Recently by Matt McKenzie

Matt McKenzie reviews The Specials on the first date of their reunion tour at the Newcastle O2 Academy

TERRY Hall nearly ruined it when he started crowing about Man U being top of the league.

Nearly, although he'd have probably got away with most things given the mass, panting delirium that waited for The Specials before they trotted out to a slow, long blast of Enjoy Yourself.

BEING an Englishman, I try not to clap at gigs.

But the great Baaba Maal made me on Tuesday night, with his polite request for us to "Clap your hands, please" during his infectious "African party".

Not long after seeing Leonard Cohen in London, I heard another beautiful, sacred sound.

This time in Paris.

If I were writing a book, I'd call it 101 Pop Stars To See Before They Die.

That was a joke, how crass of you to think otherwise.

I'll start again: this year has been a good year for ticking off the big hitters before they call it a day.

After a summer finally getting to see Neil Young then Stevie Wonder, this month brought someone somewhat quieter but no less shouted about: Leonard Cohen.

I don't know, you wait ages for one of your heroes to arrive and then three come along at once.

But the remarkable thing about this chance to see Leonard is that he did call it a day 15 years ago.

Very sad news that Miriam Makeba, singer and freedom fighter, has died at the age of 76.

I had the privilege of seeing the woman known as Mama Africa on stage in Gateshead last year in a wonderful concert that formed part of the Sugar and Spice Festival, to commemorate the 200th anniversary of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act.

There is now an added poignancy to that show, marketed as her farewell tour. After a life performing on stage and battling injustice off it, she deserved a long and happy retirement.

The last time I saw Mercury Rev, the singer shambled off stage and came to stand near me in the crowd, as the gig continued seemingly unhindered up front.

I blame Nicky Campbell.

Each morning, by the very act of listening to Radio Five, I am reminded of a formative stage in my music-loving career by listening to the man who amuses me and irritates many over breakfast.

This is the right set up for Mr Frame.

Not just the cosy luxury of The Sage's Hall Two, but the one man with acoustic guitar
set-up that allowed his songs to be showcased in all of their fragile glory.

The Germans have a word for it, a pithy and poetic word for which there's no direct translation.

And it describes a condition from which I've suffered for years.