article on 'Box' on IFTN

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http://www.iftn.ie/news/?act1=record&only=1&aid=73&rid=4284004&tpl=archnews&force=1

The African Queen Pt.1

[This blog was reposted on my new website andrewmarklynch.com, check it out for all my latest stories.]

Everyone recognises a smile. All around the world, the one human constant is humour. Through airports, border crossings and police checkpoints from Stansted to Senegal, two prosthetic legs protruding from a dog eared backpack, you can always rely on humour to get you through. The juxtaposition of unshaven sweaty backpackers, charitable medical equipment, and a limited grasp of local languages creates a lot of confusion, fascination and laughter. Are they drug smugglers , or just insane? Few would guess our real motivations, a charity mission blasting across a wild and unforgiving desert, doing something good while having a damn good time doing it.
So, a little about the mission. When a knock on my door carries two prosthetic legs and asks ‘Want to drive these to West Africa?’, my mind races frantically for leg puns. Coming up with none, I agree.

We would bring the legs from the UK, to the charity Legs4Africa, based in Banjul, Gambia. We plotted our route, from Agadir Morrocco to Banjul in Gambia, with just the right mix of organisation and gormless naiveté. We’ll drive some of the world’s least travelled regions like Western Sahara and Mauritania, where the ill founded fears of ebola and terrorism scare off all but the most ardent petrol heads.

Our road experience and mechanical knowledge consists of a year of licensed driving and a copy of Auto Repair for Dummies. We did at least know (the theory of) changing a tyre, but under the bonnet remained a mysterious and exotic landscape.

We set off from Agadir, Morocco on New Years day. Full of fear, excitement, and sugar from the expired snickers and dusty cokes that comprise our daily breakfast.

The first day’s long drive brings us to the southern tip of Morocco, to villages culturally and atmospherically alien to the more touristy north. Our plucky, ageing pickup truck (The African Queen) chugs through the vast empty highways, as we push away thoughts of desert breakdowns. We savour the friendly people, expansive landscape, and faintly post-apocalyptic vibe; stopping occasionally for posed photos with our prosthetic companions.

The only sign we’d crossed into Western Sahara (the disputed zone south of Morocco), was an increase in roadside paperwork and further degradation of road quality. The police stops are frequent but inconsistently thorough. Sometimes they demand our passports and all paperwork, other times just a nod, sometimes a shakedown for a ‘gift’. A friendly offer of a handful of peanuts, results in the officer taking our 1kg bag as ‘un cadeaux’. Another takes our hand sanitizer, after being denied our phones, binoculars, and anything else of value on the dashboard. We hide everything shortly after.

Our truck comes unstuck in Laayoune, Western Sahara’s capital, where we spend five days awaiting a replacement gearbox from Marrakech. The bumpy roads and our ill fitting tyres have scuppered The Queen, so we prop up the only bar in town. Soulless and empty, dry countries nightlife is nothing to write home about. We’re ecstatic when the mechanics deliver us from travel purgatory and we hit the road to The Gambia.

Back on the road, and with time to reclaim, the mood is manically ebullient, flooring it across Western Sahara and into Mauritania. The border crossing is a chaotic swirl of corruption, noise, and haggling. An unescorted drive across mine filled no mans land resembles a remote controlled car navigating someone’s rock garden. The guards at the first checkpoint take their time admitting us, conducting spurious and excessive drug checks with their over eager sniffer dog. They finally admit us to the second tier of checks, a dystopian nightmare of hucksters, ununiformed ‘officials’, and labyrinthine stamping offices. Around this time, we realise we’ve run out of cash, having only enough to pay for a car transit, but not our visas. So our truck can go through, but there will be no one behind the wheel…

Rock N' Roll Dreams

[This blog was reposted on my new website andrewmarklynch.com, check it out for all my latest stories.]

I’m encircled by a crowded, heaving mosh-pit. The girl in front of me swings her sweat-matted dreadlocks into my face, my beer is all over my t-shirt, and the crowd lurches wildly from side to side. I couldn’t be happier.

Few things are more enlivening than a proper rock gig. For most of us in our 30’s, as our musical taste starts to veer towards the gentle, the soulful, and reflective, we rarely get the chance to let our hair down. The last few gigs I’ve been to, while no less involving, were nodding affairs populated by ageing bearded hipsters (myself included).There was no jumping, significantly less shirtless lunatics, and a general air of subdued appreciation. At Thursday night’s Cage The Elephant gig in Kentish Town O2, appreciation is abandon, and subdued is not on the menu.

Admittedly, I’m a fair weather fan by comparison to the rest of the pit. I heard Dan Auerbach was producing, so I gave their latest album ‘Tell Me I’m Pretty’ a listen. The songs are hooky and well-polished, mixing Iggy, Beck, and The Arctic Monkeys to an energetic and occasionally heartfelt result. It may not always be original, but it sure is fun. So tonight, I’m hoping they’ll play ‘the ones I know’, but it ends up not mattering a whole lot. From the very first chord, the room explodes into a pit of dancing, moshing, and big-hearted chaos. The band is tight and muscular, with propulsive drums, strong harmonies, with frontman Matt Schultz’s impressively powerful voice assaulting the back rows. Even for the slower numbers, the crowd goes crazy - steadfastly determined to have a good time. A tall fan nearby nearly gives himself a stroke trying to outdo the amplifier. I do my best to join in, and I’m carried along (sometimes literally) by the crowd’s enthusiasm.

And so the night progresses, the room getting smaller and smaller, the beer drying on my shoulder, I’m wondering why I don’t do this more often. I’ve always loved being up front at a gig, close enough to see Guy Garvey’s beer belly, or Calexico collaborating on a pedal steel solo. It’s a secular version of the best seat in church. You’re silently bonded with the loyal and the reverent, the people who know every word, who’ve been on more tours then some of the roadies. Every now and then, you’ll catch the singer’s eye - and hope you’re singing the right lyrics. It’s a whole different experience to being further back, with the people who just want to check their Facebook, or record the entire gig on shakey iPhones. So up front is where I’m staying. Even if I can’t keep my balance, a clean shirt, or personal space – it’s the best seat in the house.

Channel 4 - As privatisation looms, is our creativity safe?

[This blog was reposted on my new website andrewmarklynch.com, check it out for all my latest stories.]

“A quirkily brave and occasionally brilliant broadcaster will be reduced...to a profit centre”.

Last September, leaked plans outlined the government's hopes of privatising Channel 4 - currently publicly owned but funded by advertising revenue. 

Today, as the battle rages on between both sides of the debate, broadcasters worry about the channel's uncertain future.

Those in favour of privatisation, such as former CEO Michael Grade, extol the benefits of building ‘a media powerhouse’, and freedom from state control meaning greater opportunities. His argument is that resisting privatisation is resisting change, and that doubters ‘[fly] in the face of commercial logic’, by trying to stifle private interest. 

Other commentators like David Elstein cite the potential streamlining and cost efficiencies of a move towards the private arena. Culture Secretary John Whittingdale has pointed to the Ofcom-enformed public service remit as protection to a creative dilution. This remit,in place since 1982, stipulates the channel's commitment to diversity and innovation. 

But is this remit safe when the big bidders come calling?

Privatisation’s detractors would argue no. 

Channel 4's 1982 public service remit

John McVay, chief of PACT, worries about a commercial owner spending less on ‘risky and innovative’ programming. Currently, Channel 4’s hybrid model means that the big commercial US imports and advertising revenue, pays for independent productions, news, 4Talent, and FilmFour. One notable success story was The Inbetweeners, which began on E4, and ultimately spawned two movies that made more than £70m at the UK box office. 

Would this creative ecosystem be endangered by the mooted sale? 

Will shareholders expecting a return will be less concerned with diversity, and more with the bottom line?

Wolf Hall' director Peter Kosminsky points to ITV (floated on the stock market in '91), as a case study. The slow decline in quality of that network sets a worrying precedent, even though similar quality assurances were made at the time.

ITV's Celebrity Love Island - diversity at it's best

So the challenge going forward seems a microcosm of an eternal struggle: art versus commerce. If the company is desperate to keep its stockholders happy and create a yearly profit, does this mean more Big Brother and less Channel 4 News? More Friends re-runs at the expense of independent productions and documentaries?

Channel 4’s looming fate mirrors the position of many creatives all around the UK. From TV to documentaries, film to promotional work, many desperately try to juggle the top-earning projects, while maintaining their creative identity. We will all watch the privatisation debate eagerly, with the hope for artistic diversity to stay alive and well in England.