Pop Shield

Image | January 21, 2014

Been thinking ahead to the second generation (August 2015) upgrade of my Liverpudlian TDM plug-in. © Ta La Industries.

I have been working on an engineering solution to a serious problem. A lot of bands wander the corridors of Maid Of Orleans Studios hoping capture the essence of famous bands who have previously recorded there. Like The Bugs, many of these came from the Liverpool area. Artists like Functioning Bicycle, Missing Teacups – and […]

January 18, 2014

Good Name, Bad Name

“Loving your band name” says The Mixmaster General to the lead singer of The Gospel Sausages.

“Thanks.” replies the lead singer of The Gospel Sausages. “My previous band was voted into the Top 10 of a Worst Band Names Ever poll.”

“Oh really? What was it called?”

“It was spelt “Crappy” and pronounced “Rubbish” explains the lead singer of The Gospel Sausages, bafflingly. “So basically, the guy on stage would go “Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome Crappy!” And then we’d come on and say “No, no, no, we’re Rubbish!” I think it just left everybody very confused indeed. Not good.“

Image | January 17, 2014

And these my friends, are the crown jewels.

December 24, 2013

Driving Home For Christmas

Oh Kenny La Vitz. You were sooo right when you chose to sing those words “it ain’t over til it’s over”. I’ve been on the home strait up to Christmas for so long I’ve forgotten what a corner even looks like.

Last night I set my alarm super early on account of the fierce weather warnings. Storms were all set to ravage the country and leave the nation in transport chaos on one of the biggest travelling days of the year.

I awoke this morning and jumped straight on to the computer for a travel update on the trains. A disappointing sea of red font. Cancelled. Cancelled. Cancelled. Cancelled. The first train of the morning stops EVERYWHERE, but it hopes to reach Kings Cross at 8.17am. I am due in at 8.30am, to go on air at 9.30am.

In the likelihood of further delays, I set about researching the possibility of driving in, over a bowl of cereal. I investigate congestion tax and how to apply for that. How much?!!! Ouch. I’ll hold off until I’ve sorted some parking. I find the email with the link. Ok, so there’s a booking system for the secret corporation emergency carpark which requires that you watch a training video to understand how to fill the form in. This does not bode well. I generate a password and start making an intelligent guess at filling in the form without resorting to the video. It’s going fine up until the point that I have to enter an authorisation code that needs to be issued by someone in my office. No one will be in my office. It’s not long until I realise train is probably my best bet after all. I call the Broadcast Manager and tell him I’ll be late, but I’ll be there, and I’ll keep him posted. Grab my bag and go.

It’s pitch dark as I reverse out of the drive. My rear sensor starts bleeping manically. Assuming I’m a bit close to the hedge, I pull forward and go again. Then I feel a little bump as I reverse round the corner. I realise that our prized phlomis tree in the front garden is horizontal across the drive.

Demister, wipers, windscreen heater, full beams, radio. I set off down the dark flooded country lanes. Ahead, I see some kind of high viz blob on the other side of the road. I decelerate and recognise the object as a cyclist. He is tangled up in his bicycle. He and his bicycle are tangled up in a fallen tree. Poor chap, he probably had his head down then CRUNCH. I wind down the window.

“You okay?”

I am very relieved when he says “Yes, I’m alright, thanks.”

At the station there are no trains running yet. Just a blank board and a bearded railway worker wearing an orange boiler suit and some green tinsel wrapped around his hat.

The first train of the day arrives, and I embark on a protracted and painstakingly slow journey. We stop at stations I didn’t even know are on the route, so blurred are the signs when I normally pass them. We stop whenever there is a whiff of a train from the rival company. We stop in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason. I look at my phone for the hundredth time and notice I’m due to start in ten minutes. Then I glance out of the window expecting to see some grey urban sprawl……I spy with my little eye……something beginning with……H!…… Hackney? Houses? Hornsey? No. A HORSE IN A FIELD. Oh bother. More texts to Joe and Gareth. Gareth kindly agrees to run down and set up my studio up during his records.

A few months later, my train limps into the terminus. I weave my way through the families and the suitcases and the armfuls of presents and peg it in to work. On arriving at the studio, I find everyone sat down in position waiting for me. I feel like a teacher late for class. “Oh my God. You made it” says Bambi Twinkletoes peering up through her trademark fringe. “I really want to practice this hideous quiz. It’s beyond terrifying. Can we?”

“Hello! Sorry. Nightmare. Yes. Excellent idea. Give me a sec and I’m right with you.”

Luckily, I am prepared for this. I line up the quiz beds and stings and bonus questions.

Remembering how to recreate the perennial One Year Out quiz is the radio equivalent of trying to cook your grandmother’s favourite recipe. It’s beyond familiar. Everyone’s watched her make it over and over again. Everyone’s eaten it on a thousand occasions. But nobody in the family can accurately reproduce it. Why is that?! I reckon Zen Hoots does voodoo on everyone else at night to stop them from accurately remembering the correct sequence.

Anyway, Zen must have been on the sherry last night cos his mumbo jumbo isn’t working on Bambi, Joe and I today. We rock it just fine.

Billy’s travel bulletins are peppered with references to travel carnage in Dorset. I try not to think about the 180 miles that lie between here and bed. Otherwise, the show is going well. That is, until about two thirds of the way through, when the playout controller starts putting itself spontaneously into a pre-fade/cue-in state whenever it feels like it. Oh baubles. I bring up the emergency cart page, sort out a workaround for the rest of the show then call the maintenance engineers. I stay on to oversee a couple of Auto Robot junctions and then my shift is done.

As I leave, there is no big celebratory Christmas sign off. Just the enduring feel-good image of Conrad looking through the desk log fault files. And the heart-warming sound of Gary on the phone to the facilities help desk reporting a water leak through the corridor ceiling. A truly festive moment. Our own little Christmas movie scene. I skip off into the torrential rainstorm.

And so, for the Hollywood happy ending. The trains back home are running fine. On arriving home, I notice that the other beautiful tree in the front garden – an oleander – has been uprooted. Unlike the phlomis, the roots are still intact, so I am able to reseat it. Upon entering the house, I look like I’ve been through a hedge backwards. That’s because I actually have.

Then I set my out of office, my holiday voicemail, put my work pass and keys away in a drawer. I quickly pack my bag for Christmas. We drive through the dark night to Phil and Sylvia’s – accompanied on our way by the Nations Favourite Christmas songs – and we cross the finishing line.

THE END.

December 23, 2013

Goodbye Reverend Quince

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.

December 23, 2013

Patch Of The Day

Are you ready? I mean are you really ready? Those of you with less robust constitutions may need to turn away now. I mean, I have a feeling that Roger Andrews was even a bit scared of this situation down at Maid Of Orleans one day. And as we know, he’s got nerves of steel.

Yes, this is the stuff that engineers’ nightmares are made of.

All I can say in our defence is the following.

There was no input list prior to the band arriving for the session. There was no confirmed band line-up prior to the session. The input list turned out to be 96 channels. The line-up turned out to be two drum kits, electric drums, bass, three guitars, acoustic guitar, two violins – each of which absolutely must be taken in stereo, two percussionists, brass, eleven vocals, vocal effects, electric piano, seven synthesisers. Oh, and please could we set up the Steinway…

Now, there are only 56 channels on the house desk which is called a house desk because it is in fact THE SIZE OF A HOUSE. Ten to twelve of these channels are usually designated for effects, parallel compression and so on. Two sub mixers had to be brought in and rigged. The internal patch was a bit head-scratchy. The main patch from splits, once the input list had been amended and transcribed, had to be achieved via flails on the floor in the corner by the monitor desk that kept getting pushed out of the way. The numbering on the barrels and the strings of the flails did not correspond. ’Split 2’ was listed as being numbers 1-48 on the band’s input list but their two stage looms were numbered 1-50 and 51-100. A miscommunication resulted in inputs 49-96 ending up being two numbers out, followed by an agonising three person unpick repatch whilst everyone complained. The desk talkback was faulty. There were two connectors numbered 76 neither of which turned out to be number 76. The band were in a hurry as they had to catch a plane. During the session musicians were required to have interviews for other shows in other studios that required one of us to go and set up. One of the two lead vocalists sang each song from a completely different mic and since neither the monitor engineer nor the mix engineer were prepared to re-patch in their worlds, this had to be done in a hurry via the tangle of flails. Oh, and one final thing. THE BAND WERE ONLY ABLE TO WORK IN THE DARK.

It has taken me six weeks to pluck up the courage, but now that I’ve got my disclaimer in.

Oh the shame.

December 23, 2013

A Surreal Soundcheck With Ray’s Bionic Glock Shop

Matthew: “Yes get nice and close to the mic because Little Sister like a nice, compressed sound. Nigel.”

Richard: “Lovely”

Nigel: “Yes, I’m hearing you. Are you hearing me ok?”

Matthew: “Yes, Reg. Reg. Reg!! REG!!!! Can you talk into your microphone?”

Nigel: “Talk – into – your – microphone.”

Reg: “Can you hear me now?”

Everyone: “YES!”

Matthew: “Can you hear yourself?”

Reg: “I’m talking, I’m talking, hello, hello. Hello.”

Malcolm: “He’s saving up for a deaf aid.”

Nigel: “Reg. Can you hear us?”

Mick: “Can you hear Nigel talking?”

Silence from Reg.

Malcolm: “No he can’t”

Matthew: “Reg. Reg!! REG!!!! Can you hear us as well?”

Mick: “He hasn’t got his channel faded up. It’s on 13 or 14.”

Matthew: “No. He’s not on our system. Can you hear us Reg, when we talk? Can you hear us Reg? Can you hear us in your cans, Reg?

Reg: “Sorry?”

Matthew: “Can – you – hear – us – in – your – cans – Reg.”

Reg: “No”

Matthew: “Oh right. Reg can’t hear us in his cans.”

I run into the room and turn up the speech channel on Reg’s headphone mixer.

Matthew: “Oh! He can? Now try. Can you hear us in your cans? Have you got the right ear on?”

Reg: “Yes I can hear you.”

Matthew: “Oh good. Jolly good. Excellent. He’s a sound engineer you know.”

Reg: “Yeah. It was alright right leaving me guys.”

Mick: “Sam’s in tears look.”

Nigel (theatrical commentary): “Matthew can hear Malcolm. Malcolm can hear Nigel, but Nigel can’t hear Mick. Mick can hear Reg, but Reg can’t hear anything.”

Matthew: “Nigel chooses not to hear anything at all.”

Little Sister programme appears in the headphones.

Eusabio: “You should be able to hear the programme now.”

Nigel: “Are we in communication?”

Malcolm: “Yes with one another.”

Nigel: “This is the blind leading the deaf.”

Michelle (on talkback, 200 miles away): “Hello chaps, can you hear me?”

Matthew: “I can hear you and I can hear me.”

Michelle: “Hello? Can anybody hear me?”

Reg: “This is called wireless.”

Malcolm: “What did you have for breakfast?”

Michelle: “Hello Hello! Can you hear me?”

Everybody: “Hello!”

Matthew: “Can you hear us?”

Reg: “I’ve always wanted to work in communications.”

Malcolm: “This is the Bionic Glock Shop calling Earth.”

Michelle: “Hello, Maid Of Orleans. Is that the Bionic Glock Shop? This is Michelle up north. Hello. Can you hear me?”

Matthew: “Yes I can.”

Michelle: “Ah, I can hear you now! Can you hear me?”

Nigel: “We could always hear you.”

Malcolm: “It would be nice to hear you a bit louder but I’m not sure if that’s your end or our end.”

Michelle: “Sorry I couldn’t hear you. We had a little speaker turned down. Now, Reg, seeing as you are the most senior member of the group, would you like to be spokesperson during the interview?”

Reg: “Of course.”

Michelle: “Fantastic, we’ll be with you in two records time.”

Nigel: “That’s great, that’s all fine.”

Michelle: “Thanks very much.”

Matthew: “Very cool.”

Image | December 18, 2013

Sir Roger Andrews-Twerkin. Lord of The Lounge. Good luck, posh house!

December 11, 2013

Blog Will Eat Itself

“Hear you’ve got a blog, Pop.” says Jack Daniel to me in the nation’s favourite green room this evening. “And I hear I’m in it, but I’m called Jim Beame.” “Yes, that’s right, Jack. Jim Beame you are.”

“What is it on? Does it have photos, or what is it?” Jack asks.

“It’s on a blogging platform. Mostly text, with some photos. Links to my website Popshield.co.uk and squirts new posts onto Twaddle. I write mostly stories. You’re in it. Lots of people are in it. I try and keep it on the funny side.”

“And can you leave comments? If so, then I’m going to find myself and leave a comment. Sign it Jim Beame” says Jack.

“I have a dilemma, Pop” says Mark. “On the one hand I want to get mentioned in your blog, but on the other hand I really don’t want anything to go wrong this evening if at all possible.”

“Hmm, it is true, Sherlock. There do seem to have been lots of posts about things going wrong recently. And furthermore, there are some recent disasters in the buffer that I haven’t even posted yet. Incidents like *eek* where I’m still waiting for the trauma to subside and mutate into hilarity.”

We go into the studio. Jack asks for a couple of bits. “Please can I have a proper pop shield, Pops? And can you turn the TV off if you can find the relevant controller.”

Fortunately, I keep just such a useful controller in my pocket. It’s called a finger. It’s digital and everything!

“Those are my only demands!” declares Jack. “Unless you count harrumble carrumble frobisher. THAT will give you something to blog about!” Laughter.

We record the show and have a thoroughly nice evening of it. The aforementioned harrumble carrumble frobisher does not materialise.

But here I am blogging anyway just so Mark gets his mention without the equipment falling to bits. And so does Sara. Merry Christmas dudes.