Interval Feature # 1

Not for the first time over the past five years do I find myself asking the question “Why is the Eurovision so terribly important to me?” It’s a question I unexpectedly found myself asking a week before the 2002 Eurovision in Tallinn, Estonia. It was a moment which left an indelible mark.

I remember exactly where I was sitting and what I was doing at that moment. Sat at my grey desk, overlooking a typically messy IT support department somewhere in the City of London, I poured over the emails in my inbox.

Email after email listed IT problems demanding immediate attention. Bold red messages rung out with tired inevitability as I scrolled down the screen. I remember looking down at my keyboard and then at my hand clamped to the mouse and then letting out a sigh. I can always be relied on for a spot of self-induced melodrama.

Predictably, I ended up getting distracted by the contents of my own personal email account. I checked it. Then I checked it again. Then I checked it a third time. Surely something would arrive which would allow me to coast through the remainder of the day before my journey home.

A few months before I’d been working on writing some articles for a website I had built. The website was nothing particularly exciting – just a place where members of a social group could post their adverts and find out where and when their next get together was – but for some reason I reckoned what the website needed was a series of articles. I got friends to write some pieces and, inevitably, I threw one into the mix about the Eurovision.

That very process prompted me to review that year’s songs. Pictures I’d grabbed from the internet accompanied what I thought were fairly dull assessments of each act’s presentation. “It will do,” I thought, “I like the layout and I like the fact I’ve made it look like a BBC webpage. It will do.” Up it went on my website for all to see.

What I hadn’t anticipated was an email from someone managing a Eurovision fan website based in the Netherlands. I can’t remember his name nor the website address but it seemed from even a cursory glance over his work that his efforts had been considerable, mine somewhat paltry in comparison. Despite that, his email was charming, flattering even, complimenting me on what I’d written and promising to include a link on his website to that very page.

We conversed via email over a couple of days about this and that until the point he announced that he and his partner were going to be off email for the next few days as “We’re leaving for Tallinn this afternoon! So very excited.”

“He’s going to Tallinn?” I thought, “Why on earth would anybody be going to Estonia to see the Eurovision when you can watch it on TV? What’s the point in going to the Eurovision a full week before the actual show?

It’s true. Back then I had absolutely no idea. It seemed utterly bizarre to me. And yet, at almost the same time, the strangest feeling came over me. Without any warning and certainly no immediately explicable reason, I suddenly began to feel incredibly jealous, incredibly lonely and incredibly left-out. Everyone else was going to Tallinn to see the Eurovision. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. How could I feel I was missing out when I didn’t know what I was missing out on?

I still can’t come up with a reason, even after five years. It’s one of many aspects of this bizarre event which leaves me wondering one fundamental question. How on earth a television programme can provoke such strong emotions in a 30 year old man? If you think you could hazard a guess, please let me know.

# 16 No estas solo

Roll up, roll up for my most favouritist song in the Eurovision Song Contest ever.

No estas solo, sung by Patricia Kraus', represented Spain in 1987 at a contest which oozed visual style both in it's presenter Viktor Laslo and the set. It makes me tingle watching it. And yes, I do watch it in its entirety from time to time even now.

Kraus' performance is powerful, even if her make-up is a little alarming close up, and this is no way understated by her choice of body morphing outfit which grips her waist like a vice.

I remember pouring over the video back in 1987 and somehow marvellous at the way she strode on to the stage with a green chiffon scarf across her shoulders. "She's not going to be able to sing with that on her," I remember thinking when I watched the contest and, sure enough, off she tosses it almost as soon as she's perched on her stool.

There was one other reason this particular act caught my eye and it's still the case now. I seem to recall thinking the miming guitarists were quite cute at the time. It's one of the few Eurovision opinions I had then I still have now.

But if there's one thing about this particular song which drives me wild every time I hear its that falling chord in the chorus before Kraus sings "radio" and does the twirly-mad action with her finger. That one chord turns me to jelly every single time.

Kraus came a miserable 19th place with a miserable 10 points in 1987. Frankly, I don't care about the score or the placing. Not really, anyway.

# 14 Poupee de cire, poupee de son

If ever there was a song which defies the Eurovision stereotype most people thrust upon the television show. You might listen to this for the first time and think "What the bloody hell is this nonsense?"

This "nonsense" was the song which won for Luxembourg in 1965, sung by a 17 year-old understated glamour-puss France Gall and written by none other than Mr Serge Gainsbourg himself.

I always forget that all important fact - the composer's name. So whenever I'm reminded I nearly always end up thinking it's hardly surprising the song sounds as unusual musically as it does.

The racing rhythm section is daring for a pop song, so too the relatively short verse. Look at the entire song and you'll see it only last two minutes eighteen seconds (a full forty seconds short of the three minute limit imposed on all composers for their songs in the Contest) - if you're looking to make an impression on judges you'd think everyone would want to maximise all of the time available to them.

The sound is evocative, the lyrics ironic. But perhaps the most striking thing to me looking at it now is the way that Gall doesn't have to leap around the stage in order to make a distinct impression. This is intense musical writing delivered by a girl with a sparkle in her eyes. Like Dansevise, Poupee de cire poupee de son gave Eurovision an unexpected musical integrity even if it wasn't immediately obvious then or still perceptable now.

# 13 Dansevise

In Eurovision circles there's a massive question mark over the 1963 Eurovision Song Contest, which this song from Denmark sung by Grethe Ingman won.

John Kennedy O'Connor's Eurovision book raises the thorny issue again about whether the songs were pre-recorded by the BBC in the event they hosted from the then newly built Television Centre in West London.

Look closely and you'll not see any microphones in shot. Look even closer and you may, like me, wonder whether the singers are singing at all seeing as the breaths they take don't seem hearty enough. We don't see the usual shots of the orchestra. There's not shot of the audience during the songs. Historians love this kind of thing.

Is that paranoia? Is this Eurovision fandom looking for conspiracy and intrigue when it's not there?

Well, possibly. Today is the first time I've actually heard Dansevise. I haven't stopped playing it all day. It has an unusual style to it with an ingratiating lilt sung by a woman with a sparkle in her eyes, an enticing smile and momentary pout. It's a song with a melody so strong and catchy that I was able to whistle the tune as soon as I'd heard it. In that respect, this song transcends the Eurovision style as it was in those early years (very "middle of the road" in terms of pop and certainly not reflective of the Beatle's then success) and certainly transcends Eurovision now.

Musically, it's quite unusual too. Here's a jazz-based song with an unusual yet organic melody accompanied by a dizzying array of chords. The unusual orchestration is more reminiscent of the year it was performed in (unusual in Eurovision terms) and, because of its relative complexity stands up well to repeat listens. Who knew Eurovision songs could be so robust?

If there's a huge question over whether the BBC filmed the event then in 1963, listening to the song now makes that question of little import to me even though I'm the first to admit I'm a pendant when it comes to protecting the Eurovision traditions even if they're outmoded.

Quite apart from Denmark's strongest song in the entire history and a shameless love of nostalgia on my part, there is another reason I find this act and the 1963 contest as a whole one of the most appealing events in the Contest's history.

I walk through Television Centre nearly every day on my way to meetings. Sometimes I meet friends for a drink in the bar or take my lunch in the canteen a short walk away from the tower I have my desk in. These places and the studios I walk past are where Eurovision history in 1963 was secured and where I find myself indulging my shameless love of nostalgia. To most people the studios are vast ugly spaces situated in a relatively inaccessible part of London where few people want to visit. To me, they're places with a palpable sense of history, a sometimes overwhelming feeling.

I've deliberately included the reprise of the song at the end of the contest below. Before I'd seen the video of the contest I'd spent a week pouring over the files at the BBC's Written Archive Centre in Caversham reading what was discussed, what was planned, who was frustrated with whom, who wasn't delivering on their word and what plans the commissionaires had to follow to make sure the artists didn't get lost in Television Centre.

The names which croppped up in the letters and the memos and the minutes of meetings with frightening regularity were the names of the production staff in the credits at the end of show.

Those names almost certainly won't mean anything to anyone now. Despite that, I'm struck by one key thing which struck me back at the Written Archives Centre. In 1963 the Eurovision Song Contest was directed by a woman, Yvonne Littlewood. That was very, very unusual.

I could wax lyrical about 1963 but there's no space to here. Still, at least there are fifteen other things from that year...

# 12 Give a little love back to the world

No offence to the composer (who was also the lyricist) Paul Curtis who wrote the UK's effort for the 1990 Eurovision Song Contest, but this song does meet the "dross criteria" spectacularly well.

It did do well and it struck a chord with many at the time. It hooked in to the concern being focussed on environmental issues - some things haven't changed really. It ended up coming sixth. And whilst there are some moments in this song which do rather make me tingle (like the soaring descant the lady on the left in blue is responsible for in the second and third choruses), the song as a whole makes me wriggle with embarrassment.

I can't quite work out whether it's the cheesy presentation on stage (the lead singer is dressed to make her look a lot older than she really is), the saccharin message of the song or indeed the crude attempt to reflect the message amongst the line-up of singers. Whatever it is, this particular doesn't stand the test of time.

# 11 Musik klingt in die Welt hinaus

Keen to meet the demands of the handful of people who read and comment on this Thoroughly Good Eurovision blog, I hereby offer up what I consider to be a terribly fine example of a Eurovision effort. And of course, by effort I really do mean "effort". I might even go as far as to say that this presentation from Switzerland at the 1990 Eurovision truly is utter dross.

I don't even know or care where they came in the ranking. I'd rather listen to the music bed Terry Wogan chunters over as he introduces the song.

Don't even get me started on that suit Egon's wearing.

# 10 No dream impossible

Lindsay Dracass sang for the UK in 2001. I remember watching it on the night and thinking it was OK. It struck a chord even though I didn't realise it. Her live performance was pretty good given the demands of the song and her relatively young age. She carried off the performance well. She did us proud. The crowd went wild at the end when she hit the top note. Just take a look at the video embedded at the bottom of this post.

But it's not the Eurovision performance which hits me like a freight train. It is in fact the video release available on the CD single. That's the embedded video at the top of the post. It's for a ridiculously personal reason I love it.

Five years ago (very nearly to the day) I went to the BBC's Written Archive Centre in Caversham. Back then I was working in an IT department depressed as hell about the work I was doing, yearning to do something challenging and something creative. It all seemed too impossible for me to imagine.

Then I hit upon the idea of researching the Eurovision. I was going to write a book. I'd need to find out about it. I had to go to the Written Archive Centre in Caversham and have a look around, see what I could find.

That was just the beginning. At every stage in the research process I was amazed about the chance things which happened. What started off seeming like the most ridiculous idea quickly gathered pace. Maybe this wasn't such an impossible dream after all.

Every time I hear Lindsay's song I do remember the moment I was on the train, the day I went to the Written Archive Centre the first time. Every line seemed to mean something.

Now, minutes before I go to a meeting about the Eurovision again, amazed that I find myself there, I listen to this song and feel the same way I did back then. Totally excited and utterly humbled by the experience.