It's been a strange week for me. A lot of activity last weekend and predictably I caught a cold. That would not have been remarkable if it were not for me not being able to breath properly, to the point of having to get an ambulance. A moment to forget.
Over at Rock Legacy, the work of doing interviews and transcribing them carries on. I am behind with this due to other kinds of illness that I will not bore you with. At last, I have posted a piece with Nick Magnus, which will be of interest to prog fans. Next week, I have a piece with Nicki Gillis, from Australia. It's difficult to describe Nicki, but she is doing a world tour right now and when we last talked she was off to Nashville. One thing we talked about was her work with Frank Ifield. Yes he is alive and well.
It is enormously difficult to get musicians to talk, cooperate or be very much use, so when they do I feel rewarded. The ones I get to talk are not difficult or inarticulate and of course they want to collaborate. This is not always the case. This week, through no fault of my own I have mangaged to piss off a major rock star. And I mean major - a household name for decades and someone who is always on TV.
Because of what appears to be a very simple misunderstanding, the major rock star has had a hissy fit and sent me a lengthy email, in red lettering, in capitals. I hardly believed at first that it was he who had sent it, but it appears so. I am afraid he has conformed to your worst suspicions that major rock stars do not believe it is necessary to be reasonable or to treat us mere mortals as anything other than utter contempt. His nail - spitting communication, and its format is the sort of thing I would delete on sight, due to me thinking the sender was a loony.
Ah, dear readers, if only you knew.
The Telegraph is running with a story about leaked memos that supposedly show nefarious plottings by Brown, Balls, et al, to get rid of Tony Bliar. Strangely, these memos are all capitalised, even the hand-written ones from Brown himself. As for the content, it mystifies me. Its mostly utter bollocks, the sort of thing people come up with if they are paid to do something but are not sure what it is. Riddled with spelling mistakes and with no regard for syntax, it records the fact that at the time of the 7/7 bombings, the Brown conspiritors had nothing better to do than engage in occult Machiavellian intercourse, pregnant with malignity and little else.
My highlight of the week, apart from still being alive, was a wonderful stay with another rock star, this time, a nice one. He told me a story, given to him by one of the principals:
When the Traveling Wilburys was just an idea, Dave Stewart asked Bob Dylan to come over to his house. Dylan duly got in a taxi and asked the driver to go to the address.
Dylan knocks on the door and a little old lady answers it. "Hi" says Bob, "I'm Bob." Dylan says he is meeting Dave and the little old lady says, "Dave's not here right now, but you can wait in the front room and have a cup of tea." After about an hour or two, the door opens and in comes Dave. Except that it is another Dave, just another bloke called Dave, and not Dave Stewart.
Unfortunately Dylan made a mistake. He went to Acacia Avenue, not Acacia Terrace.
Well, what would you do if Bob Dylan appeared by accident in your front room?