Rod Clements saw considerable chart success with folk-rockers Lindisfarne, penning their hit Meet Me On The Corner. Now an established solo artist, his new retrospective double-album, Rendezvous Café, has just been released. Rod is proud to have worked with the late, great Bert Jansch, and he continues to collaborate with various other kindred musical spirits including Michael Chapman, Rachel Harrington, and Rab Noakes. We trust you’ll enjoy the latest of Rod’s musings in which you’ll find he’s NICELY OUT OF TUNE My hotel room window overlooks the town’s little cobbled square, and after breakfast on this sunny Sunday morning there is the leisurely bustle of a Farmers’ Market about to start up. I’m in no great hurry to leave, and resolve to go down for a look when I’ve made a bit of progress with the song I’ve been working on. Before long, though, a different music reaches my ears. I go to the window and see a silver band of smartly-uniformed lads and lasses seated in the sunshine and blowing their way through a popular hymn. It’s pleasant enough, and entirely appropriate to the time and place, but with any thoughts of creative work now (literally) out of the window, I decide to catch up on some e-mails. But after a couple more hymns and familiar light classical pieces, the band makes a sudden lurch into different musical territory with the advent of a drummer. I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this, and my suspicions are confirmed when a familiar tune drifts up. Surely it can’t be From Me To You? But it is, and the dread prospect of a Beatles medley becomes an uncomfortable reality. The band ploughs on through the Lennon and McCartney songbook. No syncopated beat is left unsquared, no blue note unflattened, no rhythm left unswung as one of the most inspired repertoires in musical history is bludgeoned into the rigid confines of their musical straitjacket. I don’t blame the kids in the band, who are only doing what they’re told. I blame whoever thought it was a good idea to ‘jazz up’ a well-established musical tradition by patronisingly introducing pop hits into the repertoire and forcing them to be played with totally inappropriate instrumentation. I don’t suppose anybody’s ever tried to play Chopin on the banjo, or if they have, they must have immediately realised it was a bad idea, which is why you don’t hear it. So why on earth… Oh no, they’ve arrived at Hey Jude. Some demented soul obviously thought it would be a great idea to transcribe every one of Paul McCartney’s improvised scattings over the outro, erasing every shred of inspiration and emotion in the process, and cruelly condemn some poor young trumpet player to master the now meaningless travesty of a musical score. How long will this go on for? On and on, it seems. I decide to pack my bags and make a move. By the time I leave the hotel, the band has moved forward a few years and started murdering Abba’s greatest hits with the same malevolent intensity. Thank You For The Music has never sounded less grateful, but at least it brings the set to a merciful conclusion and the band breaks for weak tea served in paper cups. I take advantage of the respite and venture out for a look around the Farmers’ Market. It seems that the agricultural economy of the region is based on the production of printed tea-towels, dried flower arrangements and little bags of fudge wrapped in cellophane. It’s funny how quickly you can arrive at the conclusion that you’ve stayed somewhere just that little bit too long. A couple of hours later I pull into a motorway service area where, on entering the building, my ears are immediately assaulted by the sound – far too loud – of some boy band or other being blasted through the sound system, all autotuned vocals and clichéd synthesiser riffs, and suddenly the memory of a silver band of kids churning out pop hits in a sunny market place doesn’t seem so bad after all.