Inside the Studio

Many, many moons ago, when I was editing the NME, one of my principal duties was maintaining the myth. The paper had an historic reputation for integrity, for championing credibility above all else. Or, to put it another way, to support those who the caucus of writers considered worthy of having their musical efforts publicised to the readership with scant consideration for either chart positions or sales figures.

Crazy? You want crazy? OK, let’s pop into Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge for a snifter. See that guy over there in the corner, nursing the same warm beer he’s been sipping for the past hour or so? Well, that’s Willie Nelson, a wannabe songwriter who’s been kicking around Nashville of late getting pretty much nowhere beyond a police record for drunk driving without a licence. He’s got a wife and three kids to feed back home and the money ain’t so good.

There will be plenty of time to talk about Death in a moment. Right now, though, just you concentrate on ramming that speaker deep down in the toilet bowl and make sure the microphone is firmly propped underneath so the sound will bounce off the water and create an echo effect when it's sent back to the other speaker in the studio next door. Oh, and while you're at it, see that wooden pallet underneath the chair? Make sure it's mic'ed up because the foot-stomp is gonna drive the beat.

Name's Gregg...' We're some 30 minutes into the interview when the door to the cramped London hotel room opens and he stumbles in and collapses onto the bed. He's wearing headphones big as earmuffs and appears to be listening to something or other on his Walkman.

What is it with Jacks? Of all the folks in all the world, the J-men seem more prone than most to behaviour befitting the scallywag and scoundrel. Was it Brian The Ripper? Nope, it was Jack. When the gals in Ray Charles' chorus wanted that ne-er do-well man out of their hair, guess who it was they told to hit the road? Yup, Jack. When The Rolling Stones canned the dopey psychedelia and got their funk back on, who was it led them on a merry dance back to the dark side? Jumpin' Jim? Jumpin' Jeremy? Nope, it was Jumpin' Jack who had the Flash.

You can argue all you like over the greatest single ever released. You can trade opinions on the greatest debut album ever made, and dispute the greatest guitar solo ever recorded... You can bandy words over most things. But when it comes to the greatest TV show theme ever, there's only one winner: Dr Who.

My first encounter with the Madman was in the Coen Brothers' brilliant 1991 movie about writer's block, Barton Fink. The Madman was a sweaty travelling salesman with a sideline in brutal murders and an unpleasant ear infection. He was played, terrifically, by John Goodman and he was known as Madman Mundt ('Jesus, people can be cruel. If it's not my bulk, it's my personality'.)