Sounds from Santa

Last month, The Guardian printed a list of 49 ‘Musical Secret Weapons’, albums that were ‘obscure but incredible’, overlooked yet, in their way, essential to those who cherished them. Music industry folk (Maconie, Marr, Manzanera etc.) chose the 49; a week or two later ordinary punters suggested albums that should complete the fifty. The pieces proved fascinating reads and have flagged up a number of long players I’d quite fancy for my birthday next month and for Christmas (if you weren't aware, also next month). I’ve asked for the Roy Harper album Stormcock, The Sound’s Jeopardy, Georges Brassens’ Les Amoureux Des Bancs Publics and a few others. I won’t bang on about them but feel free to browse the lists yourself. I wonder if Santa will be kind to me. One album on the lists that I certainly require - but Amazon isn’t flogging at the moment - is Eg and Alice’s 24 Years of Hunger, a genuine lost classic that critics and cognoscenti rave about but which never sold and kinda disappeared. I shall have to put my feelers out and find out if anyone I know owns the blighter. EBay had a copy at the weekend but I was too tardy and, by the time I thought about bidding, it was too late.

I have used the word cognoscenti on consecutive days and I feel a touch self-conscious as a result.

AA

I would place Anthony Allen at number one on my Kingsholm talented youngster chart. Ryan Lamb comes a close second but needs a touch much experience and requires a little more consistency on a game by game basis. Master Oliver Morgan takes bronze. The young prince, Simpson-Daniel and the expressionist James Forrester are now too old to meet the qualification requirements for this imaginary roster but I touch my forelock in their general direction because it needs to be done regularly. Anyhow, my point is that I’m thrilled with today’s news that the boy Allen, capped by England at an age at which I was only occasionally leaving my bed before lunchtime, has signed up to play for the noble and splendid city club for at least another couple of years. Marvellous business. The fellow’s pace, eye for gap and tryline, ability to stay on his feet and recycle ball and general all-round genius have caught the attention of the cognoscenti from day one. His immense maturity, professionalism and ambition sadly make me consider a recent international centre three-quarter, H. Paul, who was found wanting on all three counts. I feel it an apt comparison and indicates how the club is moving in the correct direction and adopting a winning culture instead of blindly accepting a less salient one.

I won’t bore folk with all the technical stuff that goes on behind the scenes to bring this website to the baying and demanding masses but the erstwhile Blogger organisation has offered a few more options to the humble, er, blogger recently. It has become really simple to change the template and settings and colours and the facility is now available to sort all the lists down the side into alphabetical order. Have a look; isn’t it neat now down the right flank? The last thing I want is to become too professional but I quite like these new features; I’ve spent ages seeing what this website would look like in this colour or that and have tried out numerous lay-outs. ‘Geek!’ I hear you ululate.

Forster on McLennan

Robert Forster, former Go-Between, has a new job as Music Critic for Australian magazine, The Monthly. He’s won awards for his journalism too which will come as no surprise to those who were regularly moved and inspired by his articulate and thoughtful lyrics. His tribute to songwriting partner and band-mate Grant McLennan (who died in May) is a beautiful piece and an emotional read for anyone who holds The Go-Betweens close to their heart. It is sad to discover that the pair were working on new material and that, according to the author, any new album would have been ‘something special’ so the band’s legacy of too many life-affirming songs to count will have to suffice. The biographical details of how the pair met, how their early interests in film and music fostered their friendship, how the group was formed and went through numerous peaks and troughs of fortune are all covered intelligently and with honesty. The account of their last meeting is full of the most poignant detail. I have encountered few finer tributes from friend to friend; I feel I know so much more about the great man that was Grant McLennan having read Forster’s piece and this is simultaneously both uplifting and terribly, terribly heart-rending.

The picture above has to be recent. Forster favours the dark suit; McLennan looks as sharp as a razor in his shirt. What a pair. What a pair.

Watch (Out)

It was too good to be true. The watch I bought at the Amsterdam flea market has died. Vivid sun a-came streaming through the Cole bedroom dormer window on Sunday morning but a glimpse at my wrist bizarrely indicated that it was merely half past the merry hour of three. The blighter had stopped. I must add that reading the time on my new chronometer had become slightly tricky as, despite promises offered to me at point of sale, the item had turned out to be less waterproof than I had anticipated and seeking the exact hour had meant squinting through a damp and displeasing liquid film that had formed on the inside of the glass. What an unhappy purchase. I bought a doughty Timex yesterday that I trust won’t let me down. Unhappily I consider that I was seen coming with my wide-eyed West Country naiveté and eye for the bargain that never was. The unscrupulous vendor told me it was a good watch and I believed him. Hiss!

Lost in the Supermarket - with 'im out of Japan

If I were gracelessly manhandled to the floor, held in a Half (or, possibly, Full) Nelson by a masked and dangerous hired killer and told, in no uncertain terms, to name the finest album by a British artist from the last twenty years, I’d risk life and limb by painfully and fearfully spluttering out eight words: ‘Secrets of the Beehive by David Sylvian, sir.’ Naturally, I don’t expect this to happen but neither did I expect my weekly food shopping trip to be embellished and improved so mightily by the aforementioned long player this morning. I decided to put something ‘old’ onto the loyal MP3 Player and consider myself fortunate indeed to have made such a choice. It’s a gorgeous, gorgeous album, full of space and art and wisdom and astoundingly beautiful songs. From the tender opening track September with its spare arrangement and gently knowing and delectably personal and melancholic lyrics (We say that we’re in love/While secretly praying for rain/Sipping Coke and playing games/September’s here again) to the majestic and striking Waterfront, the album proffers elegiac wonders and works of art throughout. There are so many highlights from the subtle and moving build-up of Let The Happiness In, the mystery of The Boy With The Gun and, featuring possibly the most effective and life-affirming fade-in-and-out-half-way-through-a-song in the history of popular music, the plaintive Orpheus. The whole album works marvellously. It is jazzy without being over-complex, deeply intelligent without being unintelligible and intense without being claustrophobic. It’s a wonderful piece of art and this morning’s trawl through the aisles was all the more joyous for its company.

Naturally I’m disappointed that the city club were defeated by old rivals Bristol on Friday night. I watched the match unfold via a telecast that I viewed at the spacious Shed Bar. Unbeaten records have to go sometime and with the atrocious weather conditions proving such a leveller, a loss shouldn’t be regarded as an utter disaster. The team will bounce back. Frankly, the Gloucester club is in a far better state than Bristol with our young and ambitious players giving supporters real hope for the future compared to the short term gain of packing a squad with ageing yet streetwise performers. I’m glad I support the city.

Senses 6 - Purchases 9

A profitable morning was spent in merry Gloucester today. Purely by chance, I alighted upon one of the regular (irregularly regular if y’know what I mean) sales of CDs and other media at the historic and impressive Gloucester City Library. For two British quid a CD you can’t go wrong. My reliable sixth sense alerted me to the presence of A in the city and a brief SMS text summoned the fellow to the racks of musical treats too. I ended up with nine CDs which the kind woman behind the serving counter surprisingly charged me a mere fourteen pounds for. I’m delighted with my purchases but, as ever, I’m concerned that I have too much music to listen to. Maybe I should consider getting up an hour earlier to fit in an extra album each day.

I never bother looking at the DVDs and videos on sale. Maybe I should.

Look, I’ll list what I bought below. OK?

Two albums by the enigmatic ex-Sugarcube Bjork, Vespertine and Medulla. I’m playing the latter as I tap these words in.

Two albums by Lambchop, Nixon and Is a Woman.

Body Song by Jonny Greenwood.

10,000Hz Legend by Air.

Resist by Kosheen.

Geogaddi by Boards of Canada which I already know well and have on my MP3 Player but which I fancied actually owning.

Harder Than The Best by Burning Spear which seems to be a compilation of his mid-1970s stuff. I have quite a few of the tracks off this already but I’m happy to give it houseroom.

Touching the Brakes

Lots to report but so little time.

I thought Turin Brakes (see left, comrades) were wonderful on Monday night. Soaring melodies, stunning vocals and great musicianship all added up to a fabulous concert. I’ve been playing The Optimist LP a fair bit before and since and it really is a lovely collection of songs. The band – a duo really but augmented on the night by a tight rhythm section plus a keyboard fellow – played almost all of their acclaimed debut plus other favourites (Pain Killer, Fishing for a Dream, Long Distance) and brand new songs. They played for almost two hours and I must say the audience were lappin’ it up like nobody’s business – there was a real hardcore of uber-fans there who knew every last lyric and were obviously obsessed by the group. Hats off to them, I say. And more hats off to the mighty Guildhall for staging such a great evening – the folk there seem to be really getting their act together.

The Bond film was very enjoyable too. Daniel Craig’s Bond isn’t bedecked with gadgets galore and corny one-liners but he all the more human for that. This is a more vulnerable hero, prone to mistakes and the follies of youth (this is supposed to be his first case) and I enjoyed the darker tone to the film compared to, say, the Bond films of the 1970s where the secret agent is more a cartoon character made flesh than the rounded and, at times, troubled personality that Craig offers. Of course, the storyline was as farfetched as they come but the set pieces were stunning and the stunts, ahem, cunning. At times the tension proved quite unbearable and the violence appeared most brutal and uncompromising but this helped give the film depth and allowed the viewer to really sympathise with Bond as he finds himself dealing with the ‘big boys’ for the first time. I have spent worse two and a half hours.

The Borat film was fine too. Verily, I guffawed heartily throughout. Americans worry me though.

Shaken and Stirred

Gloucester 27 - London Wasps 21

A mighty afternoon at Kingsholm yesterday. This was a win for the purists with an unyielding tight performance and brutal forward collision paving the way for the expressionist skills of some of our talented and quicksilver backs to make hay. And of course, it’s always gorgeous beating those cynical and unpleasant Wasps. The front row was immense and I’m pleased how Nick Wood has continued to improve game on game. A much improved Olivier Azam and a hugely effective Christian Califano were equally important to the Gloucester cause; it was superb to watch such a committed display.

Both Gloucester tries sent the crowd into delirium. The first was a beauty. A sensational chip, chase and gather by the vigilant Lamb created space for the young prince, Simpson-Daniel to cascade at a splendid angle through the Wasps cover and weave yards galore before a precise pass set the electric Bailey sailing for the corner. Despite the Wasps cover forcing Bailey to the floor, the young winger was able to release the pill which was scooped up by a defender who skewed his clearance into the arms of the grateful and alert speedster who dived bravely for the line. It was a dazzling moment. The second try was a typical and, as ever, thrilling will-he-make-it-or-won’t he sprint for the line with the classy Allen collecting a loose ball and bolting headlong for the whitewash fifty or sixty yards away. The nipper showed a clean pair of heels and galloped clear of the chasing oppos before showing the nous to end his exhausting endeavour under the sticks. Marvellous.

The city club has made a superb start to the league campaign and, after eight matches, remains unbeaten. We need to keep hold of our talented players and, with the England coach under pressure, our unflappable and wise gaffer too. Hurrah!

I'm taking my son to watch Casino Royale tonight. I think the last time I went to see a Bond moving picture was in 1978 when I viewed a double bill of Live And Let Die and The Man with the Golden Gun with bespectacled school chum T. I recall an Indian man sat in front of us having to wipe away tears of laughter with a handkerchief during the famous speedboat chase. My 007 return is long overdue.

WD-40

Two days ago I was cussing that Monday’s Turin Brakes concert at the Guildhall had sold out before I could get my derriere into gear sufficiently to purchase tickets. Today, however, all is well as a clever trip to the historic venue this morning allowed me to pick up a couple of returned tickets, specifically the couple of returned tickets. It should be good. The atmosphere at any sold out gig is special and I have always appreciated Turin Brakes and their folky, intelligent, occasionally dark songs. I only have their first album, The Optimist LP, but I’ve quietly enjoyed all the stuff I’ve heard since. The Optimist contains some lovely, moving songs and I’ve been reacquainting myself with its elegant harmonies and wordy worthiness today. Any plaintive love song that mentions WD-40 gets my vote and the soaring Underdog (Save Me) ticks that particular box splendidly.

I’m glad the Guildhall is getting a few more ‘name bands’ these days as I was concerned at the amount of third rate punk bands and tribute acts. I’ve heard that an arrangement with Warwick University Students’ Union has meant that both venues can book the same act so that they play consecutive nights at Warwick and Gloucester without either place stealing punters from the other. I await further developments and further fun.

Something for the Weekend

After the delights of Amsterdam last week and the excitement of the jet-setting continental gig lifestyle, it is rather pleasant to anticipate a more relaxing weekend. After a splendid takeaway of the Chinese variety, I think I shall take to my bed early this evening, chuck some music - maybe the new Joanna Newsom album which I'm gradually getting slightly obsessed with - on my headphones and do a bit of reading. I’m really getting into Black Swan Green by David Mitchell and, unusually for me, I’m appreciating the use of a child as narrator, in this case a stutterer called Jason who lives just up the road in Worcestershire. Tewkesbury got a mention in the last chapter. The 1980s references are rather jolly too and I’m particularly valuing the rather bleak look at adolescence that the book offers. I used to be a teenager once.

Tomorrow rugby football beckons – the union code naturellement. The city club hosts the Wasps of London and with the Cherry and Whites still unbeaten in league endeavour, this shall prove a stern test despite our visitors being harder hit by international call-ups. Of course, the corresponding fixture last term was a classic even though Gloucester were defeated and Saturday will be a marvellous chance to gain some revenge. The youngster Lamb appears to be hitting some form at last and I’m keen to see the classy centre pairing of Tindall and Allen in action again. I predict a fairly comfortable victory for the home side and a first winning bonus point of the campaign.

Boyce

I won’t bang on and on about Sufjan Stevens but I have been sneaking a look at other blogs written by other hepcats who were, in the words of Max Boyce, there. An Amsterdam gal called Naomi had a whale of a time and posted a couple of video clips of the event on her weblog as well as a lovely set of stills on flickr. A Czech named Loydd had a ball too and writes about it here. I reckon the back of my head might be visible in silhouette on his last but one photo. And there’s loads of stuff in Dutch here.

Yes, I have changed the settings to this site. Let's call it an early Christmas present. I hope the purists don't lynch me. I can always change it back.

Grunts 'R' Us

The grey-haired gentleman in his sixties who served me with a brace of tickets to view the Borat moving picture at the Bristol Road Cineworld this evening was a delight. He greeted me warmly, listened to my request patiently, displayed the options on the screen with bewitching clarity and, having printed my tickets, used a ball point pen to point out and reiterate the relevant gobbets of information for me. He casually used 24 Hour Clock times in his conversation – a nice touch. His parting shot was a jaunty, ‘Enjoy!’ He was great. Ten minutes earlier I had traipsed through the depressing aisles of Toys ‘R’ Us (where was the Subbuteo?!) hunting for a birthday present and a card for a nephew. The monosyllabic drones (I had the unhappy misfortune to require serving twice) who dealt with me there, avoiding eye contact, and barely summoning up enough energy to mutter, ‘En’er ya PIN num’er’ were shocking. I didn’t expect to leave the cinema feeling such pride and joy at the way I had been treated but ‘old man’ had come along at just the right moment. Compare and contrast. Compare and contrast.

The Coles are off to see that prankster Borat tomorrow night and are looking forward to an evening of merry humour.

Here are some more photographs from the Amsterdam weekend. This evening’s theme is ‘transport’. The captions read, 1. Tram (a hipster in foreground); 2. Cyclists; 3. Interesting Red Soup Delivery Vehicle.

Well, I Declare

The weekend in Amsterdam was splendid. It really is a lovely city, very different from anything I’ve experienced before with bikes and trams and canals and stuff everywhere. To be honest, Saturday was spent just strolling around the streets, shopping at the flea market (my new watch is growing on me) and just getting a feel for the old place. I feel very relaxed today and I consider that a decent chunk of Amsterdam’s ambience has rubbed off on me. Of course, the main raison d’être was to attend the Sufjan Stevens concert at the Paradiso Club, a short walk from our hotel. I have been a huge fan of the esoteric American for quite some time so Saturday was an important night really and I’m thrilled to report that the fellow didn’t disappoint. As predicted, many songs came from the delectable Seven Swans album, including a soaring Sister as an opener, the band and Stevens sporting wings of varied flamboyance as well as mysterious masks as they entered the arena. The whole evening was faultless with so many boxes ticked: gorgeous and utterly moving songs, a charismatic and engaging performer, stunning and enthusiastic musicianship, a cool and receptive crowd and a marvellously intimate venue. There were too many highlights to mention but the mesmeric encore of Concerning The UFO Sighting Near Highland, IL, John Wayne Gacy Jr., and That Dress Looks Nice on You had the hairs on the back of the neck standing on end. I want to see him again.

The above photographs are captioned:
1. Stevens
2. Amsterdam

A Little Mouse With Clogs On

To suggest that I am looking forward to this coming weekend’s canter across the channel to the historic lanes of Amsterdam – and Saturday’s concert party featuring Master Sufjan Stevens – would be an understatement of immense proportions. I can’t wait. I’ve hardly thought of the Amsterdam aspect of the weekend as I’ve been so keen to see Stevens but a Rough Guide to the city has arrived home so I can flick through that later. I quite fancy the Saturday flea market that takes place there.

I have been trying hard to find reviews of Stevens’s gigs last week in Manchester and London but, unless I have been searching with a tangible lack of skill, I have discovered little. I didn’t learn a great deal from this Evening Standard piece but this blog made up for it with some touching words, a couple of pictures, and some opportunities to download a few songs (I’d recommend Seven Swans if I was pushed to pick one). That setlist looks impressive and I’m thrilled that my favourite album, Seven Swans is so heavily represented. Hurrah etc. There are some gorgeous Barbican pictures here too. I’m tempted to chuck the first one on my desktop as wallpaper.

My last trip to mainland Europe to enjoy popular music was reported here.

My Elton John research project is gaining pace.

Footnote:
Half an hour later and my searching skills have returned. Andy Gill has a piece about the Barbican concert in today's Independent and gives it five whole stars. There was a bit in yesterday's Guardian which I failed to spot in the actual paper version of the journal but is here in all its online glory.

Going to the John

It is up there with the great moral dilemmas of our age so it was with no little trepidation that I posed the question to my attractive and attentive gaggle of comrades on Saturday night: Is it ok to enjoy early period Elton John? I’ve read too many glowing reviews of his early seventies albums to ignore this any longer. S reacted with some vehemence but balanced his fierce – yet articulate – tirade against Dwight by saying he’d heard a song called Tiny Dancer that was actually rather good. Well, I’ve since downloaded 1970’s Tumbleweed Connection and I’ll give it a try over the next few days. Apparently it was inspired by the singer’s love of The Band and has a tangible Western feel. It might change my life. I doubt it though.

Stop Your Messing Around

Gloucester 21 – Saracens 12

Last night’s match was in no way a classic but the fireworks that lit up the Gloucestershire heavens didn’t distract this punter from a quietly compelling eighty-odd minutes that may prove reasonably important come next spring. I am pleased the tyro Lamb returned to form. A below par performance against Agen last week led to some doubting the lad’s talent but each of Gloucester’s tries, both scored by an energetic Rudi Keil, were as a result of keen thinking and elegiac passing from Lamb. I was thrilled for Keil too. It has taken the affable African a while to win the supporters over so to hear his name being chanted yesterday delighted the sentimentalist in me. Simpson-Daniel’s return was another positive. The young prince enjoyed little time on the ball last night – perhaps a good thing as he returns from a nasty injury – but his elegant presence always reassures me. I still reckon he is Gloucester’s best back ever. I must mention the skipper Bortolami again. What great business it was to deliver the charismatic Italian to Kingsholm! His controlled reading of the game, his mastery of the basics, his utter commitment, his shrewd and influential captaincy skills all impress greatly. And one day he’ll get a pass on the wing! His exotic bow to the shed after the match was a moment to treasure. I think he likes us too.

I was working then on my great unfinished novel

The new Lloyd Cole album, Anti-Depressant, is a joy. Not a word is wasted and the knowing wit and sharp intellect that wooed me as a young chap remain twenty-odd years on. The rhyming of ‘Scarlett Johansson’ and ‘driven to distraction’ is worth the admission price alone but there are lyrical gems galore. Right now, my favourite is, “I said ‘I’m working on my novel’ / She said ‘Neither am I’” – very Lloyd Cole. The tunes are marvellous too and complement the world-weary thoughts of Chairman Cole with a pleasing subtlety. Of course, I had the chance to name my son Lloyd Cole but bottled it. It might have worked.

I made copies of the above album, the last Scritti Politti long-player (the album of the year chez Cole – this Cole, not Lloyd - although you never know) and the gorgeous Seven Swans by Sufjan Stevens for C yesterday and with complete foolishness posted the package without any stamps on it. I feel such a chump.