Regardless of success and its common units of measurement, fame and fortune, there is that enduring aspect of music that is born of love, devotion and in a few cases outrageous natural talent. Bobby McFerrin, who won Song of the Year in 1988 for ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ never came close to the top of the charts again but he has had an illustrious musical career since, including a period as guest conductor for the NY Philharmonic, Chicago Symphony, Philadelphia and London Orchestras. 

Most impressive to me though are his unique vocal improvisations. He has an astonishing vocal range of 4 octaves, he is an expert at vocal percussion and is also capable of throat-singing in which  he excites the natural overtones from the fundamental vocal pitch, producing a two-or three-part chord of notes from one voice. Throwing all this talent into an improv session is breathtaking. McFerrin is the guy in the red shirt:

How far we have come. If your iPod is of the Nano persuasion, kudos to you. If you’re packing 6G’s, you rock. iTouch? Awesome. iPhone? Spectacular. Anything electronic that has pinching, flicking and caressing as standard operating procedures deserves all accolades. 

What holds all that together though is an enduring idea. One that was laughed off by the likes of Grundig, Phillips and Yamaha. One that plays an integral part in many of our lives - rest, work, play, exercise - you name it. Quite simply, the idea that it is nice to add a soundtrack to real life. 

Andreas Pavel created the original portable personal stereo player. He fought court battles for 25 years with Sony who called their dubiously similar version the ‘Walkman’. He was at one point indebted to the tune of $3m in legal expenses. Eventually Pavel was awarded $10m plus royalties on a variety of future Walkman sales. The imagination of a man who wanted to hear his music on the go, no matter how many weird looks he got, is to be honoured. The determination to never let his creation be swallowed up by the power of Sony is inspiring. Pavel’s Stereobelt of 1972, while devoid of MP3, JPEG, WiFi, YouTube and the rest of the gang, represents the official birth of an era defining icon. Surprisingly enough, we couldn't find a digital photo of one... 

“You can’t handle the truth!”... “I’ll never let go, Jack.”... “I love you honey bunny.”... “Say hello to my little friend!”... “I’m... kind of a big deal”... “Do the chickens have large talons?”

You could never quote from, say, an Italian Neorealist film of the 1940’s (unless in the right crowd) because it would transport you to Ubergeek status. Quoting films is about shared experience. ‘We both saw that film, we both liked that bit, and now we are connected by something.’ 

Sometimes though, a little soundbite won’t cut it, and not even the most talented impressionist can do justice to the quote, especially when it is intrinsically linked with the film’s music, cinematography and narrative. Lengthy monologues must be a really exciting and probably quite daunting thing for an actor to see when first reading the script; a chance to really impress himself on the character. A chance, even, to define the film. 

A quote becomes a speech when it can only fully exist in its lengthy entirety. The one I’m thinking of has been borrowed by a second-rate football team (Plymouth Argyle, I think) when they were managerless for a short period, and they won every game using it as motivation. Undoubtedly thousands of over-excited American high school kids have embraced it as part of their sporting ritual, and there are those of us who just love it for what it is: The perfect speech at the perfect moment in a very good (as far as sports stories go) film. 

Without further ado and with a healthy disregard for whether you like the film or not, this is a speech that those involved should be very proud of. Take a bow, Oliver Stone and of course, Al Pacino.