Star Blog

And no sooner do I have a good rant but someone writes to put me straight...

"Hello Mick, I'm new to MySpace and just wanted to message you to say thanks. In the 80s I was a big Kerrang reader... have seen your articles in Classic Rock, so you're obviously still rockin'. All the best and thanks again, Steve."

Is this someone out there taking the piss? But wait, there's more...

'Hiya Mick, your latest blog made me smile... I got a MySpace account about two years ago after being nagged by a friend who wanted me to look at some photos she'd uploaded there, and to start with I was completely bemused by it. But I have, much to my embarrassment, got quite fond of it... It is thanks to MySpace that I found your site and bought the book (and yes, I'm one of your mystery 'friends' on there). Both site and book have given me hours of entertainment so I'm not going to knock it! Cheers, Trudi.'

Well, thanks, guys. I feel suitably humbled. It won't last long though, rest assured. Meanwhile... I was just about to tell you all about my incredibly interesting day, wrestling with lawyers (literally, oily bastards!), being asked to dress up in 'costume' for a forthcoming TV interview (now someone really is taking the piss), being interviewed for the Radio Times this morning about the Planet Rock show (by an exceptionally nice old boy named David who was so BBC he sounded like he was wearing a dinner jacket), still not managing to return Ross's phone calls cos I'm so super-super busy (he is so going to make me pay...) and various other incredibly interesting things, but... wife and kids have just bounded through the front door and all hell is now breaking loose just outside my study door.

So we'll do all that later instead, OK?

Had a look at my MySpace page just now - the second time ever in my life I've been there. Oh my God! Who ARE all these people that are my so-called Friends!?! I don't mind any good-looking women being listed on there as friends, though I'm obviously a bit disappointed I don't actually know any of them. But what is the point of it all? I mean, if you're an aspiring singer or whatnot, I can see how playing a bunch of strangers your unsigned new band might help. But what it does for me is beyond my comprehension. Has anyone reading this blog come from there? If so, please, tell me, how does it work? Or if anyone has found this site from MySpace and bought a copy of the Star Trippin' book, again, let me know. Cos that I can get my head around. But the rest... it looks like some 21st Century form of penpals, the letters s-a-d encrypted into it like 'suck' into success.

By the way, on the subject of Star Trippin', I know I've said this before but I was lying then, OK? The fact is, all copies have now nearly gone. And there WILL NOT BE A REPRINT. So it's now or never my little MySpace-reading friends. Get it while you can or weep and regret it for ever. Right, now I'm off to get ready for tonight's Planet Rock show. It's pissing with rain outside and it's Sunday so that means it will only take about four hours to drive there so I've got to work fast. Think of me, sweating my bollocks off playing records while you sit there watching the TV tonight...

Had the first good night's sleep in ages Friday night, then topped it up by snoozing through most of Saturday morning. In fact, I sort of slept-walked through most of the day, working on the show in the afternoon then taking a leisurely drive into London to get ready for it. Of course, nothing can be that easy and when I got to London I started to panic because the traffic was so horrendous it took ages to get to my usual car park - which had the Full sign up, so had to nose through the crowds in Chinatown towards another place I know. Finally got to the studio about 45 minutes before the start of the show - i.e. about 45 minutes later than usual.

Is it because summer's coming and people sense it and have started going mad already or just the excitement of the Chinese New Year? I don't know but the crowds are worse than ever in Chinatown. God forbid you should be trying to drive a car down the roads through them. The looks you get just for trying not to run the bastards over is unbelievable.

Did the show. Buggered up the beginning. Then had the Let's Go Back To Your Childhood bit buggered for me by a well-meaning but clearly overworked producer who put what they call the 'stings' in the wrong place. It didn't really matter. People listening to the radio hardly notice these things. You'd have to let a bomb off for most people to notice you've done something seriously wrong on radio. Even the little slips they forget about almost instantly. Or I do anyway when I'm listening. As long as the next tune's decent, who cares?

Hmmm, sounds like a metaphor for life, or perhaps one of those Chinese sayings: "Yes, Glassblower, as long as next tune not total shite, you may rock the temple..." Words to live by.

The lovely Peta from Status Quo's office rang me today and asked what I've been up to lately. "Oh, nothing," I said, "just boring work." She laughed. "Your work's not boring!" Oh, Peta, if only you knew...

The thing about being a writer that makes it good is that, if you're lucky and careful, you never have to leave the house, you can literally just sit and write till the smoke comes out your ears. Unfortunately, it's exactly the same thing that is bad about being a writer. Unlike being a photographer, I think you know who I'm thinking of, where you really do have to get yourself out and about, a writer like me - long-in-tooth, hustling his act at a time when long-in-tooth stories are suddenly in demand - can go weeks and months and years without seeing a soul.

Like I say, this is actually appealing to me in many ways. Hell is other people, as everyone knows. And then you get to the stage where it really has been days on end since you last bathed your face in daylight and suddenly the inner-machine starts to wind itself down and you don't know what the hell it is you're supposed to be doing anymore. Today, for example, I finished the liner notes for the History of Heavy Metal 4CD box-set that Rhino are putting out. Good news. Except it took me twice as long as it should have because for the last three days I have had to keep going for little walks around the house, winding up lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, or gazing out the kitchen window at the birds in the garden.

Then I found my mobile phone. It was on a shelf in the bathroom. God knows when it was I left it there but there were seven missed calls on it. Seven. Of which, only four callers bothered to leave a message. Knowledge which made me feel inordinately depressed. Tomorrow, come shit or shine, I am going OUT!! What's that you say? To a gig?

Don't be daft, I'm not that desperate...

One of those days where I didn't make it out the door at all. This never used to happen when Annie was around but now she's gone so has the daily need to go out whatever the weather and just walk around. The vet called yesterday to let us know we can come and pick up her ashes. Was going to do it today but what a job. Not like going to pick up a parcel from the post office. I'm in the middle of writing the liner notes for a box-set on the History of Heavy Metal, the deadline for which was yesterday, I can't just pop out and dispense with 12 years of my life so easily. Maybe tomorrow. Better get the Kleenx handy though, wife went spare and locked herself in the bathroom howling when she heard the vet's voice on the answer-phone.

Some better news... Birthday presents and cards for my 4-year-old arrived this morning from my youngest brother Danny. A beautiful thing. I love that boy. He's the only one who really seems to get it. Maybe because he wasn't brought up being kicked around the place like his oldest brother. Whatever it is, I owe him big time - again.

Now the kids are in the bath, driving their mother and surrounding neighbours within earshot kerr-azee. The boy is covered in scratches and marks from all the tumbles he keeps getting into. Wife is getting paranoid the dreaded health fascists will be round accusing us of child abuse. But the little bastard just won't leave anything alone. So far he's destroyed two lamps, a tall house plant we'd had for 10 years, several of the girls' toys, Daddy's CDs, mummy's knicknacks, you name it, if the bastard can't jump off it, shit on it, or shake it, he destroys it.

Anyway, Life On Mars on the gogglebox tonight. The story of my past dramatised in eight easy episodes. Except more fun. That and the chicken burning away in the oven should be the perfect end to another sodding day...

Decided I was finally going to have a day off today. We'll go out, I told wife. Buy some new shoes for the baby and grab something to eat. Then made the fatal error of saying: I'll just check the post and email first.

Two hours later I was still checking. A huge package arrived with the Axl manuscript in it - all 494 pages of it. The copy editor has been at it and it's my job to check what she's been checking. The most tedious horrible job, apart from checking the lawyer's report, which also arrived today. There has never been a lawyer yet that found absolutely nothing wrong with anything you might put under his nose. Give him something juicy like the story of Axl Rose though and he becomes like a pig rolling around in his own shit. Decided to leave his report till tomorrow, and got out the door while the going was still just about good.

We were only gone an hour though - literally long enough to buy burgers and tiny shoes - when we realised we'd have to scram home in a hurry to pick eldest girl up from school. Drove like bastards to get there. Before we knew it, we were all home and I was back to checking the checking. Great bliss.

Ross called to invite me to the so-called secret Aerosmith show that's happening tonight at the Hard Rock in London. I said, yes, then no. Then yes. Then NO! The place only holds about 150 and at least four million people want to go. Fuck all that, it sounds like hell. The last time I went to a 'secret' Aerosmith show it was at the Marquee and that was only because Jimmy Page had invited me. Once we were there though I began to regret it for exactly the same reasons. The place was packed with way too many loonies all waiting for something BIG to happen. It took half-an-hour, I swear, just to get near enough to the bar to shout for a warm beer. Then Jimmy got up and jammed, which was quite big I suppose. But it still wasn't enough for most of the crazies there. They still wanted MORE. When I left I remember I was soaked with sweat from the neck down - literally. And this was in the days when I didn't sweat so easily.

Anyway, I expect you'll be able to read all about it on Ross's own blog tomorrow. I hear the band wanted Jimmy Page to come and join them again but that Jimmy is busy. Or is he? Such are the intrigues by which these secret gigs power themselves into our infantile consciousness. Hang on though, the phone's ringing again. Maybe it's Ross asking me if I've changed my mind. I wonder if I have. After all, it's going to be great, isn't it? Isn't it? Well...?

Woke up on Friday morning with a raging headache, and as I type this on Sunday afternoon, it's still there. Must be that glass of champagne I had at the Orion party. Either that or that life I had these past 30 years.

You can't let it interrupt the fun though. Friday was my youngest daughter's 4th birthday. We got her a rocking horse older even than me from an antique's shop, which she has named Stephanie (she names everything Stephanie after the girl in Lazy Town, her fave TV show). She also got some nice stuff from Linda's side of the family. Nobody on my side of the family even bothered to send her a card. How very proud of them that made me feel. Actually, it was entirely predictable, coming from the sort of family I do. The only thing that really bothered me was that my youngest brother Danny never sent her anything. Danny is one of those wonderful uncles that never ever ever forgets the children's birthdays. Except for once when there was some illness on his side. So now I'm worried about him. Gonna phone him when the headache stops.

Meanwhile, I'm leaving in a minute for the Planet Rock show. Been getting some surprising emails from people out there about it. Sitting here on your todd writing for years on end it's too easy to forget that people actually read this stuff. Then you do something nuts like a live radio show and here they come to remind you that someone cares. Amazing. I've been genuinely touched. And I don't just mean in the usual places.

Oh, and has anyone heard the latest about Guns N' Roses reforming? Believe it when you see it, is my advice. But let's face it, it's the right thing to do. Though when has doing the 'right' thing ever influenced Axl? If it had the band would never have run away and left him in the first place...

Spent the day trying to write a piece for Music Week about 'the state of classic rock' - which meant interviewing yet more 'leading industry figures'. Didn't mind, actually. Makes a change from interviewing musicians, who only ever talk about music - that is, their music, which is of course, wonderful. That is, more wonderful than anyone else's. Talk to industry people and all they're interested in is money. The real thing that keeps the rock rolling, you better believe it. It makes a refreshing change to see the cards all laid out on the table instead of under it.

Late afternoon, knocked it on the head to go to Orion's authors' party at the V&A in London. Orion is the publishing company which put out my John Peel biography a couple of years ago. They are also the company that will be publishing my next book, which I'll talk about another time. I like Orion. Like Macmillan who are putting out Axl, they are proper top-drawer mainstream publishers. Years spent on the wanky little music publishers make you yearn to work with people like that and so far they have not disappointed.

Party was good. Champagne, canapés, lots of eccentric-looking odd-bod author types. Several middleclass-looking wimmin showing plenty of cleavage. And me. The only trouble was I wasn't really on top form. Fuck it, dude, I'm tired. Haven't had a day off literally for weeks. No, not pleading. I like to have too much work on. But you really feel the lack of residual energy when you suddenly find yourself gasping for air at functions like these. When you're too mentally tired to summon up the correct repose to chat amiably to some busty brunette who's written several more best-sellers than you, then you're just too fucking tired, old man, and have no business bothering these good people.

I got out of there before I depressed myself too much and headed home, ashamed, on the crowded train. Who are all these people, I thought? Why do they all have to go home the same time as me? Can it be we're all just too damn tired and fucked and forgetful? Maybe...

Got up and had to wade through the mountain of Valentine's Day cards. All from big blonde bitches begging for it. Sat down and snorted some coke then sparked up a big fat jay, had a hit of tequila. Switched on the TV and sat there for the rest of the morning naked, sweating and snorting coke, beating off bitches and blowing smoke rings out of my arse. Jimmy Page called - AGAIN!! - begging to come over. I told him, "Jimmy, you're a good guy, but you gotta get out more. What ever happened to that guitar you used to play?"

Then Axl began texting. "I lv u!" "Fr fks ske," I texted him back. "Leev me alne." I mean, the kid's okay, but is it my fault his own band dumped him?

Decided to get the fuck out. Threw on my leathers, had a last hit of coke/jay/tequila/bitch and headed out the trapdoor. Climbed on my hog and fired her up. The whore hit it first time cos that's what she does. Then rode like a bastard to the nearest MacDonald's where I ordered one of everything and sat there eating it with my fingers at the take-away window while a long line of repressed homosexuals sat behind me in their cars honking. Was in a good mood, it being Valentine's Day, so decided to let them live.

Headed out to see my pal Ross The Fuckin' Boss. He lives about 150 miles away. I was there in under 30 minutes. Found him lying on the floor stroking his statue of Buddha and watching Oriental porn on the wall-sized DVD. He saw me and nodded.

"Let's reform the band," I said. "I didn't know we'd split," he said. "Good enough," I said. "Where are your drugs?" He pointed. It may have been Valentine's Day but I feel the love every day, you know whaddamean, kid? Now fuck off...

The great plan was to spend Sunday with the family, then tootle off to London in the late afternoon to get ready for the Planet Rock show. We did mange to have an almost traditional Sunday lunch but that was it, the rest of the day was spent grouching around my office, still trying to catch up. The trouble is, the scariest feeling in the world for a freelance writer is to having nothing to do. Unfortunately, this means you never say no to anything, which leads to times like now when you have so much on you end up chasing your own tail, wondering why you don't have a life. No days off for weeks on end mean no fun for daddy and what good is that?

Today I was supposed to be having an eye-check from the optician followed by a lunch with my bank manager, Rocking Matthew. Ended up cancelling both due to 'nervous exhaustion'. You know, that thing that rock stars get when they don't sell enough tickets and end up cancelling tours. In my case, though, it feels like we've oversold the gigs and I have to be in two places at once. Sat here finishing some reviews for Classic Rock - Gillan CD re-issues. What a load of codswallop, and to think I used to like that stuff 25 years ago. In fact, I even used to work for Gillan. Good guy, truly average band.

This afternoon I begin interviewing 'industry chiefs' for a piece I'm doing for Music Week on 'the state of classic rock'. Yes, business is booming and the cats are getting fat. Personally, I'm all for it. Just need to chip away a little piece of the smelly yellow stuff for myself. Why not? I'm of the right age, the wrong background and let's face it the name fits. In fact, I'm about as classic rock as it gets. Maybe I should go on tour. Take Ross with me. The return of the Two Amigos, coming to a Los Angeles poolside hotel room near you soon...

A very methodical day spent getting ready for the 'gig'. Because the rest of the family was on an outing this morning, I actually got to lay in bed like it was still the '90s and I didn't have any kids. Finally roused myself at a shameful midday. Made myself pay for that though by spending 45 minutes working out. Half-dead, I spent the rest of the afternoon getting ready for the Planet Rock show, looking things up and thinking about the stuff that was being played so I could make it sound easy on the night. Or try to. It's amazing how hard it is to makes things sound easy sometimes. Then got in the car and drove like a madman to London.

Nine hours later I was home again - which is when it hit me. No long wet nose at the door waiting to greet me. No big hairy brute demanding to be taken out in the rain. No nothing in fact. Just the sound of the house sleeping. God, I miss her. You don't realise what a big presence a dog like that has in the house, in your life, your head-space, until it's no longer there. Grabbed the newspaper and took it to bed with me, trying not to think about anything. Woke up a couple of hours later, the light still on, the paper stuck to my face with drool. Oh yes, it's another kick-ass weekend out here at the old rock'n'roll homestead...

Crazy week. Had to say goodbye to our 12-year-old German Shepherd, Annie, on Wednesday. She was old, her back legs had gone and her quality of life was suffering terribly, so we did the 'right' thing. The cause of many tears in the Wall household though, which all dog lovers will relate to, and which non-dog people will simply shrug and know not what I'm on about. Their loss.

The rest of the week has been a mad dash to try and get work done that should have been done back when I was doing other work. That's the thing about being freelance, it's either feast or famine. This time last year I had so little to do I spent three weeks 'rearranging' my office. Of course, that was also the period when the idea of the Star Trippin' book and this website first came about, so sometimes idleness has its own rewards. Working pays better, though.

Gonna try and rest now, via a long cold bottle of Magners, because tomorrow I'm back at Planet Rock. I also want to try and take a long walk in the snow. Something that was easy to do when Annie was still here to keep me company. It's going to feel very strange walking on my own from now on...

An extraordinarily long day, just when I could do with a very, very short one. Was so tired last night I couldn't get to sleep at all despite going to bed early. Then when I did finally start to doze off the boy woke up and there followed the usual palaver. Wife ended up with him in his room, I ended up alone. OK, what's new. Except now I really couldn't get back to sleep. Lay there exhausted and miserable reading. Eventually, finally, thank you God, fell asleep and had a long surreal dream too disturbing to try and get into here.

Then... the boy woke up again. It was now around 4.30a.m. and thoughts of suicide or just giving up completely, cancel fucking everything, began to descend. Finally, finally, christ on the cross, he went back to sleep except now it was gone five and there was no chance of going back to sleep, just more staring into the darkness, wondering about karma and bad dreams.

Anyways... I had to be in London for 9.30 this morning for the Freddie Mercury telly thing. Got there dead on arrival an hour late, just in time to pick up a phone message from Trevor at Planet Rock asking me to call him as we needed to have "a think" about the weekend shows. Oh gawd, what have I done wrong now...

An hour and a half later of why was Freddie like he was then Mr Expert, and not even a cup of tea offered to cheer a poor sod up, and I was away again, in a cab to the tube station (the TV studio was in the middle of nowhere somewhere near the arse end of the Harrow Road).

Rode the tube to Tottenham Court Road and staggered down the road like a man with an arrow through the head towards Frith Street where I was meeting Rachel from the Mail On Sunday for lunch at Arbutus, the new trendy digs for media types like good old us. Apparently. Was nervous because we've never actually met before. But she was lovely. And so was the food. And wine. Mainly, we talked about our kids. This seems to be an overriding theme with me these days. Old dad. What else is he going to gas about? I seem to recall we had a quick chat about work at some point. But mainly we just nattered. It was all rather lovely. Still had an arrow in my head as I made my way home on the train afterwards but I was starting to mind less. Can't win 'em all, kid. And who would want to? No fun in that.

Got home to the smell of cooking. A most unusual smell in this house unless it's me in my pinny making it. Seems wife had gone mad and decided to treat us all to a 'proper' dinner. Bless her strange young ways. Her back is a lot better and her front's always been fine. Even though I had to go back to work after dinner, trying to finish a story I should have finished a week ago, I know I am a lucky, smelly old dog. Still got the arrow in me, of course, but I'm wearing it with pride. Though if I don't get some kip tonight...

After coming home from Planet Rock four nights in a row in the wee small hours, as old Frank used to sing, I woke up this afternoon well and truly fucked. My wife had thought it kinder to let me sleep, a nice thought which nearly finished me off as I had a ton of stuff I was supposed to do today that will now have to be done tomorrow. Except I am in London all day tomorrow, so that means coming home and working tomorrow night. Great joy.

Had dinner with Ross Halfin in Chinatown last night before the show. Was really nice, first time I've seen him for ages. I swear he is mellowing with the years, though don't tell him I said so. Of course, some things never change. The Chinese waitress brought two menus and he sat there and ordered for both of us without even looking. And got it absolutely right. The only thing I managed to ask for was egg fried rice - the only thing neither of us ended up eating. Went for a walk with him through Soho afterwards while we reminisced about the places where all the sex clubs of our youths used to be. God, we're fucking old. Decided we should definitely do that book we keep tlaking about, telling a few stories from our younger days before we get so old we forget them.

Got to hit the sack now. I've got to get up at some ungodly hour in the morning to go to London and do a telly thing on the life of Freddie Mercury - is there nothing I will not waffle about on telly for money? Not if the price is right. Then I'm seeing Rachel at the Mail On Sunday, which I'm nervous about as she sounds young and posh on the phone and I'm old and not even nearly posh. Perhaps she will forgive me, stick me under the heading of rock'n'roll 'character', a role I've played so long the mask no longer comes off when I go to bed at night.

Speaking of which...

Well, got the first Mick Wall Show proper under my belt and I have to say I thought it went very well. I managed to string a few sentences together without having a mental breakdown (harder than you think) and actually played a few tunes without interrupting them with unforeseen news jingles or leaving the mike open so everyone could hear me swearing. Even Trevor texted me towards the end to say 'good stuff'. Praise indeed!

The only black spot was at the very end of the show when the machine (it wasn't my fault, honest, guv) lied to me about how much time there was left to fit some music into and left me with 60 seconds of dead air to fill. A proper DJ would simply have opened the mike and waffled for the requisite 60 seconds of course, non problemo. Not being a 'proper' DJ though, I chose the other option and went into a huge panic, throwing in a couple of extra station jingles to make up the time. Of course, afterwards, I knew exactly what I should have done. Except there is no afterwards when you're doing a live show.

Still, I get another go at it tonight. My last of four shows in a row. I'm looking forward to a rest. Don't get me wrong, it beats going down a coal mine, I don't need reminding of that, cheers. But I'm an old git and not getting home from work till nearly 2.00a.m. four nights in a row, then being woken again at 6.00a.m. by my ever-loving ones, is enough to make you a tad... well... fucked.

It all starts at 9.00pm UK time if you want to join in - www.planetrock.com. And why not? Being Sunday it will make a nice break from saying your prayers, I expect. And there's bugger all on the telly. Except Waking The Dead and you can always tape that. Oh, and Ross has threatened to come and meet me for some pre-show nosebag in Chinatown. Now that should really put me in the mood for dancing...

Writing this the morning after the night before of the second Nicky Horne show I deputised on. Definitely more like it, technically, I managed to hit the news on time to the second every hour, I managed to keep my cool for most of it. The only time I found myself falling over into the broadcasting abyss was in the final hour when for some reason my mouth and brain began to disconnect and instead of the cool operator I imagined I was being I began to sound like a stroke victim.

Oh well. Tonight's the Big One. The first of my own new series of shows. It starts at 8.00pm, and if you haven't got a digital radio or you live in far-far-away land you can listen to it over the net on www.planetrock.com. I mean, what else are you going to be doing on a Saturday night? And let's face it, I need all the support I can get. To which end, I must remember to bring my tablets with me tonight. You know the ones I mean. In fact, if you could send me some that would be great...

Depping for Nicky Horne on Planet Rock tonight, show starts at 7.00pm UK time if you're interested, catch it online at www.planetrock.com, just hit the listen now button. Then come back here and read all about it... later.

Awright... I'm back now. Dear oh dear, that was hectic. I think 'hectic' is the right word, though I think Trevor the boss had a few other choice words he would have picked first. I mean, I enjoyed it, like you might enjoy a public hanging, but as Trevor says you can't train live on air and that's what I was effectively doing for half the show, trying to operate the email for the first time - which didn't work, only I didn't find out until about two hours in - and firing off a CD which I had never done before either (it's all on computer these days). The CD thing wasn't difficult, it's just that I didn't realise that because you do it manually you have to manually compensate for it on the computer. Because I didn't we nearly crashed headlong into the news at one point with a deafening bit of Iron Maiden.

Never mind, the following night's show will be better. If not, I might suddenly find I have a bit more time to write this blog than I'd imagined...