Review of The Magic Of The Bee Gees at Cromer Pier, Norfolk, July 21, 2013

I'm surprised they didn't write I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside. They wrote pretty much everything else. A couple of hours at the end of fabulous Cromer Pier at this tribute show is enough to convince you of that. Islands In The Stream for Dolly and Kenny? Check. Chain Reaction for Diana Ross? Yup. Guilty for Barbra Streisand? With pleasure. It's 31 years since they revived Dionne Warwick's career with Heartbreaker. And those are just songs for other people.

Of course, it wasn't the three bearded blokes on stage in the very cool little Pavilion Theatre who wrote that superb pop music. Not Reluctant Robin, the stationary man in the middle clearly wondering what he was doing there. Not Musician Maurice, the man on the pre-programmed Roland driving the whole show with a smile and a hat. Not even Showbiz Barry, by far the best lookalikey on view with his lion's mane hair and open-neck shirt revealing a chunky medallion resting on a hairy chest, his love of a guitar solo evident whenever possible.

But of the real Gibb brothers only Barry remains. And while he's selling out shows at arenas round the country this autumn, those of us who can't get tickets can be happy to enjoy this bracing revue.

For the first half they dressed as 80s Bee Gees, all long black leather coats and shades, note perfect with You Win Again and Night Fever. What they lacked in dynamism they made up for with the sound. Shut your eyes and it really could be Barry's falsetto up there.

After the ice cream interval it was classic 70s Bee Gees; white flares, shiny silver shirts - only the dance moves were missing, restricted to an occasional synchronised right arm raise. The guys on stage left the sizzling Sunday night fever strutting to the ladies in their prime on the left of the stalls and a handful of free spirits on the right.

The best stagecraft of the night came from the other tributees: a superb Streisand who nailed every note of Woman In Love while Barry was glancing down at the words; a foxy Dionne all in black for All The Love In The World and back again in long black wig and red sequins for Diana's Chain Reaction.

Up in the excellent circle we swayed and tapped and sangalong and enjoyed every authentic minute of it. People around us were genuinely moved when the boys dedicated a sparkling performance of Words to the lost Gibbs - another example of the astonishingly prodigious output of my fellow Chorlton-cum-Hardymen.

After the encore we walked out onto the boardwalk, the North Sea rolling beneath our feet, Cromer twinkling in front of us, and enjoyed another great thing about watching tribute bands in seaside towns: no mad dash for the last tube home and no blokes selling knock-off tee-shirts on the pavement. We've got nothing to be guilty of.

Review of the Rolling Stones at Hyde Park, London. July 13, 2013

That's it. I've seen the Rolling Stones live. Never before and probably never again but I've done it. I'm pretty sure it was them, too. There in the distance, the snake-hipped guy with unbelievable energy, delighting a massive crowd with sheer rock 'n' roll presence from first song to last. The older-looking guitarist with the shock of grey hair and blue headband. The trim-looking grey-haired drummer in the green t-shirt crafting every rhythm with the minimum of effort. The younger looking guitarist with the spiky black hair. Yep - that's them.

Confirmation came on the big screens, massive like everything else at Hyde Park. A skyscraper-screen behind the band, two house-sized screens either side of the fake-oak tree-fringed super-stage, other jumbotrons stretching into the distance from Hyde Park Corner to Marble Arch. That stage was stunning; Mick suggested Mayor Boris should make it a permanent part of the London landscape.

The fear with outdoor gigs on this scale is that being a quarter of a mile away from the stage will kill the joy of being there. Not with the Stones, though. From our chosen vantage point, to the right of the no-man's land which separated us Tier Three hoi poloi from the Tier Two hobnobs, we had full sympathy with Jagger's devil. It helped that we were the other side of six foot tall, mind. I had sympathy with the five-footers around us - the screens and their raised smartphones were their only window on that honky tonk world.

There is something thrilling about hearing licks and riffs that are part of the national psyche being played live, something exhilarating about seeing the ageless, strutting legend from the TV stomping around in purple in the flesh, something epic about being part of the roar that greeted the opening chords of Satisfaction (1965!), Jumpin' Jack Flash (1968!) and Street Fighting Man (1968!). These are the songs on which all British rock 'n' roll is based.

The whoo-whoo refrain of Sympathy For The Devil was the abiding musical memory of the red hot day and night. Long before we'd allowed Jagger to introduce himself, the baying thousands and thousands and thousands were whoo-whooing between every song. When it finally came it was a triumph. Only the sensational Gimme Shelter came close, with Paint It, Black up there with the best of the rest. Mick the showman, an amazing 70 this month, disappeared and reappeared, sporting a fluffy black-feather shoulder warmer one minute, a white 60s mac the next, a black long-sleeved t-shirt when it got even hotter.

Keef left the astonishing end-to-end stage movement to his thinner half, sometimes seeming to zone out after another legendary chord sequence announced the start of another national treasure. When they gathered at the end, arms round each other and bowing as fireworks soared into the summer sky, it felt like we were paying our respects to friends who'd filled our heads with their music since the day we were born.

The show lasted just over two hours, the scorching 80-degrees day lasted more like nine for us. I went with 15-year-old Joseph. It might be his one and only chance to see the band that were having hits even before his ancient dad was born.

We started in the Village Hall tent with James Bay, a tall-hatted singer-songwriter from Hitchen via David Gray. Next up in the steamy Theatre, Valerie June, a snake-haired beautiful bluegrass singer from Memphis. Then it was a stroll across the parched yellow grass to see some Irish fiddle-de-dee popsters called Hudson Taylor on the main stage in place of Tom Odell. Tom's drum kit had made it, Tom hadn't.

We were lured back to the big oak stage after refreshments by the promising phone-app description of Manchester newcomers The 1975. They didn't sound much like Manchester to me. More like The Script.

You know who Jake Bugg reminds me of? Buddy Holly. Next time you hear some of his beatier ones, singalong with the words to Rave On or Peggy Sue and you'll know what I mean. He's great. Can you believe he's only 19? That's only four years older than Joe and a few more older than me.

The always hilarious Cuban Brothers - comedy LatAm wigs, big shades and snug underpants on show as usual - kept us entertained on the Carnival Stage as we queued for delicious £7 plates of paella and buffalo burgers, washed down with £4.50 Theakston's bitter, £2.50 Cokes, £1.50 bottles of water and £5.50 pints of Heineken when the walk to the bitter bar seemed just too far. A Rio-style costume parade and a Queen Bee procession melted in the heat.

At 1.30pm a pint was yours in a minute. By 6pm, it was a ten-minute wait and a chance to talk to friendly strangers - all white, all ages - about why we'd made the pilgrimage. Judging by the multitude of vintage tongue-and-lip tee-shirts, many people had made the journey many times before.

No doubt many will do it again, given the chance. The Stones have been doing farewell tours since 1982, but when you still look and sound like that, and when tens of thousands of people are willing to pay a £100 and up to see you keep doing it, you Don't Stop.

Review of The Human League at Kew Gardens, July 10, 2013

Here he comes, the Mirror Man. He looks like a Hollywood-movie spook these days. Trim and toned in a long black coat, black leather gloves, dark shades, pale grey suit and a skinny tie. No more half-head of jet black hair cascading over half a made-up face. Now Phil Oakey is shaven-headed and lipstick-free. He means business.

But if it seems he’s not the one we used to know, an old friend left behind long ago, just look at the swifts scudding in the vanilla sky above Kew Gardens and listen. What a voice. Rich and deep one minute, powerful and urgent the next. The voice that changed everything. Instantly familiar. 

And when it hurts you know they love to tell you. Until then it was all pounding drums and guitar solos for me. After that it was Roland synthesisers and metallic drum machines all the way.

She was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar back then. Now Susan, like Joanne, is 50. They're still dancing their gloriously uncoordinated dances, thighs out, arms in the air, as energetic as though they were still on the pull at the Crazy Daisy nightclub in Sheffield in 1979. But even then they knew they’d have a much better life. They gave us one, too. Not just at Kew but on and off for the last thirty years. Everything would have been just a bit duller without Open Your Heart, Being Boiled, Fascination and The Sound of Crowd.

The live show is slick, between-song banter kept to a minimum. This is no rose-tinted nostalgia fest. The songs sound as good now as they did then. The pared-down stage of white synthesisers on a white plinth as clean and crisp as the iconic cover of Dare in 1981. 

Three large portrait video screens behind them show images to complement the music, the best a black and white stills montage of world leaders' faces from history merging into one another behind Sound of the Crowd. The Lebanon never made much sense but the Middle East catastrophes of today make it as current affairsy as ever.

But they’re only Human, a song that Phil, gloves and coat now discarded, introduced on the night as a band-saver. In the States and on the rocks in 1986, the League turned to those R&B dudes Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. They come up with a song that went to number one in the US and top ten in the UK. Not their greatest by any means but memorable for another spoken bit, this time from Joanne. I forgive you now and ask the same of you. While we were apart I was human too. You can take a girl out of the cocktail bar but you can’t take the cocktail bar out of the girl.

The greenhouse windows wobbled to the singalong throng when Don't You Want Me closed the show. And just as we were wondering what was left for the encore, Phil, now 57, proved again what a visionary he has always been. In a summer when Daft Punk have taken over the world with a sound inspired by Giorgio Moroder, the song Moroder wrote with Oakey in 1984, Together in Electric Dreams, brought the Palm House down.

So we danced on our picnic blankets, kicked over our half-full plastic glasses of cava, trod in what was left of our M&S snacks and remembered what it was like to be surprised by someone’s lies, however far it seems. We oohed and aahed at the fireworks at the end and threaded our way through the gardens to Kew Bridge swigging what was left in the bottle.

Yes, Phil was right all along. Distance heals the strongest pain. Things are much better now. Not even a nagging doubt remains.

Here's a link to the 12-song setlist.

Video Review of Bruce Springsteen Live at Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, London. June 30, 2013

With Deborah O'Driscoll, Geoff Byrne and Graham Evans. Featuring The Flamin' Groovies, Alabama Shakes, The Black Crowes and The Boss. All part of Hard Rock Calling. Tickets sourced by Kevin Bishop. Tuborg Lager? Really?

The World Rowing Cup at Eton Dorney, June 23, 2013

The calendar said June but it felt more like October. Numb fingers are an occupational hazard of the football spectator but you don't expect them when the terns are fishing and the swifts are soaring above Eton Dorney's flower-lined 2km lake.

It was bad enough for the wind-lashed punters huddled in our layers, sipping hot tea and cowering under our blankets. It was even worse for the best rowers in the world having to negotiate conditions that at times looked more like a choppy North Sea than a lake in leafy Buckinghamshire.

The Chinese women double scullers were the most high-profile victims. They were neck and neck with the British pair in a dramatic race to the finish. The jumbo screen showed them edging closer and closer in the last few metres when disaster struck. One of them seemed to get a blade stuck in a wave. The boat stopped dead. The British pair of Frances Houghton and Victoria Meyer-Laker streaked ahead to claim gold. They may well have won anyway but the China crisis didn't do them any harm.

Gold for the British double scullers

It's part of the regatta experience that at times it feels like you've gone a long way to sit outside in front a giant TV. The boats whizz past in a flash - five or six minutes from start to finish. Sitting around the 500m mark you can pick out the start of the race with a good pair of binoculars then get a idea of who's in front as they draw near. You then rely on the commentators following the race in a car on the other side of the lake and the side-on shots of the finish to know who's won. If it's a British medal, the Dorney roar soon follows. There was a panicky moment on Sunday when the screen failed. It was like being at a football match in the fog and listening to the radio commentary.

Inbetween races the younger spectators kept warm by challenging each other on the indoor ergo rowing machines. The best efforts were rewarded with an essential Samsung-branded blanket. Others thawed out on the bouncy slide or by ducking under the merchandise tents to browse t-shirts and car stickers.

The mobile caterers were doing a roaring trade. The queues were constant for wood-fired pizzas, spicy wraps, donuts with chocolate sauce and luke warm tea for £2.20. The highlight was an outstanding breakfast muffin from the unfailingly cheerful team at the Original Fryup Material van (@OFMLondon) - £6 got you a sausage patty, fried egg and tangy sauce on a freshly baked pastry. The half-hour queueing time was well worth it.

The cheerful banter in the queues and among the crowd summed up the spirit of the event. The rowing community is a joyful place. Medal winners smiled and waved as they did a mini row of honour after their presentation ceremony and the elite athletes happily signed autographs as they mingled with the crowd. The lightweight men's pair debut gold medal winner Mark Aldred was even joshed by his pals for signing his first ever autograph for one young fan.

By the time we'd got back to our plastic chairs normal TV service was resumed in good time for the regatta finale. The Men's Eight delivered a pulsating battle between GB and Poland. it was nip and tuck right from the start, the lead seeming to change with each stroke. But the British ramped up the stroke rate in the final few metres to send the frozen crowd scurrying into the traffic jam for the M4 with frozen fingers, full-on heaters and cheery hearts.

Here's a link to a proper sports writer's summary of the event in The Guardian.

The Best 10km Running Route in London

No doubt about it, if there was an award for the best 10k river route in Britain this would win it.

Start at Hammersmith Bridge. Plenty of bike stands next to the houseboats near The Rutland Arms if you need to cycle there.

Furnivall Gardens and Hammersmith Bridge

Run west with the river on your left, past rose-dappled Furnivall Gardens on your right then down the little passageway in front of the tiny and tempting Dove pub, the legendary birthplace of Rule Britannia. Emerge past William Morris's wisteria-dappled old house and Latymer Prep School and jog on towards the tiny crow's nest where I'm going to have my imaginary 50th birthday party.

That's Linden House, home to the London Corinthians boat club, on the right, there. It hosted BBC Breakfast News parties in the past, in the carefree days before they sent everyone packing to Salford. Salford!

Your route winds under a building outcrop then past the Old Ship pub on your right, home of Young's bitters, guest ales, pleasant Sunday lunches and occasional meetings of the ex-BBC hacks refreshments club.

Soon enough you cut a few yards inland to run past the front of a terrace of riverside cottages on your left. A couple of blue plaques reveal that a humourist you've never heard of used to live in one of them.

Ponder that as you jog west past some of the finest riverfront houses in London. This time of year House Martins light up the sky on their way to and from their nests under the eaves. Imagine how much you'd have to earn to buy one of these mansions, complete with a private Thames-side garden across the road, and run away from the thought as you head left back to the river and Chiswick Pier.

There's a lifeboat station just ahead in case you find yourself in the Thames after mulling over those house prices, and a pizza restaurant with a fabulous conservatory that I've often run past but never gone in. One day.

A few metres later the houses run out and you're jogging on a leafy footpath with Chiswick Bandstand looming. Never seen a band on it. A good Boat Race landmark, though. And your next landmark is a boathouse with its sloping launch strip. Careful, here - those eight-man boats emerge head-high on your right from nowhere.

Up a small flight of concrete steps then avoid Barnes Bridge and turn right to run parallel to the railway embankment on your left towards the extra-posh Chiswick Racquets Club on your right. I jogged past an expensively-dressed woman on her way to the tennis courts smoking a fag this morning. What's she thinking?

First on the left takes you onto a single carriageway under a railway bridge. You may have to dodge some impatient 4x4s here before returning to the verge heading towards the Thames Tradesman's boat club. Nip through their car park and you're back on the riverbank.

This is the nicest stretch of the whole route. It's like running through a country meadow with the river on your left and fragrant, waist-high wild flowers on your right. You'll wish the path never ends but it does, at another boat house at the foot of majestic Chiswick Bridge. This is the base of the elite Tideway Scullers. Current members include Alan Campbell, the Ulsterman who won the silver medal in the men's single sculls at the World Rowing Cup at Eton Dorney this weekend. Here he is on his row of honour:

Jog up the steps of the bridge and cross the river. Jog down again on you're on your way back. That's The Ship on your right, there, another good place for an al fresco Sunday lunch overlooking the swarms of afternoon rowers. And that's the big old Budweiser brewery next to the cobbles. Horrible beer but keeps a lot of people in work. Don't knock it.

More cobbles test the ankles and knees until you get to The White Hart. Yet another good place to sit under a parasol with a pint of Young's and watch the world go by. Not today, though. On you go along the muddy bit under Barnes Bridge and on to the pavement. Fabulously big views of the sweeping bend of the river, here. Look out for more House Martins gathering mud for their nests on the edge.

The Thames at Barnes

Before you know it you're back on the trail, the river hidden by the trees on your left, the air full of birdsong from the Leg of Mutton nature reserve on your right. Chiffchaff, Blackcap, Great Tit, Willow Warbler - they're all fighting to be heard but not seen. Enjoy the summer warblers while you dodge the puddles - it's nearly always a bit damp on this stretch.

The lush scenery stays the same until you reach Westminster School boat club on the right. The only other landmark is a balloon-strewn shrine to some poor soul who presumably didn't make it out of the river one day.

A couple of strides letter and the glorious green and gold Hammersmith Bridge looms large in front of you again. Jog over, being prepared to slow down for fellow runners and pedestrians on the narrow, rickety walkway, and you've nearly made it. Officially you need to jog past the Dove again to make it 10k. Or you could sack it off and pop in the Blue Anchor for one instead.

You've earned it.

Review of The Inca Babies at The Green Door Store, Brighton. June 14, 2013

They swaggered on to the compact stage built on the cobbles under Brighton railway station, The Inca Babies' brand of punky death rock perfect for the grimy Victorian archways that house mechanics in Coronation Streets all over Britain.

They've been doing this for thirty years now. Harry's urgent voice echoing dark narratives over his twanging, wah-wah-ing Cramps guitar. Vince the bespectacled bass player using his riff-rippling guitar like a conductor's baton, an ironic smile reminding us not to take it all too seriously. And big Rob thundering along on drums that sound like Hulme used to look in the Seventies before the bulldozers rolled in.

They're a band from the nightmarish crescents of Eighties Manchester that sound like they came from the garages of post-punk New York, a sound synonymous with John Peel sessions, rock lobsters, woodlouse-infested bedsits in Sheffield, big quiffs, Tuesday morning hangovers and thrashing around at gigs without ever being accused of dad dancing. It's the end of the summer, it's the end of the world.

Harry's still full of wide-eyed nervous energy, working up a jacket-off sweat with his edgy jerking: "The hits just keep on coming," he quipped, as the Babies ran through a 40-minute set centred around their marvellous new album, Deep Dark Blue. Stand-out track My Sick Suburb was a highlight on the night - a retro-riff around a retro teen-angst lyric delivered with a Mark E Smithish drawl and a trademark sardonic sense of humour.

There was even some gentle dancing by dads in black on the cobbles. The Babies have retained a loyal fan base in places as diverse as Kirkcaldy, Athens, Belgium and the Isle of Man. Wherever they play, people turn up to remember the Evil Hours, the post-C86 days when the NME was as essential as alcohol and punk was only just post.

It didn't matter that Harry's guitar went out of tune, or that his lyrics struggled to make themselves heard in the quicksand bikini sound mix. That's what headphones and Spotify are for. Tonight it was all about atmosphere, passion and Slick.

Maybe it was the couple of pints in the Evening Star before the show, or the couple of bottles of Landlord behind the atmospheric Green Door afterwards. Maybe it was meeting up with old friend Paul and comparing Manchester City notes. Maybe it was the warm glow of the Inca Babies' monologues of madness. Whatever it was, I slept soundly in my new tour t-shirt on the late train back to London. And snored contentedly through the night in my own sick suburb.