These sort of quizzes are usually beneath me, but this one deserves a mention.

<img src="http://images.quizilla.com/E/easternmantra/1065403515_bid.jpg" border="0" alt="HASH(0x83630d8)"><br>Bid, frontman of The Monochrome Set. Fuelled by<br>cabaret and sexual innuendo, he's mean, moody,<br>and can still be Asian. He can spell his own<br>name, too.
<br><br><a href="http://quizilla.com/users/easternmantra/quizzes/What%20Legendary%20Post-Punk%20Era%20Frontman%20Are%20You%3F/"> <font size="-1">What Legendary Post-Punk Era Frontman Are You?</font></a><BR> <font size="-3">brought to you by <a href="http://quizilla.com">Quizilla</a></font>

<img align=left src="http://www.bid.clara.net/swell/bid-sml.jpg"></img>
Bid is now keen to do <a href="http://www.bid.clara.net/swell/">Scarlet's Well</a> properly and take on the Music Biz World, something he hasn't done since the Monochrome Set were on Warners nearly 20 years ago. He's seeking proper Scarlet's Well management, booking agents, PR, higher-profile record distribution and so on. There's definitely thousands of people out there who would adore SW if they only got to know about them.

It helps that people don't need to know about the Monochrome Set at all. The latter are a veteran UK group in a No Future Plans state, while SW are, to all intents and purposes, a very much alive band from a foreign shore (indeed, from another world) where the sky's the limit musically, inviting the listener into the world illustrated by the songs. Though, for admirers of the MS, one could say SW is sometimes a Doctor Who-like regeneration, as a few SW songs are unrecorded MS numbers, and the live band will definitely be performing a MS "hit" or two at concerts. But Bid is in Scarlet's Well for the international long-haul now.

I firmly believe SW could be on the Magnetic Fields / Tindersticks / Divine Comedy / Nick Cave, broadsheet-compatible level within a year of Getting Going Properly. Concerts at Shep Bush Empire, articles in colour supplements and arts sections, Jools Holland, Radio 4's Front Row, Loose Ends. The time feels right, the music is right.

The music is very good indeed. Bid, after all, is one of the greatest singer-songwriters in the English language, and with the gloriously unfettered world of SW, he's at the peak of his powers.

But that's not enough. Music alone is never enough. Not when it comes to getting people to listen to it. One must learn to speak the language of The Music Business Mandarins.

By which I refer to phrases like The Pitch, The Spin, The Idea, The Concept, The Buzz, The Soundbite, The Angle. Dirty words indeed, but an essential part of getting people to have heard of a band. One thing Bid and I have in common is having had our fingers burned, though not bitten off, by the music industry in the past. But there's now a renewed sense of optimism in the air, and an overwhelming desire to get Scarlet's Well the attention it deserves. Blood has been dripped upon Bid's media profile grave, and an elegant hand has shot up through the soil…

So, how to sell Scarlet's Well? As well as lazy, but not unhelpful comparisons with younger but more widely known upstarts like The Divine Comedy (fop-pop crooning), Tindersticks (exotic, atmospheric arrangements) and Magnetic Fields (eccentric, but accessible songwriting, a multitude of styles and genres), other names that spring to mind are The Tiger Lillies (the band from the opera "Shockheaded Peter"), Kurt Weill, Tom Waits covered by girls and girlish boys, and Sondheim's Sweeney Todd and Into The Woods (non-ironic, gothic fantasy songs laced with metaphor, wordplay, symbolism, soul, and love).

A phrase I've started to use when speaking to people about the group is "His Dark Materials – The Musical". But then stressing that it's ultimately peerless and original stuff, which one can't get anywhere else. Wordy, pastoral, folkish, fine-crafted classic-sounding songs, more of a whole fictional world to escape into than just a band, laced with the language of E Nesbit, Poe, and Lewis Carroll. Defiantly anti-fashion and anti-rock. Pro-vocabulary, pro-creativity, pro-wit, pro-beauty. And, as I shall no doubt repeat further until the right people take notice, led by one of the greatest British singer-songwriters alive, at the peak of his creative powers.

The Scarlet's Well initial plan is to do a few choice gigs in nice venues (Bush Hall in London is ideal), and get a raised profile going among the likeminded areas of the music biz.

The pressing concern, right now, though, is to secure a manager.

Consider this entry an advert for one. If you, Dear Reader, know of a suitable cigar-chomper, please do <a href="mailto:dickon@virgin.net">get in touch.</a>

When Mr Burns wrote "O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us / To see oursels as others see us", he was clearly dreaming of the Internet.

I have been alerted to the following messages at the website for "Trash", the popular London club.

Subject: Dickon Edwards
Posted By: David Pleat
Why are there at least 2 photos of him on the gallery section of this website?
The man looks like a robot for gods sake! Don't take that the wrong way, it was a compliment!

Subject: RE: Dickon Edwards
Posted By: lady D.I.E
i have never seen the man look anything apart from dashing. well done! xx

Subject: RE: Dickon Edwards
Posted By: chipped Varnish
Hey! Leave poor old Dickon alone, he's my good buddy. ponce or no ponce! x

Subject: RE: Dickon Edwards
Posted By: tranq
i hesitate to publicise it here, but his live journal is v.funny and worthy of publication. respect.

Subject: RE: Dickon Edwards
Posted By: Sophie Sticklebrick
Livejournal? What kind of a fool keeps one of them? Perish the thought.

Subject: RE: Dickon Edwards
Posted By: lady D.I.E
nah. wouldnt catch me doin a live journal. they are for ponces :p xx

To Stockwell again for a Scarlet's Well rehearsal. Today, the group is Mr Bid, Ms Dornan, Mr White, and myself. Mr Robinson is not available to play bass. He is busy next door recording a Judge Dredd audio drama.

We start to work more closely on the arrangements. The session is a happy and relaxed one, and Mr Bid has provided his workers with sandwiches and biscuits. The latter are Fox's Viennese Temptations, which I am more than happy to endorse. Their label features on of those little coats-of-arms with "By Appointment To Her Majesty Queen II, Biscuit Manufacturers". Next to that is one for The Queen Mother. It's gratifying to know that a little thing like decomposing in a Windsor Castle tomb can't diminish one's appetite for Viennese Temptations. What will Death be like? Who cares, as long as there's biscuits.

<i>Mark the green-eyed yellow idol, on her mantelpiece, a-gloating</i>

My first Scarlet's Well rehearsal at The Moat studios in a snow-covered Stockwell, and I finally meet the reputably eccentric, mysterious Bid. He is short-haired, charming, handsome, sickeningly youthful for someone that was releasing records in 1978, and wears a black bowler hat to the session. It transpires he once made hats for Alice Cooper. In his presence, I at once feel at ease. Which for me is a rare sensation indeed. These Scarlet's Well performances will be the first time Bid's played live since the hibernation of the Monochrome Set some years ago.

<i>I see it now, I see that I must belong here
How many years, how long have I been away?</i>

The Moat Studios is a fairly large, joint rehearsal and recording complex deep in South London, with crisps, cakes and Connect Four at the disposal of its denizens.

<i>Lend me; lend me your body to cohort in Picardy
Don't let me stay a willy wisp
I want to have a funny lisp, like you, like you, like you</i>

I am equally delighted to learn that the mention of four candles in "Clop's Birthday" (from the second Scarlet's Well album) is, yes, a reference to the Two Ronnies sketch:

<i>From Goldenear, there came a box
Of many cogs and wheels and handles, with four candles
When he cranked it, it played Mozart
Ting!
And from a hatch, there hopped a monkey
Very toothless, deaf and dusty, slightly musty
Screeched thus, tunelessly, with gummy grin
Happy Birthday, Clop
We wish you many sorts of wild adventures
Happy Birthday, Clop
And when we're into port, I'll buy you dentures, 'cos
I've just nicked yours</i>

We begin, just Bid and myself on acoustic guitars and vocals (I deign to do a bit of backing singing), by trying out most of the 40-odd Scarlet's Well songs recorded so far, including the contents of the forthcoming fourth album, "The Dream Spider Of The Laughing Horse". It's a shame they'll have to be whittled down to a mere 40-60 mins' worth, including one or two Monochrome Set favourites (the audience would demand it, after all). But, then, SW was orginally designed to be a purely hermetically sealed, studio-bound affair, and it quickly becomes apparent which songs can survive the transition to the greasy concert world of soundchecks, bar table chatter, the need for immediacy and engagement, the need to communicate beauty, soul, magic and joy to a room of strangers. But the resulting shortlist is still not nearly short enough, and further agonising decisions over which tunes get the chop abound.

<i>Her sails were all a-puff-pride bloated
Sweet singing, were the bell-bottomed scurvy scum
And on the prow, the red-eyed captain, banging on a wolf-skin drum</i>

Soon, Toby Robinson, the genial, Santa-like in-house engineer, producer and owner of the studios enters, freed for a moment from the rigours of producing a Chinese rock band, and plugs in a bass guitar. For the moment, everything is open-ended. I refuse to use words like "organic" without feeling the need to go and stand in a dark cupboard for an hour afterwards, but for now Bid arranges things around who can make which rehearsals and concerts. Scarlet's Well is less a band, more a fictional world illustrated by Bid's songs. Journeying on the tube to Stockwell, and even trying to sleep the night before, my mind is convinced I am preparing to enter another world, not just rehearsing with a band. It's a truly exhilarating feeling.

<i>We leap down cobbled alleys
Catlike
We've come from battling many
Laden galleys
My heart's a flame inside a ring of jet</i>

When making music or creating any other kind of art, one must always strive to provide something one cannot find elsewhere in the world, rather than just Joining In and diluting instead of adding. Nowhere is this maxim more vehemently embraced than in the songs of Scarlet's Well. At no point is the group about to go into a sub-Stooges garage rock workout, the likes of which blares out from every other dank dark gig venue in London. O, sweet relief.

<i>This glade is full of purling strains
Some are sighs, some are sobs
Some are hunger pains
And when you take another trail
You hear a tiny throat bewail
Don't turn so quick, my frail
Don't you want to join me playing</i>

A second rehearsal a few days later, and the trio is joined by Mr Martin White (<lj user=martylog>) on accordion, and Ms Kate Dornan (<lj user=serious_k>) on keyboards. Instantly the songs come alive a thousandfold.

<i>Spin your dreams above our heads
Weave the tunes into the threads</i>

My acquaintance with Ms Dornan, a Fosca bandmate who manages to hold down positions in two other bands as well (Madam and Butterfly Stitch), stretches back to the days of Orlando. Mr White, however, I only met once before. It was at a gathering of mutual friends in a Tooting gay pub, a few days before Christmas. I had heard he was an accordion player, one whose arrangements of modern chart pop hits had garnered a level of attention elsewhere, not least in some new Men's Magazine list of Cool Things To Download.

It may not be the same publication, but I'm reminded of a current TV advert for a typically garish new men's journal, "Nuts". The commercial goes on to highlight four areas of interest, seemingly boiling down all male experience everywhere to this grimace-inducing quartet of selling points:

-"GIRLS!"

-"CARS!"

-"FOOTBALL!"

-"SHARKS!"

Modern Man entirely summed up, there.

I particularly like the idea that it's JUST sharks, out of all God's vivid and diverse animal kingdom, that's meant to appeal to men. Not penguins. Not lemurs. Not kakapos. Just sharks. They're a Man's Fish.

The Tooting pub in question was the most straight gay bar I've ever been in. Perhaps that's a sign of the times, as one can see men kissing in any kind of London bar these days. It's difficult to tell whether such conjunctions are a genuinely gay couple, or two heterosexual male TV producers greeting each other. The only vaguely Uranist evidence in sight at the Tooting hostelry was a modest, wall-mounted rack of issues of "Boyz". Which is an altogether different kind of mens' magazine.

I chatted with Mr White and found him engaging, friendly company, with a shared interest in the works of Neil Innes of Bonzo Dog and Rutles fame. Then, a few weeks later, when Bid nailed the blood-stained note to his Internet tree advertising for musicians, specifically an accordion player, the fact I was now newly acquainted with just such a fellow, and one who owned a Monochrome Set album at that, seemed too, too perfect. If there was a higher power involved here, I sincerely hope it looks like a shark playing football.

On top of this, at the rehearsal Mr White revealed he'd been to see the National Theatre production of Mr Pullman's His Dark Materials saga. With its talking animals, piratical voyages and brave girls travelling through the Underworld, it's a work that certainly comes in handy when describing the colourful, sprawling world of Scarlet's Well.

<i>And we say: "Row the boat ashore!"
And we say: "Tie him to the door!"
And then we'll "Nail him on the floor!"
O, bring him up, o, bring him up</i>

[All italicised lyrics in this entry are from Scarlet's Well songs currently being rehearsed]

From the <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/arts/reviews/story/0,11712,1134445,00.html">Guardian review of the Franz Ferdinand album</a>:

<i>"… 'Michael' appears to be a love song aimed squarely at a man. This really shouldn't seem like a brave move in 2004, but it does. Morrissey and the Magnetic Fields aside, indie doesn't really do gay."</i>

The Guardian, however, does do ill-informed, myopic generalisations like this. I'm still appalled that The Hidden Cameras' album was omitted from many Best Albums Of 2003 lists in the press.

To Infinity, for the club White Heat. The venue is in Old Burlington Street, a short walk from Piccadilly Circus. An unusual location for a nightclub, surrounded as it is by Mayfair offices, foreign embassies, and the homes of the impossibly wealthy.

On my way out, I hear the roar of a large vehicle passing by the house. It is a gritting van. There's been much talk of a big freeze approaching, and as this time last year much of North London was left in gridlock due to icy roads, this year the councils are determined to make everyone know they're doing their bit, even though the climate is relatively mild, with not a snowflake in sight. An abundance of pink grit crunches underfoot as I make my way to and from the tube stations.

In Piccadilly, everyone is wearing their new winter coats and scarves. The sense of expectation in the air is palpable. It might as well be Christmas Eve. When it comes down to it, Londoners do rather like a little bit of snow, and feel cheated if an entire winter passes without any. Aside the gritting vans on Regents Street are more municipal trucks, this time with miniature cranes. They are taking down the last remnants of the Christmas lights. On January 28th.

After a brief "confusion" over the guest list, I greet the person who has invited me here, Miss Mira Manga. She was once the singer of a Reading punk-pop band called Disco Pistol and is now promoting bands at this club. She buys me a drink, which helps me calm down after my guest list "problem". Always a good idea. People should buy me drinks more often, you know. I'm not entirely joking! It's all very well them approaching me, saying "I like your look", but if they really want to appreciate my efforts in maintaining my appearance against the ravages of time, the restrictions of living on benefits, the pressures of fashion, and the London weather, the best way they could show it is by buying me a drink. I'm so poor at the moment, and chances are they're richer than I am. The sweetest words a human being can utter to another are not "I love you", but "What are you having?"

I suppose I could score the art of nightclubbing on a budget with a points system. If I have to pay my way in and pay for all my own drinks, zero points. If I am on a discount list, where I still have to pay something, one point. Getting in for free: one more point. Free cloakroom treatment: quite rare, so three points. Being bought a drink, or given a free drink voucher, not nearly common enough for me, so two points per drink.

Tonight was a discount list affair, after some argument, plus a welcome drink from Ms Manga. I had to pay for the cloakroom. So, a three points evening. Not bad, and it means I can go out again this week. Thursday beckons with C33X at the Spitalfields Arts Cafe, then Riviera F up the road in Shoreditch an hour later, then onto Kash Point in Soho.

Back to tonight. I arrive too late for the first band, Hypo Psycho. Oh yes. Apparently they are extremely young men with those fashionable hedgehog haircuts, who play ska music, and are managed by the same people as Busted. Busted are a chart pop band, I am reliably informed. You heard it here last.

Then, a group called Corporation Blend. I know, I know. More sinfully young boys, one in eyeliner and skinny tie, playing Stooges-esque rock that's so painfully loud, I start to wonder if I'm just getting old, or going deaf, or both. Thankfully, I see a few young girls in the audience with their fingers in their ears. Music like this is far more enjoyable to make than to listen to. Someone should gently alert bands of this ilk to this fact. But they wouldn't be able to hear the advice.

Finally, the act I've come to see, Simon Bookish. Mr Bookish is the stage persona of a charming young man called Leo. His live performance consists of just himself, a microphone, and a laptop belting out frantic electronic melodies. Resplendant in black judo trousers with red belt, black pinstripe shirt with red striped tie, a diamante brooch in the shape of a bunch of grapes, and a hand-sewn polka-dot 15th century clown's gown, he throws himself about the stage, and often into the audience, with such zeal that it's both thoroughly exhausting and invigorating just watching him. One man with the energy of a 74-piece dance troupe. One song appears to be called "Terry Riley Disco". Mr Bookish never disappoints.

Offstage, Leo tells me he dreamed about me today. While falling asleep at work. Ms Manga also mentions this to me:

Ms M: (slightly astonished at my lack of reaction) What do you think about that?
Me: Oh, I get told this a lot. It's never sexual. I think it may be the occupational hazard of having a cartoonishly distinctive look. Or, rather, an occupational perk. I'm also very easy to draw.

I also meet Isobel, a girl I first met while on tour with Orlando in Manchester, and am introduced to Lisa, who recommends I switch to Mac lipgloss, and tries some out on me there and then. I'm happy to oblige.

The club plays all kinds of impressively tasteful music, from Bowie to The Fall to The Postal Service to Tindersticks to My Bloody Valentine. The DJ who spins the latter, a track off the early 90s album "Loveless", must, I muse, be barely out of his teens. I saw MBV when they toured to promote that album. I feel terribly ancient.

In fact, most of the clientele at White Heat are extremely young, and more to the point, extremely not buying me a drink. I've used up my own meagre drinks budget for the night, so I saunter off home.

Standing on Tottenham Court Road, snow starts to fall after all. It's really very beautiful, and Richard Curtis could put the scene in one of his popular films.

But then Real, Unfair, Cruel Life crashes into the frame. A bearded man collars me:

Man: Excuse me. I'm not a beggar, but… I've just got to get to Leyton. I only need TEN pee. Just TEN pee.
Me: Here you are, then. (produces the coin)
Man: …. or a pound. Just a pound.
Me: You said ten pee! I don't have a pound!
Man: (walks off)

There's gratitude for you. Really, London beggars must learn a little consistency in their appeals. What can the unions be thinking of? I'm a London beggar myself, and all I ask is just one drink.

Or another.

At about 1 AM, I get off the night bus in Highgate and walk up Southwood Avenue. Everything is lightly dusted in snow, and it's still falling. I hope the bearded man managed to get to Leyton all right. Or at least, somewhere warm. I feel someone is going to turn London upside down and shake it at any moment, sending gossamer fops like me flying around Big Ben, and serve me right.

Taylor Parkes sees me from his window and calls me in. We sip Earl Grey and watch the live broadcast of "I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here". For readers outside the UK, this is an immensely popular TV programme where a group of celebrities are stranded in the Australian jungle. This year's party includes Johnny Rotten and Lord Brockett.

The screen features constant text messages from viewers.
One is "LORD B. UR SO FIT. LOVE STEVE X."

I shall be on an Internet radio show tomorrow (Wednesday 28th), sometime between 10.30pm and 11.30pm GMT, chatting to host Matthew Glamorre.

The show is Kash Krisis, affiliated to the club <a href="http://www.kashpoint.com/">Kash Point</a>, my favourite nocturnal den of the moment. The station is Resonance 104.4 FM. It's nominally a local London FM station, but I live in London and I can't pick the wretched thing up. One must go to http://www.resonancefm.com to listen online.

The success of the band Franz Ferdinand has been rather heartwarming. Recently, they've been all over the UK media, and have just had a #3 single in the Real Charts with "Take Me Out", despite its radio-unfriendliness in having a fairly unconnected "prologue" before the song starts proper. The radio stations simply clipped this part out altogether, making the single not only more instantly engaging in form, but no doubt more attractive to ruthless programme schedulers in length.

My readers might recall that last May, two skinny Scotsmen from the group appeared on my doorstep here in Highgate, asking for my services. Sadly, it wasn't my body they wanted, but my 1982 Juno 6 syntheziser. In return, they invited me to their concert at The Monarch in Camden, supporting The Futureheads. Despite being in a foul mood for no real good reason, or rather because someone spilt beer on my freshly-drycleaned suit, which on reflection is a <i>perfectly good</i> reason, I did nevertheless enjoy their set, which put me in mind of early Talking Heads, Monochrome Set, and Josef K.

Now they're proper pop stars. They are presumably freed from having to play the foul old Monarch again, or having to borrow instruments from foul old me again. I imagine they're now busy lounging in a big golden limousine, sipping nectar from the upturned armpits of Brewer Street rent boys.

I'm not sure what's happened to The Futureheads. Given they were headlining over Franz Ferdinand, and the latter are now Number Three, I presumed they were Number One, and gingerly tuned into Top Of The Pops the other week. But no, the prime position was occupied by some ghastly behemoth of a girl from the depressing TV karaoke talent show, Faustian Pact Idol.

Perhaps the Futureheads' turn is still to come. Their average age is, after all, 21, and youth on one's side is always an undeniable asset when trying to 'make it'. Franz Ferdinand, I hope they won't chide me for saying, are no inchoate ingenues when it comes to playing in bands. Their Rock Family Tree lineage includes the groups Pro Forma, whom I saw at Ladyfest the year before, The Karelia, and The Yummy Fur. That a member of The Yummy Fur would ever have a proper, Top 5 chart hit must rank up there with similar musings on White Town and Chumbawamba. But done it they have, and good for them.

A further vague connection of interest that I've only recently discovered, is that Franz Ferdinand singer Alex's former fops-in-suits band The Karelia had their album produced by Bid. Bid then covered one of their songs, "The Spell" on the first Scarlet's Well album. So it all fits. I was initially thrown by his change in surname, from Huntley to Kapranos.

I'm sure there's a good reason why he changed his name like that. Perhaps someone spilled beer on his suit.

Watching Mr Howard's strange fixed smile on TV, newly acquired since he became the Conservative Party leader, I try to recall where I've seen such a rictus before. And then I remember. Gollum in the Lord Of The Rings films, talking to himself.