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Friday, 1 August 2008



Scott Walker pops round with a rough mix of his new song for me to A&R - Cowell always gives him a hard time, I think, so I'm like the good cop to Simon's bad one I suppose. He starts the tape up and about 17 minutes in I'm thinking... so what if David Milliband *were* to become P.M. Is it conceivable, for instance, that he might one day seize authoritarian powers for himself, sack Fabio Capello as manager of the national team and insist that he and his brother Ed *both* be named in the starting line-up for England's next meaningless friendly. Why, they'd be the first English brothers since the Nevilles to be named in the same England side if that were the case. Handy left peg Milliband senior has, I'm reliably informed. Tackles like a fondant fancy, if truth be told, but you can't have everything I suppose...

"What do you reckon?" asks Scott when the song finally comes to an end after what seems to have been wel over an hour. He's peering at me intently over the rims of his dark sunglasses whilst peeling a conference pear with the unwieldy Samurai sword he insists on carrying with him wherever he goes. "Well mate, the cheese grater running up and down a slice of veal sound effect - that *is* veal, I take it? - on the opening; I'd lose that mate. And I think you've got your echoplexed didgeridu a bit too prominent in the mix for my tastes. And that bit where you sing "Shirley Temple's Adam's apple consumated maelstrom of the prune within my soul..." - yeah, great line, by the way! Well, I think it'd sing about a bit more of you got a little bit closer in to the mic. And you might want to move the 17 foot ice sculpture out of your way, perhaps. And maybe take the mothballs out of your cheeks? Clarity, Scott, is everything when you're trying to be Avant Garde."

I've always been a big Scott fan, but he's taken such a decidely odd turn of late. Playing a turkey baster like a Jew's harp, slapping the sides of an antelope carcass he's had especially suspended from the ceiling for the session, long rambling songs about Mussolini's dog minder going for a very long walk with a bag full of least you knew where you were with the old Scott. But this new one's gone *completely* over my head. "What's it called?" Scott shuffles a bit, nervously on the sofa. "It's just called, ' ' - he makes a bizarre chubb sucking plankton off the side of a fishtank sort of mouthing action for a few seconds. "Snappy", I tell him - I hate having to lie to a mate. "So, do you think it'll get me back into the Hit Parade Bob?" I can see he's close to tears - what can you do? "It'll be a smasher, Scott me old mucker! Now, quick cup of Horlicks and a game of draughts before you go round to Simon's??"

Christ, Cowell's going to *LOVE* this one...

L.U.V. on y'all,





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