Woof

I purchased The Aliens’ Astronomy for Dogs this morning and I’m playing it as I type these words. I sense it will prove a ‘grower’; nothing sounds startling yet but I do whiff a bit of the magic that made the Beta Band so interesting. I was served by a young bloke with dreadlocks at Fopp who uttered an admiring, ‘Good album!’ as I offered him my wares. We chatted briefly and I explained, without patronising the nipper in the least, the history of The Aliens. He said he’d have to find out more about them. Exchanges like this put a spring into the stride.

B & Q?

I’ve got some time off work soon and I am keenly looking forward to a break. Out in the real world, fellows are planning DIY jobs and a touch of car maintenance for the hols; in my world, I’m working out what to read and what new sounds to cotton onto. I like it my way. I’ve actually just started to read David Guterson’s Snow Falling on Cedars and I’m already appreciating its measured and intelligent prose, gently sustained tension and array of closely observed characters. It appears to be a courtroom drama with some very effective flashbacks lending the varied events a deal of depth. I smell quality.

I’m quite interested in Astronomy for Dogs, the new album by The Aliens. The reviews have been generally excellent and the former members of the marvellous Beta Band appear to have regained a decent amount of form. I’ve also added a few folk albums to my Amazon wishlist. With Starless and Bible Black, Vetiver and Tunng playing the Green Man, I want to hear some of their stuff. I’ve also been leafing through last December’s Mojo which lists dozens of epoch-making folk long players and have added a couple of albums from the 1970s by Trees and Clive Palmer.

Manners Maketh Man

I experienced a moral dilemma today in Sainsbury’s. I had my headphones pushed in as close to the brain as is medically possible and was really banging out Jonny Greenwood is the Controller, a sumptuous collection of reggae riddims that I wrote about here. It sounded fabulous. However, in the pasta sauces section, I spotted an old school colleague – with wife – approaching. Normally I would have said hello, and, as I had spotted this fellow at the rugby yesterday, would have discussed the game and swapped opinions about the state of the noble city club. I must confess that today I kept the phones in the skull, smiled, winked and muttered a brief, ‘How do’, hoping I wasn’t shouting too much. At the time, I felt the wink was an act of genius, a cheeky gesture that somehow excused my lack of chitter-chat. Six hours later, I am slightly lamenting my lack of grace and guiltily reappraising my lack of manners. Popular music had defeated the basics of society and community. It is a cracking album though.

Gloucester defeated the Falcons of Newcastle yesterday by 24 points to 18. It was a slightly anti-climactic event really. The rugby seemed a bit flat as my favoured team missed too many tackles and was forced to rely on individual acts of wit and skill to create its tries. The visitors’ backs, a real who’s who of young English talent, carved the Cherry and Whites up again and again while their forward pack, supposedly a weak link, fronted up strongly and were a match for the more exalted home eight. Our victory was fortuitous and Newcastle probably deserved more than a losing bonus point. They were the best team I’ve seen visit the famed old stadium all season.

Other Blindside Flankers of Note

I am disappointed that none of the squad have canvassed me personally in order to receive my vote, but today I have selected my Gloucester player (and young player) of the season. Ironically, it is the forward who has achieved the seemingly unachievable and wrested the six shirt from the mighty Jake Boer that has won the Cole nod of approval. The hastily scribbled nomenclature ‘Peter Buxton’ adorns my slip as a reward for week after week of honest endeavour and unfashionable pushing, carrying and defending. Every Ryan Lamb dummy, every sprint for the line by the young prince owes something to the unrelenting and often unnoticed grafting by the honest yeoman they call 'Bucko'. In today’s press Dean Ryan used a superb word to describe Jake Boer’s standing within the historic sport of rugby football union: credibility. Peter Buxton has credibility in spades too. I warmly salute his efforts this season. Hurrah.

The other players I considered were Christian Califano for his immense efforts in tight and loose, Marco Bortolami for his charismatic leadership, fine play and canny understanding of what the marvellous city club is all about and requires from its forwards, Andrew Hazell for another series of high quality performances in the back row and Rory Lawson for hard work and commitment and skill.

My Favourite Player

My favourite rugby player of the past ten years will be running out at Kingsholm for the last time on Saturday. Jake Boer will captain the Gloucester side against Newcastle and I find it hard to believe that the rugged South African will never again grace the famed Castle Grim turf. For me, Boer epitomises all that is marvellous about the city club. For years and years, his dedication to the cause, his unfashionable team-before-self ethic, his courageous eagerness to put his body on the line, his will to win, his will not to lose, his modesty, his skill, his tangible intelligence, all of these qualities and hundreds of others have won this supporter over and thousands more besides me. Jake Boer is my favourite player of recent times and, heck I’ll admit it, is a finer six than even the mighty John Gadd. I know I’ll be biting the old lower lip at 4.28 on Saturday when the matchless hero leads the lads out for the last time. Like all the greats, I imagined Jake Boer would go on for ever and it is difficult to imagine the city club without him. Thank you, Jake.

London to Brighton proved a shocking hour and a half but I sat quietly compelled throughout. The feature portrayed a seedy underbelly of British life and, to its credit, the array of runaways, prostitutes, paedophiles, gangsters, dropouts, and lowlifes was utterly convincing. Few – if any - of the characters emerged with any credit; even the ‘tart with a heart’ lead, street worker Kelly, was beyond redemption; her close relationship with underage runaway Joanne commenced after she had befriended her merely with a view to procuring her, for her own financial gain, for a paedophile client. It was all a bit grim yet incredibly thrilling as gang members hunted down Kelly and Joanne. In a way, it reminded me of Dead Man’s Shoes, another British thriller examining a stratum of British society that most of us would prefer to pretend didn’t exist. People actually experience these kinds of lives and that is some wake-up call.

Dinah Sheridan

The Coles are off to the Guildhall cinema this evening to view a moving picture, London to Brighton, which promises to be a bleak hour and a half of haunting despair and malevolent violence. Just a typical Wednesday night then. Runaways, prostitutes and inhuman hard men permeate the plot. I hope nobody pitches up expecting a remake of Genevieve.

Comedy Breasts and Krautrock

Today I finally got round to organising the accommodation for S’s ‘Stag Do’ in Oxford. I have booked a couple of rooms at the city’s Travelodge and I’m pleased with the deal I found. A small assembly of hipsters will be attending a Fall gig at the Zodiac next month and, now I know where we shall be staying, I’m looking forward to events immensely. For years, S and I have been discussing the concept of watching The Fall ‘somewhere different’ and it’ll be exciting to check out my most seen live band in a new venue and, before and afterwards, toasting the soon-to-be-wed young blade purposefully in bars, snugs and smoking rooms that I have never before encountered. It shall not be a ‘Stag Do’ in the traditional – and horrific - sense and I predict that S won’t end the evening naked and tied to a lamppost - although that mental image is oddly captivating. I do however have a touching fantasy involving Mark E. Smith glancing down into the crowd during a rendition of Mr. Pharmacist and clocking the acerbic S draped in a pair of comedy breasts. It can’t happen, can it?

I thank S for getting me into the remarkable Fujiya & Miyagi (pictured) although I had already read one or two reviews of the act’s smashing album Transparent Things. There is something charming about three English lads from Brighton giving themselves Japanese names and banging out driving Krautrockesque rock gems with considerable aplomb, wit and energy. The band’s lyrical content is packed with clever lines and smart imagery. I insist that all hepcats that assemble to read these pages go forth to the marvellous Fujiya & Miyagi website and watch the video (look under ‘News’) to the sumptuous Photocopier. Play it loud. It may change your life. This is my new favourite band.

The rugby union was good yesterday. The club I know simply as ‘Gloucester’ should have been out of sight with the amount of chances the team created but must content itself with a fine and necessary 34-25 over the club I know simply as ‘Harlequins’. Andrew Hazell enjoyed a dashing eighty minutes of undiminished effervescence while Will James proved a thunderous presence in both tight and loose. The shaven-headed lock would have the Cole vote in any elective process to find the ‘most improved player’ this season; someone suggested to me that it has taken the former Cornish Pirate this long to attain the fitness levels required for the English Premiership. He is certainly up to speed now and he put in another splendid and tumultuous performance on Saturday.

Sensitivities

I’ve been playing the Gruff Rhys album, Candylion as a bit of research for the Green Man Festival. I like it. I’d be lynched for suggesting that the long player possesses a slight English whimsy when Rhys is as Welsh as Max Boyce holding a daffodil, but it does remind me a little of the marvellous Shack twinned with the sensitivities of a Nick Drake. The songs are understated but melodic and packed with interesting ideas and sweet melodies and hushed and thoughtful vocals.

Talking of the Green Man, a host of artists have been added to the line-up since the last time I checked out the festival’s website. Stephen Malkmus, formerly, of course, of the splendid Pavement (my favourite band of the 1990s?) is headlining the Sunday and I welcome this although he doesn’t seem to fit the folk tag that I associate with Green Man. Vashti Bunyan will be there and I guess that was always on the cards. Her presence is a good thing. Other acts announced include Earlies, Vetiver, Bill Callahan and Richmond Fontaine. I know that S and D both admire the latter immensely so I’ll have to investigate them sooner rather than later. I need guidance in order to discover their best work and I’m sure that pair of hipsters will suggest where to go.

Julian Cope is playing the Guildhall in May. One can only expect the unexpected when he marches into town.

Oval/Egg

Gloucester’s 28-24 victory over the esteemed – and, yet, rather cynical – Tigers of Leicester was welcome, thrilling and mightily important in the ol’ scheme of things. It proved a topsy-turvy encounter with the home players starting proceedings with verve and pace and enterprise before the ruggedness and power of the visitors took over and carved out two fine tries before the break. The second half saw the Cherry and Whites use their collective expertise in broken play with the young prince Simpson-Daniel, the youthful Allen and, especially, the majestic and quicksilver Richards carving up the Leicester ranks with some bewitching running. The blindside scamper and sprint by the fair-headed scrum half that took play from his own ten metre line to the shadow of his opponents’ posts was worth the admission fee alone and when the erstwhile and energetic Hazell collected the pass to bundle over for a try, the popular side erupted as only the popular side can. The match ended with Gloucester defending a five metre line-out, a man short, and with Leicester poised to claim the match with a pushover maul. Slightly anticlimactically, the throw was deemed not straight, Leicester were penalised for dissent and the city were able to punt to safety and victory. Marvellous.

One of the Coles’ new chickens came up trumps today and produced its first egg. The shell was as white as birch-bark and, verily, a thing of gentle and beguiling beauty. We are back in business. Well done m’bird!

You’ve got to fight for what you want

Despite generally cocking the largest of snooks at nostalgia, I’m going to start a short mini-series tonight. Watching the Coles’ favourite television show (Dragons’ Den) a few days ago, a geezer called, of all things, Casey Jones made a brief appearance. I think he had invented a steriliser or something. This led to me trying to sing the theme song to Casey Jones which for those too young or too hip was a monochrome adventure series about an engine driver (Casey Jones by name) and his son (Casey Jones Jr. naturally). It was an American show and, if I recall correctly, appeared without a hint of self-consciousness in the school summer holiday mid-morning schedules. It possessed a smashing, upbeat and emphatically optimistic theme tune and it proved wonderful to watch again via the mighty, mighty YouTube. Excuse the pun, but my train of thought had me considering other kids’ TV themes of my past that have moved me and I ended up spending half an hour browsing through YouTube and rejoicing that I could hear many of my favourites whilst watching the various title sequences. I made a list so I wouldn’t forget them a day or so later. I’ll share them with you, gentle readers, a couple at a time and leave my favourite until last. I love my favourite theme so much that I’ve chucked the soundtrack to the series onto my Amazon wishlist.

For now, here is my first brace of wonderful children’s television themes. A knows how to imbed YouTube clips onto his weblog but I don’t. You will have to click the links.

When I was about six or seven or maybe younger, I adored, adored Banana Splits. I felt that these strange creatures were the coolest dudes around, living together in this hip pad, bumming around, driving golf buggies, playing pranks and generally having a ball. They were very American when being American still carried a slither of cool. The opening sequence to the show is hugely entertaining and I dare you not to tap your toes to the sounds.

Perhaps I’m wrong but I always thought The Flashing Blade, an adventure series set in 17^th Century France was part of the Banana Splits*. But maybe I’m wrong. I don’t remember too much about the show but I always loved the theme tune especially the simple yet heroic sentiments contained within the lyrics.

*I was wrong. I was thinking of the cartoon version of The Three Musketeers.

Festival Fellowship

The Lilac Time are playing the Green Man Festival. This is wonderful news. I was not even aware the band were together again especially as Stephen Duffy has been reinvented as Robbie Williams’s (I never thought I’d be mentioning him on here) main songwriter. When I first thought about going to the Green Man I saw it as an opportunity to discover new sounds and I’m keen to hear some stuff by Tunng who are rumoured to be playing.

The Coles are looking into attending the WOMAD festival in July. It’s in Malmesbury this year so there won't be loads of travelling involved. Steel Pulse and Toots and the Maytals are down to play as well as a host of exotic sounding acts from round the world.

How can they look into my eyes and still they don't believe me?

I’ve been below par. That’s my excuse. I continue to be below par and, in fact, suffered a rare day off ‘on the sick’ today. There were no Yootha Joyce moving pictures to admire.

I have just looked back over recent postings and apologise for the prevalence of cheesy puns in the titles.

There are plenty of recently released albums I would like to own at the moment including offerings from Arcade Fire, Air, and, possibly, Laura Veirs. I have downloaded the new Tracey Thorn long player, Out of the Woods and, admittedly after a single listening, am far from impressed. It sounds a bit, hmmm, eighties. It may grow. It may grow. I have a huge soft spot for Everything But The Girl. I’m not sure that the melancholic popsters qualify for ‘guilty pleasure’ status but the duo’s numerous albums remain knowing, atmospheric, melodic, haunting and, importantly, covey a singular English charm. I like them enormously. I’m typing this as I listen to Thorn’s other solo album, A Distant Shore, which unbelievably is one quarter of a century old. These wistful, understated slices of moody bedsit gloom appealed to my sensitivities then and continue to move me now. I note that I included Thorn’s version of Femme Fatale from A Distant Shore in my list of favourite cover versions a month or so ago.