Monday, 23 November 2020




Album Review of: 

‘Hi everybody, this is Chip Taylor’, introduces a uniquely weird jigsaw of homespun whimsy, an album of intimately whispered conversational anecdotes and confessionals, with occasional backchat dialogue and playful horn-beeps to take out expletives. “Enlighten Yourself” is barely a song at all, more an effortlessly engaging whirl of words aimed at feel-good therapy-phonies. “Barry And Buffalo” is a rough-edged croaky spoken-word piece, a soft-centred routine related like he’s confiding this story about a kid’s golf tournament across a barroom table. “Bobby I Screwed Up” dredges breathlessly apologetic half-forgotten memories of the ‘drunken magic’ of a 1980s recording session spent with Bobby (“He Ain’t Heavy”) Scott. The songs are sometimes achingly raspingly fragile, spun out over feather-light instrumentation… but never underestimate the guy who wrote “Wild Thing”. “Refugee Children” is movingly heartfelt, an acutely personal and damningly political riposte to insular isolationism, touchingly joined on the chorus by his own three granddaughters. While the brothers of the title-song are geologist Barry, and Jon Voight – yes, check out that archive cover-photo and its unmistakably ‘Joe Buck’ from ‘Midnight Cowboy’. Against all logic and reason, this performance hangs together as one of the most enjoyable CDs of 2016.

Published in: 
‘R2: ROCK ‘N’ REEL’ (Vol.2 Issue.61 Jan/Feb) 
(UK – January 2017)

Sunday, 22 November 2020




Review of: 
 With Beryl Reid, Flora Robson, Tessa Wyatt 
Producer: James Kelley. 
Original Release: ‘Tigon British Films’, 1970 
DVD, Odeon Entertainment, 2011

Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome was not something much talked about back then. But that is clearly what this curious little film is about. For the shattered generation returning from the World War I trenches even to discuss the horrors they’d endured was to dishonour the fallen. The popular myth of the stoic Tommy must be maintained, anything else would be considered a form of patriotic betrayal. So they lived with their night-terrors. In flashback, when little Joyce Ballantyne was just six-years-old, her adored and idolised Daddy marches off to the Great War. There’s a sequence of stills-photos of the trenches. When he arrives home from the ‘Big Push’ at the rail-station, he’s shell-shocked and hideously disfigured. He’d become ‘strange’. The consequences alter the lives of Joyce and sister Ellie, and of their brother Stephen who is born later, in 1921. Both sisters still talk to the uniformed portrait of Daddy, as he was before the war changed him. Of course, all this detailed back-story is only teased-out gradually, as the Slasher-narrative unravels. But as the basis for a horror-film it provides an unusual premise, one that maybe could have been done better, more sensitively. As it is, ‘The Beast In The Cellar’ stands as one of Tigon-films weirdest oddities. The storyline is dubious, the Horror-content negligible, there’s no action sequences and few tense thrills. Instead, the film’s early focus and entire appeal revolves around the wonderful two-handed performance delivered by Flora Robson (Joyce) and Beryl Reid (Ellie) as those two Ballantyne sisters grown up into batty old ladies.

Beryl Reid (17 June 1919 to 13 October 1996) started out as a Variety and Music Hall performer under the comic Brummie character-persona ‘Marlene’, until she crossed-over into national awareness through the bizarre concept of a BBC radio ventriloquist, with her supporting part as naughty schoolgirl ‘Monica’ in the Light Programme’s ‘Educating Archie’. She graduated into films as ‘Miss Wilson’ in the original ‘The Belles Of St Trinians’ (1954), with Alastair Sim and Joyce Grenfell. Until two outrageous movie-roles shifted her out of comedy into the shock-mainstream, carrying over her West End stage-portrayal of a lesbian Soap-star in ‘The Killing Of Sister George’ (1970), and as sexually-frustrated ‘Kath’ in Joe Orton’s black farce ‘Entertaining Mr Sloane’ (1970). Then she found time for this hammy chiller set in the ‘cold endless winter’ of the bleak Lancashire moors. 

There are explosions and military maneuvers as armoured cars race through muddy moorland splash-pools. Until unit ‘Zero-Seven’ breaks down and gets stranded. As he’s trudging his way back towards his Little Mere base-camp, he’s savaged by something nasty. ‘Animal, vegetable, or what…?’ speculates investigating Detective Chief Superintendent Paddick (TP McKenna, quoting popular radio quiz show ‘Twenty Questions’). There are gashes on the body, the claw-marks of razor-sharp talons wielded with brutal strength. Sir Bernard Newsmith (Vernon Dobtcheff), is the dapper pathologist with carnation buttonhole and stylish swagger-stick. Was it some kind of beast-attack…? No, not a puma, he ponders, but something bigger, heavier, a leopard? ‘In Lancashire?’ gasps the dumbfounded cop. 

Flora Robson (28 March 1902 – 7 July 1984) was the Grande Dame of UK acting with a thespian career going all the way from Shakespeare to Oscar Wilde, equally at home on the stage since the 1920’s as she was on the film-set. As Joyce, she’s perfectly cast as the stronger of the two sisters. She’s the realist. But although the sometimes child-like Ellie is the dreamer, her fidgety energies and deviously manipulative abilities are not to be underestimated. Their well-observed bickering banter maps their mutual interdependence. The two spinsters live together in the remote family farmhouse they were born in. A chintzy old place with lace tablecloths, antimacassars, and an aspidistra in the alcove. Theirs is a meticulously mapped-out character-interplay reminiscent of the darkly comic ‘Whatever Happened To Baby Jane’ (1962) a decade earlier, with Bette Davis as a crazy, alcoholic former child-star who acts as virtual jailer to her crippled show-biz sister Joan Crawford, once a major star. In their only co-starring film together it unites Davis & Crawford as ageing sisters who are also bound together by a terrible secret. Now, Joyce hears the news of ‘a vicious brutal slaying’ on the phone. And gets dressed up in an army greatcoat, complete with medals, and grimly heads for the basement. To the visiting District Nurse, Joyce and Ellie might seem like ‘two dear sweet old ladies’, but they know what’s going on, they’re concealing something grisly dark and sinister in their cellar. 

Soon, there’s a snogging couple rolling in the hay in the barn. Her knickers are wriggled down her legs – the closest we’re going to get to gratuitous titillation, until the squaddie boyfriend is abruptly wrenched away and slashed, blood splashing. Then there’s another lone soldier on a pushbike. He’s the next victim. Something is targeting and mutilating army personnel. Could it be a wild animal? Or something worse? At first, details are kept vague. But the sisters share a secret. Has the someone bricked-up in their cellar escaped? They search the outbuildings and find the opening of the exit tunnel he’s excavated… and they find the body of the cyclist. They block up the hole with Daddy’s old workbench and – as Joyce is now under Doctor Spencer’s orders following a fall, Ellie must bury the corpse, as feral night-cats howl. 

Both sisters fancy helpful Corporal Alan Marlow (John Hamill) who calls around to enquire after their welfare. He tells them the soldiers have been issued with small-arms. Just in case. But when one of the night-patrol slips off to buy fags – something nasty drops out of a tree onto him… Incidentally, the song he hears soundtracking the NAAFI-scene is “She Works In A Woman’s Way”, provided by Tony Macaulay. He most usually – but far from exclusively, worked with John MacLeod, churning out slick fine-tuned Pop-catchy songwriting that saw him glide through the 1960’s with a string of easy-listening hits centred around studio-concocted groups with names like Pickettywitch, Brotherhood Of Man or Edison Lighthouse, although big-hitters the Hollies, Scott Walker and Donna Summer also scored success with his compositions. The NAAFI song is a piece of Pop-fluff typical of his style, although he was using the opportunity of scoring this movie as a bridge to his second career in the seventies writing for Musical Theatre. 

Meanwhile, Tessa Wyatt is District Nurse Joanna Sutherland. In real-life she was once Mrs Tony Blackburn – their highly-public break-up transformed into a national soap opera as he blurts out on-air details during his Radio 1 Breakfast Show. She later encountered visiting aliens in an episode of ‘UFO’ (“The Long Sleep”, 15 March 1973), and decoratively co-starred with Richard O’Sullivan in the so-so sit-com ‘Robin’s Nest’

Ellie is shocked when Nurse Joanna brightly tells her of the new soldier-murder. She scuttles down to the cellar where their childhood rocking-horse still rocks, and peers through a hole in the wall into the empty chamber beyond. Joyce sleeps, overdosed on tranks. And without her older sister’s resolute guidance to rely on, Ellie confesses all to the police. Troopers with tracker-dogs arrive, others dig in the garden, as with quiet dignity she sits down to tell their tale. ‘It was such a long time ago, there’s so many things to explain…’ Mindful of the horrific effect war had had on Daddy – who’s since died, ‘we were quite glad really’, the sisters are unsettled by the looming prospect of a new European war. Brother Stephen is keen to enlist, to do his patriotic duty. They must save him from himself, protect him from suffering his father’s fate. So they drug him and imprison him in the bricked-up part of the cellar constructed by Daddy. ‘We both thought it was best for him.’ Problem is, once the war is over and it’s presumably safe for him to reemerge, the combination of drugs and incarceration have taken their terrible toll. So he must stay down there, for thirty years. Except now he’s escaped, and he’s on a killing spree. 

Alan and Joanna arrive just as the traditional horror-story storm begins. And Stephen is slouching up the stairs, creepy-crawling towards the sister’s room, his nails brandished like claws. His shadow briefly recalls the famously sinister image from FW Murnau’s ‘Nosferatu’ (1922). But Joyce is wearing Daddy’s uniform, and the medals momentarily stop him in his tracks. Then Alan appears, just in time to shoot him dead. But no, he wasn’t coming to wreak vengeance on his sisters, but to savage the picture of dear dead Daddy. ‘He will never know now, everything we did, the whole thing was all done for him’ laments Ellie. 

As a Slasher-film the build-up works reasonably well. There are some eerie and atmospheric scenes set around the old farm. The repartee between the two ageing sisters is both authentic, and wonderfully comic. But the climactic horror-reveal might have worked better if the monstrous brother didn’t resemble Michael Palin’s ragged wildman from the ‘it’s ‘Monty Python’ intros! Some recent news-stories have dramatically shown how long-term incarceration in converted basements has actually happened, although more usually it’s perpetrated by predatory male paedophiles against female victims. None of whom regressed to the savagery we’re expected to accept happened to the luckless Stephen. And if this curious little film is really about Daddy’s Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, the horror elements tend to distract from any serious consideration of its effects. Nevertheless, ‘The Beast In The Cellar’ stands as one of Tigon-films weirdest oddities. Which is a recommendation, of sorts. 


‘THE BEAST IN THE CELLAR’ (Tigon British Films/ Leander Films, 1970) Producer: Tony Tenser, Christopher Neame, Graham Harris. Director and Screenwriter: James Kelley. With Beryl Reid (as Ellie Ballantyne – and Gail Lidstone as ‘Young Ellie’), Dame Flora Robson (as Joyce Ballantyne – and Elizabeth Choice as ‘Young Joyce’), John Hamill (as Corporal Alan Marlow), Tessa Wyatt (as Nurse Joanna Sutherland), TP McKenna (as Detective Chief Superintendent Paddick), Vernon Dobtcheff (as Sir Bernard Newsmith), David Dodimead (as Dr Spencer), John Kelland (as Sergeant Young), Dafydd Havard (as Stephen Ballantyne – and Merlyn Ward as ‘Young Stephen’), and Chris Chittell (later of ‘Emmerdale’). Music: Tony Macaulay (including song “She Works In A Woman’s Way”. 101-minutes (DVD, Odeon Entertainment: The Best Of British Collection, September 2011, DVD extras include Stills Gallery, Booklet Notes, and ‘Best Of British’ trailers 

Featured on the website: 
‘VIDEOVISTA Retro (January 2013)’ 
(UK –January 2013) 

Saturday, 21 November 2020

ANNIE NIGHTINGALE (My 1999 Interview)



‘ANNIE ON ONE’ – Annie Nightingale on Radio One that is. 
Dance Music’s Radio-Dial fixture for insomniac Clubbers. But 
 for the BBC’s first-ever female DJ this is just the latest incarnation 
 of a career that began... sort-of, by insulting John Lennon
ANDREW DARLINGTON reads the book, sits in on the show, 
 and even finds time for an interview



‘It’s Annie on One – from four till 6:30am’ she opens. ‘You’re up for it? STAY up for it!’ Welcome to Annie-World, direct from the BBC’s Great Portland Street complex. I’d imagined I’d be stepping into a tech-feast equivalent of Todd Terry’s brain, neuron-buzzing with enough gadgets to get you wetting your cryosuit. But there are just four adjoining studios – three of them in darkness. And from here the Radio One crew – or most of them at least, rotate through twenty-four hours. Mark & Lard do it from Manchester, but come down in real-time through ISDN and then go out from here. While through a glass darkly Zoe Ball’s studio waits. A poster mock-up over her console admonishing her ‘KEEP IT SLOW ZO’. And there are rows of pigeon-holes labelled John Peel, Andy Kershaw, Judge Jules, Dave (‘Roll Another Fat One’) Pierce, Pete Tong, and Annie – each one crammed with mysterious communications. 

Prior to the show we talk in the producer’s suite, as Carl Cox unwinds a trickymixology of relentless beats in the background. Annie Nightingale, face familiar from TV, voice unmistakably recognisable from thirty years of broadcasting. Radio One’s First Lady. Literally. ‘This Sunday morning slot is a bit mad, I know’ she gets in first. ‘But, believe it or not, it’s very very good, ‘cos all the DJ’s listen. All over the country they’re out there driving back from their gigs. They play one club at 2am, then drive over the M62 to play somewhere else. And as they’re driving, they listen to the radio – I’m on till six-thirty, and there’s no other national dance programme on, so it’s a great audience – but very critical. What makes me nervous is that they phone in if I make mistakes. Chemical Brothers. All of them. Whoever’s on tour. It don’t half keep you on your toes! It’s madness...’ 

‘South Park’ screen-savers flicker on the studio computers The on-air continuity promo announces ‘‘CARL’S ESSENTIAL MIX’ on Radio One’s Website.’ Then “Keep it Radio One 97-to-99FM for a Celebration Of Three Decades Of Annie On One”. Insomnia radio. In the final ‘I’m Alan Partridge’ episode, Steve Coogan brilliantly reprises his hideously insensitive failed chat-show host now banished to the Siberian wastes of twilight-shift local radio. ‘Up With The Partridge’...? Actually no, instead I’m ‘Up With The Nightingale’. Give her an hour. She gives you the stars. 

Music is a very slight thing. An arrangement of sounds in sequences that we find pleasing. Nothing more. Yet it dominates our lives. While Disc Jockeys have always been the interface between music and audience. With the DJ’s job description changing and evolving considerably across the years she’s been doing it, all the way from Smashey & Nicey through to Armand Van Helden. So what’s it take to do it well? ‘I think to do it you’ve got to be honest about it. I would have to be.’ Does it help to be a Show-Off? ‘Well – being interviewed is a bit like undergoing psychotherapy. People ask me strange questions I’ve never been asked before. Like that one,’ she teases. ‘But I’ll tell you, I’m an Aries, and there ARE an awful lot of Aries at the BBC and in broadcasting in general – going back to my early contemporaries Nicky Campbell, David Frost, Michael Parkinson, Johnny Walker, Bob Harris, Janice Long, Paul Gambaccini, Philip Schofield – same day as me, April 1st, and Chris Evans! It’s very odd. Way over the national average. But when I tell people I’m actually a very shy person they go ‘ah, come off it’ – but it IS possible to be a combination of both shy and brash at the same time. The thing about Aries is that they are kind-of quite mouthy... but it’s all a cover!’ 

So I’m here increasing your Woman-On-The-Edge-Of-A-Nervous-Breakdown pre-Show paranoia? ‘Naw, that’s alright. Don’t worry.’ 

During Radio One’s 1970s peak years smug ‘Daredevil of Discdom’ Tony Blackburn and ‘hairy cornflake’ Dave Lee Travis were national celebrities. And they had mass audiences – largely because there was no competition. Now it’s different. With so many commercial stations each one has had to develop its own smaller more specialised ‘niche’ identity – including the BBC itself. Five years ago – nearly six now, Matthew Bannister undertook his Night Of The Long Knives to reinvent Radio One, losing ‘Europe’s Most Listened-To Radio Station’ millions of listeners in the process. Famous DJ’s left, nursing more grudges than Lonely High Court Judges, and no-one liked the new ones. Chris Evans arrived – his chaos and eventual departure cost the station dear. Leaving Radio One showing all the symptoms of a well-loved institution in the throws of terminal decline. Yet it survived. And survives. On the wall of this production studio there’s a map showing a geo-breakdown of What’s Going On headed ‘RADIO ONE: NATIONAL RELATIONS’. Sub-headings go from red hot-zones marked ‘THEY LOVE US’ (Cornwall, Scotland, North Yorkshire), through ‘FLIRTING’ (Wales), into ‘THEY’RE HAVING SECOND THOUGHTS’ to the cool blue ‘TRIAL SEPARATION IN PROGRESS’ (Northern Ireland and most of London – significantly, regions with the densest waveband competition). Alan Partridge may well protest ‘I’m a national broadcaster trapped in the body of a regional disc jockey’, but hey, we’re all part of niche-broadcasting now, aren’t we? 

‘But we are quite well-focused’ Annie argues back. ‘Radio One breaks the new bands. We break new music. Then commercial stations come along and cream it off. But that’s what we’re here for. A friend of mine on the local Brighton station plays by format – a record from the sixties, the seventies, the eighties, then one from now. But never anything that’s not already very successful. They daren’t. They have advertisers to deliver audiences to. So I feel quite sort-of pro what we’re doing here. I’m not here to plug the BBC, but we’ve got such a world-wide reputation for being innovative, and maybe if there was a similar set-up in other countries, with somewhere for talent to develop independent of commercial pressure, then you might get great sounds coming out of Malaysia. But there just isn’t that infrastructure to do it.’

‘Radio’ says Annie, is ‘an intimate phone-call performance’. No batteries required. She’s wearing a chill-out-blue low-cut lace-edged underskirt kind of thing which producer Claire Slevin calls ‘her strumpet dress’. Less sex kitten, more cool Bagpuss. But this is radio. She could broadcast naked. ‘This show plays new music, but every bit has to entertain. And the people who’re listening are quite shy about phoning in. So you suggest a topical subject, something to actually think about, and it makes it easier for them. You can then turn their calls into dreadful little stories to fit around the tunes, rather than phone-ins saying ‘WAAAAH! I’m having a GREAT GREAT night!!!’’ And phone-in voices get lured through the desk into a strange magical cyberland where, freed of identity, nationality or gender, they can be as weird as they want to be, ‘...‘cos that’s more funny... er, sorry, funn-ier! That goes back to my journalistic background again. Ha! But schadenfreude (delight in another’s misfortune) – is such a wonderful word isn’t it? And sometimes it inspires. Sometimes not. So we’ll see. You never know. Anyway – now I’ve got to go and DO it. I’ve got to get into the studio. Get the feel of what’s going on. See if it’s all working.’ 

Once she’s in the studio Claire and Natasha (wo)man the ‘phones, filtering out the loonies while jotting down ‘possibles’ for Annie’s attention. She then reads them out on air, interpreting them for maximum punch-line potential, delivering them like a pro. Well – not like a pro. She is the pro who sets the standards against which comparisons must be made. She dances barefoot beyond the glass, acts out the stories she’s relating theatrically – head-in-hands despair, hand-on-brow deep thoughts, then she jack-in-the-boxes up indicating wildly to Claire some urgent technical requirement – or perhaps just for another in a long line of coffees.


‘Wicked Speed’*, Annie’s autobiography stylishly dressed in its pseudo-Warhol sleeve, is ‘not a kiss-and-tell book’ she says – ah-shucks. Neither is it ‘an exercise in name-dropping’ – DOH! And it’s her second foray between literary covers, following ‘Chase The Fade’ (Blandford Press, 1982). But unlike – say, Mark Radcliffe’s book ‘Showbusiness’ (1999, Sceptre), punchlined with anecdotes and one-liners, this is a more personal history in which nevertheless, kisses are kissed, while names and other substances inevitably get dropped. How could it be otherwise? Irvine (with an ‘e’) Welsh – the guy who thefted Trainspotting from the anoraks and gifted it to the loved-up trendies, writes a story-flavoured intro to which the ‘cool funky tones’ of Annie’s radio show provide the soundtrack. To the fucked-up adolescent Welsh-protagonist she’s ‘more than a DJ, she’s a surrogate cool big sister’ with ‘healing powers’. She’s a voice from the speakers distinctively different from the ‘flatulent sounds of the loud, boring, thick and egotistical men’ who ‘strafe the airwaves’. Yeah and thrice-yeah. 

To teenage Annie, trapped in Brighton, the Sixties was not so much a generation, more an escape committee who saw Rock ‘n’ Roll as the force that would change the world. And music was to be her magic one-way ticket out of suburbia. From a ‘Spin With Me’ record-review column in the ‘Brighton Evening Argus’ through a fortuitous Beatles interview as early as 1962 (determined to strike an impression she confronts Lennon with ‘so, John, you’re the difficult one, then?’, to which the lovably comedic mop-top instantly retorts ‘Eh?’), she gets to broadcast for local BBC West from ‘an unmanned studio’ inside the architectural weirdness of the Brighton Pavilion. It leads to fronting yoof-TV’s ‘That’s For Me’, a thirteen-week cross-over companion to the big Mod cult show ‘Ready Steady Go’, and then less credibly to a stint as bimbo game-show hostess for ‘Sing A Song Of Sixpence’, a kind of no-hoper Name-That-Tune vehicle for some-time actor Ronan O’Casey – whose best-remembered role is as the corpse in ‘Blow-Up’ (1966). Remember the shows? No. Neither do I. But she was also writing weekly columns for ‘Fab’ and ‘Honey’, and in a period when Pop-journalism was dismissed as strictly fluff for the kids, she also got to write for the tabloid ‘Daily Sketch’ too, providing limitless access to the intimate lives of the Rock-ristocracy. The relentless madness of Keith Moon, confusingly stoned encounter with LSD-tripping Roger McGuinn and ‘pretentious git’ Jim Morrison, and sessions of agonised conscience-searching over whether she should breach a confidence and leak an exclusive about the still-secret John & Yoko affair. Fortunately they upfront it themselves before she has a chance to commit herself. 

Meanwhile, Homer Simpson’s local radio station dispenses with live DJ’s in favour of a DJ3000 computer ‘programmed with three varieties of inane chatter’. Yes, Radio One, it seems, has always been with us. Yet it was first foisted upon a reluctant Auntie Beeb in 1967 as a political sop by the Labour Govt responsible for banning ‘Pirate’ radio. And it proved equally resistant to the idea of employing female DJ’s (‘a Radio One job seemed to require me to own a dick!’), until Annie sneaked in under the guise of gender tokenism, as part of a ‘SOUNDS OF THE SEVENTIES’ intake alongside Noel Edmonds. She’s cool. She’s real. She’s the new John Peel. Well – not exactly, but against the odds (check out her list of surviving contemporaries) she hung on in there, successfully surfing from one generation to the next, in a precarious profession that’s left innumerable corpses along the way. DJ’s unable to change, unwilling to adapt or embrace new styles. ‘Yeah, I know. It’s so strange’ she muses in genuine puzzlement. ‘Perhaps they didn’t want to change or adapt?’ When ‘Whispering’ Bob Harris ducked out of presenting Punk on TV’s ‘Old Grey Whistle Test’, Annie stepped in. Then she did ‘Live Aid’ – advised Simon Le Bon to marry Yasmin. And he did. She film-documented a Police World tour, calling off in Japan where groupies refused to give head – claiming it was illegal! Then she discovered House. And Ibiza – ‘DJ-ing at a party which had been going on for a thousand years.’

Along the way she also got Radio One-One-Wonderful commissions taking her into the Cold War Soviet Union, to Iran, Cuba and Rumania. Of course, we’re all a little more cynical and less naive than they were in the sixties, but oddly, Annie’s travels show that by now Rock ‘n’ Roll had BECOME a force that changed the world. Behind the then-Iron Curtain she discovered a samizdat underground in which western influences – with imported Pop at the top of the agenda, was helping undermine and ultimately destroy those totalitarian regimes. ‘Yes. In all those countries – but particularly in Rumania, television, communications and technology achieved that. You could not keep those people down. A lot of people are saying that in Communist Yugoslavia all the old grudges now coming back lethally to the surface in Kosovo and elsewhere were all held down, that the things that are happening there now weren’t allowed then. I’m not saying the old regimes were good or bad. But it’s all so complicated... but, I’ll tell you something which I’m absolutely gobsmacked about. There’s a Club called ‘Lush!’ (with an exclamation mark) in Portrush – Northern Ireland, where all the Catholics and Protestants are dancing together. Those Clubbers are doing more to sort out the ‘Troubles’ than any ‘Peace Process’. And that’s fantastic. That’s why I’m so keen on the nineties. Because there is this idealistic thing. There’s a young DJ called Adam Freeland. There’s a photo of him in my book. And he’s always saying ‘you’ve got to change the world’ – and it’s marvellous to have that attitude. It’s very important not to get cynical, defeated, and stuff like that. Maybe I’m ludicrously naive...?’


Annie slides seamlessly on-air with Rhinocerose “Machine Pour Les Oreilles”, then Freddy Fresh “It’s About The Groove”. As the Dance Anthem groove deepens she programmes new white-label club mixes of standards like the Stone Roses “Fools Gold”, Chemical Brothers’ “Life Is Sweet” and even Prodigy’s “Climbatize”, cutting them with a long ‘Funky Monkey’ mix, Barry Adamson, PFN and a Way-Out-West mix of JDI’s “Asian Vibes”. Following it with a trailer for ‘the Now-Legendary Todd Terry Mixing Up A Storm’. 

‘Music’s very healthy at the moment’ she asserts. ‘But there are dips. There are times – like the pre-Acid House mid-eighties when things were pretty dull... but it’s always there if you look for it. House changed the sound of music completely. It just did. It’s been around now for a good ten-to-twelve years, perhaps not always on the overground, but you’ve still got the big clubs – ‘Cream’, ‘Ministry Of Sound’ and the like, they will be with us for a long time yet. It’s not always easy. There aren’t fortunes to be made DJ-ing, unless you suddenly break really big. But then again – what happens is that when something comes along – like Speed Garage, people jump on it too quickly and kill it. Suddenly you see it TV-advertised as ‘THE BEST SPEED GARAGE IN THE WORLD EVER... VOL.3’ – and you go WHAAAATTTT!?!?!? It’s bizarre, they over-expose it too quickly before it’s properly developed, and that just kills it. It’s one or the other, you know?’ 

Three Decades Of ‘Annie On One’. Perhaps Dance is the Last Temptation of Annie Nightingale? Maybe not. But Dance now makes up a good sixty-percent of the national record charts, even while the ‘inky’ Rock press are deliberately cutting back on their Dance content, because they prefer quotable ‘Stars’ they can splash across covers. BritPop was ideal for that. Whereas Dance is the antithesis of the Star system. It’s all about anonymity, cult credibility and style-elitism. ‘This is the point, absolutely. This is the problem. DJ’s are not Sexy Rock Gods. They’re mostly very quiet blokes. In the clubs they generally want to be left alone, because they’ve got to concentrate on what they’re doing. It’s more about having both good musical and engineering skills. Whereas people do want an Oasis. They want someone to look up to. They like heroes. I agree. But there is a very big dance press, great thick magazines like ‘Mixmag’, and now ‘Ministry’ which is quite a commercial enterprise. And ‘DJ’ and ‘Music’ – there’s loads of them. The market seems to be able to support quite a few, but then again, it all splits down to so many sub-genres. Like there’s this new sub-genre that I’m trying to help at the moment called Nu-Skool-Breaks (she spells it out). It’s quite funky. I don’t really know where it’s come from, but you’ll hear it here tonight. It’s beginning to get quite international, but they need help. Everybody’s looking for the Next Big Thing. People don’t know where it’s all going. Fortunately I get all this stuff. And I DO listen to it!’  

Kevin Greening slouches stylishly in for some off-mike pre-hand-over bonding with Annie. While through a glass darkly Zoe Ball’s studio waits. A poster mock-up over her console admonishing her to ‘KEEP IT SLOW ZO’.

(introduction by Irvine Welsh) Sidgwick & Jackson 
 ISBN 0-283-06197-9 £15.99 

Interview originally published in: 
‘HOT PRESS Vol.23 no.9’ 
26th May’ (Eire – May 1999)