Smells Like Team Spirit

I was lucky enough to borrow a video of the last Gloucester match against Worcester which I viewed voraciously last evening. The Simpson-Daniel try (which I watched again and again thanks to this new-fangled and rather spiffing videotape technology) was simply beautiful. Lamb’s jink through the defence was artful and a slight movement inside bamboozled the Worcester defence sufficiently to create enough space for Richards and ‘Sinbad’ to force the score. The whole thing deserved its own South Bank Show. For a while, Gloucester had visited the visitors’ 22 twice and scored two tries – most encouraging. I was also heartened to see the Gloucester bench leaping around like, well, fans when Gloucester had worked their touchdowns. It seems that team spirit is fine at the moment.

Saris

A busy week indeed and neither time nor energy to post on here. I am looking forward to the Bank Holiday weekend with relish not least because I'll be able to stay up late on Sunday and watch Curb Your Enthusiasm on More4 without thinking that I should really be hooking some kip ready for another shift at work. I think the Coles might be sampling some Point to Point horse racing on Monday and buoyed by my success in the Grand National I anticipate further riches heading my way. I wonder if publications like the Racing Post offer form guides for such meetings? Anybody know?

I spoke to the guy from Oxfam yesterday and have secured passes for the Saturday and Sunday at the Wychwood Festival. His broad Yorkshire accent made me ask him to repeat what he desired me to do but it transpired that I hadn't misheard him and I shall be flogging Indian saris.

A note to Adam from the Chronicle: thanks for the non-rugby posting that will have confused 90% of the KC regulars (Green Man? Who did he play for?) and I shall certainly consider that event. The affable 'S', a regular initial on these pages, is a fan of the Green Man and has been known to twist my arm about attending too.

'Lex Go Crazy

A year would not be complete without a jaunt to see the mighty Calexico and, my goodness, the word was out on Friday night with sixteen hundred enthusiastic followers packing the Bristol Academy to the rafters. The songs were as stunning as ever, a mixture of the trademark Calexico sound, evocative, sparse and atmospheric, and the knowing and intelligent material that dominates the recent and heartily life-affirming recording, Garden Ruin. The musicianship was as perfect as ever, underpinned by a fabulous rhythm section and augmented by layer after layer of joyous sounds. Simply, the group knows how to entertain. This is not a po-faced set of musicians showing off their skills; the humanity, exuberance and passion of the collective just engages the audience and rubs off on it relentlessly. I love this band. Iron and Wine were understated, thoughtful and proved that quiet is the new loud; their/his tender, balladic, oft religious offerings were worthwhile and worthy. A smashing little cameo by the expressive and hugely likeable Flamenco guitarist and singer Salvador Duran, all clicks, quirky animal noises and he-man strumming, completed the bill. More than once I gazed up at the stage where a dozen rare talents were weaving the most delirious wall of sound and reflected on my good fortune. This was a marvellous evening and I shall certainly be there next time.

The prescient S has always maintained that should Vashti Bunyan ever tour then St. George’s Hall, Bristol would be inked in as a venue. By huge chance I picked up a flyer off the pavement last night and discovered to my immense glee that the breathy chanteuse is bringing her intimate and pastoral sounds to that very venue at the start of June. Four tickets were acquired this morning via the worldwide web; all concerned can hardly wait.

Saturday was certainly busy. As usual, the morning was spent in Oxfam, shuffling between warehouse and shop-floor, selecting, pricing and putting out the paperbacks and stocking the shelves with the fiction – mostly – of my choice. I do enjoy that gentle hour or so each week. I found a cracking moleskin duffle coat on one of the racks out the back; it is a sort of camel colour and a touch large but I felt it was ‘me’ so snapped it up. With warmer weather approaching I doubt if I’ll wear it before the autumn but it shall certainly grace my wardrobe until then.

Gloucester’s 31-23 victory against Worcester propelled the famed city club into a European final, rugby’s equivalent, I guess, of the association code’s UEFA Cup. In many ways, this fixture was a carbon copy of last weekend’s league match against the same opponents; the young guns combined to set up some sparkling scores, Worcester fought back with a dogged belligerence and Gloucester’s fitness and undoubted class clinched it in the last quarter through a Mark Foster touchdown. Ryan Lamb’s swagger and reading of the game were delightful again and indicated a maturity and poise beyond his teen years. His sniping run through a canny Worcester defence, clever cut inside to draw more defenders and stunningly timed pass to the earnest and alert Richards not only led to a Simpson-Daniel try but justified, in a fleeting yet beautiful moment or two, the couple of hundred knicker I coughed up for my season ticket back in August. If that were not enough, the vision to spot Foster loitering on the left late on and pick him out with a sublimely judged crosskick was art too. I got home in time to listen to some post-match interviews on BBC Radio Gloucestershire and Foster, articulate and interesting it has to be said, described his try-creating kick as ‘world class’. And who am I to disagree? My only regret is that there are only a handful of games left this season to appreciate the riches that are bestowed upon us lucky punters.

Ruin

I have been playing Garden Ruin, the new Calexico album in preparation for tomorrow night’s concert in Bristol. I must say that my feelings generally match that of The Guardian’s reviewer who notes its stripped-back sound which is underpinned by the fine songwriting one would expect from the band. Comparisons are also made to Crowded House which worried me at first but on hearing I could appreciate the similarity while quietly enjoying the plaintive melodies that suggest the Finn Bros’ more mature moments. Garden Ruin is a charming collection of songs and I recommend it.

I am sad to see Phil Vickery leave the Gloucester club. I have watched him grow up really, from a coltish teen galloping around the turf to the established international, every inch the elder statesman – but with that coltish teen never far from the surface. At the end, the sums just didn’t add up and, as a supporter paying his annual dues, I can understand that the return of ten or so games a year on a mighty salary could no longer be justified. I wish him well though. Few players have shown Vickery’s amount of energy and passion over recent years. He surely merits 'Kingsholm Legend' status. Good luck, Phil – and thank you.

Come on Children!

Since Steve Lamacq took over the BBC 6Music early evening show it has become a bit more ‘indie’: I much preferred the eclectic mix of songs, ancient and modern, provided by Andrew Collins. However, as I washed up tonight, he did spin Lazy Sunday by The Small Faces which raised a cheery grin as I’m currently reading All Too Beautiful, a Steve Marriott biography written by key-mod-scribe Paolo Hewitt. It’s a fascinating tome that really conveys the austerity of the post-war East End that Mariott grew up in which contrasts keenly with the vibrant Mod scene of the sixties that he went on to rule. Apparently Marriott hated Lazy Sunday and only recorded it as a bit of a laugh to show how ‘cockney’ he could sound: the need to be taken seriously dominated the Small Faces’ career and they constantly worried that they were merely regarded as a bit of a novelty act. I’m onto Marriott’s Humble Pie career now; less fulfilling simply because I have never heard any of that their stuff and I confess that, from descriptions in the text, it appears to be the turgid unmelodic hard rock that I’d dislike. I am promised a rags-to-riches-to-rags story and I suppose I am still on the ‘riches’ section; I’ll stick with it so I can voyeuristically sneak a peak at Marriott’s descent into mental illness, poverty and the most terrible accidental death.

There are some cracking Small Faces clips on www.youtube.com. The promotional films for Itchycoo Park and Lazy Sunday are the sunny, long-haired, psychedelic gems you’d expect while the band miming to All or Nothing in monochrome splendour is the coolest thing you’ll ever set eyes on. Here’s a tip though: just search for any of the Small Faces clips as they are all utterly stunning.

I wish I’d been a Small Face.

Wishing One's Life Away or The Primitive Need To Have Things To Look Forward To

Back to work tomorrow. Is 40 a tad young to yearn for retirement I ask myself? I do enjoy a stretch of days when I can read, relax, visit places and friends, download and listen to music, watch films and appreciate family time. This weekend should be enjoyable although, all things considered, I might have been thankful for a slightly quieter one. On Saturday there is the second Gloucester against Worcester fixture while in the evening the much longed for Calexico concert arrives. It will only be a fortnight on Friday when Martin Stephenson plays the Guildhall. And I’m off to see John Martyn in a week or so too. Plenty to look forward to then.

I have seen the future and it works...

Gloucester 27 - Worcester 16

I felt very proud of the city club after this match, the most fulfilling and enjoyable result of the season. The home wins against Sale, Northampton and Leicester were all satisfying and delectable for various reasons but the victory against the self-styled warriors allowed the cognoscenti a tantalising glimpse into the future. Where to start when so many players had outstanding games for the city? Behind the pack, Olly Morgan impressed with his head-up, elegant pace and intelligence, Anthony Allen was an absolute thorn in Worcester’s side all afternoon with his mixture of graft, craft, relentless energy and tackle-breaking élan while the little nugget Ryan Lamb wove spells all afternoon especially when he passed the oval with slide rule precision into space (how novel!) for grateful colleagues to run into and collect. James Simpson-Daniel and Michael Tindall are different players, make no mistake, but they complement the abundantly talented trio immensely. And Peter Richards, a keen competitor and sniping nuisance, brought much to the party. It was joyous to watch and more than breathtaking to consider that this bunch can get even better. With a bludgeoning pack, a touch more experience, a tweak here and there (Mark Foster is not really Premiership quality), a fair wind and a pinch of good fortune, the club could be on the verge of a genuine new dawn and golden era. How exciting.

A Nasty Little Club

Obviously I strongly desire my favoured rugby club to win every game they contest but I am especially keen that ‘the lads’ notch a large and satisfying ‘W’ tomorrow against Worcester. Victory would edge the club closer to that all-important European berth and would keep our collective noses in front of Northampton (who are playing at home to Leicester tonight and, naturally, I hope they slip up). Secondly, I can’t abide the Worcester club, a plastic bunch of arrivistes without history, dignity or any real worth frankly. Their ghastly supporters will pitch up at Kingsholm on the morrow with their Warriors helmets and well-rehearsed singalong sing-songs trying desperately not to look like the Johnny-cum-lately chancers they so tangibly are. I can imagine them now. Yuck. I really, really want to win this one.

Festival Round-Up

I must send off an application form to Oxfam HQ today. I’m keen to help man the Oxfam stall at the Wychwood Festival that takes place at Cheltenham Racecourse during half term week. Volunteering results in free entry, a meal and plenty of spare time to check out some music. I must confess that a prejudiced part of me – the Gloucestrian chip-on-shoulder part in particular - does not equate the conservative (small ‘c’) spa town of Cheltenham with a decent, non-mainstream music scene but there are some excellent acts performing at Wychwood. Billy Bragg, a hardy annual, headlines on the Friday, The Guillemots, a band I am beginning to admire, play on the Saturday while Field Music, The Broken Family Band and the astounding Amadou et Miriam all catch the eye on Sunday’s bill.

S and I are discussing the possibility of attending the All Tomorrows Parties festival in December. Thus far the annual Nightmare Before Christmas boasts only Sonic Youth and Iggy and the Stooges in its roster but, heck, that’s a decent start. And instead of trekking to Camber Sands as we did for ATP in the spring of 2004, we only need to trot down the M5 to the baroque surroundings of Minehead’s Butlins to enjoy the best in challenging sounds.

A Sinister Gasmask

Dead Man’s Shoes was a compelling feature, its brooding nastiness and rank portrayal of the underbelly of English life meant one couldn’t keep one’s eyes off the screen. A former soldier seeks revenge for the way his mentally-handicapped brother was treated by a gang of low-life, low-level criminals; just the mention of his name throws them into panic but when he starts breaking into their homes wearing a sinister gasmask and messing with them while asleep they really ‘go ape’. And then it really gets evil. I’m quite keen to discover where it was filmed – it had a vague South Yorkshire* look to it. The haunting soundtrack (Smog, Calexico, Richard Hawley, Adem, Earlies) gave the film a melancholic, contemplative texture; I wouldn’t mind the CD.

* I was close. It was Matlock, Derbyshire.

Rugby Round-Up

I started watching the Sale against Gloucester match more in hope than in expectation but, by no-side, I was delighted with and charmed by the passion, pride, prowess and progress shown by ‘the lads’. With a certain inevitability the Stockport club edged past the city to claim an 18-15 victoire but I was heartened by the young guns in cherry shirts; in particular, the trio of Lamb, Morgan, and Allen ooze class. I look forward to watching their careers develop over the next few seasons. Ryan Lamb could well become the ‘Tredworth Carlos Spencer’; his confidence and range of attacking skills are marvellous to behold. He is only 19. He is only 19.

Reports link Philip Vickery with the Wasps club. Rumours abound. It has been alleged that the club, examining the player’s injury record, have offered him less than expected for the final year of his contract in a similar fashion to the departing Samoan Terry Fanolua. I must admit to be being a huge fan of Vickery’s and wish that all his team mates could wear those famous colours with his zeal and fervour – and skill. However I assume that he is on a mighty salary and, therefore, the mere ten or eleven games per season he starts for the city do not represent value for money in my eyes. I think he might be replaceable. If ‘the Vickster’ does leave it will be with mixed feelings on my part.

S rarely texts me so I was surprised to receive a brace of SMS messages from the fellow on Sunday afternoon. He was at Twickenham watching the Powergen Cup Final and wished to report to me some atrocious crime committed by one Lawrence Bruno Nero Caligula Dallaglio. Reading between the lines, our favourite flank forward had some rank involvement, according to S, either before or after the Easterby injury that had raised the zealous texter’s ire. I shall have to telephone the chap to ascertain what went on. I do hope that S didn’t get too overwrought or agitated though.

Ron Cox I think I love you

I rarely, rarely flutter and can’t honestly remember the last time I gambled on the Grand National so yesterday’s unambitious four-and-a-half English pounds each-way on Numbersixvalverde (I had to look that up) represented a huge triumph and, importantly, yielded a stunning sixty-odd quid for the ol’ back pocket. The race itself was incredibly exhilarating with Niall 'Slippers' Madden (I had to look that up too) keeping the horse safely tucked away for the early stages before timing its run-in to perfection. I salute Ron Cox of The Guardian who steered me away from the joint favourites and towards my chosen filly with some excellent arguments that for the life of me I am unable to recall a day later. Hurrah!

My delightful winnings afforded the Coles a night of luxury yesterday with fine wines, effervescent cordials, exotic snacks and rented DVDs turning our humble semi into a veritable pleasuredome for a fleeting hour or two. We watched Fargo last night and appreciated its memorable cast of characters and offbeat twists. Gosh, it was violent too. The company known simply as 'Blockbusters' is to be acknowledged for the stunning ‘three DVDs for a fiver for a week’ deal which means we still have Donnie Darko and Dead Man’s Shoes to view.

This slightly more considered review of last Friday’s Acoustica made me feel a bit guilty for being so caustic about the artists who were performing. However, I’m glad I was honest in retrospect. A less effusive review gives the more glowing accolades that I have bestowed a lot more meaning and without wishing to impart any importance or gravitas to these humble pages – they have none whatsoever – they are nothing if the custodian of this space doesn’t state what he thinks or believes. I still rate Acoustica as a concept though. Boo Hewerdine, Duke Special and, to a lesser extent, Bela Emerson and The Family Machine were all marvellous. They, in differing ways, challenged – and, heck, that makes so much difference.

A Curate's Egg

I expected a bit more from last night’s Acoustica and have to admit the acts were appealing at best, poor at worst. I must say that I probably enjoyed the first performer Kat Flint the most. She was engaging, refreshingly self-deprecating and managed to render the serious themes she explored in her songwriting as free of cliché as possible. I liked her. New Yorker David Francis was a bit embarrassing to tell the truth and this was a shame because having listened to one or two clips of his stuff online, I expected more. His voice was somewhat evocative and pleasing and reminded me a little of Paul McCartney crossed with a soupcon of Zimmerman and a pinch of Cohen. His songs were rather awful though. He tried so hard to be knowing, witty and poetic but came across as clumsy and ‘sixth form’. I admit to enjoying his cringeworthy ditty about a cigarette lighter for all the wrong reasons; one to be filed under ‘so bad, it’s good’ I feel. Jane Taylor, the headliner, certainly lacked nothing in self-assurance and self-belief; before every song she felt the need to address something that was wrong with the sound. She wasn’t backward in trumpeting her soaring successes either (the playing of a song of hers on the Johnny Walker Show and the background use of one of her numbers on American youth soap Dawson’s Creek!) but the quality of her ‘product’ didn’t really match the hype. I don’t really want to listen to a song inspired by a wall falling down in her back garden and her attempt at a portrait of all the ‘interesting characters’ living in Montpellier, Bristol was just a bit obvious; Suzanne Vega was writing that kind of song with heaps more insight and intelligence twenty years ago. Her singing voice was unusual and strong but I just couldn’t warm to her or her rather unsubtle, insipid material. This was not art. I think this morning I’ll chuck on some Laura Veirs, Laura Cantrell, Lucinda Williams or Gillian Welch and remind myself how it can be done.

They smelt of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs and too many right wing meetings

Although I’m holiday, I am looking forward to the weekend. Tonight the three eldest Coles are a-roving to the Guildhall for the latest Acoustica evening and having missed the last couple because of ill-health and some other reason that escapes me, I am keen to enjoy the charms and talents of tonight’s musicians. Of course the next Acoustica is the one I’m most excited about: Martin Stephenson.

Tomorrow shall be a gentle day but I would hope to watch the Gloucester against Sale match on a television set somewhere. The city will be fielding the same 22 that defeated Brive last weekend but I fear the Stockport based collective will prove doughtier opponents than the French. Our forward pack appears lightweight; Jonathan Pendlebury is not the bruiser that the aesthete Brown needs to keep him company while the back row lacks sufficient brawn and bruising gainline-breaking nastiness. Still, I am glad that the nippers Allen, Lamb and Morgan are given further chances to develop their outrageous skills in exalted company. Sadly I feel Sale will prove too strong by half but Gloucester, as ever, possess the ability to surprise so I should not write them off too early.

I spotted Quinton Davids this morning. He was ambling into Gloucester via the Northgate Street point of entry and when I clocked him was heading past the old Golden Dragon at a sluggish pace. I really hoped it would work out for this player but it seems his Gloucester career will be recalled unenthusiastically in years to come. What is it with the city club and its South African signings? They either turn out to be much-loved, magnificent servants or complete embarrassments. The jury is out regarding Rudi Keil but I’m not raising my hopes.

I downloaded The Jam’s All Mod Cons this morning. This album was one of my great favourites in my teenage years when I absolutely adored The Jam and their passionate and unpatronising evocation of English themes. All Mod Cons was such an ambitious album and represented a tangible leap forward for the band after their lacklustre and lazy second album, This Is The Modern World. Numbers like Down in the Tube Station at Midnight and To Be Someone (Didn't We Have a Nice Time) are refreshingly complex and utterly rewarding as a result. Fly and English Rose are slightly cack-handed and over-wordy love songs but work, really work, because of, not despite, their earnest clumsiness and engaging honesty. And in the spat out ‘A’ Bomb in Wardour Street and Billy Hunt, Weller’s snarling anger and punkish disrespect are expressed brusquely and without a hint of compromise: 'If it’s not you moaning, then it’s someone else/Jumping down my throat, every chance you get.' This remains a wonderful, essentially English album; nice to touch base with it again.

Capital

The Coles enjoyed a few days in London and packed plenty in from the National Gallery to the London Eye to a meal at Young Cheng in Chinatown. I always appreciate the remarkable exhibits at the Tate Modern and particularly valued the Rachel Whiteread commission, EMBANKMENT, a visually stunning structure consisting of 14,000 plastic casts of cardboard boxes. We spent ages exploring its bizarre corridors. The above photo features my dear son stood casually in the bottom right corner. I’ve always wanted a print of Simon Paterson’s The Great Bear and finally bought one in the Tate Modern shop. I just need a frame for it now.

Return

A long weekend in London. Just returned. Tired. Shall watch The Apprentice and retire to my chamber.

The Life of Ryan

This month's Mojo arrived yesterday and I trawled through its ‘Top 100 Albums Since Mojo Started’ list with the usual enthusiasm for such items. With Mojo having been going since 1993 this was a chance to scan the albums mentioned and work out what I have missed and, frankly, do something about it. As a result I have downloaded a couple of the more recent Johnny Cash albums and another country recording that has passed me by, Gillian Welch’s Time (The Revelator). In a fit of excitement I also bagged myself four, yes four, Lilac Time albums. The reviews of these albums on Amazon all glow intensely and if they are half as good as the Stephen Duffy CD I bought recently, I’ll be thrilled.

Incidentally, Grace by Jeff Buckley was voted the best album in the Mojo poll, a recording I own but have only played once and maybe then not all the way through. Essentially, I have always pooh-poohed it. Perhaps I need to reappraise it but shall do so once I’ve played and grown to love all these Lilac Time albums.

I have burnt a copy of I Trawl the Megahertz by Paddy McAloon for S. He deserves it.

To Kingsholm later today. The Brive club visits. I am immensely interested in Ryan Lamb’s display at outside-half having watched the youngster play for the ‘A’ team on a number of occasions and stood agog at the youngster’s vision, skill, speed and maturity. Some might call him a genius. I think I might too. Perhaps in twenty years time, thousands will claim to have witnessed the fellow’s home full debut who weren’t actually there.