Money, Knowledge, Power

The KIOGE summit (Kazakhstan International Oil and Gas Exhibition) was never going to interest me. I am used to switching channels when the business news comes on, or kicking aside the financial supplements with a lazy yawn. Ignorant baffoon. But at KIOGE I was fascinated by the ultimate power that flexed beneath well-cut cloth. The oil men and women, the petro-powerful, had gathered at the Intercontinental. A vast chandeliered convention hall housed the delegates, a stage of executives at its head. In the antechamber a scale model of an oil rig, stress-relief squeezies shaped like oil drums, and smokers casually flicking their cigarettes on to the carpets. Inside droned the insect-like translator’s voice via the infrared headsets, and the monotone Russian-speaking CEOs at the lecterns. It was a visual pageant for one who wasn’t paying any close attention to what was really being said. And so frighteningly out of my personal experience was I that with my back to the wall, I felt like one of the little boys transfixed at the Witches Convention in Roald Dahl’s classic.

Note: for those not in the know, Kazakhstan is sitting on enormous reserves of oil and gas and minerals. It’s been screwed by the global financial crisis like everyone else, except it happened a bit sooner here, and at the moment the analysts are saying the good Captain Nazarbayev and his midshipmen are steering a safe course through the storm. Further business entries to come inevitably at some point soon but I promise I will write them with un-click-away-able flair and wit

Over in the Hyatt that evening, the British, American and Canadian embassies had combined to host a soiree for the great and the good, plus a new clueless journalist in town. At the centre of the convention room was a buffet, a wonder to behold – a Technicolour display of fruit and giant bowls of chocolate mousse lumps that looked like poo (which explained why nobody touched those). At the front the ambassadors addressed the guests. But everybody was too busy scoffing. We wondered forward and introduced ourselves to the amiable British Ambassador, followed by some chaps from British Gas, who did the usual clichéd ‘Journalist eh? Ha. Not safe to talk while you’re around!’ If they only knew. I still managed to get a brief lesson on the energy sector before wondering off to chat to some Americans from the US embassy about the latest Obama-McCain debate. One of them told me he’d played golf with President Nazarbayev. Naturally the president had won the round; no one had been keeping any real tally.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Two weeks later, back at the Hyatt, I’m still trying to get a handle on the money, the lunacy of mass expenditure. From the bar I am watching the pleasing motion of three great glass elevators rocketing up and down. And just to squeeze out one more Dahl literary analogy, over in a corner is a Willy Wonka-style cascading chocolate fountain. I sneak over now and then for a surreptitious marshmallow dip. We are waiting to go to Seal’s private gig.

Miss M had been chatting to him in the same bar the night before and he and his team had invited her along to the show. I had practically frog-marched her back to the lobby that evening, insisting that this was an opportunity not to be missed. Hey, he might even be happy for me to come along too. There he was in a secluded corner surrounded by his small entourage of techies and a couple of musicians. Mr Seal was magnanimous. He extended the invitation. It was on.

We got talking to his entertainer extraordinaire and talented Geordie guitarist, a pro whose musical roots go back five generations. He used to work for Madona, but by all accounts Seal was an infinitely more agreeable boss.

Some gems: The divorce? ‘Been going on for years now.’ Mr Richie? ‘He and I never hit it off from day one, after he punched me underwater at a pool party'.

Then there was the Like a Virgn incident, in which the song's writer had been introduced to singer: “I’ve always wanted to meet you,” said the nice man. “Well now you’ve met me,” had come the Ice Emperess’ retort, before pivoting away.

We piled into a tinted-windowed minibus and headed to the ballroom venue. Tough-guy security guards ushered us in and gave us the thousand yard stare. From the green room, I twitched the curtain and peeked out. It was a suit and ball-gown affair. Lots of ceiling to floor fabrics, table bouquets, and professional film crews. We never really found out whose 50th birthday party it was. Seal turned up in a separate vehicle just before going on stage. He was ably attended by his boys, which curiously included a bespoke tube of lube which he then proceeded to rub onto his arms face. Well it was probably just moisturiser Heidi insists he applies (stage lights are hot). Seal sang with his usual passionate husk. Killer, Crazy, Kiss From A Rose. The suits and ball-gowns got their music’s worth even if most of them stayed seated.

And the cost for an hour of Seal? Unfortunately I couldn’t get an accurate lowdown. Crew members variously said somewhere between 250,000 and a million or so dollars. One technician said that ‘corpros’ (presumably corporate//professional gigs) were the bread and butter of the big stars in semi-retirement. The Sultan of Brunei had allegedly signed a cheque for five million to have Celene Dione play at his party, and he gave her a diamond encrusted Rolex as a gift.

Seal and co flew out that night. I was later delivered from the Hyatt by a Kazakh investment banker in a chauffeur-driven Range Rover. We dropped his mate off first. I provocatively commented on the bumpy driveway that led to his home. Beyond the security guard and the gates was a White House of dynastic proportions. I still need to find out who his family is.

Back at the flat, I got out of the car drunk and happy, still clutching an unopened bottle of 1998 Veuve Cliquot, successfully filched from the Seal Gig. Thanks everyone.