It's always lovely to provide someone with a Christmas present, even if it comes a few days early, and clearly the tabloid headline writers were thrilled with the gift from David Furnish and Elton John when they got married. It was the perfect chance for them to write some nudge-nudge headlines, not the worst of which was "Elton takes David up the aisle" in The Sun. The same paper also offered the bemusing "Don't go breaking his heart" injunction to Furnish, which, admittedly, keyed in to an Elton song but didn't really make much sense as a wedding story (since when did the Sun care about Elton's feelings? Didn't it have to pay him a million quid once for trampling over them?). Pravda actually managed a better pun than the papers which have English as a first language: "Sir Elton John completely furnished now." The Daily Star, meanwhile, noticed that the wedding colour was pink and came up with, erm, "I pink I love you". That might have made sense on a story about Carey Hart's wedding this weekend, but was just odd in this case. The Irish Examiner's "Pride and groom" was pretty good, but headline of them all, was in the Toronto Star: "Elton John marries Toronto film-maker."
Gary Glitter needs not condemnation, but just understanding. Or so Roger Daltrey reckons, anyway, according to an interview with Mojo. Which isn't totally wrong - it makes sense to offer therapy and support than just dishing out punishment - but it's not like Glitter has actually been trying to help himself, has it? What with the fleeing the country before signing the sex offender's register and heading for nations where rich people are able to buy children, and turning up "helping young girls with English" and buying off their families when caught - he's hardly a man saying "please, help me sort myself out." Still, it looks like Glitter will be heading home soon enough - perhaps Roger will put his luxurious home at Glitter's disposal and try and help him out.
The Guardian's Saturday celebrity round-up got itself in a bit of fix; it ran the picture of Mariah Carey having a flunky on hand to hold her drink, and then the next week had to - well, not apologise so much as roll its eyes and say "whoops, apparently Mariah's people are trying to kill that picture." Almost as if they weren't entirely sorry about having printed it by mistake.
This week, the paper was on safer ground with a splendid attempt to round up all 43 former members of The Fall. Some (Mark Riley, for instance) were easier to find than others (backing vocalist 1977-1983 Kay Caroll, now a doctor's assistant). Brix Smith (who could still make Barbara Manning write a song) is happy to talk; one-time drummer Tom Head isn't answering his phone. Even with all this research, Dave Simpson is worried he might have missed a few. There's a helpline number on the end of the article for anyone who feels they've been overlooked.
"Pete Doherty and Tony Hancock" opined Nancy Banks-Smith, reviewing the Babyshamblecrackhead's appearance on the BBC2 biography of the lad himself, "both wear that irresistable, invisible label: Please look after this bear." Even Mr. Gruber, surely, would find it difficult to take Doherty under his wing.
Reorganisation and new priorities at the Welsh Assembly has led to some sad news: funding for Sound Nation has been yanked, and so Wales (and the wider UK) is going to lose its monthly A5 burst of enthusiasm and level-headed advice. The state believes its money could be better spent elsewhere to stimulate the nation's musical creativity. We're not so sure.
More tax pounds at work in the shape of Fit, the self-styled "Britain's best free men's mag", but in effect an NHS bid to disguise health advice for young guys in the form of a low-budget lads mag ("it's surprisingly easy to get a girl pregnant", apparently - although it depends where you're starting from, surely? Sure, once you're naked, and lying on top of her, yes; but getting there can prove to be slightly more challenging.) It'd be churlish of FHM to sue for the wholesale ripping off of the magazine's house style and graphic feel; and presumably the Little Britain team are making enough from talking dolls and spaghetti shapes to let them get away with the "Matt Lucas and David Walliams were not involved in the writing of this article" disclaimer on Vicky Pollard's Guide To Sex. What is puzzling, though, is how come they're only on the second issue - we remember picking up the first one in the Spring of 2004. Are British blokes so healthy they only need a prod once every eighteen months?
Talking of which, Rachel Stevens pops up, doing her "here's how you check to see if you've got testicular cancer" routine again - it's like squeezing fruit, apparently; and, proving he's not good for nothing, Pete Doherty is rolled out as a warning of the dangers of drugs. His body is pinned out and little boxes show just what damage he's doing to his body. Although the one on his cock says something about not being able to get it up, rather than "Staying on crack will reduce your chances of wedging it into Kate Moss ever again."
The article also has an odd payoff: "Pete was sent to prison after breaking into Carl Barat's home to steal musical equipment, which he sold to buy drugs. If you or someone you know is using crack or heroin, get advice from the experts." Depending on if its you or someone you know, that would be Cash Converters or a good alarm service, presumably.
Nick Cohen, in the new-look Observer, thinks about the strange summoning of Bob Geldof into the Tory fold, and wonders how this is exactly going to work, as at the same time "Cameron's aides are all over Michela Wrong, who has been the spokeswoman for the African dissidents who think Geldof is rewarding the genocidal and kleptomamiac tyrants who are keeping Africa poor. I wouldn't have thought there was a tent in the world big enough to contain these points of view."
The NME has Richard Ashcroft and Nirvana's Nevermind on the cover, which is so decidely retro we're not certain when we also read a strapline "Legend signs up for Awards gig" that it won't turn out Everett True is going to be playing this year's Brat shows. The quiet period for releases and gigs is leading to some very thin NMEs at the moment - the odd one out the day before Christmas Eve required a Morrissey cover to stop the whole thing blowing away - and this week's barely scrapes up fifty-two pages, much of which is given over to peeks into what's to come in 2006. There's a lot of guessing, and some sketchy lack of detail (New albums from Courtney Love - "title: TBC"; Maximo Park - "title: TBC"; Scissor Sisters - "title: TBC"; Hard-Fi - "title: TBC"). There's even one or two extravagent claims - "Ian Brown Plans NME Awards Show Spectacular" trumpets a headline, only to undercut itself with the admission that the "Former Stone Roses singer starts 2006 with smallest London gig in years." Can something be small and spectacular at the same time?
Why has Richard Ashcroft taken four years to complete his new album? "My blueprint was put down the Dylans, the Neil Youngs, the Van Morrisons." We've not heard of the last two bands, but from what we can recall of early-90s indie chancers, we don't recall them being so slack - an album a year, wasn't it?
But Ashcroft is still trying to explain why its taken him four years to produce an album whic is exactly like his last one, only more pointless: "They took detours which perlexed their audience but gave them longevity." Well, yes, but are you trying to tell us that you've dropped to a two albums a decade workrate in order to keep yourself going? There's a certain degree of sense in that - if you've got a six album contract, the longer you take to deliver those albums, the longer the contract will last - but since when did Neil Young ever perplex his audience by playing "hunt the singer" for eighteen months?
Eventually, Ashcroft admits that he was "bringing up kids." Similarly, Zodiac Mindwarp has been off the scene for a while as he's been bringing up blood.
Ashcroft goes on to whine that the press "only partially" appreciates him, before announcing that he's aiming for the level "Stevie Wonder or Bob Dylan or John Lydon reached." Well, you've already more than surpassed Don't Drive Drunk, the Victoria's Secrets adverts and that shark series Lydon did for Channel Five. Maybe it's time for you to think about retiring, Richard?
Reviews:
albums:
clap your hands say yeah - clap your hands say yeah - "where they go next time is a troubling question", 7
mary j blige - the breakthrough - "she ain't going nowhere", 8
tracks:
totw - arctic monkeys - when the sun goes down - "their first murderous chorus"
starsailor - this time - still better than keane, though
live:
coldplay - earls court london - "the biggest - and best - band Britain has seen in years"
the long blondes - the harley sheffield - "sombre, soulfull, sussed"
And finally, during a bizarre period in British politics, surely the oddest moment of last Thursday's coverage of Charles Kennedy's announcement of his fondness for a dram too many came just as he was arriving at the Lib Dem offices. There, stood clearly in the view of the gathered media, was a figure holding up a copy of Q magazine like a hoarding. We've not seen anybody bouncing around outside Ariel Sharon's hospital room clutching a copy of Mojo yet, but we're not convinced that EMAP aren't experimenting with a new form of ambient advertising.
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We'd completely agree with him, although isn't a solo artist releasing a "tenth anniversary special edition" with bonus discage the individual's equivalent of a reunion tour?
Poor old Tony Hadley is due to go off on a charity trek through Venezeula next month, but it's not clear if he'll be able to go - he was rushed to hospital at the weekend to have his 
She's been threatening to for months, and now she's gone and done it: Pink has married Carey Hart, making her Pink Hart, we suppose. Hart - who apparently manages to earn a living of some sort riding bikes - pledged the in sickness and in health bit on the beach in Costa Rica.
Oh, good lord; apparently Rachel Stevens is in such a panic about her struggling sales she's considering 
