September's Here Again

As the first crisp days of autumn draw ever nearer, my thoughts drift to David Sylvian’s melancholy “September”, which perfectly captures that moment when leaves start turning brown and your thoughts are tinged with a slight sense of regret, “We say that we're in love/While secretly wishing for rain/Sipping coke and playing games/September's here again”. This song is the shortest of ballads, barely a minute long, but the haunting piano and Sylvian’s poignant lyrics portray the mood of encroaching autumn quite beautifully.

“September” is the opening track of 1987’s “Secrets of the Beehive”, which for most critics remains David Sylvian’s best album. It’s certainly the one where his songwriting skills are most to the fore and is far more accessible than much of his work like the experimental doodlings of “Alchemy” and the muted ambience of “Gone to Earth”. Although “Brilliant Trees” is arguably more accessible, “Secrets” is Sylvian’s most cohesive record where his vision is most fully realized, though still nothing like as straightforward as the pop music he became famous for when fronting Japan, one of the more sophisticated New Romantic bands of the early 80s.

"Who's a pretty boy then?"

Japan’s mix of electronics and androgyny was absolutely right for the time and a string of hit singles ensued like “Quiet Life” and “Gentlemen Take Polaroids”. Lead singer David Sylvian had a striking appearance: a waif in Mao fatigues, styled bottle-blonde hair and a face slapped in foundation, he looked every inch a star and was dubbed “the most beautiful man in the world”. Younger bands like Duran Duran looked up to them, but Sylvian was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the artifice, the flouncy outfits and the make up that, er, made up Japan. Instead, he wanted to open up his material to a greater emotional intensity and vulnerability, leading to “Ghosts”, a searching and suggestive single where spare rhythms and fleeting electronic sounds provided a creepy background to Sylvian’s smoldering vocals. Although this was their biggest hit, it sounded the death knell for Japan, acting as a signpost to Sylvian’s solo career.

Compared to the nervous, distant figure he cut with Japan, Sylvian has appeared a great deal more relaxed, though decidedly idiosyncratic, since he left the protection of the group. Although his contemplative music is unlikely to fill a dance floor, Sylvian has become the master of conjuring a mood and atmosphere that is so memorably evocative it paints pictures that linger long after the music has faded.

"Power in the Darkness"

In this way, “Secrets of the Beehive” is all about mood, where Sylvian’s music creates an unforgettable atmosphere of melancholy and longing. The overall ambience is quiet, sensual and dimly lit with the fragile music often off-set by disconsolate lyrics, such as when the metronomic pulse in “The Devil’s Own” perfectly matches the despondent verse, “The ticking of the clock/Inexorably goes on”. This is dark, brooding stuff, but not as downbeat as the near total despair described in “Waterfront”, which is a suitably forlorn end to the album: “On the waterfront the rain/Is pouring in my heart/Here the memories come in waves/Raking in the lost and found of years/And though I'd like to laugh/At all the things that led me on/Somehow the stigma still remains”.

The music feels heavily influenced by the East, which is hardly surprising after Japan’s earlier flirtation with the Orient (“Visions of China”, “Cantonese Boy”), but is obviously given an additional emphasis here by the contributions from long-time collaborator Riyuchi Sakamoto. I first heard this album when I was coincidentally reading Timothy Mo’s “An Insular Possession”, about the foundation of Hong Kong, so the Eastern influences were even further accentuated for me, as Sylvian elaborated on the atmospherics and pushed the rhythmic element further back.

"When Smokey sings"

The minimalist arrangements are timeless, stripping songs down to the bare essentials, but making judicious use of chiming guitars, swirling strings and delicate piano to bring them to life and give each song a unique quality. Slow and soothing, the music reveals itself gradually, weaving a nebulous world, subtly nuanced by the meticulous musicianship. Sylvian allows his associates to colour and shape his work without letting his own voice be overwhelmed. In “Orpheus”, there’s an astonishing moment when you think that the track has ended as the strings and synth effects steadily fade away until impeccably judged piano gently rolls back in to re-launch the song. The album features many moments with this kind of space and poise.

There’s a story being told here in a series of beautiful vignettes that add layers and richness to the whole. Each song wanders between hope and despair, the twin pillars of our existence, resulting in an album varied in texture, but unified in mood. It’s like poetry set to music – and not just any poetry, but the sensitive, bookish, romantic kind. Every word is carefully chosen, heartfelt yet insightful, such as, “Sunlight falls, my wings open wide/There's a beauty here I cannot deny” in the Cocteau-inspired “Orpheus”. It may be poetic, but it’s never whimsical, so “Mother and Child” retains a dark message: “Secret signs/Brought the crime/Right to your door/An innocent/Guilty as hell”.

"Big in Japan"

The breathtaking lyrics render just enough detail to invite you into the singer’s world, but leave you enough space to fill with your own dreams and memories. The words have an intellectual feel with much depth and complexity, but Sylvian delivers them with such stark honesty that the emotional impact is never lessened. His work in the 80s was characterised by themes of detachment and grandeur, but paradoxically was also deeply personal. Somehow he mastered the ability to write about everyday issues while appearing ethereal and other-worldly.

This is greatly helped by his distinctive, mesmerizing voice. His aching, brooding baritone is one moment soaringly powerful, the next gossamer delicate, as he half sings, half whispers the lyrics. Although Julie Burchill once memorably dismissed Sylvian as a “man with a belly ache, so we all have to hear about it”, for me his singing is a thing of beauty, cool and expressive. Reminiscent of Scott Walker’s voice with Bryan Ferry’s phrasing, Sylvian never sounded better than on this record. Rich and beguiling, even on the almost funereal “Maria”, which has echoes of “Ghosts” with its eerie sounds and haunting backdrop, he rasps, “Maria, your every thought's my heartbeat/Maria, save a thought for me”.

"Full of Eastern promise"

There is a strong cinematic quality to much of Sylvain’s music with its variety of musical textures, most obviously heard/seen in “Forbidden Colours”, the bonus track that was also the theme tune for the film “Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence”, brilliantly depicting the clashes between different cultures and the underlying homoerotic tension between the Japanese captain and British prisoner of war: “I'll go walking in circles/While doubting the very ground beneath me/Trying to show unquestioning faith in everything”. However, all the songs are highly visual, so when listening to “Let the Happiness In” I guarantee that the dreamy foghorn brass will make you think of docks and gulls even before the lyrics mention them.

Harrowing and menacing are two adjectives rarely applied to David Sylvian, but this album features a couple of unsettling tracks. “When Poets Dreamed of Angels” recounts a chilling tale of domestic violence, “She rises early from bed/Runs to the mirror/The bruises inflicted in moments of fury/He kneels beside her once more/Whispers a promise/Next time I'll break every bone in your body". The jaunty Spanish-influenced music of “The Boy with the Gun” belies the isolationist, thought provoking image of the lonely soul with violent tendencies (serial killer? mercenary?): “He carves out the victim's names/In the wooden butt of the gun/ He leans well back against the tree/He knows his Kingdom's come/He'll breath a sigh self satisfied/The work is in good hands/He shoots the coins into the air/And follows where the money lands”.

"Where's your Red Guitar?"

Despite being largely a downbeat affair, this album is about more than just gloom and despair. The music itself possesses a quiet, determined strength, while intense shafts of redemptive sunlight occasionally punctuate the darkness, such as “Orpheus” expressing hope and longing: “Tell me, I've still a lot to learn/Understand, these fires never stop/Believe me, when this joke is tired of laughing/I will hear the promise of my Orpheus sing”. Even when the music is at its saddest, there is a sense that Sylvian is describing a journey through lonely days, hoping to “Let the Happiness In” and move on to better times: “Listen to the waves against the rocks/I don't know where they've been/I'm waiting for the agony to stop/Oh, let the happiness in”.

“Secrets of the Beehive” is a record of stunning beauty. It takes you to a very special place, admittedly not full of laughter and light, but a place where you feel comforted by the rich embrace of David Sylvian’s voice – like a glass of particularly exquisite cognac. His music might not invite easy access, but this album is the perfect introduction to an exceptional talent. Go on, treat yourself.

Johnny Come Lately

Champions League football returned to Switzerland last night as FC Zürich took on the mighty galacticos of Real Madrid and the Swiss Rambler just had to be there to see the likes of Cristiano Ronaldo, Kaka, Raul, Xabi Alonso and Iker Casillas strut their stuff.

In a move that some in the paranoid English media had perceived as another attack on Premier League teams, UEFA President Michel Platini had amended the Champions League qualifying process to favour teams who had won their national leagues, one result being that Switzerland had a representative in the group stages for the first time since Thun in 2005. Unfortunately for me, FCZ (pronounced Eff-Say-Zed) did not draw my beloved Arsenal, but they did end up in a highly attractive looking section with Real Madrid, AC Milan and Marseille.

FCZ’s home ground is the Letzigrund, better known to many as the venue for the Weltklasse, the famous athletics meeting where the fast track and golden prizes tempt the world’s best athletes. The ground was rebuilt for the Euro 2008 Championships, but still has a limited capacity of 24,500. This is more than sufficient for the average Swiss League match, but meant that tickets for the Champions League (sold as a three game package) were like gold dust.

Although priority was naturally given to the faithful season ticket holders, a handful of tickets were made available to the rest of the public. Somehow, I managed to get hold of one, or, more accurately, Mrs. Swiss Rambler used her well-known blend of ingenuity and persistence to secure one for me as an early birthday present. God bless her.

"A world-class winker"

The stadium is pretty much what you would expect from the Swiss, being functional, comfortable and obviously very well organised. Getting to the ground is a piece of cake, as it has its own tram stop and extra trams are laid on for any big event. You might have to make the journey with a fellow passenger’s backside uncomfortably close (and it’s hardly ever an attractive young woman standing next to you, more likely an overweight middle-aged bloke smelling of Eau de Bratwurst), but you can at least be confident of getting to the church on time.

Despite the running track separating the pitch from the spectators, the view is excellent and the atmosphere surprisingly good. My seat was quite close to the Südkurve, which is where the FCZ hardcore fans congregate. They made a lot of noise during the whole game, even finding time to encourage the rest of the stadium to join in with the singing and chanting.

The match itself had a predictable outcome with Real winning 5-2, but, as is so often the case, the scoreline does not tell the whole story. Given that the vast majority of Real’s transfer budget this summer was invested in forwards, it was probably not too surprising that they looked fabulous in attack and rather frail at the back, but they probably did not anticipate having to score two goals in the last two minutes to dismiss the rank outsiders from Zürich.

"What's the time? Five past Zürich"

FCZ actually started quite well, adopting a high energy pressing game in the first 20 minutes to overcome the obvious technical shortfalls against the Madrileños, but then Real stepped up a gear and goals from Cristiano Ronaldo, Raul and Gonzalo Higuain in a devastating 18 minute spell before half-time appeared to have put Real in an unassailable position. FCZ looked totally outclassed and Real could ease towards the interval in cruise control.

Having been taunted by the FCZ fans a few minutes earlier when he ballooned a set-piece over the bar, Ronaldo opened the scoring with a trademark spectacular free-kick from an almost identical position in the 27th minute.

The world-class Portuguese turned creator seven minutes later when he headed a cross into Higuain’s path on the right side of the box (just in front of my seat), from where the ball was squared by the Argentine forward for the inrushing Raul to net his 65th Champions League goal.

The Real captain had been combining beautifully with Higuain and he returned the favour to his strike partner in first half injury time, when his clever reverse pass gave Higuain the opportunity to muscle his way past his marker before easing a low shot past the hapless FCZ keeper.

"On me head, son"

For all Real’s attacking threat, the importance of former Liverpool star Xabi Alonso to the team’s rhythm was impressively evident, as he pulled the strings in midfield in the “quarter-back” role that David Beckham briefly aspired to in the England team. This ensured that Real maintained the lion’s share of possession, playing the game at their own (composed) pace before launching rapid attacks, often making use of the adventurous runs up the left wing by (notional) full-back Royston Drenthe. Alonso’s withdrawal with an ankle injury early in the second half upset their balance to such an extent that it allowed FCZ to launch a stirring comeback.

Xavier Margairaz had already missed a glaring chance when he headed narrowly wide from a corner, before Casillas conceded a penalty after he was adjudged to have brought down Alphonse, though the contact appeared minimal and the fall was more than a touch Eduardo-esque.

No matter, Margairaz coolly slotted the spot-kick past Casillas in the 64th minute, even though the stuttering run-up did not look that of a man confident of scoring.Before the game, Raul had admitted that Margairaz was the only FCZ player he had heard of and the midfielder was now making his considerable presence felt with some delightful touches for a big man (© Peter Crouch), having been utterly anonymous in the first period.

"Here comes the punchline"

Within a minute, FCZ had reduced the deficit to just one, when Aegerter, by no means the tallest man on the park, headed home Vonlanthen’s inswinging corner without a marker in sight. Game on!

Real’s vulnerability in defence is a worrying sign for future matches when they will come up against tougher opposition and for a while they looked disjointed and shaky in this match. Kaka flattered to deceive with his tricky dribbles, while the over-lapping full-backs were restrained by the pace of Johan Vonlanthen on the wing.

After the match, Real coach, Manuel Pellegrini, claimed that his team “always had the game under control”, but there were a few nervous moments before FCZ ran out of ideas and the six yellow cards they collected highlighted Real’s frustration.

Real conclusively put the game to bed in the last minute when FCZ keeper, Johnny Leoni, inexplicably punched a soft Ronaldo free-kick into the roof of the net. Leoni should also have done better with Ronaldo’s first-half shot, which, although struck with great power, was pretty much hit straight at him, but this effort was comical in the extreme.

During the warm-up, I had watched as Leoni dropped a succession of straightforward crosses and had: (1) feared the worst for the loyal FCZ supporters; (2) wondered whether he had any Scottish ancestors. Leoni had been quoted before the game as saying that Ronaldo was only human and it is true that he did not have to do anything special to put two past this pathetic keeper.

On Sky Sports, the inimitable Gordon Strachan suggested that Leoni should have been booked for time wasting … as he was wasting everyone’s time. Deep into injury time, Guti put the icing on the cake with a sublime chip, though his task was made easier by the punch-drunk Leoni wandering into no man’s land.

"Back of the net"

FCZ trainer, Bernard Challandes, had worried before the match (in his highly amusing blend of German and French) that his players would be star-struck in the presence of the Spanish team’s superstars and it certainly felt as if FCZ gave Real far too much respect in the first period.

Challandes is a charismatic figure on the touchline, the cool image of his sharp suit, deep tan and silver hair slightly marred by the constant leaping around and frantic gestures towards his team and the unfortunate match officials. During the half-time break you could imagine Challandes applying the hairdryer, not only to his own locks, but also to his bewildered players, advising them to concentrate on the game plan rather than worry about whose jersey they wanted to swap afterwards.

Switzerland is not the largest country in the world (land mass, population, influence) and the Swiss sometimes have a small town mentality when dealing with international celebrities. The fawning adoration exhibited when the likes of Robbie Williams deign to honour us with their presence is truly embarrassing and it was no different when Real Madrid came to play: the airport arrival lounge was absolutely rammed, while the hotel was besieged with screaming teenagers and those old enough to know better.

On the pitch, the crowd certainly got their money’s worth. They had come to praise Cristiano Ronaldo (or at least serenade him with “hijo de puta” – impressive for the perfect Spanish parlance, depressing for the predictability of the abuse), but they ended up burying poor Johnny Leoni, whose Man of the Match performance gifted the tie to a Real Madrid team that really did not need the help of a clown.

That Night In Barcelona

I enjoyed England’s 5-1 demolition of Croatia on Wednesday evening as much as the next man, particularly after Slaven Bilic’s ill-advised pre-match boast that he had identified a weakness in the English team – perhaps an inability to score six, given that England have now put four and five goals past his hapless team in their last two matches? What I could have done without was Clive Tyldesley, ITV’s “big match” commentator, eagerly scrambling aboard the World Cup bandwagon like a cheerleader on heat, implying that we only had to turn up in South Africa and the trophy was as good as ours.

It’s true that football commentators tend to be annoying as a breed, much like radio DJs, but Tyldesley has a degree in exasperating viewers. ITV cannot help the fact that any night of football they broadcast is ruined by adverts, but they could surely do something about the shocking bias displayed by the commentators they employ. After you have endured another torrent of adverts (weren’t the last lot only five minutes ago?) advising you of the latest DFS sale and the like, you probably think that it couldn’t get any worse, only to hear the dreaded words, “Good evening and welcome from Clive Tyldesley”.

Oh great, another evening spent in the company of the rabid Manchester United fan. Some say that Clive has struggled for years, without any discernible success, to hide his United proclivities; while other believe that he makes no attempt to conceal his bias. Either way even The Who’s “deaf, dumb and blind kid” could not fail to notice his lack of partiality. In any match involving United, watch how he describes what their forwards are doing when United are attacking. Fair enough, but then look what happens when the opposition have the audacity to mount an attack: he explains what the United defenders are doing! It may be a trivial point, but it becomes grating after a while. When United misfit Diego Forlan demonstrated a total inability to find the back of the net, Clive stayed magnificently loyal to the misfiring forward, “Forlan has played in fifteen games now – and he’s nearly scored in all of them”. You have to ask why Manchester United bothered to launch their own television channel, MUTV, when Tyldesley was already doing such a marvellous job for the franchise.

"He needs to mention it. He always mentions it."

Of course, Tyldesley is well known for his inability to make it through 90 minutes without somehow managing to shoehorn in a reference to Manchester United’s Champions League victory over Bayern Munich in 1999 or, as he prefers, “that balmy night in Barcelona”. It was indeed an unforgettable night, but Clive is going to make damn sure that it will linger long in the memory, as he appears to be contractually bound to mention it every time he covers a European match. He’s really got it down to a fine art, often trotting out three or four completely irrelevant sentences before managing to crowbar in the inevitable mention of “two minutes of brilliance”. Other times, he’s less subtle: “And it’s an evening kick-off here, very much like it was that famous night at the Nou Camp”.

There are many things that you could say about this incredible comeback, but my guess is that Tyldesley owns the copyright for most of them, which is probably fair, given that he appears to make his living out of droning on about that final, while theoretically commentating on other matches. If that weren’t bad enough, Clive seems to be under the impression that his commentary was somehow responsible for United’s injury time larceny, “What’s this? Ninety minutes on the clock and Manchester United haven’t scored. They have to score. They always score … Sheringhaaaaammmmm!” The downside of this belief is that he starts rubbing the same rabbit’s foot every time United are up against it: “They need to score. United always score”.

The thought that not everyone in the country wants United to win has never entered his head. ITV Sport have long perpetuated the ridiculous notion that United are in some way England’s team. The underlying message behind Tyldesley’s nauseating tone on European nights is that those sitting at home should wrap themselves in red and white before willing on “our brave boys”, but what they have singularly failed to grasp is that the vast majority of the audience is actually desperate for United to lose. To be fair (note the switch into football-speak), Tyldesley is equally biased in favour of any English team playing against Johnny Foreigner, overlooking the possibility that some might just want to watch an entertaining game of football and not a re-enactment of ancient military battles.

Even when an English team is not involved, Clive will somehow link the match back to England or the Premier League. You might have mistakenly thought that the European Championship was intended to discover the best team in Europe, but for Clive it’s all about the players’ careers in England, otherwise he wouldn’t change everyone’s surname, e.g. Senderos of Arsenal, Tuncay of Middlesbrough, Cech of Chelsea, etc. In the worst example of his Anglophile tendencies, I swear that I once heard him refer to France as Arsenal.

"All you do to me is talk, talk"

He obviously saves his best efforts for United’s foreign legion, which I suppose I can understand in the case of Ronaldo, who (through gritted teeth) is one of the best players in the world, but it is unforgivable when the same treatment is applied to United squad member, Nani: “United fans will be pleased to know that Nani is warming up. Are we about to see a United combination for Portugal? Will Portugal now benefit from the fact that they have two United players on the park? Ronaldo and Nani must have developed an understanding together at United.”

Then there is Clive’s determination to ensure that the entire British population is made aware that Italy’s Simone Perrotta was born in Ashton-under-Lyne, which not only is “just ten miles from Old Trafford”, but also has the “Brucie Bonus” of being the birthplace of Geoff Hurst. That would be the same Geoff Hurst who scored the three goals … I think you know the rest. Broadcasters seem to think that nobody in England could possibly be interested in a World Cup or European Championship without some English reference points jammed into the commentary. They should understand that those watching matches not involving England tend to be the informed part of the football public, so they should stop insulting our intelligence. I am happy enough to watch France against the Czech Republic without ITV turning it into Arsenal vs. Chelsea (Gallas vs. Cech, right?)

If possible, the xenophobia is turned up a notch during those “special European nights at Anfield”. When Standard Liege tore into Liverpool during a Champions League match, Tyldesley’s patronising of the Belgian champions was relentless. As they continued to create chances, even missing a penalty, he couldn’t have sounded more astonished if Elvis had strolled on to the pitch to perform “Jailhouse Rock”. Similarly, when Liverpool played Inter, he could not help gloating that Inter had just one Italian in their starting line-up (“Can you believe that?"), neglecting to mention that Liverpool had only one more Englishman in their team.

The Norman Tebbit impression really comes into its own when Clive is confronted by a team from Eastern Europe. In a match featuring Latvia it wasn’t long before he started cracking gags about the Latvian surnames – absolutely hilarious those long foreign names, aren’t they? When England played Kazakhstan, it took even less time before a Borat quote was wheeled out, as Clive brazenly admitted that he had never heard of the Kazakh players – ever heard of research? His one-eyed stance even makes Motson look neutral.

"One for Clive"

While he’s always happy to belittle unknown players, he has a limitless capacity for sycophantic gushing towards the superstars of the game. Cristiano Ronaldo has always held a special place in Clive’s heart, his role in Manchester United turning him into some sort of honorary Englishman, rather than the gap-toothed, greasy foreigner that he would normally despise. Whenever Ronaldo touched the ball, it was “Oooooh, what’s he going to do now?” - before another miscued cross sailed into the crowd. When Manchester United met Chelsea, Clive fashioned a tortuous “Beauty and the Beast” analogy involving Predator look-alike Drogba and his heartthrob Ronaldo: “He’s looking very pert and perky”. For God’s sake, get a room. These days, the winker might be feeling a touch jealous, as Clive has started to bestow his grovelling affections on Steven Gerrard. In fact, if he gets any further up the Liverpool captain’s backside, the only thing he’ll be able to see is Alan Hansen’s feet.

Never mind, Clive can always return to his trusty Big Book of Clichés, so his greeting for the Champions League Final in Rome was, “We’re a few kilometers away from the Colosseum, but there’s something rather gladiatorial about this moment”. It’s as if his mouth has been hard-wired to the software that spews out tabloid headlines. Even the bookies picked up on this with Paddy Power taking bets (“Commentary Clichés”) on which blindingly obvious rubbish Tyldesley would utter, e.g. how long before he mentions his signature phrase (I think you know which one). When he goes off-piste, the results have a distinct whiff of Alan Partridge at his most idiotic, such as his description of the Dutch, orange masses descending on Basel: “It must have looked like a piece of toast. Covered. In Marmalade.” I kid you not.

Tyldesley has come a long way since the 1970 World Cup, when he got the half-time score of his first game wrong. He’s been plugging away for ages, including four years at the BBC, where he was assigned a grand total of four live matches. Even though he is now firmly established as ITV’s top commentator, he still has the air of a man scrambling to prove himself; hence his constant attempts to utter a memorable soundbite, his “They think it’s all over” moment, rather than just telling it straight.

"A great commentator - and Clive Tyldesley"

Maybe that’s why he makes so many needlessly melodramatic outbursts, constantly building up the dullest of games, asking histrionic, rhetorical questions like: “Oooh … look out …it couldn’t be … could it?” Celtic recently needed to score at least three times against Arsenal at The Emirates to qualify for the Champions League, which was extremely unlikely, but that did not stop Tyldesley faking a coronary every time they crossed the halfway line. When John Terry managed to control a simple ball before hoofing it away against Barcelona, Tyldesley could not believe his eyes: “Wow, Terry. Immense”. The premise is always the same: stick with us (“don’t you dare go away”) no matter how drab the game appears, as you might be rewarded with another comeback like “that magical night in Istanbul” (a.k.a. past ITV glories).

Tyldesley’s commentating style could be described as an uncomfortable mixture of pomposity and hysteria. Oozing gravitas, he just loves spouting his opinions as if they are proven fact. On occasions, he seems to believe that he is addressing the entire nation, “Good evening, everybody, and on a night like this it really is just about everybody”. Could we at least wait for the viewing figures? Nothing pleases Clive more than an opportunity to regale us with his encyclopaedic knowledge of the game, like the precise pronunciation of Juan Sebastian Veron. In fact, he’s way too pleased with himself throughout the match. It sounds like he’s rubbing his hands together with excitement about the great spectacle unfolding in front of him. Or masturbating. Or both.

And would it hurt Tyldesley to shut up now and then? He commentates as if he is still on radio and the audience is somehow deprived of the images that television usually provides as a matter of course. In full flow, he sounds like a man who has buttonholed a stranger on a bus, incessantly stating the obvious and firing off a barrage of widely known facts and meaningless statistics. When England played Andorra, Clive had duly looked up the country on Wikipedia and was thus well placed to relate its claim to the world’s longest life expectancy. I used to believe that this loquaciousness was because ITV’s commentators did not have access to much football, feeding off the scraps left by Sky, but it was much the same during the World Cup, when they were on pretty much every night. Somewhere in ITV Towers there must be a man with a warped sense of humour who once cruelly told Tyldesley that he was actually interesting.

"Give him the boot"

Lord knows why he loves the sound of his own voice so much, as it possesses an annoying, nasal quality that makes you wonder who first encouraged him to speak in public, let alone commentate. When he is excited (which is far too often), his voice goes off the scale, soaring to a shrillness probably only audible to dogs. Any big star is awarded special treatment, Tyldesley delivering the name in an ascending bark of surprised delight like a bulldog with laryngitis greeting his returning master at the same moment he steps into a bear-trap: “Rrrronal-DOHH!”

While Tyldesley is the first to dig out a referee for making an error, though sometimes only after he has had the benefit of slow-motion replays from several angles, he is not immune to the odd “Colemanballs” effort himself:

He is the man who has been brought on to replace Pavel Nedved - the irreplaceable Pavel Nedved.

He’s not George Best, but then again, no-one is.

He went through a non-existent gap.

One or two of their players aren’t getting any younger.

David O’Leary’s poker face betraying his emotions.

Maybe we shouldn’t be too harsh on Clive, as he now has to stay afloat without the benefit of the big, orange life jacket known as Ron Atkinson. Clive has been like Ernie without Eric, Little without Large, since Big Ron’s unscheduled departure. Their special brand of “humour” was typified after a player took a kick in the crown jewels and rolled around clutching them in agony:

Clive: I’m not sure where exactly he was injured there, Ron.

Ron: Just inside his own half I think, Clive.

Boom, tish! Actually given the nature of Big Ron’s fall from grace (a racist outburst against Marcel Desailly) that stripped the glamour from the double act, maybe a better comparison would be Andrew Ridgeley and George Michael (the undercover policeman’s friend). After “Champers” exited stage left, Clive had to make do with David Pleat, not only one of the most boring men in football, but a well-known kerb crawler (cautioned not once, but three times).

"Big Ron: Some of my best friends are black."

So, there we have it: Clive Tyldesley, a crap wannabe comedian (“Clive and Exclusive!”) who has never read the part of his job description that calls on him to display a small measure of impartiality from time to time. He tries far too hard to come across like your mate in the pub, when you just want him to tell you what’s happening in the game, which is surely the commentator’s role. Almost all football fans I know find him intensely irritating, as shown by this excellent on-line poll:

Should ITV sack Clive Tyldesley?

Yes - immediately.

Yes - and make him sit Stage 1 elocution exams.

Yes - and send him to the seventh level of hell wearing nothing but a Manchester United thong.

No - I am a moron who thinks Clive's commentary is accurate, dispassionate, and value adding.

Say no more – especially as Clive has said absolutely everything that needs to be said, then a little more.

Keep Singing Out

The BBC has greatly improved its coverage of music festivals, but for some reason has not yet worked out that nobody watching wants the music to be interrupted by intensely irritating hosts either telling us what we’ve just seen or informing us what they are about to broadcast. However, it is still worth enduring their inane conversation and cheesy grins, as now and again a new artist comes along and forces people to sit up and take notice. Such was the case with the Reading Festival two years ago when Get Cape Wear Cape Fly delivered a life changing set of fresh, vibrant songs.

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly is not a band, just a young singer-songwriter of immense talent called Sam Duckworth. The somewhat cumbersome, but rather brilliant, name was taken from an article in a computer magazine. The name was deliberately eye-catching, combining the innocence and enthusiasm of youth with the probability of dashed dreams, but according to Duckworth was also “about breaking out of the preconceptions of the broken-hearted songwriter vibe”. With a moniker taken from a computer game, as you might expect, Duckworth is very much a modern social commentator, leading a charge against consumerism, racism and other injustices.

"Suits you, sir"

He certainly isn’t a songwriter that sticks to a standard formula and isn’t easy to pin down to one genre, as his music is an eclectic mix of folk, indie, emo and electronica – folktronica, if you will. He comes across like a modern day troubadour, armed with an acoustic guitar and a trusty laptop to provide the backing sounds. As homemade electronic beats pour out of his Mac, Duckworth furiously strums his guitar, successfully combining classical folk music with modern technology. His computer also provides added instrumentation of strings, keyboards and even a trumpet, helping to give each song a separate identity. It’s amazing how the addition of some subtle keyboards or a drum and bass breakbeat can turn a good composition into a great one.

The resulting songs are confident, even abrasive, as if he has a full band behind him. This might not be what you would expect from one man with an acoustic guitar, but it makes total sense once you realise that Duckworth’s roots lie in punk. For him, the influence of the punk scene is strong in terms of its social ethics, empowerment and attitude. The music might not have the punk sound, but it has the same “have a go” approach: “I don’t really know how the music happens. I just fumble around until it sounds good”. However he does it, the music is somehow mixed together in an original and refreshing way to produce something very special – an astonishing blend of the raw and the cooked.

"You say you want a revolution"

Fuelled by more than his fair share of teenage angst, his lyrics are largely heartfelt socio-political commentary, documenting the ills of ignorance, apathy and prejudice, which has resulted in the rather trite tag of “protest singer”. This caped crusader’s songs might not change the world, but he would “like to be remembered for making people aware that you can make a difference”. He is no old-fashioned folk polemicist, though Woody Guthrie’s famous guitar sticker, “This machine kills fascists”, would somehow be just as appropriate on Duckworth’s laptop. No, he is just as likely to write songs about being a reckless teenager, mixing intimate reflections with lighthearted humour.

Inevitably, comparisons have been made to 80s music legend, Billy Bragg, given they both play folk-influenced indie music and share a delight in articulate, passionate lyrics. Desperate to put wrongs right, they both still bring together the political and the personal. They have an Essex background in common, but their approach is more like a generic English brand of introspection - an everyman spirit with good intentions. Duckworth’s rasping vocals do have a very (southern) English sound that bears a passing resemblance to Bragg, but for me his voice is also a bit like the young Paul Weller. At times his intonation has the untrained, busker-like quality of Badly Drawn Boy, but that only adds to the overall appeal.

"Put your hands up for Southend"

Certainly, Get Cape’s debut album Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager contains enough social conscience to bring a smile to Bragg’s face, such as the anti-consumerism diatribe about the threat of globalisation in the eponymous track “Get Cape Wear Cape Fly”, which is hardly surprising coming from a Fairtrade supporter: “And you decide/If it's worth having their blood on your hands/Just to wear the latest Nikes/Open your eyes/As you don't need to buy it”. A similarly beguiling effort on the same theme is “Whitewash is Brainwash”, again rich in thought-provoking lyrics wrapped in a gentle melody, a rant about reality television and global corporations: “I went to Ikea today/It didn't change my life/Yet everyone in my street is going Scandinavian”. Duckworth rams the message home by shouting into a tiny megaphone (yes, I know, but trust me – it works). In “Call Me Ishmael”, he bemoans the soul-destroying, 9 to 5 existence of many tedious jobs, urging people to follow their dreams, perhaps inspired by the wandering sailor in Moby Dick: “You are not your job/And you are not the clothes you wear/You are the words that leave your mouth/So speak up, speak up loud”.

Having been racially attacked in a pub by a supporter of the BNP for the "crime" of being half-Burmese, Duckworth became an avid supporter of the Love Music Hate Racism campaign, writing “Glass Houses” about the experience: “You say/Go find yourself a new home/But isn’t it infantile/To consider yourself the judge/Of someone's rights/To start a better life today?” As he says, everyone in Britain is from immigrant blood at some stage, so prejudice is a ridiculous concept. The music on this track is particularly affecting with soft, almost African harmonies overlaying a tasteful piano intro before making way for shuffling beats and a rising chorus.

"I could build you a tower"

Much of this debut chronicles the last two years of Duckworth’s life when he gigged extensively around Britain, writing songs on buses and trains, getting drunk with new friends and crashing on their floors: “the whole feel of the album was songs I’d been playing on the road, songs I’d been writing on a laptop just trying to capture a moment and an energy”. One of the hardest working musicians around, Duckworth at least lived up to his stage name with his superhuman will to get to any show, which he refers to in “Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager”, partly with weariness, but ultimately with friendship in his heart: ”You made us feel at home/We broke our backs on floors of stone/And yet I'd rather wake there any day/Than wake up here alone”.

In a similar vein, Duckworth reveals what the past year has been like for him, “And in the last twelve months/I've felt like a stopgap/And a punch bag and a doormat/But I'm better than that”, though the depressing words are lightened by the sense of humour exhibited in the song title, “If I Had A Pound For Every Stale Song Title I'd Be Thirty Short Of Getting Out Of This Mess”.

"You can call them chronicles"

The highlight of the album and strident roof-raiser is the extraordinarily catchy, yet meaningful, “I-Spy”, which kicks off with an acoustic guitar riff and the plaintive line, “I spy with my little eye something that begins with I Don't Care”, before unfolding into something far more expansive and effervescent with the memorable chorus: “Face in the crowd/If you don't care/then why are you singing out?” It’s a song with a “simple tune”, but powerful lyrics and an aching vocal that are mightily effective.

The album moves into the overtly personal with the beautiful “War of the Worlds”, where Duckworth is not afraid to unveil his private emotions. This heartfelt, bitter lament about a broken relationship is ironically a real crowd-pleaser during Get Cape’s live show, “But we haven't spoke in days/Yeah, in fact it's been a matter of weeks/And so the next time that you need me, don't expect a call”.

However, unlike many records of teenage disaffection, the melodies on Chronicles are mostly upbeat and almost always infused with an electronic flourish that cheers the soul. The opening track “Once More with Feeling” is a particularly uplifting statement of intent and call to arms, “Don't let the people make you think/That just because you're young, you're useless”. The next track, the jazzy “An Oak Tree” strikes a similar positive note, “I guess another set back is/Just another lesson learnt”.

"Put your back into it"

Recorded mostly in his bedroom, it’s difficult to believe that such an accomplished album was self-produced without the benefit of a major studio, but Duckworth clearly possesses a maturity beyond his years, even though in many ways he’s your typical teenager. “Lighthouse Keeper” talks of an angry young man’s desire to escape from his Southend home (“Get out of this place!”), but at the same time admits that “it’s good to be home from time to time”.

Often wearing Clark Kent spectacles, Sam Duckworth is an unassuming hero for the iPod generation, but he is far more interesting than the average singer-songwriter (or teenager). His passion is infectious and only the deepest cynic could fail to be moved by his poignant, yet compelling songs. This astounding debut album doesn’t just fly – it soars.