The conversation at the elegant French restaurant where we are dining is slowly but surely being drowned out by the increasing noise from the adjoining table. Seated nearby is a harangue of rather obnoxious conventioneers, ten middle-aged tubbos who seem to have been teleported here straight from a Wednesday night bowling league dinner dance somewhere in Iowa. Each is nattily attired in pastel-colored leisure suits, with floral print shirts that proclaim 'Hi, I'm a tourist' as the collars swell out over the jacket lapels. They keep looking around in anticipation , as if some black-laced chambermaid is about to spring out of a giant crepe at any moment.

Jeff Beck glances up at me from his vichyssoise. 'Those fucking pig businessmen; I can't stand them. They're doing all the things that they used to keep people like us out of places like this for fear that we'd act that way.' Another writer, who'd interviewed Beck earlier that day finds the moment suitably hostile to hit Jeff with just one more question. 'Well Jeff,' he casually cajoles, 'what about feedback? Was it you, or Glapton or who?' Beck drops his spoon and places one hand over his mouth. 'Feedback?' he retorts through his covered mouth, giving a slight vibrato effect with his palm. 'You get some every time you open your mouth.' On to the sauteed mushrooms...