To be honest, I’ve found it hard to motivate myself to write much lately. This is not because I haven’t been thinking about anything I assure you. Certainly not. In fact, here are just twelve random subjects you’ve been spared my half-baked thoughts on over the past month:

1. the genius of Mark Twain
2. the alleged death of the long playing record
3. the shoddiness of my iPod
4. the strange long-term impact of school-forced poetry
5. exactly why Bono is a tosser
6. is it possible to have too much music?
7. the Disney take-over of Marvel
8. the joy of our compost heap
9. whether it’s ethical to doctor your own blog stats
10. the role of cherry blossoms in Japanese art
11. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers
12. my general annoyance with Christmas cheer in November

I think I’m distracted. I think I’ve got too much on. I think it’s an autumnal thing. I think it’s something we all go through. But it makes me wonder, exactly how many blog posts never get written because we’re too lazy?*

* And if this completely and utterly self-serving sentiment doesn’t put you off and if you’re a regular reader based in the South East (which I suspect at least half of you are) and you would be interested in a Christmas blogmeet over a drink (not a bottle of water from home), email me (top right) and I’ll see if I can arrange something.

To an extent this is par for the course with late night drunken, disillusioned and stress-relieving conversation, but I think we were almost all most shocked by the vitriol that came from the mouth of the local councillor. Cynicism about the political system, disillusionment with the party, scorn for national politicians and disdain for the disinterested voters in his constituency – all poured out with the provocation of a few drinks. And because of his day-job and because of our general resentment towards expense-claiming politicians (local or otherwise) we took him to task in a way that we didn’t each other. ‘How can you possibly say that? You’re a politician – show some respect!’ we shouted across the table, confident in our self-righteousness.

But since then, I’ve been wondering why. Why were we surprised by his attitude? Why don’t we expect our elected representatives to feel the same negativity, cynicism and despair that we do about our own jobs, and indeed, the political system? Why would we  expect them to keep up the pretence when we don’t?

I think that part of the answer to this lays in the question I wish I’d asked him: ‘Why exactly are you doing this job and if you really feel that way, why are you still doing it?’ Sometimes we all probably need to ask ourselves this.

Steve Reich / Pat Metheny
Electric Counterpoint

So after dining with June Brown/Dot Cotton we went over to the Royal Festival Hall for a dose of hypnotic, shimmering and mind bending genius from composer/musician Steve Reich with Bang on a Can and the London Sinfonietta.

Considering that Steve Reich was responsible for one of the best gigs I have ever been to in my life at the Barbican a few years back, I approached with some trepidation – would he deliver? Could he possibly be as good as last time? Could he heck. The man is a legend.

The centrepiece of the gig was the 58 minute long ‘Music for 18 Musicians’, a pulsating experiment in phasing and rhythm. Fortunately for you, I don’t have 58 minutes of web space so I’m sharing instead one of my favourite shorter pieces by Steve Reich, ‘Electric Counterpoint’.

Steve Reich originally composed this piece for Pat Metheny in 1987 and the track is made up of 11 layered guitar parts and 2 bass (beat that 10cc). Guitarist Mark Stewart played ‘Electric Counterpoint’ on Saturday night and I cannot tell you just how good one man and 12 tracks on a hard drive can sound live.

I suspect that some readers may be put off by the thought of ‘contemporary classical’ but if you are in any way a fan of Brian Eno, Mike Oldfield, The Orb or any other ambient chancers, then you need to listen to this.

‘Electric Counterpoint’, 1st movement: Fast, Pat Metheny, 1987

Download audio file (electric_counterpoint.mp3)

Near my work is an arcade containing a man selling autographs. I’ve never been in, I’m not particularly interested in buying the signatures of famous people I’ve never met. But I’ve often wondered who actually bothers going to the effort of getting those autographs in the first place. I now know. It’s probably someone similar to the woman who kindly provided my early Saturday evening entertainment last weekend.

Wanting to cram in some quick food before a concert, I dragged Mr C. to an old haunt in Covent Garden, a restaurant called Koha. Now despite its proximity to the stage doors of both the Wyndham and Noel Coward theatres, this dark bistro always struck me as a quiet, unassuming place conveniently tucked away down a back court far from the tourists. How naïve I was – not at 6.30pm on a Saturday night it isn’t. It is transformed; by day a restaurant on seedy back street stinking of piss, by early evening glamour central.

At least it is if you consider the cast of the play Calendar Girls glamorous.

For there, sitting on the other side of our table by the window was June Brown i.e. Dot-Cotton-from-EastEnders, chain smoking (just like she used to on the telly!) and enjoying a pre-Calendar Girls performance glass of wine with a friend.

As much as I tried not to stare at her impressive way with a cigarette, another woman of about my age was equally and less subtly interested. She was a fan. Obviously excited, with her eyes darting round, she leaned over their adjacent tables outside and attempted some polite conversation with the chain smoker extraordinaire. Unfortunately I couldn’t a hear a word of this exchange through the glass and was forced to return to studying the menu. Not for long though as the fan suddenly leaped from her seat, mid-conversation with June/Dot, grabbed a yellow booklet from her bag, and ran off down the ally chasing a distant figure.

The fan soon returned to her table, waving a newly signed Calendar Girls programme victoriously at her companion. This was to set the scene for the evening.

During the course of our meal, the fan dashed away from her strategically placed table and long-suffering friend at least half a dozen times. Through our window we could see her begging signatures from a range of middle-aged women and/or ex East Enders stars. Anita Dobson dutifully signed and Jack Ryder (remember him, Jamie Mitchell in Enders) happily grinned for a photograph. In fact, he posed for two because the first one didn’t come out and she had to go and find him again.

Now I’ve stood in book signing queues in my life and I’ve known people who’ve gone to fan conventions to hunt down autographs, but I’ve never thought about staking out the stage door to harass minor celebrities. I can’t help but wonder what her motivation was? Is this her usual Saturday night entertainment? Does she collect anyones autographs or does she just feel an affinity with this play? And do any of you have secret stalking tales to tell?

Stephen Duffy
Wednesday Jones (dixie)

This track is from a compilation of  Stephen Duffy tunes from that decidedly odd period in his career where he insisted on being known as ‘Tin Tin’.

The self-penned liner notes tell the sorry tale of young Stephen: 19 year old manages to leave soon to be mega-famous band (Duran Duran) at precisely the wrong moment, but writes catchy song in bedroom (’Kiss Me’), it’s good and gets him attention and Madonna likes it too, it goes to the top of the charts and he goes on Top of the Pops, he’s the next bright young thing and great things are expected with that brand spanking new three album deal (for Virgin/10), they’re wanting some more chart topping synth-pop gold and er, he comes up with this. Needless to say, the record company don’t like it. And neither do the record-buying public. In fact, they don’t seem to like anything he does. Stephen describes these early pre-Lilac Time efforts as ‘the years I tried to forget’.

And he’s right, we probably should forget most of it – except this strange little number, because it’s actually a great pop tune in a perverse kind of way.

‘Wednesday Jones’, Stephen Duffy, 1986 from They Called Him Tin Tin

Download audio file (wednesday_jones.mp3)

Yesterday the Financial Times reported that more than half of office staff spend 40 minutes a week on social networks such as Twitter and Facebook for personal use while at work. This is equivalent to just under a full working week being ‘wasted’ each year and costs businesses an estimated £1.4bn ($2.3bn) a year in lost productivity.

I’m really surprised by this – surprised that it’s not higher.

I personally spend the precise amount of zero minutes per week on Twitter and Facebook, but if writing, reading and commenting on blogs counts as ’social networking’ (does it?) then I am proudly way, way above average.

One of the people behind the research, one Philip Wicks, says ‘When it comes to an office environment, the use of these sites is clearly becoming a productivity black hole’. I don’t see it quite that way. Rather, ’social networking’ on work time is the safety valve that prevents me from murdering my superiors. It gets me through long hours and evening shifts, a heavy workload and lunches snatched at my desk. But most importantly though, it helps me cope with endlessly unproductive, boring meetings.

And I suspect that deep down inside, readers of  the Financial Times know this. Social networking isn’t a productivity black hole, meetings are.*

* yes, I have been having some ‘issues’ with meetings these past few weeks.

I like to think of myself as a reasonably hospitable person. When people visit my home or my office, I like to offer them something to drink – and most of the time they are pleased to accept.

Except this one person I know. This person does not drink socially. And I don’t just mean that they don’t drink alcohol. They don’t drink anything. No coffee, no tea, no hot chocolate, no beer, no wine, no spirits, no coke, no lemonade, no fruit juice and certainly no tap water. The only thing I have ever seen them sup is water, water from their own bottle which they carry around for emergencies (such as me trying to force coffee or beer on them).

They claim to drink some of these substances at home on occasion – when they are feeling unhealthy and decadent. The nice, practical side of me says that I should be pleased by someone so dedicated to taking care of their health. The rebellious side of me says I should also relish such defiant rejection of all social conventions regarding bonding over booze or the coffee pot.

But boy, it annoys me.

‘What is your problem?‘ I ask myself when I see them sitting in a cafe with their bottle of water, smugly reminding everyone how much better their life has been since they freed themselves from the triple tyrannies of caffeine, alcohol and sugar. ‘Your life can’t be that much better.’

Of course I like this person (mostly) and maybe their life is better, but this doesn’t stop those pangs of irritation wafting up every time they respond to the ‘Would you like a drink?’ question by pointing to their beloved bottle of still water. I think, and I’m ashamed to say this, that I almost feel rejected by them and their health obsession.

How embarrassing. It is, after all, just a drink.

1. suggested that there was little point in a particular manager offering constructive criticism to a colleague because they would never listen to a woman
2. made rude inferences about someone else’s weight and smoking habit
3. gleefully mis-pronounced and sniggered at the non-English name of a colleague
4. expressed surprise that someone else was intelligent and good at her job because ’she doesn’t look it’
5. told me that my job was a load of tosh*

The tosser in question is older and prides himself on his straight-talking cynicism. I’m just pleased that by the end of the coming decade perhaps he and more of his ilk will be dead.

* he might have a point here.

Colin Blunstone
Say You Don’t Mind

You all probably know this lovely tune written by Denny Laine, but I’d completely forgotten its existence till I heard it one disturbingly early morning on the radio recently. Let me tell you, Colin Blunstone’s distinctive, wistful voice combined with those fantastic string arrangements create a melancholy mood which is perfect for chilly, pre-dawn still autumn mornings. Not that I recommend that you test that out for yourself obviously.

‘Say You Don’t Mind’, Colin Blunstone, 1972

Download audio file (say_you_don't_mind.mp3)

Forgive me folks, for I am about to slag off Sir David Attenborough.

Now firstly I have to say that I like David Attenborough a lot. I grew up with his TV shows and I own (and regularly watch!) the DVD series of some of them, I’ve enjoyed his autobiography and I’m currently loving Life Stories on Radio 4. However, Sir David’s contributions to his more recent natural history programmes have been letting him down.

The problem for me is that they don’t actually tell you very much. Take the first episode in the BBCs latest blockbuster contribution to natural history, Life, which I watched last night. It was a string of beautifully shot sequences illustrating the challenges to life in the natural world and how living creatures innovate and evolve to get over them.

And that was it. A string of beautifully shot sequences.

Look at the piece about the capuchin monkey in Brazil, a species which uses rocks as a tool to smash nuts for food. To say this is sophisticated behaviour is an understatement, this is amazing! So what do else do we learn about the capuchin monkey? Nothing. As I watched the footage my mind was flooded with questions – What other species of do this? When, how and why did these particular monkeys evolve this talent? Have people always known about it or is it a recent discovery? But we don’t find out. Sir David sticks to describing what’s on screen, only pointing out that it takes 8 years for a young monkey to master the skill. Maybe scientists don’t know much more than this (although I doubt this somehow), but surely there is more to say?

For me, this is the crux of the problem. David Attenborough is a superb narrator (indeed), but he is no longer explaining anything, merely describing a procession of pretty pictures.

And what pretty pictures they are. Life and its recent and equally disappointing predecessor Planet Earth, were beautifully and artfully shot. The  talent, dedication, patience  and technical innovation of the BBC Natural History Unit’s film crews is undeniable. And lest we forget that, there’s 10 minutes tacked on the end devoted to bigging them up. But I don’t care how amazing the film sequences are if they’re nothing more than the natural history equivalent of the money shot.

The one thing that elevates these two series (so far) to a more sophisticated form of natural history porn is the music. Not only is it another merchandising opportunity (yes, you can buy the soundtracks to The Blue Planet and Planet Earth) but, I say joylessly, it also serves to reinforce tiresome stereotypes about animals.  So we hear eerie, creepy music for the weirdo stalk-eyed fly and a jolly uptempo number to accompany the cute baby monkeys playing. It’s like the score to Bambi, but worse because this is the BBC’s science programming, not a Disney animation.

For me, the combined results of all this is that David Attenborough’s decades of hard won knowledge has gone out the window. He is letting the (pretty) pictures do more and more wowing and the music more and more emotionalising. So much so there’s not much room left for all the science and research that got us to those photo opportunities in the first place. Pity.*

Sorry, just had to get that off my chest.

*Unless the aim of BBC programming is to direct you to Wikipedia that is.

‘Are you writing to your imaginary friends again?’ he smirks.
‘Do you mean ’are you blogging?’’ I correct ‘And I’ll have you know that at least 10 perfectly real people read this blog’.
‘Hmmm…  this fad does seem to be lasting quite a while ’ he ponders, ignoring my protests ‘How long has it been? Around two years?’

And so it has. It really has been around two years since this blog first appeared in September 2007.

No, I can scarcely believe it either.

So thank you imaginary friends for stopping by and reading these random thoughts and words. One of the best things about this blog, if my web stats are to be believed, is that there are very few lurkers around here, only serial commenters. And serial commenters with consistently interesting things to say and recommend at that.*

Um, so thanks and err… keep stopping by.

*And a special shout-out to the one person who subscribes to the comments feed.

It’s not unusual for me to feel alienated by television. Typically it makes me feel like a boring, underachieving intellectual snob who is too sane for my own good. Now it just makes me feel like a Luddite.

BBC4’s series Electric Dreams features a family who are spending a month living in the style of  the years 1970 to 2000. The  catch for them is that they are living with nothing but the technology around at the time. The catch for me is that our household is still living with that technology.

Well, we may as well be. We do not own a microwave,  dishwasher, clothes dryer or deep freeze. We only have one TV – which we often watch together – and it’s not flat-screen. We still use our VCR regularly. We are wedded to our record player – the other half was reluctantly forced to start buying CDs two years ago and is yet to discover the delights of the mp3.  I’ve only recently conceded to digital cameras, never owned a digital watch and the last games console I bought was a Nintendo Game & Watch in 1986*.

We have, however, moved into the naughties with a PC and a DVD player. And we’ve just bought a cordless phone and a new set-top box for the telly. Mr C. has even suggested that a Teasmade might be nice…

Any other kindred anti-gadget folk out there?

* Donkey Kong Junior! Ace!

Sadly this is not from the film, but a snap I took a few days ago in the French Pyrenees. Still, walking through a cloud is a unique experience and when the rain actually stopped, it did bring out the lovely autumn colours.

And now I’m back with aching legs, saturated walking boots and a proven need to re-enrol in my French classes.

I’m off away again to Aberdeenshire for a few days next week, and yes, I will be taking my brolly and maybe even my boots if they ever dry out. Until then, I’ll be busy weaning myself off the five-course meals I’ve become accustomed to. Life’s tough, eh.

France Gall
Jazz à Gogo

After too many days in internet hell, both at work and at home, I am giving in and leaving it all behind. Well, for a week or two anyway.

And what better way to mark an imminent trip to France than with a bit of 60s cool from France Gall. From her light skimming vocals to some seriously frantic skatting, this is the fab jazzy 60s pop you probably didn’t know she was capable of. Forget Eurovision and ‘Poupée de cire, poupée de son’, c’est du jazz à gogo!

Right, I’m off to Nikwax my walking boots. See you in a few weeks.

‘Jazz à Gogo’, France Gall, 1964

Download audio file (jazz_a_gogo.mp3)

Lou Christie
Lightnin’ Strikes

On the weekend I found a bit of paper on the dresser with a name and song title hastily scrawled across it. This isn’t unusual as I often leave myself notes if I’ve heard something particularly good on the radio, but this time my main thoughts were ‘Lou Christie? Who?? What on earth is this?’

Thanks to the wonderful world of the internet, I tracked the song down and bang, of course remembered straight away. ‘Lightnin’ Strikes’ was on Sound of the Sixties one morning on Radio 2, a sunny Saturday morning where I sat on the edge of the bed, doing nothing, just staring delightedly out window being sucked in by that chorus.

I can’t believe that I hadn’t heard ‘Lightnin’ Strikes’ before (it was a big hit), let alone forgotten hearing it that morning.

Thank heavens for little bits of paper.

‘Lightnin’ Strikes’, Lou Christie, 1965

Download audio file (lightning_strikes.mp3)

As much as I don’t delight in work, sometimes the office is a welcome refuge from the outside world, or at least the outside world of the pavements surrounding it.

I have worked in some of the busiest parts of central London and Glasgow over the past decade and have become used to the constant flow of heavy traffic, madcap cyclists, dawdling pedestrians shouting into mobile phones, noise pollution from lousy buskers and the inevitable lost tourists. This doesn’t bother me (much). What has been grinding me down over the years though is the ongoing assault on my ability to walk unharassed down the street.

I know that ‘the street’ is public space, but over the past few weeks for example, I have been interrupted by:

1. gung-ho types trying to sign me up for a chain of gyms I particularly dislike
2. even more gung-ho types trying to get me to play Paintball
3. street teams pushing free samples of vile Orangina in a manner that wouldn’t shame Mrs Doyle from Father Ted
4. a miserable lone student on a bike trying to promote a Farmer’s Market
5. noisy and whistling Climate Camp protesters
6. TV crews filming the Climate Camp protesters
7. desperately enthusiastic chuggers trying to sign me up to Oxfam, Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth, Red Cross, Barnados and the NSPCC
8. sulky teenagers collecting for a local project for young people
9. bored sods aggressively thrusting copies of London Lite, The London Paper, City AM, Epoch Times, Sport magazine and the Hotcourses newspaper at me
10. enthusiastic sods handing out leaflets for dating agencies
11. shiny young men flogging miracle hair products
12. the usual assortment of panhandlers and Big Issue sellers

All this within the five minutes it takes to walk between the station platform and my office. Sometimes, particularly around the station, it’s like that scene in Repulsion where all the hands are coming out of the walls grabbing at Catherine Deneuve as she collapses down the corridor – only on this occasion its worse because they’re also waving copies of London Lite and photocopied flyers for the local pawnbrokers.

Usually I just smile, say a polite but firm ‘no thanks’ and scurry onwards with my head down, but I fear that overload is killing my politeness. I have been feeling increasingly tetchy about this constant assault on my privacy over the past year and in last month I’ve snapped – I’ve already had two arguments with chuggers and yesterday I gave the paintballing man what must have been a much darker look than intended, as he looked instantly guilty and backed away apologising. And today I’m fantasising about getting a t-shirt printed up saying  ’Don’t waste your time’ that I can just scowlingly point at when people approach.

What’s happening to me? London is turning me into the kind of person I hate.

Do you ever get tired of blogging? I don’t mean the actual writing, but having to use the same old dreary standard keyboard all the time?

Well, I have the solution for you. It’s the Luxeed Rainbow Computer Keyboard.

This keyboard, with its 430 LEDs, will put the pep back into your blogging. The illuminated keyboard changes colour with each keystroke – a bit like the dancefloor in Saturday Night Fever. It can also do some ‘amazing’ tricks, like flashing a mini animated rainbow across the keys as you write. Giving yourself a headache has never been so much fun.

This little beauty will only set you back around £100 so you’ll be devastated to know that it’s not yet available outside of Korea.

NB: Works best when blogging in the dark. May not be suitable for office use.

My mother called on the weekend. After the usual ‘what have you been doing?’ type updates she informed me that my father had been cleaning out the garage. I knew immediately what this meant.

‘No’ I shouted ‘You can’t throw them out!’

She sighed. ‘Well, we can’t keep them forever. You did move out of home [pause, counts] 17 years ago.’

‘But it’s history, social history! I can’t get rid of them, they’ve been around this long so it would be absolutely criminal to throw them out! And I will come and collect them at some point.’

‘Yes, I know… [sigh]… I’ll go and talk to your Dad.’

We are referring to my magazine collection. I’m not usually a hoarder, but when it comes to magazines it’s a whole other area. Scarred from an early brush with ‘decluttering’ where I stupidly, foolishly, terribly chucked out some old Smash Hits magazines, I’ve practically clung onto everything ever since.

This means that tucked away in a tiny, tiny corner of my parents absolutely massive garage is a rather fine collection of magazines I acquired when I lived in Australia: Girl, Jackie, Dolly, Just 17,  Countdown, Number One, Smash Hits, Jukebox, NME, Melody Maker, Select, Vox, Q, Rolling Stone, Mojo, Uncut, Cinema Papers, Sight and Sound… And as if this journalistic account of 80s and 90s pop culture wasn’t enough (which it wasn’t), I had also saturated myself in the past, scouring garage sales and antique shops for ’women’s interest’, music and movie magazines going back several decades.

So if you looking for 1930s knitting patterns, live reviews of The Senseless Things, photo stories about the tragedies of falling out with your best friend over a boy,  articles about how smoking can help with weight loss, scandals about Morrissey, blow-by-blow accounts of the Queen’s 1954 tour of Australia, pin-ups of Herman’s Hermits, quizzes testing whether you really are a Brosette, tips on how to make the most out of powdered egg, exclusives on the new Stackridge album and advice on how to get Doris Day’s new look then you know where to go. My parents’ garage.

I tell my partner that my parents are hassling me about the magazines again. He is unsympathetic: ‘Are you ever really going to read those boring interviews with Neds Atomic Dustbin and Chapterhouse again? And how long are you planning on keeping all those Q and Word magazines that are in our loft anyway? And what about those 3-year old copies of The Economist over there in the magazine rack?’

I start to sigh now. What am I going to do with my magazines? Spread over two countries, neglected and lying unloved in garages and lofts,  I just can’t part with them. They are social history, the social history that people so often throw away (or used to anyway). And more than that, so many of them are my history as well. Call me mad, call me selfish but my parents are going to have to hang on to them for a bit longer and well, our ceiling is not about to collapse just yet.

For want of something better to write about (what is it about blogging inspiration running dry in the summer?) here are some personal highlights from the past few days:

1. A lovely trip to Leigh-on-Sea and sunny Southend (as recommended by Mondo, Piley and years of listening to Ray Davies sing ‘Picture Book’). As the sun shone brightly, fish and chips were indulged in, second hand records flipped through, museums wandered around, piers admired, rounds of crazy golf lost and my Campers walked into the ground. Bliss.
2. Discovering the Charles Lamb in Islington. It is Grim Up In North London – but you can order a home-made Scotch egg to go with your pint which makes it all worth while.
3. Saint Etienne’s playlists on Spotify.
4. Mary Stuart Masterson in John Hughes’ Some Kind of Wonderful.
5. Oasis splitting up. To celebrate, I dragged out my copy of Definitely Maybe and was momentarily whisked back to the music hype of 1994. How can one band have lost it so much?
6. This t-shirt.
7. The look on the bar tenders face in the Dove as a bloke ordered a round comprising one pint of water, one pint of milk and a pint of ice. We went for the Brewers Gold instead.
8. One of our neighbours has taken up the tuba and has been reduced to practicing in the back garden. Actually, that’s not necessarily a good thing – have you ever heard solo tuba?

The Shangri-Las
Leader of the Pack

I’ve made a last minute switch on the song of the week, as I simply couldn’t let the death of songwriter Ellie Greenwich this past week go unremarked.

Although I was familar with many of her songs, I didn’t really know who Ellie Greenwich was until one day in the mid-90s when I was reading through the liner notes of my Phil Spector box set and realised that it was she, mostly with her songwriting partner Jeff Barry, who wrote most of my favourites: ‘Why Do Lovers Break Each Others’ Hearts?’, ‘Da Do Ron Ron’, ‘Not Too Young To Get Married’, ‘Be My Baby’, ‘I Can Hear Music’, ‘I Wish I Never Saw the Sun Shine’, ‘And Then He Kissed Me’ and of course, ‘River Deep, Moutain High’.

Although you can’t underestimate the impact of Phil Spector on any of these teenage symphonies, Ellie Greenwich and Jeff Barry’s melodies and gleeful celebration of naive, romantic cliche is pop perfection.

Having said that, she did also write one of my least favourite songs in the world ‘Chapel of Love’, a tune which to my ears sounds more like a celebration of drudgery than romance. I can easily forgive this though, especially since Ellie also produced the Neil Diamond  classics ‘Cherry Cherry’, ‘Kentucky Woman’ and ‘Solitary Man’.

So this week’s song is one of Ellie Greenwich’s classics - ’Leader of the Pack’ (with live motorcycle and goofyness) -because sometimes the obvious choice really is the best choice.

And now, isn’t this so much better than most of Michael Jackson’s output?