Sipping Coke and Playing Games

I’m not sure whether I reported this on here or not, but earlier this jolly year of 2007, I spent the afternoon at Birmingham’s Symphony Hall ruminating sagely at a performance of Petrushka (what was written by Stravinsky). The music was merry but what truly made the visit was simply admiring the amazing Symphony Hall itself, a huge auditorium, stunningly designed with incredible acoustics. Why do I mention this now, gentle reader? Well, the Coles have purchased tickets to attend a couple of concert parties there this September and I’m extremely excited. Richard Hawley is playing there on the 7^th and, by Jupiter!, we’ll be sat smugly ‘n’ snugly in the front bleedin’ row. I really rated Hawley's last long player, Coles Corner, and note that a new recording will be hitting the music emporia in the month of Augustus. Hurrah! My main cause for excitement, though, comes a week and a half later when Mr David Sylvian a-comes flouncing into the second city. I’ve waited about twenty years to see Sylvian. S and I had tickets to see him at Bristol’s Colston Hall in about 1987 or 1988 but our plans were rocked first by S tragically contracting gastroenteritis - I still remember the fellow's weak and faltering voice on the telephone as he broke the dreadful news while I simultaneously pondered, "Who the heck am I going to go with now?" - and, then, by the concert itself being cancelled (not because of my comrade’s infirmity but because Sylvian’s guitarist had, if memory serves, broken his arm). A true double whammy of mishap. We have a lot of catching up to do, Mr Sylvian and me. I can’t wait. I think it’ll be one of those occasions where I spend the first song or two just thinking, ‘That’s David Sylvian over there. Heck, that’s actually David Sylvian.”