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The Berlin Weekender

2008-06-20T12:51:28Z

If there was one city in the world that one wanted to party in, properly, it is Berlin. There is no city that I have yet experienced that takes hedonism to Olympian levels.

The last time I was in Berlin, last September, it was to run the marathon - 26.4 miles. This time, 8 months on, I drunk, ate and boogied my way around the city, easily covering the mileage that I had previously puffed my way along.

What makes Berlin special, is the way all the scenes interact and meld together in harmony. In London, or LA, or New York - the arts, literature and music sit polarised in their own beds of activity, with little mattress hopping whatsoever. The party and arts scene in Berlin embraces everything, all at once. There is a community that thrives on sharing and exchanging talent. Artists work with writers, writers work with musicians, in short they are all having one big creative hot bed of an orgy. And it's quite something.

There were many highlights during this recent trip. The different areas offer so many different things. For the first few days we stayed at the home of electro/R&B artist Snax in the hip underground neighbourhood of Friedrichshain. Snax - who works with the likes of Jamie Lidell and Peaches - moved to Berlin from New York several years ago, and fell in love with the affordable accommodation and thriving music scene. Snax hosted us to the Berlin's most notorious night spots, such as the Ibiza-esque Berghain and the Panorama Bar, as well as off-track illegal arty squat parties and dirty record label discos.

But in truth, there was another side to the city that I enjoyed, even more. The western part of the city is more corporate and sheened over, but a short cab ride away from the hip artists and musicians comes a newer world of shopping centers, bars and fancy hotels.

Me and my partner Simon were fortunate enough to stay at the Grand Hyatt near Potsdamer Platz http://www.berlin.grand.hyatt.com. The Berlin underground had spat us out a tad disheveled, not to mention sleep-deprived, so having our last night within the Hyatt's luxurious walls was the perfect end to our wild weekend.

I have stayed in many hotels, all over the world, and The Grand Hyatt in Berlin has now made it into my Top 5. The stylish and modern decor upon entrance coupled with a warm and friendly reception from its staff, was merely just an initial tempting nibble. It was the swimming pool on the roof in the Spa and Fitness area that was the enviable icing on the hotel cake. Swimming lengths with a view across the city gave us rushes of pleasure that had not, so far that weekend, been reached.

In short, Berlin is the city to go nuts in and throw all caution to the wind. But when you find yourself out of steam, there is no better location to regroup and repair for the next installment.

On Your Bike

2008-05-13T15:27:29Z

Now the London marathon is over (phew) I have chucked my smelly running shoes into the corner of my bedroom and am basking in joy watching them gather dust. I have now rediscovered my bike, my beautiful expensive bike (trust me, I could've bought a new Missoni dress or a small car) which has been plonked on the stairwell getting cloaked in cobwebs since early summer.

Cycling is a truly awesome way of travelling around London. Not only does it save those meagre pennies - which are better off spent down the pub, right? - but hopping on two wheels gets you to your destination quick, whilst staying trim.

But it's one's ability to remain intact and not get splattered across the high street which is the challenge. This city is bustling with nutter drivers, who've the power to send you hurtling into that dark hole of oblivion at any moment.

Just this morning I escaped death by a whisker on the Old Kent Road. A speeding motor licked my clothes like tiger would its prey, sending me wobbling off course and into the roadside. My life flashed before my eyes (it's all true).

But, laughably, the worse accident in my cycling history was when I got knocked over by an Ambulance car. The git sped off with not even saying sorry. Fucker. But, despite the dangers, there's no better feeling than arriving at work after a 45 minute ride: sweaty, puffing, and feeling completley alive. And I intend to keep it that way.

Music: Calling the shots

2008-04-30T09:46:15Z

It dawned on me recently that in my career I play the role of 'bad cop' most of the time.

Being an artist manager, I have to call the shots and bring people into line, whether it be restraining scrapping band members, sorting out slack communication skills and improper behavior or shaping up shoddy musicianship - I'm the one who has to crack the whip and steer them onto the right track.

This is also the case with the YPs (young people) that I work with, if not more so. To be a good teacher and mentor, one has to set the boundaries and use discipline to reap the best results, especially with those from less advantaged backgrounds. I mentor YPs of this kind placed in record labels, such as Sony BMG UK. I have to slam down the law on a regular basis, from when they have tantrums in mid-lesson through to handing in shoddy course work. Many other mentors in this field take a much softer approach, sensitive to the YPs upbringing - but sod that. If you've crossed the line, you need to shape up or ship out, pronto, regardless of where you've come from.

But to get away with the Bad Cop routine and make it work for you, you have to make sure you sprinkle in some good stuff also. Call it rewards. If my artists do well, I treat them to a bottle of bubbly or a dinner out. To keep my students inspired and engaged, I occasionally tear up the lesson plan and take them to a friend's recording studio to make a tune or I buy them a book. They key is all about finding a balance.

And you know what? I kind of wish there was someone out there doing that for me...

George Demure in Paris

2008-04-22T18:43:30Z

As an artist manager, I am fortunate enough to get the occasional opportunity to travel. Last week I took George Demure and his all-girl band to Paris for three shows at allegedly the city's most desirable venues. But it wasn't all glamour, that's for sure. As soon as we hopped off the Eurostar we set off sleepy-eyed and a bit smelly over to hip spot 'Paris, Paris' for sound check. It was blustery and spitting with rain, and there we were, stood outside for 40 minutes, surrounded by a mound of bags, waiting for someone to let us in. Finally a petite, pale faced sound engineer arrived on his scooter and we were in and able to set up for the show. The French aren't the easiest to deal with, let alone the Parisians. Once the venue was open and in full swing, the bar staff barely cracked a smile, the agents a word, and the now cross-eyed sound engineer was oozing a stench of hardcore skunk. It came as no surprise, then, that when the show commenced, the sound at a kid's tea party would've, in comparison, sounded impressive. The levels were off, the vocals too quiet (and then too loud, cringe) and despite my broken French and hurling angry gesticulations into the sound booth, the sound man was clearly twatted and thought it all sounded perfectly fine. The band pulled it off despite a rocky start and got the French wannabes prancing about in the front row for a bit, so not a complete failure.

The second show was at the exclusive Le Baron, a venue notoriously hard to get into. And in retrospect, I wish they hadn't let me in at all. Intimate in size, the decor was a rough and raunchy glam, and the band were to perform on the dance floor. Cute. How wrong could I be. The intimacy of the venue didn't translate to the hideous crowd that entered it. It was London's Mayfair meets French fashion at its ugliest. Full-on glamour dress code on a Wednesday night, people choosing to stand by the bar so their outfits could be given a full viewing, and the band barely received a ripple of applause after each song - the cocktail-sipping crowd far too cool and apathetic for that. An ice-cube was even spotted being hurled at our filmmaker, who was there to document the trip. On the verge of an apoplectic scene, the night was rescued by a sneaked in bottle of vodka which we thirstily decanted under the table. We thought we'd show them how it's down London style. And that we did.

The third night was just the tonic (hic!) we needed. At the infamous floating venue the Batofar, on the city's south side, George and his ladies put on a sterling show produced by people who actually knew what they were doing. The sound was impeccable, the lighting a dream, the staff helpful and happy to have us. They even gave us some dinner, how about that? The crowd was young and musically aware, which made all the difference. As a back slap to my band I gave them a 50 euro note each and let them have a night of it, while I hauled my poor exhausted behind back to the hotel for an early night. Good job done.