Excited.

I’m relaxing into it. Feeling excited. Three weeks away with the loved one – away being the word – is so long overdue for Momo’s engine of creative sparkle, bless him. But it’s disheartening when people don’t get excited about the good stuff you’ve been doing for them.

Change is tricky for clients. More often than not, I end up getting at least a little bit of the loved up feeling that us creatives really go to work for – a client excited about the new things you’ve opened up for them. But sometimes, obvious as the good stuff might be, it isn’t obvious to people who see things from a different angle. And that’s the deal – brand development is about articulating a single vision for someone – a consensus, in internal terms. Which often means you have to negotiate one first.

Brand developement is always at least 50% about the internal delivery – taking the client’s family with you in your creative thinking. And, honestly, I like this really. It’s about people. It’s about getting people excited or relieved that you’ve shown them a way forward. But it’s never going to be 100% back-slapping glass clinks, is it.

Given the sheer number of things I have going to press or going live with only one official day left on the schedule, it’s remarkable how cool my clients are with my prolonged absence. Been a long time coming, I guess, and most of them know it. Which is when work becomes a partnership. And all the jollier. After a tough time last year – a fight, I seem to recall it feeling like – this years been easier and I feel lucky to have the business friends around me that I do. Extremely lucky in a number of cases.

So, the glass of red beside me tells me it’s all good, even if I am working tonight again. It’s all good. Indiana was fun lastnight and it was good to see friends a fair bit over the last week, even if Momo’s schedule has frowned on it. The ol’ brain simply needs Away now…

Where more diplomacy is needed, I’ll work it. Simple as that. It’s the job, ma’am.

Or it will be when I come back.

After three weeks away from being creative, I suspect I’ll just be starting to feel a twinge of excitement about it.

San Marin-oh.

Confession. I had never heard of San Marino before Saturday night.

I mean, who knew? A whole European state that doesn’t appear to be on any maps of the famous continent. Turns out it’s more of large car park on the east coast of Italy with such an elaborate keycode entry system it’s allowed its own entry in the Eurovision song contest.

Now, I knew about Andorra. A pleasant high street in the Pyrenees. Though not many shops. And Lichtenstein, Luxembourg and Belgium are all similarly amusing but likeable dinky stunt states of Europe that we’ve all half heard of. But I do indeed have to confess to having never heard of San Marino.

But, while I’m confessing, I think of one other European micro state that’s been inconceivably conspicuous by its absence in the Eurovision.

Why oh why has the Vatican never put in a tune? Eh?

Sure, whatever they sang would only get half listened to while the entire population of Europe waited to see if those suspiciously long priestly outfits really would adhere to contest custom and come off in an indoor firework key change, to reveal glitter-smeared thighs.

But think about the possibilities. Heal the world, man. If they stumped up the pontif himself, Germany would pile in their votes. And if he went into a little tap number on the bridge, I think he’d win over the UK teledial in a moment. Russia’s orthodox background might well feel a large twang of high-church sympathy as the bass slapped and the rest of the latin countries would be in the bag before he even rose up on the soloist’s plinth. Even Switzerland would dig those black and yellow stripy outfits on the backing chaps of course. Not sure where Turkey would stand exactly, but I think if Benedict’s big number was essentially a forgettably bland soft rock affair, it would be hard for anyone from the Atlantic coast to the ancient silk routes to really argue with the airplayability of it.

..I’m saying it’s an idea.

It’s a little liberal, okay.

But come on. ‘Mea Culpa, hasta la vista’ by Papa Benny? It would steal the show and you know it.

—-

But, just up the motorway from the disappointingly musically quiet sovereign state of the Catholic church, the hitherto-to-me unheard of mighty nation of San Remo were flexing their very important, gigantically-cultured socks on Saturday night – by being the first of only two nation states to give any votes at all to the UK entry.

I mean, what. What. ..Was going on.

Kind of felt Terry’s call for a protest vote next year – all the more because not only had our entry been a decent, feel-good affair, but large swathes of the contest had been unnervinlgly… er, can I say it? Can I really say this?

Okay.

No, I mean large swathes of the contest had been unnervingly okay. With europop goggles firmly screwed in of course, we had a run of okay songs. Good performances. Things worth voting for in a mainstream context.

Norway was, I think, the classiest bit of songwriting that night – kind of cared about it when it came on and it’s been in my head a lot. And it scored fairly, coming fifth. Israel’s entry also scored okay, which I think took the biscuit for genuine emotion in a song that night – when young Boaz opened up his honest wailing you felt like it mattered somehow. Of all the glittery semi-cladness tottering around on the evening, Ani Lorak probably peaked the sauce-ometer with the gutsiest pop tune performance of the night, deserving her second place for Ukraine – even if I can’t remember the song. And even the charming gentle tango quirkiness of Croatia’s entry scored respectably. In fact, taking our traditional place alongside Kev and Fi for the night, we all found it alarmingly hard to take the piss for some of the time. Tricky.

The real daftness was found at either end of the scoreboard. Russia at the top was a triumph for political cynicism, blandly forgettable music, fuddled staging and amusing male hair – but an insult to the many better everythings on show that night. Le Roieux Uni at the bottom of the table was just an insult to us.

How did the dire piss-take of Spain score more than Andy Abraham’s very likeable performance for the UK? Listened to on the record, Even if does a remarkably well-produced job of creating a great groove and a feel-good vibe. Obsessed as I currently am with old Herbie Hancock records, I think it still needs the expert touch of a good brass arranger to bring it right out, but underneath – a full-on likable tune. Same for the performer.

Of course. Hmm. Disco – it’s a risky one.

When you love funk-influenced things, so many other types of music just feel boring. But it’s not traditionally a big winner across mainstream audiences. Dance music may be huge across Europe, as electronic music always has been – but that’s in niche terms. Soft rock is still the ticket. Witness Turkey’s contemporary version of it – tight, acceptably cool and forgettably uncompelling – but a consistent vote-winner on the night.

Of course too – disco and dance don’t always arrange well live. You have to be inside the groove to get it usually and live is a merciless reducer to bare necessities in music. But the UK entry seemed to do just what it was meant to do when it stepped up – create a colourful, feel-good vibe across the audience.

So, is Eurovision a wash-out? Should we leave?

Possibly. But we should keep watching. The point is twofold – Eurovision is a fab idea for a continent-wide media event, and the UK leads the world in musical creative. Why worry? The two obviously don’t go together, bizarre as that may sound to a space alien – but does it matter?

I have to say, after so long with my head in it this week, it’s a relief to leave the Eurovision world again and get back to proper music.

But I do have FIP on and I’m secretly hoping to hear Belgium’s or Croatia’s entries turn up on the playlist.

Late.

Here’s the truth. The bitter truth.

I’m thirty-seven, and I still regularly email Radio One. And still get really stupidly pleased when they read out my carefully composed emails.

‘Annie – I think it’s obvious that what the kids are really waiting for in the Last Blast is for you to drop the Erol Alkan mix of Romanca by Kraljevi Ulice and 75 Cents – Croatia’s 2008 entry to the Eurovision song context. Not enough Balkan beer drinking songs on Radio 1.

Momo and Caz xx’
Bless her Friday night socks, Annie Mac refers to us as regular Can’t Stoppers these days. She read out the whole convoluted thing and laughed. And I did a little dance round the studio. And then caught the pathetic figure I was cutting in the finally night-time summer window. So I picked up the empty pizza box and meekly shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on and to turn down the disco.

The thing is, I think I’ve had dozens of name checks by the very nice Irish squelchy beats lady over the years and I still email in like a ten year old girl. Think I like the little cheer from Caroline from wherever she is in the flat.

..And, in fact, the thing really is that I’m almost as regular on Fi Glover’s Saturday Live program on Radio 4. Ask Lisa Basset. And this week I even got name-checked in her newsletter email…

Ohmygod.

Oh my good lord.

Someone make me go on holiday.

Sweden

Charlotte Perrelli. Possible alien/human hybrid.

We voted for the old man of Croatia.

Rai comments.

I thankyou. And I’m here all week, gang – I have sunny afternoon North African music on and I might say a couple of things about it. Headline job done.

So taking a quick peek back at the ol’ Lingo pages, I can see an annoyingly sunny disposition seeping through the screen pages. But on afternoons like this, it’s hard not to – if you can see the sun, anyway. I concede I’m probably just getting de-mob happy leading up to time away from the studio – punchable holiday smugness seems to soak halfway across the calendar. So I apologise. ..Without being all that sorry, obviously BECAUSE I’M GOING ON SODDING HOLIDAY!!

Being irresponsible has a lot of benefits. Chief among them is the ability to walk away from your work responsibilities as a solo creative freelancer without a second thought to having any work to come back to, to help you pay off the holiday.

Well actually, the pile of work I’m putting off by typing this for five minutes would all have to go to press by the end of the month anyway, whether Momo’s Creative Director was whisking away the company secretary for a dirty spin round the Amalfi coast to a 70s-chic John Barry soundtrack or not. So nice work, boss.

—

Elsewhere in Europe, the delights of a singular cultural event have put music on my mind again – though cynics might say of a less meaningful disposition than the evocative tonsil stretching of Rai. Last night was the first semi final of the Eurovision.

You know well how I/we feel about this. All I’ll say in summary is that it was a relief that Norway made it through. Belgium’s entry may have been so loopily creative it deserved a firm place on FIP’s bonkers-eclectic playlist, but let’s face it, it was never going to get voted into the final. And the singing turkey was surely only ever a piece of squawking sock-puppet comedy vandalism for a very select, and Guiness-addled audience. Class, but not to the taste of watery beer-swilling middle europeans, I had always suspected.

No, though you do quickly adjust your quality goggles when reading the worth of a Eurovision entry (so that Good only ever means Not SO Shit That Words Have Really Failed You This Time), Norway – Nil Point Norway – provided a quiet little quality blinder.

Didn’t hit me between the eyes – and for that reason it wasn’t inconceivable that it would escape the notice of the Baltic voters – but Hold on, be strong, performed by Maria had begun to persuade me by the end that it was possibly a little Motown classic. Really. No, I think really.

Firstly, basics. The backing singers all looked like they came as a set. They didn’t look like so many Eurovision entries do, as though the lead singer had rounded up the fittest mates they could find and made them prat about behind them ill-fittingly. They matched. And they did simple little hand actions together, to reinforce the lyrics.

Secondly, the music. I can still remember it, kind of. Hum it at least. And it all seemed to belong.

So, er… I think I really rate it. In pop terms, for Eurovision. I think I might.

Norway – keep an eye on it. It will fail. But it might be the classiest thing in the final. Might be.

—

Sunshine’s magic is akin to music, of course. It cleverly dulls the feel of other things. Other bad things. And bloody rotten song contests are an especially effective diversion for us all.

But yes, behind our own summery mood, there are epically difficult things in the news, across the Far East especially. Bad things beyond understanding. But I don’t know how to talk about them. I can only sit and watch in silence. And thank God for the good things. For the sunshine outside my just-about-still-standing house this afternoon.

Nothing more you can say. No witty asides needed by aid agency workers. The CD’s just ended.

And Caroline’s just thankfully put on Kylie.