Me, Brendan Canning, Nigel Godrich, Kevin Drew.

Hello there, I wanted to rescue some of my old MySpace blogs and archive them here on my own site. Over the next few weeks I will retroactively chronicle a particularly colourful period exactly two years ago. This was originally posted on December 1st, 2007.

So I hit the road first thing and began to motor west, getting my kicks, Route 66 etc.

You get the idea.

Powered again by espresso and tunes, it was great to be driving down America’s great original highway once again. I’d done a stretch of it around Arizona about 9 years ago, but this was a much longer drive West into the California sunshine. (There would be an ironic pay off to this.)

For those who don’t know Route 66 runs mostly parallel to the I-40, sometimes veering off to many towns that have dwindled since the building of the interstate. There’s still a roaring trade in nostalgia, but it’s ironic when you travel down the the W-I-40-Business loop, it’s past endless derelict motels and cafes.

I headed out of Oklahoma into Yukon, birthplace of Garth Brooks himself. He has a boulevard named after him. I combated the omnipitence of Mister Brooks by blasting out Yo La Tengo.

Then I was moving, moving, moving on to El Reno where I made a brief stop at Sid’s Diner for another coffee. I have to say most of the coffee served on the trip at such stops wouldn’t be in my top 100 of caffeine experiences, but you got to support these non-chain places, especially if you essentially are only using their restroom.

El Reno is famous these days as being a main location for Rain Man. I resisted the temptation to spill toothpicks all over the floor and count them.

Between El Reno and Hinton was an awesome stretch of the original historic Route 66, and this bridge on the South Canadian river made me feeling like Kowalski for the first time. I wasn’t speeding. For the record, not speeding. Ahem.

I took a brief toodle around Red Rock Canyon State Park and then swung by one of the touristy Route 66 Museums in Clinton.

Then it was on to another amazing strip of country of my way out of Oklahoma.

Apologies for the glut of freeway line photos, but here’s another awesome one.

Then just before hitting the Texas border, I hit the ghost town of Texola. This was pretty haunting. There were geniune tumbleweeds.

I don’t want to sound like a big puss, but I damn near ran back to my car after taking these rather bleak pictures.

Spooky.

Then I was over the border on the South Service Road and into Shamrock Texas.

I stopped at the Pioneer West Museum, tipped the nice lady in the empty museum and took these pictures, whilst faintly creepy Christmas music played.

I was in the building for all of 7 minutes. But it was an intense hit of Americana.

Then it was off again, barrelling down Route 66 to McClean and this extraordinary collection…

That’s right. Man, I didn’t even know ‘The Devil’s Rope’ was a euphemism for barbed wire. But here, in McClean, Texas, was the barbed wire Graceland.

The commitment to the chronicling of the Devil’s Rope was quite staggering. I donated a good ten bucks and thought a lot about Satan’s String as I hit Amarillo.

The sun was a going down when I got into town, but I wanted to make one stop at magic hour.

The justly famous Cadillac Ranch, just west of Amarillo.

So yeah. Right in the middle of a field at the side of the highway was this amazing sight. Stanley Marsh III planted 10 Cadillacs, ranging from 1948 to 1963 models in the earth.

Ain’t that something? (American twang intentional)

And suddenly it was night and Amarillo revealed itself to be a long strip of hotel signs. When the billboards announce that the town has 4000 hotel rooms, they’re not wrong.

The E-40 and W-40 is an enormous endless strip of motels for weary travellers. There was some big cattle conference going on, so I was stuck out on E-40 in a pretty reasonable place inbetween a Cracker Barrell and a strip club called Playgirls.

I didn’t get up to much and frankly again felt like I hadn’t really given Amarillo my full attention. I was pretty beat

I skipped the Big Texan (two steak dinners in a row, bad idea and headed for some Mexican at Tacos Garcia.

After an aborted drink at the Golden Light Cafe, (the barlady was beyond perplexed by my UK drivers licence and refused to serve me) I was ready for the sack.

So the next day beckon more hammer down antics in New Mexico.

Okay, Amarillo in the PM on a windy Tuesday night wasn’t really a jumping joint, but having been to Dallas, Houston and Austin a whole bunch of times, I know that this following is not correct.

Tunes for this portion…

Little Eyes – Yo La Tengo
Walking Spanish – Tom Waits
Drive Back – Neil Young
45:33 – LCD Soundsystem
Animal Waves – CAN
New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down – LCD Soundsystem
I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe) – Genesis
Positively 4th Street Bob Dylan
Good Ol’ Boys (Theme from “The Dukes of Hazzard”) - Waylon Jennings
Untrue – Burial

P.S. Please note that you cannot give me sightseeing suggestions for a past road trip. Unless you happen to work for Skynet.

Hello there, I wanted to rescue some of my old MySpace blogs and archive them here on my own site. Over the next few weeks I will retroactively chronicle a particularly colourful period exactly two years ago. This was originally posted on November 30th, 2007.

Phew. I just got back to L.A.

More of that later, but here’s something I blogged earlier….

It’s Monday morning and I’m passing by signs saying “Miller Lite Welcomes Hunters”, bars called the Wooden Nickel and spots like Blowout Mountain.

Oh, yes. The drive from Hot Springs to Oklahoma was a long and lonely one.

Maybe I was tired or maybe I picked the wrong stretch to ‘get into’ country, but I had 327 miles of roadbound introspection. And a lot of Neil Young, Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, Flying Burrito Brothers and also Cat Powers’ phenomally sad Nashville album, The Greatest.

As I travelled northwest on the 270 past Lake Ouachita and over Mount Ida , I listened to two whole Gram Parsons albums back to back. That’s a lot of heartache in one sitting.

One song in particular, ‘She’, damn near set me off. Sigh.

Little did I know that when I stopped at a convenience store in Pencil Bluff, I was about to experience a very real sense of loss.

Call me a little paranoid, but as a foppish tourist, I like to stow my gadgets away in the little central compartment of the car.

But whilst stuffing in my iPhone, iPod, digital camera and dictaphone (yes, I could combine them into one), I heard an almighty crack.

I broke the front of my iPhone. oFuck.

Worse still I got two splinters of perspex stuck in my hand. One is still in my thumb and will have to be tweezered out. iPain!

With parts of my poncy Apple gadget sticking into my flesh, I felt a Max Renn moment coming on. Maybe I would be able to pull texts out of my stomach in future.

Either way my phone was phucked. It was very, very blue for a long time.

Yes, okay. It’s a very shallow sense of loss, but man was I heartbroken.

It was then I truly “got” country.

Sad tunes for this portion included…

She - Gram Parsons
There’s A World – Neil Young
The Greatest – Cat Power (so sad!)
Hot Burrito No.1 – The Flying Burrito Brothers

But also…

25 Minutes To Go – Johnny Cash
Fist City – Loretta Lynn
Louisiana Man - Bobbie Gentry
Convoy – CW McCall

I got to Oklahoma under cover of darkness and paid a visit to the Oklahoma City National Memorial, the tribute to the victims of the Federal Building bombing.

It must be humbling at any time of the day, but a night it was very emotional. The Field Of Empty Chairs was quite, quite haunting.

I checked into my hotel, and went for a bite to eat down in Stockyard City at the Cattlemen’s Steakhouse.

Again I stood out as a English wine drinking fop among the Stetsons of the red meat eaters. But, it was some damn good steak as to be expected.

Sad to say, not much was doing again on a freezing Monday night in November. I had a quick scoot around Bricktown, but decided to hit the hay.

Not literally. My hotel was actually really nice. It had wireless and shit.
As far as fancy lodgings go, OK was a-okay by me.

Although the needlessy ornate coffee maker was called a Java Pod and the coffee sachets were called Coffee pods. That’s a step too far, even for a media whoopsie like me.

So then it was an early 7 A.M. start, a double espresso at the great coffeeshop The Red Cup and it was off on the second half of my adventure.

Oklahoma, much like the musical I feel I hardly know thee, but it was westward ho again. My mighty Route 66 adventure begins!

More soon.

I am going to collapse.

E

P.S. Please note that you cannot give me sightseeing suggestions for a past road trip. Unless you happen to know how to hypnotize yourself back in time with only an antique pocket watch and the memory of a young Jane Seymour to help.

Hello there, I wanted to rescue some of my old MySpace blogs and archive them here on my own site. Over the next few weeks I will retroactively chronicle a particularly colourful period exactly two years ago. This was originally posted on November 30th, 2007.

Okay, so I got behind on my blogging. Am sitting in Flagstaff preparing to drive back to L.A. tomorrow.

But that exciting final part is for later, here’s some adventures I had earlier.

….flashback to Saturday morning…

After having stayed up very late developing a man crush on Robbie Robertson at the Belcourt, I got precious little sleep before my drive to Memphis.

But, needs must and I hit the road, stopping to try the biscuits at the Loveless Cafe. Biscuits. Good. Again.

Then it was long ass drive through wind and rain through deepest Tenessee, powered along by espresso, Doubleshots and lots of tunes.

Such as…

Old Salty Dog Blues – Flatt & Scruggs
I’m a Man – Bo Diddley
Hurricane – Bob Dylan
Maybelline – Chuck Berry
Back Door Man – Howlin’ Wolf
Man of Constant Sorrow – Stanley Brothers
Ode To Billie Joe – Bobbie Gentry
She’s Not There – The Zombies
Dark Lady – DJ Food
Alabama Song – The Doors
Know How – Young MC

When I got to the posh Madison in Memphis, I was royally fucked on only three hours sleep and promptly collapsed in a heap.

In a struggle to get out before sundown, I hotfooted it over to Beale Street to have a nose around.

The heartland (tourist trap) of Memphis was a little too Disneyland for me. The proximity of Hooters and Coyote Ugly didn’t really make it any better.

So instead I headed over to Sun Studios to check out the Heart Of Rock And Roll (Huey Lewis reference unintended).

This tour was short and very, very sweet; pretty thrilling to be in the very spot where arguably the very first rock and roll record was cut. (“Rocket 88″ by Ike Turner, fact fans.)

And forget Elvis, I have to say I got a shiver when the very nice guide told me that Jerry Lee Lewis’ “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On’” had been recorded in the very room. In one take. That’s pretty incredible.

The tour itself was conducted by David Brookings, a budding singer songwriter himself and the spit of Jack White.

Apparently you can still rent out the studio for 85 dollars an hour. Some people just hire it to sit around with some beers and listen to Johnny Cash.

Then it was on to some Memphis hotspots. First up the ribs at Rendevous came highly recommended by my travel advisor John Landis and Peggster-in-chief Harmony.

I’m no ribs afficionado, nor do I have a doctorat in B-B-Q, but good they were.

Being a bit shattered and acutely aware that nothing was going to top Gypsy Pompe’s bluegrass Spiderman, I didn’t go crazy in Memphis.

I stuck my head in at Otherlands coffee, Neeleys and some coffee shop with a lady doing flamenco, but that was about it.

I must say that I was liking the fact that live music was playing in pretty much every venue in town – and with appreciative audiences. It’s quite something.

My actual exciting highpoint of the night was the discovery that someone had smashed my tail-light and it was busted.

So then I made a 10pm trip to Hertz to swap my rental car over. This low speed cruise to Memphis airport whilst trying to evade the Smokies, was like a very unexciting game of Grand Theft Auto.

Man, how many cops are there in Memphis? Every corner was lurking with the Tenessee Fuzz, lurking like sharks with their headlights off.

Anyway, I made it to Hertz and switched my wheels (cough – a red Ford Escape) for another set of a wheels (cough – a blue Ford Escape).

Yeah, anyway, up yours pigs.

I digress.

Next morning, I got up and out like a proper tourist and had breakfast at the rather amazing looking Arcade Restaurant.

And then it was on to my double whammy, Graceland followed by Stax.

I wouldn’t say I was a big Elvis nut, but I couldn’t pass up on the 2nd most visited home in the U.S. (1st is the White House).

And it didn’t disappoint. Aside from it being as sacred as the Vatican for Elvis fans, it was an amazing snapshot of a house whose furnishings had been lost to the mists of 1977.

Pretty much the house inside was one third Southern mansion…

One third Trader Vics decor…(the Jungle Room no less!)

And one amazing third…2001 Space Odyssey. Check out the amazing TV room where the Pelvis would watch all three networks at once.

Thank god he wasn’t around to today. The room could barely hold all the main networks let alone Cinemax, TBS Superstation and E!

Not even Mike Teevee could cope.

The rest of the tour of office bulidings, squash courts and trophy halls was filled with memorabila and personal items.

As a result, I must admit I find myself a little unmoved at the final stop of the tour, Elvis’ grave, buried next to his parents and with a marker for his infant twin brother.

I don’t know why, but as much as I’m sure that’s the main attraction, it still felt odd being part of a line to see someone’s grave. Maybe they should have let the ‘tranquilty garden’ remained exactly that and let the Graceland tour be more about white fur beds with in built radios.

I did a quick skip around Elvis’ automobile museum and also an exhibit called Elvis: After Dark.

Ostensibly this was supposed to be about the night time antics at Graceland. But rather than tales of Cybil Shepherd, white panties, milk and cookies, it was just a tame series of anecdotes about the King’s insomnia.

There was a TV with a genuine bullet hole in it. Which was pretty cool. How do you like them apples Travis Bickle.

Post Graceland, I zipped right over to the corner of McLemore and College, once home of Stax Studios and Stax Records.

Man, what a great tour this was and simply staggering to think how many classic tracks had been recorded there. Green Onions, Walking The Dog, Soul Man, Knock On Wood, Soul Finger, (Sittin’ On) The Dock Of The Bay, Theme From Shaft and so many more.

It made me wonder why a similar thing hasn’t been done in London. So much rock history has been lost to redevelopment.

I used to always be amazed that there’s no recognition of where Trident Studios used to be in St Annes Court, Soho. Bowie recorded Ziggy Stardust there for godsakes. Queen too with…Queen and uh… Queen too.

So with that I left under an almighty thunderstorm and dark clouds above. Fuelling me on my long drive to Hot Springs was a bunch of Stax recordings that I stocked up on…

Pretty much all the tunes mentioned above were blasting out as I made the trip in deepest Arkansas.

I also picked up Isaac Haye’s Hot Buttered Soul (Best Album Cover ever) and zoned out listening to the epic intro to Walk On By and his even more extended By The Time I Get To Phoenix.

Sorry to say, but not much was a-hopping in Hot Springs on a wet Sunday November night.

I felt like I could have been in a Deep South version of I AM LEGEND, there were so few people about.

I was the sole diner in a steakhouse on Central Avenue, but the bartender filled me in on its origins as the Native American’s “Peace Valley”, a concept that was later taken up by warring Mafia clans who would holiday here.

But what was once Switzerland for the Cosa Nostra was now a quaint little tourist spot.

I stayed at the Arlington Hotel which along with the Majestic had once hosted one Al Capone. There are supposedly many tunnels under the hotels so the mobsters could escape the cops.

Not that the hotel has any gangster chic anymore. It has a Starbucks.

In the morning I went for a (!) hike, had a proper old fashioned spa session in the Arlington’s 1920′s era baths and then went to the Pancake House, where I saw a family say grace before tucking into an obscene stack of syrupy badness.

It was time to leave Arkansas.

Tunes for this part of the trip.
Walking The Dog – Rufus Thomas
Respect – Otis Redding
Hold On I’m Comin’ – Sam & Dave
B-A-B-Y – Carla Thomas
Tramp – Otis Redding & Carla Thomas
Soul Finger – The Bar-Kays
Soul Limbo – Booker T. & The MG’s
Respect Yourself – The Staples Singers
Never Can Say Goodbye – Isaac Hayes
An Unknown Quantity – Bill Ramsey & The Jay Five
Bad Kids – The Black Lips
Mother Sky – CAN
Slow Cookin’ – Bobbie Gentry
Six Days On The Road – The Flying Burrito Brothers
Molotow Cocktail Party – Vivi Bach & Dietmar Schönherr

More later…

P.S. Please note that you cannot give me sightseeing suggestions for a past road trip. Unless you happen to know Dominick Hide, or indeed his flipside.

Hello there, I wanted to rescue some of my old MySpace blogs and archive them here on my own site. Over the next few weeks I will retroactively chronicle a particularly colourful period exactly two years ago. This was originally posted on November 24th, 2007.

It’s late, but I feel I should jot this all down before it all becomes a tired blur.

First I was generously invited to stay in Asheville for Thanksgiving by Bryan & Hope. But before the good food and cheer kicked in, a trip to the picture house beckoned.

But what would be our holiday film? Enchanted? Fred Claus? This Christmas?

No. We went to see The Mist. And it was great.

There’s nothing like foggy, buggy, doomladen horror on a Thursday afternoon.

It was a perfect choice, the bleak coda making for a perfect warm up to appreciating your full plate of turkey and veg.

I had seen the film in the edit earlier in the year, but it was great to see it finally finished. The creature effects, especially in the latter half are something else.

So, my first Thanksgiving dinner was absolutely lovely, basically like pre Christmas dinner with some extra Southern trimmings in Carolina. (Biscuits. Good).

I was heartened to see Brussel Sprouts making an appearance and to find fellow fans of the much maligned vegetable. I am firmly in the Pro Sprout lobby.

So, still with a full stomach the next morning, I hit the fucking road for Nashville at 6.15 and sailed through the Smokey Mountain Tunnel.

I was briefly tempted by both Flea World (Tenessee’s most unique flea market) and the twin charms of Dollywood and…oh, that was it.

But, no. I pressed on.

The only thing that distracted me from my GPS “Shortest Time” route, was the town of Lebanon, Tenessee. AKA Stuntman Mike County.

I only wavered off course briefly, but upon failing to find an Italian Vogue* I zipped over to Nashville toutsuite.

No sooner had I checked in to the Union Hotel, was I already out of the door, trying to find a spot to eat. Unfortunately many uniquely Nashville joints were closed up; Elliston Street Soda Shop, Kijij Coffee, Harpers, Monell’s et al.

Eventually I found coffee and chow at Fido’s – a cool little place in Hillsboro Village.

I then hightailed it over to – yes – the Country Music Hall Of Fame And Museum.

Now, confession to make. I’ve never been much of country fan. For a long time, my only concession to listening to a little C&W was the version of “Rawhide” by the Blues Brothers. I was the kind of child who would become deathly bored by the song sections in any Clint & Clyde film or late 70′s Burt Reynolds Deep South vehicle.

But I have made more attempts of late and was willing to totally immerse myself on this trip.

My first step was a concentrated blast of Country History at the Hall Of Fame. And pretty good it was too.

I saw Marty Robbins ‘Among My Souvenirs’ exhibit of his costumes and cover art. Now, I don’t know a lot about the guy, but his nudie suits were mighty impressive.

Not to mention his custom made Nascar outfit. Shades of Ricky Bobby.

I also saw a whole bunch of gold plated Elvis nonsense; a grand piano, a big ass car with in built 24 carat record player and television. Crazy.

Best of all was a potted history of country with lots of clips from the 60′s and 70′s variety shows like Johnny Cash’s show and Hee Haw, which I’d heard lots about but never seen. It looked like a cross between Rowan & Martin’s Laugh In and Deliverance. It was truly terrifying.

Most exciting of all was seeing Gram Parsons mary-jane embroidered nudie suit from the cover of the Flying Burrito Bros. album.

Now, I’m not going to try and pass myself off as being hip enough to actually be Burrito Brothers fan.

Truth be told, I only bought my first Gram Parsons album two days ago.

But it was still pretty exciting. And I bought the album immediately after.

Okay. A hollow triumph of cool, I know.

Then, I made a quick detour to Broadway and did three things. Each more significant than the last.

One – visited Ernest Tubb’s record store. Two – bought my own nudie style cowboy shirt. Three – bought a ticket to that night’s Grand Ol’ Opry at the Ryman Auditorium.

Ironically, John Landis had insisted I do this when he heard I was visiting Nashville.

I then skipped back to Hillsboro and caught the 4.10 of I’M NOT THERE at the cool Belcourt Cinema. Really enjoyed it too. Amazingly Cate Blanchett has never been sexier than when playing Bob Dylan.

It’s the damndest thing. It confused my brain/loin connections.

Then as soon as the film was over I zipped over to the Opry; running down at least 30 Hannah Montana fans on the way as they buzzed around the Sommet Centre.

Arrived 15 minutes into the Opry and arrived red wine in hand, never looking more English and foppish. The place was rammed and I was stuck on the end of a row.

The Grand Ol’ Opry was much more entertaining than I had bargained for. The music isn’t really my thing, but I could appreciate the showmanship…godammit. And the quite incredible sway it had over the capacity crowd. I even tapped my foot.

The show is oddly structured though. The 2 and a half hour show is split into 5 half hour chunks each sponsored by a different company.

So it was that between the likes of Jeff Bates and John Conlee (who seemingly had a massive hit with Rose Colored Glasses in 1978, when I was too busy coloring in my 2000ADs), that we had to endure endless sponsorship for the Cracker Barrel Old Country Store.

A humorless presenter by the name of Eddie Stubbs basically trotted out the Cracker Barrel party line between every other song.

Imagine the Reading Festival being halted every two tracks so a Carling representative can hawk their weak lager. Double Hell on Earth.

The 2nd half hour was even weirder at the same presenter, Mister Stubbs was now talking up MarthaWhite.com and her Pumpkin Muffin mix.

I never thought I would be aching for the country to start again, but there you have it.

The acts in the second half were goofy and fun; Riders In The Sky (kind of a real life Three Amigos), The Infamous Stringdusters and a band called the Bar D Wranglers, who had a seemingly octogenerian lead singer and a catchy tune called ‘No Good Son Of A Gun’.

The 2nd 30 minute segment ended with one of the Riders In The Sky doing a Yoda impression and saying ‘Use The Horse”. A first.

The 3rd half hour segment (sponsored by U.S. Bank) had barely begun when George Hamilton IV began a Christian holiday themed song.

And I was out of there.

I grabbed some chow, spent all of five seconds in a crowded Tootsies Wild Orchird Lounge and then headed over to the Station Inn – an authentic Bluesgrass joint.

Again it was packed and while very impressive, I lasted one drink and three songs. It all being a little Every Which Way But Loose for me.

So I had an hour to kill, before a midnight screening of Scorcese’s THE LAST WALTZ at the Belcourt (which I’d never fully seen).

I stopped off at a 24 hour cafe place called Cafe Coco. Much like every other bar, they had a band playing. And again, it was mighty impressive.

The band at Cafe Coco were called Gypsy Pompe and I can only describe them as the Bluesgrass Artic Monkeys, since they were all about 19, spotty and dressed super casual.

And they played an amazing 10 minute long bluegrass cover of the Spiderman theme tune. They called it Spiderman Or Spiderpig? I called it Spidey Mountain Breakdown.

Either way, it was amazing for a free show in a coffee shop. Some couple were even dancing. Like proper dancing you only see in Grease.

Or that ‘Shaking The Rug’ scene in Top Secret!

Having made my very own Nashville discovery, I headed over to the Belcourt and watched THE LAST WALTZ until 2AM, smug in the knowledge that I was doing something vaguely hip.

I have now had way too many espressos and may just cat nap before leaving for Memphis baby!

Recommendations welcome.

Tunes for this part…

Shout Bama Lama - The Detroit Cobras
Just Can’t Get Enough – Depeche Mode
Cybele’s Reverie – Stereolab
Destination Diamonds – Diamond Nights
Thankfully Not Living in Yorkshire it Doesn’t Apply – Dexy’s Midnight Runners
Little Honda – Yo La Tengo
Clap Hands – Tom Waits
Chateau In Virginia Waters – T.Rex
Rip It Up – Little Richard
Chantilly Lace – Jerry Lee Lewis
Abacab – Genesis
Hippie Hippie – France Gall
Dos Guitarras – Los 4 Planetas

Out.

(*One for the DEATH PROOF extended cut fans)

P.S. Please note that you cannot give me sightseeing suggestions for a past road trip. Unless you happen to know a rakish, Samantha Mumba romancing, time a-travelling Guy Pearce.

At BBC 6 Music recording ‘A Month Of Matinees’ – to go out Sunday Dec 20th, 15.30-17.30.

Simon Pegg is on Dec 6th, then Martin Freeman on Dec 13th, then me, then Bill Nighy on the 27th.

Will be fun. I played an extremely eclectic mix of music – Metric, Cornelius, Beck, The Slew, Brendan Canning, Frank Black, Art Brut, Fake Blood, Siriusmo, The Kinks, Lee Hazlewood, Liquid Gold (!) and much, much more.

Enjoy it when it’s on.

Had an overwhelming response to my tribute to Edward Woodward that I wrote on Monday. It was very heartwarming to see that many of you felt the same way about him.

I’d like to include a couple of responses here.

This is from the director Joe Dante.

Very nice, Edgar. Reminded me about how I felt about John Carradine and Slim Pickens, especially the part about only hearing the stories just before a take.

And this is from director Peter Jackson, a fellow Woodward fan.

Fantastic actor. Huge loss. There will never be another Callan.

Well said Mr Wright.

RIP Edward Woodward.

Thank you to all your responses on this site that showed just what a beloved actor Edward was.

For those who haven’t seen it, I’d like to post a link to Simon’s shared memories of Edward from the Hot Fuzz shoot.

I’d also like to thank @samclements on Twitter who sent me this link to Alex Cox’s Moviedrome introduction that preceded my first viewing of ‘The Wicker Man’ on BBC 2 way back in 1988.

This takes me way back.