The joke runs something like this: “If John Peel could see what Glastonbury has become, he would be spinning in his grave. At the wrong speed.”
We know John was no fan of U2 and quite what he would have made of Beyonce is anybody’s guess. But I don’t think this year’s bash at Worthy Farm was quite bad enough to disturb the great man’s rest (he would surely have adored the superb Jimmy Cliff set).
However, it’s hard to imagine Peely not furrowing his brow and glowering at his wellies if he had seen the BBC television coverage. And this is where his gruff presence is so sorely missed.
For those working in music radio or TV, this must be the booking of the year. Three days at a world famous, sold out music festival, staying in a half decent trailer or even a guest house, food laid on, drinks provided – it’s quite a jolly. So, you’d imagine those lucky enough to be selected would be on top form, delivering exceptional coverage and outstanding commentary.
Some might say, that’s exactly what they do. I wouldn’t be one of them.
First things first: exactly how many anchors does a broadcaster need to cover a music festival? Two? Three? How about eight?
That’s right, eight; a head count, which surely reflects the cushiness of the brief and the willingness of the BBC to indulge the clamour to attend. Almost forgivable if only this crew were as erudite, knowledgeable and incisive as they are giddy, dizzy and starstruck.
If only.
I am genuinely bemused by some of the hiring decisions taken by the national broadcast media. Take Fearne Cotton. She is reasonably attractive and somewhat fashionable. But these are no qualifications for music journalism (and nor should they be). Cotton knows next to nothing about music. That is to say, while she may know the names of current acts and their songs, she clearly has no awareness of popular music’s evolution and history. Which means she is unable to offer any insight other than ‘How amazing was that?’ When one has no comparison and no sense of context, it’s easy to imagine everything is ‘amazing’. It’s like being ten years old. And that’s precisely how she comes across. Reggie Yates is simply her best mate in the playground.
Jo Whiley is older than Cotton, but barely any wiser. It’s astonishing how a presenter with almost 20 years’ experience still appears to be an embarrassed media student, pulled from a provincial campus and plonked before a camera for the first time. Again, Whiley’s considered take on most performances consists of little more than empty adjectives ‘amazing’, ‘wonderful’, ‘astonishing’. Nothing falling under the Whiley gaze could possibly be tainted by a smudge of negativity, every band is perfect, every show beyond criticism. Coldplay brought a tear to her eye. And so it follows, her commentary is utterly pointless.
Of course, this glazed admiration lapses into queasy sycophancy the minute JW is presented with a band on the sofa opposite her chair. Never one to give vocal support to mainstream bands in the past (lest she appear uncool), faced with U2 and Coldplay, the most she could force from her lips were questions as scenery crushing as ‘Were you nervous?’, ‘Did you enjoy it?’ and ‘You didn’t want it to end did you?’. When faced with a Bono on a ramble about Joseph of Arimathea the public needs the likes of a Richard Bacon to keep such nonsense in check – but a swooning Jo was all we had.
John Peel loved music. From death metal to rocksteady, if it was performed with integrity and honesty, he’d play it, support it and enthuse about it. But he had no fear of critical judgement. When he disliked a record, a band or a gig, he would say so without hesitation. He knew a true fan cannot like everything and for him, comment was an essential part of his passion for recorded music. This principle was completely absent in last weekend’s festival coverage.
Don’t mistake this for some latent sexism. I must confess I knew Zane Lowe only by name and reputation, having given up on Radio One many, many years ago – and I was impressed. Impressed by the way one individual, paid to be a communicator, could so consistently make such an utter twonk of himself every time he spoke. If he didn’t exist, Chris Morris would surely have invented this antipodean arse as an exaggerated example of the absurdity of rock presentation. To Lowe, The Horrors haven’t simply added a bit of electronica to their sound, they are now ‘ambiently groove driven … taking the whole vibe to another dimension’. Needless to say there is nothing he doesn’t love to death except Beyonce (who was pretty good). He obviously felt she was in danger of encroaching on his hip credentials.
You’d think we could rely on Lauren Laverne and Mark Radcliffe for perspective, maybe a touch of sarcasm and certainly a healthy helping of salt. But a desperately needed injection of scepticism and irony never materialised. Radcliffe was more concerned with carving out a role as the latter day John Peel to contribute any of his substantial grasp of bands and music culture. Meanwhile, Laverne looked trapped in the headlights of live telly, frozen and babbling (either she couldn’t hear the pleas to wrap up or her earpiece was full of cries of ‘keep going, keep going’.) They should both know better.
So how should the Beeb proceed if we are to avoid this expensive but hollow shambles in 2013 (no Glasto next year)? I have two suggestions.
1. I think we need proper journalists, rather than DJs. Professional folks who understand the subtleties, nuances and curiosities that make up a real interview. People who will bring an appreciation of the importance of background and context and won’t get swept up in the ‘amazing’ nature of a massive pop festival. Surely, if we need a presentation team at all, we need them for analysis and critique – just as we do in sport.
2. I say ‘if we need a presentation team at all’, because I have suspicions we probably don’t. Great camera work, smart direction and intelligent editing should be enough to bring us Glastonbury in all its muddy glory. After all, why shouldn’t we be permitted to watch the acts in which we are interested and decide for ourselves whether or not they pass muster?
Either way, Cotton, Yates, Whiley, Lowe, Laverne and Radcliffe should be saving their pennies, ready to buy their tickets and stand in the rain with the rest of us in two years time. Because they are not required on our tellies.
We know John was no fan of U2 and quite what he would have made of Beyonce is anybody’s guess. But I don’t think this year’s bash at Worthy Farm was quite bad enough to disturb the great man’s rest (he would surely have adored the superb Jimmy Cliff set).
However, it’s hard to imagine Peely not furrowing his brow and glowering at his wellies if he had seen the BBC television coverage. And this is where his gruff presence is so sorely missed.
For those working in music radio or TV, this must be the booking of the year. Three days at a world famous, sold out music festival, staying in a half decent trailer or even a guest house, food laid on, drinks provided – it’s quite a jolly. So, you’d imagine those lucky enough to be selected would be on top form, delivering exceptional coverage and outstanding commentary.
Some might say, that’s exactly what they do. I wouldn’t be one of them.
First things first: exactly how many anchors does a broadcaster need to cover a music festival? Two? Three? How about eight?
That’s right, eight; a head count, which surely reflects the cushiness of the brief and the willingness of the BBC to indulge the clamour to attend. Almost forgivable if only this crew were as erudite, knowledgeable and incisive as they are giddy, dizzy and starstruck.
If only.
I am genuinely bemused by some of the hiring decisions taken by the national broadcast media. Take Fearne Cotton. She is reasonably attractive and somewhat fashionable. But these are no qualifications for music journalism (and nor should they be). Cotton knows next to nothing about music. That is to say, while she may know the names of current acts and their songs, she clearly has no awareness of popular music’s evolution and history. Which means she is unable to offer any insight other than ‘How amazing was that?’ When one has no comparison and no sense of context, it’s easy to imagine everything is ‘amazing’. It’s like being ten years old. And that’s precisely how she comes across. Reggie Yates is simply her best mate in the playground.
Jo Whiley is older than Cotton, but barely any wiser. It’s astonishing how a presenter with almost 20 years’ experience still appears to be an embarrassed media student, pulled from a provincial campus and plonked before a camera for the first time. Again, Whiley’s considered take on most performances consists of little more than empty adjectives ‘amazing’, ‘wonderful’, ‘astonishing’. Nothing falling under the Whiley gaze could possibly be tainted by a smudge of negativity, every band is perfect, every show beyond criticism. Coldplay brought a tear to her eye. And so it follows, her commentary is utterly pointless.
Of course, this glazed admiration lapses into queasy sycophancy the minute JW is presented with a band on the sofa opposite her chair. Never one to give vocal support to mainstream bands in the past (lest she appear uncool), faced with U2 and Coldplay, the most she could force from her lips were questions as scenery crushing as ‘Were you nervous?’, ‘Did you enjoy it?’ and ‘You didn’t want it to end did you?’. When faced with a Bono on a ramble about Joseph of Arimathea the public needs the likes of a Richard Bacon to keep such nonsense in check – but a swooning Jo was all we had.
John Peel loved music. From death metal to rocksteady, if it was performed with integrity and honesty, he’d play it, support it and enthuse about it. But he had no fear of critical judgement. When he disliked a record, a band or a gig, he would say so without hesitation. He knew a true fan cannot like everything and for him, comment was an essential part of his passion for recorded music. This principle was completely absent in last weekend’s festival coverage.
Don’t mistake this for some latent sexism. I must confess I knew Zane Lowe only by name and reputation, having given up on Radio One many, many years ago – and I was impressed. Impressed by the way one individual, paid to be a communicator, could so consistently make such an utter twonk of himself every time he spoke. If he didn’t exist, Chris Morris would surely have invented this antipodean arse as an exaggerated example of the absurdity of rock presentation. To Lowe, The Horrors haven’t simply added a bit of electronica to their sound, they are now ‘ambiently groove driven … taking the whole vibe to another dimension’. Needless to say there is nothing he doesn’t love to death except Beyonce (who was pretty good). He obviously felt she was in danger of encroaching on his hip credentials.
You’d think we could rely on Lauren Laverne and Mark Radcliffe for perspective, maybe a touch of sarcasm and certainly a healthy helping of salt. But a desperately needed injection of scepticism and irony never materialised. Radcliffe was more concerned with carving out a role as the latter day John Peel to contribute any of his substantial grasp of bands and music culture. Meanwhile, Laverne looked trapped in the headlights of live telly, frozen and babbling (either she couldn’t hear the pleas to wrap up or her earpiece was full of cries of ‘keep going, keep going’.) They should both know better.
So how should the Beeb proceed if we are to avoid this expensive but hollow shambles in 2013 (no Glasto next year)? I have two suggestions.
1. I think we need proper journalists, rather than DJs. Professional folks who understand the subtleties, nuances and curiosities that make up a real interview. People who will bring an appreciation of the importance of background and context and won’t get swept up in the ‘amazing’ nature of a massive pop festival. Surely, if we need a presentation team at all, we need them for analysis and critique – just as we do in sport.
2. I say ‘if we need a presentation team at all’, because I have suspicions we probably don’t. Great camera work, smart direction and intelligent editing should be enough to bring us Glastonbury in all its muddy glory. After all, why shouldn’t we be permitted to watch the acts in which we are interested and decide for ourselves whether or not they pass muster?
Either way, Cotton, Yates, Whiley, Lowe, Laverne and Radcliffe should be saving their pennies, ready to buy their tickets and stand in the rain with the rest of us in two years time. Because they are not required on our tellies.
