Why Top Gear is still Sunday night mind candy

Picture: BBC

When I departed British shores in 1999 the nation was still getting used to the idea of 'multi-channel television'. Until 1982, there had only been three terrestrial offerings, and with Sky launching in 1989, bringing with it five satellite stations, the choice extended only so far. Last October, however, when I returned to the UK, the number had spread into the 500s, with all manner of reality TV crap and a rotating curriculum of sharks, killer snakes, air crashes, Nazis and Alaskan truckers populating the myriad digital platforms on offer.

However, amongst all of that is the televisual comfort food that is the channel Dave. On any given evening I can now indulge several years of missed episodes of Mock The Week, QI and Have I Got News For You. Regardless of their place in the actual chronology, seeing such shows out of sequence is a baffling, but entertaining exercise in watching the ageing process, as hairlines recede and what's left goes progressively grey. No show, though, is as acute a exhibition of the ageing process than repeats on Dave of Top Gear - the Clarkson, May and Hammond years. As we all now agree, its 2002 reboot turned out to be a masterstroke, transforming a worthy-but-dull magazine show (which began 40 years ago last Saturday) into an infotainment format that borrowed heavily from TFI Friday's mix of banter and recurring gags in front of a studio audience.

Via Dave we can see many things: Jeremy Clarkson's expanding paunch and gradually shrinking "pubic" haircut, James May's blind ignorance of fashion, and Richard Hammond's almost slavish fashion victimhood. But mostly we can see what unique chemistry developed between the three of them. No matter how stereotypical public school-boorish you find Clarkson or how over-exaggerated both May's shirts and Hammond's mannerisms can be, rarely can you say that a presentation team can combine such a brilliant combination of humour, enthusiasm for the subject and a form of camaraderie.

Some of the Clarkson, May and Hammond filmed challenges - especially anything in Italy but also the specials from Vietnam, Africa, India and even the controversial Burma and Patagonia films - have been amongst the best factual television I've seen. Beautifully filmed, cleverly edited and, obviously, smartly written. And all bearing very little resemblance to the original Top Gear, with its public service dreariness about pushrods and fan belt timings.

So, when Clarkson's contretemps with a producer led to the trio leaving the BBC and setting up shop at Amazon, the BBC's task, in retaining the 'new' Top Gear format with a new presenting team, was always going to be a tall order. And thus it proved: realistically speaking, the relaunch - with Chris Evans, Matt Le Blanc, Eddy Jordan, motoring journalists Chris Harris and Rory Reid, and German racing driver Sabine Schmitz - was a let-down. No fault, perhaps, of their own, given the intense brand created by their predecessors, but the end execution looked as clumsy and forced as the previous incarnation had appeared relatively natural.

Picture: BBC

With Evans stepping down, and the show focusing on Le Blanc, Harris and Reid for the second series of the 'new-new' Top Gear - which came to a close last night - the BBC had clearly listened to the criticism. Well, mostly. Fan reaction over the course of the seven-show season has progressively warmed, with sentiment - if Twitter is anything to go by - suggesting that giving Le Blanc the proverbial Clarkson 'lead' role has "saved" Top Gear.

There is no doubt that Top Gear has unproved vastly over this second series, and Le Blanc has indeed been a major part of that, despite his American pronunciations of "Jag-wah" and "Nee-san". Like his Hollywood compatriot Jay Leno, Le Blanc is a bona fide petrolhead (sorry, "gearhead") who clearly put his stratospheric income from Friends to good use in owning a series of high-end motors over the years. Indeed, the common denominator between all three main presenters is their knowledge. Harris - who bafflingly continues to divide fans - is a clear expert, while Rory Reid - when he gets screen time... - shows a similarly engaging enthusiasm for the subject.

In the absence of Clarkson, May and Hammond, whose chemistry and individual personalities became quickly evident as their incarnation got going, Le Blanc, Harris and Reid are still somewhat disparate, but not far off. Individually, Reid's race around the Nürburgring with Schmitz, lapping supercars in a Volkswagen Golf, was wonderful, with Reid's boyish excitement palpable. Likewise, Harris's race against Le Blanc through the Middle East in a £2 million Bugatti Chiron was terrific fun, even it was just a variation on previous supercar challenges.

Picture: BBC

Thankfully there have also been some extremely entertaining and inventive features. Harris and Le Blanc's 'four seasons' challenge with a Lamborghini Huracán Spyder and a Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet up in the Sierra Nevada mountains, ending in one of my favourite places - California's Mammoth Lakes - had just the right mix of Top Gear stupidity, risk and banter, combined with two beautiful-looking cars. Reid's giant arcade game, pitting a Renault Twingo GT against two similar-size city cars in an automotive version of PacMan, may have been a redux of Clarkson and May playing rugby with Kia hatchbacks, but it was nonetheless entertainingly exciting. This, at the end of the day, is what Top Gear viewers want.

Top Gear does, though, still have plenty of work to do. It's single biggest problem continues to be the studio segments, where the banter seems forced and celebrity appearances have also been particularly awkward. The previous Star In A Reasonably Priced Car format was tight and to the point, even with stars as huge as Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz as guests. Now, the star is brought out for what seems like forever, supporting little more than a chat show format built around a timed lap in a not-so reasonably priced Toyota GT86.

David Tennant gushed like a luvvie throughout his appearance, while there was a sense of recycling in bringing back Ross Noble for no obvious reason and, last night, Jamiroquai's Jay Kay, who proved himself to be an even bigger cock than usual, with his dark glasses and nothing particular to say (apart from an encyclopedic knowledge of supercars).

At least, though, Le Blanc ended the 24th 'new' Top Gear series looking forward to a 25th, so seemingly the BBC is happy to continue with its lucrative merchandise-spinning asset. If anything, continued improvement to the format will reaffirm Top Gear as a car show, first, and a vehicular version of Last Of The Summer Wine a distant second (and which Clarkson, May and Hammond have almost removed the need for by taking their antics to Amazon with The Grand Tour).

What Top Gear's producers must take on board (and I can't that they haven't already) is that the previous presenting triumvirate was unique, a rare piece of onscreen combination that played on the individual personas of Clarkson's oafishness, May's fuddyness and Hammond's boyish charm. Le Blanc, Harris and Reid's personalities have yet to come to the fore, especially the latter, and they must be allowed to develop their own, more polished style. But on the evidence of these seven shows - even last night's, which was the weakest of the run, it's clear that Top Gear is putting behind it the egomaniacal mess of its Chris Evans-fronted relaunch. More importantly, this second series under new management has started to restore Top Gear to what it had become until that unfortunate incident involving an absent steak dinner - the perfect mind candy to wind down the weekend with on a Sunday afternoon. Or every weekday afternoon on Dave, if you're reading this in the future.

Picture: BBC

I love the smell of vinyl in the morning: Record Store Day 2017

There are tales, already, of desperation. Of men - and I'm fairly confident that we're talking exclusively men - camped out on high street pavements at Stupid O'Clock, desperate to be first through the door on this, the tenth annual Record Store Day.

For those unfamiliar with the concept, this is when the most serious of record collectors pile into music shops in the hunt for limited edition vinyl releases put out just for the day, and all part of an initiative to get people shopping for actual music in such independent outlets.

It brings the die-hards out early: my local shop, Greenwich's excellent Casbah Records, had the first punters lining up a full FIVE hours before opening at 10.30am, while Brighton's Resident Music had its queue form at 3am for an 8am opening time. There is a limit, and three in the morning goes way beyond it...

There is, of course, a huge degree of trainspotting about it all (and I don't mean heroin peddling). Most of the music will have been available before, and the profile of many queuing suggest that they might spend the rest of their Saturday at the end of a Clapham Junction platform with notebook, pencil and a pair of binoculars. But all that notwithstanding, Record Store Day is, actually, a bit of fun.

While it will attract the arch music nerds as well as the prospectors looking to grab swag to resell on eBay, there are also plenty who simply enjoy the tactile pleasure of rifling through record racks in a slightly musty-smelling shop in the hope of finding something unique to take home and, you know, play. These, then, are the whom Record Store Day is for. It's easy, in this cynical, corporate world, to assume that the whole thing is a cunning wheeze designed to ink money for the record companies and their artists, but there is a knowing awareness amongst those waiting to get into their local emporia that it's all about the love of music.

It's why I can guarantee that High Fidelity and This Is Spinal Tap will be cultural references for many in today's Record Store Day queues. They'll know all about record shop demagogues and Jazz Odyssey because they understand that music ownership at this level is a subculture, rather than just the acquisition of listening material with which to wallpaper the day.

The rarity factor is important but, I think, so too is the satisfaction of curiosity. There are those of us who have plenty of versions of Pink Floyd's Interstellar Overdrive already, but a previously unreleased recording, on a single-sided single, wouldn't go amiss. It doesn't, actually, matter what you're in the queue for, whether a demo version of The Smiths' The Boy With The Thorn In His Side or a pink vinyl reissue of Aqua's Barbie Girl (no, me neither...). Tastes and interests are disparate: earwigging on conversations this morning outside Casbah I was reassured by the enormous diversity of ambitions - reassured because it meant that I was more likely to get what I wanted. The fascinating and compelling part of Record Store Day is that it brings out every taste, all sharing a common love of music as well as the tactile appreciation of physical music ownership.

© Simon Poulter 2017

As for me, I was about as successful as I could have hoped for: Bowie's Cracked Actor live album, The Who's Quadrophenia on parka-green vinyl, a few Prince singles, the first new The The music for 15 years and an Elbow cover of one of their older tracks. And, yes, that 'new' copy of Interstellar Overdrive.

For old heads like me, Record Store Day has been an encouragement to return to their vinyl libraries, to enjoy the tactile experience of youth in opening up gatefold sleeves and placing needles on grooves, rather than the somewhat impassive process of clicking a mouse. But younger consumers - even teenagers - are also playing a part in the revival of vinyl that saw more than 3.2 million vinyl albums sold in the UK last year, and now account for 15% of the industry’s income from physical formats.

Having been a part of the industrial push for all-things digital back in the 1990s, it might sound strange to be returning to the record deck. But there's a place for all formats - the convenience of digital and the tactile enjoyment and perceivable aural warmth of vinyl. Younger consumers, however, are also appreciating that there is something more that comes from vinyl, that it is not just some on-trend meme they need to sign up for. They're also discovering classics like Fleetwood Mac's Rumours (last year's best selling vinyl release) or The Dark Side Of The Moon for the first time. Healthily, that means they're discovering - through vinyl - that music was once more than a pick-and-mix stream of songs recorded by someone who has won a television talent show. The industry will never see the likes of 1975 (the year, not the band...) when 92 million vinyl LPs were sold in the UK, but for this old head, just knowing that vinyl side of  music consumption is in relatively rude health is a thoroughly pleasing thing.

Home on the range: Ray Davies' Americana

It is somewhat ironic that the first new album from Ray Davies since being made a knight of the British realm should commence with the line "I wanna make my home where the buffalo roam". Because for all the wannabe Yankeeism of his contemporaries in the 1960s, Davies and The Kinks remained resolute beacons of England.

Waterloo Sunset is, simply, the most beautiful song ever written about London and a standout entry in a ten-year period of intense creativity in which Davies became England's pop laureate, with wry and often strongly satirical tunes about English life, like Sunny Afternoon, Autumn Almanac, Dead End Street, Dedicated Follower Of Fashion and David Watts, and the oft-overlooked album, The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society. But within these masterful snapshots of Cool Britannia before the term had ever been coined lie clues as to why Sir Kink has turned his attention to the Land of Opportunity with Americana, his fifth solo album and the first for ten years.

Though, like most of those who made their bones in the '60s pop boom, Davies launched his career under the influence of American rock and roll, Americana - in which he is backed by rootsy Minnesotans, The Jayhawks - takes him on a somewhat sentimental journey through the cultural memes of the You Ess of A. This might sound like tired cliché, and you might be fearing wide-eyed tales of truck stops and roadside diners, but there is a genuinely journalistic, travelogue nature about the 15 tracks on this album, all entirely in keeping with Davies at his storytelling best back in the day.

The narrative is part-observational, part-reflection: Americana, the title track and opener, looks back upon childhood, and Saturday morning Wild West picture shows in North London when "My baby brother and me in the land of the free" would dream of being home on the range but "On that silver screen, 'cos since I was a teen you know I had this dream". This is in the same vein of nostalgia as Ballroom Dancing, his ironic take on Saturday nights out in Muswell Hill, but with a wistful pace slowed delightfully by the countrified backing.

Davies has had an odd relationship with America. At the height of the British invasion The Kinks were denied permits to tour the US by the American Federation of Musicians (the ban has never been properly explained, though a reputation for on- and off-stage antics has been hinted at, even though The Kinks were no worse than anyone else and certainly better than what followed in the '70s...). And then, of course, there was the more recent episode, in January 2004, when Davies was shot in the leg while chasing thieves in New Orleans who'd snatched the his then-girlfriend's handbag. An incident like that might colour one's opinion of a country. But, then, America - even America today - has been an aspiration for so many.

And so, on tracks like The Deal, and its Randy Newman-like view of Los Angeles, or Message From The Road and The Great Highway, Davies performs sketches of America, past and present, from the urban canyons to the open desert roads, touching occasionally on the American dream - more from the pursuit of it, rather than its attraction. Again, these themes have all been covered in some depth before, but with Davies you get a lyric that, though invariably quite simple, is incredibly evocative. And whereas many a non-American musician has tackled these themes in both homage and in parody, Davies does so purely from the viewpoint of wry observation, as if adding semi-sung narration to musical documentaries.

I'd be lying if I said this was Davies' best work, but there is much to endear on Americana, simply because it is Ray Davies (and also for coming with cover art photography that makes buying the two-disc vinyl version worth every penny). That might be a perilous statement to make - no one has a right to greatness just because they have been in their past - but the work here is genuine and fascinating at the same time. And that's good enough for me.