One of the family: a few thoughts about Sir Terry Wogan

January 2016 has been an unrelentingly sad month, with the loss of many talented, creative people. Lemmy, Alan Rickman, Colin Vearncombe and of course, David Bowie have all passed, leaving a huge legacy. And now today, we have lost Sir Terry Wogan, undoubtedly one of the greatest broadcasters the UK and Ireland has ever seen.

If anything, I feel Sir Terry's loss more keenly than those others mentioned above; not simply because of his effortless talent, but also because his presence in my life was so pervasive. He's always been there, and when you consider that he was a daily presence in many people's lives for so long, it does feel like I have lost a member of the family.

I think my earliest memory -- and one of my overriding memories -- of Sir Terry dates back to 1980 or thereabouts. My dad has long been a fan of Sir Terry, and would always listen to his Radio 2 show (first time around) in the car. On this particular day, he was taking my younger brother Tony and I to school. Sir Terry lined up a track by Alvin Stardust, and introduced him as Alvin Starbar. Now this was the funniest thing ever as far as a 7 year old and 5 year old were concerned, and we were both in fits of laughter for the rest of the journey. In fact, my brother messaged me today referring to this anecdote.

As a fan of Kenny Everett, I'd also appreciate his and Sir Terry's interactions on Kenny's sketch show and on Blankety Blank. As a kid, I remember being open-mouthed when Kenny bent Sir Terry's trademark microphone in two; in fact, watching that clip again on YouTube today demonstrates how ramshackle Blankety Blank looks compared to today's slick quiz shows, but I'll tell you now, it was all the better for it. The camaraderie between Sir Terry and the celebrity guests, and indeed his interactions with the contestants, is just a joy. Sir Terry may be winging it but he knows what he's doing, he's got it all under control. It's just an effortless, charming watch, and it's sad we've lost a lot of that in today's TV.

Sir Terry's charm was also evident in his thrice-weekly chatshow, Wogan. It takes a real professional to be able to host three chat shows a week for 8 years, and if anything, his ability to make it look so easy in some ways undermined the hard work involved. At turns earnest, cheeky and probing, Sir Terry could handle any guest the BBC booking agents threw at him, and was able to win over even the most aloof of contributors. Some say that Sir Terry's geniality slipped when he interviewed David Icke in 1990; the view was that Sir Terry's approach was colder than usual, and that this may have been unfair given the view at the time that Icke may have been going through a personal crisis. Whatever one may think of Icke and his world view, one must remember how unusual the whole affair was and in defence of Sir Terry, I would suggest that this was a difficult interview for anybody to get right. I can't think of any of Sir Terry's contemporaries who could have handled that interview successfully.

His work with Children In Need needs little introduction, and as well as being a figurehead for the cause, his ability to get the tone between frivolity and seriousness just right at the right points on the telethon night itself is much underrated. Likewise, his involvement in Eurovision brought a welcome sense of fun to an event which could be accused of taking itself too seriously at times.

If I think back to what Sir Terry means to me, I think of his second tenure as the Radio 2 breakfast host. I started listening to Radio 2 properly in 1996, when I got my first car (a Peugeot 205!) and that's when I was really drawn into what Sir Terry was really about. Older but not necessarily wiser, I was at an age where I started to get him and his whimsical take on the world. A gentle listen, easing the listener out of the hypnogogic state and into the reality of working life. A bridge between personal time and work time. His way with words impressed, his ability to take a listener's contribution and perform it perfectly impressed, and it was even better when he'd read something out but struggle to keep his laughter in check. Like when he'd crack up reading out the hilarious Janet & John stories; him laughing would have me laughing, have the nation laughing.

In more recent years, I'd still listen to Weekend Wogan on Radio 2 on Sunday's, and an unexpected televisual delight of last year was BBC2's Terry & Mason's Great British Food Trip. A 20-part series which featured Sir Terry and London cabbie Mason McQueen travelling to various British cities to check out the sights and tastes, this was a warm, amusing, entertaining series which showed Sir Terry as a man at the height of his powers. His rapport with Mason was a joy to behold, and it was evident that Sir Terry was having a ball.

But you know, that's the great man down to a tee. He spent 50 years having a ball, whether on radio, TV or carrying out charitable work. And we had a ball watching him do it.

A great broadcaster who will be greatly missed. Rest in peace, Sir Terry.

Life should never feel small: A few words about Colin Vearncombe aka Black

Before Christmas, I'd been listening a lot to Black's 1987 debut album Wonderful Life. It'd been a while since I'd dug it out, and it took only a few tracks for me to ask myself why I'd left it quite so long. An astounding long-player, it took me back to my life at the time of its original release but, as with such things, the events of my life since then have also allowed me to find new significance in many of its lyrics.

I'd actually started making notes for a blog post on the album, and I even conjured up the half-notion of having my photo taken on Liverpool's Dock Road holding my copy of the album, as a tribute to its cover. Whether I'd ever get up early enough to do that (or get anyone to actually take the photo) is another story.

I'd always thought it an underrated album, and thought it'd be nice to get some thoughts down at some point.

As it happens, I am now writing a blogpost about Black, or Colin Vearncombe as he was known to his family, friends and fans alike. They say people only say nice things about you when you're dead, and the tragic, bitter irony is that it is Colin's sad passing today which has finally prompted me to write about him.

Even those people only familiar with the Wonderful Life single -- a glorious slab of melancholy with a delicious lyrical twist -- will be aware that this Liverpool-born talent possessed an impressive voice, and could write a damn good song. But that's just the tip of the iceberg.

I've talked about his best-known album a little bit so far, but others will remember his other big hit, the sumptuous, mysterious Sweetest Smile. But even if the chart spotlight couldn't quite place him again, Colin continued to make terrific, beguiling music. Comedy, his 1990 follow-up to Wonderful Life, carried the lovely You're A Big Girl Now, while Colin tapped into bluegrass and gospel for influences for 2009's Water On Stone. His most recent album, 2015's Blind Faith, was almost a grown-up reflection on his debut album and showed Colin at the height of his songwriting talent, with poignant tracks like When It's Over a perfect compliment to his rich voice, perhaps now sounding more like Scott Walker than ever.

But, as an 80s music fan through and through, it's the Wonderful Life album I keep returning to.

The impressive melodrama of Everything Coming Up Roses, with its uptempo arrangement and delightful bridge, provides a great counterpoint with the legendary Wonderful Life, whilst the understated but deeply moving I Just Grew Tired is a remarkable piece of composition for a man then in his mid-20s. The bombast of I'm Not Afraid is too strong for some tastes but is a bold 80's style thumper, whilst the rocky and elliptical Sixteens tips its hat to Bowie.

But my favourite track, and indeed probably my favourite Black song, is the beautiful ballad, Paradise.

Released as the fifth single from the album, the thoughtful Paradise could only reach #38 in 1988, a sensitive child lost in the busy schoolyard of the 1988 charts where the likes of Yazz and Bros shouted for everyone's attention. Now, I like good old pop music like the best of them, but I always found it a shame that this sublime track didn't reach a wider audience.

Written by Colin with producer Dave Dix, Paradise is a poetic tale of escaping the pain of everyday life and seeking refuge in love.

A low-key arrangement led by piano, chimes, bass and subtle percussion allows Colin's voice to dominate, allows him to deliver the song with the arrangement rather than against it.

Colin takes many voices on the Wonderful Life album -- melancholy, irony, regret, cynicism -- but here he goes for sincerity and optimism. "I feel the weight of your heart / And I know a way it can change", Colin tells his loved one, "Just take my hand and we can make it to paradise".

The semi-operatic, climbing chorus sells the image, seals the deal -- "Just like a forming rainbow / Just like the stars in the sky / Life should never feel small".

A further verse sees Colin go for further persuasion -- "We are losers now / It wouldn’t hurt to try / Oh wrap me up in passioned arms / And tell me, tell me you love" --  with heartbreaking simplicity.

Authenticity is the mark of a great artist, and on this track, Colin sings every word like he means it. Damn it, he really does mean it.

The sweetness of the images of the rainbow and the starry sky are cut through with the bittersweet wisdom that "life should never feel small". A wisdom that is often learned the hard way, and this line measures the song's optimism with a dash of melancholy.

For many reasons, I find this an incredibly moving song. And never more so than tonight as it plays as I type these words.

I never met Colin, nor saw him live. But the tributes appearing tonight suggest that, as well as a talented musician and songwriter, he was a thoroughly decent chap, loved and admired by many. And surely that is the greatest tribute of all.

Thanks for the music, Colin. And thanks for reminding us that life should never feel small.

My Favourite Bowie: Absolute Beginners (1986)

I'm probably one of the last bloggers to pay tribute to the late, great David Bowie in the week he died, and many many bloggers have expressed their sadness at his passing in far more eloquent and elegant ways than I could ever hope to.

Whilst perhaps not a Bowie fanatic per se, I am a big fan and ardent admirer, and was lucky enough to see the man himself play live at the Liverpool Royal Court in 1997. Even so, I did not expect the wave of melancholy and loss that came over me this week; no tears, but a real sense of lament; a sense that something has changed.

Many of us have reached for and sought solace in Bowie tracks this week. Some have gone for the better known classics, some for the earlier or later, more obscure tracks. Some, like my good friend and blogger Tim Worthington, went straight for the underrated Tin Machine.

All good, valid options. But despite my love of the many different phases of Bowie, there was only one track for me: the sublime Absolute Beginners.

Written by Bowie for the much-hyped 1986 film musical of the same name, Absolute Beginners was a contemporary record which evoked the 1950s period, even if it didn't sound like a 1950s record. Bowie combines a retro 1950s sound with the 80s pop-jazz sound to create a heartfelt, irresistible anthemic ballad which manages to balance optimism and melancholy.

The track was co-produced by Bowie with Clive Langer & Alan Winstanley, who masterminded the entire film soundtrack album. Langer & Winstanley's production partnership is probably most linked to their work with Madness, and interestingly enough, there is something of the mid-80s downbeat Madness sound to the track. Indeed, it's a shame that there were no further collaborations between Bowie and Langer & Winstanley beyond this track and That's Motivation (also featured in the film).

It's a lush, real-sounding record; with a real cinematic sweep, even when considered separately from the film. Kicking off with a “ba-ba-bow-woo” vocal hook, and carried along with some irresistable saxophone, the song simply screams class. Bass, percussion and piano all add to the jazz vibe, giving a very different but complementary environment for Bowie's unmistakable voice. “I've nothing much to offer / I've nothing much to take” he opines, before heading to the bridge which contains the song's title (as opposed to the more standard practice of using it in the chorus).

The chorus is a shaft of sunlight between the clouds, a blast of optimism which deviates from the considered melancholy of the verses. "If our love song / Could fly over mountains / Sail over heartaches / Just like the films / There's no reason / To feel all the hard times / To lay down the hard lines / It's absolutely true".

Eventually, Bowie builds up to one last cry of the chorus – “It's absolutely true...” – and then gives way for the players, who take charge of a lengthy coda, which is heartbreakingly, spine-tinglingly moving, you never want it to end.

The musicianship and playing on the track is astonishing -- the band includes Rick Wakeman on piano, whilst Luis Jardim contributes percussion -- and the instrumental Dub Mix of the track shows this off to great effect.

There were three versions of Absolute Beginners released; the 7" version, which comes in at a surprising 5 and a half minutes; the eight-minute Full Length Version, and a Dub Mix (an instrumental version of the Full Length Mix). All are worth a listen -- repeated listens, in fact -- though the Full Length Version is the definitive take. Don't dismiss it as a standard 80's 12" mix, padded out to fill one side of vinyl -- this is a sumptuous, lush performance; it's as heartbreaking as it is inspiring.

Artistically and commercially, Bowie's song outperforms and transcends the parent film; a number #2 hit in the UK charts, it's also considered as one of his best 1980s tracks. But a word for the film too -- much-hyped, underperformed at the box office and largely derided it may have been, but I think Absolute Beginners does not deserve the bad rap it has gained over the years.

As someone who has read Colin MacInnes' original novel and seen the film many times, it is clear that the film is a heightened, authored take on the source material, rather than a faithful adaptation. True, it may not gel properly as a cohesive whole and some of the performances let it down, but its sheer ambition and breathtaking set-pieces deserve some praise. The opening motion shot of 1950s Soho is terrific, as is Bowie's electrifying performance of That's Motivation as he stands on the keys of a giant typewriter!

That's one of my favourite images of Bowie. Larger than life, even when dwarfed by a giant typewriter.

Absolute Beginners is an interesting film, but the title track carries so much meaning for me on many levels. I never get tired of it, but I'm always careful not to overplay it, not let it overstay it's welcome. Some things should be treasured, after all.

Unquestionably one of my favourite records, and yet another example of the diversity of the genius that is, was, and will always be, David Bowie.