I receive an email from a PR person.

‘Would you like to interview Stewart Copeland, legendary drummer for the Police?’ it says.

I am a bit floored by this. Normally I get emails from PR people that say ‘we have exclusive trailers and content from a new movie with lots of explosions, and I just know your readers will love it if you post them on your secret private diary. Can I email you some banners as well?’ and I sort of get back to them with a doubtful ‘well, you know, I’m not sure that they will, but if you’re sure… here is my rate card, as I am a media owner like R Murdoch etc,’ and then I inexplicably never hear back from them. It is not as if I am going to bite their hand off or anything.

The thing is – this is Stewart Copeland, legendary drummer for the Police. So I bite his hand off.

Stewart Copeland has his autobiography out at the moment, which is hard-hitting and funny (admittedly I haven’t read it yet, or got a copy, but I’m sure it is). He is one of the pivotal figures from my early musical education – that is to say, he was the first person who I heard ever playing the drums in a sort of quiet tiddledy-widdledy way rather than a big bam crash thing, and it was that restraint and tension that made the Police one of the great subversive pop-chart bands.

Plus, when I was a teenager, I was in a Police tribute band.

Actually, we only ever played one song by the Police – but it was really good. It was ‘Walking on the Moon’. Even at that age, I had mastered Andy Summers’s complicated guitar lines; Iain, the drummer, could have filled in for Copeland himself; and Dave, who sang and played bass, had Sting’s vocals off to a T. There is a recording of us, done on a ghetto-blaster that was placed in the corner of Dave’s dad’s garage. It is astonishing. Only the quality of the production betrays the fact that it is not the Police themselves performing. We were (although I say so myself) unlucky not to be picked up by a big management company.

So I interview Stewart Copeland (legendary drummer for the Police). I am allowed three questions, and my plan is to ask him these questions and then post the answers along with our demo tape, which I have dug out from all those years ago. Then, when Stewart Copeland finds the post (AS ALL LEGENDARY MUSICIANS DO – see the comments in the Sonny Smith post for proof), he will hear the demo tape and offer us a lucrative deal of some description. (I will get back in touch with Dave and Iain via Friends Reunited, the new social networking thing).

So here you go, exclusively to Private Secret Diary: An interview with Stewart Copeland, legendary drummer for the Police.

(more…)

Across Tennessee. By Kia.

He takes my hand in a bear-like grip and shakes it warmly.

I am relieved that he has a bear-like grip. Having just watched him play the most amazing banjo music in the world, I had worried that there might be something a bit odd about his hands, to allow him to play so fast, so casually. But he has normal hands, if a bit bear-like. I will not have to deform my own hands in order to play like him.

Sonny Smith is a national banjo champion of the USA, and you don’t get much more accomplished in the banjo world than that. Like many true greats, he is also a very modest man, and has no airs about him. He stops shaking my hand and there is an awkward pause.

The problem is that I am not very cool around celebrities, especially musicians. I sort of go in awe and stuff. I am not name-dropping or anything, but I have met the likes of Peter Andre and Tony Hadley and stuff, PLUS supported the Sultans of Ping on one date of their UK tour. So you would think that I would be a bit more comfortable around legends.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” says Sonny Smith, US banjo champion.

There is another short pause.

“Iamthatwasimeanthatwasbrilliantbanjogreatreallyamazedhowyougetthatwow,” I reply.

“Oh – well, you know,” says Sonny Smith, modestly.

There is another pause. This one is a bit longer.

“I play the banjo as well!!!” I blurt, after a while.

Sonny Smith does look genuinely interested at this, as I don’t suppose he has met many other banjo players in his life. He gives me a broad grin, as I am part of the brotherhood.

“Are you any good?” he asks, in an interested (not challenging) way.

I consider this. I have just watched one of the best – if not the best – banjo players in America play, which makes him one of the best – if not the best – banjo players in the world. So his definition of ‘are you any good’ is probably a bit different than if, say, I had been asked by Eddie up at the Village Pub. I am a reasonable banjo player compared to some people, but I do not have – and never will have – the right hand technique to play proper Scruggsian bluegrass, and I’m frankly a little lost once I start wandering around the neck. But he seems genuinely interested, and I would really like to have a conversation with him about banjo playing as – let’s face it – it’s not that often that you meet somebody who is so eminent in your chosen field (apart from Peter Andre, Tony Hadley and the Sultans of Ping).

In the end I decide that the best course is be to be honest, but to also make a bit of a joke of it. Banjo playing is hardly an English thing – so I could be said to be better than many of my peers, most of whom wouldn’t know a banjo from a mandolin from a ukulele… but I am nothing like even a halfway-competent American professional exponent. So I try to encapsulate this in one sentence, getting across that I’m pretty average but that sometimes people think I am a bit better than I am as there aren’t a lot of other people dotted around the Village to measure my banjo playing ability against.

What I actually say is:

“I am the best banjo player in England.”

Sonny Smith, US banjo champion, is a bit taken aback by this – but being from the USA he is used to people telling it how it is. I, on the other hand, hear the words coming out of my mouth and want to hide inside a giant banjo.

“Hey, that’s great!” he says, and goes into a detailed conversation about banjo playing. I do not hear most of the conversation, as all I can hear is:

“I am the best banjo player in England.”

The rest of his band (who are also brilliant musicians) are still milling around. I have a horror that he will call them over and introduce me. So instead of having a nice conversation about banjo playing and perhaps getting some tips, I mumble something about the Toddler waiting for me, buy three CD’s and run for it. I might be really suave, cool, attractive etc on the page, but I am rubbish – rubbishy rubbish – at meeting people in the flesh. If Sonny Smith, US banjo champion, ever Googles this then it was really great to meet you and the CD’s are fantastic.

*

EDIT – Sonny has very kindly left a comment, which has chuffed me to bits. For readers who are interested, Sonny’s CD is available – contact him through his website at www.sonnysmithbanjo.com for information. It’s all-instrumental, with a mix of guaranteed favourites and some that were new to me – some bluegrass, some veering towards swing. I’m sure that he’d set you up with music from his colleagues in the Smoky Mountain String Band as well – I came home with some truly great stuff.

Across Tennessee. By Kia.

There is a roundabout at Dollywood that is designed for little kiddies. They ride on large plastic ducks.

The Toddler climbs on to a duck. She has a look of utter delight on her face. Honestly, sometimes I could break down and weep at things like this. I would so like to be able to generate such utter delight just from sitting on a large plastic duck. If sitting on a large plastic duck was all it took, the world would be such a happy place. But at some point in everybody’s transition to adulthood the duck joy gets lost, and then there are wars and unemployment and the Daily Mail and stuff.

“Are you ready?” asks the lady who runs the duck ride.

She presses a button (or pulls a lever, or turns a key or something – I did not really get a close look, and it is immaterial to the story to be quite honest, although accuracy is always important to me, but sometimes you can be so keen to make something accurate that it will interrupt the flow), and the duck ride starts.

‘Quackquackquackquackquack!’ goes the ride, duck noises coming through small loudspeakers. ‘Quackquackquack!’

The Toddler waves as she goes past. ‘Quackquack!’

The ride is a simple concept. The roundabout goes round, with children on the ducks, and makes a quackquack noise. But it is enough. Even I am enchanted by the duck ride, so much so that I briefly stop looking at my watch to see when the next banjo music is due to begin.

After a minute or so, I notice something. I had assumed that the quackquack thing was an automatic function, set to start when the ride went round. Except that it is not. It is the lady who runs the ride’s job to stand by a microphone, going ‘quackquackquack’ at periodic intervals.

For some reason, this fills me with warmth and happiness. I have already identified Tennessee folk as being some of the loveliest, most friendly people who I have ever met. But the fact that this nice lady is still quacking with such enthusiasm and warmth on what must be the hundredth ride of the day is wonderful to behold. This is her job – to start the ride (by whatever means) and to go ‘quackquack’ into a microphone. I expect she probably has to do some safety checks as well, but it is the quacking that does it for me. She should get some citizens’ award.

The ride winds down. The Toddler is happy, and wants to go on again. I let her, as I am so impressed with the quacking lady. Then we go to see some more banjo music. It really is a perfect day.

“This is Dolly Parton’s uncle,” comes the announcement. Dolly Parton’s uncle walks on to the stage.

He does not look much like Dolly Parton, but I take his ‘uncle’ claim at face value, as everybody else in the band is a relative of Dolly Parton as well, and they are playing at Dollywood, the theme park owned by Dolly Parton (nb the name comes from taking ‘Hollywood’ and replacing the first bit with ‘Dolly’ as in ‘Dolly Parton’.)

“Good morning,” says Dolly Parton’s uncle.

The band plays some hits by Dolly Parton. They are very good, and the main vocalist – Dolly Parton’s first cousin – has a startlingly similar voice to the star herself. It does make you realise what a brilliant songwriter Dolly Parton is – and that she most definitely knows her way around a good pop tune.

There is an intermission, whilst Dolly Parton’s uncle talks about his charity, dedicated to restoring the prominence of the original American chestnut tree. Apparently, the Chinese chestnut tree was brought over to the country some years back, carrying with it some sort of tree germs that started killing the native population. The crowd grows angry at this news, everybody looking round the audience to see if there are any Chinese people there to raise this issue with. But there is happy news, in that scientists have worked out a way of saving the American tree. This mollifies the audience, and the music is resumed with a new song, written by Dolly Parton and Dolly Parton’s uncle, about the chestnut tree.

It goes:

‘Oh chestnut tree,

Oh chestnut tree,

How lovely are your branches’

It is one of those great songs where immediately you feel a huge familiarity with the melody, and thus will probably last for centuries. The band finishes with that song that Whitney Houston did about always loving you, and ‘9-5′ which, let’s face it, are two of the best pop songs ever written, ever.

The band exits the stage to much deserved applause. The Toddler wants to play on the roundabout with large plastic ducks.

Across Tennessee. By Kia.

I switch off the television set.

Then I switch it back on again, to double check what I am hearing. It is startling. We do not have advertisements like this in Britain, not even on Sky Sports 3.

Personally, if I have an erection that lasts for longer than four hours, then I will not contact my doctor. I will contact all my mates.

US television is utterly technically inept. The picture is rubbish, the graphics are Clive Sinclair-standard, they regularly cut away accidentally from the end of bits they shouldn’t cut away from, or leave long pauses where the producer presumably should have done something. This ineptitude partially explains why many people think the content itself is useless. Whereas we have stuff like Jeremy Kyle, and ‘Meanwhile, a man in Hull…’ local news.

I find it disconcerting, but I can appreciate that it is probably a Good Thing to maturely and openly address the medical condition concerned. I switch the television off once more and go down to breakfast.

“There is an ad about having a stiffy for four hours!!!” I hiss at the LTLP, over a bizarre parallel-universe type breakfast.

They do not have normal things like black pudding in Tennessee. Instead, they eat scones with their bacon and eggs, covering them with weak mushroom soup.

“Would you like to try some of my grits?”

“No.”

“That is the right answer.”

I accept the proffered free refill of coffee – the reason that America is such a great nation – and lean back in my chair. The tickets nestle safely in my pocket – the time approaches to take my family to the very heart and soul of the USA.

“Today,” I tell the Toddler importantly, drawing her grandly in to the conversation. “Is our big day. I hope you will remember this day for years to come. It is time to see the birthplace of a nation.”

We finish our breakfast and set off for Dollywood.

“It wasn’t you then?” I enquire.

“No. I’d have needed to ask what buttons to press and all that.”

I’ve been writing this for almost six years now. Occasionally, funny things happen. Bizarre, flattering, alarming, lavish or just plain barking mad things. Like Simon from Hungary’s bizarre Private Secret Diary lawnmowing stunt (sorry – can’t find the exact link). Or the mind-boggling A-Level Mock Exam incident.

I can’t recall anything that would have taken anybody so much time as this.

“It definitely wasn’t you?”

“Definitely not.”

“I don’t know whether to be pleased, or go on the witness protection scheme.”

[Travel reportage fans do not fear, I shall be continuing 'Across Tennessee. By Kia' very shortly, where I will detail how I discovered the REAL America.]

Across Tennessee. By Kia.

To get to Tennessee, you have to drive across a bit of North Carolina. I gun the Kia into action. It is a woman’s gun.

North Carolina turns out to be a very pleasant place. I may go back there one day, and explore a bit further. We are headed for ‘Ghost Town in the Sky,’ which is a theme park based on the wild west, situated up a mountain.

My plan is that if I can incorporate lots of theme parks, zoos etc. into our schedule then the LTLP will realise that I was right all along, and a great family holiday does not consist of going to a swanky beach resort in Florida with loads of facilities, pools and stuff for children, but getting in a Kia and driving across Tennessee in search of traditional banjo music.

She studies the map, her face still not quite having lost its original air of dry scepticism.

“There is a town called ‘Batcave’ coming up,” she announces. “Can we visit Batcave? It sounds interesting.”

“I would like to visit Batcave,” I agree. “We could stop there for dinner dinner dinner.”

Silence descends. We do not visit Batcave.

‘Ghost Town in the Sky’ turns out to be brilliant. You get to it via a mountain chairlift, which has no seatbelts or anything and brings the exhilarating thrill of wondering whether your wriggling Toddler might end up smashed to bits on the rocks below. At the top, there are loads of rides, a reconstruction of an old wild west town, and regular gunfights staged by actors.

And banjo music.

The bluegrass bands playing in the ’saloons’ are incredible. I mean – let’s face it, banjo music is quite thrilling when you hear it on disc, or as the soundtrack to a car chase on the TV. Everybody knows that. But live, it is a totally different proposition. It fills the space and grabs you with a cocktail of excitement and history, and you suddenly understand how this music came to be and why it has been so core to the way of life of these parts of rural America.

I do not quite expect the Toddler to understand this yet. But she is clapping along with the banjo music, a delighted look on her face. I am almost in tears, I am so proud.

The fiddle player is introduced to us as Georgia’s state fiddle champion (twice). I am impressed by that. If there is entertainment at British theme parks it is usually some twat singing bad cover versions to pre-programmed Casio organ tracks. Here, you get Georgia’s state fiddle chamption, and legendary banjoist Steve Sutton. It is like turning up to the Dinosaur Adventure Park in Lenwade and seeing Martin Carthy playing a set with Yehudi Menuhin.

I am not saying that Martin Carthy and Yehudi Menuhin never gigged at the Dinosaur Adventure Park in Lenwade. But it strikes me as unlikely.

After that, the staged gunfight is mere dressing. A small child standing beside me is equally blasé.

“That’s nothin’ – they’re not even real bullets,” he complains.

“That’s right,” scolds his mother. “You show the man what happens with real bullets.”

The child turns to me to demonstrate a horrible scar on his face.

I chat to the man operating the kiddies’ carousel as he waits for it to complete its rotations. He leans back on a fence and we survey the scene together – miles upon miles of the dramatic Great Smoky Mountains – the sunshine, the wisps of cloud, the trees of green and red.

“They’re starting to let folks build houses up there,” he complains. “If you ask me, they shouldn’t let houses into that view.”

We nod slowly at the sadness of despoilation as we stand with our backs to the acres of theme park, gift shops and roller coasters that have been hewn into the mountainside.

The carousel slows to a halt. The Toddler reappears. I hurry her along. There is time for more banjo music before we leave.