Famous for fifteen minutes?

Well, some of us would make do with less than that.  The occasional letter in the Guardian.  A blurred image in the background of some news footage.  Inhaling the same air as Joanna Lumley in Heathrow Arrivals.

And, of course, some of us couldn't care either way.

But then, you have to ask yourself - why is there YouTube?

Try an experiment.  Open Google, riff some random keys and hit 'Enter'.  I bet near the top of the resulting list will be a YouTube video.  (Disclaimer:  Doesn't actually work every time - most people seem to riff with the left hand only.  Be reasonable.)

But I digress.  Here's some stuff I came across while looking for other things.  I think they are poignant, whilst being good in and of themselves.

First up, Patrick Butterworth doing a cover of Florence and the Machine's 'You've got the love'.  

He's good, but that is not completely what drew me to this.  It's the little details.  The view out of his high-rise flat window, the bottle on the window sill .... I don't know.  The whole kit and caboodle.  I hope it works out for you,  Patrick, I really do, you have talent.  

Now we move up a level, so that you can watch chantoosie Nina Schofield doing an excellent cover of "Tidal Wave" by 'Sub Focus ft. Alpines'.  

Note the use now of pre-recorded accompaniment, professional mike guard, in-ear mixing probably with click track ..... MS Schofield regularly performs live, and I wish her larger venues.

As the Reverend Eli Jenkins says in 'Under Milk Wood';  "Praise the Lord, we are a musical nation!".  (Of course, he was talking about the Welsh, who see it as their god-given right to sing on all occasions.  I'll never forget the night at Uni in 1974 when we accidentally went into the 'Welsh' pub in Aberystwyth on a Saturday after the rugby, and were subjected to hours of students standing on tables bellowing out 'Sosban Fach' .... well, when I say hours, I mean until we could throw down our drinks and repair to more civilised surroundings.  No lingering offense;  I'm half Welsh, myself.  Doesn't mean I can't make jokes about sheep.)

Right, losing the thread, my interest and probably yours.  

OK, how about this.  Somewhere out there right now is an as-yet unregarded home-made video from someone who, over the next twenty five years, will revolutionise the future of popular music, generate a whole new industry based on some entertainment technology yet to be invented, lead a scandalous private life, and die in mysterious circumstances possibly involving alien contact.

All YOU have to do is to find it, get involved, and your fortune is assured.

The demise of HMV. That's a real watershed.

So, we no longer have any major High Street chain selling music, in physical formats.  This makes me unhappy.

Let me take you back to the late sixties and early seventies.  On the television, we have Top of the Pops and The Old Grey Whistle Test.  In the main, that's it and that's all - radio was rubbish, apart from John Peel's programme (lord, I miss you, John - why do the good die young.).  If you liked pop music, you were glued to the former, and if you had heard about Captain Beefheart, you tried to stay awake for the latter, while revising for your chemistry mock O-level or similar.

Here's a typical Saturday for a burgeoning muso in those days.  Cornflakes and BBC Radio Four news, which may even have still been called 'The Home Service'.  Denim flares and wedge heels on, or maybe loon pants .... RAF greatcoat ..... off into town to flick through all the albums in the racks of some six or seven music stores. 

OK, this isn't me, but it's reminiscent:

Boots and Woolworths used to sell records, fer crissake.  There were specialist stores that would get in US imports .... you could come across amazing things by accident.  It was an education.  

My significant other has reminded me that some of these stores would have booths where you could listen to a track or two off the album you were thinking of buying.  They even allowed you to go into the booths in pairs - it was a more innocent time.  And you could smoke a fag in there.  I can remember when the whole world reeked of Embassy No. 1's.  When I moved to London for my one year at Imperial College studying phsyics before I was rusticated, I remember flicking through the racks at Virgin Records in Notting Hill.  I may even have seen the sainted Mr. Branson on one of those Saturdays, but obviously I couldn't distinguish him from the other bearded hippies and sundry oddballs behind the counter.  

And of course you would buy your copy of New Musical Express, which had amazing, amusing and informative articles about groups like The Ramones or John Macloughlin or Sun Ra or The Incredible String Band.  Robert Fripp would be advertising courses in 'Guitar mechanics' in the small ads.  Warner Brothers would be taking out double page spreads to advertise their latest hopeful supergroup, who would never be heard of again.  Money was sprayed into the industry like nobody's business.

And now, we've come to this.  Amazon, iTunes, and Spotify.  Bands unable to fund their careers and albums, unless they tour themselves to death in grotty venues.  I despair.  We NEED music.  Popular music has kept me going, when all around has looked dark.  Look, I'm OK now, and I want to give something back so that there's something left for the future.  But I don't think online and download is the way to go.  It's not a community thing.  In Kingston, we have one proper record store left.  Banquet Records.  They have racks you can flick through, they support local groups through events and displays and instore promotions, they know about what's going on.  I want their babies.  (OK, Ed, rein it in a little.) 

Right, I no longer know where I'm going with this piece, so that's an indication that I should end it here.  Hey, I'm not being paid to do this, so I can do what the hell I like.  So good to be free of The Man.