Wildlife Analysis

Our new pond is appealing. Two or three months ago we dug a hole large enough to place an old bathtub in and filled it with pebbles, plant-life and, of course, that hardy annual found in all ponds, that new-fangled water stuff. A couple of lovely frogs have pitched up there in the past fortnight and some spawn we were donated from another pond lover has now turned into tadpoles which have very recently grown legs. Our in-between tad-frogs are smashing. The pond changes every day; it’s a pleasant area to gaze upon and pass a merry minute.

Swell Maps

Two hot new albums are rocking dis boat at the moment. We Can Create by Maps is a swirling, swaggering, modern shoe-gazing classic and, by the power of Greyskull, it is growing on this eager punter with every listen. I appreciate the fact that We Can Create was created and written in the Northampton bedroom of someone called James because its euphoric, insouciant swagger suggests a more epic origin. I forced my MP3 player’s headphones deep into my ears ce matin, cranked the volume up to onze and shook to this album as I did the weekly shop at the Coles’ supermarché of choice. Against the backdrop of these dreamlike and evocative numbers, selecting the appropriate detergent proved a joy. Well done!

I’m also mightily impressed by Tromatic Reflexxions by Von Sudenfed, a splendid collaboration between The Fall’s Mark E. Smith and German techno pioneers Mouse on Mars. I confess that I told someone last week that it was Smith and Modest Mouse that had got together and made this recording; I feel foolish to have confused my Mittel-European electronica with my po-faced US indie but the sensation/guilt will pass. All these mice! I digress. Tromatic Reflexxions is a superb collection of funky, bluesy, hip-hoppy ‘tronic sounds, mumbled over by Smith’s laconic drawl and wit and underpinned by a fabulous sense of riddim, and, importantly, melody. It works.

Run Run Run

The new BBC series, Seven Ages of Rock, is enthralling. The first episode focussed on the end on the 1960s and, in particular, the impact a certain Jimi Hendrix had on the British music scene. Personally, I’ve always considered Hendrix to be a tad, shhhh, overrated so it was enlightening to listen to the likes of Clapton, Richards and Bruce (Jack not Forsyth) eulogising about the Seattle-born virtuoso. It was an interesting start to the series but the second episode was tremendous. Bearing the title, ‘White Light, White Heat’, the show examined the art rock of the late 1960s and early 1970s and drew marvellous comparisons between Velvet Underground and Pink Floyd and the manner in which both acts ‘pushed the envelope’ (dreadful expression, apologies…) with their innovative multimedia live appearances and musical experimentalism. David Bowie, Roxy Music and early Genesis were also featured and it really made me want to listen to early albums by all three of these artists. I must talk to S about early Genesis. It is only recently I’ve got into Pink Floyd after years – well, decades – of dismissing them insouciantly. The Wall is a superb and ambitious album and I really appreciate the melodic intelligence and wry cynicism of Wish You Were Here and Animals. Dark Side of the Moon is alright too. Why did I wait so long? The finest moments of ‘White Light, White Heat’ featured the stagecraft of Peter Gabriel and, in particular, the concert where, to the substantial shock of his bandmates, he emerged from the back of the stage to sing something off Foxtrot, wearing a fox’s head and a red party dress. I admired him for that. Look above to experience the moment too.

Next week’s episode is about punk rock.

But it's been no bed of roses

Being a fan of the quirky sporting statistic, I rather enjoy the concept behind the Unofficial Football World Championships website. The idea is that the first ever association football international, between Scotland and England in 1872, gave the winner the right to call itself World Champion. And, from there on in, that victorious footballing nation continued as World Champs until another country defeated it. That vanquishing nation then took the prize until it, in turn, lost an international match. And so on. And so on. It is a premise similar to boxing where a glove-donning pugilist will retain a world belt until a challenger conquers him in the ring. England became the first sole champions in 1873 – the first international proved a draw – and, with so many early international ties taking place between the home nations, the mantle was shared between England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland until 1931 when Austria hammered the Scots 5-1 in Vienna. Since then countless countries have earned the spurious right to call themselves Unofficial Football World Champions including, since the new millennium, Zimbabwe, Israel, Uruguay and those perennial underachievers Spain. Scotland, by pipping Georgia 2-1 in March became champions but a 2-0 defeat to Italy in Bari saw this brief reign end. Italy are currently official and unofficial champions but face the Faroe Islands in a week for the latest in a huge list of World Finals that stretches back 135 years. I post the Italian flag as tribute.

Sonic Boo

Another night, another jaunt to Gloucester Guildhall. Friday’s Acoustica event was a refreshing antidote to the slightly unsatisfactory ‘appenings at the Julian Cope recital. I enjoyed a wonderful evening. The first act delivered some really tender, delicate folk material. Kirsty McGee and her partner Mat Martin seem quite shy characters but I appreciated their self-deprecating and understated good humour. Their personal and evocative songs sounded gorgeous in such an intimate venue and the mix of acoustic guitar and banjo accompanied their thoughtful and thought-provoking lyrics with an affecting subtlety. I didn’t expect too much from them, to be honest, but, as is often the case, the pleasure one derives by being surprised by the quality of a performance can be substantial. I congratulate them on a splendid set.

I expected great things from the main act, Boo Hewerdine and was not disappointed. He was accompanied on stage by his friend and former Any Trouble head honcho, Clive Gregson. Hewerdine remains an engaging stage presence and his banter with Gregson and the audience proved a warm and witty highlight of the evening. But banter is nothing without good songs and we were treated to some glorious and moving numbers from the former Bible frontman’s repertoire. I really do rate this guy. The power to move an audience the way Hewerdine manages, armed with just a guitar, a ready quip and a bagful of tunes cannot be acknowledged more vigorously. His gentle charisma sent me tumbling onto the dark, mean streets of Gloucester with a broad smile on my face. This is a cool acoustic performer. This is a cool acoustic performer. I look forward to seeing him again.

Coping

For some, Julian Cope deserves the slightly over-used accolade, ‘National Treasure’ but, at the Guildhall on Thursday, I saw only a fellow, old enough to know better, wearing a daft ‘tit for tat’, trying desperately – too desperately? – to shock and consistently failing to move this punter on any significant level. One or two of numbers hit the right spot, in particular a luxurious You Disappear From View played on the mellatron, but overall I was disappointed. He was alright. A fairly dull evening was redeemed by a rather remarkable stand-off between the self-styled, ahem, Arch Drude and a slightly sad dreadlocked maid who had been yelling mundane tripe at Cope all night. Saint Julian finally cracked as the new age type attempted to hijack a sensitive rendition of Sunspots by shouting out some more meaningless tosh or other. A plaintive cry of ‘Shut the **** up!’ commenced a tirade that saw the Krautrock-admiring antiquarian branding the wench a fascist and informing her, with no little aggression, that he wanted her to leave. The former leader of The Teardrop Explodes ended his tirade by comically jumping up and down while he chanted ‘Get out! Get out!’ at the bewildered bellower. The poor love fled the auditorium in tears. Her numerous humdrum ejaculations had rankled; his petulance exposed him as spoilt and graceless. Neither party emerged with any real credit but it proved splendid theatre on a night that nothing much else caught the eye or ear.

Look at my bantam

It took me ages to get through its pages but the effort was worth my while. Snow Falling on Cedars proved an absorbing read and its profound ending offered a shrewd insight into human nature and the dilemmas that permeate one’s life. I was challenged by the passages that dealt with the ‘big issues’ of war and racism but it was the denouement, where a key character is forced into making a decision that carries huge, huge significance for others, that proved the most compelling read.

Frankly, I’ve not been listening to tons of music recently but I’m catching up now. I hadn’t been in the mood. Perhaps I’m being a tad churlish but I don’t think 2007 is proving a vintage year for sounds. Maybe my views will change over the next week or so. I have new albums by Maps, Fountains of Wayne, The Aliens and Bill Callahan to sample. All have been acclaimed critically. I shall report on my acclaim or otherwise soon.

Look at my bantam.

The dull thunder of approximate words

I watched yesterday’s Premiership Final from the sumptuous comfort of S’s sofa with the aforementioned S and the affable K for company. I don’t really buy into the play-off system although am not as hardline as S on the subject. I can’t feel too much disappointment at losing a fairly meaningless fixture and had Gloucester defeated Leicester, I wouldn’t have felt too much elation either. I really miss the old system but, it has to be said, my first years visiting Kingsholm and cheering on the boys were done so when no leagues existed. It is difficult to believe that I once experienced tangible excitement at friendly fixtures but those midweek matches against the likes of Pontypool and Newport were thrilling and somehow meant more. Perhaps it was because I was younger. Anyhow, I’m not going to think about the rugby for a while apart from musing over the pre-season signings. As ever the rumours are fascinating.

I borrowed three CDs from the newly married S yesterday. A brace of Richmond Fontaine long players and one from the folkster Alasdair Roberts adorn my rack and I look forward to hearing them properly although I have already dipped into them. Both acts are playing Green Man so I am keen to revise their back catalogues.