It wasn't then a Beatles song

I’m not prone to boasting but whenever I attend a concert with the good-natured A, I tend to post my report a few days before him. It’s not a competition of course. However, he’s beaten me to it this time with an articulate and worthy review of the evening he, S and I spent on Monday visiting The Fall in Bristol. He’s even proffered his recordings of all the songs they played and I simply can’t compete.

It proved a lot of fun. It’s always merry to chalk up a new venue and The Metropolis, near the centre on the Cheltenham Road, was a small but perfectly formed place which joins the pantheon of the numerous arenas I’ve pitched up at to catch Mark E. Smith and his cohorts. I suppose Monday was a fairly typical but nonetheless enjoyable recent-period Fall set with an extremely tight band belting out up-tempo riff-joy underpinned by (Mrs Smith) Elena Poulou’s driving keyboard sturm und drang and, of course, the man himself singing/mumbling/screaming his words of wisdom into any available microphone. It’s been two and a half years since my last Fall gig (at Oxford’s Zodiac) and I’m happy to report a continuation of the fine form I witnessed then. This is a cool group. This is a cool group.

We sit here in torpor by our old fireside and just agree to differ

12-9 is such a comfortingly old-fashioned scoreline. You can sniff the embrocation in those lowish multiples of three; gnarled forwards of yore paid their doughty dues during 12-9 epics while fancy-dan three-quarter team-mates shivered. It’s a back-to-basics score, an unfashionable glimpse into past times, into mudbaths, into half-time team talks on the pitch, into the shadowy mindsets of Malcolm Preedy and Bobby Fowke. If 12-9 were a TV Show it would be a murky World In Action exposé from 1973, it’s Lieutenant Pigeon playing Mouldy Old Dough on Top of the Pops, it’s the Winter of Discontent crossed with an especially violent episode of The Sweeny, it’s a rusting Chopper bike with a slightly flat tyre, it’s a Noddy Holder sideburn of a score. I’ve missed good old 12-9. And last night’s thoroughly exciting 12-9 victory for the Gloucester club of Gloucester against a decent Leicester outfit proved extremely pleasurable. Welcome back.

This was not a classic match but, after weeks and weeks of wistful woes and winless worries, it was wondrous to witness my favoured team playing with the passion, intensity and wholehearted grunt that the inhabitants of the popular side demand. Although concerned by a singular lack of game plan and a significant inability to carry the pill across the try-line, this punter heralds a vast improvement in handling skills, a noticeably accomplished adherence to the arts of the scrums and lines-out, and a reinvigorated rolling maul. Last night’s forward pack caught this eye. It was a mixture of the mature and coltish. Old dogs Buxton and Boer bustled and bruised for the cause with gleeful abandon, their uncompromising work rate and unselfish fetchin’, carryin’, tacklin’ and sweatin’ all indicatin’ a deep affection for the historic club and an acknowledgment that its values and ethos must survive. Younger tyros Attwood and Dawiduik rampaged earnestly too, concentrated well and mixed a youthful gallop in the loose to adherence to the necessities. Behind the scrum, David ‘Dave’ Lewis gave a curate’s egg of a performance, blending iffy passing and slow service with ebullient breaks and zestful sprinting. Young Freddie Burns, donning the famed ten shirt, looks a sparkling prospect; the fellow played heads-up rugby union with a refreshing confidence and is certainly one for the (near-) future. Burly Tim Molenaar is coming into some form too and I appreciated the abrasive Kiwi centre’s rough and ready running; he combined well with the burlier Tongan menace Vainikolo rather well.

Of course there were negatives to Gloucester’s play to counteract the numerous positives but last night wasn’t about detailed analysis and over critical debates. It was about winning and winning with spirit. The last twenty minutes saw this supporter shake off his disquiet about this season’s form and disappointments and shout his ruddy head off, celebrating the referee’s blast at no-side with rare excitement. It was a smashing occasion and the sentimentalist in me relished the scenes as the exhausted yet victorious yeomen paraded in front of the throng. My word, it was wonderful to see the noble Jake Boer among the lads, arms aloft and soaking up the affection. Excitement is back, Jake is back, the Gloucester dog is back and 12-9, in all its low-scoring, edge-of-set majesty, is back too. Hurrah.

Society

I can’t get over how many people pitch up to watch features screened by the Cheltenham Film Society. I trotted over to the Bacon Theatre on Tuesday to view, at the invitation of J, a Brazilian production, Linha de Passé and was stunned to witness throngs of gentlefolk flocking into the building. I genuinely believed there was something else on at the complex; I’m so used to watching films at Gloucester’s Guildhall in an audience of twenty or so (on a good night) that I was thrown by such a multitude. About 250-300 cinema lovers attend each screening at Cheltenham and this rather heartens me but, simultaneously, makes me a tad disappointed that my merry home city lags behind its more well-groomed neighbour. Anyhow, my visit was wholly positive and I’ll attend again and possibly even join.

The film itself proved engaging and thought-provoking. Linha de Passé transports the viewer into a rough and ready Sao Paulo ghetto and scrutinises the lives of an ageing and impecunious single mother and her four sons all of whom scheme and dream of ways out of their impoverished existences. One son dreams of becoming a top footballer and the resultant fame and fortune; one, a petrol pump attendant, is drawn to intense evangelical worship; another seeks money and women and is tempted to supplement a courier’s meagre income with the spoils of increasingly less petty crime; and the youngest, significantly darker skinned than his siblings, sporadically attends school, possesses plenty of streetwise impudence and obsesses about becoming a bus driver. Rich stories of the quartet intertwine offering dark glimpses of the despair that accompanies an inability to escape inequity and poverty; lighter moments indicating earthy humour and a reassuringly benevolent community spirit offer some relief. Hope and hopelessness arrive in equal measures but hopelessness always seems to vanquish.

Nature intended the abstract for you and me

I admit I may have become a Green Man Festival bore in the weeks after last summer’s event. I think the rank disappointment of the previous couple of years, when cold, hard and wetter than usual rain conspired to break the music-lovin’ hearts of my accomplished sidekick and me, had rendered the need for third-time-lucky glee more than crucial. The warm 2009 weather and fine fare and, pardon me, cheerful vibes were heart-warming and welcome. I only say this because I note that ‘early bird’ tickets for next summer’s bash are on sale now. I’m tempted. I don’t self-flagellate (too much) at the prospect of returning to work after a long summer break but a late August sojourn to Brecon did wonders for my, ahem, aura last time and I’m keen to ‘flag up’ a potential intention to attend again. My bet for one of the headliners would be the remarkable Midlake who have a new album out reasonably soon and will be touring in 2010. In my dreams, admittedly over-imaginative and fecund, Midlake would headline on the Friday, The Decemberists would proffer a live version of The Hazards of Love on the Saturday and the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens would wow the crowds on the Sunday and send everyone ‘ome ‘appy. It may yet happen.

I hinted at my admiration for young South-West London collective The XX yesterday and would like to doff my virtual titfer at their splendid debut album now. It’s a hushed and breathy recording reminiscent of the Young Marble Giants’ breathy and hushed classic, Colossal Youth, and it often feels that the youthful band have decided to proffer their listenership as few musical layers as possible at any given moment. A delicate bassline, an occasional strum of a gee-tar, a mere dab of a drum, and sparse electronic musings underpin really beautiful songs of love and youthful considerations. The male/female voices permeate proceedings tenderly and volunteer a conversational tone to the songs that certainly appeals. Their self-titled debut, although whispered and minimalist in texture, possesses a swagger and complexity that utterly engages. All the songs are splendid but my favourite is probably Crystalised with its subtle call-and-respond vocals and wry quiet-(fairly)loud-quiet backing sounds that transport me effortlessly back to 1979 or maybe even 1980. Recommended.

Underneath and unexplored

Earlier today I flicked through this month’s Q Magazine in the palatial environs of Gloucester’s historic Northgate Street branch of J Sainsbury. My heart sank. I was keen to scan the pages to discover what their favoured 50 albums of 2009 were and, alas, my view that Q is a music magazine for people who don’t really like music that much was fortified. I know I’m at risk of sounding an utter snob but the Q list was as conservative and mundane and life-unaffirming and unadventurous as I feared. The top ten contains one album I rather like (Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Pavilion) and one album I quite like and might like a bit more when I have played it a few more times (Phoenix’s Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix). The rest is a landfill into which has been unceremoniously tipped insipid and obvious ‘delights’ by U2, Lily Allen, flippin’ Kasabian, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and, at number two, heck, the unspeakable Florence and the Machine. A couple of weeks ago I tapped out a shortlist of twelve or thirteen albums I regard as the year’s best and only four of my choices sneak into Q’s fifty. I can’t believe The Decemberists’ The Hazards of Love or The XX's sizzling self-titled, er, sizzler aren't there. I apologise if I’m sounding a touch self-regarding in sneering at this publication for daring not to share my views and I admit I’m probably over-reacting a touch but I do rely on the December issues of the music press to prompt me into hoovering* up anything lovely I may have missed over the past twelve months. I’m going to go and have a lie down. I'll put my soap-box away and look forward to my Uncut delivery.

The full list is available (and discussed very eloquently) here. It’s not all bad. An interesting list of 2009's well-reviewed albums can be found at the fascinating metacritic site.

*Other vacuum cleaning devices are available.

Strange Currencies

Last night was rather marvellous. A quartet of ageing hipsters set sail for Stroud and an evening of splendid musical entertainment. Rodborough’s Prince Albert public house was hosting a trio of wonderful acts, with Celtic pop imp, Euros Childs, headlining proceedings. A brief word about the venue. The Prince Albert proved a charming base for jollity, a non-corporate old-style boozer with roaring fire, fine ales, pet dogs striding - wi'out menace - around the carpet and walls covered in esoteric and eye-catching artefacts. The main (only?) bar was an ample L-shape and, without trying to be Madison Square Garden, accommodated plenty of proud punters perfectly.

The music moved the masses merrily. Men Diamler crooned and ululated with passion and verve and ‘is traditional fervour. His dark offerings provided glimpses into forbidding worlds of boneless dogs and other disturbing images. The second act, Sweet Baboo (later to re-emerge as Childs’ bassist) inhabited similar shadowy territory. I liked the fellow’s stuff; he played his guitar eloquently and proffered slightly personal themes tinged with rather oblique imagery.

The main event was a class above though. I’d caught former Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci frontman Euros Childs at Green Man Festival a couple of years ago and appreciated his balmy and bewitching pop sensitivities immensely. What I enjoyed then, I enjoyed last evening albeit in the most cosy and appealing surroundings (as opposed to a mud-splattered field). Childs’ songs are defiantly lo-fi, self-accompanied on fairly basic keyboards, but warm the heart with their sumptuous and sanguine melodies and off-kilter and eccentric subject matter. Verily, the gentleman sang of his love of mayonnaise, the coolness of his fridge and the toilet habits of an imaginary pet monkey and it all made perfect and lovely sense. Childs performed with warmth and humour and the acclaim of a grateful audience was deserved and manifest. I salute this artist.

I recommend the album Son of Euro Child which is available for free download here. It has harvested super reviews and has given this scribe remarkable pleasure. Please enjoy the chap playing album highlights, Like This? Then Try This and How Do You Do?, in his own front parlour.

Merging with a grain of sand

Verily, this is the season of gigs and the latest recital took place last night: Grizzly Bear at Bristol’s Anson Rooms. Mr and Mrs Cole attended and we spent a goodly time before the event enjoying the peculiar ambience of a Students’ Union building. Hipsters galore paraded; some tried too hard but I empathised. A and A joined I and I; ‘twas jolly. The support act was St. Vincent (a solo female artist, for the uninitiated) whom I last viewed/heard supporting the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens, almost exactly three years ago. I appreciate this vocalist’s arty, artful, angular offerings and her songs from the interesting and clever long player, Actor, proved an agreeable hors d’ouvre to the main event. I have rated Grizzly Bear e’er since a remarkable set at last summer’s Green Man Festival and I am gradually acquainting myself with the critically acclaimed recent album, Veckatimest. I sense that the Anson Room’s rather unsatisfactory sound quality didn’t help this group’s cause but, despite a somewhat muffled result, their haunting and ethereal harmonies hushed and wooed a large and expectant multitude. This is a talented collective, playing a range of instruments with acumen and singing really beautifully. The range of voices within the band is quite staggering and it makes for a unique and breathtaking resonance. The drummer was brilliant and I am keen to salute his all-action and effervescent display of stickmanship. I recommend.

Vegemite

Tuesday night at Kingsholm was special and exciting. The 36-5 scoreline flattered Gloucester’s Australian visitors a tad and it was pleasing to witness an abrasive pack performance with plenty to celebrate both in tight and loose. I appreciated Paul Doran-Jones’s adherence to the front row basics and I thought young hooker Darren Dawiduik enjoyed an energetic and bright match. Returning hero Jake Boer performed splendidly for the full eighty minutes with his trademark uncompromising ball-carrying catching the eye again and again; it was rather emotional hearing the legend’s name announced before kick-off with a resounding roar from the popular side indicating huge affection for this fabulous servant. Behind the pack Tom Voyce seemed more at home as a wing-threequarter while Freddie Burns, wearing '15', seemed full of spark and initiative. Alas, the team struggles at half back. David ‘Dave’ Lewis ran with vigour upon the sacred turf but his passing proved poor and a chance or two went begging. Carlos Spencer is off the pace and a shadow of his former elegant and inspirational self; time for the celebrated Kiwi to move on methinks.

Simply, Gloucester vs. Australia represented a cracking occasion. It was merry to attend a match where neither league points nor knock-out cup status were at stake and it certainly reminded me of the old days when this supporter would shout himself hoarse at a ‘mere’ friendly fixture. I’m growing tired of high pressure and mundane rugby football and Tuesday’s splendid event acted as a pleasing antidote to such humdrum fare.

You know this scene is very humdrum

The Coles went to the nearish and notable city of Bristol on Monday and packed plenty in; a monumental Chinese meal and a trip to @Bristol proved particular crowd pleasers. Personally, it was merry to shop in Fopp, my favoured music store chain which has an outlet at the bottom of Park Street. To be honest, I could have spent longer in there as racks and racks of utterly tempting treats costing as little as 3 or 5 British quids were beckoning me brazenly. I ended up purchasing Our Favourite Shop by The Style Council (as I only read glowing reports of this long player) and a Brazilian post-punk recording by the esteemed 1980s combo As Mercenarias called, rather apocalyptically, The Beginning of the End of the World. I quite like investigating Brazilian records; I have a theory that you can choose a genre (1960s psychedelia, synth-pop, funk, post-punk) and the canny South Americans were producing incredible variants on what their earnest British and American counterparts were crafting. They can play association football a bit too. The As Mercenarias album is fine but a bit shouty and hectic; I prefer my post-punk to convey mystery and gloom and an existential otherness.

Talking of post-punk (this isn’t thrown together, you realise), my favourite Fopp acquisition was a remarkably interesting tome, Totally Wired: Post-Punk Interviews and Overviews by Simon Reynolds. Essentially, this book is a companion volume to the splendid and indispensable Rip It Up but, instead of scholarly prose about that wonderful musical movement, consists of countless delightful interviews with key post-punk movers and shakers. There are too many highlights to mention but, as ever, anything coming out of Green Gartside’s mouth is worth listening to and I liked learning that all he listened to during his youth were recordings of John Peel shows which he’d play again and again during the week. Edwyn Collins wryly looks back at Orange Juice and is agreeably pithy; Steven Morris examines with a refreshing candour the myth of Joy Division and Ian Curtis; Phil Oakey scrutinises early Human League and the impact of sudden fame; Andy Gill, despite Gang of Four’s serious and stern image, emerges as self-deprecating and humorous; and Alan Rankine warmly observes the flawed genius of his Associates band-mate Billy Mackenzie. Totally Wired is a tremendous read and a glorious reminder of, in my opinion, the greatest, most challenging and important field of music that these shores have fostered and nurtured.

What are the implications of the club unit?

I’ve used the last day or three to view (on Digital Versatile Disc) a couple of feature films that for one reason or another I missed when the local and outstanding Guildhall Arts Centre proffered them recently. Both motion pictures possessed an association football theme.

The Damned United was based on the wondrous novel by David Peace and focussed on the infamous forty-four days that Brian Clough managed Leeds United in 1974. I preferred the book. Its pages successfully portrayed the fragility of Clough, his drinking, his insecurities, his reliance on the canny and level-headed Peter Taylor, his uncontrollable ego, his strutting arrogance and his undoubted genius. The feature proved mightily entertaining though. The remarkable casting needs to be saluted. The key characters of, inter alia, Don Revie, Billy Bremner and Taylor were represented accurately and wittily while Michael Sheen’s portrayal of Clough was utterly remarkable and completely mesmerizing. I noted and appreciated the film’s successful attempts to sum up soccer in the 1970s with its complex concoction of brutality and bewitching skills, muddy fields of play, the peeling paint of the stadia and array of multifaceted characters on and off the proverbial park. The Damned United (movie) was a pleasure, an agreeable and nostalgic glimpse at a footballing era that lacked the finesse and moneyed (excuse the pun) sheen of today’s sport but remains forty-four times more interesting.

Looking For Eric was tremendously pleasurable. I was concerned that veteran director Ken Loach had crossed the line into a rather gimmicky realm by making a film where the central character, downtrodden postman Eric Bishop, enjoys an imaginary relationship with retired footballing genius Eric Cantona. However, the two interact beautifully as the Frenchman offers up philosophical gems and more earthy maxims in advising the hapless Bishop to face up to a series of dismal circumstances. The postman’s relationships with his ex-wife, his stepsons, his daughter and his tight-knit colleagues are examined with warmth and intelligence and glimpses into a somewhat bleak life are handled tenderly and, while all the social-realist boxes are ticked, there are enough happy outcomes to warm the hardest of hearts. The interplay between a host of beautifully painted characters is exquisitely and subtly created and this viewer found the camaraderie and community spirit of Bishop’s friends especially striking. Several stunning set-pieces raise laughter, arouse fear or anguish and provoke thought while the final scenes, vivid and unusual, conclude the narrative really satisfyingly. Looking For Eric is an understated and lovingly constructed nugget and I recommend it willingly.

While my dreams decay

I don’t want to dwell too long on last night’s rugby union. My favoured club Gloucester appeared devoid of ideas and inspiration and lost heavily to a Wasps outfit that appeared mediocre and below par itself. It was, by a margin, the worst Wasps side I’ve seen at Kingsholm and they had the city on toast. Alas, I’m finding myself more and more adrift from the Gloucester club and am beginning to question why I continue to proffer it my support. Almost everything that I loved about the Kingsholm culture has either disappeared or been dramatically diluted as the years have passed. Back in the day I relished the genuinely witty and passionate crowd, heralded the committed, brave, steely (and defiantly local) characters on the park, and soaked up the history, the heritage, the uniqueness, the insouciant us-against-themness of the scene. What brings me to the terraces nowadays apart from force of habit? On Friday, the lack of imagination displayed by the players was overwhelming. I don’t doubt that several of the team were proud to wear the colours and demonstrated significant endeavour and enterprise but, alas, a tangible lack of game plan and a dubious selection of key players out of position stymied the city club’s attempts to win the fixture.

I envy the Saracens club from the south-east and I ne’er thought I’d type those words. They possess a coach with true vision, intelligence and an ability to think outside the box (our leader has an inability to think outside the box-kick) and has transformed an underachieving rabble into a real force in English rugby. The Gloucester club could really do with a Brendan Ventner; anyone with imagination or verve or creativity would be an improvement on the current regime, a team that dominated last season’s failure-dominated management structure but yet still, somehow, clings to power. I can see this proving a watershed season for my favoured team. Relegation is certainly possible and, I confess, an outcome that may not haunt this scribe too much. A season in the second tier did not seem to do Harlequin FC or Northampton any harm and this supporter would welcome the chance to rebuild the club’s infrastructure, shed the overpaid dross that permeates our squad, rediscover some of the values that drew me to Kingsholm in the first place, and allow a new and lively coaching panel (led by the ebullient Mark Mapletoft) to instil wit and excitement into our play. As things stand I care less and less with every defeat and I’m becoming worryingly laissez-faire about the present woes. I’m no recent arrival or fair weather fan and the organisation should note my increasing disappointment with and, sadly, lack of interest in a club I’ve supported for over thirty years.

Tonguehorns belched fire

Here is the Top Ten and I’m rather pleased with it. There’s a bit of dance music, some esoteric British aptitude/attitude and experimentalism, plenty of guitars and plenty of synthesisers, some hearts worn on sleeves and some curious meanderings that keep you guessing. These are recordings I return to again and again, old friends and worthy cohorts. I could cope quite happily with just these ten LPs for company and ne’er feel bored or unchallenged. Deciding which Sufjan Stevens album was my favourite proved tricky but the sheer class and majesty of Michigan won through.

1. Sufjan Stevens – Michigan

More breathy and less vigorous than Illinois. An understated classic teeming with subtle glimpses into ordinary lives and humble routines. Makes trailer parks and K-Mart jobs appear utterly mesmerizing. Contains countless unreservedly astounding and beautiful songs. Spine-tingling and essential.

2. Sufjan Stevens – Illinois

A colossal kitchen sink is dropped on the Prairie State from a considerable height; the resulting blast offers significant aural treasures. Songs about serial killers, superheroes and sightings of extraterrestrial craft intersperse with more personal reflections on death and self-discovery. Striking American songcraft dominates every second. Every home should possess this recording and play it at least fortnightly.

3. Midlake – The Trials of Van Occupanther

A delectable and rather unfashionable collection of songs transporting the listener into a strange other-world of isolated communities, hunting trips, hardship and youthful brides. Authentically bewitching.

4. Wilco – Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

Perfect songs galore. Uncompromising and belligerent and challenging and tuneful and gritty and poignant: a grateful audience genuflects.

5. Sufjan Stevens – Seven Swans

Weighty and reflective. Endorses the ‘less is more’ maxim with pared down arrangements supporting introspective musings and spiritual contemplations. Utterly beautiful.

6. Calexico – Feast Of Wire

A spectacular aural trip into sun-baked one horse towns and scorpion-infested desert-scapes. Evocative and resonant. Big, big music as wide and as awesome and as sweeping as a Monument Valley sunset.

7. Radiohead – Kid A

A guitar-free zone and convincing evidence that electronic music can proffer moving and emotional sentiments. Challenging yet reassuring; obtuse yet charismatic; otherworldly yet recognizable.

8. Scritti Politti – White Bead, Black Beer

Homemade treats. Tender, delicate and haunting lyrical offerings and soaring melodies. A plush pleasure from start to finish and - important this - a grower that throws up new hooks, new ideas with each spin.

9. Ryan Adams - Gold

Was playing this fellow’s Heartbreaker this morning and experiencing pangs of guilt that it hadn’t made the thirty. Gold deserves this high placing though. A storming and sprawling set of brooding and/or bombastic belters.

10. LCD Soundsystem – Sound of Silver

Sardonic wit and acerbic knowingness gleefully smothered in big beat beauty. Glorious songs about cultural differences, growing old and general world-weariness with the catchiest IDM rampaging in the background. All killer, no filler from the coolest man on the planet.

Green Moths Shivered

Here are the twentieth to the eleventh finest long playing records of the past decade (in the opinion of your humble host). As Radiohead crooned – but far too early to qualify for this list – ‘No surprises’. The Top Ten follows soon. Blazin' Squad, Scouting for Girls, Maroon 5, Does It Offend You Yeah? inter alia wait with bated breath.

11. Joan As Police Woman – Real Life
As 15. but wi’ a touch more sass and sizzle.

12. The Go-Betweens – Oceans Apart
A sumptuous farewell from the Antipodean Lennon and McCartney. The final contribution to a most peerless body of work. Dripping with wit and wonder and wisdom and wistfulness.

13. Beck – Modern Guilt
Elegant, breathy, neo-psychedelic ambience. A dazzling and challenging sonic gem.

14. Wilco – A Ghost Is Born
Distortion, nods to Krautrock, euphoria. Vital.

15. Joan as Police Woman – To Survive
Sultry perfection shimmering with coolness and melody and assurance.

16. Vampire Weekend – Vampire Weekend
Unashamedly smart, knowing and cerebral. More hooks than a very, very large cloakroom.

17. Boards of Canada – Geogaddi
Not for the fainthearted. Sinister and dark electronica as far removed from ‘chill-out’ as possible. An uneasy yet compelling listening experience. A disturbing masterpiece.

18. White Stripes – White Blood Cells
The wounded and obtuse cousin of 20. Percussive hammer blows underpinning growling guitars and frenzied vocals. A manic pop thrill.

19. Blur – Think Tank
A bewitching collection. Something original, refreshing and challenging reaching the ears every three and a half seconds.

20. The Strokes – Is This It
Skinny ties, Converse All-Stars, cheekbones, attitude, cool. Perfect pop song following perfect pop song following perfect pop song.

Midges Hovered

Was it really almost ten years since I cowered, trembling, expecting the Millennium Bug to cause planes to fall from the sky and nuclear power stations to go into meltdown? Where did that decade go? Whoosh... There’s been some wondrous music produced in that time period though. Having pored, brow furrowed, over Uncut’s 150 albums of the decade, I’ve drawn up a longlist of my own which, over the past few days, I’ve snipped away at and rearranged lovingly. Twenty or so (it has to be said) absolute belters have been discarded and I have constructed my Top Thirty favourite long players released since 1st January 2000. I have deliberately ignored any 2009 recordings; they are perhaps too fresh in the memory to analyse too minutely and, besides, I have the traditional album of the year to decide upon yet. This current year’s favoured sounds will be debated in December.

I shall announce my Top Thirty in three stages. Today I 'umbly present numbers thirty to twenty-one.

21. Kate Bush - Aerial
Whoops. Only three albums on the list are by womenfolk. Apologies to da sisters. Can you guess the other two, gentle reader? This is a clever-clever and compelling listen. Eccentric and eventful.

22. Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – Master And Everyone
See 25. More of the same but equally as inspiring.

23. The National – Alligator
Velvety tones mask dark subjects. Uplifting melancholia for hipsters.

24. Richard Hawley – Coles Corner
Epic and soaring songsmithery. Big voice and bags of charm.

25. Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – The Letting Go
Breathy acoustic joy. Fabulous backing vocals. Timeless loveliness. Beards.

26. Bon Iver – For Emma, Forever Ago
A surprise hit. Slow-burning classics of love and loss. Deer harmed in making of this album.

27. Beck – Sea Change

Nick Drake time-travels to 2002, has a bit of a haircut, and records fragile, wistful masterpiece.

28. Wilco – Sky Blue Sky
Fabulous first three songs followed by other gems. Cultured and elegant rock music.

29. Boards of Canada – The Campfire Headphase
Superb title. Electronic pastoral splendour with – shock! – guitars.

30. Fleet Foxes – Fleet Foxes
Harmonic and contemplative beauty. Echoes of Laurel Canyon at its finest.

Jake Boer witnessed in rugby crowd

I joined A at Kingsholm Stadium last evening; a last minute decision to attend the Gloucester club’s ‘A’ team fixture against counterparts from the Harlequin FC tempted me away from the warmth and comfort of the front parlour. I haven’t been to one of these fixtures for a while. I used to trot along to most of the old style United matches a few years ago and enjoyed spotting players on the way up and players on the way down – there were often several from both category. I made the fundamental error last evening (as did the noble A) of expecting to position myself in my usual spot in the popular side of the ground. As it happens, the entire crowd were given no choice; all sat in the new South Stand. It was comfortable and pleasing to witness the action from a different spot although the pillars are large and do block significant areas of the pitch. We ended up in front of the said columns and it was merry. The match itself was fairly uninspiring. Gloucester, despite being under the cosh, somehow contrived to turn round 14-7 in the lead but the more streetwise, well-drilled and, well, imposing visitors pulled ahead deservedly and comprehensively in the second half. Nobody caught the eye too dramatically but Freddie Burns showed a few classy touches, the centre Tim Molenaar occasionally ran with abrasiveness and intent while the home team’s openside, James Davies (I think) was busy and prominent in the face of a dominant Quins pack. Young Jonny May took his try nicely. It was pleasing to witness so many first team players in the seats supporting the fellows. The mighty Jake Boer was there, in earnest conversation with another legend of the blindside, Peter ‘Pete’ Glanville and ‘twas reassuring to consider the South African talisman is now, happily, back where he belongs.

Was it really murder? Were you just pretending?

Verily, gentle reader, it has proved a busy weekend. Last night proved late and giddy; a colleague’s wedding near the Welsh border entertained and diverted. This fellow is wan and delicate as a result. On Friday night – and it seems like ages ago to be honest – the crack squad of S, A and your humble host cascaded down to Bristol to attend a musical concert.

Girls were playing at a new venue for me, The Cooler Club on the mighty and pleasing Park Street and, I’ll tell you what, I haven’t enjoyed a gig as much for a long while. Girls aren’t, er, girls but an uber-hip collective of Californian fellows of varying hair length who proffer woozy and wistful and wondrous treats, drenched in melody and Beach Boys-esque harmonic brightness. Girls might be lo-fi. Their new album named, er, Album is currently the most-spun disc at Cole headquarters and this recording’s exotic slices of pop perfection sounded glorious in a tiny club and from a low stage. The intimacy of the recital took S and me back to the glory days when we’d check out up-an’-coming acts like Pixies and My Bloody Valentine in similar small arenas. Girls are slightly shambolic and lack the sheen and the tightness that arrive with rehearsal, rehearsal, rehearsal but they have tunes galore and it was charming and fascinating to witness a triumphant and very loud noise a couple of nights ago.

The vinyl front...here...

Well, the new scheme to set up a vinyl listening area is gathering pace. Earlier, during a visit to a local supermarket store, I purchased a home cinema surround system which I constructed with sagacity before plugging in my turntable. It sounds wonderful. Ironically, perhaps, the first song I blasted out of my new speakers was the sublime It’s Better This Way by The Associates from the peerless Sulk long player. I’ve also been spinning - literally, pop-pickers - some Go-Betweens and some Fall 33 and a third treats. The plan is to buy some ‘new’ vinyl soon. I browsed the racks in the city’s numerous charity stores yesterday and will begin my collection in earnest during the half term holidays. I expect Stroud or Cheltenham might have a few treasures hidden away in the rear of their Age Concerns and Oxfams. As I mentioned recently, I don’t really want any brand new products or recent releases but am keen to snaffle some old recordings, things I wouldn’t normally think of owning. A Glen Campbell Greatest Hits album caught this eye and I warmly held a Tony Bennett recording in the Mind shop which I contemplated owning. I may return.

And when a train goes by it's such a sad sound...

Gloucester’s narrow victory against on Friday against a limited and pretty ordinary Newport/Gwent Dragons collective was barely deserved. A late Nicky Robinson penalty snatched the spoils for the home side but the crowd filed out of the Kingsholm arena muted and with a hollow sensation that this season could prove long and arduous. It seemed as if Gloucester were fielding a scratch fifteen; any evidence of a team ethic was well hidden and it proved frustrating to witness a tangible lack of cohesion, passion and skill from my favoured side. I confess I look back to April 2003 and wonder what has gone so terribly wrong since then. The Powergen Cup winning side contained player after player that the club has emphatically failed to replace. The likes of Boer, Paramore, Forrester, Woodman, Vickery, Roncero, Gomarsall, Delport and, even, Mercier would have added grit, guile and class to Friday’s rabble. They are missed. Without players of that quality the club is heading ever downwards. I would also suggest that a coach with the wisdom and nous of Nigel Melville is equally as missed. The taciturn and over-pragmatic Ryan proved a barely adequate replacement for Melville, while all I hear from Brian Redpath are clichés and manager-speak. I don’t detect a hint of vision or strategy or inspiration beyond the obvious. Part of me would like some of the club’s highest earning players to depart at the end of the season and the resulting surplus spent on a visionary coach with a hard-nosed back-up staff who can construct a squad of hungry, zestful and talented youngsters underpinned by an experienced backbone of canny and proven performers. As things stand too many of our athletes are below par and straining to attain satisfactory status.

But when the music is loud, we all get down

The Cult proved a blast on Thursday night. It was pleasing to chalk up a new venue - Wolverhampton’s Civic Hall – and reassuring to realise how close said auditorium is to my home city of Merrie Gloucester. The concert showcased 1985’s classic Love album and the hits came thick and fast. Naturally, a highlight was the seminal She Sells Sanctuary but Nirvana, Big Neon Glitter and Phoenix all rocked triumphantly. Well-chosen and interesting video images accompanied the singing and the playing (being a champion of the smaller venue, I’m not used to all that multimedia malarkey) although at times the bleedin’ obvious was stated: during Rain there were some arty rain images, a wolf and a moon featured heavily during Brother Wolf, Sister Moon while the gathered crowd gasped at a montage of revolutionaries during Revolution. The band was tight and loud and cranked it up to eleven. The lead vocalist Ian Astbury was adorned with a Jim Morrison-esque beard and flowing locks; he spoke in an American drawl which was surprising for man born and raised in the Merseyside region. He was a bit silly. Billy Duffy, on the other hand, was a down to earth gentleman with his flat northern vowels and affable nature evident on the few occasions he addressed the throng. His guitar playing was fabulous; I’m not really a rock dude but I rated Duffy’s forceful and persuasive, er, axe-work. Some of the audience were old enough to know better; Gothic embellishments and styling are suitably distasteful at twenty but appear frankly ridiculous over the age of forty. Yuck.

CL

Uncut Magazine produced its 150th edition this month and celebrated with a list (‘Not another one!’ I hear certain hepcats sob) of the finest, in its opinion, 150 long playing albums of the first decade of the twenty-first century. Perhaps it was the impending end of the ‘noughties’ that prompted this register of recordings. Anyhow, it’s interesting enough although, not unexpectedly, a few of the decisions are open to debate. The list, which can be viewed here, contains no less than seven albums associated with Jack White and proffers respectful nods (perhaps a few too many?) to several old stagers (Dylan, Bowie, Waits, Cohen, Young, Thompson, Cash, Wilson). I’m disappointed that Sufjan Stevens’ Michigan or Illinois albums weren’t placed higher and that no room was found for the young prince of popular music’s bewitching Seven Swans. The wrong Go-Betweens long player was selected; Oceans Apart is a far more enjoyable and essential listen than the (admittedly very lovely) The Friends of Rachel Worth. There is quite a Wilco love-in (no bad thing) but I was surprised that Yankee Hotel Foxtrot wasn’t that combo’s highest placed effort and that A Ghost is Born was placed as high as third in the roster. I’ll think of my Top Ten of the decade soon or at least before the end of the year.

Theres a destination a little up the road from the habitations and the towns we know

I thought Wild Beasts were superb last night. S, A and I embarked on a noble and brave quest to journey from the calm and charm of our GL postcodes to the edgy city streets of Bristol and the fabulous venue known simply as the Thekla. It was fine to view such a compelling and original pop group in a compact and atmospheric arena. Wild Beasts provide epic, sweeping soundscapes utilising a persuasive combination of voices; the thrusting falsetto of Hayden Thorpe complements the croony, Scott Walkery tones of Tom Fleming earnestly and well. The songs from the band’s latest long player, Two Dancers, are elegiac, magisterial and, well, big and the small stage and the wonderful sound of the Thekla embellished these well-honed slices of art perfectly. Highlights included an imposing All The King’s Men and a striking Hooting And Hollering. The haircuts were splendid too; I particularly enjoyed the guitarist Ben Little’s angular quiff. This is an unusual group with real presence. The new album is packed with ostentatious treasures and it was merry to witness this young collection of hepcats proffering their delightful wares with such energy, wit and aptitude.

I note that little is happening gig-wise at the Gloucester Guildhall this autumn and this disappoints. I am pleased to report that tickets have been obtained for a couple of Bristol concerts though and I look forward to seeing The Fall and Girls soon. I am off to Wolverhampton on Thursday evening to witness The Cult showcasing their lively Love LP and I am happy to revisit my youth for an hour or so. I’m tempted by the tasteful and melodic Grizzly Bear at Bristol’s Anson Rooms in November too.

I made a compilation CD last night to play to my chums as we travelled on that Holy Trinity of motorways (M5, M4, M32) towards our recital. The song titles spelled out ‘Wild Beasts Thekla’ (I had a bit of time on my hands yesterday) and it was engaging to watch my comrades trying to guess each song from its intro and second-guessing what my next selection might be. I publish my setlist for posterity above.

A place we saw the lights turn low; Jigsaw jazz and the get-fresh flow

I am vaguely planning a scheme. I have loads of vinyl upstairs, long players galore that have not felt the delicate touch of a stylus upon their subtle grooves for years and years. Having said that, I’m not sure I want to play much of it. Plenty of it has been replaced by the new Compact Disc format or the even newer MPEG-Audio Layer 3 files. And plenty of it, it pains me to state, I have no great yearning to play anymore. My eighteen year old alter ego would have scoffed should you have remarked to him (perhaps as part of a science fictionesque time-travelling experiment) that one day there would no longer be any love in his heart for The Smiths but that’s the way it is. I purchased every Smiths recording on the day it was released for several years but, despite an occasional frisson of excitement when I hear This Charming Man, Hand In Glove or What Difference Does It Make? on the wireless, I no longer yearn for this combo’s numbers. I guess the same could be said for a few groups. Time and age have dulled my affection.

What’s my scheme then? I have a turntable and have today placed it (after giving it a ruddy good clean) in the summer house at the bottom of the garden. I’m going to get some speakers and turn this horticulturally-based space into a designated vinyl area. I’m tempted not to play any of my old vinyl but to start building a new collection from - excuse the pun - scratch. I don’t want to buy anything I can’t get on CD or MP3 as it is very convenient to play stuff I really want and admire and dig on my iPod or on the lounge’s hi-fi system. I scoured Gloucester’s charity shops this morning and browsed the vinyl on sale. There were of heaps of easy listening recordings that I’d quite like owning, lots of 80s synth pop and plenty of other so-out-it’s-in treasures. I sense that I only – please excuse the pun again – scratched the surface of what is available too. Car boot sales, eBay, junk shops and the myriad of charity shops that I didn’t visit must house tremendously exciting acquisitions. I’ll report back. I need some speakers first though.

Take off your watch, your rings and all

I was engaged by the feature film I watched last evening. S and I laconically strutted down Eastgate Street and, with not one backwards glance, entered Gloucester’s Guildhall Arts Centre in order to view Broken Embraces, the recent motion picture directed by Pedro Almodóvar. I enjoyed the fellow’s last feature, Volver, and its star Penelope Cruz sparkled again in Broken Embraces. Cruz plays a secretary-cum-call girl whose attempts to become an actress impact on a range of finely crafted characters. The plot is fascinating, full of twists and turns, while the varied personalities’ idiosyncrasies and nuances entwine with wit. It proved a fun and challenging hour or two.

I encountered a charming fellow in my local Cooperative Store this evening. P was in my year at school and I haven’t seen or spoken to him since 1984. It was pleasant to shake his hand (in the biscuit aisle) and chew the fat but it was vaguely unsettling to meet a chap after 25 years and be casually discussing the cricket score within just three minutes of crying ‘Halloa’.

Consumerism

An unwritten rule when ordering goods from online emporia dictates that one should never purchase just one item. Long playing records, like humankind, require mesmerizing travelling companions and should ne’er journey alone. I have pre-ordered the forthcoming Sufjan Stevens product that I mentioned here and have chosen the album called simply Album by the combo known succinctly as Girls to accompany it. Girls aren’t girls but a couple of California fellows with interesting pasts and, according to Friday’s Guardian, proffer bewitching sounds to a grateful listenership. Ever a sucker for my favoured journal’s five star reviews, I look forward gleefully to this disc’s arrival on the doormat.

I worry about Calmer*. This county’s most mesmerizing musical night out has gone all quiet and I note that no new shows are planned. A chat with young R of that organisation at Green Man (we met up by chance just before Wilco were about to stroll onto the stage) hinted that all was not well behind the scenes. I hope that any wheels that have come off are soon eased back on. Those who crave unusual and challenging sounds welcome Calmer* and its eclectic choices and would hate to lose it.

In the slipstream we will stay

The noble D, product of Newent School, informed me yesterday that my favourite band of the 1990s, Pavement, are reforming and are likely to tour next year. I shall keep ‘em peeled. I’d recommend Pavement to all hepcats. Their series of long players remains a peerless and enviable back catalogue. Their debut, Slanted and Enchanted, is a classic example of an album that, on first hearing, appears impenetrable, difficult, dense and, er, dreadful only for its melodic genius, wry wit and life-affirming wistful beauty to become revealed after several plays. If any hepcats with no knowledge of this band have half a day or so to spare then I recommend giving Slanted and Enchanted six or seven plays in a row and experiencing the ride from ‘What was that rubbish?’ to ’I can’t live wi’out this remarkable long playing album!’. My favourite Pavement LP, and I know the cognoscenti will be raising a collective eyebrow and narrowing a collective eye, is Brighten the Corners which is a bewitching collection of longer, almost anthemic, beauties. Wowee Zowee is a patchier recording but it does contain my two of my favourite Pavement songs, Rattled By The Rush and Father To A Sister Of A Thought. My favourite Pavement song is called simply Here. This is a majestic band. This is a majestic band.

The two male Coles travelled to nearby Tewkesbury on Friday night to see a feature film at the Roses Theatre. Moon proved a fascinating slice of science fiction, a bleak vision of loneliness, despair and bewilderment. The ending was clever – but not complex – and was very affecting on a human level (which, I guess, all good sci-fi should aspire to). I won’t publish any plot-spoilers as this feature will be at the Gloucester Guildhall in a few weeks and I know a few of the gentle people who pass by these pages will be attending. I recommend this feature.

The rugby football was dreary yesterday. I can cope with the Gloucester club of Gloucester losing but not in the lacklustre manner that they capitulated to a very ordinary Northampton side. I sense it might prove a long and difficult season for my favoured club. We struggle without the guile and grace of Morgan and the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, behind the scrum and the terrier-like vivacity of Hazell at the breakdown. The side desperately requires a classy scrum-half. Neither David ‘Dave’ Lewis (too small and predictable) or Rory Lawson (gritty but limited) possess enough class to lift the team and orchestrate play.

Demise

Word reaches these ears that the charming monthly musical club, Acoustica, has hosted its last evening and won’t be returning for a new season o’ shows this autumn. This is a shame. I’m unsure why the shows aren’t continuing but, I suppose, such a niche evening is never going to draw the large crowds required by the Gloucester Guildhall to keep the coffers full. I’ve had some great times at Acoustica. The host, the affable A, always provided a warm welcome and, over the years, proffered some wondrous acts to a grateful crowd. I think the Coles’ first ever Acoustica featured a classy and charismatic Boo Hewerdine and our last visit, earlier this year, saw an earnest Chumbawamba present a challenging and melodic set. I doff my cap at this event and mourn its passing. As a tribute, here’s a few of my mumblings about Acoustica over the years:

Bela Emerson - January 2006

Thomas Truax - February 2007

David Ford - December 2007

Upwards to the vanguard where the pressure is too high

I’m afraid my interest in the Mercury Music Prize is diminishing wi’ the passing of every year. The last three awards have disappointed. Two years ago the very ordinary Klaxons picked up the gong, twelve months ago the worthy enough Elbow won the prize but at the expense of the remarkable Burial and last week Speech Debelle vanquished to a sigh and a muttered ‘hmm’ from this scribe. To be fair, the vast majority of the 2009 nominees underwhelmed. Looking back at the list of previous winners, only Portishead’s Dummy (1995) and the first Franz Ferdinand long player (2004) really catch the eye as deserved prize winners.

I am intrigued by this thread on the wondrous Word Magazine website that ruminates on the plethora of fabulous long players released thirty years ago in 1979 (I can do maths, me) and debates what the winner of the Mercury Prize would have been that year. I do enjoy a hearty hypothetical question. For the record, my choice would have been Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures with earnest mentions in despatches for Metal Box by Public Image Ltd., The Specials’ self-titled debut, Gang of Four's Entertainment, The Clash’s London Calling and The Fall’s Live at the Witch Trials. I do think that there is so much fabulous music around these days but a brief scan of the nuggets available back in ’79 does make me consider that any golden age of long playing recordings may be firmly in the past.

It was dark as I drove the point home

Three Coles attended an evening of musical comedy last Thursday. The nearby spa town, Cheltenham, hosted a fellow called Tim Minchin. The kids love him. The Antipodean chap has a rock star look and aspect and he delivers witty, pithy, occasionally angry songs which he accompanies on pianoforte or guitar. A decent proportion of his act consists of stand-up repartee and even some poetry. The audience were lapping it all up and rendered acclaim and near adoration at the end of the show. Alas, my reaction proved muted in comparison. At comedy nights I like to receive a decent number of figurative bangs for my, er, metaphorical buck and, although I nodded wistfully at times (I appreciated and shared his views on religion in particular), I merely chortled out loud on a humble brace of occasions. Minchin’s charm and image are a bit too studied for my taste, his targets too easy, his audience’s leanings and world view too simple to gauge and feed. Ultimately, cynically heaping scorn on spiritual matters, ill thought out superstition or our leaders’ political failings equated to shooting fish in a barrel. There’s no doubting Minchin’s popularity and I’m sure that if I was sixteen and three quarters, I’d have been lapping it up. But I have seen better and have been more challenged and I'm forty-three and three quarters. File under ‘Talented but a tad obvious’.

What the water wants is hurricanes and sailboats to ride on its back

I note with interest that the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens, is playing New York’s All Tomorrows Parties festival this evening. And, gasp, 'e is performing the peerless Seven Swans album in its entirety. My word, I would love to be in attendance. The fellow then appears to be touring North America. I hope he considers Europe soon. New Stevens product hits the stores next month. The enigmatic and engaging talent releases a short film (shot by himself on Super 8 and Standard 16 film) about, of all things, New York’s Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Stevens’ orchestral soundtrack accompanies the moving images. Preternaturally I took the above photograph myself back in the Eastertide. I would have welcomed a collection of more traditional popular songs from my favourite artist but beggars can’t be choosers, y’know wha’ I mean?

These 'umble syllables were typed into (onto? upon? across?) the wondrously useful Microsoft Word facility whilst listening, awestruck, to Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky. I don’t want to open a ‘what are the best three opening tracks on a long player ever’ debate (or maybe I do) but this recording’s Either Way, You Are My Face and Impossible Germany are about as good as it gets. Beautiful music.

I'm hiding out in the big city blinking

Gloucester 24 - Bath 5

I salute and acknowledge my favoured rugby union outfit known the world over as 'Gloucester'. This punter lacked a touch of confidence before today’s home derby fixture against Bath Rugby. He considered the powerful front five and slick offloading game of our opponents would prove too, er, powerful and slick for our lads to deal wi’. I apologise unreservedly for referring to myself in the third person in the last two sentences; I blame the excitement of the past few hours which was tangible and mighty. I am thrilled with the manner in which the home side played. The overall performance was, happily, enhanced by every player from one to fifteen and it was fabulous to witness a pleasing team ethic. I doff my hat to Nicholas ‘Nicky’ Robinson, wearing the fabled ten shirt on his competitive debut and running the show with grace, style and intelligence; it was compelling to view a Gloucester outside-half ‘boss’ a game with such composure and reassuring to witness shrewd and thoughtful decisions being made by the Welsh Wizard at key points in the match. He ran with élan, passed wittily and ambitiously and kicked for touch with skill and for the uprights with accuracy. His proved a fine debut. Elsewhere there were heroes galore to recognise. I’d like to single out Young/Big (take your pick) Dave Attwood who impressed last week and took his smashing form into today’s contest. His rugged and uncompromising rampaging and doughty adherence to the basics of the shove of the scrums and the leap of the lines-out caught this eye merrily. Other players wearing the cherry for the first time did well too. Eliota Fuimaono-Sapolu was a handful in midfield with thrusting gallops and forceful forcefulness while another former Bath favourite, Tom Voyce, impressed with a steady and bright outing at full back. Old heroes were splendid too and I noted the elegant way the young prince, Simpson-Daniel took his brace of tries and the commitment shown by gnarled veterans Hazel, Brown and Somerville. I hope today’s performance will prove a catalyst for finer play and even more pleasant results. Hurrah!

The birds swoop down upon the crosses of old grey churches

The first weekend of a new year at work and it is good to take it fairly easy. I’m really looking forward to an evening of Beatles-related televisual programmes on the BBC tonight. I think it might be Beatles week for some reason or other. Is it because Apple is releasing all the Fab Four albums in remastered format? Or has the new Beatles Rock Band video game got anything to with it? Maybe the 40th anniversary of the part-genius (Something, Sun King, the ‘long medley’), part-stinker (Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, Octopus’s Garden) Abbey Road long player is the catalyst? No matter. I can happily sit through any number of Beatles documentaries.

The new Prefab Sprout album was waiting for me when I returned home from work yesterday afternoon. I’d pre-ordered Let’s Change The World With Music ages ago and had forgotten all about its impending release. The reviews in the press have proved universally positive and it is a fine and interesting recording. The album, however, sounds precisely how I expected it to and while appreciating the generic Prefab Sprout sound - well-crafted melodies, crisply vocalised wi' clever-clever lyrics - I’m questioning how badly the world needed this collection. Perhaps further listens will improve my opinion.

Westmoreland Corker

Thoughts turn to my favoured long playing records of 2009 and a brace of splendid recent beauties that hail, remarkably, from the shores of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. American recordings have come to dominate my turntables an’ devices so I’m chuffed to bits for the two acts I’m about to laud. Well done.

Wild Beasts hail from Kendal within the northern landscapes. They are neither beasts nor wild (I hope) but they do produce shimmering pop perfection that sends shivers down spines. Their recording is named Two Dancers. This is self-consciously pompous music (no bad thing), fusing enigmatic and swaggering fancy-compositions with the electrifying falsetto of no-shrinking-violet lead vocalist Hayden Thorpe. The closest comparison to Thorpe’s vocal antics that I can proffer is the high-pitched wonderment of the late, great Billy Mackenzie o’ The Associates; plenty of the glamour, ambition and insouciance of these Wild Beast songs reflect merrily the work of that fine Scottish combo of yore. These are songs to shoegaze to, songs to sway to, songs to smile at and with. It’s a splendidly unusual album. Presently I’m enjoying every second.

Slightly more traditional aural fare comes from a group who wowed me at the Green Man Festival and, indeed, the long player that I lovingly spin so often was purchased at said event. The Leisure Society’s The Sleeper is a sweeping and elegiac, er, sweep of acoustic elegance aided and abetted by sensuous string sensations and a wee bit of flute action. Soaring melodies and splendid orchestrations dominate these slightly bucolic and autumnal tracks that one could lazily deem ‘chamber pop’. This is simply a very pretty album packed with gorgeous and rather literate songs. I recommend.

Oh, but my blessings get so blurred

Pre-season rugby union friendlies remain strange beasts. It is all too easy to swoop upon a smashing victory, glow in optimistic fervour for a week, earnestly predict a campaign to rate among the greatest, only to be blown away a week later by an unfancied outfit. The opposite can occur also. Wailing and gnashing of teeth can accompany the referee’s shrill blast for no-side after a disappointing defeat only for the team to turn things round munificently in the first match that counts. I hope that this will be the case after Gloucester’s defeat to a lively Ospreys fifteen at Kingsholm yesterday. This punter enjoyed the experience though. The first half was a fairly turgid ‘appening enriched by a latish Charlie Sharples try. Not a lot clicked for the home team although Dave Attwood looked a splendid acquisition. The former Bristol inhabitant-o’-the-engine-room took line-out ball with insouciant ease but, importantly, galloped around the paddock with uncompromising zeal and used his undeniable bulk to sizeable effect. I rate him. The second half contained more shape and the cherry and whites attacked with a touch more creativity and, although gifting the visitors a late try and a (possibly) deserved win, proffered an expectant throng a few treats and hints of encouraging times to come. I’m most pleased with our signing from the forgotten wastelands of Nottingham, centre Tim Molenaar, who demonstrated more aggression, verve, energy, thrust and threat in twenty minutes than his illustrious colleague Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall managed in sixty. This fellow could prove a super signing; I can see his rasping, no-nonsense approach becoming a thorn in the side of unsuspecting opposition midfields. Young Freddie Burns looked composed, elegant and creative during his tenure at full back and, when chasing the game with seconds to go, appeared to be full of ideas and wit and guile. Nicky Robinson seemed assured at ten; some of his kicking for touch was marvellous. Most of the other players were satisfactory or better but the forwards lacked a hint of grunt at times and I expected more of the Fijian flyer, Qera, who contributed little and seems a shadow of the explosive force who galloped into our imaginations with such vigour a year and a half ago. Effectively, though, more positives emerged from yesterday’s battle than negatives and if the result was disappointing, it was merry to stand with comrades after a month or three away, and appreciate wry banter and fun. I enjoyed the event.

Turf Wars

It was touch and go this year but I’m giving that lot over in Kingsholm Village another chance. I purchased my 23rd (I think) season ticket an hour ago; this product permits me entry to the home football (rugby union code, verily) matches contested by the Gloucester club of Gloucester this term and I look forward to using it wisely. Last season left a bitter taste in this mouth – as growled elsewhere – but I’m hoping the canny and charismatic coaching Celt, Brian Redpath can instil some pride in the ‘istoric shirt and allow the players to display their expressionistic sides more often. As ever, I look forward to witnessing the prowess of new players. Young Dave Attwood of Bristol, a lock forward, is my tip to make an unexpected impact on the first team this season. From what I have read, he’s the sort of hungry, talented athlete we require at the noble club. No superstars here please. The classy Nicky Robinson should run things with erudition and a wry wit from the outside half berth; the side kept faith with the skilled but ultimately unsatisfactory Lamb for too long and it’ll merry to witness a proven playmaker at work. And could young Henry Trinder’s star rise this year? Shrewder judges than me consider him to possess similar magical skills to the young prince, Simpson-Daniel. We shall see. I think Gloucester will do well this year, better than many guides and gurus have predicted. Leicester appear to be the leading club still but my local outfit sits defiantly amid several that could challenge for honours with a fair wind and a coquettish wink from Lady Luck. I salute the Gloucester players. Good luck, fellows. Don't let me down again.

Put on your headphones before you explode

My brief sojourn to our nation’s capital has drawn to a close. The main purpose of the visit was to attend Wilco’s concert at Limehouse’s exotic and classy Troxy. Essentially, the combo played a similar albeit a touch longer set to the one proffered to the Green Man hordes. It was nice to be seated. The admirable D (who took the charming top photo on his mobile telephone) had procured balcony seats and the view of Tweedy (celebrating his birthday wi’ fervour) and his able cohorts was merry and clear. Having eulogised this group during my last but one posting it would prove a tad dull to repeat my acknowledgements. My favourite Wilco song, Jesus Etc. sounded glorious and I do appreciate the newer material. No hint of sullenness could be detected upon my exultant comrade D’s face but I know he was crying out for an Ashes of American Flags. Maybe next time. I didn’t buy a hat afterwards.

Earlier that day (Tuesday) I trotted on my Jack Jones (as the Cockneys bark rather gracelessly on the city’s streets) to a new place for me, the Imperial War Museum. I found this a remarkable building, full of fascinating exhibits and tremendously moving subjects. Importantly, war didn’t seem to be glorified in the museum’s rooms but merely reported with intelligence, sensitivity and insight. The holocaust exhibition was especially poignant and told the history of this gruesome period simply and with an arresting clarity. I enjoyed the look at the Cold War and the wealth of material examining the two World Wars was overwhelming. I found the personal tales from the Home Front really touching. This is a superb museum and I recommend it.

It took me years to write, will you take a look?

I salute the Green Man Festival’s literature tent. I can’t recall if there was such a marquee on either of my previous visits to this event, possibly because I was spending most of my time shivering and slopping through mud while bearing a dark demeanour of despair and disillusionment. This time I patronised the tent with energy. The hour and a half spent listening to the remarkable Joe Boyd speak of his varied 1960s encounters with the Dylans, Drakes and Thompsons. The (folk-) rock Zelig talked with the warmth and passion of a fan and it was, well, chilling to reflect that standing before us was the fellow who sat alone with a nervous Nicholas “Nick” Drake and listened to the troubled troubadour play his early songs. The event was extra special because the wonderful Robin Hitchcock interspersed the narrative by performing key songs from Boyd’s career as a producer and record company man. It was enchanting and worth the admission fee alone. The hour with Jah Wobble was fabulous too. The former PIL bassist was honest and humorous and pored over a intriguing life (punk, violence, drug addiction and tube train driving) with an effervescent East End, er, effervescence. I wanted to buy his book but it sold out. Christmas maybe. Also caught in this tent were Keith Allen (hugely entertaining), Will Hodgkinson (very earnest) and David Thomas of Pere Ubu (demonic).

Here are some captions to the above pictures. They look small but a click works wonders. They then grow. :

1. Left to right - Robin Hitchcock, Joe Boyd, a pillar

2. Jah Wobble talking about stuff

I'm outta here. London's swanky streets beckon. The elegant D waits for me there. We join the capital's hepcats tonight for a Wilco concert party. I can't wait to see this combo again. I might have my hair cut first.

Refreshed

No welcoming committees or reverential banners lined the ‘istoric city streets of Gloucester but A and I arrived back from the Green Man Festival in the early hours of this morning. It was a low key return witnessed only by the furtive creatures of the shadows. The gentle and kindly fellow was a late replacement for all three Cole females; illness had scuppered their plans to accompany me.

Where to begin? Well, I have plenty to report and I may have to write a bit today and bit more on the morrow. I am wan and weary but keen to post.

I think I can speak for my comrade in proclaiming Green Man 2009 as one of the finest festival experiences ever. After a brace of disheartening wash-outs I was hoping only for fine weather and was ready to salute anything else as a pleasing bonus. Merrily, the sun shone and the site remained dry and there were bonuses galore. The whole vibe of the place was majestic. More kindred spirits thronged the arenas and alleyways than one could shake a Word Magazine subscription form at and the overwhelming friendliness of all Green Manners led to some tremendous chummy chats and the making of some pleasing new pals. Funnily enough, the fifth Ashes Test bonded many a hipster. With thrilling events at the Oval distracting plenty of cats, trannies were pressed to ears and conversations about cricketing matters were manifold. Comradeships galore were nurtured over debates over whether one or two spinners were needed and who should comprise the home side’s middle order. It was so gloriously English and rather beautiful and when the peerless urn was finally reclaimed by a brave eleven, the euphoria proved tangible.

With one or two exceptions (the moribund and uninspiring Roky Erickson and the disappointingly sterile Animal Collective), the music was consistently bewitching, challenging and – important word this – entertaining. “Highlights?” you ask with just a hint of impatience, and rightly so. For me, the most tremendous hour and a half was provided by a sensational Wilco weaving warmth, wisdom and wistful wonder underpinned by charming and exquisite musical skills. This is a remarkable beat combo able to proffer unusual and unconventional soundscapes within fairly traditional country rock terms of reference. I’d bestow ‘essential’ status upon the gnarled Jeff Tweedy and his adroit players. I commend Wilco’s compelling and wondrous numbers to all hepcats. They were remarkable last evening.

If Tweedy (on behalf of the whole band) bounds proudly onto the Cole podium to claim a gold medal for a mesmerising set, who receives the other prizes? Earnest Bon Iver would collect a worthy silver for a stunning quiet-is-the-new-loud performance. Justin Vernon’s renditions of his fragile and reflective masterpieces (against the odds, really, considering how quiet and introspective his songs are) managed to subtly captivate a huge Saturday night crowd with an understated swagger and poise. Bagging a bronze would be the Phantom Band who didn’t exactly exude rock star cool but banged out belter after belter to a remarkably receptive and animated crowd. This affable Scottish collective conjure up magical and textured gems, mixing krautrock sturm und drang wi’ captivating rock riddims. They were fabulous and graced the main stage like old troopers.

Plenty of other acts caught the eye and ear. Grizzly Bear were tremendous value; they harmonised sumptuously and tendered multi-layered brilliance. British Sea Power were as energetic and quirky as ever. Beach House’s studied sonic sensitivities soared smoothly. And I loved the Leisure Society’s affable, raffish allure; this group’s ultra-melodic treasures had me sprinting towards the Rough Trade record store soon after they had finished in order to purchase their latest long player. Heck, it was (almost, almost) all splendid.

I'll write more soon. Glance confidently above for pictures. They, as ever, grow cleverly if clicked. I provide captions:

1. Your host in relaxed mode near the Green Man Cafe stage. All the gentlefolk on the table were charming (even the Cardiff Blues rugby fan sat opposite me) and were desperate for cricket knowledge. England were one wicket away from scooping the Ashes when this photo was taken.

2. A

3. Wilco...Wilco...Wilco

There is a view that reaches far where we see the universe; I see the fire, I see the end

I took my girls to Gloucester Cathedral this afternoon for a tour of the tall tower. We climbed 269 narrow steps going up and 269 coming down again but ‘twas worth it. On the way up our guide showed us the belfry and we were only a yard or two from the twelve cathedral bells as they struck to announce the third hour post meridian. Eventually we emerged at the very highest point of the historic building and appreciated splendid views. On a clear day one is supposed to be able to see for forty miles and it was bright and sunny today so it was a tremendous vista. Naturally most landmarks were easy to spot although we ambitiously tried to find our house (from which we can see the cathedral) but were thwarted. It is a fine way to spend an hour or so and I recommend the whole tower tour scene. The Whispering Gallery at Gloucester Cathedral is pleasing too.

I took the above photographs earlier. As ever, clicking on the pictures will make them grow and become mighty. Here are captions looking from top to bottom.

1. A kestrel’s view of the nave

2. The famed rugby union stadium at Kingsholm. And a UFO.

3. The top

4. A view from below

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I supped a few ales with S last evening in the centre of the metropolis that gentlefolk and less-than-gentlefolk, in hushed and deferential tones, call ‘Gloucester’. Our first port of call was a new inn for this punter. Robert Raikes’s House has been done up rather tastefully and, I observe, at no little expense. The courtyard at the back is rather charming and I’m pleased that my city boasts such an elegant area in which to sit and imbibe. I salute this hostelry. In my youth, it was known as the Golden Cross, and one of the first places I drank in as an earnest and wry sixth form student. The Cross was connected to my favourite pub, the now defunct Malt ‘n’ Hops, via a miniature yard and the adolescent popinjays and dandies could spend Saturday night parading flamboyantly between both inns. The Golden Cross attracted a slightly rougher crowd; the Hops exuded cool. If I am correct, the Robert Raikes’s House courtyard is geographically where the Malt ‘n’ Hops used to stand. Memories.

Our second and final destination also has a place in my past. The Café Rene was, when I were a juvenile, the Inner Court Wine Bar, a vaguely underused venue for drinking but characterful and interesting nonetheless. I don’t dislike the Rene but I am not as fond as I used to be of this place. The beer was a touch below par last night and, as S and I agreed, this isn’t as remarkable a drinking den as it likes to think it is. I ended the evening pouring a Red Stripe or two down my ageing neck which my tender head regrets a day later. It had proved a pleasant session though.

Pumped up full of vitamins on account of all the seriousness

I’ve read well this summer and have sucked the marrow from a wide range of tomes from contemporary fodder to famed humorous charmer to gritty detective, er, grit to evergreen children’s classic. I should mention, in more detail, a brace of sporting volumes that have brought particular pleasure.

Norman Mailer’s The Fight is ostensibly an account of the Zaire-hosted 1974 Muhammad Ali - George Foreman heavyweight boxing contest but proffers the reader so much more. The book is split into two parts. The Dead Are Dying Of Thirst examines the build-up to the bout, the training, the sparring, the political machinations of the media and, most interesting of all, the social structure of a newish nation; N’Golo is a touch shorter but utterly compelling and comprises an almost blow-by-blow account of the so-called Rumble in the Jungle (an expression Mailer uses once or twice only). Utilising unprecedented access to both pugilists, the writer paints such persuasive portraits of the egotistic yet complex Ali and the more sensitive and brooding Foreman that when the two clash under the Kinshasa stars one is able to consider a confrontation between two fascinating, well, humans as well as two primed athletes. The Fight is first rate journalism, unusually phrased at times (Mailer often refers to himself in the third person) and is splendidly informative as well as exquisitely thrilling (despite one knowing the result) during the rounds of the fight itself. Recommended.

Mike Burton’s Never Stay Down is possibly my favourite sports book ever and a must for any supporter of the famed Gloucester rugby side. I confess the sentimentalist in me is blinking away the tears from the first page where gnarled Kingsholm legend Digger Morris towers over the teenaged Burton, crocked and supine, during a physical junior fixture and offers the uncompromising advice that lends the book its title and underpins the hero’s at times controversial approach to the sport. I am with my fabled comrade D, the pride o’ Newent, in holding great affection for the chapter entitled We The Undersigned; The Gloucester Story which offers an bewitching insight into the club’s amateur era of the 1960s and 1970s when just pulling on the cherry and white shirt meant the world to its players and the only tangible rewards were the support of a proud city and the comradeship of true friends. Elsewhere Burton earnestly contemplates his careers with England and the Lions and considers, ruefully at times, his abrasive and notorious style of play. Burton never took a backwards step, never avoided confrontation, never – after the Digger’s rugged intervention - stayed down. The chapters bearing the titles Off! Off! and Props and Punchers are each split into parts one and two such is the wealth of fisticuff-based anecdotal splendour the author (aided and abetted by the peerless Stephen Jones) provides for the grateful reader. I just missed seeing Burton play (he retired in the spring of 1978, a matter of months before I entered the glorious stadium for the first time) but, in a way, Never Stay Down represents my truest feelings for the club that I admire for its recent ability to flourish in a commercial and professional era but love for the old-fashioned, raw, hard-nosed ethos that existed before anyone standing in the popular side had heard of salary caps or experimental law variations. This is a superb book.