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Jean Michelle Jarre at London’s Docklands

The river launch drifted slowly toward the Dagenham landing jetty. I'd been waiting for some 20 minutes, having parked my car in the jetty park. There was one other passenger waiting, a female reporter from the Ilford & Dagenham Post.

The sleek, expensive looking launch lay to at the jetty and we boarded. Already on board were some other journalists, some folk from the music reporting scene in London and a few bigwigs from the Ford Motor Company.

Ford Dagenham was a major sponsor for Michelle-Jarre's London's Docklands concert in the late 1980s and I had been invited along on the launch for a meal prior to attending the show as their guest. It was not something I would have wanted to miss.

The launch took a slow cruise down the Thames while we ate a plentiful meal with the wine and beers flowing before relaxing to the onboard lounge bar. We would disembark at a special VIP jetty leading to the concert area.

I'd managed to obtain a TV camera with the help of my employers at the Yellow Advertiser in Basildon and although no private video equipment was allowed to enter the spectator area, my press pass and VIP status overcame that. Before we went to the viewing area, we met up with the concert organiser and a few of his team.

The construction crew had worked wonders in erecting several large grandstands looking over the docklands water to the huge floating pontoon stage that was moored on the far side, beneath the towering warehouses at the back of the Isle of Dogs. Michelle-Jarre planned projecting his laser images on the buildings lining several hundreds of yards of the far bank and we knew that well over £2 million of fireworks had been rigged ready for the grand finale, which would be repeated the following night.

There was a good turn out and our seats were in the grandstand beside the TV crew’s tower — a perfect filming point. A huge array of guests were scheduled to join Jean, including a large choir and the London Philharmonic Orchestra, all accommodated on the massive floating stage.

I concentrated on filming the event and was grateful for the beers and hot-dogs brought to me by members of our small party as the whole film ran for some two and a half hours, including the stupendous fireworks display at the end. The launch then took us back to the jetty and our cars, and I hooked up with the girl reporter who invited me to accompany her to an address in London to look at the video.

It was her boyfriend’s flat and there was a plentiful supply of beer and a few other guests milling about. When they learned that I had filmed the show there was a pleased murmuring and we started the video.

The pictures were crisp and clear but no sound accompanied them. We wound the film through — silence from start to finish.

I checked the camera. All seemed well. I shot a short clip in the flat, everything perfect. We guessed that the sound input jack from the microphone had not connected properly. It was a big disappointment.

The next day was Saturday and I was off work. Although I didn't make it back home until midmorning, I resolved to return that evening to film the show again. This time I would be going in through the main public entrance, with just a free ticket. Ford had given me enough to take guests along, but I'd had no-one to take.

Finding a place to leave the car proved a problem. The whole of the Isle of Dogs seemed taken up with parked cars. Eventually I found a spot but it was about a 20 minute walk from the concert area. And this time getting in wasn't so easy.

"Sorry, no cameras," said the gate security.

"I'm press," I said, but I was unable to produce the special pass he needed to let me in with the camera.

"We've strict orders from the organisers that nobody can take any video cameras in," said the guard. I asked him to call the show organiser and gave him the mobile telephone number so he'd know I wasn't fooling.

"We met yesterday, so he knows about me."

A few minutes later I was in and inside the organisers' marquee explaining the sound problem.

That night it didn't stop raining but the show went on regardless and this time, I captured it all including the sound. Sadly the images were not as clear as the previous day's filming but it couldn't be helped, due to the weather. I'd managed to make what was the only ‘bootleg’ video of the London Dockhands’ show, despite freezing my butt off in the rain.

I was proud of my efforts too. The video was very watchable and the sound had recorded well. I'd managed to capture all of the laser images and the bulk of the finale fireworks and the zoom lens pulled in perfectly to individuals on the fairly distant pontoon.

I only made one copy of the film, which ended up in the possession of a brother-in-law in Brighton, England. The other — it was accidentally left in a drawer in a wall unit in a promenade flat overlooking the Solent at Lee-on-the-Solent in Hampshire when I moved out in 1995, together with some other unique and historical film shot in central Bosnia. For the story behind that, click here.

Sees yas.

KFB

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THE REAL SIR PAUL McCARTNEY—JUST ANOTHER DAY

Dateline : November 1994 ....... location: East Sussex, England, somewhere near Rye . . .

The small East Sussex village was familiar. I'd driven through it on countless occasions always on route to somewhere else. This was the first time I'd stopped and called in at the only local roadside newsagent's shop I was able to find.

Of all the people in life who tend to know where everybody in their location lives, none can beat the local newsagent. It's their job.

"I'm looking for Paul McCartney and I guessed of all people you'd probably be able to help," I said to the guy behind the counter when he asked if he could be of help. I noticed the shop was also a local post office. Even better.

I knew the McCartney's lived very close by and was looking to recruit Paul to help give a planned charity concert for Bosnia a boost. The concert was planned for 10 days before Christmas Day and was to help funds an expedition into the war ravaged country to hold Christmas parties for war orphaned youngsters.

Mr Newsagent was uncertain—I could tell by the way he looked me up and down, and peered through his shopfront window at my car parked outside with its single female passenger.

"Look, I'm a journalist. I'm going on a charity mission into Bosnia over Christmas. I want to get Paul's help in making the concert a success." I showed my credentials, including details of the concert and letters of support, one signed by Prime Minister John Major. The newsagent examined them.

"I believe you. The trouble is, I'm under strict instruction not to tell anyone where the place is," said Mr Newsagent, emphasising his words, "but if you go ...."

He gave me easy to follow instructions to locate Paul's farm where he then lived with Linda. "I didn't tell you any of this," he said.

The narrow country lane leading past the approach to the farm was easy to find but I drove straight past the unmarked entrance to the farm approach before realising it. It took a few minutes to find a spot to turn the car in the lane before I drove slowly past the entrance again to check. The long drive wound down into a valley with the farmhouse visible some distance off. It looked the right place. I continued on by then turned again and pulled in to the drive.

The mistake I made was perhaps in stopping at the small hut I'd seen at the gateless entrance to the drive. As I stopped, a fellow emerged from the hut carrying a walkie-talkie. He approached the car. Why such people say 'can I help you' and then proceed to do exactly the opposite is anyone's guess in this crazy world of messed up humans.

He was not going to permit me to pass without causing a ruckus, that much was clear. He took no notice of my explanations, no notice of my letters of authority. He was just a goon doing his job without a brain. He declined to radio down to the farm and the only help he would offer was to provide me with the 'London office' for Paul—details of which I already knew well enough.

I pulled away and left the farm entrance in some disgust. I set off in the wrong direction down the lane and when I again stopped to turn about, two jeeps drove by with the McCartney clutch within. I was not in a position to halt them. Communications sent to Paul's 'London office' were ignored. The treatment I encountered, however, was not.

Perhaps I should have just driven straight past the goon at the gate. I have to call him a goon, having had words with the individual. Driving past would have set the alarms ringing perhaps, but I had all the authority I needed to do so. It would not have been myself who would have been embarrassed at the end of the day.

And the concert? It took place. But it could have been much better. Ah.

Fans of Sir Paul can now forget all about this and visit his web page at :
www.paulmccartney.com

. . . and as an extra treat, in the words of its creator: an "updated, comprehensive guide on how to play like Paul McCartney" ( links to https://beginnerguitarhq.com/paul-mccartney-guitar/)

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Music commentary
by Keith Harris

Pap music 2003

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun...

One thing stands out from the crowd in today’s music scene and that is the seemingly endless amount of what I will for want of a better term call pap music.

The music world seems to have fallen particularly foul of the young hip hop boy and girl wannabee dance bands who gyrate (don’ ya just luv this font?) on stage like monotonous metronomes while churning out endless lines of drivel vocals and relying on the motion of their thrusting pelvises to carry the songs. Nice try, but hardly.

They will argue that their music is popular, well liked, pointing to the throbbing crowds. But wait a minute, take a look at those crowds. Most are still teens and the majority of them are still some way from completing their standard schooling years.

It is not quite what they like, but more what they are being force fed to like. Ireland in particular has a malaise of wannabee hip hop dance bands trying to follow almost exactly in the Spice Girl or Westlife footsteps, all backed by cash hungry wannabee managers and promoters. This manufactured music industry is strangling musical expression and where the occasional original acts break through they are looked upon almost as curios.

Interviews with the wannabees is a curious kaleidoscope of flashed thighs and knickers, painstakingly painted faces and spiked coloured hair. And our unfortunate youngsters are being weaned on a daily diet of this pap.

Some years ago I watched John Lennon being interviewed at his New York home. It was the dawn of Johnny Rotten and the Sex Pistols and Lennon was sitting cross-legged on his sofa with headphones clamped to his ears and a bemused, almost stunned expression on his face. Perhaps the former Beatle saw something ominous unfolding for the future years.

But then even Johnny Rotten had something. A close friend once said that Rotten’s real problem was that he failed to realise just who he had become in the world.

Now I know things change with time, but really. What is taking place in the pap music world seems the equivalent of taking a 1970’s Lada and rebuilding it with a fibreglass body and calling it progress.

“Feed your head, the doormouse said.” Well, you can feed your head with anything, but nobody can deny the truth of the old adage, you are what you eat.

It may be a wistful thought, but I for one would be pleased to see the return of meaningful, ‘expressionate’ music with personality replace the pap in the mainstream pop world.

But perhaps its more than just a simple matter of replacing the ‘a’ with an ‘o’.

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