The sword of time will pierce our skins

I completed Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami this afternoon. It was not the most cheerful read to pass before these eyes: a tangible sense of loss, death and melancholic nostalgia lingers throughout the pages. The characters were beautifully observed and the acute and finely crafted detail that the author brought to conversations and settings added so much to the understanding of the actions of the key players. Journeys, rooms, meals: all were meticulously portrayed and often one imagined oneself sat at the next table or on the same street as the narrator Watanabe and I found this extremely worthwhile. A guy at the Green Man Festival who saw me reading the book told me he had travelled to Tokyo having vividly admired the descriptions of the city within the work. I can appreciate this but it was the evocation of a particular era that I found most fulfilling. It was not just in Paris and The West that student unrest was prevalent during the late 1960s and I found the passages that dealt with strikes and demonstrations at Tokyo University rather rewarding. When the Tokyo sit-ins were brought to an end, it transpired, to my amusement, that the young Japanese activists had kept the colleges spotlessly tidy during their occupation.

The ‘soundtrack’ of the book is appealing and as the characters interact and play their sounds, one can’t help but hear Bacharach, The Beatles, Henry Mancini and Miles Davis cascading in one’s mind. I can’t usually read and listen to music at the same time but I read the last few chapters with Relaxin’ with the Miles Davis Quintet and John Coltrane’s Blue Train on my headphones and the moods and complexities of the playing complemented the words well. This is a book that lays bare the fragility of the human condition; all the characters are unsettled, unhappy and deeply flawed and indicate a mixture of selfishness, self-obsession and deepest sensitivity throughout. A fairly open-ended denouement hinted that beyond the final page lurked more uncertainty and darkness and I like to think that the author imagined the complexities continuing. Watching such a fascinating collection of characters interact and cause varying degrees of mayhem and misery to each other proved an uncomfortable but ultimately satisfying journey. It was worth the the ride.

... and her Walkman started to melt

I’m heartened that Calmer* has returned to the nearby spa town. Last Wednesday’s evening’s entertainment was as eclectic and worthwhile as ever. I salute the concept and look forward merrily to future recitals at the Slak Bar. I penned a few words about the concert on the Folk Handbook’s online forum and as I’m terribly busy today, I’ll simply copy and paste.

Diane Cluck is a fascinating performer, at first sight and listen very delicate and slightly will o’ the wisp. This impression disguises quite an edge; her spare arrangements accompany haunting and honest lyrical offerings. I found her quietly compelling although I’m still trying to work out exactly what ‘anti-folk’ means. Her support on the tour, Barry Bliss, is a bit of an unpolished gem. His repertoire unashamedly veers from utterly pessimistic appraisals of current American economic policy to brutally honest personal revelations to quaint and thoughtful biographical songs (last night we all learnt a lot about Rasputin and Joan of Arc). By his own admission, he’s unused to playing outside a small wine bar in New York and had retired from performing – but was still rehearsing – before being invited to tour these shores with Cluck. At times he appeared rather nervous and took a while to adapt to a new venue (and continent) but this added to the appeal; here is an honest and distinctive artist worth seeing. The combination of both New Yorkers made for a fine evening.

Sound Salvation

My appreciation of BBC 6Music, a station I have consistently lauded over the years, is vaguely diminished but intact. My word, I miss Andrew Collins hosting the early evening show. His engaging banter and undiluted pleasure in all types of popular music were satisfying and welcome. I looked forward to his programme as I drove home every afternoon. Here was a guy my age, spinning discs that I consistently dug (or would grow to dig) and yarns that I could relate to and nod appreciatively and sagely to. His replacement Steve Lamacq is dandy but just a touch too ‘indie’ in his tastes; when this gaunt presenter does embrace other musical genres I always sense it is because he has to, not because he wants to. Perhaps I am being unfair.

The other 6Music ‘jewel in the crown’ was Phill Jupitus and his engaging breakfast show which I loved thanks to his affable naturalness and ability to sound, at times, as if he’d just climbed out of bed and didn’t quite know where he was. He never seemed to try too hard and was just himself for a few hours; this, I admired. His unabashed enthusiasm for music never failed to win me over, especially his passion for old ska and reggae. I miss him. The new guy, Shaun Keaveny, is an adequate replacement but I consider that, unlike Jupitus, he views the show as a tasty career move rather than a labour of love. I rarely determine any real love of music in Keaveny and always think he’s trying far too hard to impose ‘personality’ on proceedings. He can’t ad lib to save his life either and there’s nothing worse than feeling you are being read a comedy script with a certain desperation. What I have always respected about 6Music is the integrity of the presenters and that, above all, they should ‘know their stuff’. I don’t think Keaveny ticks that box, frankly.

Adam Buxton and Joe Cornish are hosting the breakfast show for a fortnight and my heart verily soared to hear them on air this morning. These are natural comedy performers who, like Jupitus, are just themselves on air and one is left with the sensation that one is overhearing a pair of witty popular culture freaks indulging in brilliant banter. They are into their sounds too and seem to have (charming and intelligent and humorous) opinions on everything. I used to enjoy their TV programme. I wholeheartedly wish they were on 6Music every morning between seven and ten but realise I should just make the most of this two week holiday from the mundane alternative.

"I guess all songs is folk songs. I never heard no horse sing 'em."

I am playing my new Rachel Unthank album as I pen these words. It is a charming recording. The version of Nick Drake's River Man is spine-tingling.

The Saturday at Green Man was certainly damper. I awoke to hefty raindrops cascading against my tent’s fabric and the precipitation continued unabated until mid-afternoon. The resulting muddy mess never cleared. I enjoyed the day though.

PG Six was a pleasant surprise. Having read my programme, I was expecting a folky and fey vibe from the New York collective but, instead, was treated to a jingly-jangly procession of pop pearls. They were fine. Clinic, on next, continued the non-folk scene on the main stage with a set of belligerent and angular and no-nonsense art-rock. They kicked up a mighty racket and I appreciated the independent plough they somewhat assertively furrowed in their surgical masks and gowns.

What else? Six Organs of Admittance rocked the Folkey Dokey Stage with some uncompromising and challenging post-rock before the more traditional James Yorkston treated a receptive crowd to his special blend of sensitive and hugely melodic folk-tinged delights. S and I missed the end of Yorkston’s set as we plodded through the mire to catch the rather wonderful Richmond Fontaine on the main stage. I must confess that I’ve ne’er really warmed to the recordings of this band but I loved their set here with its country-tinged ballads and beautifully textured arrangements. You can’t beat a slide guitar.

Vashti Bunyan was marvellous. Her hushed and serene tones and sensuous songs of pastoral peace kept the rain at bay. She appeared thrilled to be there and a most receptive crowd echoed the thrill. I admire her. After a quick trip back to the Folkey Dokey to catch twenty minutes of loud and studied math rock from the mighty Battles we headed back to a blistering hour of remarkable hard rock from the compelling Robert Plant who banged out an astounding procession of numbers, all delivered with pomp and power. He looked the part too. His set was a highlight of the weekend. As the noble S pointed out, the opening riff of Whole Lotta Love was worth every groat of the admission fee.

There’s a worthy review of Green man in today’s Guardian. A is seemingly planning a whole host of Green Man related postings on his weblog.

A couple more photographs:

1. The Folkey Dokey Stage. Appalling name.

2. Clinic on stage. Many kagools.

For when she thought of summer rain

I’m going to go to Green Man again next year. The mud and the rain were drags and I don’t regret nipping off on the Sunday morning. I’m frustrated that it wasn’t sunny and dry because it would have been lovely to stretch out on the grass and read and chill and eat and drink. An extra day’s music and vibe would have been splendid but it was not to be. It’s a grand event with three great venues to catch acts as well as the Rumpus Room where hipster DJs spun some fabulous sounds. The chief music writer on The Times, Pete Paphides, produced a cracking set on Friday night, opening with Dylan’s Maggie’s Farm, followed by Summer Babe by Pavement and Teenage Riot by Sonic Youth. An inspired trio of belters! He finished his set with the glorious Come All Ye by Fairport Convention; I respect this man and his taste.

I caught two heroes on the Friday. On the main stage, a nervous Stephen Duffy and The Lilac Time were playing together for the first time in years. They were superb. All the old classics were belted out with gusto and sublime musicianship and I admired Duffy’s wit, wisdom and self-deprecating humour. I stood at the front among a gaggle of Lilac Time aficionados all a-swaying and a-tapping feet and all wearing huge grins. Having read an old Word Magazine feature praising Duffy to the rafters last week, it was engaging to find myself next to the item’s author Caitlin Moran (Pete Paphides’s wife, trivia lovers) who was absolutely lapping up the set with her kids. Despite my clumsy opening sortie – ‘Are you Caitlin?’ – we had a briefish chat and both agreed that Duffy was ‘da man’. I am heartened to learn that a new Lilac Time album will be hitting the shelves this autumn and I hope they tour.

Later that evening, we saw Martin Stephenson produce a fabulous set at the Green Man Café. As ever, the engaging Geordieman combined marvellous tunes, fantastic playing and engaging banter to keep a slightly damp crowd in raptures. After a beer or three, I felt sufficiently brave to shout out for Crocodile Cryer which, to my delight, Stephenson played with great verve and power. This is a special performer.

Earlier in the day I dug the exquisite folk tenderness of Rachel Unthank and the Winterset (I bought her debut album on the strength of the performance) and admired the cheery and cheering pop classiness of Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci man Euros Child.

In an episodic format that none other than Mr Charles Dickens would acknowledge and salute (if, readers, he were still alive) I shall write about the Saturday on the morrow.

Here are some photographs. The captions read:

1. The Green Man Cafe arena. Nice.

2. The author ponders the weather with the main arena in the background. Spot the bubble.

3. The Lilac Time perform.

Muddy Waters

S and I returned from Green Man today, a full twenty-four hours earlier than anticipated. The rank rain and the resulting dreadful mud (see Cole boot above) took their toll and we had concerns about getting the car out of the car park that looked utterly brown and sodden this morn. We made a bolt for it. The two days, weather apart, were packed with excellent performances and fine sounds and I’ll write more tomorrow. I’m quite frustrated about the damp conditions; had the sun shone, the weekend would have been idyllic.

The sound is deep in the dark

Into the Woods by Malcolm Middleton (one of those new-fangled compact discs that Tomorrow’s World featured the other day) is dominating the listening schedules at Radio Cole FM at the moment. The former Arab Strap master of murky melancholia has managed to marry the miserabilism of his former combo’s lyrics to some uplifting electronic soundscapes and acoustic charm. The songs are witty and intelligent but the themes of isolation and despair that dominated much of Arab Strap’s output are still apparent and, again, the listener finds himself or herself as voyeur, glancing nervously into a mind dominated by bleak thoughts and uncertainties. This is a fine and rewarding album. I recommend it.

On the Links

I’ve tidied up the links on this site’s right hand panel. It needed doing. I’ve pruned a few links and added a few current favourites. I have also added quite a few more blogs to the extent that I’ve now split these sites into those that deal with MP3s and those that are more prose based. If you have a spare hour, you might like to trawl though the MP3 blogs. There are some absolute nuggets to be had there; plenty of punters have ‘zipped’ some classic old albums which are there for the taking. Last night I bagged a copy of 1968’s Nancy & Lee (by N. Sinatra and L. Hazlewood) and the Manfred Hubler and Siegfried Schwab soundtrack to the cult vampire/soft porn cult flick Vampyros Lesbos.

I ventured to the supermarket an hour ago to pick up some necessary items (toilet rolls, Ritz crackers, fruit juice etc.) for the weekend’s festival frolics. By my good fortune, a Gloucester rugby legend queued behind me at the checkout although I didn’t engage the fellow in conversation. It was nippy back row athlete Paul Ashmead who loaded his goods onto the conveyor belt of oblivion directly after me. I always felt Ashmead underachieved a tad during his Gloucester career; his early performances in the famed shirt were energetic, creative and no-nonsense and I tipped the chap for international honours. A brief internet search tells me that Ashmead occupied the blindside flank during Mike Teague’s farewell performance against a Harlequins outfit that included a retiring (in one sense) Brian Moore. If I am correct, a certain Philip Bradley Thomas Greening made his league debut that day. It all seems a terribly long time ago.

Bryter Later

I’m now reading Norwegian Wood by Murakami Haruki. Clive James can leave the building. I completed about three chapters of North Face of Soho but decided to forgo the last 200 pages or so. All of the joy of his first three volumes of memoirs – and, in particular, the lively and hilarious Unreliable Memoirs that deals with his Australian childhood – is missing and is replaced by one dreary and self-congratulatory ‘anecdote’ after another about contract negotiations. How disappointing.

Green Man on Friday. I keep glancing nervously at the wet weather outside. The tent is still up in the back garden getting soaked and I will need to have it packed on Thursday so drying it out will be an issue. My main cause for cloudbursting concern is, of course, the festival itself. There is a world of difference between strolling round a site with a hot sun on your back and having to suffer showers when your favourite act is on stage. All fingers are crossed for an improvement and the five day forecast indicates an upturn by the end of the week. The full running order with timings has been posted on the Uncut site.

It only takes a second to score a goal

I’ve ploughed through a few books this holiday. The new Harry Potter was more of an event than a read but I got through it and, it has to be said, found the last chapters quietly moving. It was pleasing to finally discover some of the truths surrounding some of the key characters and I don’t regret all the hours I’ve spent over the past few years turning the pages of the whole series. My favourite book of the season was The Damned United by David Peace (given to me by D and A – thanks) and its no holes barred account of the forty-four day long Brian Clough era at Leeds United. Beyond the bust-ups and boozing, the novel managed to convey the human side of Clough sagely and sensitively. There are plenty of remarkable set pieces within the book not least during the flashback sections that deal with Clough’s tenures, in tandem with his astute sidekick Peter Taylor, at Derby County and Hartlepool United.

I’m currently reading the fourth instalment of Clive James’s memoirs, North Face of Soho, which deals with the Australian writer’s early career in the world of criticism and letters. Frankly, it is proving a touch dull.

il miglior fabbro

I was a tad delicate this morning after last night’s fact-finding mission. S and I sauntered into the epicentre of the metropolis known the world over as ‘Gloucester’ and attempted to discover somewhere different to imbibe an alcoholic beverage or two. Café Rene has become, over recent years, the default setting for a pint o’ ale or porter so we wondered if a distinctive and atmospheric alternative existed. After a swift ‘un in the Rene, we trotted to Bull Lane and supped a couple in the Poet’s Bar (pictured). I witnessed no poets in our midst, only a gaggle of gentlemen singing discordantly along to a D. Bowie compilation but my beer, a strongish Czech brew, proved tasty. I hadn’t swigged a snifter in The Fountain for years and we headed there next; it’s a decent pub and the garden was packed with an up market crowd who may have been to a Three Choirs gig at the cathedral. One fellow wore a boating blazer; there exists no excuse for that level of dandyism methinks. We ended our evening of research at the Dick Whittington where S waxed lyrical about his honey flavoured ale. The night was successful; I would return to all three of the ‘new’ establishments. To misquote Johnson: When a man is tired of Gloucester, he is tired of life.

Kingsholm

My annual pilgrimage to Kingsholm was made yesterday. Within the cooling shade of the ‘Shed Bar’, I casually handed the young female employee of the city club two hundred and twenty pounds sterling. In return, I received my season ticket allowing me entry to the forthcoming months of rugby football action. I left the stadium in contented mood. The muddied visage of Lord Alex Brown adorns the plastic front cover while, on the rear, Michael ‘Mike’ Tindell, Andrew ‘Andy’ Hazell and the young prince, James ‘James’ Simpson-Daniel are pictured in celebratory mood, ostensibly celebrating a five point scoring act. In two photographs, the honest toil of the forward pack and the exuberant verve of the three-quarter line are epitomised; it is my wish that both aspects of the sport are executed keenly this season by the most talented Gloucester squad the historic city has witnessed.

The stadium looked remarkable. The groundsman was mowing the pitch as I arrived and I derived pleasure from a most verdant and lush looking lawn. The new main stand is a most impressive and imposing looking project and behind each set of posts, the Buildbase Stand and the hospitality end appeared modern and eye catching. The popular side remains the old-fashioned popular side where ghosts from the past still bellow and howl and I look forward to strolling into it soon with all the excitement and expectation a new season brings.

The Beloved Entertainer

I took the above photograph yesterday evening. We popped out to sort out the chickens for the evening – a ritual in itself – and came across no less than three little hedgehogs in the corner of the garden. Finding just one hedgehog is quite unusual but to discover a trio was rather exciting. By the time I had trotted back into the house to find the camera two had sneaked under the outer skin of the tent; you will need to increase the size of the picture to see them clearly. I doff my hat to nature.

Cross-Code Cavaliers, Cardinals and Clappers

I spotted the behemoth and cross-code rugby traveller known with affection as ‘The Volcano’ yesterday. Lesley Vainikolo was strolling casually up Westgate Street in merry Gloucester, enjoying the Sunday sun with a couple of comrades, one of the male, ahem, gender and one of the female. He appeared relaxed and content with life, and, as far as one could ascertain, physically fit. I didn’t approach him but was tempted and in retrospect, wish I’d barked a brief ‘halloa!’ and enquired how things were goin’.

As I type these words, I’m playing Gold by Ryan Adams, a true 21^st century classic packed with emotionally wrought numbers, sung with vitality and vim. The tunes are striking and elegant. It remains a lovely album, one of my favourites. A couple of nights ago, thanks to my Virgin+ Box (me bleedin’ pride and joy) I was able to watch Adams, with his backing group The Cardinals, in concert at London’s St Luke’s. It is my belief that the presence of a backing group lends Adams more discipline as a live performer and the collective appeared tight and talented. If only Adams had been on this form when I travelled to Bristol, with high expectations, to see him ‘in concert’ a while ago; that evening remains possibly the nadir of my gig-going past rivalled only by the inexcusable Earnest Cox/Cuban Heels/Ghosting triple bill from hell at Gloucester Guildhall that still finds me waking, drenched in sweat, some nights, whimpering sorrowly, ‘Megaphone... why?’. The television coverage of Adams was embellished by regular shots of the endearing and appealing Newent-raised media player D, who was obviously targeted by the show’s producer for his well-honed talent for applauding with warmth and vigour. His childlike beam at the end of Carolina Rain almost brought a tear to these world weary eyes.

Houses in Motion

My word, I love the new album by LCD Soundsystem, Sound of Silver. I’ve unashamedly played it to death over the past week or so. I purchased it for a crisp five pound note in Associated Diaries and Farm Stores Ltd. – a brilliant bargain. It’s a funky little beast, awash with pulsating electronic beats and riddims and some of the exhilarating numbers make one want to dance a little (in the kitchen) and even whoop occasionally. It certainly is a marvellous long player. The closest comparisons I can contemplate are Power, Corruption and Lies by New Order for its electronic splendid splendour and Talking Heads’ Remain in Light for the strutting and fascinating rhythmic resonance that permeates the whole effort. I salute this recording and effortlessly recommend it to all hepcats.

It is now less than one of those fortnight things until the Green Man Festival. I note that A is ‘biggin’ up’ an act that is appearing on the Sunday and I glad that his revision for the event seems to be progressing satisfactorily. This morning I practised putting the tent up in the rear garden and I may (or may not) slumber in it this very night. I’ve photographed it so that S can gaze upon it and realise that it’s a floral item that might raise the occasional eyebrow in the fields of Brecon. I’d rather experience his antipathy towards my flowery and pastel-hued mini-marquee now than when we arrive at the site and start putting the blighter up.

Film and Music

I’m a critter of habit when it comes to reading about music. Twice a month, the doormat is raucously clattered by magazines arriving via Royal Mail. My favourite remains Word Magazine, an erudite pot pourri of stuff I like and, importantly, will like while Uncut features much of the same but written and edited, methinks, with less warmth and sophistication. I always reckon that Word Magazine understands me more. I buy The Observer when its Music Monthly is attached; it’s a decent publication but slightly hit and miss and, in recent months, in my opinion, more miss than hit. I suppose Observer Music Monthly has a wider demographic to cater for so one shouldn’t moan if it caresses the mainstream a little too often.

My weekly ‘fix’ comes with Friday’s Guardian. Its weekly ‘Film and Music’ supplement is a treasure and today’s, a classic, is what prompted me to pen these words. My favourite music journalist, the pithy and intelligent Alexis Petridis, travels to the backwaters of Scotland to interview lost Folk legend Ann Briggs, there’s a charming piece about the making of Fairport Convention’s Liege and Lief and a witty and affectionate chat between Sheffield’s troubadour par excellence, Richard Hawley and young pop monkey Alex Turner. The CD reviews are thoughtful and entertaining and certainly sort the wheat from the chaff: Petridis uses a slightly cynical appraisal of a new long playing offering by someone called Kate Nash to consider the new pop scene and how its fast moving nature ain’t necessarily a good thing.

I have been in Amsterdam for a couple of days. I took my eldest two children mainly because I found dirt cheap flights there and neither had flown anywhere before. It’s a great city. I bought Blackheart Man by Bunny Wailer and Tribute to the Martyrs by Steel Pulse in the Waterlooplein market. It is great to be home though and I am keen to relax for a while now.