AFTER YOU’VE GONE - BOBBY COLE at CAMPAGNOLA

Here's a look at Campagnola, the last place Bobby Cole played. You can see the piano in front of the big glass window that looked onto 1st Avenue. People sat at the bar to drink, and when he was around, swivel around to watch him play and sing. Some took their drinks and stood around the piano. Some snagged those tables close to him. Most of the dining area was in the back; more and more tables. 

If you're wondering about the name, "Campagnola" basically means "country-style." A "campagnola" is a farm girl, an earthy woman perhaps, who has old-world values. The place was not owned by an Italian, but by a guy named Murray Wilson, who managed some boxers, had an interest in restaurants, and in 1982, opened a place that eventually served authentic enough cuisine to make it an uptown favorite. I never met the guy. The staff were mostly Italian, and the guy who managed the joint and that Bobby answered to was named Salvatore.

Other than the bartender, it seemed Wilson was dedicated to hiring authentic Italians for his "Campagnola." Whether some of Wilson's financing came from authentic if not dangerous people in Little Italy, let's not speculate. Don't speculate, and don't leave a speck on your plate...

Oh look. What's on the plate? Antipasto? Appetizer? To be Sinatra...er, to be Frank, when lady and I would be there, we'd sometimes order anything that seemed like a snack.

We'd arrive well after the dinner hour, usually closer to 11,  and the excuse for not going bankrupt in the place was that we'd already eaten a big meal. PS, a "snack" at this place was like the price of a meal elsewhere. Another alternative was dessert and some wine or sparkling water. But if you had the habit of referring to sparkling water by the best known brand name, you were asking for trouble. "No wine, just a Perrier." A stern, if not murderous look accompanied the grim reply: "No Perrier. PELLEGRINO!"Ay, THAT's ITALIAN!

Getting back to the name of the place, despite being on the tony Upper East Side, Campagnola was, and is, a very ordinary-looking place from the outside. If not a "country" inn, it does look homey, doesn't it? 

The place really came alive on the weekends, when Bobby showed up. Well, usually. If he missed a night or two, he was forgiven. 

You don’t know what you got until you lose it. In a way, that applied to Bobby, who certainly tried the patience of some people while he was still around. It’s an irony that one of his favorite songs was “After You’ve Gone.” 

It was even money that “After You’ve Gone” would be on the set list when you saw Bobby. When he was about to take a break during a set, Bobby tended to lapse into another favorite, a few minutes of “Take the A Train” done as an Errol Garner-styled instrumental. Maybe he was wishing that a few of the noisier and rowdier denizens of Campagnola would indeed, take the A-train so he could come back to the piano and be surrounded by people seriously listening to him. (Of course the A-train was on the west side of town, and any affluent customer seeking to get to one of Harlem’s swankier jazz clubs and eateries catering to rich tourists, would take a cab.) 

Campagnola had its regulars, and often celebrities. Sometimes a famous lady was there to, uh, rendezvous with Bobby Cole. (I ain't namin' names). Hoi polloi just "smellin' where they're dwellin'" were in for a shock if they walked in expecting Olive Garden prices. Those types needed to walk in and ask for an estimate on dinner! Stake yourself to a steak, and you'd be paying $40 or $50. Salmon or sole, $25 to $35. Maybe you'd find a pasta dish for $22. An appetizer could even be $20. Get yourself a couple of drinks and you'd be more wobbly from the lightness of your wallet. Meanwhile if you were ordering in Italian, you might stare down and not be sure what the hell the waiter had put in front of you.

But Bobby Cole was at the piano, and you'd hear "The Big Hurt" and "Say It Isn't So" and "When Sunny Gets Blue" and "After You've Gone," and then you'd go back out into the night, full of food, booze and good music. You could look back from across the street, and be thankful for a good time.

(PS, the corner deli where Bobby disappeared on breaks to get a bottle of beer is still there but Tasti D Lite has GONE...) The original owner of the place, Murray Wilson, died in 2010. The restaurant is now under new ownership. 

It was after seeing Bobby so many times at venues where chestnuts like "After You've Gone" was likely to be played and maybe a Beatles tune or an Elton John item was thrown in, I ventured this question: “Why don’t you play your original songs?” The wry reply would’ve been because he was, in his word, “I’m in the people pleasing business.” People wanted to hear familiar favorites. Probably closer to the truth was that he didn’t want to see or hear people ignoring his own most intimate and creative creations.

I think when “A Point of View” first came out, he promoted it by singing some of his originals. He recalled a time in Pittsburgh when he sang “Growing Old,” and saw a man with tears glistening down his face. He told me that generally it would have to be a very special and intimate venue, late at night, when he’d perform some of the tunes he’d finished working on. 

One night when Campagnola was empty, and he was about to leave, he paused, and for me and my lady, he returned to the piano. “This is an original song that’s not on that album,” he said (referring to the beloved “A Point of View”).  He said, “It might be on the new one, ‘The Hole in the Corner Man.’” He gave a Brando-like curled smile. “How’s THAT for a title,” he mused. He added with a touch of self-deprecating irony “And the title of this song is ‘So Sleeps the Pride.’ What a title, huh…” And then came those hypnotic opening notes, and a song that laid bare the soul of the performer…this performer…any performer.

Some performers are appreciated in their lifetime, and even more so after they’ve gone. Here’s one of the live tracks from Campagnola, caught via portable cassette recorder, circa 1996. 

There'll come a time, now don't forget it
There'll come a time, when you'll regret it
Some day when you'll grow lonely
Your heart will break like mine and you'll want me only
After you've gone, after you've gone away

AFTER YOU'VE GONE....

STILL CRAZY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS — BOBBY COLE and BLOGGERS

"Sharing" entire albums and discographies? Copying? Bobby Cole didn’t even xerox sheet music to avoid buying it. If anything, he worked out the arrangement himself, suiting his key and his voice. Here, for example, is his working version of “Still Crazy After All These Years,” a favorite new song he added to the "Great American Songbook" stuff that his saloon audiences would come to hear. 

Back then, he might play a Leonard Cohen song, or Elton John or Procol Harum, and if a ringsider liked it...they'd ask Bobby the name of the song, and then go out and buy it. That's what it was about. You hear it on the radio or in a nightclub, you read a review of it in Creem, Circus, Downbeat, Rolling Stone etc., and you bought it. Kinda CRAZY what the situation is now: gimme it free, and I don't care who gets hurt. Artists should have a full time job or something. Itunes is rich. Recording music is cheap with Pro Tools. So fuck you and let me enjoy my FREE MUSIC.

February 19th, over a decade ago this, "the blog of less renown" premiered with a post of a BOBBY COLE song. 

He was already dead — and the music business was on the critical list. It’s pretty dead now, isn’t it? Ironically, a big reason is: BLOGS. Early bloggers posted a rare song to call attention to the artist. Soon blogging became a contest, dominated by the size queens posting discographies every day. These queens got so many “nice comments” they began to think of themselves as royalty, and stars. The Queen of Holland fought the Queen of Sweden for MOST comments and most discographies posted in a day. Forget about what the musicians wanted, or how it was hurting the music business. Some bloggers with their R. Crumb photos and Guy Fawkes masks fancied themselves real hipsters and revolutionaries. No, they weren't and aren't. Just jerks with nothing better to do. How easy, to pretend to be in show biz, or to be another asshole Assange, and up and re-up the music all day. 

Blogging was once an extension of music reviewing, with serious writing and a sample track, but it's turned into a literal free-for-all. Rationalizations were rampant:  record stores aren’t going out of business. Artists are rich. Music should be free and artists should tour and sell t-shirts. Like climate change, the deniers kept denying, even when record stores began going under, record labels could no longer afford to invest in new artists, and older artists were dropped by their labels, and dropping dead while on exhausting tours of small venues.   

Anyone telling a Blogfather or Queen of Sharing to have some sense and dial it back, got excuses: “I’m using mp3, it’s not like CD.” Then the items were offered in 320 bit-rate and FLAC. Another excuse: “The album is not yet on CD or mp3.” When it was: “The price is too high!” When the price came down: “We like FREE!” Some happily called themselves pirates, ahar, and were proud of it. Others insisted their piracy was “Freedom of Speech!” The chant: “Copyright is Copy WRONG.” And “This is SHARING." Yeah. Mommy always told me to SHARE, and now, look at me, I’m SHARING!  

When artists such as Gene Simmons and Prince complained, the response was: “You’re rich. Fuck you. We’ll hack your website. We’ll re-up. Google gives us free blogs and if one goes down five will go up. You can’t stop us, you bastards. We love your music, and we give you publicity! Don’t you get it? Why do you want payment?” Add hippie philosophy: “We’re stickin’ it to the music labels, man. To the RIAA. Go think up a new paradigm.” Huh? Like what, Spotify, which pays far less than radio stations did per play? 

It was crazy what most "colleagues" in the blog world were doing, and how they craved fame for themselves. Worse, today many crave royalties, and use Rapidgator and elaborate link-hiding to get money for themselves. This craziness means less good new music. It means less music from our favorite older acts because they don't want to just break-even with self-publishing and they resent the embarrassment of Kickstarter or being on a teeny tiny indie label and begging on social media to "please buy. Blessings."

Who is making money now? Not worthy musicians. Mostly a new wave of pop tarts and rappers and boy bands. They make it off mammoth stadium tours and accept that piracy means a "gold record" is earned by counting YouTube or Spotify plays and not SALES.

Quoting another Paul Simon song, "the music suffers, baby. The music business thrives." The business is no longer run by a Clive Davis or John Hammond guiding artists, or disc jockeys pushing artists by constant play, or by music critics. It's up to mass morons with no taste making Spotify playlists full of crap.

Instead of Tower Records, who published an in-house magazine called PULSE for people to enjoy, music is distributed by comrades at Yadi and in other Iron Country sites. It's distributed via shady "services" that want everyone to buy a premium account so that for $10 a month THEY can distribute hundreds of dollars of FREE downloads to greedy fools. The cry today is “Thank god for blogs in Iron Curtain countries, and the torrents and download services beyond the reach of Capitalist takedown attempts!" Forget that Putin put Pussy Riot in jail. 

Good news here? Well, anyone who wants to buy vinyl or CD music can find it cheap at thrift shops. On eBay, people who used to own record stores are now trying to move 20 or 30 albums for a few dollars and shipping. But they get no offers (not even a come-on from the whores on 7th Avenue...THEY want to be paid, after all, and ex-record store guys have no money!) Oh, too bad, some music lover opened a record store, spent 20 years talking music to customers, and now has inventory nobody wants and a future of unemployment or working at a Burger King. He sells off his stuff on eBay but nobody wants to pay:

Chances are if Bobby Cole was around today, he would be out of a job. Already disappearing in Bobby’s time were the number of hotels and restaurants able to afford a pianist/singer. Soon favorite pure music venues like The Palladium on 14th Street and The Bottom Line a short walk from there, were GONE. With people staying home with their external drives loaded with music and movies for free, “going out” and spending money is not a priority. Campagnola, Bobby’s last stop, no longer has a sign advertising a “name” musician. Most nights it doesn’t even have some anonymous player sitting at the piano for a few hours. 

Everyone has a huge library of music they never listen to, but their hobby is to muse “what do I want,” and then go online to find a blog, forum or shoutbox and get it or ask “anyone got…” followed by “best regards” or “thanks in advance, pals.”  At one time, Etta Jones was paid to entertain in a nightclub, and paid to make albums, and her biggest hit was something called, “Don’t Go To Strangers.” But that’s where people go for their free music. An irony is how anti-social most of social media actually is. Still crazy is the cry of, "We're SHARING!"

Funny thing, the people who SHARE music don’t SHARE their power tools, their "secret" recipe for a dessert, or let somebody drive their car. The blogger who SHARES music like it's a solemn duty doesn’t SHARE his wife. Why not? Sex is more important isn't it? Ian Dury placed it FIRST, with drugs and rock finishing second and third! How about if wifey confesses: 

“I’ve brought guys into our bedroom to bang me. What’s it to you? I’m SHARING. I like sex. Upload and download while you’re not looking. When you're around you get some, too, so SHARING is a GOOD thing. You're upset? Listen, you can't stop me. I'll have a zippyfuck in an alley. I'll take a mega load in a hotel room.” 

The guy says: “You took a marriage vow.” The wife replies “So? Marriage vows are like copyright forms. Just paper.” After a shower or a douche, you wouldn’t even know if I didn’t tell you. And I’m telling you because I believe in Freedom of Speech!” The Queen who keeps bragging about her gang bangs adds: "SHARING saved my life! At the orgy last night, several people...I don't know their real names...said "thanks, I needed that." I felt such love and friendship!"

“CRAZY” is what people were called when they sounded warning signs of disaster. “Still Crazy” is people still ignoring the hazards, and finding excuses to shrug off dangerous and anti-social behavior.  People yawn when they read about another lone gunman killing a bunch of people. It’s no longer a surprise to hear about a blistering heat wave. People don’t even think Internet downloading is questionable and they don't council their kids to be responsible online. 

Google, making billions off the piracy they allow on Blogspot and YouTube, has long abandoned their slogan "don't be evil." 

The bottom line with blogs is simple. Are you doing evil? By evil, I mean, would you tell the artist what you’re doing if you met him? “Hey Neil Young, I’ve given all your music away, in FLAC, on my BLOG. I'm a famous BLOGGER! Every time you paid Web Sheriff to remove my links I re-upped. My BIG BLOG gets hundreds of visitors every day. They love ME, and how I SHARE your music and everyone else's. Isn't that nice of me?”

GONE are most of the original bloggers who led by example, with the idea of keeping the spotlight on the artist. The noble idea of a music blog was to share insights, be generous with rarities you have, and do no evil, with your actions causing massive damage and hurting someone else's business. Too bad it became quantity not quality, and stealing quotes from All Music rather than saying anything original about the discographies upchucked onto the Net to be sucked down by "music lovers."Any respect is "thanks to the uploader." Hey, go ahead and offer the Aretha Franklin tune, in FLAC, and don't have the brains or morals to see the irony in it.

 Bobby Cole lived music and he was always coming up with ideas. Even doing sets at a bar, he improvised new arrangements and sought ways to freshen up the standards. He experimented with music for dance, and he thought up possibilities that might someday become reality. Rather than watch TV, he might grab a piece of paper and lose himself in the music of his mind, translated into...

During the tenure of this blog, a lot of artists have left appreciative comments on the posts. They knew and appreciated that the point of any SHARING here has been to call attention to the artist, not the blogger. The idea wasn't "here's every Dale Watson album" with a brag that "if you leave nice comments about me, I'll give you even more goodies." It was to be humble and respectful of the artist, and instead of swiping an All Music bio and throwing it down along with links, to write, from the heart and mind, something about the artist.

At this point, the word “blogger” has become synonymous with bandit. Thief. User. Egomaniac. Fool. A “blog” is now just free bandwidth for a conspiracy to get product without paying for it.  It’s guilt by association now, so why be part of it? The irony is Dylan sang “to live outside the law you must be honest,” and The Beatles sang “Love, love, LOVE,” and Billy Joel sang “Honesty” and The Rolling Stones declared “You can’t always get what you want…you get what you need.” And no music lovers/SHARERS listen to the lyrics. They just say, “Gimme gimme…in FLAC…I want this…help. Best regards.” Then comes the pious look to the heavens: "God bless us all for SHARING music! AMEN." 

Many artists have ceased to create because it’s not worth it. Others can't live without creating, so they do it and accept that they won’t break even on the cost of even a download album on CD Baby. They're helpless against the new morality which denies damage to the music world, to the climate, to the decreasing number of fish in the ocean, and to the increase in selfishness and fanaticism in people.

As Paul Simon sang it, “it’s all gonna fade.”
     
Really. No blog lasts forever, no person lasts forever, and no planet lasts forever. 

From a gig in Atlantic City, which at one time was a lucrative place for Bobby Cole to perform, here's 

STILL CRAZY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

OBLA-DI OBLA-DA IT GOES BACH, BRA! PETER NERO

Can anything be done to prevent a sane person from turning off “Obla-di Obla-da?” 

Not really, but Peter Nero gave it a try.  For that, and for turning 85 in May, here’s a salute to the maestro. He was one of the most popular pianists in the 60’s (beginning with a “Best New Artist” Grammy in 1961) and recorded over 60 albums. Most were in the easy listening vein that had previously been mined by Roger Williams. If you weren’t quite highbrow enough for Horowitz and Rubinstein, but not low enough for Liberace, you could enjoy Nero’s classy blends of jazz, pop, "Great American Songbook" and movie themes. He went on to create and lead the “Pops” orchestra in Philadelphia (1979-2013) utilizing a style not too dissimilar from the inventor of the genre in Boston, Arthur Fiedler. 

The photo up top? Back in 1957, the Brooklyn born Bernard Nierow put out his first album. He shortened his name to “Bernie Nerow" and added two guys to the act. Four years later, the solo pianist was winning fame as Peter Nero, with people logically figuring him for Italian. 

Perhaps a few out there think “Obla-di Obla-da” is some kind of Italian phrase, like "Que Sera." Actually, it's kinda rasta in origin, but really, getting scholarly about "Obla-di Obla-da" is too ridiculous even for this, the trivia-prone "blog of less renown." 

The only good thing one can say about the “PC” world we live in, is that MAYBE it will eventually ban Sir Paul from EVER singing “blackface,” by putting on an accent on the chorus of this intensely annoying tune. Paulie can take Sting (“Roxanne”) and Peter Gabriel (“Biko”) with him. What’s with white guys putting on ethnic accents used by “people of color” (once known as “colored people”)? Isn't it...offensive? How about some BDS sanctions on skinhead Pete for singing "da mon is ded" in a dialect he does NOT speak in? How about a spank to Sting for intimating that brown-skin women are all whores who "put out de redd lite." Oh, obla-di obla-da. Life goes on, bro. Some time, you hear some ting ya wish ya dint, know wuttum sayin?

Baroque-Bach Classical version of OBLA-DI OBLA-DA (the link takes you to listen or download, not to a porn site or Russian malware site)

HOMER & JETHRO - PUSAN U and GO TO HAL

Yeah, Homer & Jethro's "song butcher" version of "Shifting Whimpering Sands" might make a nice compliment to Ken Nordine's original (below), but...sex sells better, don't it? So in one last salute to this neglected duo (them Bear Family German cowboys have done box sets on just about every over RCA C&W act), here's two rude-y toots.

One reason that you don’t find Homer & Jethro on too many blogs, is that most of them are run by people for whom English is a second language. They know how to mewl in Portuguese about their love for “smooth jazz.” They can post in French or Italian their devotion to Claudine Longet or their need to wax everyone's ears with the easy listening of Melachrino and Mantovani. In broken Swedglish and Dutch Pig Latin, they'll offer a daily flood of guitar hero discographies or sappy sunshine pop. But they won't download PUSAN U or GO TO HAL, and really, the latter is good advice to them. 

"If I'm being honest," as Piers Morgan often says (but rarely means), people in America don’t really get the humor of Homer & Jethro either. The boys admitted, “we’re too corny for sophisticated people, and too sophisticated for corny people.” They didn’t go the “Hee Haw” route and take the stage in bib overalls, or wear straw hats. No outlandish costumes at all for these two. They dressed like proper businessmen. Their business was fracturing popular songs, everything from Broadway (“Hernando’s Hideway”) to The Beatles (“I Want to Hold Your Hand”) to “sacred” songs by such icons as Marty Robbins and Hank Williams. They had enough success to turn up on Jimmy Dean's variety show and some other TV programs. RCA was sufficiently reimbursed to let 'em do 2 or even 3 albums a year (mostly during the days when "Beverly Hillbillies," "Petticoat Junction" and "Green Acres" were popular). Still, the average music fan wasn't likely to have more than a 45 rpm single ("Battle of Kookamonga," a parody of the hit "Battle of New Orleans") in the collection.

During their heyday (1963-1967) when they churned out so many albums for "poor ol' Victor,)  they had to vary their attack to remain interesting. They didn't just sing hee-haw lyrics with goofy imagery ("my poor heart is as heavy as a bucket of liver.")  They sang about The Great Society, income tax, politics, and even were called on for potential TV theme song success (“Second Hundred Years” and “Camp Runamuck,” — two shows that didn’t last more than a season). They parodied The Beatles several times and always balanced the humor with excellent musicianship, from their harmonies to Jethro Burns' tone-deft mandolin playing.

And, yes, once in a while they stooped to being dusty, if not dirty. But not often. Among their widely varied albums (“There’s Nothing Like an Old Hippie,” “Old Crusty Minstrels,” “Barefoot Ballads,” “Wanted for Murder”) is “Nashville Cats,” which atypically contains TWO pretty obvious, kind of strange but hardly offensive double entendre tunes. 

“Go To Hal,” a distant cousin to such novelty inanities as “Go Take a Ship For Yourself” and “She Has Freckles On Her But She is Nice,” is one joke that almost makes it through its 2:30. As Carson used to say, “You buy the premise, you buy the bit.” The set up is that Hal has what you need. So, go to Hal. The other one, "Pusan U," doesn't need to be explained, does it? Just listen, and to borrow a quote from comedian and sometime singer George Gobel, "it just might keep you from gettin’ sullen.” 

These days, when vinyl is almost completely devalued, record sellers can actually turn to Homer and Jethro and smile, because few of their RCA albums have made it to CD. Many of these have "out of print Jack Davis lithograph" covers. So instead of a buck, MAYBE they get a fiver or even a tenner. Especially if the record is also in Living Stereo! Yee ha!

GO TO HAL (no Rapidgator slow download, no heil to Imagenetz, no money to Iron Curtain bastards)

PUSAN U. (listen online or download - no ego Passwords, no dodgy link-hiding)

KEN NORDINE and the SHIFTING WHISPERING SANDS

Ask grandma. She might remember the glowing lights warming up the big radio and the mesmerizing voice of Ken Nordine telling the story of the “Shifting Whispering Sands.” It was back in October of 1955. 

With the pokey arrangement of Billy Vaughn’s orchestra and a creepy middle-aged chorus a contrast to Ken’s lone voice, he spoke of “the days of long ago, when the settlers and the miners fought the crafty Navajo. How the cattle roamed the valley! Happy people worked the land. And now, everything is covered by the shifting, whispering sands.”  (That includes a miner who may have died by his own hand. Or by a tomahawk chop from a crafty Navajo.) But let’s not give the tall tale away, as you might have missed it as shellac turned to vinyl, and vinyl turned to CD plastic, and CD plastic turned to an invisible blip of an mp3 file. Instead, some words on Ken…

Ken Nordine, of Swedish heritage, was born in Cherokee, Iowa but the family moved up to Chicago and that’s where he attended high school. He began working local radio stations, narrating short stories in a compelling baritone voice. Perhaps the very reason “Shifting Whispering Sands” became a crossover hit was because Dot records chose a guy who didn’t drawl the words. Rusty Draper also recorded the song in 1955, and actually half-sang it, but didn’t make it a hit. Jim Reeves, a classy C&W artist who didn’t speak with a twang, also covered it, as did the Jewish Canadian who worked the Ponderosa, Lorne Greene. 

 The song still belonged to Ken Nordine, who to his credit, didn’t choose to stay with country cornball poetry or narration. He left it to others, including Dot’s Wink Martindale who re-issued the old cowboy card trick “Deck of Cards,” and Dot’s Walter Brennan who scored hit singles including “Dutchman’s Gold.” 

City-boy Ken managed to persuade Dot to let him move in a hipper direction. Just two years after his country-tinged cowboy hit, record stores received "Word Jazz," a pioneering effort much in keeping with a cult-trend for "beat poet" narration records, which sometimes included recitations over jazz. Ginsberg, Rexroth, Ferlinghetti and others were playing with words. Kerouac was making albums. Jean Shepherd mixed with Mingus. Dion McGregor recorded his dreams (or, rather, somebody recorded them while he slept) and Mel Henke among others put out stuff that could've been dumped in the spoken word bin or the comedy bin (where swingin' Lord Buckley's stuff was turning up).

More word jazz albums followed, along with thinking man’s vinyl with titles such as “Colors,” “Twink,” “Stare with Your Ears” and "Triple Talk.” He was, along with Herschel Bernardi and Paul Frees, always welcomed by sponsors who needed a compelling voiceover artist to shill their products. That he maintained that second career as a sincere recording artist points to Ken’s restless energy and enthusiasm. A cool legend, he worked with the Grateful Dead (“Devout Catalyst” in 1991) and his "Word Jazz" items were re-issued on CD, mostly because English-as-a-Second-Language bloggers were too busy giving away the Louvin Brothers, Everly Brothers, The Lennon Sisters and Big Brother and the Holding Company and other kin to bother with Ken. 

No word on whether Nordine was cremated and spread over shifting whispering sands. He died a few days ago at the age of 98 (April 13, 1920 – February 16, 2019). Death is something to take seriously. The grim and mystic “Shifting Whispering Sands?” Not so much. 



Ken Nordine at the Sands - no idiotic password, no slow download to force you to buy a premium account, no dodgy server telling you your flash is out of date