Flickr Conspiracy

Gloucester defeated Worcester 33 rugby points to 19 rugby points in a fairly error strewn match in which both sides failed to conjure up a great deal of wit and imagination in attack. Gloucester’s third and final try was a beauty with quick hands and clever incursions from the youngish prince Simpson-Daniel and the yeoman Hazell putting the speedster Bailey clear; however, before that, the city club’s finest moments came in defence with the energetic Richards and the steady Goodridge both conjuring up last ditch and brave tackles that had the 'popular side' (frankly, I've grown tired of the expression 'The Shed') roaring approval.

Google lets me know when someone publishes a weblog featuring Gloucester Rugby so I was able to discover this sweet little posting by someone attending their first ever match at Kingsholm. The author has also taken some fine photographs of Saturday’s proceedings and chucked them onto Flickr. I like the rather idiosyncratic captions. I have chosen my favourite picture and display it above for your delectation. As mentioned a week or so ago, the Coles want a new digital camera and I’d love to take decent photos like the ones by the Kingsholm debutant spectator.

Under the Greenwood Decree

I can cope with more than one musical genre at once. I can, I can, I can. However, in the past week or so, my listening has moved away from the intense and earnest lo-fi acoustic scene that has dominated my varied sound systems since the turn of the year; my preference at the moment is reggae. A couple of albums I have downloaded recently have been spun a good deal.

Ethiopian Kings 1975-80 by Rod Taylor (a name I would expect a darts player or, perhaps, a plasterer to own) is a classic slice or two of roots reggae with airy vocals and a strong lyrical content underpinned by melodic and uplifting riddims. The opening track, King David, Solomon, Moses is a superbly produced, swaggering and soaring number and sets the tone perfectly for thirteen more lilting gems.

Trojan Records is 40 years old and that most wonderful of reggae labels is celebrating in style. The company has asked none other than Radiohead’s guitar genius Jonathan ‘Jonny’ Greenwood to plough through the entire back catalogue and select a compilation album to highlight the many, many nuggets that glint throughout the history of Trojan. Nice work if you can get it, eh? The album, Jonny Greenwood is the Controller, is an absolute joy. It is evident that this was (please excuse the UB40 connotations at this juncture) a labour of love for the erudite Greenwood and I thank him for keeping it simple and not going too underground in his selections. His choices range from the deep dub of Lee Perry and Jonny Clarke to the honeyed vocalisations of Marcia Aitkins (over the riddim of Althea and Donna’s Uptown Top Ranking methinks) and Marcia Griffiths to the soothing Lovers’ Rock of the esteemed Gregory Isaacs. There is not a duff track or moment on the whole enterprise and I recommend it with glee.

This Sporting Life

It’ll be a tough test on Saturday for my favoured rugby football outfit, the Gloucester club of Gloucester, Gloucestershire. Injuries will affect selection and key players such as Lamb, Walker, Forrester, Balding and the young prince Simpson-Daniel may be missing from the matchday two-and-twenty. International call-ups will rob the city of numerous fine players including the inspirational skipper Bortolami, his rugged compatriot Nieto, eager Scot Lawson and ebullient English backs Tindall and Morgan. The squad’s depth shall be stretched to its limit against a Worcester Warriors team that is scrapping to retain its Premiership status but I fully expect fringe players such as James, Thomas and Narraway to impose themselves merrily for the cause. A Gloucester win is not guaranteed but I’ll be disappointed if the humdrum and uninspiring Midlanders are not dispatched after a tense battle up front.

News reaches me that two more Scots will be pitching up at Kingsholm next season. Mobile prop Ally Dickinson and full international loosie Al Strokosch are on the way from Edinburgh and I welcome them. It is always pertinent to see what supporters of a player’s current club feel about a particular footballer departing and a forum on The Scotsman’s site bears witness to this: plenty of Edinburgh fans rate these fellows.

A Poultry Return

We have some new chickens. An enthusiatic party of Coles attended the Domestic Wildfowl Trust H.Q. in Winterbourne today and, after much deliberation, debate, dissent and discussion, departed the admirable poultry paradise with three hens. We chose a brace of White Stars and a single Pekin Bantam. They are lovely birds and the White Stars (Leghorn hybrids, I’ll have you know) are phenomenal layers by all accounts. The trio are all ‘point of lay’ so we can expect eggs sooner rather than later. Of course, they have names. The White Stars have been named after famous female Whites, Meg (after Meg White out of pop pranksters The White Stripes) and Cilla (after Cilla Black, the truly ghastly and unacceptable face of light entertainment, who, as any schoolboy knows, was christened Priscilla White). In a clever play on words, the Pekin Bantam has been called ‘Duck’ after the spicy dish Peking Duck. They appear to have settled in nicely. Security is high after recent events. They are safe.

Twix

Mr and Mrs Cole have returned from London Town. Good Lord, we walked miles and my fragile and ageing limbs are aching from the effort. It was a fine weekend though and we managed to pack a good deal in.

On the Saturday we travelled to Notting Hill where we browsed in the shops and perambulated down the busy streets where the Portabello Road Market makes its bustling home. The experience was spoilt after witnessing one the most vicious and vivid fist fights I’ve ever come across. A nasty little incident. The rest of daytime Saturday was spent at the Victoria and Albert Museum and on the splendid Tottenham Court Road where an hour was spent in the Fopp Megastore (without buying anything apart from an invigorating cup of tea and one of those pleasing Twix chocolate/caramel/biscuit bars) and in one or two of the many electrical retail emporia that permeate the area where I managed to purchase the very headphones (they are smashing) I mentioned in my last posting. Saturday evening saw us sauntering to the Haymarket Theatre to attend Pinter’s People, a veritable curate’s egg of a production and from there to a packed Chinatown where New Year was being celebrated with no little flamboyance. We ate there.

Sunday was spent shopping. The Brick Lane and Spitalfields markets are full of interesting and varied stalls. I picked up a vibrant and exotic lime green shirt that I can imagine wearing slightly self-consciously to a concert party one evening and a copy of Son by Toiling Midgets for a pound piece. The shirt cost three pound pieces. Brick Lane market is very ‘East End’ and full of rather interesting characters; Spitalfields is more upmarket, more expensive but still full of fascinating wares. They complement each other well. We also sneaked to the Tate Modern and, from there, to Oxford Street for a bit more retail therapy. We departed for the west of England then.

I typed the above while listening to Funeral by Arcade Fire.

Devices and Desires

I don’t wish to come across as some grasping and spoilt twit but I must confess that I have had my eye on a couple of new technological things recently.

My MP3 player earphones are the Creative ones that came with the machine and very fine they are too. However, my head has been turned by some new kids on the block, headphones that, verily, are inserted into the ear canal to block out any extraneous noise and make your sounds explode in your brain like aural fireworks from Valhalla. The ones I’ve noticed are made by Sennheiser. They scare me slightly but I must own them soon.

The Coles (plural) are in the market for a decent digital camera as well. Our existing one does the trick but, while fine for ‘snaps’, isn’t quite up to the mark for very clear, detailed, really high quality photographs. We want to upgrade. Tonight I’ve been browsing through Kelkoo and comparing makes and models and, flippin’ cleverly, nipping onto the beautiful pages of Flickr to take a peek at photos taken by the cameras in question. My favourite so far is the Fujifilm Finepix S9500 which looks a solid and upright citizen and is responsible for some charming results. I am open to suggestions though.

So unplug the jukebox...

Having used the word ‘entomologist’ in my last posting, I am proud to utilise ‘entomology’ this evening. I refer, of course, to the long playing album Entomology by Josef K that I have been spinning tonight. It’s a quirky little number, a sumptuous compilation of leftfield pop gems that makes one murmur, ‘So that is where Franz Ferdinand got their ideas from…’ Josef K famously committed career suicide by aborting their debut album Sorry For Laughing which stayed unreleased until 1990 but six blistering songs from it are found here along with six more from the ‘follow-up’, The Only Fun In Town and three from a 1981 John Peel session. The highlights of this collection, for me, are the four remarkable Postcard 7” singles, the electrifying Radio Drill Time, the poignant It’s Kinda Funny, the insouciant Sorry for Laughing and, my favourite, the jangly, plaintive and enormously uplifting Chance Meeting. The album is beautifully packaged in an eye-catching cardboard cover and the sleeve notes, worth a read depending if you are in the mood, are written by a deliriously over-the-top Paul Morley in the form of his life. I’m slightly cross that this bunch weren’t my favourite group at the time but I’m happy to make their acquaintance now. Hurrah.

Truax is Tops

It was Acoustica at the Gloucester Guildhall last night, the first time I’ve attended since last October when Jim Moray brought his challenging take on the folk genre to the intimate local venue. Three acts were appearing last night. The Wraiths were on first. A male/female duo from Bristol, they set old poems to music. I rather liked them. The sounds were angular and quirky and the two voices combined attractively. The fellow, name of Jon, had a mean Wilko Johnsonesque stare and an almost menacing, post-punk ambience, but his harmonies and backing vocals conveyed a charming pop sensitivity. The gal was called Mog and she sang sweetly. I approved.

Thomas Truax (pictured) was the second act although he was billed as the headline performer. Having seen the man at Cheltenham’s Literature Festival last year, I was keen to witness his singular and eccentric ways again. How to describe Truax briefly and in a way that does him justice? He hails from an imaginary American town, Wowtown, and sings witty and unconventional songs about his offbeat world. He accompanies himself on an array of innovative instruments including Sister Spinster, a drum machine made from bike wheels and cutlery, the mighty Hornicator, an effects-laden gramophone horn and the Stringaling, a tumble drier pipe with all kinds of buzzers and bells tagged onto it. He howls a lot and cascades between ‘endearing’ and ‘Gothic’ at will. He rhymes ‘ectoplasm’ with ‘spasm’ and makes a lyric about a deranged entomologist hunting down a talking two foot butterfly seem poignant and believable. His world is strange and bewitching and I salute him.

The final act was Chantelle Pike. Oh dear. I am not sure who was more dreadful, Pike or Jane Taylor, another ‘sensitive singer-songwriter’ I endured at Acoustica last April. Like Taylor, Pike combined a self-assurance and confidence that was wholly at odds with a dismal lack of tunes, wit or anything resembling a moving or challenging lyric. I sat through each song thinking, ‘Perhaps the next one will reward my patience with something of merit’ but I was disappointed again and again. There was a number alluding to knitting that may have been a metaphor for something profound. Or maybe it was about knitting. She sang about a cow which, again, may have meant something astonishing but I suspect may just have been about a cow. Where Truax and The Wraiths challenged me and made me think, this performer sadly bored and dismayed me with really insipid and humdrum offerings. They produced art; she did not. Perhaps I’ve been spoilt by a host of stunning acoustic artists (Newsom, Stevens, Regan, Oldham, Stephenson, Hewerdine) I’ve encountered either live or via compact disc or MP3 technology in the past year or so? Her drummer wore interestingly hued - orange, as you're askin' - trousers though, so all was not lost.

I have seen the future and it works...

Unexpectedly, I found myself guiltlessly enjoying a day off yesterday. The rest of the Coles were less affected by the snowy conditions so I contemplated a lazyish day by myself. I played two or three new CDs* that I have neglected slightly, read for a while before catnapping in front of an old monochrome war moving picture on Channel 4. I wonder if that’s what retirement will be like, a series of simple pleasures, nothing urgent on the agenda and no pressing responsibilities to contend with? I do hope so.

* Is A Woman by Lambchop, The Good , The Bad and The Queen by The Good , The Bad and The Queen and Lesser Matters by Sweden's The Radio Dept..

Challenge

The three eldest Coles ventured to the Guildhall Arts Centre's compact and bijou cinema last evening to watch Starter For Ten, a quaint and warming British romantic comedy not starring Hugh Grant and not written by Richard Curtis. We really enjoyed it. I loved the 1980s setting and the well-rounded and believable characters. Admittedly, the plotline involving the University Challenge episode was a bit unusual but I appreciated the tender evocation of 80s student life. I wore those clothes, listened to that music, went to those parties, attended those lectures and went on those demos. The soundtrack was splendid indeed. I counted at least three songs by The Cure which must be a record and certainly kept me grinning. Ace of Spades by Motorhead featured in a scene set on the Southend-on-Sea front, a song that also appeared in Bambi, the Young Ones episode which also includes a fictional appraisal of the University Challenge format. I might write to IMDB and suggest they use that nugget on their 'Trivia' section for Starter For Ten. I'm sure they'd be most grateful.

And a bicycle on the boy's birthday...

The first two headliners for Green Man were announced last Thursday and, while I’m not exactly delirious with happiness, I’m pleased that Joanna Newsom will be playing on the Friday (Ys is a fabulous album and getting more fabulous with every play) and intrigued that Robert Plant will be the main act for the Saturday. I note from an unofficial Plant site that the fellow tends to play a few old Led Zep crowd-pleasers at festivals. I’m trying to convince myself that this is a good thing. Perhaps after two full days of esoteric and obscure folksy rambling I’ll be crying out for a Black Dog or a Whole Lotta Love.

Can I refer the honourable gentleman/gentlewoman back to my cover version musings of a week or so ago? I missed out an absolute belter that would certainly have made my Top Three had I engaged my brain a bit more. Robert Wyatt’s rendition of Elvis Costello’s Shipbuilding is a mesmeric masterpiece that never fails to make the old hairs stand on end. As a considered response to the needlessness and folly of war (in this case the Falklands War), it has rarely been bettered. I thought of quoting a line or two from its lyrics but decided not to: every last word is evocative and incisive so choosing just a highlight or two would be foolish. Shipbuilding remains an extraordinary experience and Wyatt’s spare and considered rendition allows the astonishing content to fully hit home. There’s a clip on YouTube that is truly spellbinding.

The Chickens

Our chickens were killed last night. I donned my Wellington boots as usual to lock them away for the night at about 8.30 and strolled into the darkness. I sensed something wasn’t quite right and my torch confirmed the worst. A hungry fox, lured further away from its usual patch by the frosty grounds I reckon, had left two hens dead and another one twitching and mortally injured scattered over the lawn. Feathers were everywhere. A fourth chicken, either Hetty or Bella, had vanished; as I inspected the carnage, Mr Fox was, I’m sure, heading back to its hole with one of our old girls in its snout. Our idyllic egg-collecting, chick-stroking days are at an end and it is terribly sad. I’ve never really been one to get too emotionally attached to animals but I did love Hetty, Bella, Pasty and ‘Grey’ to bits. We were only remarking yesterday what lovely characters they had become. We’re all really shocked by this abrupt end to these gorgeous creatures’ short lives.

Ice Ice Baby

Stuart Maconie once played a track from the incomparable Seven Swans on his mighty, mighty Freak Zone show on BBC 6Music and I may have heard a mere one or two songs at other times on that sterling station of shimmering style, but it is very unusual to catch anything by the young prince of music Sufjan Stevens on broadcast wireless. Imagine my surprise therefore to enter the front parlour yesterday to witness flippin’ Kyran Bracken poncing round on ice skates, rehearsing a routine with a dainty skatin’ partner, while the beatific strains of Chicago from the immense Illinoise album cascaded aurally in the background. For those in the know, it was that lovely string bit. The television show is called, I am told, Dancing On Ice. This might or might not be the worst atrocity ever to hit British screens – I have no view on its merits – but the guy or gal who chooses the music has taste.

Warehouse: Songs and Stories

I don’t (and can’t really, living as we do in one of those semi-detached dwellings) play my music too loud, but in the Oxfam warehouse, which is a stand alone erection and effectively soundproof, I can crank up the volume to full whack and really rock. This morning I took in one of my own CDs, Tones of Town by Field Music and gave it a huge blast as I sorted out the bookshelves. It sounded fabulous. This is probably my favourite long player at the moment and, potentially, an early favourite for the Uprock Narratives and Unknown Pleasures album of the year award. Eleven polished pop gems come racing at you, one after the other, like earnest pups bounding up for attention. All are quirky, melodic, challenging and possess the engaging English whimsy that proved a highlight of the Sunderland band’s first album. This is a cool group. This is a cool group.

Working at Oxfam allows one first crack at anything decent that arrives in. This morning I bought a couple of CDs that were ‘out the back’ ready to be sorted. One was a single CD that contained both of Gram Parsons’ albums, GP (now does that count as an eponymous debut?) and Grievous Angel. I knew a fair bit of his work already as S did a tape for me years ago but I’m glad to own these recordings. Continuing the Gram Parsons theme, I also got Sin City – The Very Best of the Flying Burrito Brothers. I tend to shy away from ‘Greatest Hits’ packages but this CD contains every song from both The Gilded Palace of Sin and Burrito Deluxe as well as a couple of other well known tracks. I haven’t played the latter yet but I had the Gram Parsons solo stuff on earlier while I watched France defeat the noble Italians in the first Six Nations fixture of the season.

Talking of the rugby football, I felt real pride watching young Oliver 'Olly' Morgan (of my favoured Gloucester club) make such an accomplished and steady debut for England against Scotland this afternoon. I’m not usually one to get too thrilled about England but the thoroughbred Morgan’s elegant presence at the back, Michael ‘Mike’ Tindell’s no-nonsense midfield thrust, and, I confess, the old warhorse Vickery's leadership of the fifteen led to me cheering the white-shirted fellows on. It was good to see Wilkinson return too; he had a stormer. Harry Ellis, the Tigers scrummie, was superb and made yard after yard with some elegiac and purposeful sprinting. I don’t really like him though.