One of the performers that night, Baba Maal, invited me to play on his album the next day. When he had come in to rehearse, he initially found it hard to lock in with the quite rigid confines of the arrangement. I got to know exactly how he felt when I walked into his studio and found his band in the kitchen playing music that I loved but had no idea how to fit in with. In the end John Leckie the producer was looking for an entirely different flavour for the song, and the evening turned into quite a normal overdub session. I was also briefly in the studio with Ed Harcourt, working on some bonus tracks for his upcoming best–of. The tunes, as ever, were beautiful and we’ve known each other so long the parts were down in no time. A few great Ed moments too – when he walked in he hurriedly unpacked all his latest musical toys, and finished off by triumphantly producing a giant Indian headdress, saying earnestly “I thought we might need it”. He also insisted on speaking to me between takes through a vintage mic and amplifier with reverb, at huge volume, hiding underneath the mixing desk. The fabulous–sounding 60s American amp I brought along electrocuted me, the producer, his assistant and the technician. Lastly on the studio front there were an other few days in Belfast with David Holmes, doing the last few tracks for his long–awaited album. This time I brought Jon Hopkins with me, who brings an elegant magic to everything he touches.

A couple of festivals this month. Firstly the Isle of Wight, where I played alone on a little bandstand. I was glad to be there and had a great time camping, but the gig rather made me want to never do anything like it ever again. Then Glastonbury where I played with Ed and then The Waterboys. I’d never played with The Waterboys live, but Mike Scott invited me to join them for the songs I did on the album and it was really exciting to headline a stage, and come on with no rehearsal (except 10 minutes in a van with Mike). The mud was quite extraordinary, and only bearable when viewed through an alcoholic haze. I was pathetically underprepared too, arriving with binbags tied round my legs. By the time I’d found a place selling wellies I had sacrificed 2 pairs of shoes to the quagmire.

Two days later I found myself in New York taking out my mud–splattered pedals in the David Letterman studio. It was a strange juxtaposition. Letterman keeps his surprisingly small studio extremely cold – so much so that my fingers went numb (good thing I was playing slide). Once again the entire thing felt rather impromptu, being shoved on with minimal rehearsal, and all over in 5 minutes. It was only when I watched it back that it really clicked that I’d been on Letterman. One minute he was rabbiting away, then he said “Bryan Ferry”, and the next thing I saw was me! After that I stayed in New York for a couple of days to make a video for the first single off my next album with Bingo Gazingo. I took him to Central Park and round the East Village and filmed him accosting members of the public with his poetry. For an 82–year–old he has such incredible energy, and it can’t be because of his diet (ice cream and milkshakes, half of which end up down his shirt). One of the many highlights was when he stood in the middle of a playground and bellowed “I wanna put my iTube in your YouTube!” I also interviewed one of the other singers, Phoebe Legere, in her extraordinary apartment full of art, clothes, and fallen masonry. It is the only place I’ve ever been which one could describe as being ’littered with accordions’. She gave me raspberries and told me to sit out on her rusty fire escape (5 floors up) while she did the interview with the cameraman (she didn’t want me to hear).

Finally, yesterday I did the Diana tribute concert with Bryan. Surprisingly little to report, except that mercifully Wembley Stadium doesn’t seem quite as huge when you’re actually onstage. The only thing that threw me off were the troupe of models sachaying right over my pedalboard during the intro, which certainly didn’t happen at the runthrough. It was also eerily quiet onstage, adding to the unreality of it all. I just kept thinking “God knows when I’ll make it back here again, just enjoy it! Enjoy it!” and tried to balance the tragic desire to look vaguely ’stadium–y’ with trying not to play any wrong notes during the solos.

Thanksgiving Day in New York, pissing rain. I’ve spent the morning helping distribute clothes at the Bowery Mission, after my flight home last night got cancelled. I came over to work on a track for my next record with a singer called Phoebe Legere. She had sent me a wonderful demo and we had to try and recreate it in a better studio. This is never an easy task for a singer, especially working on very intimate emotional things with someone you’ve never met before. So I booked a really homely–looking studio and hoped for the best. Phoebe is technically an incredible singer, so the only thing to worry about was recapturing the emotion. At times I felt more like a director than a producer – it was more about acting than anything else – and we both ended up enjoying it. After quite an intense session, when it came time to leave she said goodbye as if she was just popping out to the shops (when in fact we have no plans to meet again), which I thought was rather lovely. Yesterday I met up with the venerably eccentric octogenarian poet Bingo Gazingo and My Robot Friend to discuss Bingo’s album (see previous entries). As we walked down the street he recited poetry at the top of his lungs, frightening passers–by. After a particularly filthy and insane rant about Eminem (“crush my balls against the wall and fuck me like Biggie Smalls”) he turned to me and in a completely matter–of–fact tone and said, “Now you tell me that won’t sell 10 million copies!” Bingo was on better form than when he came to London to record with me (he flooded his hotel room, and the porter who broke the door down found what he thought was a suicide note, which was actually some lyrics from a song called “What a Life, Some Shit”). To see him smiling away listening to his songs on headphones was wonderful, even when he cantankerously pronounced one track “so–so”, and said that another had a verse missing. I’m still trying to improve the mixes; I just bought a new bit of gear and ended up using it way too much, so I’m redoing the whole thing.

I’ve been working a bit with Jarvis Cocker this month, doing a few tv and radio things before a tour next year. It all happened very suddenly with a call to drive up to Sheffield to rehearse, the night before I was due to go to South Africa with Ronan Keating. I walked in to find that I would be replacing Richard Hawley, who is one of my favourite guitarists (and who I’d been on tour with briefly last year). They all grew up together, and I felt very ’London’ somehow, in a bad way. But they were all really nice and I guess I fitted in. Jarvis is such a genuine person, and a delight to be onstage with. For my money he is one of the greatest dancers in rock and roll. He acts out the lyrics so brilliantly, I have to keep myself from grinning all the time. Michael Stipe does a similar thing, though rather more studiously. A few years ago, Ed Harcourt did a US support tour with REM. On the last day, Stipe came up to me and invited me to feel how hot this heat patch he had on his pelvis was. It was indeed extremely hot. He said, “You’re a great guitarist”. I said, “Thanks, you’re a great dancer”. He said “Thanks, I also sing”.

South Africa was interesting. Johannesburg is apparently rather dangerous and our hotel was more of a self–contained gated community. A few of us got a guided tour round Soweto and invited some of the people we met to the show. The show was in aid of people like them, but when they turned up security didn’t want to let them in! Nice. More champagne! They got in eventually. I must say though, Ronan is a very effective front man. There were quite a few acts on the bill and many different types of audiences over the 5 dates, and unlike many of the others he won them over every time. As always, the level of commitment from the front filters down through the whole band.

Before that I went to Kilkenny to write and produce with Iarla O’Lionaird (house pictured above). In spite of his extremely sweet and time–consuming children, and a trespassing cow rampaging round his garden, we got plenty of work done. He usually sings in Gaelic, but wants to start using English more. His words, when translated, are beautiful but seemed at first to suffer from a loss of mystery. I suggested that he sing as if he didn’t understand what he was saying (just as the average listener experiences Gaelic), taking a syllable at a time, and that proved very fruitful. I should also mention that the man possesses a greater number of pump organs than is strictly necessary.

Lastly, apart from a little solo gig which reminded me that I have records of my own that I should be trying to promote, I did another week in the studio with Herbert Gronemeyer. It was a very valuable experience once again, especially because I realised I sometimes assume I’m expected to do more than is really necessary – almost as if not using my laptop and pedals to get all manner of sounds amounts to laziness – when in fact on this occasion they just wanted me to play some rock guitar! Nevertheless they were extremely specific about things lilke phrasing and fingering, which had to be balanced with a certain ’roughness’. The whole band played together and we’d often do over 20 takes. This can be hard – if you’ve played it right already and they’re still trying to get the drums, you’re under pressure to keep getting it right. And if it’s you they’re working on, you can feel a bit guilty making everyone else play it again! But there’s always someone in the control room keeping track of everything, making notes on who played well when (all the takes are kept), so once again I found myself worrying about nothing – probably because, usually, I’m more hands–on in the studio. Most of the time thinking like a producer means you play much better, but sometimes it can catch you out. Like last time, Herbert’s ’guide lyrics’ sung in nonsense English proved disturbingly memorable along with his solid–gold melodies, and this new language is going round and round my brain (“siggaluuv… bevooooryougo!…. ahsaymasayluuur……. siggaluuv… ooooopencoat!…. ahseddamooorow”).