Music and Opera

There is something more than usually grotesque about the slow-motion downfall of Amy Winehouse being played out daily in the media. As the singer and her appalling husband holiday in St Lucia, their respective parents are fighting a shameful proxy battle at home, with her father-in-law, Giles, calling on Amy’s fans to boycott her records until she cleans up. She looks pitifully skeletal in the latest pictures, hollow-eyed and miserable. The worst of it is – beyond the horror of watching a human life collapse like a frame-by-frame car crash – is that she is, quite simply, one of the best soul singers of all time, possessed of a voice

I do not know whether, as was so often claimed, Tony Wilson, who has died aged 57, was a genius. But, as music mogul, club entrepreneur, loudmouth and zealous Mancunian, he was certainly one of the most important and remorseless figures in British popular culture of the past 30 years. Immortalised by Steve Coogan’s performance in the film 24 Hour Party People, Wilson was a jobbing Granada TV presenter who also had a passion for pop. As a musical Svengali, he is rivalled only by Epstein and McLaren, and he was more prolific than both. The influence of the bands he launched on Factory Records – Joy Division, New Order,

“Can you believe it?” Every time Barbra Streisand remembered how long it was since she had first sung a song, visited a town, tried a local delicacy – “1961!” – 23,000 adoring fans agreed that, no, it was quite unbelievable. Most of the audience at the 02 arena last night could not quite believe they were actually, at last, genuinely hearing their heroine, playing in London for the first time in 13 years. And the sense of event was as palpable as the crushed velvet of the legend’s gown: veering effortlessly from the ditzy to the diva, she held a thousand dreams in the palm of her hand, and yet

There are few sights in Western civilisation to compare with Spinal Tap performing ‘Stonehenge’ and it is at least arguable that the risk of impending apocalypse caused by climate change was worth it to get Nigel, the boys and the dancing dwarves back on stage. Two billion people watching around the world are surely happier for having seen this awe-inspiring sight. Surely the end of modern society and the melting of the polar ice-cap is a small price to pay? We must all suffer for art, you know. (The  Beastie Boys were pretty splendid, too.)

  So farewell, George Melly. There isn’t much fun left in jazz any more; it takes itself so seriously. George didn’t — always having fun, listening to his favourite Bessie Smith records. He was one of the last generation of jazz musicians to enjoy his work and to convey that feeling to his audience; he was also of all things a collector of Surrealism. I hope he leaves me one of his suits. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don’t get you, the liquor must.

Where better to spend the last night of the Blair era than in the company of ageing rockers? These days, The Who smash their tambourines rather than their guitars. But, other than that, they are still as sharp as the sharpest Carnaby Street winkle pickers and as taut as the tires on a brand new Vespa. At the Wembley Arena last night the band that hoped that they would die before they got old showed that you’re only as old as the venue you fill. My Generation? Yes, and their children, and, in some cases, God help us, grandchildren. Pop long ago broke its promise to define generation gaps and

If you think Glastonbury is silly, click on the BBC News website and watch the clip of 2,000 heavy metal fans playing Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” in Stuttgart. This, as any fule kno, is one of the most over-rated songs in the history of pop music, plodding and portentous, opening with a mindless riff that has inspired generation after generation of Wayne’s World clones to pick up a guitar when it would have been much better if they had been forced into national service. Sour of me to say so, but sometimes the truth is ugly.

Reading James Delingpole’s fine piece about ‘the best music festival in the universe’ brought it all flooding back. Twenty years ago, buoyed by rave reviews such as James’s, I headed for Glastonbury full of starry-eyed hope and excitement. What followed were three days of  unremitting misery, memories of which haunt me to this day. Torrential rain, swamp-like conditions, a pathetically inadequate tent, perpetually damp clothes, greasy burgers of dubious  provenance, some ‘colourful’, frankly scary characters and   unspeakable loos all conspired to make it an experience I vowed never to repeat. Even watching the Cure against a backdrop of forked lighting-scarred skies failed to numb the pain. Fast-forward to 2006, when I

Sergeant Pepper always cheers me up because – aside from its musical brilliance – it is slightly older than I am. Today’s papers are full of readable celebrations of the album’s anniversary, including a Guardian leader and a “where is she now?” piece in The Times on the Lucy of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”. My favourite track, by a whisker, is still “She’s Leaving Home”. What do other Coffee Housers think?

One of the guests at our third Elgar concert at The Spectator’s offices in Old Queen Street last night shrewdly pointed out the oddity that the great composer does not seem to travel as well as, say, Vaughan Williams. Listening to Madeleine Mitchell (violin) and Nigel Clayton (piano) perform the sublime Violin Sonata (Op. 82) one could only agree that, on his 150th birthday, “E.E.” deserves to go global. There’s an excellent piece which makes the same point in today’s Guardian.