of Arista is 92, while Jac Holzman of Elektra is 93. Seymour Stein of Sire and Mo Ostin of Warner/Reprise have both passed on, the latter in 2022 at the age of 95(!), while the incomparable David Geffen, the first man ever to make a billion dollars out of music, turned 80 in 2023.

Geffen and Jon Landau, the baby of the bunch at 77 who will be memorialised in a forthcoming Bruce Springsteen biopic, are characters in a book called The Mansion on the Hill, which chronicled the golden age of rock’n’roll from the business perspective. I expect in future years we will see some of the leading lights of hip-hop being inducted too, including Lyor Cohen and Rick Rubin, the Jewish rabbis who helped kick Def Jam acts like Run-DMC and LL Cool J into public consciousness, and Dr Dre, the producer/rapper/mogul who followed Geffen to billionairehood.

Also due an induction are the last of the remaining non-performing songwriters, mainly Scandinavian guys like Max Martin and Stargate, but also Diane Warren, who deserves a jukebox musical for her dozens of hit ballads. Her 14 Oscar-nominated-but-not-winning songs include Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now, I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing, Because You Loved Me, How Do I Live and There You’ll Be.

Already in the Rock Hall are Mort Shuman, Otis Blackwell, Bert Berns and Jesse Stone aka Chuck Calhoun, who wrote Shake, Rattle and Roll. Ditto the famous songwriting teams of Holland-Dozier-Holland, Gamble and Huff and four New York-based duos: Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, Jeff Barry and Ellie Greenwich, Gerry Goffin and Carole King, and Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. It is an oversight that Neil Sedaka and Howie Greenfield are missing; the former is still kicking at 85, while Greenfield died of AIDS a week before his 50th birthday in 1986.

The group of writers who made the world swing, including LA Reid, Kenny ‘Babyface’ Edmonds, Dallas Austin and Teddy Riley must be up for induction soon, especially given that Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis were included in 2022.

Deserving their own paragraph, the achievements of the quartet of Lou Adler, Quincy Jones, George Martin and Allen Toussaint are too numerous to mention; only Adler, who turned 91 in December 2024, is still with us.

Then the managers: without Brian Epstein and Andrew Loog Oldham, nobody would have heard of the bands they managed, The Beatles and the Rolling Stones; without John Hammond, there would be no Billie Holiday, Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen; without Irving Azoff, no Eagles (and no Harry Styles either, because his son is Harry’s manager); no Leo Fender, no Stratocaster.

Then the impresarios: Dick Clark, Don Cornelius (who hosted Soul Train and was basically the black Dick Clark), Alan Freed, Bill Graham and Sylvia Robinson, who put together the Sugarhill Gang who brought hiphop to the masses. Jimmy Iovine, like his business partner Dr Dre, got more rich off of Beats headphones than from engineering rock records by Bruce Springsteen, Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty.

And would anybody outside the industry know the names and professions of journalist Paul Ackerman, talent scout Ralph Bass, record exec Milt Gabler, lawyer Allen Grubman, radio wizards Clarence Avant or Tom Donahue, or talent manager Frank Barsalona? I shamefully had never come across the name Suzanne de Passe, the 2024 Rock Hall honoree for her work setting up Motown Records in California, which included developing a young group of brothers from Gary, Indiana; no Suzanne de Passe, no Michael Jackson?

Back to the artists: the British invasion was marked in 1989 by The Rolling Stones (alongside Dion, Otis Redding, The Temptations and Steve Wonder) and in 1990 by The Who and The Kinks, who went in alongside Hank Ballard, Bobby Darin, The Four Seasons, The Four Tops, The Platters, and the heavenly duo Simon & Garfunkel.

In the 1990s the Rock Hall was keen to get plenty of women into its ranks, given that only four were inducted in the first three tranches: in went LaVern Baker, Ruth Brown, Etta James, Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell and Tina Turner, who was inducted alongside her abusive husband. Also in before the millennium was marked were The Shirelles, Dusty Springfield, Martha and the Vandellas, Gladys Knight and her Pips, Grace Slick and Jefferson Airplane, the ladies of Fleetwood Mac and the Mamas of the Mamas & the Papas. Plus, correctly, gospel market leaders the Staple Singers, whose member Mavis is 85 and the subject of a quite brilliant documentary, the exclamatory Mavis!

As for the blokes, in went Billy Joel, Curtis Mayfield, Bruce Springsteen and, after five nominations, Del Shannon, all in 1999; the Eagles, Santana and, after six nominations, both Gene Vincent and Lloyd Price in 1998; and The Bee Gees, Parliament-Funkadelic, The Rascals/Young Rascals, The Jackon 5 (after three previous nominations) and both California bands Buffalo Springfield and Crosby, Stills & Nash in 1997, the same year as Joni Mitchell. Crosby and his compadres The Byrds had been inducted in 1991 alongside John Lee Hooker, The Impressions, Wilson Pickett and, after five previous nominations, Jimmy Reed.

It took Bobby “Blue” Bland six goes before he was inducted in 1992 alongside Booker T & the MGs, Johnny Cash, The Isley Brothers, The Yardbirds, and two acts who went in on the first go: The Jimi Hendrix Experience and Sam & Dave. In 1993, it was the turn of Cream, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Doors, Van Morrison and, after seven previous nominations, Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers.

In 1994 Duane Eddy went in at the eighth time of asking. He was joined by The Animals, The Band, The Grateful Dead, Bob Marley and longtime frenemies Rod Stewart and Elton John, as well as by Elton’s pal John Lennon through his solo work; McCartney followed on his own in 1999, with George and Ringo following respectively (and in the former case posthumously) in 2004 and 2015.

The Allman Brothers Band, Al Green, Led Zeppelin, Neil Young and the then recently deceased Frank Zappa were inducted in 1995, followed in 1996 by David Bowie, Pink Floyd, The Velvet Underground and, after seven previous nominations, Little Willie John in 1996.

In the year 2000, Eric Clapton went in on his own, alongside Earth, Wind & Fire, The Lovin’ Spoonful, Bonnie Raitt, James Taylor and, at the sixth attempt, The Moonglows, among whose number was the legendary Harvey Fuqua. In 2001, Solomon Burke managed it on the ninth attempt and The Flamingos on their fifth, while legendary acts to be inducted alongside them included Aerosmith, Queen, Paul Simon, Steely Dan, Ritchie Valens and, without his brothers, Michael Jackson.

In 2002, Gene Pitney was seventh time lucky in a year when punk acts began to be acknowledged. Eligibility only comes into effect 25 years after a band or artist’s first release, so it was no surprise to see the Ramones, Talking Heads and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers all going in instantly. They were joined by Isaac Hayes and Brenda Lee, which shows the breadth of music considered by the Rock Hall. Rock is an attitude, not a genre of music. In the rest of the 2000s, bands from Australia (AC/DC), Ireland (U2) and Akron, Ohio (The Pretenders) got the Rock Hall call, as did plenty of British acts: The Clash, The Police, Elvis Costello & The Attractions, Traffic and the aforementioned pair of Beatle George and Beatle Ringo.

It took the Sex Pistols five tries, Lynyrd Skynyrd seven and Black Sabbath eight(!) to join them and the other 2000s inductees: Blondie, Jackson Browne, doowop group The Dells, Buddy Guy, The O’Jays, The Righteous Brothers, Bob Seger, Percy Sledge and ZZ Top. Plus Miles Davis, who took jazz to new dimensions, synthesised jazz and rock on his album Bitches Brew and interpreted Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper.

Prince, who is to the guitar what Davis was to the trumpet, also went in at the first attempt in 2004 alongside George Harrison. This accounts for why it was that year’s Rock Hall induction ceremony that gave the room the pleasure of seeing Prince, alongside Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne of ELO, Steve Winwood and George’s son Dhani, playing a three-minute solo coda to While My Guitar Gently Weeps. Only after his death in 2016 would the world be able to marvel at his dexterity and talent; the Youtube video, whose two versions currently have 170m accumulated views, would have enjoyed far more if Prince hadn’t forbidden any of his music to be uploaded to the platform in his lifetime.

And where the hell does his guitar go?!

How about this for a 2007 class: Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, REM, The Ronettes, Patti Smith (after six nominations) and Van Halen. Madonna was admitted in 2008, her first year of eligibility, while Leonard Cohen had not even been considered until that year. The Dave Clark Five represented the Brits, The Ventures surf rock and John Mellencamp the American heartland. In 2009 it was Jeff Beck and Metallica – two acts who rocked in very different ways – alongside Little Anthony and the Imperials (never nominated before), Run-DMC and Bobby Womack, who all did black music in very different ways: doowop, hip-hop and soul.

ABBA were nowhere near rock’n’roll in the 1970s but in 2010 it was fair to say the Rock Hall rewarded spirit and attitude, perhaps to incorporate successful acts who would not ordinarily have been on the cover of Rolling Stone in 1972, let alone 1982. Alongside the Swedes were Jimmy Cliff, Genesis and The Hollies – respectively Commonwealth and British acts – well as, on their eighth nomination, Iggy Pop and The Stooges. No such delays greeted Alice Cooper, Neil Diamond, Dr John and Tom Waits in 2011, while Darlene Love went in with them.

The year 2012 boosted the membership by acknowledging the backing bands of those musicians who were among the first inductees: The Blue Caps, who backed Gene Vincent; The Crickets, who backed Buddy Holly; The Famous Flames, who backed James Brown; The Midnighters, who backed Hank Ballard; The Miracles, who backed Smokey Robinson; and Bill Haley’s Comets. It was also time for Donovan, the late Laura Nyro and both The Small Faces and The Faces, as well as some of the biggest bands of the MTV era: the Beastie Boys, Guns N Roses and Red Hot Chili Peppers.

By the middle of the decade, more acts from the late 1980s and early 1990s were inducted, including Green Day, Nirvana and Pearl Jam, who all married melody, power and sex appeal. Blues is represented in the Rock Hall by Albert King, the Paul Butterfield Blues Band, Stevie Ray Vaughan and his band Double Trouble, while there was also room for singer/songwriters of the 1970s: Randy Newman, Cat Stevens (as he has reverted to being known), Bill Withers, and Peter Gabriel, the last of these having already been inducted as part of Genesis.

Other mononym bands went in too, including Chicago, Heart, Kiss and Rush. The likes of Boston and Styx are not there yet, nor is P!nk, who becomes eligible for what ought to be immediate induction in 2025. Conversely, it took Hall & Oates and Linda Ronstadt until 2014 to go in, each with their first nomination, with Lou Reed and Joan Jett, who went in with the Blackhearts, following in 2015.

Deep Purple, Cheap Trick and Steve Miller were all inducted in 2016 alongside NWA, who themselves followed a few years after Public Enemy and a year before Tupac. Joan Baez was deemed rock’n’roll enough in 2017, where the induction class included Electric Light Orchestra and Yes.

Which acts were missing by 2018? Bon Jovi, for a start, and Dire Straits and The Cars and The Moody Blues, but also Nina Simone, whose attitude was very rock’n’roll even if she didn’t have groupies or drive cars into swimming pools. Ditto Donna Summer, the queen of the discotheque, inducted upon her fifth nomination in 2013.

British acts were given their due in 2019, perhaps because Her Majesty may have put a word in for them: The Cure of Crawley had had nine members in their 40-year career, the only constant one being Robert Smith, while Def Leppard of Yorkshire, Radiohead of Oxfordshire, Roxy Music of Tyneside and The Zombies of Hertfordshire joined them. Depeche Mode of Essex and T.Rex of North London followed in 2020, the year The Doobie Brothers, Nine Inch Nails and a late pair of black artists – Whitney Houston and Notorious B.I.G. – were awarded virtually, with the USA still under restrictions caused by Covid-19.

Also accepting a much welcome induction in 2019 were Janet Jackson and, without her bandmates, Stevie Nicks. In 2021 it was the turn of Foo Fighters and The Go-Go’s; Pat Smear of the former band and Belinda Carlisle of the latter were in teenage punk band The Germs together, so this was magnificent rock’n’roll poetry, while the induction enabled Taylor Hawkins to enter the Rock Hall before his death the following year. It took until 2019 for Todd Rundgren to even be nominated, and it was third time lucky for him in a year which saw the inductions of Carole King and Tina Turner in their own right, respectively 22 and 24 years after their only other nomination as performers.

Jay-Z, the first billionaire hip-hop star, went in on the first attempt, 25 years after his breakthrough, as did Eminem. Again showing the looseness of the ‘rock’ definition, boyband Duran Duran were inducted in 2022 alongside Pat Benatar, Eurythmics, Lionel Richie, Carly Simon and, bringing country back to the institution, Dolly Parton. Having initially refused the offer, Dolly not only accepted it but made an album in 2023 that mixed original rock’n’roll compositions and covers; she drafted in a few dozen Rock Hall members for help including Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Heart, Joan Jett, Elton John, Stevie Nicks and Sheryl Crow.

Sheryl followed Dolly into the Rock Hall in 2023, in a class which included the 90-year-old Willie Nelson, Missy Elliot and a couple of Brits: Kate Bush and the late George Michael. It was also the class that finally chose The Spinners after four nominations and Rage Against the Machine after five; perhaps having the band’s guitarist Tom Morello on the Nominating Committee was a hindrance, but it was an inevitability that Rage would go in eventually.

Morello gave a quite brilliant acceptance speech, apologising for being the only member of the quartet to show up (‘we have differing perspectives on a lot of things’) but seeking to connect with the band’s fans, whom Morello gave three pieces of advice: ‘Dream big and don’t settle. Aim for the world you really want without compromise or apology. And don’t wait for us.’

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9smVi1cs44Y

Fully nine acts were inducted in 2024: Mary J Blige, Dave Matthews Band, Peter Frampton, Kool & the Gang, Ozzy Osbourne as a solo artist and, after nominations in 2022 and 2023, A Tribe Called Quest. The other two acts were notable for different reasons.

The producer Mark Ronson had pushed for Foreigner, a band containing his stepdad Mick Jones, to be inducted, and had asked fellow musicians including Paul McCartney, Slash and Dave Grohl to join his successful campaign. Cherilyn Sarkisian once told the Rock Hall to buzz off, but with the first part of her memoir needing a bit of a push and her old boyfriend (and Rock Hall member) David Geffen doubtlessly doing some lobbying, Cher was finally inducted – without Sonny Bono – 25 years after Believe gave her the biggest song in the world for at least two months.

Then came Baby One More Time. Will the Rock Hall induct Britney Spears in 2025? She’s eligible, and so are Antony & the Johnsons, Joe Bonamassa, Dashboard Confessional, Nelly Furtado, Interpol, Linkin Park, Sufjan Stevens, the recently retired Sum 41 and the disgraced singer Ryan Adams. Gorillaz are eligible too, while Damon Albarn’s other band Blur have been eligible for a decade; although their entry is possible, I would think it extraordinary if Oasis, who are on a world tour and making millions of dollars, do not go in.

Thin Lizzy, nominated in 2020, also put out a set next year, in that stupid phantom way of setting old vocal tracks to new arrangements. It’s ghastly but it might help their Rock Hall chances, even as the band has evolved into Black Stone Cherry, who could accept the induction on behalf of the departed members of the original band including bassist and songwriter Phil Lynott.

I fear that tussles between bandmates will scupper the inductions of both The Smiths and Jane’s Addiction, and possibly Joy Division/New Order too, although it would be nice if Sinead O’Connor, whose fearless spirit was extraordinarily rock’n’roll, gets in on the second attempt if she repeats her 2024 nomination. The hair metal acts of the late 1980s, including Mötley Crüe, are also in the running, but Tommy Lee never dares to shout ‘Fight the real enemy!’ and tear up a picture of the pontiff, as Sinead did.

Finally, a word for the Musically Excellent, although it is rather sad that this category is now dedicated to smuggling in acts who have somehow not been garlanded in the main awards. Starting in 2000, sidemen were awarded their own prize to praise folk who were always 20 feet from stardom.

They range from drummers like Benny Benjamin, Hal Blaine, D.J. Fontana and Earl Palmer; brass players like King Curtis and Steve Douglas; bassists Bill Black and James Jamerson; guitar-slingers like James Burton, Scotty Moore and Randy Rhoads; pianists Floyd Cramer, Johnnie Johnson, Spooner Oldham, Billy Preston and Leon Russell; and Al Kooper, who quite literally does it all, including busking the organ part on Like a Rolling Stone.

Plus producer and arranger Norman Whitfield and studio engineers Tom Dowd, Glyn Johns and Cosimo Matassa. Matassa worked at J&M Recording Studio in New Orleans in the 1950s, and thus contributed to the recorded output of a host of black superstars, including Ray Charles, Fats Domino and Little Richard. Imagine trying to control the levels of the magnificent Little Richard, keeping his voice out of the red or, in some cases, pushing it just a little into the danger zone.

The Studio is one of 11 – why not just make ten louder? – Historic Rock and Roll Landmarks that contributed to the genre’s development. Most of them are in Ohio, which accounts for why the Rock Hall is in the Midwest and not in, say, San Francisco. Cleveland, as the Rock Hall chairman John Sykes said recently, is the birthplace of rock’n’roll, a status marked by bands passing through the city and giving its residents a big ‘HELLO CLEVELAND!’

The city boasts the Corner Tavern and Leo’s Casino, as well as AM radio station WJW and TV studio WEWS; Brooklyn High School in the Ohio town of that name saw Elvis’ first concert performance; King Records in Cincinnati put out hundreds of releases by black artists like Little Willie John and James Brown.

Outside Ohio, there’s the famous Crossroads in Clarksdale, Mississippi where Robert Johnson definitely sold the devil his soul for the ability to create dangerous music, the Whisky a Go Go nightclub in Hollywood that did so much to develop LA rock acts, and the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville and Austin City Limits Studio in Texas, which host music of all kinds today but are most connected to hillbilly, country and Western styles. Plus the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake, Iowa, which is self-explanatory and was the last place Buddy Holly, J.P. ‘The Big Bopper’ Richardson and Ritchie Valens played before they perished in a plane crash, aka The Day The Music Died.

The Rock Hall ceremony is now screened on Disney+, that bastion of rock’n’roll rebellion. Every year there is a fine mix of race and gender in the nominees, as befits America in the 2020s. Nominees on the 2025 longlist for whom the 500 members can vote include Coldplay, whose debut album came out in 2000 making them eligible for the first time, and two Warrens, Zevon and Haynes of the band Govt Mule. I am also persuaded by the idea of posthumously inducting Kris Kristofferson and, via his band Linkin Park, Chester Bennington.

Then there’s Jonathan Richman and his band the Modern Lovers, Conor Oberst aka Bright Eyes, and the previously nominated rockers Soundgarden and Iron Maiden, who could both mobilise the troops to put pressure on the voters.

I will eat a large marzipan hat if Jack White of The White Stripes, The Raconteurs and The Dead Weather, as well as the creator of one of 2024’s best albums No Name, is not in the Rock Hall by this time next year. If anyone defines the spirit of the Rock Hall, it’s the man who started out making blues records and by 2003 was headlining festivals and stadiums, where the set highlight would be Seven Nation Army, one of rock’s last great riffs before the technology revolution that had killed the record industry started to eat into the profit margins of the music business.

White now runs a label called Third Man out of Nashville, with branches in Detroit, Michigan and London, England. He is feted by his audience and by critics, and he has one of the most encyclopaedic knowledge of rock’n’roll this side of Dr Questlove, who would certainly bow to White in his ability to recall long forgotten blues heroes from the 1920s. It also helps, of course, that White oozes sex appeal.

This month (January 2025), the journalist Liz Pelly brings out a book about Spotify, which as things stand does not have a Hall of Fame. The tension in the current generation is about how rock’n’roll, which evolved from the church and the blues holler, then turned white kids like Elvis and Jack White on to black music, can exist in a world where rebellion is frowned upon and where a playlist culture has replaced the jukebox, music video and three-minute record. And who even listens to a whole album anymore anyway?

But, to answer my opening question, the future of rock’n’roll, really, is its past. Head to Cleveland to the Rock Hall itself and you can view instruments, draft lyrics and outfits from dozens of acts, contained in exhibits on the Rolling Stones, Sun Records, the half century of hip-hop and the year 1984. Go up to level two and you can plug in and play, or doss about with a ukulele, perhaps inspired by the Hall of Fame itself on the third floor. The next floor up has a replica of the Pink Floyd wall, which was assembled and then demolished during a show in Berlin in 1990: rock’n’roll and politics, gender or civil, cannot be divorced from one another.

Writing this piece has brought home to me – and reading it has brought home to you, I hope – the rich multitude of music contained within the Rock Hall and the efforts taken to preserve the history of a genre that started out as a teenage fad. What is the fad in 2025: getting upset at people through an app accessed on a screen that is owned by a billionaire? Is Elon Musk today’s rock star, or just a very naughty boy?

Rock’n’roll is about being, to paraphrase that well-known rocker Aaron Burr, in the room where it happens: hearing the feedback, marvelling at the gestures and the costumes, and cheering when an act asks if you’re having a good time. ‘Hello Cleveland!’ is more than just a greeting; it’s a clearing of the throat before a two-hour performance that proves, in Tom Morello’s words, ‘music can change the world or at the bare minimum stir up a shitload of trouble!’

There is a reason rock still happens in sports stadiums: it’s about the human experience mediated through beat-driven song. The Rock Hall celebrates those who are either the best marketed or genuinely most talented, from Prince to Queen to Carole King. Taylor Swift helped induct Carole, ‘a female genius’, into the Rock Hall: ‘her songs speak to the true and honest feelings everyone has felt…or hopes to feel one day’.

I think there’s room for dozens more in the Rock Hall, some of whom may not have been born yet, as Taylor wasn’t when Tapestry rocked the world in a slow, soft way in 1971.

Thoughts on the Proposed Network BBC Radio Love The Show Steve

This piece has been edited since it went online on February 8 2024. Five days later, Steve Wright died at the age of 69.

So here’s Radio 2’s grand idea: don’t pension off the old guys, balkanise them and stick them on a new radio station.

Tony Blackburn just turned 81. Johnnie Walker (born Peter Dingley) is 79 at the end of March, Bob Harris 78 and Paul Gambaccini 75 in April. Steve Wright was 69 when he died in February 2024.

These four men have, or had, been with the BBC for literally centuries, if you add the half-century stands from Blackburn (day one of Radio 1 in 1967), Walker (aside from a decade away, pretty much continuously since 1969), Bob (1970 onwards), Gambo (1973-present) and Wrighty, whose first show on the BBC was in 1980.

If you include producer-turned-presenter Mark Radcliffe, who learned at the knee of John Peel, that’s over 250 years of broadcasting experience. Because the BBC have already lost Terry Wogan, Janice Long and Annie Nightingale, it may well be the case that listeners will be ordered to treat this quintet as National Treasures. Ken Bruce and Simon Mayo would have had this status too, but they go to a different school now and have to hit ad breaks. Plus we no longer know how much they earn, which is a perk of not working for a corporation mandated to tell us who is in which pay bracket.

Simon Mayo’s mum was a BBC producer. I hope, but do not expect, that he does more work for his old employer, although he is back on drivetime on Greatest Hits Radio. It was wretched to hear him on Radio 4 recently lamenting his departure on the show Great Lives, which was notionally dedicated to finding out more about his Radio 1 predecessor Alan ‘Fluff’ Freeman.

There are precedents in broadcasters coming back to the Beeb, in the cases of both Johnnie Walker and Bob Harris. Were he not turning into a Bermondsey version of Ken Dodd, the incomparable Danny Baker would be absolutely perfect for the new station. Much as I call 6 Music Radio Peel, because it welcomes every genre and also has John Peel’s son Tom as a nightly DJ, I have nicknamed this station BBC Radio Love The Show Steve (henceforth ‘BBC Radio Steve’).

After it has been tested and shown (in defiance of logic) to be a good addition to the broadcasting landscape, I think this new station will be confirmed around the same time the BBC loses its biggest icon: David Attenborough (long may he reign). I still contend that the iPlayer will have a BBC Attenborough channel with all the old nature documentaries.

In fact, much as BBC Four is now a repository for visual archive footage, so BBC Radio Steve will air old radio docs and shows. Currently 6 Music air them overnight, and I recommend Leo Green’s loving two-hour tribute to Roy Orbison. Alan Freeman’s own History of Pop from 1994 is being rebroadcast in two-hour chunks on Thursday mornings between 1-3am, and is available on demand at BBC Sounds if you sleep at that hour.

In 2024, the target audience for this type of show is the type of folk who remember TV adverts from the 1970s. I remember when Brad Pitt fronted a show about folk singer Nick Drake, and there was a fun chat with Gilbert O’Sullivan one Christmas. It was interesting that the station marked the 65th anniversary of the death of Buddy Holly FOUR DAYS before announcing the proposed new station.

Its existence might mean that Sounds of the Sixties and Seventies will disappear from Radio 2’s weekend schedule. Since 2021, the station has targeted Mood Mums between 35 and 54 who remember listening to Zoe Ball, Sara Cox and Jo Whiley when they were younger. Rather handily, those three women contribute a total of eight and a half hours of broadcasting every day between Monday and Thursday.

Whiley, of course, was in a radio marriage with Mayo that never worked, never would work and is a stain on the network in the same way that putting Mark and Lard on at breakfast in the late 1990s was. Incidentally, Mark and Marc are on stage together in March, twenty years to the day after Radcliffe went to Radio 2 and ‘the boy Lard’ went to 6 Music to take over John Peel’s old slot (rightly, as he used to be a member of Peel’s favourite band, The Fall). A four-date Mark and Lard tour follows in the autumn, with a show at Shepherd’s Bush Empire on September 26 and dates in Shrewsbury, Crewe and Warrington in early November.

Having come across to Radio 2 with Radcliffe at the ungodly young age of 16, I would love it if he brought his ageing pipes to Radio Steve, although he and Stuart Maconie have control of 6 Music between 8-10am on weekend mornings and both men have other pursuits (grandchildren, books and so forth). Over on Radio 2, Tony Blackburn is in the studio for Sounds of the Sixties for 6am, even though people under 55 don’t want to hear him play Diana Ross and assorted Merseybeat sounds every Saturday.

They want extra Dermot O’Leary before Romesh Ranganathan’s show, which begins at Easter when he moves into the Michael Parkinson-Jonathan Ross-Graham Norton-Claudia Winkelman slot of 10am-1pm on Saturdays. Having first moved Friday Night is Music Night to Sundays, Radio 2 then introduced a two-hour show where Paul Gambaccini plays what he wants. The plan is to simulcast Gambo’s show on Radio 2 and Radio Steve.

Ditto Sunday Love Songs which, until he died the day before Valentine’s Day 2024, was of course hosted by ‘Love The Show’ Steve Wright between 9-11am on Sunday mornings. I do wonder if anyone under 55 sends in a request for the show. When I listened to it in the 2010s, it had a quaint charm, with fuzzy phonelines and Handel’s Wedding March to soundtrack that week’s nuptials.

The tracklisting for the February 4 show had tunes from across the decades, with old favourites like How Bout Us by Champaign, Could It Be I’m Falling In Love by The Detroit Spinners, Easy by The Commodores, Everything I Own by Bread and the deathless Lady In Red, for those looking for a little romahnce. Last year Steve started to present half-hour Love Songs Extra shows which focus on songs and stories from a particular year. It is hard to quantify the loss to the BBC, let alone from this proposed Love The Show Steve network, that the death of lifelong company Wright brings.

Perhaps they will move David Rodigan (who is 72) to the new station, given that he was there when reggae had its initial explosion in the 1970s. It would not surprise me if Radio 2 moved the genre shows – Blues, Jazz, Folk and Country – to this new station too, replacing it with DJ-less mindfulness mixes.

This will also be an easy way to siphon New and Old Music into some of the other planned stations, which include a 21st century-only version of Radio 1 and a similarly DJ-less Radio 3. This means new artists can boast of having their music played on the BBC at a time when the century-old brand has competition from every other broadcaster, streaming service and TV platform, but still carries kudos much as how Rolling Stone magazine or the London Palladium do.

The BBC will justify these new offerings by hiding behind audience feedback and licence fee requirements, but something must be noted: they themselves created the gap they are trying to fill.

They targeted younger listeners, forcing older ones to flee to Greatest Hits Radio and Boom Radio to hear what David Jacobs used to call ‘Our Kind of Music’. I used to love DJ, who played music from the pre-rock era on Sunday nights: all the old singers, all the old songs, which can only be made palatable to mass audiences these days by being put through the Bublé filter.

After three years of the new era, the top brass at the Beeb have realised that it was a bad idea to turn Radio 2 into Radio U OK Hun, even though they had no choice but to shift the brilliant broadcaster Scott Mills (51 in March) from Radio 1, where the target listener is between 14 and 29. Having chased the old audience away, they are now trying to lure them back.

There is nothing wrong with their current weekend line-up: Rylan and Liza Tarbuck are on the station between 3pm and 8pm on Saturdays, and the pair will stay put with their karaoke on the radio and irreverent wittering respectively. Rob Beckett’s appointment for Sunday teatime drove Paul O’Grady out of the station before his early passing, while it was interesting to hear Richard Osman covering the slot at the end of last year. If anyone says Radio 2, it’s Richard from Pointless, although he has a well-paid weekly podcast as part of Gary Lineker’s Goalhanger network.

But what to do about the Radio 2 breakfast show, the station’s flagship music and entertainment show that Wogan made his own? Do they stick Steve Wright on Radio Love The Show Steve to go up against Zoe Ball, or move Zoe back to weekends (Rylan has her old slot) and shift Greg James, who is 40 at the end of next year, to Radio 2? We await the proposed schedule, once all the pieces are slotted in together and the contracts are drawn up.

Aside from Scott Mills, who follows Alan Freeman, Tony Blackburn and Steve Wright in sticking to the radio as his métier, the current lot of presenters are multihyphenates. Many of them are involved with independent podcast networks and other TV channels. Dermot O’Leary would rush from the radio studio to Wembley to host The X Factor; Fearne Cotton has her books, festivals and podcasts; Gary Davies takes Sounds of the Eighties on tour to supplement his two-hour Saturday night show and deputises for DJs on holiday. Even Zoe Ball did the voiceover for the ITV show last year which was trying to cast Mamma Mia.

This is the modern freelance life. A profile of Rylan Clark described him as ‘former X Factor contestant, Celebrity Big Brother winner, Radio 2 DJ, This Morning presenter, Gogglebox regular, podcaster and author’. The three-hour Saturday slot is part of his portfolio, just as Jordan North has his Help I Sexted My Boss podcast as well as the 3.30-5.45pm drivetime slot on Radio 1.

It is interesting that four DJs from the daytime schedule – Ricky, Melvin, Charlie and Vick Hope – have been poached from commercial radio, as indeed was David Rodigan himself. If you go right the way back, Radio 1 was launched to replace the pop-playing pirate stations, so this is of a piece with the broadcaster’s history. Alas, having pinched their DJs, the BBC are now poaching their ideas.

And what about a BBC listener like me? In spite of its awful treatment of talent, its tendency to cover up mistakes and its fear of the very audience it serves, the BBC is used by me every day. My listening diet includes live and on-demand shows broadcast on Radio 1, 1Xtra, 2, 3, 4, 4Xtra, 5Live, 6 Music and the World Service (though not local radio, with apologies to Three Counties).

This week (and it’s only Wednesday) I’ve heard the following: a Radio 4 programme on Scottish politics and one marking the centenary of the pips that end every hour of programming; a repeat of an old episode of Whose Line Is It Anyway and a so-so comedy sketch show; the first part of a new series on social media ‘gatekeepers’ and an episode of Michael Rosen’s Word of Mouth show on the English language, which dealt with research into being multilingual; two old codgers talking about Public Relations in their show When It Hits The Fan, which goes up on Sounds on Tuesdays and is broadcast on Wednesday evenings; and the aforementioned two-hour celebration of Roy Orbison.

Plus Ten To The Top on Radio 2, because I’m a sucker for a pop quiz, and the Radio 1 Breakfast Show Podcast, that fillets the show for its links and features. Greg James is the last of the great ‘BBC men’, those who grew up with radio and love the medium. Greg genuinely seems amazed to have got the job of hosting the Breakfast Show, where he follows in a direct line from Tony Blackburn to Noel Edmonds (surely Radio Steve can’t bring him back, can they??) to Zoe Ball to Sara Cox. Perhaps they will run some old editions of Serious Jockin’ (with no g).

The death of Steve Wright reminds me that there will be no more great voices in British radio, just as there will be no more great British music writers. Everyone who wants to broadcast or write in 2024 doesn’t need to work for the BBC; they’ve got a website, or a podcast, or are too busy consuming content by others including in an endless scroll at their thumbtips.

As a listener, I just want good broadcasters introducing great songs with excellent sound design. I don’t mind glottal stops or regional accents, although I do think it odd that three regular Radio 2 presenters (Cox, Radcliffe and Vernon Kay) are from Bolton. Add in Clive Myrie to cover for Jeremy Vine, get Paddy McGuinness to dep for Ball and stick Radio 1’s Vicky Hawkesworth into Scott’s slot, and you can run an entire daytime line-up with a Bolton accent.

Radio Steve, as I shall now call it in tribute to Wright, will have voices that will suit its audience, but I will conclude this ramble by suggesting that the station seems to have a built-in obsolescence. Tony Blackburn’s reputation and broadcasting style – he invented the timecheck! – will of course last forever, but every DJ eventually fades his mic down for the last time, as Wright did in February 2024.

Perhaps Radio Steve is a metaphor for the BBC itself, falling back on Our Kind of Programmes now that everything is available everywhere all the time. Stuart Maconie said that on 6 Music, and it appears he has summed up the future of the Corporation: if everything is there for a listener, the BBC should try to stand out, not nick concepts wholesale from the commercial sector.

Or, as someone might put it, Love The Shows Steve. Serious grievin’, with no g.

Grant Lee Buffalo and 90s Modern Rock

Do you know how long it takes for an act to get their latest album pressed on vinyl?

Remember, this was the product the record industry tried to kill, before the record industry died a sudden and self-inflicted death. Nobody would download mp3 files of music when they are so used to owning a physical product, or so the major labels thought. For the last two decades, as happened in the early days of rock’n’roll, it has been the pop single that takes precedence, something to put on while you do the dishes or go for a jog.

It makes it rather tough for new acts to break through with an album. Look at the paucity of real A List stars from the current era: Ed Sheeran and Taylor Swift actively compete with each other, by the use of spreadsheets, to track concert tickets and streams; Billie Eilish has to deal with stalkers and being away from LA on her world tours; ‘the new boring’ ushered in by Sheeran means that record labels are playing it safe.

Lizzo and Stormzy (who licences music to a major label that he puts out on his Merky imprint) stand out for obvious reasons, but even they seem to have been told to make music for the marketplace. Indie is where it’s at. The 1975 are on their own label, after all, and they are the big draw of festival season, with the financial heft to tour arenas and put on outdoor gigs with a massive set.

All of this is a long-winded way of saying that the first two albums by Grant Lee Buffalo are now reissued on clear vinyl by Chrysalis Records. Contemporaries of REM (with whom they toured) when they moved from indie act to major-label rockers on Warner, the trio’s debut album fuzzy and second album Mighty Joe Moon are ripe for rediscovery three decades after their release.

The band took their name from frontman Grant Lee Philips. Sideman Paul Kimble produced both albums, which originally came out on the Slash imprint. By album two, they were signed to Reprise Records, which was founded by Frank Sinatra and was sold to Warner soon after; Michael Buble’s albums now come out on the imprint.

On The Shining Hour, the opening track of Fuzzy, Grant’s voice – which has hints of Tim Booth from James – joins an acoustic bass and brushed drums. The melodic chorus grabs the listener as well, and a guitar solo after the second chorus completely changes the arrangement. This is what was known in 1993 as Modern Rock, the genre birthed by REM and propelled by a mix of British indie acts and American scenesters around the country. As a guide, the Modern Rock charts were dominated that year by Jesus Jones, New Order, Depeche Mode and, at the end of the year, the nine-week chart-topper Into Your Arms from The Lemonheads, which added Evan Dando’s Cobainish handsomeness to an addictive melody.

The title track of Fuzzy has emerged as the most popular, with 10m Spotify streams. Perhaps it’s the beginner-friendly acoustic guitar chug, the sliding electric guitar solo, the simplicity of the lyrics (‘here we are in our car, driving down the street’) or the image of the ‘dead bouquet’. It is certainly of its time, like Fade Into You or No Rain or More Than Words: none more 1993.

Whereas the Pixies separated soft bits and loud bits depending on which bit of the song they were in, GLB tend to blend them together: there’s a bit in Jupiter and Teardrop that reminds me of when Johnny Greenwood slashes his electric guitar just before the chorus of Creep (another 1993 classic). That song’s lyrics include words like ‘sweetheart on parole’, ‘sheer denial’ and ‘lovers in the barrio’ (which gives the song its plot), as well as a reference to ‘Jackie Wilson’s Lonely Teardrops’. ‘Bring my 38 caliber’ lays bare the fact that Teardrop is a man not to be loved.

The lyrical aspect of the album reveals itself on Wish You Well: ‘My soul receives another blow from the flashlight of the city hate…Even the jester is drummin’ up votes’. Even the word ‘propagandacid’ appears; that sort of opacity would attract fans of Michael Stipe or Frank Black (Black Francis as he was then). Elsewhere, there’s fatalism on The Hook (‘You and I we’re gonna fall’) and an update of Little Red Riding Hood on Soft Wolf Tread (‘As a sirloin steak to a pitbull chained up’). Grace, which like Jeff Buckley’s song doesn’t mention the title in its lyric, has Grant describing Houdini’s death as a metaphor for dying before getting old.

Side B begins with Stars n’ Stripes (‘and their swastikas’), where Grant hits a falsetto on the line ‘engines purr up above’ and describes a country just as confused in 1993 as it is in 2023. Presaging those Capitol rioters with their livefeeds, he sings ‘Got you on my Handycam’ on a long fadeout. America Snoring continues the criticism: ‘Did ya see it on TV?...They want to legislate the womb!’

Grant then heads to a Dixie Drug Store, down in New Orleans, which sounds like a Lou Reed song thanks to its loping V-IV-I chord progression and the soirée with a lady that the narrator enjoys; the Genius.com lyric sheet lists 17 verses, and it’s the densest bit of text printed on the vinyl packaging. Grant’s delivery comes off like that of Reed or Paul Westerberg of alternative rock darlings The Replacements, with the same just-about-thereness of pitch, but very strong in tone.

The album is definitely more alternative than mainstream, much like closing track You Just Have To Be Crazy, with another swaying Neil Youngish melody and arrangement. It’s the sort of album that boasts of the writer’s record collection, which is something to celebrate in a world before infinite jukeboxes gave everyone the right to be a snob. In those days, snobbery cost more than ten bucks a month.

Mighty Joe Moon has Joey Peters credited with drums, as well as ‘tumbuk, tambourine, tablas, maracas, marimba, shakers, acquired hunks of metal’, and there’s also cello, pedal steel, dobro, pump organ, mandolin and banjo. Boys with their toys! There are also errors, at least on my copy, which print the minute-long, banjo-led Last Days of Tecumseh as ‘0:02’ and state on the record that the year of release is ‘2003’. Twenty years out!!

The opening track Lone Star Song, unlike The Shining Hour on Fuzzy, explodes from the first bar with a tremolo-laden electric guitar. It’s about the Waco siege, and David Koresh gets a namecheck, as does the TV guide. Maybe touring with REM rubbed off on Grant Lee Phillips and his band, with even more opaqueness in the lyrics to the title track and the chugger Side By Side (‘there’s dissension in the soup lines’).

Perhaps copying Nightswimming, there’s a richness to Mockingbirds to underscore how ‘overwhelmed’ the narrator is. Once again, Grant deploys his falsetto to make the chorus tough to sing along with; alternative, not mainstream. Yet the chorus of Honey Don’t Think has a wonderful melody line to complement the lyric: ‘Help me heal these scars’, begs Grant’s narrator.

There are echoes of Fuzzy’s closing track on the acoustic campfire singalong It’s The Life (‘you have created’), which seems to have a 12-string guitar anchoring it, and Lady Godiva and Me. All three of those songs are in the key of D-flat. There’s a callback to Wish You Well on the nonsense word ‘halleluhoodwink’ on the confident Sing Along, which namechecks serial killer John Wayne Gacy and Muhammed Ali. I hear a lot of Eddie Vedder’s yarling on that track, which is apt given the album came out in late 1994, a time when Pearl Jam rivalled REM as the biggest alternative rock’n’roll band. Happiness is a rumbling tune seemingly influenced by both those bands, although it would fit on Fuzzy too.

The power ballad Rock of Ages, which has a massive long fade, ends Mighty Joe Moon, an album which failed to chart on the Billboard 200 but made the UK top 30.

Fuzzy and Mighty Joe Moon are available on clear vinyl on March 24





Daniel Dunlevy - Hoping For A Pyramid

In his round-up of music in 2022, the Guardian’s Alexis Petridis praised acts like The Weeknd, Kendrick Lamar, Arctic Monkeys and Beyonce for making immersive album experiences over disposable singles. Daniel Dunlevy follows a similar idea for his band’s second album Hoping for a Pyramid, a set of ten tracks with thematic and sonic unity.

The title is nothing to do with Toblerones but a wry epitaph Dan had spotted. First album But That’s The Thing was a promising start to the band’s career and this second effort builds on both live performances and the studio experience. This is a band recording, with bassist Ben, guitarist Simon and drummer Sam helping to flesh out the sounds, along with live keyboardist Ed who has taken over from former bandmember Tim as Dan’s main collaborator. Tim’s services, as well as other past members Chris and Josh, were called upon too.

As in the modern style, audiences know many of these songs because they have been part of the band’s setlist for a wee while. These produced takes try to nail down the essence of the song, add a bit of production and musicians that can’t usually fit on a stage.

Simon’s guitar kicks off Making Memories, which is in the same tenor as California, the famous theme to TV show The O.C. The lyric, sung near the top of Dan’s range, is about self-expression and seizing the day: ‘Why do I need to compare if I’m being true to me?’ The grungy Answer To My Needs is a drummer’s song where Dan channels his angst about ‘blocking toxic people from your life’. With double-tracked vocals, he wants them to ‘walk away’. It would sound great live beside My Paradise, another melodic rock song.

Naomi, with its memorable extended na-na section, finally gets a studio recording and has come a long way from its origin as a voicenote in Ed’s phone thanks to the horns decorating the melody. It’s part of the ‘girl’s name’ trilogy in a typical setlist along with Her Name Was Stephanie and Talk To Elizabeth. The song, whose verse is in G and whose bridge and chorus modulates up to C, is influenced by a lot of 2000s indie songs like Ruby and Valerie, as well as the protagonist of She Moves In Her Own Way, The Kooks’ best song. Our heroine here is one who, despite her mystery, captures the hearts and minds of the guys who surround her. She is ‘a teaser’, thus like the girl in Day Tripper by The Beatles; like that song, Naomi fades out tantalisingly.

Notice Me is another tune regularly heard live, with Simon singing the hooky chorus (‘When you gonna come down and notice my emotion’) which like Naomi has never left my head since I first heard it. The lyric is purposefully at odds with its melody, with Simon’s love going unrequited and our poor narrator falling for someone who isn’t right for him. The arrangement is excellent, with acoustic rhythm guitar anchoring the song as much as the backbeat.

Harmless Ricochets, meanwhile, is an example of one of my favourite musical genres: songs about songwriting. The title is a way of referring to ‘the creative, and ultimately constructive, tension’ that Dan and Ed share when working up a song: ‘Jam around till we feel at ease…Arguments after too much to drink…We need each other more than we like to admit.’ It sounds like a Paul Heaton song, especially with a rhythm to get your toes tapping, and can be extrapolated from writing partners to romantic partners, which makes the middle eight (‘something you will hear tonight’) mean something completely different.

Talking Silently, a song about frustrations in a relationship (‘no point talking if one side has the answer’), begins with a string section to remind listeners of songs like History by The Verve. It’s led by Dan’s tenor and layers some terrific harmonies from Zoe and John Coutinho on top of the diminished chords in the chorus. The middle eight is even better, while three vocalists all intone the buried background vocal line ‘What was I supposed to say?’ No wonder it is Dan’s choice as his go-to track on the album.

It’s interesting that the album kicks off with a polemic. Twenty seconds of Morse code introduces Lights Click On, which has a lyrical focus on the UK’s housing situation, as Dan explains: ‘I was walking down a street in one of the posher parts of London on a late spring evening. I think it was near Grosvenor Crescent in Belgravia. The time must have been 8:59 PM, and then suddenly I noticed that the lights in all the (very expensive) residential houses started turning on, one by one, all at the same time.’

It turns out that this is common in London streets which are unoccupied, with house lights set to a timer, ‘so sometimes whole streets could light up, in some kind of poignantly melancholic synchronicity’. Listen out for the shift in tonality from major to minor in the explosive and melodic chorus, with added horn section, which explains its position at the top of the album.

With lyrics like ‘illuminate an empty shell’ and ‘our sense of purpose devalued’, its singer agrees that the song is quite angry with ‘how a political system could let this happen when not far away you have families crammed into small flats and children living on top of each other. It’s also slightly wistful and nostalgic as it imagines the streets during the postwar era as an area of opportunity and community. But now the soul of the streets has been lost to ultra-wealthy people using London property as a deposit box.’

Leaving is the most interesting on the album from a production perspective, with a baggy shuffle and spiky guitar lines. It also starts with another catchy chorus, something Dan wanted to avoid on the album as a whole as it’s cliched in the current streaming era. Underneath the rhythm is a lyric which has empathy with the other side of the debate over the UK’s departure from the European Union; listen out for ‘Project Fear’, ‘your pot of gold’, ‘you’ll take it back’ and ‘you threw it all away’. Dan says it’s ‘about the sadness of moving on with things, but also with a message of “you made your bed, now you must lie in it”.’

An alternative lyric of Ed’s is from a romantic viewpoint: ‘It was from the perspective of a newly single person pretending to their ex to be super confident about their freedom when clearly that isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’ Rather aptly, Leaving was pieced together from memory because there was no worktape the night it was being written, with drink overtaking the writing session, proving that Ed and Dan engage in harmless ricochets while not entirely sober.

Nostalgia in Your Dreams is a more obvious polemic, a sort of editorial about England in song. Nobody under the age of 80 today remembers Britain having an Empire, even as that becomes the totem for sovereignty and nationhood. In a protest song style, the track is unvarnished by production and is deeply pessimistic: ‘We don’t rule the waves…We will only feel it getting worse…What will it take now to keep the stars aligned?’

‘I just felt, at times, that a younger generation who were looking forward with progressive optimism were shot down by a somewhat older generation that were overly nostalgic for a version of this country that no longer existed,’ Dan says.

Into The Darkness, which opens with three bars of flute, closes the album with some Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Dan is in his mid-thirties and has tried, he says, ‘to consciously practice the skill of listening to others. ‘Slowly some people, whether they’re close friends or even total strangers, started to share their inner monologues.’

He concluded that it was ‘helplessness’ rather than sadness that was the worst feeling. It should bring comfort to listeners, especially with its warm arrangement which may remind them of Stand By Me in parts. ‘Scar tissue around your soul’ is the most emotive line on the album, closely followed by ‘the train on the track that you can’t control’, which appears in the same stanza. It stands alone on the album and, given that it comes out in February, fits the gloomier time of the year perfectly.

More impressive than the arrangements, production and performances is the variety of topics tackled on Hoping for a Pyramid: songwriting, romantic despair, confidence in yourself and the state of the nation. Topics big and small, set to indelible melodies.

Daniel Dunlevy launches the album at London’s Courtyard Theatre on Saturday February 11. Tickets are available via thecourtyard.org.uk.