As you may recall, a few weeks ago I bought myself a rather rough-around-the-edges Yamaha CP70 piano. Even though it had been lying gathering dust down at a studio in Yorkshire for a while (and had to endure a sit-com worthy attempt at moving to Renfrew, courtesy of McDonald and Quigley Transport), it actually sounded pretty good when I started playing it (in my usual ham-fisted manner). However, it was obvious that it would benefit from some tuning to get it sounding top-notch across the keyboard, as well as needing some attention for a dropped C# key in the middle. So, after a quick web perusal, I enlisted the services of my local, friendly piano tuner Jamie McLaren to give it what I'd thought would be a quick tinker.

Of course though, in the world of Backline, things never actually run that smoothly and this was no different. So, when Jamie arrived with his tuning fork, handle and bag of goodies in hand, what we'd both thought would be a 1 hour job ended up taking the best part of 3 hours, with my poor CP70's list of woes and ailments growing with each passing minute. The diagnosis was grim: the piano had spent a lot of its time sitting somewhere damp and hadn't been given the attentions of a tuner for some considerable time, many of its felt parts (of which, it turns out, pianos have many) had been providing ample sustenance for moths over the years resulting in many of them crumbling away to nothing, there was corrosion on some of the strings, its front panel fitting had been well-and-truly bodged, as well as just the general wear-and-tear on the hammer coverings and dampers that you'd expect from a vintage instrument. I could almost hear a shriek of terror echo from my bank account as each further problem became apparent.

Fortunately though, Jamie believed that once we'd got it tuned up a bit better and bodged the balance felt issue for the dropped key, it would be able to survive for a while without needing to address the bulk of those problems. Trusting the expert's judgement (he's tuned Sigur Ros' CP70 before when they've toured), I left him to get on with it and marvelled at his ability to tune perfectly by ear, pleased that my beloved piano was in good hands. He was also a very amiable chap, even being polite enough to say that the mug of coffee I'd made him was good, rather than spitting it all over the keyboard and pillioring me for my ineptitude with the Gold Blend. A few hours later, once everything was all fixed up enough to let him get on to his next job (by which time he was running quite late), he left me to reassemble the last couple of bits of the piano and have a play around with it. A quick stab at A Bad Dream indicated that he was as good as his word, with both the sticky key now working sufficiently and the tuning sounding pretty much spot-on across the board - a job well done.

Now, if I were the sensible type, I'd just have left it at that and sat happily playing the thing until it next needed tuned, a string broke or one of the felts gave up the ghost. But, this is me we're talking about... even as a boy, I always had an overpowering desire to take things apart and see what made them tick. Model trains, transistor radios, computers... over the years, they've all succumbed to my inquisitive desires. Being the type of guy that I am, this inexplicable need to ignore the old adage of "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" in favour of "if it ain't broke, give it your best shot" is probably not entirely surprising - indeed, I suspect many of the womenfolk reading this may also be nodding their head, recognising that their own husband or boyfriend suffers from the same affliction. In my case though, the difference is that my lack of manual dexterity and skill tends to mean that although I am an expert at taking things apart, putting them back together (and then ensuring that they still work) is a bit trickier. "No matter though," I said to myself... after all, I'd watched as Jamie managed to get down to the keys with relative ease, so I was feeling confident. In much the same way as I'd experienced prior to the journey to actually pick up the piano and move it, once again the voice of Jeremy Clarkson popped into my head: "How hard can it be?"...

By this point, you're probably expecting me to tell you that the piano is still lying in pieces on the floor, while I await Jamie's return to try to ressurect it from the Frankenstein job I performed on it. But, I'm pleased to report that for once, you would be wrong. I hesitate to say it, but the disassembly and reassembly almost went like clockwork, with barely a hitch along the way. Having ordered a set of new balance felts from my not-so-local piano spares company and with a copy of the Yamaha CP70/80 Service Manual to hand (the equivalent of those Haynes strip-down-and-rebuild car manuals that fascinated my 10-year old self), I dusted off the screwdriver set and set to work. At this point, it is probably worth acknowledging that the relative smoothness of the operation is more down the sheer brilliance of the piano's design rather than any sudden development of skill from myself. Yamaha's Japanese designers and engineers really did produce a marvel when they made these beasts, managing to pack what effectively amounts to a baby grand piano (complete with all the strings, hammers and proper action) into such a compact casing - and that's even before you consider that it can then split into two separate parts to allow it to be easily "transportable" (I am of course using the word "easily" in the loosest possible sense). An amazing piece of engineering... however, I was not prepared for what I uncovered when I'd actually taken advantage of this relative simplicity and had removed all the keys.

The first thing that left me taken aback was the mind-blowing amount of dust, fluff and grime that had gathered beneath the keys. I'd expected it to be a bit dusty - after all, its over twenty years old and probably hasn't been stripped down particularly often... plus, if you've ever looked at the top of the wardrobe in your bedroom, you'll no doubt have discovered that dust manages to gather remarkably quickly. However, considering the area under the keys is mostly enclosed unless you start to strip the whole thing down, the sheer volume of dirt that had accumulated was truly staggering. There's less debris left behind when a 20-storey tower block is demolished than had gathered under the keys... it was so bad that even my vacuum cleaner recoiled slightly when presented with it. Some significant time later, as the worst of the dirt had been sucked away, a small black scrap of paper emerged from underneath the layer of filth, along with a used match (perhaps the latter was left after a failed attempt to set fire to the instrument at the end of a gig, Hendrix-style). "Bit odd," I thought to myself... however, it got even stranger when I picked up the scrap and turned it over. It contained 3 words, scrawled in quite child-like handwriting: "Leed are sad". Yep, your guess is as good as mine...

It set my mind wondering... what did it mean? Who wrote it? How long had it been there? Why put it there? Is it a message from beyond the grave? It was clearly ot just a random event, given that all the keys would have had to be stripped from the instrument to get it there. After a bit of head-scratching as to its meaning, I was hoping that a Google search would throw up an answer - after all, the Internet is the ultimate repository of randomness - but even that drew a blank. It really is a conundrum that even Carol Vorderman would struggle to unravel. Perhaps it is a rather extravagant form of "message in a bottle", where a child somehow wanted to leave a message from the past and, not having a bottle or an ocean to hand, decided to use their parent's piano. Or perhaps not. I did buy the piano from near Leeds, so maybe it was nothing more than a misspelled childish diss to the city or its football team... but given the amount of fluff and dust it lay in, the message looks like it had been there for some period of time, and the guy I bought it from had only owned it for a year or two (it had been in Wales before that). It is the definition of the word "odd".

But then, it came to me... maybe it is part of a larger message. Maybe it comes from the original engineers of the CP70 and they put a separate part of the message into each one they built... only once all owners open up and strip down their pianos to uncover their section of the message, will we be able to piece it together and reveal the truth. Given that Keane have been slowly accumulating all of the world's supply of surviving CP70's over the past few years, I think Tim seems like the ideal candidate to start the check for other messages in his CP70s... after all, each one could be holding its own secret that is just waiting to be uncovered. What if it transpires that the message is of global importance? A warning of an impending apocalypse, or perhaps even greater - the answer to life, the universe and everything? What if 42 was just a ruse, and those humble geniuses at Yamaha actually had the spiritual insight that we lack and they were using the humble CP70 as the vehicle to spread the message? Undoubtedly, many of these vintage instruments will have perished over the years, so parts of the puzzle may already have been lost. For this reason, Mr. Rice-Oxley, it is vital that you personally strip down each of your CP70s immediately to find any hidden messages that lie within them and report your findings back to me... don't worry about the fact that you'll be needing one for the first live show next week - the potential future of the human race could be at stake (and besides, if I can manage to reassemble one successfully you'll have no worries). If we work together, we can crack this thing - it'll be like the real-life X-Files, as we fight to uncover the truth (though admittedly, neither of us will really be able to pull off a convincing impression of the foxy Gillian Anderson).

Or that might all be rubbish. Makes you think though, doesn't it...

CAN YOU TELL WHAT IT IS YET?: It's a CP70, Jim, but not as we know it... The stripped and cleaned CP70 awaits its new balance felts.

There are many certainties in nature and in life - things that happen outwith our control and that we are powerless to influence or change. Most of these, we take for granted and we carry on through our everyday lives without giving them the slightest thought... the world keeps spinning, the tides ebb and flow, the plants grow and die. These are all global certainties, but some aspects of life are a little more insidious, sneaking up on us with each passing day. Contrary to what you might think, I am not referring to death (after all cryonics will save us from that ultimate destination, apparently), but to a much more subtle aspect of the human condition. An affliction that is so worrying because it has stood the test of time and, despite the many advances in modern science, still has no known cure, Yes my friends... it is perhaps the most worrying issue that will affect each and every one of us, as surely as night follows day - I refer, of course, to that strange, un-nerving phenomena whereby as you get older, you slowly turn into your own parents.

"Not a chance!", I hear the youngsters amongst you scoff. "I'll never turn out like them - I'll be open-minded, footloose and fancy-free forever." We've all been there and denounced the idea, brushing it aside with an "it won't happen to me" attitude. This is understandable - after all, no-one I know has every consciously decided that they want to ape their elders. The whole foundation of teenage rebellion is based on doing precisely the opposite of what your parents would want, or liking what they like. And even though they wouldn't admit it, even your parents would find it odd if this were to be different. Imagine how strange it would be for them if you were to proclaim one evening, "Aww dad, I've had enough of this Jay-Z rubbish... put some Genesis on and let's get some quality music going!". It would just be wrong. However, as the years go by, the slow morph from youthful hipster to boring old fart will begin to take hold - it'll be slow, so you probably won't even realise that its happening. One day though, you'll be listening to the radio and a song will come on - something that is popular with the youth of today and is riding high in the charts. And then it'll happen - you'll recoil in horror at the atrocity of the "music" you're hearing, before beating it down with a withering put-down... something along the lines of "What is this rubbish? Call that music? When I was younger, we had proper songs...". Only then, will you realise that you're already well-advanced towards being an old fogey with no hope of reversing the process.

As I approach the grand old age of 31, this incessant slide into middle-age means these types of reaction are becoming more and more common. Most of the time, I'll just accept my fate of living in the past (frequently harking back to the happy days of my own youth!) and get on with it, but sometimes a song will come along that really stokes the fire and sets me off in an rage. The latest incidence of this happened last week, while I was being driven to work*. A song came on the radio, which the DJ cheerfully announced was a request from the pupils at a secondary school somewhere in the Glasgow area... "and now, here's The Pussycat Dolls with When I Grow Up". It had the usual non-entity melody and annoying vocal parts that are the trademark of any commercially-aimed pop dross, but that wasn't what annoyed me. No... what really fuelled the grumpy old man within me was the lyrics.

Take these lines from what purported to be a chorus: "When I grow up, I wanna be famous, I wanna be a star, I wanna be in movies, When I grow up, I wanna see the world, Drive nice cars, I wanna have groupies, When I grow up, Be on TV, People know me, Be on magazines". God in heaven...

I mean, seriously - what kind of message are they trying to put across with this? Now, I know what some of you are thinking... "It's not aimed at the likes of you though, it's aimed at pre-pubescent girls" (although if its aimed at them, why do the PCG's dress as though they're going out for an evening's work in the local red light district?). I can understand that pop music is predominantly aimed at the young - indeed, its part of the nature of commercial pop... but if we accept that as being the case, surely the subject matter of these lyrics is actually even worse? Are they really encouraging young girls to think, "Well, I could work hard, go to University then get a job and contribute something worthwhile to society - but instead, I'll just try to become famous so that I can go to parties and appear in the newspapers."? I mean, am I missing some deep hidden irony in these lyrics? Of course, the PCG ladies didn't actually write it themselves, as is the way of things - but if they were prepared to record it and get it out there as a single, they must approve of the message to some degree... it's pathetic. And let's not even begin to delve into the notion of men in their thirties writing about what its like to be a young girl...

It's a classic example of piggybacking on the fact that society and the media (particularly here in the UK) seem obsessed by this whole notion of "celebrity" and of convincing people that in order to be successful and happy in life, they have to be famous and be seen at hip parties with the latest movie star or it-girl on their arm. Don't get me wrong - being famous is something that's always been desirable, but this type of rubbish seems to be suggesting fame for the sake of it is the be-all-and-end-all. Children have always want to be movie stars or pop stars, even back "when I were a lad"... but nobody simply said "when I grow up, I want to be famous", which seems to be the mantra of many of today's young people. Now, don't get me wrong - fame is not necessarily a bad thing (in fact, if someone is lucky enough to be in that position, they can be influential through their actions and opinions), but I've never liked the notion that people can become famous without actually having done anything worthwhile to earn that position. The true greats in their field (be they actors, musicians or artists) have always had to work their arses off to get where they ended up, even though they've had real talent - they've had to work at it, to build it up from nothing. Now, the society we've bred as a result of the whole Heat-X-Factor-OK-Big-Brother zeitgeist seems to promote the belief that fame is the important thing and that there's a quick fix way to get there without actually needing to do anything to earn or justify it - and that being famous is the root of all happiness. God, we're all doomed!

Once again, hearing such a degree of crass codswallop like that PCD song made me appreciate quite how pertinent the lyrics of Keane's new song Better Than This are. It really is refreshing to hear that a band is willing to try to tackle these types of issues that seem to have infected our society over the course of the 21st century. I'm not deluded enough to believe that it will change anything, of course... but I am glad that it's not just me that looks at the way things are today and the ideals that get put forward for people and thinks "Jeez, is this really the best we can do?".

It will be interesting to see how the celebrity culture we live in is dealt with in some of the other songs on the forthcoming album. I'm sure Tim has said that it was one of the two main threads that run through the songs (the other being the uncertain times we live in as a result of war), though I wouldn't be surprised if it is dealt with in a more oblique manner on other songs compared to the direct message of Better Than This. The band have always managed to do a good job of staying out of the trash mags and tabloids, save for the obvious exception of Tom's stint in rehab. Again, thinking back to that, its amazing how even a tragic personal situation like that is twisted into some more easy celebrity fodder - remember all that guff about the "rehab supergroup" with Tom, Pete Doherty and Justin Hawkins? Or the obligatory "Elton John helped me through my drugs hell" non-story that always gets trotted out whenever a young musician goes into rehab for drug addiction? It's all nonsense, and in a way we're all to blame - we buy this rubbish and fund it, we watch all the crap that comes on TV, giving the media free license just to keep doing more of the same. I'm sure the writers of When I Grow Up were well aware of this - they're tapping into the common mindset and they know it's an easy way to make a quick buck. They're exploiting the poor saps that readily buy into all that crap, but in that sense, who's more of the fool - the one that pedals it, or the one that believes and buys it? It's a really sad state of affairs!

It may just be another instance of getting old and looking at the past through rose-tinted spectacles, but I don't remember things seeming as grim when I was younger. Whether that is just because I was too young to properly appreciate the situation back then, I'm not sure... but wouldn't it be great if we could get back to appreciating the real values in life, rather than promoting all the superficial nonsense that seems to be the order of the day? Maybe that's unrealistic and things are too far-gone to be salvageable - a sad situation if ever there were one. We live in one of the wealthiest societies in the world, with so many opportunities - yet we seem to be disappearing into a vacuous, materialistic self-obsessed hole. We've lost touch with the real values of humanity and instead want to focus entirely on a fruitless quest for vanity and fame, when it's really just a dead-end street. Where did it all go wrong?

So, even if you believe that Better Than This is nothing more than Keane trying to be David Bowie, hopefully you'll agree that lyrically its at least got the sentiment we need to wake people up and make them think, even just a little bit. Take heart from the fact that they still believe in some positive values and still try to put across a worthwhile message with their songs. Quite a few dissenters in the ranks have also been critical of some of Tim's recent lyrics, but c'mon... weigh them up against most of what's getting passed off as meaningful pop and surely we can see the merit and value of Mr. R-O's prose?

Right, now I've got all that off my chest, I'm away to watch some telly. Did I ever tell you about how TV programmes were so much better when I was younger?

* I hasten to add that I get a lift in with a colleague who lives around the corner from me, rather than my own limo and chauffeur!

If you've been observant today, you may have noticed that there's been yet another leak of a new Keane track - and in common with the previous slip-up for Love Is The End (where Universal Portugal managed to give the wrong song to a radio station - it should have been The Lovers Are Losing), it is in fact the fault of the band's record label. Earlier today, Interscope in the US managed to leak a new bonus track called My Shadow that is expected to be included on iTunes pre-orders. Although they managed to realise the mistake relatively quickly, it was still ripped by all and sundry - seriously, who'd have thought Keane's biggest enemy in keeping their new tracks under wraps would be their own record labels!

But what of the song? Epic - a slow building anthem, in the best traditions of classic Keane such as On A Day Like Today. Except with guitars as well as piano and synth in the mix - and all the better for it. That boy Chaplin has really been on fire - vocals on this are massive. I get an interesting spiritual feel from the lyrics - probably just me though... Anyway, this is another track that should help ease the doubts of those who've felt ill-at-ease with the more out-there tracks like Spiralling and Better Than This.

But yeah - if I was feeling generous, I'd say that these leaks are part of a calculated, clever ploy by Universal to increase interest in the forthcoming album. I'm not though, so I'll just say it's a cock-up again. What a song though... bravo!

It will probably come as no surprise to those of you who have met me in person, but I have never been particularly adept at sports or any form of physical endeavour. Some are natural born sportsmen, able to turn their hand to both individual and team-based activities - I, on the other hand, tended to flounder at both with a laughably bad lack of hand-eye co-ordination. I learned this about myself early in life and it is something that I long since gave up hope of changing. Instead, I accepted my fate and devoted myself to a life that is predominantly free of physical activity, topped up with far more fast food, chocolate and alcohol than is necessary (well, I do come from a city with one of the lowest life expectancies in the western world).

So, when you weigh it all up, you can imagine that I have what we might term "flab definition" rather than muscle definition. Rather than bulging biceps and a rippling six-pack, any bicep muscle is generally only from lifting a beer to my lips, with the six-pack more likely to be of the Grolsch or Heineken variety. But don't think I'm taking it all lying down - I have got a small set of personal training hand-weights that I try to use on a regular basis, in a fruitless attempt to prevent myself turning into a total couch potato and to build up some tone. I know it's not much, but its a start... however, it was never going to provide me with the strength to undertake the task I faced on Friday.

In a nutshell, I've bought a Yamaha CP70B electric piano. Yes, that piano - the same as used by our favourite band Keane, as well countless other legendary rock gods, such as U2, Led Zeppelin and, er, Phil Collins. A piano that I have lusted over (in a purely platonic, geek way of course) for an excessive period of time and have spent an inordinate amount of time studying and admiring from afar. I even went as far as getting an A1 sized framed poster of one of Alex Lake's photos of it made (gear porn - its the equivalent of a teenage boy putting pictures of Ferraris and Lamborghinis on his wall). "One day," I always said, "I shall have my own." Unfortunately though, the quest to buy my own was always hamstrung by a number of factors - lack of space, lack of cash and lack of playing ability to justify it being the main ones. In the end though, I decided to throw caution (and sanity) to the wind and buy one regardless of the practicalities (I am a man, after all). So, the deed was done, cash was exchanged through the medium of plastic and all that remained was to pick up the piano and bring it back to Backline HQ for many happy evenings of experimentation with effects pedals and annoying the neighbours.

Before we could get to that point though, there was the rather large (and as it would turn out, extremely heavy) issue of actually getting the piano from its current location - a recording studio near Leeds, about 200 miles away. Fortunately, I managed to cajole my good friend Tony into assisting me in this effort, by driving down in his car, loading up the piano and driving back home again. We measured up his Renault Megane to confirm that the CP70 would actually be able to fit in the first place, then satisfied with our work we headed south on the four hour drive, under the direction of Jane, our Tom-Tom satellite navigator. A simple jaunt down, pick up the piano, load it into the car, drive back home, get it up the lift and into my flat, then head out for some celebratory alcoholic beveridges - as they often say on Top Gear, "how hard can it be?"

Well, bloody hard actually. The journey down was uneventful (with the exception of my Grumpy Old Man outrage at an ATM wanting to charge me 2 pounds for the privilege of getting my own money), but once we'd actually arrived at the recording studio, it became apparent that what we had undertaken was a task more suited to the type of guys who wouldn't even break sweat at pulling a truck with their bare hands, rather than overweight wasters like myself and Tony who've never had to do a day's manual labour in our lives. Now don't get me wrong - it wasn't that I'd been completely stupid and hadn't realised that the two body parts of the CP70 would actually be quite heavy (I'd even read through the user manual, which is quite unlike me!) - but I had underestimated quite how heavy and awkward to move it would be. Cue much shuffling, groaning and gnashing of teeth as we tried to negotiate each bit out of the building and squeeze it through the Megane's now-annoyingly-small boot opening (or tailgate, if you're not on British shores). After a degree of flailing around, we managed to get it all in and sat in the car, dripping with sweat and congratulated ourselves on a job well done.

Except, of course, that the job was anything but done. In fact, the worst was yet to come - after the return drive, we arrived at Backline HQ and then faced the Herculean task of actually getting into the flat. I live on the third floor of the building, but at least there is a lift (if there hadn't been, I think we'd have admitted defeat and just set it up in the ground floor hallway). Not that it helped - it must have taken us at least 5 minutes to get both sections out of the car in the first place, then another 5 to get it past the main door (which helpfully can't be wedged open), then two trips trying to negotiate the lift. It would seem that OTIS (the company who built and maintain the lifts) believed that there would never been any need for the doors of the lift to stay open for longer than 10 seconds - not particularly helpful when you've got two struggling incompetents trying to maneuvre an extremely heavy piano into it. What then emerged was a cacophony of chaos - me trying to keep the doors from closing whilst we got the piano in, the lift made an ominous whining alarm noise and urged us to "remove the obstruction from the doors", whilst we groaned and swore loudly at it for making what was already a difficult task even harder (the sheer variety of profanities that can come from one's lips when under this type of pressure is truly staggering). This was then repeated again when we had to get off at my floor and actually had to get it back out of the lift. "Hell's Bloody Bells", as Tony said.

The task ended up so farcical that by the time we'd actually got it into my flat, we were both too knackered, shaky and in pain to actually even contemplate assembling it. So, it sat in the room forlornly until yesterday evening (by which time our aching backs and limbs had sufficiently recovered) when it was finally assembled into the magnificent beast we know and love. However, unlike most of Tim's inumerable number of CP70's, this one is clearly very battle-scarred and looks like it hasn't have been a stranger to the rigours of touring. Scratches, tears in the tolex, rusting fixtures a cigarette burn on one key and a crack on another, plus a slightly worrying bulge from the metal front of the harp section... yep, the old girl looks to have had a rough life (which will have prepared it well for the chaos of Messrs. McDonald and Quigley piano movers) but mechanically it all seems to be sound. It would benefit from some TLC at the hands of a piano tuner, but in that sense it actually reminds me of the old days when Keane had only one battered old CP70 that permanently seemed to be a little out-of-tune - it all adds to the charm! For all its flaws (and cosmetically, they are numerous!), it was still worth it in the end... to see it sitting there after all this time, getting to know its various sibling instruments would bring a tear to a glass eye.

It does amaze me though that those three boys used to move this beast around on their own for gigs at The Water Rats and the like - despite not looking like muscle-bound Sussex adonis (steady on, ladies), they clearly are made of stronger stuff than me! But, having done it all now and with the piano taking pride of place in the "music room", I can safely say that I now have an even greater amount of respect for Keane's roadies and crew who have to shift these behemoths around on a daily basis when touring is happening. And not even just one necessarily either - I think they take at least one spare harp section to each gig, in the event of a string breaking. The sheer weight of all Keane's gear must be truly staggering and I doff my cap to these unsung heroes who's dedication, commitment and earth-moving strength make sure that a Keane gig can happen at all. These are the real men, ladies - forget about what actually happens on-stage, give a shout out for the crew, who are the true supermen of the Keane set-up!

Oh, and if you ever decide you want a piano moved, please - don't call us!

THE NEW ARRIVAL: The Backline CP70B gets familiar with its new surroundings after the trauma of the journey to Scotland.