Some huge thank you’s are due. The first and most important goes to the always incomparable Courtney ‘Annie Rich’ Connor (whom readers of Live Fast, Die Young have met) for making the gig happen in the first place. That there Ms. Rich is an amazing lady and we’d be nowhere without her. The second thank you goes to our stylist, web designer and friend Thomas Eagle for the wonderful shirt designs. We absolutely LOVE them. What do you think?

Leave us a message here in the comments box below or, if Facebook is your preferred social medium, pop by and say hello. Join the team if you haven’t already – it’s the easiest way of staying in touch with you all and we’d love to have you along.

Music and travel are inextricably linked in my brain, and nothing captures the space in between – the inescapable urge to push on, musically and physically – than Townes Van Zandt’s Flyin’ Shoes. If you haven’t heard Lyle Lovett’s version of this song before, I recommend headphones, a quiet corner and an economy-size box of Kleenex as you do:

Being the discerning music lover that you are, I’m sure you and Townes are already well acquainted. But in the tragic and unlikely event you’ve never come across his music before, start with the stunning documentary Be Here To Love Me (which readers in America can watch on Hulu), then pop yourself out to a record store, buy some music and make up for lost time by not leaving the house for three weeks while you get to know each other.

Steve Earle once said that “Townes Van Zandt is the best songwriter in the whole world, and I’ll stand on Bob Dylan’s coffee table in my cowboy boots and say that”. Apart from the bit about cowboy boots, I couldn’t have put it better myself. So it’s a brave a rare talent that can pull off a cover which does justice to and – dare I say – improves upon the Townes original. Ignoring for a second our own forays into the TVZ oeuvre, I’ll say now that Lyle Lovett is probably the only one who can pull it off.

If you like the music (which, on the advice of the boffins in our marketing and A&R departments, we have entitled ‘Live Fast, Die Young’) there’s more to be discovered at Missing Parsons the band, or you can buy the album on iTunes and Amazon.

The title of the resulting video gift (below), like so many things to do with Missing Parsons and its ‘output’, is a reference to Bill Drummond’s work in progress The Smell of Money Underground. The eagle-eared among you will recognise the song in the first half as Bob Marley’s Redemption Song. To find out exactly how all his relates to our story – well, yes – you’ll have to read the book. (For a video of just the music from this clip, go here. Best enjoyed on headphones, better to facilitate emancipation from mental slavery.)

But the prospect of writing more than four sentences is too awful to contemplate in our current state, so here’s a little video of proceedings instead. If you entered the competition to win a signed copy of the book, watch to find out if you’re a winner!

Commiserations to our valiant losers, winky smiley emoticon. It just remains to say a huge THANK YOU to everyone who came, bought the book or both. The warm glow this morning remains undiminished by heroic hangovers. We’ll post some photos on the Facebook page soon enough, but the effort just of writing three paragraphs has caused something of a bastard behind the eyes. Please be patient – and talk in a whisper – until we do. Thanks, as always, from Missing Parsons.

Soppy Postscript – 14th May

Now that the fuzzy head has cleared, a fuzziness of a quite different and very welcome kind remains. A word or two then about pride.

Several people – dozens in fact – told us how proud they were on Tuesday night. Which of course is a lovely, lovely thing. Since the launch I’ve received emails and texts saying the same. This is also lovely; it almost goes without saying that it’s a wonderful feeling when friends and family express pride in you.

But what has struck me most – the thing that I had never really considered before – is that telling someone you’re proud of them assumes a certain closeness to your proudee – a licence issued only to a very exclusive circle of people in your club. In short, it presupposes you have earned the right to tell them that. Try telling a passing acquaintance – your mechanic for instance – how proud you are of his community service efforts and, unless he happens to be your best friend or brother, he’ll probably smile nervously and announce that the cracked sump he’s been working on really isn’t going to fix itself.

All of which is a very round about way of saying that the book launch was a wonderful reminder of the depth and number of friendships in my life. And that too is a lovely thing.

I did warn you it was soppy.

For your chance to win, all we ask is that you share this video with your friends. If you arrived here from Facebook, hit ‘Share’ under the post for this video on the Missing Parsons page and give us a thumbs up so we know you’ve passed it on*. If you’re a Twitter follower, just retweet one of the many tweets containing this video. And if social media aren’t your thing, just share this blog post with your friends via email and then let us know in the comments box below.

Last entries accepted at 14.00 BST on May 11th. We’ll pick a winner from Joe’s very large bespoke hat at the book launch (which starts at 18.00 that day) and announce the winner here on the 12th. Good luck!

*If you do enter, please do share the video or angels will die in heaven. Some naughty peoples are entering without sharing, which frankly isn’t cricket. (What’s the emoticon for ‘not angry, just disappointed’?)

Additional Brownie points, but absolutely no prize whatsoever, will be awarded to anyone who can spot the badly hidden film reference (not Butch & Sundance or Star Wars) in the prologue video above. Clue – it’s near the beginning and end of the clip.

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.)

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.

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.

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The album is available on iTunes, Amazon or your favourite digital music retailer. Listeners in countries that support it can listen on Spotify. Hope you like it – there’s more information about the band here. Be first to see new Missing Parsons videos by subscribing to our You Tube channel.