I don’t believe in fate. For me there is no predetermined path, no pattern, no destiny. I believe existence is arbitrary, events determined by a combination of chance and free will. But today has been a very odd day. A random series of happenings, entirely unconnected to each other and invisible to anyone but me and Joe, have conspired to make today the kind of day when you question whether there isn’t some sort of bizarre matrix which reaches down into your tiny existence from time to time and plays jokes on you.

Some background. As – fingers crossed – you will read in Live Fast, Die Young when it comes out on 4 May (pre-order now for a 25% discount), Joe and I are massive fans of The KLF. Without them – without Bill Drummond especially – the Live Fast quest would almost certainly not have happened. I won’t say much more than that here because I don’t want to spoil your enjoyment of the book, but suffice it to say that Drummond’s trademark grand gestures rubber-stamped our pointless peregrinations in a very powerful way. We were out both to prove him right and wrong at the same time.

In 1988 Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty, then known by another of their aliases The Timelords, released a record called ‘Doctorin’ The Tardis’ (see video above). A cheesy but exhilarating mash-up of the Doctor Who theme music, Gary Glitter’s ‘Rock & Roll (Part Two)’ and ‘Blockbuster’ by The Sweet, it was described by the music press variously as ‘excruciating’ (Melody Maker), ‘rancid’ (Select) and ‘noxious’ (Sounds). It sold over a million copies and went straight to number one.

Their next hit was a book. The Manual (How to Have a Number One the Easy Way), was as much a swipe at the music industry as a fascinating and revealing exposition of how to have a number one record. In the section on ‘plugging’ – radio promotion by record labels – they assert that being a BBC Radio 1 producer is the fastest way to lose touch with whatever finer qualities your soul once had. As Radio 1 producers we were keen to prove them wrong.

As you will also have gathered, Gram Parsons is a big part of Live Fast, Die Young too. Odd then, having written a book inspired in part by The Timelords and Gram Parsons (and incidentally containing a brief mention of Gavin Rossdale from Bush) to open The Sun newspaper today and see this …

… a picture of Gram Parsons, Doctor Who and Gavin Rossdale mapped over the Joshua Tree National Park and the southwestern United States. It seems Matt Smith, the latest incarnation of Doctor Who, is a fan of Gram Parsons – indeed woo’ed his current girlfriend Daisy Lowe by singing Gram songs to her – and they’ve gone on a pilgrimage to Joshua Tree to see where it all went on. While they’re there, Daisy is going to introduce Matt to her dad – one Gavin Rossdale (see the full article). Gobsmacked isn’t the word.

You may also know that Glen Campbell’s ‘Wichita Lineman’ plays a big part in our story.  Whilst surfing the internet this afternoon checking my KLF facts for this piece, I stumbled across a tune I had completely forgotten about:

Bill had found us again.

Oh, and today is Glen Campbell’s birthday. Happy birthday Glen. If you’re celebrating in Joshua Tree, having just received a Doctor Who DVD boxset and a Bush best of, please keep it to yourself. I’m not sure my fried brain could handle it.

(This week’s Parson of the Week is Parson Yaz Ewers, who has been kindly sharing our blogs with her friends on Facebook. To read the incredible story of how she came to be a Parson – another coincidence which we can still hardly believe ourselves – click here.)

The book goes to print today, and just in the nick of time the final cover design has arrived. Chris got so excited when he saw it that he let out a small wee. And cover art that makes a man wee should be shared, we hope you’ll agree.

Here’s what to look for when you’re browsing your local book store for Live Fast, Die Young: Misadventures in Rock & Roll America on May 4th. Or if you’re ordering from the interweb, they’ve sent you the wrong book if it arrives and doesn’t look like this (click on the image to see it full size):

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If we sound a little too excited by the prospect of an actual book with an actual cover with our actual names on it, containing actual pages with words on them that we actually wrote – well, it’s because we probably are. Thanks again for your help making it happen – helpful Parsons can find out if they have qualified for the ‘Most Helpful’ title in the acknowledgements at the back of the book. Naturally we’re keeping quiet about who they are for now, winky smiley face.

10th April 2010

A spring sun is setting over Hammersmith. The sunglasses of people walking westward reflect a bright orange flare. Short-sleeved men and short-skirted women up their pace to get home before the April night spreads its clear-skied chill. Couples who have survived a grim winter of squalling rain and weekend nights of Strictly-Come-X-Factor’s-Got-Talent-On-Ice mooch in silence back to their flats. New couples swing held hands looking forward to a summer of chilled wine in the park.

I sit down on the upper deck of the Number 10 bus and it rumbles towards Kensington. Past the offices of Universal Records, the most successful record company in the world, now occupying the same space as a seventies record exec’s drinks cabinet. Times and commerce have changed.

Through ‘Little Tehran’ where the Iranian takeaway delivery riders start their mopeds and roll away with a shake and a rattle.

An evening breeze rustles the headscarves of Kensington’s well-to-do ladies and Muslim women. Twenty yellow cagouled, sore footed tourists carry their heavy legs past the closing shops, whilst bag wielding bargainistas are cajoled out of glass doors as shop managers lock up for the night.

Runners spanning an evolution-flouting range of body shapes barrel, potter, bounce, jog and run their way through last minute preparations for the London Marathon.

Tonight isn’t about running though. It’s not about shops or fast food or sunsets. It’s about a simple musical proposition; the greatest composer of all time at one of the greatest venues in the world.

The elegant red brick and sandstone rotunda up ahead is known as the Royal Albert Hall. Robbie Williams swung here when he was winning. He was pretty good from what I can remember.

For my sins I watched sturdily built chanteuse Alison Moyet here, supported by the briefly popular Curiosity Killed The Cat. They were wretched.

I watched open-mouthed as surf-friendly, soul voiced lap steel maestro Ben Harper did the classic band leader thing here and with a sequence of clenched fists silenced his band one by one, then pushed away his microphone and sang unaided to the whole hall. That was impressive.

My grandfather proudly boomed his musical limitations here as he sang Christmas carols employing only one note. At the age of eight it was remarkable how moving Ding Dong Merrily On High was when sung in his singular tone known to the family as the ‘key of doom’.

The Tindersticks glummed here as they tiptoed their way through a set that deftly avoided anything that you could term crowd pleasing. I’ve stood in the DJ booth and watched Zane Lowe dazzle a crowd here, and seen The Killers bring Vegas, complete with palm trees and unwelcome saxophone intrusions to its stage.

On one extraordinary evening Chris and I attended the George Harrison tribute concert here. No-one knew what to expect, but the presumption was of a birthday honours list of rock ‘n’ roll knights performing the greatest hits of the Harrison canon. Surprise it was then to many in the crowd when the compere, one Eric Clapton, announced that the show would be in two halves. The second half would celebrate the music that George made, the first would celebrate the music that he loved. And unlike the majority of the audience, George’s passion was for the music of India. I have no doubt that the hour of Anoushka and Ravi Shankar that we witnessed that night was of the very highest calibre, but it was unfortunately wasted on me.

And judging by the faces of the Foo Fighters in the next door box, it was a little wasted on them too – in particular their drummer Taylor Hawkins. Taylor is a man who could look fidgety in his sleep. In interviews his eyes dart, expressions flit across his face as briefly as the thoughts to which they’re attached. He was, one presumes, murder to teach. As he rocked from side to side during the sitar solos it looked like he would explode like some Loony Tunes rocket, lit but then tethered for too long. The evening concluded with Tom Hanks singing the Lumberjack Song and British folk obscurity Joe Brown leading a band of megastars on banjo. That was, well, bizarre.

But tonight I’m hoping to finally witness a musical experience worthy of the magnificent surroundings.

Tonight we are going to see a man who can take five otherwise unremarkable notes and put them in a sequence which paralyses me with delight. He is an eighty-two year old Italian, winner of one honorary Oscar, and wrongful loser of five real ones.

That he is the greatest cinematic composer of all time is beyond doubt. He may not have the grandeur of Williams, the bravado of Barry or the bombast of Bernstein, but across the fifty years of his career he has written, conducted and recorded a range of music so extraordinary and prolific that even he himself can’t list it all. His influence is so all-encompassing it’s impossible to plot. Maybe he’s the greatest composer of music alive on the planet full stop. Personally, I’m backing him.

Currently he is walking onto the stage some three hundred feet away from us. His name is Ennio Morricone, and he is a genius.