Fly on the wall telly is nothing new, but the brilliance of those Beatles documentaries of recent years has had any old half-baked documentarian with an eye on the prize rooting around behind the sofa for forgotten scraps of footage from yesteryear. Currently on the iPlayer is a near four decades-old film of the day Band Aid‘s Feed the World was recorded. Why it’s never been seen in its entirety until now is anyone’s guess, but it’s good that it’s out there. Why? Because forty years later it makes for really great telly.
‘Feed the world, let them know it’s Christmas time.’ These days you can virtue signal the song’s lyric and you’ll not find too many folk in a 70% non-Christian world disagreeing. Bono’s big ‘tonight thank God it’s them instead of you‘ line always sounded wrong, even to my slowly awakening 15 year old ears. The sentiment of the song was honest and well-meant though, even if a quick root around online turns up all manner of suggestion that the majority of the money made from the record and the following summer’s big gig never quite made it to the intended recipients. No one knew that though when Midge ‘n Bob – very much a tag team, even if the legend has marginalised wee Midge whilst elevating Saintly Bob’s role in it all – were sitting in a tiny home studio welding Geldof’s sombre verses to Ure’s hooky chorus.
The documentary begins with the pair of them sketching out the demo, Midge’s guide vocal a necessary placeholder in absence of the stars who’d come to adorn it. They’re not long in turning up. Simon and John from Duran Duran (and their bouffants) bounce out of a surrounded car, each sporting three outrageous haircuts in one, Le Bon’s suit jacket sleeves rolled up to Don Johnson levels of rad, Taylor casually chic in a Duran Duran chunky knit tour sweater. Somewhere in the background are the three other Duranies, but being less good looking or important, they’re shoved straight out of the road of the camera lens, never to reappear until the big group shot at the end.
Tony Hadley arrives, blown in on a waft of silk blouse and pure self belief. There’s a squeal and a scream from the waiting fans – nowadays, social media would see to it that several thousand screamers would turn up and block the street – as Hadley and his pirate-legged leather trousers sprint to the safety of Sarm Studios.
A bored Bananarama spill out of their taxi, a heart-stopping riot of fags and frowns and misshapen, hole-ridden jumpers, straight outta bed (or up off a friend’s couch), the three of them each sporting a different third of John Taylor’s ozone-threatening do. Paul Weller with his slick back Euro mod hair style walks unselfconsciously to the studio. He’s caught on camera, stylishly as ever, in selvedge denim, ankle length Crombie…and a walking cane. They weren’t called (snigger) the Style Council for nuffin’.
Midge and a permanently flat cap-sporting engineer commandeer the desk, Bob chips in with unhelpful suggestions and the whole thing slowly comes to life. Hadley is one of the first up, his nostrils flaring, his eyebrows dipping, his eyes squeezed shut with one hand to the can on his ear to reinforce his emotive and real soul credentials. He cannae sing for toffee. This is both True and Gold, as, naked and on tape, his flaws and flat voice are laid bare for all. ‘Let’s maybe try the chorus now, Tony‘ sighs Midge in exasperation. It’s looking like a long day ahead.
Wee Bono and his hat appear, but not the kidney-infected Edge, and we have our first unlikely quartet gathered around a microphone. The U2 man, seven months shy of total ubiquity, stands aside a proper singer in Paul Young, hapless Hadley the seven foot haddie, and George Michael. Done up in full Lady Di blow dry and silently miffed that he’s recording the song that will deprive Wham their coveted Christmas number one, George is nonetheless just about the humblest in the room. There’s no ego there at all. He runs through the lines a couple of times and listens as Headmaster Geldof offers his advice.
“Make it quite an emotional thing, George. Really emphasise the fact that there’s no snow – NO SNOW! – in Africa. NO SNOW! That’s the most important line, George.” George looks on, emotionless. Midge slides a fader. They go again.
“I’m struggling to sing this part powerfully, Midge,” admits George at one point. “If you wouldn’t mind changing the musical notation slightly, I can start up here (raises flat hand) rather than down here (lowers palm).”
“Sure, go for it, George,” encourages Midge, and both his and Geldof’s eyes light up when, first time, George nails the song’s bridge. “But say a prayer…and pray for the other ones...” It’s instantly recognisable as the take used in the final version, a great moment captured on film as it’s being born.
That other great George, the Boy, turns up fashionably late but put him in front of the microphone and he’s as terrific and dazzling as his self-fashioned make-up. “Just turn it up in the headphones and I’ll sing it,” he demands, exasperated at a faffing Midge at the desk…and turns in an astonishing vocal that’s soulful, gritty and note-perfect. He plucks that famous ‘woah-oh oh!’ ad-lib straight outta the pop star-heavy air and vanishes to hang at the back with Marilyn.
“You’re coming in too early, Tony,” interrupts Midge from the control room, “And you’re marginally late, Sting.” The Police man gives the opinionated Bob a cold, deathly stare as the production team focus their attention on Phil Collins’ drum part. He nails it in one, sweat lashing from under his Fair Isle tank top as his steady, tribal beat rolls on. Sting stares at Geldof, coldly. Calculating.
Hadley? He shuffles uncomfortably in his blouse and leather pantaloons and slopes off to ponder a new career in pirate-themed pantomime.
Elsewhere, Status Quo and their unintentional Spinal Tapisms try and fail to add any vocals of note to the song. Maybe it’s the lack of the Quo boogie in the backing track, maybe it’s because they’re surrounded by the great and the good of the day, maybe it’s simply because they’ve clearly got half the GDP of Columbia stuffed up their beaks, but Rick ‘n Francis are rotten singers.
Listen closely to the record the next time you happen to hear it. Just in the background, around one and a half minutes, there’s a slow and steady leathery crrrrreaaaakkk. It’s underneath one of those clanging chimes of doom lines, not obvious at first, but it’s there. It’s not, would you believe, the Quo duo. It’s Hadley, doubling back on his intended early exit, the leather trousers creaking at the sudden turn of events as Mr Spandau realises he’s no longer the worst thing about the record. Both True, and Gold, as they say.
It’s around this point in the film when you start thinking, ‘where are all the women?‘ Even Glenn Gregory is in on the action, visibly wondering how the fuck it was he got here as he gets down to microphone business alongside Bono, Paul Young and fabulous George Michael.
It’s a men’s club, this Band Aid thing. Male producer, male writers, male movers and shakers, male voice choirs, a bossy and opinionated Trevor Horn. And Tony Hadley. Bananarama haven’t been seen since they arrived, not required apparently, until the grand finale. The ladies are everywhere though. Look beyond the mixing desk. Between the cameras. Behind Geldof’s ego and there they are. Being the ’80s, they’re in the background; Mrs Sting, Paula Yates, Mrs Trevor Horn, holding the babies, running after the children, doing what women did back then. Leave it to the lads, girls, thanks very much.
You should make it your business to watch this documentary as soon as possible. Despite the presence of Sting. And Bono. And Hadley. There’s no need to be afraid. You’ll love it.
Plain Or Pan 