When Paul Weller named The Jam's ferocious debut single In The City, little did he know that he woul (From Warrington Guardian)

When Paul Weller named The Jam's ferocious debut single In The City, little did he know that he woul

Initially the brainchild of Tony Wilson's partner Yvette Livesey - though the format was swiped from the identical New Music Seminar in New York, which always enjoyed the oft-inebriated patronage of various people from the loose collective of Factory Records - In The City is either an essential grounding point for the British music industry or four days of shameless junketing; a vital first rung for dozens of hopeful bands or an unholy maelstrom where ageing bigwigs dressed like 15-year-olds bang on and on about that publishing deal they secured for Peter Frampton's Camel in 1973 while peppering their talk with 'street-speak' they have picked up from listening to the new Dizzee Rascal album.

It's all a bit confusing, frankly ... but none the worst for that. Of course, there are all manner of gigs throughout the duration of the event but, should you be a bunch of sprightly young hopefuls tuning up for a support spot at The Roadhouse, don't expect EMI's Head of A & R to wander in with an offer of a six album deal.

Registration for In the City, you might like to know, costs £581.63 for a Delegate Pass which will take you into any of the seminars which, this year, take place within the Radisson Edwardian Hotel on Peter Street. However, if you are not 'Head of Marketing' at London Records and, therefore able to charge it directly to expenses, then you will need to cough up what is, frankly, a total and utter waste of money. Having attended seven or eight 'In the Cities' and, much as I admire Mr Wilson, I have to state that the seminars are always dreary affairs and, inevitably, after half an hour, one feels compelled to slowly exit the room and head back to the hotel bars, where the genuine action takes place. The bars, of course, are free. Go there. People are happier in bars.

The Radisson Edwardian is, after all, built on the site of the Free Trade Hall, coincidentally the venue which housed the first concert attended by Tony Wilson, in 1962. Unfortunately, as this happened to be Peter Paul and Mary, it may be better to focus on Bob Dylan's 1966 appearance at the same venue which became the single hinge point in the history of popular music. When Dylan switched from acoustic to electric, and the band readied themselves to hurtle into Like a Rolling Stone, some po-faced saddo famously yelled "Judas!"

The full tale of this infamous incident is to be found within the covers of CP Lee's brilliant Like the Night book, about to be published in revised format by Helter Skelter. (Coincidentally, Mr Lee himself once headlined the same venue, as the lead singer of the Alberto Y Los Trios Paranoias who topped a bill featuring Devo.(I have completely lost you, haven't I? Don't worry about it. Unless you are old and slightly off-kilter in the brain department, it shouldn't mean much to you). More tediously, it was also the site of those two over-blown Sex Pistols appearances at the Lesser Free Trade Hall which, frankly, were dreadful affairs that should have been cast to the dustbin of rock gig history. (The film 24 Hour Party People innacurately shows Tony Wilson and his wife Lyndsay Reade at one of the gigs. Lindsay certainly never attended and there is some doubt about Tony too ... ) Whatever your taste in music, from metal to classical, if you have spent time in Manchester them you will probably have the ghost of a musical memory embedded in that particular building. I know I have. (Dr Feelgood, Lou Reed, Emerson Lake and Palmer and Black Sabbath among them).

I mentioned, back there, that the template for In the City was provided by the New Music Seminar, often held in the New York Hilton. This is identical to the Manchester bash with one noticeable difference. While the English are coy about accepting freebies and, until the third marguerita kicks in, tend to retain a degree of calm ... the Americans grasp the concept head on. Hence, the New York Hilton becomes a veritable orgy of scorching sycophancy with record company executives happy to wear silk bomber jackets and push CD's of their dreadful rap acts on anyone or anything that hovers vaguely within the area of the hotel. (Here comes this week's shameless namedrop). My personal experience of this hangs, alas, on just one year ... and that was back in 1983 when I spent time hanging around in the company of an ebullient New Order. The problem was that, apparently, I had a doppleganger ... an absolute double. As soon as I wandered unwittingly into the hotel, people started to slap me on my back, thank me profusely and buy me drinks and attempt to push all manner of dubious powders in my direction. For a while I thought this was merely an extreme example of that famous American hospitality and I duly accepted everything with glee. It soon dawned on me, however, that something was amiss. The problem occurred whenever I opened my mouth to speak. As soon as my American chums heard my gruff Stockport vowels, they attained a look of horror and tried to prize the freebies back from by greedy clutches. While this might seem like an extreme reaction to a northern English accent, I soon realised that they were confusing me for a New York R'n'B musician called Marshall Crenshaw. This was fantastic news, for I had attained celebrity by proxy. Members of New Order various of Factory hangers-on decided to use this to their full advantage. Instructing me to never open my mouth, they took me from hotel room to hotel room, proud to be in the company of "..our mate Marshall..." and duly grasped every available freebie, from alcohol to, I seem to recall, chocolate nipples.

(In The City. September 17 - 21. For information contact 0161 839 3930...and don't mention me).