Pop Shield

How odd that one of the potentially best recordings of the year should prove to be, well, so dysfunctional.  Families on the road can be, I guess.

There are a few things necessary to secure a well-received live concert and broadcast which the industry take for granted.  We do things in a certain way for a reason and when convention is broken it can almost seem to be a lesson in how not to go about things.  For example:-

Do not randomly switch between mic and line levels on your handheld RF mics after each has been tested by three systems.

If you want a three-hour soundcheck to pay off, put the monitor engineer behind the console and not behind the lead singer’s mic.

Avoid holding two microphone capsules together and announcing to all sound professionals in the venue that you are doing an important check for phase correlation.

Probably best not go mental about the lack of salad dressing.

Think twice before throwing the freelance patch monkey onto the FOH desk five minutes after the gig has started having banned him from the board during s/check.

Perhaps best for the band not to collude with the assembled audience in the event that the singer may complain about sound levels in the house.

Do not take numerous scheduled breaks during the concert for banjo tuning accompanied by announcements to the audience.

Actually, why not?  And if the audience are denied all bass frequencies in order to keep the artist happy and able to hear the key stuff so be it. And in the scheme of it all we’ll remember and honour the unusual circumstances.

It is nearly 10am and I have arrived at The Mothership to record links for a radio documentary.  When I reach the studio, the compact cheeky cockney treasure Joan Britain is already there.  She and the producer are sitting in swivel chairs discussing the script.

I say hello and go to offer a handshake to Joan by way of introduction.  But darn it, I’ve gone for the wrong gesture. It is clear that Joan will not settle for less than a lovey double-kiss. Now, here is a lady with wonderfully coiffed lofty hair and high heels.  These no doubt help enormously to increase her diminutive stature whilst afoot.  However, neither of them do anything to help this tall engineer in cowboy boots and a rucksack reach the tiny low-slung swivelling target.  To make it worse I’m not entirely sure whether I am aiming for Joan’s cheek or for the air immediately to the left and right of her cheek.  I have to summon all my powers of balance to not end up in her lap.   Thanks to pilates, I succeed.

We set up for recording. “Are you happy to wear headphones?” I say to Joan, looking at the high hair.

“Of course, darlin’!” She replies and puts them on TOP of her head in the neat little place between the top of the fringe and the bottom of the high bit.  Not under the chin like some other coiffed lovies I can mention.  This is how to tell if a celebrity is a good sport or not.  Somebody who doesn’t mind ruffling up their High Barnet with a pair of Desperate Dans.  Love a duck.

When endearing/irritating attention-deficit twins Jodward came in 50% of them/it was the coolest ever in the good sporting headphone challenge. Like totally. One of the Jehn or Odwards put his headphones on top of his six-inch-high hair, and it still bounced back up twenty minutes later.  The other Jehn or Odward was, like, a total loser right because he went under the chin right.  Then they totally stole all the grapes from our fruit bowl.  Help.

Anyway, back to lovely Joan. In an unconventional twist, the producer opts to convey all his instructions to Joan on the talkback through me. It is hard not to feed a fraud giving feedback after every one of the thirty or so links including emphasis, pronunciation and so on on a subject about which I know nothing.  I lurch between overenthusiastic and a weird ‘don’t shoot the messenger’ tone.   Lucky for me she is excellent and brings much colour to the story. “Good!“, I say. “Great!”, “Lovely!”, “Nice!” I vary. And occasionally “One more, please” in the style of a doctor discussing a terminal prognosis.  And of course, I studiously avoid the elephant command in the room: “Carry on!”