Pop Shield

It is Friday the 13^th.  Bad news for many and least of all for the Nations Favourite who is losing their longest serving engineer today. Yes, after over 42 years the charming Reverend Quince is hanging up his headphones, saying good bye to the GST500s, the ST2/2s and the MC1B3s and heading off into the canary sunset.

The morning of Thursday 12th marks the Reverend’s last shift. Top Cat rolls out a live tribute to him on his show.  It features accolades from Zen Hoots, Jerry Wobegon, Pop Pickering and Rustling Bill.

On Friday evening there is to be a party in honour of Quincey.  The proceeding hours pass pleasantly.  I edit an interview with Des Lennis, and then I draw a learner plate on the back of Nick’s chair and help him with what he needs to know about The System to turn around Pop Pickering’s chart rundown tomorrow.

Then off we go to the party.  It is really nice.  Engineers and producers young and old, present and past have all turned out to wish the Reverend well.  At the end of the evening, Quincey comes up to me and says “Before you go, Pop. There is just one thing.”  I contemplate what his parting wisdom might be, but don’t expect these words…. “When I went into the studio with Top Cat to be interviewed, there appeared to be a fault in the third pair of guest headphones.  I think they may be out of phase.”  I laugh.  “It’s ok Quincey!  You don’t have to worry about that any more! But of course I will look into it.” I bid him good luck and good night.

And so, the next week passes.  A busy one in the run up to Christmas.  On Monday, a fantastic session with Eusabio mixing the vintage synthesizer madness that this the reactivated Ray’s Bionic Clock Shop.  It is brilliant.  Reg plays the sound of the Whoodis from a quarter inch tape machine and the drummer plays the back of a washing machine with a violin bow.  See elsewhere on this blog for soundcheck hilarity.

On Tuesday, I’m back editing on Dave Wrong.  “Is that you, Pop?” says Dave on the talkback at some point during the morning.  I shake my head and carry on editing.  “No, I thought not”, he says, and laughs.

Wednesday is another strange one.  Up at 2am to work on Vanilla Salt. When I arrive, the Nation’s Favourite Santa looks a bit down, a bit deflated.  I set about drinking the perfect amount of tea.  Enough to bridge the gap between REM sleep and full scale adrenaline rush. But not so much that you end up a dribbling wreck on the train home several hours later. As I’m sure many a night shift hospital worker will testify, adrenaline without tea at 0503 in the morning is not a good thing.

There is lots of engineer action after the show.  There’s fizzle on the newsreader’s microphone, RF no doubt.  I can’t stay too long as I have to head off to my next gig.

I walk for ten minutes and arrive a very big ten million pound house in an upmarket London square. It is next door to one of Richie Guy’s houses.  I can see how he got the name Richie Guy.  This fine dwelling is to be rented out as the location of the Christmas Lounge and it is very very posh.  There are sweeping stairs with purple carpets, gold handrails and ornate ballustrades, chandeliers, roll-top baths, a walk-in pantry, a bewildering number of bedrooms over an uncountable number of floors, all painted in fifty shades of grey. A circular staircase disappears into the roof.  I can’t help but explore it. When I reach the top I find myself looking out onto a roof terrace flooded with light. I am face to face with the Post Tower. Astonishing.  I’m on this job to help with the carry in.  This is on account of the number of stairs and the ridiculous amount of kit that needs to be carried up them without scratching the walls.  I’m not known for my carrying skills. They must have been fairly desperate to book me.

The next day is Thursday.  It’s another early start as I am helping out with some nominal audio-visual requirements for a press conference for Take A Dance.  The dancers are very glamorous and teeny tiny and wear very very high heels.  My steel toed boots make me feel like a closely related species.

After the conference it’s back to the Georgian house for the derig and load out. Tons of boxes get packed up again and carried out to the van. We are all sweating and puffing by the end of it.  Such is outside broadcast life.

In other news, I read on social media this week that Sam has been obliged to yell ‘meter!’ repeatedly at Indian taxi drivers until they put the meter on. It’s good to see that all those years of shouting ‘Bed Bubs!’ at Yoda have finally paid off.

These early morning starts can make you wistful. I reflect, with sadness, that it has been a year characterised by endings and departures. I stop off for a quick hello at our team christmas drinks, but really I am not in the mood so I just show my tired face and then head home for some R&R.

3.30am the next day heralds the start of not any old mad Friday but Final Festive Friday.  I arrive at work at 5am.  Inflatable Santa is looking a bit better today, I note. Gary and I get some mics out and then toss a coin as to who will sit down and who will stand up.  It is decided.  I will stand.  Standing turns out to be quite an experience.  Once I’ve helped Mate out of a pickle, I spend quite a lot of the show standing in the studio. I’m on mic-moving, band liaison and rentacrowd clapping duties.  Alongside Top Cat’s PA and entire family (including the toddler who grabs everything in sight) the travel lady, the sports man, a vicar, the Salvation band, the mumbling somnambulist teen troubadour Jack Spider and the four same gorgeous ladies from Take A Dance that I encountered yesterday.  There is a further fifteen people in the cubicle and nearly everybody is rushing between the two during the records.  It’s mental.  This side of the glass though, I’m in a parallel universe. it’s only a few metres from my normal habitat yet I feel like I’m in unfamiliar waters. The way the speakers cut when the mics open, it’s so odd. Compared to the cosy controlled environment in the cubicle, the atmosphere in this studio feels close to the edge, like a jungle, makes me wonder…

During the Stop And Think About It feature Phil appears and gives me a CD copy of the groundbreaking HIJK documentary I worked on.  Hope I spelt your name right, he says.  I look down.  Engineer: Popp Sheald.   Oh, not quite! I say, but I really don’t mind, this is brilliant.  “You’ll notice I made a couple of tweaks” he said. “I know what they will be”, I say dryly, and smile.

No sooner is Top Cat done than it’s time to rig and set up The Beast of Elton for a wonderful Christmas carol sung by the wonderful Stephen McAlpine.  This is to feature at the end of Waylon Wine’s Christmas wishes special.  At the end of this show I am really ready for a day off.  I close up the Beast Of Elton, tidy up the mic cupboard and mic stands and go home.

But there is one final thing that I need to mention. Today was the first time this week that I had a chance to go Top Cat’s studio. Since I’m not generally one to go back on my word, I find a little moment to thoroughly check out the guest headphone positions.  I discover that the Guest 3 socket is cutting in and out on the right leg.  I call the studio engineers and report the fault.  Good old Doddy arrives with his took kit between the shows to fix it.  Later, he writes the following Engineering Fault Report.

Dear Popshield,

This is to let you know that our work on your recent enquiry (reference number INC000000582481) has now been completed. 

This is a summary of your enquiry: Guest 3 h/p jack needs tightening

Completion details: Cleaned contacts and bent spring contact more into path of jack plug.  This reduced the intermittence but the jack really needs replacing.

Best Regards,

Service Desk

So, there you have it. I EFR’d it for you, Quincey.

Ten Things To Add To Anything To Make It Sound More Christmassy….

1. Celeste
2. Children’s choir
3. Omnichord. Also an excellent way to instantly sound like The Flaming Lips.
4. Trumpet or flugelhorn
5. Buckets of plate reverb
6. Tambourine or sleigh bells
7. Arpeggiator. See 3.
8. Harpsichord
9. Sheep FX
10. The Lead Singer Of Sleigh

There are some days which you would like to indelibly screenprint in your mind’s eye.  And today was one of those days.

I leave the morning hollyhocks of my country village behind and travel sixty miles to the urban river creeks of south east London.  I am accompanied on my journey by a heavyweight ash auction-bought Global Strand PPM which I have stashed in a cheap over-the-shoulder service station cooler bag.

A drive, a train, a tube, another train.

Arriving at Boogie Bugle’s Helium Studios in the August sun, the pinks and yellows of the Italianate facade bleached yet saturated all at once. Walking into this folly through the Great Mortal Portal, I enter this magical and charming room within which legacy supersedes any acoustic properties. Where the names of legendary artists who have recorded here are carved into wooden panels above your head, like a university hall or sports club.

Climbing upstairs to the mezzanine, we prepare the mighty Hammond C-3 and vintage Leslie cabinet ready for quiet understated organ giant Copper G to arrive.  I chat with Ron about the manual presets and drawbars.

There are some days which you would like to indelibly screen-print in your mind’s eye.  And today was one of those days.

I leave the morning hollyhocks of my country village behind and travel sixty miles to the urban river creeks of southeast London.  I am accompanied on my journey by a heavyweight ash auction-bought Global Strand PPM which I have stashed in a cheap over-the-shoulder service station cooler bag.

A drive, a train, a tube, another train.

Arriving at Boogie Bugle’s Tootle Studios in the August sun, the pinks and yellows of the Italianate facade bleached yet saturated all at once. Walking into this folly through the Great Mortal Portal, I enter this magical and charming room within which legacy supersedes any acoustic properties. Where the names of legendary artists who have recorded here are carved into wooden panels above your head, like a university hall or sports club.

Climbing upstairs to the mezzanine, we prepare the mighty Hammond C-3 and vintage Leslie cabinet ready for quiet understated organ giant Copper G to arrive.  I chat with Ron about the manual presets and drawbars.

At midday, we set about constructing the kind of radio I love the best. That which interlaces great music, engaging chat and which toys with imagination and artifice.  I watch out for the words – or flick of Bugle’s wrist – that means its time for me to press ‘play’ on song after song after song from all these respected musicians. Mindful, as I line up the tracks, of that beaming photo of ‘poor’ Amy looking back at me.

Mark quips as I cue up a chaotic-sounding 1930’s all-female jazz band on 33RPM vinyl.  The chunky twist of the rotary fader on the EMT-250 record player (see last year’s post for more gush on this machine).  Wondering where the all-girl jazz bands have gone.  Changing the EMT stylus then attempting to balance up the anti-skate mechanism on a 78. Chatting with a visiting painter who makes giant record sleeve art.

The reassuring simple old-schoolness of it all – the crusty white bread cheese and tomato sandwiches, the endless pots of tea that George brings, the smokers smoking, the zoo humour, the quest for inspiration, the black electrical tape that holds house engineer Ron’s glasses frames together. The kicking off of my shoes and sneaking in a barefoot boogie during the records. The fact that after a jittery, head-scratchy kind of day yesterday we are all now comfortable in our stride. The fraudulent feeling of not quite understanding how on earth my life’s path has brought me here.

And later, the twinkling kind eyes of Are-we-gonna-do-Stonehenge come Voice-of-The-Sampsons actor Larry Clipper and his open, engaging musical partner. The lovely surprise train journey Rup, Mark and I share with them. The flowing conversation about Scandinavian thrillers and partridge and transatlantic comedy. The breaking of the interesting discussions to bid our goodbyes at London Bridge.  And how those warm mismatched eyes and the clever cobalt blue trousers and the humorous straw trilby hat head away from me, with no pretensions, into the London evening sunshine.

The simultaneous feeling that I want to keep this moment private yet shout it from the rooftops.

And that is why I blog.

At midday, we set about constructing the kind of radio I love the best. That which interlaces great music, engaging chat and which toys with imagination and artifice.  I watch out for the words – or flick of Boogie’s wrist – that means its time for me to press ‘play’ on song after song after song from all these respected musicians. Mindful, as I line up the tracks, of that beaming photo of ‘poor’ Amy looking back at me.

Mark quips as I cue up a chaotic-sounding 1930’s all-female jazz band on 33RPM vinyl.  The chunky twist of the rotary fader on the EMT-250 record player (see last year’s post for more gush on this machine).  Wondering where the all-girl jazz bands have gone.  Changing the EMT stylus then attempting to balance up the anti-skate mechanism on a 78. Chatting with a visiting painter who makes giant record sleeve art.

The reassuring simple old-schoolness of it all – the crusty white bread cheese and tomato sandwiches, the endless pots of tea that George brings, the smokers smoking, the zoo humour, the quest for inspiration, the black electrical tape that holds house engineer Ron’s glasses frames together. The kicking off of my shoes and sneaking in a barefoot boogie during the records. The fact that after a jittery, head-scratchy kind of day yesterday we are all now comfortable in our stride. The fraudulent feeling of not quite understanding how on earth my life’s path has brought me here.

And later, the twinkling kind eyes of Are-we-gonna-do-Stonehenge come Voice-of-The-Sampsons actor Larry Clipper and his open, engaging musical partner. The lovely surprise train journey Rup, Mark and I share with them. The flowing conversation about scandinavian thrillers and partridge and transatlantic comedy. The breaking of the interesting discussions to bid our the goodbyes at London Bridge.  And how those warm mismatched eyes and the clever cobalt blue trousers and the humorous straw trilby hat head away from me, with no pretensions, into the London evening sunshine.

The simultaneous feeling that I want to keep this moment private yet shout it from the rooftops.

And that is why I blog.

It comes as a surprise when I realise I’ve been booked to go to art-rocker lounge lizard Ryan Berry’s studios to record an interview. A couple of days beforehand before I go to the Patronising Equipment Centre to book a whole load of equipment and receive the usual abuse. I do, however, manage to walk away with a quality portable recorder, mic stands, cables, back up mics and recorder.

On the morning of the visit, I collect a couple of quality condenser mics from the cupboard and set myself up in a little room to get everything road-tested. I don’t want to be fumbling around stabbing at little grey buttons when I get there.

I head downstairs with the kit and meet producer Mark and DJ Jack Daniel, we jump in a cab and head west. We drive through Marylebone, Notting Hill, past the mansions of Holland Park until we turn down a little mews near to Olympia and step out of the car.

We are presented with a slightly bewildering choice of entrances and doorbells, but then it becomes apparent that the rock star owns the whole side of the street, so we plump for the most likely door and are greeted by an assistant, Milly. She leads us past a massive Warhole picture and big blown-up photos of supermodel Kat Mass downstairs to a huge reception/office/meeting room area. Everything is painted in pale cream with sisal carpets and the space is filled with massive expensive-looking rugs, exquisite antique sofas, colourful artwork.

We are offered tea and a tour. First into a room filled with every vintage keyboard and amplifier you could wish for, then into Ryan’s studio where his engineer is working on a vintage Trident desk with channels numbered from right to left. We are then led into an archive room stuffed chocabloc with shelves of poster tubes and box files of photos and press cuttings. I notice one is sub-titled ‘with and without moustache’. We then head back to reception and wait to be summoned up to Ryan’s quarters. We are informed that Ryan wishes to have a private one-on-one interview with Jack, but Mark the producer insists that I am present in order to quality check the recording. I am very pleased I brought the long cables, so that I don’t have to be too close by.

Upstairs, I am the first to enter a vast brick sequence of adjoining warehouse-type spaces converted into a lounge-study-art library area. We are met by a softly spoken, well-dressed smiling man with his hand extended. I introduce myself and quickly look for a spot to get set up as quickly as possible. Jack and Ryan settle opposite each other on two extremely expensive tasteful sofas. They make small talk as I rush to get the mics set up. Oops, I probably shouldn’t have plonked my little flight case on Ryan’s beautiful couch there! Thankfully I can just plug in and go. I take a bit of level, press record and retreat.

I move an antique office chair around the corner by a partitioning wall so that I can see Johnny, but Ryan cannot see me. I can just see his yellow trews and brown brogues sticking out from behind the wall. It’s like an Alison Jackman photo. It’s one of the most surreal hours of my life, just staring around that vast exquisite library at all the beautiful books and designer shoes and pottery urns, taking rapid-fire photos with my eyes. Next to me sits an antique desk containing an ink blotter with a smart phone and a fountain pen on it, and some scrunched up notelets in the bin. I sit quivering beneath a picture of a pearl earring and praying the dog outside would stop barking.

After an hour Mark and Milly appear and wait silently. The interview eventually draws to a close. Ryan is immediately silently and swiftly out of the room like hot air escaping through an open door on a winter’s day. On the desk his phone has gone, perhaps the only sign that he was really ever there at all. Apart from a pretty nicely recorded 850MB WAV. Phew.

I am working on the Manchester and Liverpool legs of a ‘live’ tour with Bucket FM. ‘Live’ as in simultaneously live to radio, TV, Internet and arena-sized audiences.

Crossing into a live stage show on TV in the middle of a radio show is always going to present cueing difficulties. It needs a really clear chain of authoritative command presiding over the proceedings with an excellent network of communications and contingencies in place. A military operation if you like. And if the soldiers aren’t properly briefed, well, there are going to be some casualties on your hands.

The problems often start when the performing artist is not completely in the picture, or doesn’t ‘get it’, maybe doesn’t care – not to mention wardrobe malfunctions, in-ear monitor problems, instrument faults and so on. The last time I experienced a hitch along these lines it was because Damian Allbarge from Wibble had randomly wandered off at the wrong moment to clean his teeth. There were similar problems on Ronan O’Riley’s show in Aberdeen trying to get Mooby to STOP playing. This time we are in Liverpool, and it is rapper Devilish’s turn to hold up the proceedings. Devilish wasn’t actually present for soundcheck, which doesn’t bode well, although his band were. His ‘band’ being more of a score of session musicians, if that’s the collective term. Or a herd perhaps? As in ‘a herd of cats’ rather than ‘a herd of sheep’. As we witness later in the story. For now, you can picture them wandering around a vast backstage area catching mice.

So, it’s ten minutes to showtime and the stage seems disconcertingly lifeless. The audience are in. The radio show is on air with presenters on long range radio mics wandering around that vast backstage world interspersed with records played from base. Devilish’s monitor engineer reappears and switches on his radio mics. Immediately I can hear in my headset that there is interference all over the main vocal mic. The guy tries to sort it out and, in the meantime, I arrange for a spare wired mic to be run out in case of problems on the main RF mic during the show. Before I know it, it’s showtime.

Working out what the heck is going on in your headset in a really noisy venue is an art in itself. Over the din of the stage and PA you’ve got to sort out the talkback between monitors and house, local and distant production, stage and truck, over the outputs of the truck music desk, truck broadcast desk and cue from base.

At the prearranged time, in my headset I hear a voice [production] cueing a run-up CD track from the DJ decks on stage which is to lead up to Devilish’s set. It doesn’t start. A voice [truck] “We don’t have the decks”. A third voice [base] “I’ve got a record standing by”. A fourth voice [production] “They didn’t start the CD because the band weren’t ready, go to music”. And a fifth [presenter] ”we apologise for technical difficulties in Liverpool this evening, in the meantime here’s a record…” A sixth [production] “OK, now we have a band”.

By this time there is a filler record from base being played on the radio. But in car crash style, the band, having been successfully rounded up, somehow all run on stage and start playing to rapturous applause. Another voice [production] “the band have gone on!” But of course, the venue is no longer live to air so now the broadcast now has to catch up with the band.

And we’re off. I notice somebody running out to rescue a keyboard in the middle of the stage belonging to a guest vocalist which was not removed after soundcheck. It then becomes apparent that Devilish missed the soundcheck because he is ill, and his voice had failed. He is completely hoarse and can barely speak. Nobody thought to mention this to us, nor explain that a clean vocal would magically appear on Track 7 which was silent during soundcheck. The official line was ‘Track 7 probably won’t be used’. Luckily Guy has it on his desk and faded up. Phew!

Then it’s time for the guest singer to come on stage to sing on Devilish’s new single. During soundcheck she had been persuaded to MIME playing the keyboard to a piano line coming from one of the playback tracks. She was pretty reluctant in case she would look stupid, but as she was making quite a fuss over things nobody seemed to be paying attention.

The tech is late in bringing the keyboard back on in time for the song. The guest artist is announced to rapturous applause and then awkwardly stands while her vocal mic is placed. The backing track starts early and so she has no option but to start miming at the keyboard. The tech runs off but over the far side of the stage I can see the central joint of the vocal mic stand is loose and the boom arm is starting to slip downwards. No one is coming to her rescue. I consider it, but there are too many obstacles to get out there in time. What should she do? Take her hands off the keys and raise the vocal mic but expose the miming. Or carry on pretending to play the keys and risk losing the live vocal? She makes the only choice – fixes the vocal, to hell with the keys. She was right, she was made to look stupid.

And there we have it. One casualty of friendly fire on the stage, a couple of injuries in the truck and a few bodies strewn about backstage. That’s about the extent of the damage. For what it’s worth, the radio mics remain stable. This has been a skirmish, but not on the scale of The Grand Battle of Crayzee last July.