LOST HORIZON

„No Line On The Horizon“ arrived in the post yesterday. It’s by far not the worst album in U2’s catalogue, but it’s not their best, either. The problems with “No Line On The Horizon” concern the slowness of most of the material (one of the reasons the jubilantly playful “Get On Your Boots” is such a stand-out), the presence of bridges and intros that detract from the general thrust of some songs and the fact that Bono’s vocals and lyrics seem more ad hoc than is good for the music. There are exceptions: “Magnificent” is an instant U2 classic with something approaching a disco beat, and “Cedars Of Lebanon” has an understated precision that perfectly couches Bono’s thumbnail sketch of a war correspondent’s view of the tragedies that surround him. The stunning song ends (as does the album) with the lines “(Enemies) gonna last with you longer/Than your friends”, and these words resonate even more deeply if you have ever met writer, music connoisseur and publicist extraordinaire Rob Partridge, to whose memory “No Line On The Horizon” is dedicated. Until reading the dedication, I hadn’t known that the man who brought U2 to Island Records’ attention almost thirty years ago passed away last November, and I was stunned by the sad news. I’d only met Rob three times in his capacity as Tom Waits’ publicist, but like many others before me appreciated his fierce intelligence, hovering wit and compassionate professionalism. Even though I was thousands of miles from home on the few occasions I med Rob, I always felt in the best of hands. I last spoke to him in 2006: I had just returned from California and called to say thank you for setting up yet another interview with Tom waits. "Are you still here?” he joked from across the Atlantic when he heard who was calling and why. “Well, see you again in two years’ time” were his parting words, and I very much regret that there won’t be another opportunity to discuss the varying merits of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On”, Rob’s self-proclaimed definitive article on Allen Toussaint or his many dealings with Bob Marley. There are many artists and associates who knew Rob far better through his work at Island and after 1991 at his own PR and management company Coalition, but despite only having had the pleasure of a few encounters, I too feel poorer for the loss of the force and personality that was Rob Partridge, a man who made me feel part of a bigger and more interesting world.

HISTORY REPEATING

The name caught my eye immediately. A Nirvana tribute band called Courtney & The Shotguns will be playing the Abart Club in Zurich on April 10 to “celebrate the 15th anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death”, as the unfortunately-worded announcement puts it. Quite apart from the fact I find the name tasteless in the light of Cobain’s suicide, the advertisement made me remember how quickly personal experience passes into ancient history without you noticing. It seems only yesterday that Nirvana were playing one of the best gigs I’ve ever seen in Neuchatel, but since that memorable evening in early 1994 the world has changed beyond recognition: The Internet has revolutionised the way we communicate with one another, we are involved in wars raging in parts of the world we could previously ignore, and the first black president has taken residence in the White House. The first inkling of how the planet can change beneath your very feet overtook me when I went to see the film “Enigma” with my father back in 2002. The thriller starring Dougray Scott and Kate Winslet is set in England in 1943, more accurately in Bletchley Park, the British code-breaking headquarters where my father worked during World War II. Watching the film, I realised how much the planet had changed since he was a young man deciphering Japanese military dispatches – so much so that the world he knew back then has become a thing of fiction only remembered to varying degrees of accuracy by historians, journalists and scriptwriters. And now I’m having similar feelings about my own life. Last Wednesday I attended the launch of the Swiss arm of the Nokia Music Store in Zurich, and although the event under-impressed me with its lack of PR punch, it none the less sent me on a reverie. Nokia’s music platform might only be one of many such sites currently in operation, but it is another step away from a world where browsing dingy record shops like Virgin Records in Coventry was the highest of pleasures for prepubescent males like me. Now that you can access any piece of music you like and transfer it to your favourite piece of tech within seconds, the independently owned record store will at some point become a thing of the past. And with it will go that heady atmosphere of danger and disdain that once added to rock, reggae and rap music’s particular tang: I wonder what Kurt Cobain would have made of such developments.

BOWL OF CHEVYS

The Superbowl XLIII is going down in Tampa, FL, tonight. Although most musically-inclined people will think of U2’s rousing yet much-criticised mid-game performance in 2002 or Janet Jackson’s “wardrobe malfunction” in 2004, I always associate the NFL final with Tom Waits, an artist who for commercial and artistic reasons will certainly never perform at the event.
Almost exactly ten years ago, I was riding a bus down to San Francisco airport after an interview with Waits and was surprised by the fact that the entire population of California seemed to have been abducted by aliens. The bus driver assured me, his only passenger, that the Superbowl was keeping people indoors, and it was only then that I realised what a phenomenon American Football is in the US. To Europeans, it’s an outlandish pastime played by men wearing pirated Star Wars merchandise.
This year, Bruce Springsteen will be providing the mid-game entertainment, and the time somehow seems right for his first musical appearance at the event. His latest album “Working On A Dream” might not be a masterpiece, but to me it showcases an artist wisely side-stepping the pressure to come up with the soundtrack to Obama’s first term in office (apart from the title track) while doing exactly what he wants to be doing (i.e. veering madly between Howlin’ Wolf’s fuzzy blues shouting, Ennio Morricone western pastiches and Brian Wilson sunny orchestrations). One should, of course, never underestimate the breadth of Springsteen’s taste. It might be easy to typecast him as a blue-collar traditionalist, but try listening to his haunting “State Trooper” after Suicide’s heart-rending „Frankie Teardrop”. Not only is Springsteen uncovering Suicide’s secret blues roots, his also honouring the original synth duo’s narrative powers, whose song predates “Mr. State Trooper” by about five years. And of course, Springsteen was quick to pick up Tom Wait’s “jersey Girl”, a fact Waits reputedly commented with the following words: “I’ve done all I can for his (Springsteen’s) carrier. He’s on his own now.” Although I’m not a Springsteen fan, I’m glad to say he’s doing just fine.