Monkey Business

William Boyd could justifiably claim to be the greatest British living novelist, but he is strangely unfashionable compared to his contemporaries, such as Martin Amis and Ian McEwan, possibly because he wields his intellectual power so lightly, both in prose and life. Incredibly self-effacing for someone so talented, he possesses few of the attributes normally associated with major literary figures, but he may well be the writer of his generation most likely to be remembered.

Admittedly, he is a difficult writer to classify with a prolific body of work including eleven novels, three collections of short stories and numerous screenplays. He is a comic writer, but not exclusively so; he is a satirist, but not on a grand scale; he is a historical novelist, but only up to a point. Three of his novels have adopted the format of a life story (the memoir The New Confessions, the journal Any Human Heart and Nat Tate: An American Artist, a fake biography that conned the pretentious New York art scene).

"Don't call me scarf-face"

Perhaps most significantly, he is a British writer, but he has strong roots in Africa. Indeed, he was born in Accra, attending schools in Ghana and Nigeria. The African connection links Boyd with an earlier generation of British writers who had directly experienced that continent, so it is no surprise that Evelyn Waugh and Graham Greene are often cited as his influences. Boyd made good use of his “memories of an amazing time in an amazing place” when writing about his experiences there in his early, darkly comic novels A Good Man In Africa and An Ice Cream War.

Boyd repeated the trick of producing an excellent story (largely) set in Africa with Brazzaville Beach, in which primate researcher Hope Clearwater makes a shocking discovery about the devastating cruelties of apes and humans alike. The young ecologist is alone, far from her family in England, as she contemplates the extraordinary events that left her washed up like driftwood on, you guessed it, Brazzaville Beach. Here, she must come to terms with the perplexing and troubling circumstances of her past and the only chance she has of moving forward is to grasp some hard and elusive truths: about marriage and madness, about the greed and savagery of the scientific community and, most of all, about what compels seemingly affectionate creatures to kill for pleasure alone.

"Books Etc"

This is a novel that can be enjoyed on many levels: vividly created characters, a sense of time and place, a gripping multi-layered plot and thought-provoking ideas, including scientific and philosophical theories. On one level, the intellectual narrative is rich and intricate, but on another it remains accessible to all readers as pure entertainment, because it slips by like a good, old-fashioned adventure story. Boyd is a truly accomplished storyteller, so the juxtaposition of Hope’s observations of the chimps with life in the camp, war in the emerging nation, the cut-throat world of academic research and her personal history make for a compelling read. It’s a book containing many challenging notions, but the author never forgets to entertain. His prose is rich and evocative, as can be seen in the book’s first sentence:

I never really warmed to Clovis – he was far too stupid to inspire real affection – but he always claimed a corner of my heart, largely, I supposed, because of the way he instinctively and unconsciously cupped his genitals whenever he was alarmed or nervous.

Clovis, of course, is a chimpanzee ...

Brazzaville Beach consists of three separate narratives, though they are really three episodes of one story – the life of Hope Clearwater. The first describes her former marriage to John Clearwater, a brilliant, but psychologically unstable mathematician, whose failure to make progress in his academic research gradually drives him mad. The second strain, taking up the bulk of the novel, features an older Hope working as an anthropologist in an African national park called Grosso Arvore, where she immerses herself in her research in the hope (geddit?) that this will afford her the emotional distance needed to heal the wounds of her shattered personal life. Unfortunately, her discovery of the violent nature of the chimpanzees that she is observing brings her into conflict with her employer, Eugene Mallabar, whose own work paints a far more peaceful picture, plunging Hope into another crisis which threatens not just her professional career, but her life. Flickering in the background is a long-running civil war, which also impacts Hope, as she is captured by the guerilla leader, Dr. Amilcar. During the third section, Hope reflects on the events of her life while recovering in a beach house on Brazzaville Beach, examining the complex circumstances that brought her there for evidence of her own innocence or guilt.

"Winner of Clive James lookalike contest"

The threads on Hope’s failed marriage and her chimpanzee research both centre on the quest for knowledge and the mania that can result from its pursuit. Indeed, the book’s introduction contains a quote from Socrates, “The unexamined life is not worth living”, and the book tackles some of the core questions of Man’s existence. Hope explains the thrill of seeking scientific advancement:

In her work she was achieving something irrefutably concrete. However recondite, however parochial, she was adding a few grains of sand to that vast hill that was the sum of human knowledge.

It takes the charismatic Dr. Amilcar to warn Hope of the dangers of academic obsession, which has already sent her husband mad, as his glimpses of mathematical truth became ever more hard to pin down:

The pursuit of knowledge is the road to hell. You think that if you know everything you can escape from the world.

The book conveys a very clear message about the harsher and more sinister side to Man’s character, drawing several strong parallels between the chimpanzees’ violent behaviour and the conflicts surrounding Hope. Most obviously, this refers to the massive egos, petty jealousies and underlying tensions within the scientific team, but there are also allusions to the civil war taking place in the African country. At the same time, it reveals that the apes’ society is more human-like than anyone had previously suspected, as the usually gentle chimps engage in organised aggression, deliberate cruelty and other remarkably human acts. They even resort to cannibalism and you could argue that Hope herself is subjected to “academic cannibalism”, as her discoveries are stolen by the senior professor. Unlike many other books, in no way does this one attempt to romanticise animals, partly based on the assistance received from Jane Goodall, the famed primate researcher, but possibly also mindful of Tennyson’s description of Nature as “red in tooth and claw”. Similarly, when the thin veneer of civilisation is stripped away in the jungle, it is clear that Man has to accept that he does indeed possess a dark heart.

"A well-known vigneron and sometime author"

The book is filled with mathematical and scientific metaphors, attempting to match John Clearwater’s chaos theory research to the vagaries, indeed the chaos, of Hope’s own life:

The if clauses would go backward through my life toward the day of my birth, tracing my personal route through the forking paths of happen-stance and whim, my selections, willed and unwilled, from the spread deck of infinite alternatives and chances that the world and time offered.

Of course, Robert Frost expressed this just as eloquently:

Two roads diverged in a yellow road, and I –

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Each chapter begins with a passage printed in italics dealing with her husband’s groundbreaking work in a way that relates to the narrative, e.g. turbulence theory as Hope’s marriage becomes more, er, turbulent; catastrophe theory as it disintegrates. Although the book includes much esoteric science, the complex details are very well explained (“like a considerate host showing a guest around his house”, according to the New York Times) and it is fascinating to see how accurately these manage to convey people’s emotions.

"Off the top of my head"

Much of the book’s power comes from the clever intertwining of the different narrative strands. This is a challenging structure, yet both stories complement each other. In fact, the effect is to increase the considerable suspense of both tales, as thematic echoes are created between them. The mental collapse of Hope’s husband finds numerous parallels in the breakdown of relationships between the two rival groups of chimps. Boyd weaves the material together in captivating fashion partly through his usual impeccable research, but manly from his gift of pure storytelling.

Another literary device Boyd uses to distinguish the narratives is to alternate between different perspectives and tenses. Hope’s time in Africa is written in the present tense from the first person perspective, so you can slip into her mind and listen to her thoughts. On the other hand, the account of her marriage is written in the past tense in the third person, as if she were a stranger, emphasising how far removed from the past she wants to be.

"Buoyed by his success?"

In many ways, Hope makes a good feminist character: determined, but not pushy; intelligent, but no pseud; often conflicted about what the best course of action is; and sometimes mistaken. Her struggle for respect, both in her professional field and her personal life, lies at the heart of her deeds. She is a very realistic character: strong, while most of the men are weak and flawed. Although she does not really know what she wants, she defines herself by what she does not want: an ordinary, dull and dependent life. Boyd is one male author who is able to convincingly write from the point of view of a woman, having also included a memorable female character in The Blue Afternoon.

All the characters that surround Hope are beautifully crafted, most evidently her tortured husband who finds inspiration digging ditches in unusual places and her Egyptian lover, a mercenary pilot who flies sorties against rebel army groups. Equally noteworthy are the likeable rebel leader, her enigmatic project leader and his frigid wife and her charming academic advisor. Despite the focus on scientific ideas, there are many humorous moments, such as tiny airplanes powered by horse flies and a rebel army composed of a volleyball team.

"Plenty of grey matter"

Brazzaville Beach is a profound meditation on what makes us human, an extraordinary parable about mankind, which is also an immensely entertaining read – with a bit of chaos theory thrown in for good measure. At one stage, Hope recalls a famous philosopher suggesting that there are three questions that every human should ask himself. These are answered by her husband as follows:

What can I know? Nothing for sure.

What ought I to do? Try not to hurt anyone.

What may I hope for? For the best (but it won’t make any difference).

So, even this fanatical mathematician came to realise that the pursuit of knowledge may be very worthwhile, but it keeps you from what matters most, namely knowing about yourself.

Sound Of The Crowd

Crowded House are surely one of the most contradictory bands in the history of popular music. Every time it looked like they were on the verge of commercial success, they appeared to deliberately shy away from the implications of international stardom. Just after chart success arrived in the UK in the form of “Weather With You” and “Four Seasons In One Day”, frontman Neil Finn’s brother Tim decided to leave the band. A few years later in 1996, Neil himself decided to call it a day when the band were at the height of their success following the release of their greatest hits album “Recurring Dream”. Neil agreed with this accusation:

I am a mass of contradictions. I am always ambitious for the songs, but there was an anxiety attached to celebrity that I recoiled from. I don’t really like being famous. What I like is a song being famous.

With his rich sense of melody, sumptuous harmonies and mysterious yet accessible lyrics, Neil Finn is indeed widely recognised as a truly outstanding songwriter. Finn is from New Zealand and his songs have an edge and non-conformism that comes from being nurtured outside of the American/British musical mainstream. A Crowded House song found the happy medium between sounding instantly approachable, but at the same time being something deeper and more transcendental. Although full of precise, poetic lines, the beautiful lyrics are still ambiguous enough for personal interpretation. As Finn said:

I figure if you leave a series of doors slightly open, then people can go through any one of them. I rely on a process of things dropping into my head from the here and now and then immediately suggesting something in the ethereal world as well. That mixing up of the domestic side of life and greater truths is kind of what fuels the songs.

"Driving in my car"

Their music was permeated with a sense of loss, but simultaneously uplifted by an appreciation of life. Even when a song delivers a poignant or melancholy message, there is always a touch of lightness or humour hidden within another layer. The lyrics may be darkly reflective, but the lightness of the fantastic melodies can still raise your spirits. Some joked that Crowded House were a little bit like the second coming of The Beatles. That’s a bit steep, but the comparison is not completely invalid, when you consider the superb song craft, the satisfying blend of pop with an adventurous sound palette and the barely concealed depth running throughout their work.

There is a sense that their songs and spirit are rooted in everyday struggles. Even the band’s name alludes to the cramped quarters they shared in Los Angeles when making their first album. Before forming Crowded House, Neil Finn and drummer Paul Hester had for many years been striving to make their mark with cult New Zealand band Split Enz, so it was maybe inevitable that their music would reflect this journey.

"Here come the Men in Black"

“Woodface” was the band’s commercial high-water mark, featuring most of their hit singles, but “Together Alone” was their artistic masterpiece, an altogether darker and more atmospheric record. This was an astonishing departure, much more ambitious, exotic and multi-layered. It felt like a windswept coastline compared to the sun-drenched pop of “Woodface” (“Chocolate Cake”, anyone?) Neil once again started to write meaningful, heartfelt songs, which maybe he had been too shy to sing in the presence of his older brother, Tim, who had been such a driving force on the classic pop tunes of “Woodface”. If previous albums could have been accused of being too mannered, “Together Alone” captured Crowded House at their most raw and emotional.

Released in October 1993, “Together Alone” packs quite an eclectic punch. More experimental and musically varied than any of their previous outings, the album explores a multitude of mood and style, ranging from dreamy ballads to powerful balls out rock. Hip dance producer Martin Glover, better known as Youth from Killing Joke, was hired to bring more spontaneity to the recording process with the idea of creating a more organic and less polished sound, resulting in the most complex, adventurous and insightful effort in the band’s discography.

"Black and White Boy"

More distorted, effects-laden guitars than heard before helped the band achieve a heightened sense of ambience and slightly off-centre arrangements imbued a sense of brooding to the whole affair. Densely layered, the melancholy lurking around the edges of much of the band’s material came out of the shadows into the foreground. Like all of the group’s best efforts, ugly scenes are juxtaposed with pretty, enticing guitars to retain an air of looseness, ensuring that the brilliance of Finn’s songwriting is never lost in the mix.

The album was recorded at an isolated beach called Kare Kare on the west coast of New Zealand (“the end of the earth”, as Finn called it) and the primal wonder of the location washes through into the record’s grooves. Finn pays tribute to his native Kiwi homeland from the opening track “Kare Kare” to the anthemic closer “Together Alone”. Obviously named after the beach, “Kare Kare” is a wonderful mood setting song, perfectly capturing the aesthetic mood of the place with melancholic strings and a delay-ridden, high-pitched guitar calling like a whale in the distance, “Sleep by no means comes too soon/In a valley lit by the moon”.

"On bass ... Magnum P.I."

The amazingly powerful title track closes the album with an evocative meditation on loneliness and death, “Together alone/Shallow and deep/Holding our breath/Paying death no heed/I'm still your friend/When you are in need/As is once will always be/Earth and sky/Moon and sea”. Utilising a traditional Maori choir and log drummers, the song is a spectacular achievement that crosses cultural boundaries, but above all is a great finale.

There are many other equally emotional, profoundly moving songs that combine to form a sublime collection, a smouldering elegy to a relationship too painful to continue, but too inextricable to fully exorcise. “Private Universe” is a gem, an under-stated epic that may just be the best thing that Neil Finn has ever done. It crackles with strange, shimmering noises and other sonic distortions, creating a disturbing ambience, as we enter Neil’s most personal sanctuary where love is truly all he needs, “I will run for shelter/Endless summer lift the curse/It feels like nothing matters/In our private universe”.

"Hello, Sydney"

Just as emotionally powerful, “Distant Sun” is probably the most accurate, heart-rending description of a man’s view of marriage as you will ever hear, “Easy to forget what you learn/Waiting for the thrill to return/Feeling your desire burn/As you’re drawn to the flame”. What is already a deeply affecting song manages to find an even higher gear, when Finn cries out with all of his heart, “I don’t pretend to know what you want/But I offer love”.

The trance-like “Fingers Of Love” is a worthy heir to the exquisite “Fall At Your Feet” with a wonderfully psychedelic feel, “Can you imagine that/An itch too sensitive to scratch/The light that falls through the cracks/An insect too delicate to catch”. The title of “Nails In My Feet” speaks for itself, but says nothing of the gentle, fresh melody, its extended metaphor (“My life is a house/You crawl through the window/Skip across the floor and into the reception room”) or the seamless passage to its conclusion, “And it brings me relief”.

"A tired Neil Finn"

Several rockier tracks offer a lively contrast to the slower songs and are far more intense than their counterparts on previous albums, leaving the listener in no doubt that commercial objectives are not paramount. The thundering “Black And White Boy” contains the grungiest guitar you could ever want. The song is obviously written about a friend suffering from wild mood swings (“And you're full of the wonder of spring/It's all sweetness and lightness you bring/ But when demons have climbed on your back/You are vicious and quick to attack”), so many believe that it’s about Paul Hester, the band’s drummer, who tragically committed suicide in 2005.

The manic “Locked Out” feels like it’s been influenced by the Madchester sound, as it describes the end of a relationship, “And I know we’re through/But I can’t begin to face up to the truth/And I wait so long for the walls to crack/But I know that I’ll one day have you back”. The creepy “In My Command” owes much to The Beatles’, sitting somewhere between “Revolver” and “Sgt. Pepper”, cleverly alternating a power-pop chorus with hell-raising guitar licks, “I would love/To trouble you in your time of need/Lose your way/It's a pleasure when you're in my command”. Like many Paul Hester compositions, “Skin Feeling” was very popular during live shows, “I'm looking old/I'm feeling young/It's the truth, my child/My second life has just begun”.

"Whispers and Moans"

“Catherine Wheels” with Tim Finn on backing vocals sounded more like earlier Crowded House, probably because another version had been written years before. This is a moody, slower tempo piece, once again about a break-up, “She was always the first to say gone/She's got her Catherine wheels on”. In a similar vein, “Walking On The Spot” is a short, charming song, firmly holding any subversive elements in check, though it has a lyrical grace and charm that fuses a New Zealand feel with a Celtic flavour, “Will we be in our minds when the dawn breaks?/Can we look the milkman in the eye?/The world is somehow different/You have all been changed/Before my very eyes”. Carried along by a buoyantly irresistible acoustic guitar, “Pineapple Head” is a playful romp, but has a stark message, “And if you choose to take that path/I will play you like a shark/And I’ll clutch at your heart/I’ll come flying like a spark to inflame you”.

Multi-instrumentalist Mark Hart had been drafted into the band to replace Tim Finn and his influence becomes clear as you listen to the album with his guitar and keyboards adding a new dimension to the band’s sound. Bassist Nick Seymour was an original member of "The Crowdies", as they were called by their Australian fans, and was also responsible for the album cover artwork, featuring a black background with Jesus Christ and another godlike figure in a red car. No, I don’t know what it means either. However, the band’s best instrument, as always, was Neil Finn’s voice, which carries a real emotional clarity and resonance.

"Don't Dream It's Over"

“Together Alone” was not planned as a goodbye album, but it works well as one. The band was dissolving, but had not yet realised it and this record is a clear link between the poppy sound of Crowded House and the darker, more layered work of Neil Finn’s solo career. Fortunately for us, Neil continues to write some of the most haunting, enduring songs around, sometimes solo, sometimes with brother Tim (The Finn Brothers, would you believe?) and now, over a decade later, even with a reformed Crowded House. As the man said, “Don’t Dream It’s Over”.

What's Cooking?

Masterchef is back on our screens, though in truth it feels as if it has never been away. The previous series seemed to run for months, quite possibly because it did, and the whole brand feels like it’s gone a bit stale or even past its sell-by date. The format has been much the same for many years with the same kitchen, the same shouty presenters, the same hyped-up drama and the same catchphrases. Millions have come to love the comforting recipe, but isn’t it just a bit too familiar and formulaic now?

Like any successful programme, the BBC has not hesitated to squeeze every last drop of juice (or jus) out of the franchise. In much the same way that The Apprentice has been flogged to death, Masterchef has produced a number of spin-offs, including Celebrity Masterchef and Masterchef: The Professionals. It may be that we have just gorged too much at the Masterchef trough over the last two years, but it’s high time that Masterchef found itself a new flavour. They have forgotten a basic kitchen rule – to use fresh ingredients. By the way, if you thing I am over-using the food puns (over-egging the cake, if you will), you should watch the show: if I had a Pound for every awful food-related pun they wheeled out, I would be the proverbial millionaire.

"Before Masterchef, my career was this big"

Celebrity Masterchef was bad enough, though at least it had a clearly defined purpose, namely to kick-start the flagging showbiz careers of a bunch of non-entities and has-beens. Seriously, how many of the “celebrities” did you recognise? This year’s winner was Jayne Middlemiss, who those with long memories may recall was once a television and radio presenter. When she was announced as the winner, the look of joy on her face was partly for the pride in her ability to wield a frying pan, but was probably more because her declining career may have been resurrected. Of course, the celebrities are given a far easier ride on the show than Joe Public with the experts generally being as sweet as pie to them, however dreadful their culinary cock-ups.

Conversely, it is difficult to see the point of Masterchef: The Professionals beyond the programme being a hefty schedule filler for the BBC. What do the contestants (who cook for a living) really stand to gain by taking part when they are likely to be ridiculed for their inability to fillet a fish to Michelin Star standards? On the vanilla Masterchef, the contestants embark on the famed reality television journey. As we’re reminded ad nauseum, “This competition is going to change somebody’s life … forever!”

"One of these men needs a good meal. One doesn't."

The show is not helped by its totally insane scheduling: on Monday we have 2/3 of heat one (30 minutes), with the final third crammed into an hour-long extravaganza on Tuesday that also include heat two; Wednesday features heat three in all its glory (45 minutes); by Thursday we are back to the epics with not one, but two 45 minute shows – heat four and the quarter-final. As the judges often put it, “It’s messy, it’s confused. There’s too much going on on the plate”. One of the virtues of Masterchef in the early days was its simple, bite-size nature, but for some reason they’ve decided to disguise the new schedule as an unwelcoming buffet.

However, this show does indeed deliver us professionals in the form of “legendary double Michelin-starred chef Michel Roux Junior” (to give him his full name, as the tiresome voice-over does every five minutes) and his trusted sous-chef Monica Galetti. Despite weirdly looking like a stranger to a square meal with his spooky death mask, Michel is a TV natural, a completely impartial judge dispensing well-earned praise and justifiable criticism in equal measures. Monica is also very fair and has the rare ability (on this show, at least) to deliver her comments in a complete sentence.

"The Churchill dog"

In the presence of a culinary genius like Michel Roux Junior, regular Masterchef expert and professional baldy Gregg Wallace has become little more than his nodding dog (oh, yes). Once the great man has given his views after tasting the food, Gregg’s opinion tends to be “what he said”. The relationship is so obviously deferential that Gregg just agrees with the master, though I suppose there is some fun to be found in the way that he manages to twist the words a little in a vain attempt to avoid resembling a big fat parrot:

Roux: I can see what you were trying to do, but it lacks seasoning.

Gregg: It is going in the right direction, but you need to season it more.

Roux: Your skills are there, but you have tried to do too much with flavours.

Gregg: There is just a confusion of flavours going on. You need to tone it down.

Roux: The rabbit is beautifully cooked but it is lacking a sauce. It’s screaming out for a jus or something to act as a vehicle for flavour.

Gregg: The flavour of the well-seasoned rabbit is a dream. It’s just too dry without a sauce.

Although Masterchef: The Professionals has the better qualified experts, this unfortunately means that we have lost one of TV’s funniest double acts: Gregg Wallace shoves his shiny head into each plate like a pig hunting for truffles, while John Torode shouts his head off as if he’s advertising Cillit Bang. They may be annoying in many ways, both being overweight, middle-aged men who are way too smug and condescending, but there’s no doubt that they have chemistry. There’s something about the way they keep bellowing at each other, even when they are in full agreement. When there is actually a difference of opinion over who should go through, John will always win the argument, which might be because he’s an actual chef, while Gregg is just a fat bloke who loves jam roly-poly.

"Needs to work on the presentation"

Gregg is (metaphorically) the lightweight, as he is only a greengrocer, though the BBC frequently upgrades his CV, so that at various times he is described as a “vegetable guru”, “vegetable expert” and most laughably an “ingredients expert”. I’m not sure what that means, but he’s certainly not a chef. He may well have supplied cabbage to the country’s finest restaurants, but so what? If you work in an off-licence, are you qualified to pontificate on the merits of a Brunello di Montalcino? I have been known to compile a shopping list, but that hardly makes me the next Jamie Oliver. On the other hand, looking at his girth, there’s no doubt that Gregg’s sampled more than a few dishes in his time.

One unwritten rule of Masterchef is that the presenters are only allowed one mouthful of every dish, so Gregg the Veg has become a master of piling food high on his weapon of mass ingestion. It is a little known fact that he is the proud owner of the world record for balancing the largest amount of Tiramisu on a dessert spoon. This may be why he sticks the spoon (or fork) in his mouth and keeps it in there for what seems an eternity, as if he is also tasting the utensil.

"One of the easier ingredient tests"

On the rare occasions when his mouth isn’t full, he will be barking out his tried-and-trusted comments, such as: “I just want to take my shirt off and dive in”; “I could easily lick the plate clean”; and “I’d like to stick my head in this pudding”. Whatever he says, it will be at a volume last heard when Murray Walker was putting in a shift, though to be fair to the former commentator he had to compete with the almighty sound of a Formula 1 car. Other times, Gregg eschews the spoken word completely, opting instead for his vast repertoire of grunts and gasps, or grinning manically like the village idiot, usually after scoffing something chocolaty. This is a good move, as whenever he dares to venture off piste, he will put his foot in his mouth (if there’s any room), saying something like, “there is mistakes throughout your cooking”.

His partner in crime is John Torode, who at least is a chef, running Smiths of Smithfield, though this is arguably only a posh canteen for office workers, specialising in simple food like steak, sandwiches and salads. John is an Aussie, but he’s been in the UK so long, that you don’t really notice until he says “parsta” with an incredibly irritating long “r”. Despite his jowly cheeks, he can’t have eaten for weeks before the show, as he also wolfs down the food in the manner of a starving man. He has a little more elegance than Gregg, sizing up the dish with his hooded eyes like a bird of prey, before a quick, neat manoeuvre of unrivalled accuracy. Either John is half-hamster or he does special mouth-stretching exercises, as he has an unbelievable capacity in those chubby cheeks. I swear I once saw him insert an entire pear in his mouth. His critique is usually subtler than his meat and potatoes sidekick, “And you think beetroot and mascarpone go together?”

"Enjoying the salad days"

Of course, the combustible presenters’ self-important performance is part of the relentless desire to increase the dramatic tension: “Cooking doesn’t get tougher than this!” The frantic, doom-laden music suggests that the contestants are cooking for their lives, rather than the chance to be interviewed by Richard and Judy. Every night the cooks face their “toughest challenge yet”, even though it’s only 24 hours since we were told that the last challenge was (you’ve guessed it) their “toughest yet”. This is just a little bit over-the-top for a cooking competition: Gregg screaming, “You’ve got 30 minutes!”; Gregg and John melodramatically pretending to argue about something they decided hours earlier, forever making the “hardest decision they have ever had to make”; the contestants interviewed every 2 minutes for the inevitable emotional outburst; the lame, manufactured cliffhangers, when it’s obvious who’s going to win/lose. Pass the sick bag, Alice.

The high testosterone levels are part of a general trend among television chefs to portray cooking as a dangerous sport, just in case anyone watching should confuse an interest with balsamic vinegar with being a wuss, but, frankly, what’s macho about a couple of fat gourmands piling food into their puffy faces? Monty Python did this much better with Mr. Creosote, but he hardly looked as if he was trying out for the SAS.

"The Cheeky Boys"

Despite the misguided efforts to make the programme more exciting, the actual evaluation of the dishes is somewhat predictable. For every, “that packs in the flavours, but you need to work on the presentation”, there will be a “great technique, but needs to deliver more on the flavours”. Sometimes, the level of criticism is exceptionally banal, “Mmmm … salad, tuna, broad beans, sweet cherry tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, olives and anchovies. That’s absolutely lovely.” Well done, Gregg, you’ve just successfully listed all the ingredients of a Salade Niçoise, which is indeed the dish we can see on the plate. Or John’s trademark, “Your sauce need more oomph” – helpful and constructive to the aspiring chef.

The quality that Masterchef most admires is passion, but the flagrant over-use of the word strips it of any meaning, beyond possibly shorthand for enthusiastic incompetence. In the quarter-final, there’s even a “passion test”, where the contestants have to demonstrate how much they want this, removing any shred of remaining dignity. If you’re wondering, they all want it an awful, awful lot, though the reason they want it appears to be mainly because they “want it”. Yes, I know, but there’s no requirement that chefs have to be articulate. This is presumably why whenever the competitors are asked a question, any question at all, they will blather incoherently, randomly inserting all of the following words: passionate, honest, rustic, local, hearty, simple ingredients; culminating in the universal, “my dream is to run my own restaurant”.

"Runner-up in Bryan Ferry lookalike contest"

For that reason, Masterchef is a programme best viewed on fast forward. In that way, you can skip past the absurdly long intro, when they show tantalising clips of what will be broadcast just minutes later, and the mid-show recap for the mentally deficient. You will also avoid the earnest voice-over, which again repeats what John and Gregg have said seconds earlier, though you absolutely have to watch the tasting sessions, just in case you miss an unintentional comedy gem like, “It’s a lovely dish, it’s being true to the crab”.

Although Masterchef has on the face of it a compelling format, there are many annoying aspects:

• The irrelevance of cooking in a “top London restaurant”, where the most embarrassing performance does not make the slightest difference to the final decision. It’s almost as if this section is just a plug for the eateries.
• The inconsistency of the judging, particularly where salads are concerned. One moment, it’s fresh and bursting with flavour, the next it’s a cop out.
• The ubiquitous scallop. How many of these little buggers are left in the sea, given that almost every starter dish will feature a (yawn) scallop?
• The foolish determination to make a chocolate fondant, which invariably ends up looking as if Gregg has sat on the dish. Learn from others’ mistakes, people.
• The ingredients test, where contestants have to identify spices, cuts of meat, etc. In other words, they can be eliminated without getting a chance to cook.
• The lack of a hairnet for female celebrities. How would you like your eggs, sir? Liberally dusted with long blonde hairs, please.
• The inevitable foreign trip, usually to somewhere hot and uncomfortable like Mozambique. On the one hand, this is a huge waste of licence payers’ money, but on the other hand, we may see Gregg sporting his safari suit like an extra from It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.
• The sudden transformation of the chefs. Having been ruthlessly mocked for weeks, out of the blue they become miraculously brilliant (à la X Factor) once they reach the final, “I don’t want to go overboard, my friend, but that’s one of the best dishes I’ve ever eaten”.

Masterchef was always something of an acquired taste, but now they’re really making a meal of it. No matter how much they pump up the volume, cooking doesn’t get duller than this.

Byrne Baby Byrne

George Clinton’s Funkadelic famously sung “Free Your Mind … And Your Ass Will Follow”, which was a prescription Talking Heads took to the max with their ability to make the intellectual infectious and danceable. Most music aficionados have long admired Talking Heads for their mixture of cerebral, slightly ambivalent lyrics, complex rhythms, clever arrangements and quirky tunes, but what may surprise listeners is how funky they are, even when the songs tackle the darkest of subjects.

These funk-laced rhythms came to full fruition on “Remain in Light”, which may well be the band’s definitive statement, but “Fear of Music” was the first album to embrace their experimental leanings and give expression to a step in a new direction. “Fear of Music” was their third album after the nervous, smart post-punk of “Talking Heads: 77” and the warm, adventurous “More Songs about Buildings and Food” and represented something of a transitional affair as they moved towards the explicitly ethnic beats of “Remain in Light” and “Speaking in Tongues”.

"The name of this band is ..."

Despite being the band’s most daunting and difficult record to approach, “Fear of Music” was named as the best album of 1979 by the influential NME. Whereas “More Songs” was crisp and outgoing, “Fear of Music” is often brilliantly disorienting. This is a more obscure, enigmatic Talking Heads, whose jittery pop is beginning to turn darker and more exploratory. Front man David Byrne explained, “It wouldn’t please us to make music that’s impossible to listen to, but we don’t want to compromise for the sake of popularity”. Nevertheless, the music was now more compelling and the spiky urgency of before possessed a new sure-footed assurance.

The album opens with “I Zimbra”, which was actually the last track recorded for the album, which makes sense, given that its tribal, conga driven jam is the clearest link to the sound on “Remain in Light”. This may well be one of the first examples of world music appearing on a rock-oriented record. Talking Heads had already toyed with French phrases on the seminal “Psycho Killer”, but here Byrne abandons English altogether, basing the incomprehensible lyrics on a nonsensical poem by Dadaist writer Hugo Ball. However, “I Zimbra” can be viewed as a glorious red herring, a slice of afro-funk that is more like a teaser (or blueprint) for the next album.

"This ain't no Mudd Club or CBGB's"

For this is primarily a collection of anxious, claustrophobic and twisted songs, fueled by the uncomfortable, quivering tension between its repetitive dance beats and Byrne’s overly anxious vocals. From its paranoia-filled lyrics to its tightly-wound arrangements, the aptly titled “Fear of Music” perfectly captures the sound of a complete psychological breakdown. Although Byrne sang about his own private, tortured universe, believing his inner world to be his last refuge, this celebration of paranoia was very much a product of its time, taking its temperature from the Cold War, the Iranian hostage crisis and the Three Mile Island accident.

The ominous feeling of foreboding is reinforced by the black LP sleeve, which is embossed with a corrugated pattern that resembled the appearance and texture of metal flooring. Obviously the album title also fits in with the record’s darker themes, though different interpretations have been considered, including references to the band being under a lot of pressure when making it and even the travails of the music industry as a whole.

"Psycho Killer"

Either way, a sense of manic unease permeates the album throughout as Byrne paints a portrait of all sorts of fears and phobias, his apprehensive ruminations expressing his belief inter alia that animals were laughing at him, his electric guitar could not be trusted and even the air was causing him harm. Some have argued that this could be considered a concept album (Fear of Everything), but Byrne himself said these were, “just songs that were written and recorded within a given period, so they have a kind of thematic or emotional … whatever”. Classic Byrne – smart as a whip, but slightly weird.

“Animals” carries the paranoia to hysterical extremes with its sinister litany of frankly hilarious grievances against, yes, animals: “I know the animals/Are laughing at us/They don't even know/What a joke is”. Equally strange is “Electric Guitar”, whose surreal quality makes it unclear whether this is a condemnation of rock music or those who oppose such music. On a deeper level, it could be interpreted as a fear of institutional authority and totalitarianism: “Someone controls electric guitar”. The light, atmospheric (sorry) “Air” worries about the toxins carried by the air: “What is happening to my skin?/Where is that protection that I needed?/Air can hurt you too”.

"The wall of sound"

Looking at the subjects of Byrne’s anxiety, it is clear that a strong sense of humour shines through his trepidation. Although not as overtly funny as the Talking Heads’ earlier songs, there is a childish playfulness at work here among the wreckage. Even when they tackle hard subjects, the lyrics are witty, not laugh-out-loud hilarious, but always droll, so you can never be entirely sure that they are completely serious. The songs are all the better for it, as the world already has more than its fair share of po-faced preachers masquerading as rock stars.

This is not to say that the album does not address important issues, articulating the angst that many of their fans felt at the time. “Cities” speaks about global disaffection, “I'm checking them out/I got it figured out/There's good points and bad points/But it all works out/ I'm a little freaked out/Find a city/Find myself a city to live in”, Byrne spitting out the words with the bug-eyed zeal of a man who is never more disturbed than when confronted with the normal. He delivers the song at a frantic pace as if he’s being chased, arbitrarily dismissing each city, though there are still lines that raise a smile, “Do I smell?/I smell home cooking/It's only the river”.

"You ain't nothing but a wide boy"

“Life During Wartime” is the album’s standout track and has become cultural shorthand for paranoia, insurgency and covert activity. It describes a nightmarish vision of civil insurrection and terrorism that was unfortunately as prophetic as it was apocalyptic, “Heard of a van that is loaded with weapons/Packed up and ready to go”; and “I got three passports, couple of visas/ Don't even know my real name”. Drawing on punk as its main inspiration, it shares a disco beat with “Cities”, though this is a very twisted sort of dance, giving us the catchphrase of the age: “This ain't no party, this ain't no disco/This ain't no fooling around/No time for dancing, or lovey dovey/I ain't got time for that now”. This song could also be played to many of today’s fashionistas as a lesson in how good post-modern, edgy dance music can truly be, “I changed my hairstyle so many times now/don't know what I look like”.

“Mind” is equally plaintive, but this time the despair is for a doomed relationship. This is the Heads at their most minimalist, but the message is all the more powerful for the song’s ghostly insistence with the singer becoming more and more frustrated as it progresses, “I try to talk to you, to make things clear/But you're not even listening to me/And it comes directly from my heart to you/I need something to change your mind”. The reverberating bass line draws you in, as it becomes clear that Byrne hasn’t got the “faintest idea” how to resolve his problems.

"But you said it was a fancy dress party"

Having previously dismissed the good ole’ US of A in “The Big Country” (“I wouldn’t live there if you paid me”), Byrne extended his scorn to paradise itself in the anthemic “Heaven”, possibly Talking Heads’ first authentic soulful ballad. Although the melodic music offers a pool of calm and serenity amid the insanity, the deceptively relaxed tune gradually reveals layers of frustrated, aching tension beneath the surface that is only hinted at during the wry, bemused chorus, “Heaven is a place, a place where nothing, nothing ever happens”. Maybe alluding to the need to move on musically, Byrne sang, “The band in Heaven they play my favorite song/They play it one more time, they play it all night long”.

The closing track “Drugs” is a scary listen, as the sound is stripped down to the bare essentials, thus bringing to the fore Byrne’s edgy vocals, exploring themes of urban dislocation. Byrne apparently jogged around the block several times before recording the vocals, and you can hear the lack of breath as he struggles to force the words out. It’s as if drugs wipe everything away, “Somebody said there's too much light/Pull down the shade and it's alright/It'll be over in a minute or two”, though there’s a deep uncertainty at the core of the robotic rhythms and mutant funk.

"Take me to the river"

Some consider that this album is nothing more than a detailed exploration of the strains of the creative process, not so much a fear of music, but a fear of no longer being able to make music. David Byrne suffered from writer’s block throughout his career and this is evoked in “Paper”, where he describes having ideas, but not being able to write them down, “Hold the paper up to the light/Some rays pass right through”. Maybe much of the pain and dread suffusing the album is merely a reflection of Byrne’s desperate quest for his artistic muse?

However they got there, the album’s music was rightly praised for its unconventional rhythms and its eclectic blend of disco beats, cinematic soundscapes and new wave guitar hooks. On no other album did Talking Heads so brilliantly walk the fine line between avant garde rock and pop music. The guitars and keyboards never sounded cleaner, while the bass and drums drive the songs forward.

Much of the praise should go to producer Brian Eno, who was instrumental (sic) in shaping the band’s sound. On board for the second time, Eno added another dimension, spinning synthesizers and strange sound effects around their spindly funk. He highlighted the quirkiness of the subject matter and the oddity of Byrne’s breathless vocals and subversive lyrics, so that the songs sparkle with energy and invention. His eerily ambient influence took the band in new directions, such as the spooky “Memories Can’t Wait”, where the mix is as murky as a film noir and Byrne’s vocal is echoed, reverbed, tape-reversed and sped up, while he sings, “There's a party in my mind/And I hope it never stops”.

Although many tracks bore Eno’s mark, it was still Talking Heads’ frantic energy that kept the material aloft. The amalgam of Byrne’s scratchy, punk-oriented guitar, Jerry Harrison's keyboards and one of the all time great rhythm sections, Tina Weymouth on bass and Chris Frantz on drums, was something to behold. Byrne’s vocals add the edginess, sometimes in sync with the other band members, sometimes careering above them in lunatic abandon. His musicians may be an efficient machine, but Byrne maintains the beauty (luxury) of human error.

"The Pink Pussycat - this must be the place"

This was the phase of the band’s career when their creativity was running wild and perhaps Eno’s great skill was to capture this vitality before their chemistry faded. Byrne seemed to believe that the responsibility for the band’s success rested squarely on his shoulders, singing about how “Other people can go home/Other people may just split/I'll be here all the time/I can never quit” in “Memories” and it is true that the other band members became less influential on future albums. In fact, they needed a number of side projects, such as the impressive Tom Tom Club, to fully satisfy their creative urges.

Talking Heads was one of the most innovative bands of the last thirty years and their influence can still be felt today, especially in the likes of Franz Ferdinand and The Killers. I believe that there are also similarities with Radiohead and if you can’t see that, consider that they named themselves after a Talking Heads song – “Radio Head” from “True Stories”.

In “More Songs about Buildings and Food”, Byrne’s character seemed overly obsessed with the trivia of everyday existence, and here it seems to have driven him over the edge, yet somehow, it never stops making sense.