Remembering Chuck Berry

I saw Chuck Berry live twice – both times in the same year. The first time was at London’s Hackney Empire in July 2008. I almost never made it, having initially ordered my tickets through a hotline I saw advertised in a newspaper, which turned out to be a scam. I realised my blunder in time to halt the transaction but by then the show was largely sold out and only the very worst seats remained. I went to and fro over whether I wanted to watch Chuck from the nosebleed seats but eventually decided that I did and persuaded my friend Graham to come with me.

When I telephoned the theatre to book tickets, the lady in the box office was just about to reserve me some seats in the gallery when she paused. She said the system was showing that the theatre had just released some seats that morning, which it had previously been holding back. They were in the front row. Did I want those instead, she wondered. I didn’t need to be asked twice.

Graham and I caught a train and then a bus to Hackney for the show and took our seats in the front row, just right of the aisle, not really knowing what to expect from Chuck, now well into his old age. The theatre was beautiful and the audience filled with ageing Teddy Boys sporting elaborate hairdos.

The band kicked in a few seconds before the curtain rose to reveal Chuck already on stage, decked out in a glittery shirt and a white sailor’s cap. He launched straight into Roll Over Beethoven and, almost immediately, did his famous duck walk from one end of the stage to the other. He was fast and nimble. It was hard to believe this was a man of 81 and even harder to believe that the Chuck Berry was performing Roll Over Beethoven just a few metres away from us.

A grainy cellphone shot of Chuck Berry at the Hackney Empire (Charles Thomson).

In an hour-long set he blasted through hit after hit, from School Day (Ring Ring Goes The Bell) to Memphis Tennessee and Sweet Little Sixteen. He got the whole audience singing and laughing along with My Ding A Ling and invited some lucky women on stage to dance during Johnny B Goode. He had many more dancing in the aisles, too. Sadly, security were very heavy-handed and kept instructing people to sit back down, despite Chuck repeatedly shouting from the stage to let them dance.

Chuck was was so good that night that when, a few months later, Camden’s Jazz Café announced he was returning to London to play two shows at the venue, I told my friend James that we had to go. The Jazz Café was a favourite venue of mine at the time – small and incredibly intimate.

The choice of venue got me thinking. I had been to the Jazz Café enough times to know the artists usually entered through the same door as the ticketholders. I checked with a promoter friend who had booked artists into the venue and he confirmed the front door was also the artist entrance. James and I hatched a plan to get to the venue early and see if we could collar Chuck for an autograph on the way in.

Chuck, despite his many positive qualities, was not famed for his kindness towards fans. Musician Brian Johnson wrote in his autobiography that after Chuck toured with Johnson’s band Geordie for a week in 1975, using all their equipment for free, Johnson asked him: “Mr Berry, can I have your autograph?” Chuck replied: “I only sign one a day and I’ve already done it.”

If James and I were to get an autograph, we would have to be the first to ask that day. And so we arrived at the Jazz Café’s front doors at about 2pm, to make sure we didn’t miss him. By the time the doors opened about five hours later there was no sign of Chuck – we concluded he must have arrived about 10 hours early just so he wouldn’t have to sign his daily autograph – and we were cold and wet and our feet were sore.

On the plus side, we were numbers one and two in the queue and bagged ourselves a spot in the standing area, right in front of the stage.  Literally. It’s a tiny venue with a low stage and no barrier. When Chuck descended the metal staircase to the stage a few hours later and took his spot behind the microphone, we were perhaps four feet away from him. He was playing his guitar right in front of our faces.  

But he wasn’t playing it very well. Chuck was unrecognisable as the performer I had witnessed months earlier at the Hackney Empire. He seemed at times hesitant and confused.

An early sign that Chuck wasn’t altogether himself came when he started playing his hit song Maybellene but ended it singing the lyrics to Johnny B Goode. Later in the show he started playing Maybellene again.

His guitar playing was wonky throughout. He faltered at the beginning of Sweet Little Sixteen and had to start again. During South of the Border, he lost his place and announced, “Damn, I can’t think of the next line.” Apologising for his confusion at one point, he said, “I’m 81 years old, I’ve got no business being on this stage.” He was actually now 82. 

Chuck Berry on stage at the Jazz Café (James Newman).

Partway through the show – just before he played Nadine – he decided his guitar was out of tune (it wasn't) and began twisting knobs back and forth with abandon. The ensuing, lengthy, ham-fisted attempt to re-tune his guitar prompted an array of comical facial expressions from his alarmed band members, including his son, who after a while tried to step in and stop his dad fiddling with the strings. 

But it was too late for intervention, for by that time Chuck had begun walking to the opposite end of the stage and yelping at his young pianist, “Give me an E! Give me an E!” Alas, the pianist’s efforts did not appear to aid Chuck, who played the rest of the show with his guitar sounding rather peculiar.

Chuck Berry with his son at the Jazz Café (James Newman).

None of this is intended a criticism of Chuck, of course. As he had said, he was in his 80s and he didn’t have to be up on stage. We were lucky he was there at all and only a fool would expect a man of 82 to perform to the same standard as his younger self. Chuck was simply acting his age. But nonetheless, it was in stark contrast to his effervescent performance months earlier at the Hackney Empire, where he had defied his years.

Who knows what the problem was; Perhaps he was jetlagged. Maybe he hadn’t had a night off that week. Perhaps I had just caught him on uncharacteristically good form in Hackney.

Whatever the reason, it certainly didn’t diminish Chuck in the eyes of the audience, who laughed and cheered throughout the show. His confusion was endearing and he handled the situation with great humour. James and I look back on that evening extremely fondly. We have relived it several times, in hysterics as we recalled the sheer horror on the band’s faces as Chuck started meddling with his guitar. There is some video of the tuning incident on YouTube, although sadly incomplete and recorded from the side, missing the band's brilliant reactions.

A year later I learned Chuck was returning to the UK to play a show at one of my local theatres and bought tickets. However, the tour was later cancelled – apparently due to a dispute with the promoter – and he never returned to the UK.

He may have been well into his old age by the time I got to see him but it was a privilege to witness the man up close, even on an off day. Chuck Berry was one of music’s great pioneers, not to mention a phenomenal songwriter with a gift for musical storytelling which will likely never be rivalled.

More than that, though, he was a survivor. The obstacles he had to overcome were many and enormous. The genre he innovated was hijacked. Rock & Roll's creation was attributed to its white thieves instead of its black pioneers. Meanwhile, Chuck was maligned and mistreated by a racist justice system.

But despite everything, he soldiered on. He survived touring segregated America, he survived the theft of his music, he survived prison and he reached 90. He died a hero and a legend.

I am grateful that for a few brief hours we occupied the same space. My friends and I clapped and bobbed as he played the songs that changed the world. We laughed together. He duck walked past me, within touching distance, playing Johnny B Goode. I couldn’t ask for more than that.

Rest in Peace, Chuck Berry. The true King of Rock and Roll. 

Here is a video I took on my cellphone of Chuck performing Johnny B Goode at the Jazz Café: 

Xscape Origins: Book Review

Earlier this week I posted the world exclusive first review of new book Xscape Origins. The book, by Australian journalist Damien Shields, tells the story of the eight Michael Jackson tracks which were remixed and released on the posthumous album Xscape.

Damien wrote the book after feeling aggrieved by the way Sony and the Michael Jackson Estate treated the artist's unreleased work. Instead of putting the songs out as Jackson created them, the companies hired outside producers to 'contemporise' them first. Then they prominently released the remixes and relegated Jackson's own work to a more expensive, expanded version of the album.

When it came time to promote the album, a lengthy documentary was created about how the outside producers had altered Jackson's compositions. Shields felt the album was presented as theirs, while Jackson's own creative process and visions for each song were barely discussed at all - a particular insult given that Jackson's own versions were universally superior to the remixes.

So Shields traveled to America to interview as many of Jackson's collaborators on the original songs as he could track down. In his introduction he makes clear that this is not a book about the Xscape album. It is a book about eight disparate songs from all different eras in Michael Jackson's career, which happened to be gathered together after he died and released on the same CD.

Upon the album's release last year I published an article on the Huffington Post, in which I drew on Jackson's own interviews and writings to present an argument as to why he would not have endorsed such a release.

Some fans who took issue with Jackson's philosophies, claiming he must have accidentally said the exact opposite of what he actually meant in each instance I referred to, have seized upon my book review as evidence of 'hypocrisy', saying I appear to now like the Xscape album. Perhaps they should have read the review before critiquing it. In it, I refer to Xscape as 'muddled' and 'uninspired'. I describe the remixing of Jackson's work as 'vandalism' and say the album was 'irredeemable'.

For those who do not understand my review - although I believe that their misinterpretation is largely willful - let me summarise: The album was bad; the book about Michael Jackson's creative process is good.

To read the full review, click here.

London Film Festival: Ed Snowden documentary is more gripping than any thriller.

The London Film Festival was book-ended by thrillers. It opened with The Imitation Game, about Alan Turing's race against time to crack the Enigma code. It closed with Fury, following a WWII tank crew through a series of bloody skirmishes in Germany. But more gripping than either was CITIZENFOUR, which told the story of US whistleblower Ed Snowden as he revealed the US Government's industrial scale spying on its own innocent citizens...

Click here to read my review. 

London Film Festival - Bjork fails to impress... or even show up.

I attended the premiere of Bjork's new documentary a few days ago. Bjork didn't bother. She was supposed to, but she suddenly pulled out, citing a rather flimsy excuse about working on an album. She would have known she was doing that when she committed to the premiere. All a bit odd. All a bit Bjork.

Directors Peter Strickland and Nick Fenton, and producer Jacqui Edenbrow, apologised at the premiere for Bjork's absence. 

I'm not a particular Bjork fan, but was interested to give the film a go and see whether she could win me around. Sadly, she didn't.

Click here to read my review. 

London Film Festival 2014 - The Pamela Smart Trial

The London Film Festival typically includes at least one documentary shedding light on some sort of terrible injustice. Previous years' highlights have included The Central Park Five, West of Memphis and The Kill Team. One of my favourites was actually the much-maligned Conviction - not a documentary, but a real life story, which I reviewed here.

This year the trial of Pamela Smart is put under the microscope. In Captivated: The Trials of Pamela Smart, director Jeremiah Zagar posits that the trial - the first in America to ever be fully televised - was corrupted by months of media speculation before it began. It is worth noting that in the UK, Contempt of Court laws would have rendered almost all of that coverage illegal for the precise reason that it could compromise the trial process.

Click here to read my review of the film. 

London Film Festival 2014 - Part One - The Imitation Game

Another year, another London Film Festival. This year's 12-day event kicked off with opening gala The Imitation Game, starring Benedict Cumberbatch as maths genius Alan Turing, who cracked the Enigma code and helped the allies win the Second World War.

Click here to read my review of the movie. 

Here are some of my pictures from the press conference, of stars Benedict Cumberbatch and Keira Knightley and director Morten Tyldum.

Film Festival - Part One - 'Hanks for the Memories'

The London Film Festival is upon us once more. Those who have been following my blog for a while will know that I am a huge fan and avid supporter of the annual event, organised by the British Film Institute. In 2010 I was an official correspondent, covering the festival for two American websites - Sawf News and the Huffington Post. This year I am covering it for one of the UK's largest regional newspaper chains, the Yellow Advertiser.

My festival calendar kicked off on Wednesday with a press conference for 'Captain Phillips', the new true-story Tom Hanks movie about a US cargo ship hijacked by Somali pirates. Mr Hanks was very funny, if somewhat unwilling to answer some questions seriously. He experienced a sustained grilling from Britain's cheeky showbiz reporters, but handled the onslaught well. I filed a report about the event last night, published today.

Click here to read my dispatch from the press conference.

Click to enlarge.
Copyright: Charles Thomson

I took this picture at the press conference yesterday. For some reason, it looks like Tom Hanks is crying. He wasn't. It's just one of those funny moments where a camera catches somebody's face halfway through doing something else.

Here are some of my other shots:

Click pics to enlarge.
All pics, Copyright: Charles Thomson.

More on my festival adventures as and when more reports are published.

Ben E King Comes to Town

For reasons I can't even begin to fathom, music legend Ben E King decided to visit my local theatre last week. As a co-writer of one of the top ten highest-earning songs on the history of recorded music, Mr King, now 74, surely can't need the money.

However, I wasn't complaining. In fact, I booked tickets the moment I found out (front row, no less) and made the 10 minute journey from my front door to the theatre with pleasure. What an honour to have a genuine superstar of soul performing on my doorstep.

I reviewed the show for the local newspaper, which you can read by enlarging this image.
 

I met Mr King very briefly after the show. He was a true gentleman and signed a CD for me. Sadly, I didn't manage to pin him down long enough for an interview. Here's hoping he comes back and I get a shot second time around.

Usher: The Heir, Apparently

On Thursday 3rd February I attended the second of Usher's sold out gigs at the O2 Arena, part of his OMG Tour. My review of the night has been published by SawfNews.com, including some of my own photos from the gig.

--Click here to read my review of Usher's OMG Tour, with exclusive pictures--

For my blog readers, here are a few extra shots:

My Day With Martha

It's not often that you get the chance to spend time in the presence of true pop music royalty but yesterday (Thursday 16th December) was one of those days; I had the good fortune to spend several hours with Motown legend Martha Reeves.

Often referred to as the Queen of Motown, Martha's gospel roots helped set her apart from the label's other female leads. She's known around the world for hits including Jimmy Mack, (Love Is Like A) Heat Wave and Nowhere To Run, but she's perhaps best known for Dancing In The Street, one of Motown's most famous tracks (and that's really saying something).

A few weeks ago I learned that Martha was embarking on a short UK tour including several nights at London's Jazz Cafe. A keen Motown fan, I immediately requested an interview.

Initially I was told that Martha would only be available by telephone - that was fine by me. How many people even get the chance to speak to music royalty on the phone? But on Wednesday morning I got an email to say that Martha had decided to meet me in person instead. I'm not sure what made Martha decide to meet me after all - I forgot to ask her - but I'm glad she did. It was a last minute affair, arranged with less than 24 hours' notice, but the experience was one I will never forget.

Generous with her time and her answers, Martha spoke to me over lunch for roughly one and a half hours. Our discussion encompassed subjects including - but not limited to - the increasing sexualisation of female musicians, why a computer will never create better music than a live band, her former drug dependency and subsequent Christian rebirth, the corruption she witnessed while serving on Detroit City Council and her plans to return to her gospel roots.

Upon learning that I didn't have a ticket to her sold out show at the Jazz Cafe, Martha insisted that I meet her back at her hotel later on so we could travel together to the gig and she could bring me in for free. Arriving early on with Martha and her entourage allowed me to secure the best spot on the lower level - front row and centre.

Photograph: Charles Thomson

From there I watched Martha, backed by her Vandellas and a tight band (led by Al McKenzie, Martha's musical director of 30+ years), deliver an energetic 90 minute set comprising some of her biggest hits, a few lesser known classics like Third Finger, Left Hand, and an array of tributes to artists including Marvin Gaye (What's Going On), Billie Holliday (God Bless The Child) and James Brown (I Got The Feelin').

Halfway through her set, Martha surprised me by name-checking me from the stage. "I want to dedicate this next song to Charles. He's a young, up-and-coming writer - he's right here in the front," she said, gesturing towards me, "and he's never seen our show before. He's all of twenty-something years old, I think." Then she launched into a rendition of A Love Like Yours (Don't Come Knocking Everyday). It was a strange moment, feeling everybody's eyes on me, but one I will never forget. It's not every day that a music icon dedicates a performance to you.

Martha captivated the audience - a much younger crowd than I had anticipated. Her voice has aged and she sings in a higher register than she used to, but her performance was brimming with energy. New material such as Home To You suited her voice perfectly. The show built to a crescendo when Martha fused her hit Dancing In The Street with tracks from other Motown artists like the Four Tops and Stevie Wonder. The audience went wild.

A great ending to a great day - made possible by a great woman.




NB. My exclusive, in-depth interview with Martha Reeves will be published in January 2011.

2009: A Year in Review

It is difficult to know where to begin in my summary of 2009. It has been action-packed, for sure.

2009 has seen me make the surprisingly speedy transition from college student to award winning writer. Within months I made the leap from writing essays and attending lectures to penning stories for the country's biggest newspaper, being interviewed on several news channels and even contributing to a bestselling book.

It has all been a bit of a blur but in hindsight I have squeezed a lot into the last 12 months.

I have stood metres from Michael Jackson as he annouced his comeback concerts inside the O2 arena and later stood outside the arena in the rain, watching his memorial service on a giant screen. I have interviewed rappers, filmmakers and jazz musicians, then published the stories in my own magazine. I have trodden the red carpet at a London film premiere and shared a stage with Motown legends.

It has been a year of extraordinary highs and lows, the highs understandably including my press accreditation for Michael Jackson's concert announcement. Other highs included completing my graduation ceremony without falling over, walking down the red carpet at a film premiere without falling over and accepting my Guardian award without falling over.

The lowest low, of course, was the death of Michael Jackson just weeks before I was due to see him live at the O2. In a way I had never quite believed that those concerts would go ahead, but I certainly didn't think he was going to die. I remember receiving a text message from my friend James, a jovial comment along the lines of 'What has Michael gone and done now?'

As I watched the news unfold I was initially not too concerned. I suspected he had manufactured some illness or injury in an attempt to postpone or cancel his comeback shows. Behind the scenes, Jackson insiders had been speculating all along that he would 'do anything' to get out of them.

When TMZ first announced Jackson's death I was again largely dismissive, partly because blog sites had inaccurately reported his death in the past and partly because it seemed like an impossibility that Michael Jackson could be dead. For Jackson at 50 years old to join the ranks of deceased icons like Elvis Presley, James Brown and Ray Charles - it seemed implausible; far too soon.

When BBC confirmed the news, I wilted.

Less than three years previously I had seen Michael Jackson and James Brown within weeks of one another. I had seen James Brown deliver what would become his last concert on British soil in late October 2006 and I saw Michael Jackson appear at the World Music Awards in November. I never dreamed that so soon afterwards we would have lost them both.

Speaking of Mr Brown, he figured into my year quite prominently for a man who had been deceased for the best part of three years. Before that concert in October 2006 I had been invited to Brown's pre-show press conference, where he spoke to me about an album he had been recording. In the wake of his death I wondered what had become of that album; surely that was the smartest time to release it? In the aftermath of Ray Charles's death his new album posthumously soared to the top of the charts. The same happened to Luther Vandross.

As time passed, I forget about the album. Then, in early 2008 I was dispatched by the US magazine 'Wax Poetics' to interview Brown's former sideman Fred Wesley. Knowing that Wesley had contributed to Brown's lost album I asked him about it and got to thinking that there could be a story in there somewhere.

I emailed a music magazine contact, who said they were interested in a piece about the album, so I set about researching it. I contacted and interviewed everybody I could who was involved in the recording - songwriters, session musicians, core band members, backing vocalists, studio engineers, managers and more. Then I got back in touch with my music magazine source and was discovered that they had lost interest in the project. Saddled with tens of thousands of words' worth of interview transcripts, a hefty transatlantic phonebill and no outlet, my research began gathering dust.

By early 2009 I had decided that if nobody else had the imagination to publish the article, I would do it myself. I believed in the piece. I knew it was a good story and I knew it was significant; Brown is widely considered to be the most influential musician of the 20th century and my research documented a significant milestone in his recording career; his final work. I set about whittling my interview material into a coherent piece - James Brown: The Lost Album - and published it in my own magazine; JIVE.

JIVE launched in May 2009. A one-off publication, I saw it as a reduced prototype for a British answer to VIBE or Wax Poetics, covering the areas of black music ignored by the UK's mainstream music press. With Brown as its cover star, the magazine also boasted in-depth interviews with rapper Sway DaSafo and calypso legend Eddy Grant, as well as an advance preview of Zaire '74 documentary 'Soul Power' and a candid chat with jazz stalwart Digby Fairweather, who mused on why musicians so frequently fall victim to addiction and detailed his own battle with the booze.

The magazine launch was attended by none other than the legendary, Grammy Award winning music writer Cliff White, with whom I chatted at length about his memories of James Brown, George Clinton, Bernie Worrell and others.

Creatively, the magazine was a success (apart from a few typos, inexplicably undetected by the countless spellchecks I carried out - curse you, Adobe InDesign!!). Financially, however, was another story.

The magazine, like the Brown article, was a labour of love. I conducted all of the interviews, I wrote all of the articles and I undertook the vast majority of the design work. I even included some of my own photography. However, I also footed the printing costs. The magazine was distributed for free apart from a handful sold over the internet, meaning that I made a net loss somewhere in the region of £900.

Taking home a prestigious Guardian Award for my James Brown article went a long way towards cushioning the blow of the £900 deficit. I had felt disheartened when I couldn't place the James Brown piece. At the time I had felt angry that the article was overlooked - that nobody saw the same potential in the story as I did. When members of the Guardian judging panel told me it was possibly the best piece they'd ever seen, I felt vindicated in my decision to pour so much time, effort and money into researching and publishing it. I had always believed in it and it was nice to know that I wasn't the only one.

In spite of Michael Jackson's passing, 2009 was a good year for live music. A mid-summer evening spent in the company of BB King was a highlight. The aging blues man's vocals and guitar work don't betray his age whatsoever; his rendition of 'Thrill Is Gone' sounded no different to the original 1970 recording. At 83 (now 84) he seemed to have years left in him.

October offered a double helping of Motown magic. First, Gladys Knight enchanted Wembley Arena, ably supported by Tito Jackson. The pair played to an audience which included Jackson family matriarch Katherine and British pop sensation Boy George. Tito Jackson and his Bowler Boys delivered funky renditions of Jacksons classics such as Dancing Machine, Shake Your Body and This Place Hotel. Gladys Knight's followed with a plethora of hits including a gutsy delivery on Licence to Kill, performed to a backdrop of Bond title-esque flames.

Three weeks later Smokey Robinson breezed into town for the BBC's Electric Proms. I watched from the front row of the Roundhouse's standing pit as Smokey crooned his way through hits from his own back catalogue as well as songs he penned for other acts, such as the Temptations' Get Ready and My Girl. Like Ms Knight, Smokey remains on fantastic vocal form and his unique performance style sucks the audience in. During ballads such as 'Ohh Baby Baby' and 'Tracks of My Tears' Robinson paced the stage, holding eye contact with what seemed like each individual member of the front row at one time or another. As his piercing blue eyes lock onto your own, he holds you captive and his syrupy falsetto digs deep into your soul.

Smokey Robinson performs at the Camden Roundhouse

November saw a roster of Motown legends perform a week of engagements in London. Described by the Jazz Cafe's Chris Steele as 'a week of real Motown, true Motown', the line-up included several significant figures from Motown history; Mable John - the first female act signed to Motown, Chris Clark - the first white artist signed to Motown, and Thelma Houston, the first Motown artist to win a Grammy.

Supporting the line-up was none other than Jack Ashford, the legendary percussionist and last surviving member of the original Motown Rhythm Section. I interviewed Jack in January 2008 for Wax Poetics and we have remained in touch. He kindly invited me backstage during rehearsals for the Hammersmith Apollo DVD recording. As it turned out, backstage meant onstage. My friend Angela stood to the side of the stage as we watched the Supremes rehearse their set before they were joined by Mabel John, Thelma Houston, Chris Clark and Brenda Holloway. Then we watched Jack put his Funk Brothers through their paces as they rehearsed songs including Dancing In The Street.

Jack Ashford conducts his Funk Brothers during a rehearsal

Afterwards, we joined Jack in his dressing room as he was interviewed for the DVD extras and chatted with him briefly before making our way to the auditorium and taking our seats. For Motown enthusiasts there was much to enjoy; Mabel John looked and sounded sprightly at 79 as she prowled the stage during hits such as 'Same Time, Same Place', 'Able Mable' and 'Who Wouldn't Love A Man Like That'. Thelma Houston's performance of 'Don't Leave Me This Way' got the whole auditorium on its feet and Scherrie Payne's vocal performance on Supremes hit 'Stoned Love' ellicited a huge response.

I had intended to round off my live music year with Chuck Berry, but his tour was cancelled at the last minute. The official reason was that there wasn't enough preparation time, but the tour had been scheduled for months. I hear that the cancellation was actually due to a problem with the promoters.

While 2009 may have been a great year for live music, it wasn't such a great year for film. Highlights were few and far between. Much praise was heaped upon Michael Jackson's This Is It but while it was enjoyable and Jackson did seem to be on good form, the film is inherently untrustworthy. When I saw it I noticed immediately that old vocals had been dubbed into the film. The filmmakers had used obscure vocals in a bid to trick fans - for instance, using Jackson's 1991 demo version of Earth Song instead of the 1995 album track, and using a 1982 demo of Billie Jean instead of the version we all know and love. But it was dubbed nonetheless, a fact to which Sony admitted once the Sun hired audio experts to prove it.

This year's best music flick was actually 'Soul Power', Jeffrey Levy-Hinte's dazzling verite docmentary composed entirely of original footage from the Zaire '74 music festival, organised to coincide with Muhammad Ali's Rumble in the Jungle. Featuring stunning performances by artists including Bill Withers, BB King, James Brown, the Spinners and Miriam Makeba at the height of their powers, the film transports you back to 1974 and viewing it on a big screen almost felt like you were there watching it live. The film serves as a stark reminder of what soul and talent truly mean and proved a glorious antidote to today's depressing music scene.

My JIVE interview with Soul Power director Jeffrey Levy-Hinte

I was fortunate this year to find myself in possession of two tickets to the London premiere of 'The Men Who Stare at Goats', where I repeatedly walked past George Clooney but was more excited by the free popcorn and chocolate bar that awaited me in my seat. Despite a fairly poor critical reception I thought the film was solid. Brilliantly acted by a dream cast including Kevin Spacey and Jeff Bridges, the film was adapted by Jon Ronson's hilarious non-fiction book about the US Army's long obsession with teachng soldiers to harness psychic ability. Although not entirely faithful to Ronson's source material, Peter Straughan did a good job of weaving Ronson's research into a more linear narrative and I didn't feel the film was deserving of the harsh reviews that it received.

2009 will be most remembered for two major world events - the inauguration of America's first black president and the death of its biggest superstar. On a personal level, 2009 has been a good year. It hasn't been without its disappointments but on the whole it has been positive.

My new year's resolution? To make 2010 even better.

Review: Starsuckers

Debuting at the London Film Festival last week, 'Starsuckers' is the much hyped new documentary from the team behind 'Taking Liberties', the 2007 BAFTA-nominated film which claimed that British citizens are being robbed of their freedom.

The documentary premiered last Wednesday and I had tickets to the second LFF screening on Thursday, attended by director Chris Atkins.

'Starsuckers' purports to journey through the 'dark underbelly of the modern media' and 'blow the lid on the corporations and individuals' who profit from our obsession with fame. 'Warning', reads the film's website, 'even watching this film might get you sued'.

However, 'Starsuckers' is far less revelatory than one might expect, given the hype that has surrounded its release. In fact, it is actually quite confusing. The opening scenes show Chris Atkins and a female accomplice being chased through the streets of LA by a mob of paparazzi as onlookers intermittently ask the 'Starsuckers' film crew who they are.

It transpires that Atkins has paid for a 'celebrity experience', whereby ordinary people can fork out hundreds of dollars per hour to be hounded by press so that bystanders are duped into believing they're celebrities. But the segment ends almost as soon as it begins, and does so without any explanation as to why Atkins has embarked on this experience or any exploration of its workings.

Suddenly we find ourselves watching the exploits of two parents convinced of their own son's star quality, shopping him around various Los Angeles agents in the hope that he can strike it big and help them escape their working class lifestyle. Soon, though, we have abandoned that storyline as well and are instead taken on a journey through the history of celebrity by a pair of floating magicians' gloves, which Atkins later refers to as the 'God of Starsuckers'.

In short, 'Starsuckers' suffers from an almost complete lack of direction. One could easily be left thoroughly perplexed as to what the film is trying to say. Is it about adults so obsessed by celebrity that they are willing to pay paparazzi to chase them down the street? Is it about fame's corruptive influence on our children? Is it about the public's relationship with celebrity itself? Each subject could warrant a documentary of its own. 'Starsuckers' seems like a hodgepodge of several incomplete films that have all been mashed together because they fall under the same vague umbrella subject.

The 'God of Starsuckers' - a pair of floating magicians' gloves with a booming American accent - claims that he will explain to us how media outlets conspire to manufacture celebrity addiction amongst the general public, but the whole thing plays out more like a bizarre conspiracy theory movie (see: Loose Change) than a serious documentary.

'Starsuckers' contradicts itself at every turn. The overriding message of the film is that the media is sinister and conspires to indoctrinate us all with celebrity obsession for its own financial gain, despite the fact that Atkins and his team seem to be forever turning up evidence to the contrary.

In one moment biologists tell us that man's obsession with celebrity is an evolutionary trait, but in the next moment the God of Starsuckers is telling us again that it's actually a global media conspiracy. No sooner has Nick Davies told us that it's not laziness or unprofessionalism that's killing the media but budget cuts and understaffing, than the God of Starsuckers is lecturing us on how all media outlets are nasty and manipulative.

Perhaps the most baffling portion of the film - and also the primary focus of its marketing campaign - is a segment in which Atkins and his team conspire to plant bogus celebrity stories in Britain's newspapers. The team meticulously research their subjects, making sure that they know exactly where their unwitting celebrities were the previous night and what they were wearing. They then telephone the newspapers and attempt to dupe them into printing harmless but false stories (Avril Lavigne fell asleep in a nightclub, Guy Ritchie poked himself in the eye with a spoon).

There is a slight air of menace about the whole segment - the notion of concocting an elaborate hoax with the specific intention of duping somebody and then blaming the victim when it works is a bit like a school bully pushing a little girl head first into a puddle and then laughing at her because she's wet.

Even more bafflingly, Atkins has claimed in a recent Guardian interview that the stories could have been 'easily disproved within minutes' by checking with reps for the stars. The notion that a PR worker is more likely to tell the truth than an eyewitness is one that is sure to prompt outbursts of hysterics up and down Fleet Street.

If you telephone Guy Ritchie's public relations contact and ask them whether he has ever poked himself in the eye with a spoon, it doesn't matter if he's rolling around on the floor with a spoon sticking out of his eye socket at that very moment - they're still going to say no.

The film uses as as some of it's primary interviewees two authors; Jake Halpern, who wrote 'Fame Junkies' and Nick Davies, who wrote 'Flat Earth News'. Halpern's book analyzes America's obsession with fame and posits that in some cases it has become a literal addiction. Davies' book meanwhile alleges that distortion and inaccuracy are widespread in Britain's media because cost-cutting has robbed journalists of their time and resources. Atkins is clearly inspired by both authors and this seems to be the primary motivation behind the documentary.

However, Atkins has handled both subjects clumsily and made some extremely tenuous connections between the two. Those interested in the issues raised by the film may be better off simply buying the two books.

The primary problem with 'Starsuckers' is its clumsiness. It jumps from topic to topic with little in the way of narrative. It leaves key ideas unexplored and often ignores expert opinion, instead jumping to its own conclusions. There is also an air of hypocrisy to the film, which in one breath lambasts the media for its supposedly duplicitous nature and in the next sees fit to hoodwink Max Clifford, a 66 year old man, and surreptitiously film him in the privacy of his own living room.

Overwhelmingly, though, the film seems like a wild goose chase. The website claims to 'pull the rug underneath a string of untouchables' but never quite lives up to its own boasting. At its climax, the film descends into madness as it tries to prove that Bob Geldof, alongside the world's media, conspired in the production of 'Live 8' to systematically undermine the efforts of legitimate charities.

'Starsuckers' spends almost two hours trying to convince us that the media is evil - that it cynically manipulates all of us into a frenzied celebrity addiction... That newspapers lie on purpose to make us consume celebrity TV shows, and celebrity TV shows manipulate us into buying Heat magazine. But ultimately, it fails to do so. At its worst it's actually condescending, giving the public no credit whatsoever and instead working on the assumption that we are all brainless nincompoops who will immediately consume whatever our television tells us to - that we will automatically like whatever Ant and Dec tell us to like, or buy whatever Kerry Katona tells us to buy.

But not Chris Atkins. He's too clever for that. It's just the rest of us who are stupid.

The overall viewing experience is an empty one. I left the cinema feeling like I'd been nagged for 115 minutes by a paranoid hippie. 'Starsuckers' gathers together every paranoid cliché you've ever heard about the media and combines them all to form an ultimately flat and unrevelatory film that comes nowhere close to achieving what it sets out to.

Walking the red carpet with the men who stare at goats

It's not every day that you walk past George Clooney and it's even rarer that you do so on the red carpet at a film premiere. But as of this week I can consider both boxes ticked.

On Thursday night Clooney's latest offering debuted in Leicester Square on day two of the Times BFI London Film Festival. The Times Gala screening of 'The Men Who Stare at Goats' was the hottest ticket in town and I was lucky enough to have a pair.

Based on Jon Ronson's non-fiction book of the same name, the film tells the tale of the US government's preoccupation with teaching factions of its military to master psychic abilities.

The gala was a glitzy affair. Photographers and TV crews lined one side of the red carpet and screaming fans lined the other. Ticketholders were ushered through Leicester Square's famous garden (closed to the public for the evening) and into the middle of the hysteria. Surrounded by flashbulbs, autograph pads and dangerous looking security guards it was a surreal experience to walk past the cast and crew as they gave live interviews. Somewhere in the world I have now shared a screen with George Clooney, however briefly.

At 7pm Clooney took the stage with director Grant Heslov, producer Paul Lister, author Jon Ronson and screenwriter Peter Straughan. The actor addressed the audience, which included John Hurt, Neve Campbell, Damian Lewis and 'Shaun of the Dead' director Edgar Wright, who is rumoured to be directing a film adaptation of Ronson's first book 'Them: Adventures with Extremists'.

"As well as being a wonderful book," Clooney told the crowd, "this screenplay was considered one of the best screenplays not to be made into a movie for a long period of time."

Starring Ewan McGregor as a fledgling reporter fleeing a failed marriage, the film is not a particularly faithful adaptation of Ronson's book. However, this was to be expected. Journalism tends not to translate well to the silver screen. Writing a book like 'The Men Who Stare At Goats' would have been a long and arduous task involving months, if not years, of painstaking research. As a narrative arc, a journalist leafing endlessly through piles of documents is unlikely to set the box office on fire.

Perhaps the biggest deviation from the book is that McGregor's character, Bob Wilton, is desperate to enter Iraq and become a war correspondent, whereas Ronson actively avoided the country. The first time I met Jon Ronson was when I invited him to deliver a guest lecture at my university, during which he spoke about his reasons for not going to Iraq. "This was 2003," he said. "The insurgency was just beginning. My son was five years old."

On his travels Wilton encounters Lyn Cassady, a former psychic spy. In a show-stealing performance from George Clooney, Cassady wears the maniacal grin of a man constantly on the verge of a breakdown. Hilarious and unnerving in equal measure, Clooney plays Cassady with the naivety and conviction of Buzz Lightyear in his first outing; a man utterly convinced of his own psychic abilities in the face of what seems like overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Cassady is an amalgamation of several psychic spies who feature in Ronson's book and while he is a fictional character the stories he tells of soldiers trying to become invisible, walk through walls and kill animals just by staring at them are true and lifted directly from Ronson's original text.

Elsewhere, Jeff Bridges is endearing as Bill Django, a hippie soldier modelled closely on Jim Channon, the Lieutenant Colonel behind the 'First Earth Battalion Manual', a tome urging soldiers to win wars through peace and love rather than combat. The juxtaposition of Django's wide-eyed enthusiasm with the rigidity of his seniors is a constant source of humour.

Kevin Spacey also appears as slimy soldier Larry Hooper, a sour-faced perpetual bonfire pisser. The only central character not based on a real person, Hooper is a thorn in the side of Cassady and Django and viewers will relish watching him get his comeuppance.

'The Men Who Stare at Goats' is a fast-paced, Coen-esque feature that expertly delivers action, pathos and pure comedy. Quality source material, a snappy script, strong direction and a fantastic cast come together to create what is surely one of this year's must see films. Eliciting belly laughs for the entirety of its 90 minute running time, it was certainly a hit with Thursday night's audience.

The Men Who Stare at Goats is released nationwide on Friday 6th November.

Review: 'A Tribute to Michael Jackson', Jazz Cafe, Saturday 29th August 2009

‘Thriller’. ‘I Want You Back’. ‘Bad’. ‘Beat It’. ‘Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’. ‘Can You Feel It’. Six of the most instantly recognisable and universally loved tracks in pop history. Last night’s Jazz Cafe salute to Michael Jackson – the first of two shows designed to celebrate what would have been King of Pop’s 51st birthday – opened with an instrumental medley of all six. The message was clear; who but Michael Jackson could afford to squeeze six hits into a five minute medley, and still have enough left over to fill a two hour show?

Hosted by Eric Roberson and arranged by Nick Cohen, the night was a musical journey through the career of a pop legend, featuring tracks from his childhood all the way up to his final studio album, ‘Invincible’. Between Eric Roberson’s performances, vocalists Chris Ballin, Donna Gardier, Lennox Cameron, Grammy-nominated diva Kym Mazelle and Foreign Exchange’s Phonte Coleman took turns fronting the band.

Roberson kicked off the vocal performances with an energetic rendition of his favourite Jackson track, ‘PYT’, and moved smoothly into a delicate take on ‘Human Nature’. However, his best performance of the night was a sultry, sensual, extended version of ‘Lady In My Life’.

After Chris Ballin – a former Jackson backing singer – offered up a jazzy take on ‘I Can’t Help It’, Donna Gardier delivered a gutsy performance of ‘Never Can Say Goodbye’, littered with James Brown style false stops and reprises.

Kym Mazelle’s reggae inspired performance of ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’ at first threw the audience but eventually won them over. Mazelle would later belt out a funky reimagining of Jackson’s 2001 hit ‘You Rock My World’, which easily eclipsed the studio recording.

Dreadlocked keyboardist Lennox Cameron elicited screams from female spectators with his pitch perfect vocal on ‘Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough’ and later reduced several onlookers to tears when he crooned ‘Gone Too Soon’, accompanied only by Alex Bennett on keys.

Frank Tontoh delivered a knockout drum solo during an arrangement of Jackson’s 1992 hit ‘Remember The Time’ that had more bottom and funk than the original track. Credit must also go to Tim Canfield for seamlessly weaving a rousing guitar solo into the R&B classic, ‘Rock with You’.

The biggest cheers of the night, though, were reserved for Phonte Coleman, who took to the stage decked out in a t-shirt bearing the slogan, ‘My hero ain’t molest them bitch ass kids’ – a slogan that the audience enthusiastically chanted at various intervals throughout the rest of the show. Coleman’s comical take on Jackson’s Motown 25 performance of ‘Billie Jean’, including a specially written rap, provoked a deafening reaction.

There may have been a shortage of tracks from the last twenty years of Jackson’s career, and every performer fluffed a few lyrics, but the night served as a poignant reminder of the talent that we have all lost.

For two hours Roberson and co wowed the sell-out crowd with hit after hit, but such is the enormity of Jackson's back catalogue that the crowd was still left crying for the countless hits that didn't make the setlist; 'Dirty Diana', 'Smooth Criminal', 'Another Part of Me', 'Dangerous' - and earlier hits such as 'Ben', 'ABC' and 'The Love You Save'.

The Jazz Cafe’s salute to Michael Jackson epitomised his appeal and served as a sad reminder of why the star was able to sell almost a million tickets in one city; his catalogue of hits could easily fill four hours and nothing can beat the experience of hearing them performed live.