Finish

The affable S and I ventured into a deserted and rather forlorn Merrie Gloucester last evening for a pint or two. The unpretentious and surprisingly welcoming Imperial hosted us first. They serve a decent Guinness there. Like a pair of eager urchins scampering off to the tennis courts during Wimbledon fortnight, we borrowed a set of arrows from behind the bar to impishly try and replicate the form currently being shown by our heroes contesting the World Championships at London’s Alexandra Palace. A best-o’-three 301 battle ensued, your scribe prevailing by two legs to one, pouncing twice on the fabled double ten area to claim the spoils. I trust that S will not mind me reporting that on each occasion he was left needing double one, a telling indictment of the quality of sport proffered to the grizzled professional drinkers lining the Imperial’s bar who could occasionally be spotted eyeing our progress – or lack of it – with mild disdain. For the record, the evening featured a visit to the doughty Fountain Inn and climaxed with a trip to Dick Whittington’s. In our quest to discover newer places to drink in, we had intended to visit Westgate Street’s Pig Inn The City but it was unfortunately closed because of a family wedding. I wish the bride and groom well, whoe'er they may be.

I'll stand beside myself so I'm not alone

The Uprock Narratives and Unknown Pleasures Album of the Year has been selected by a panel of one. Sadly, the announcement comes too late to save either Woolworths or Zavvi which, my sources tell me, were both banking on the stimulus to CD sales that this award would foster. Fulsome apologies to both organisations.

I’ve been listening to several candidates over the past few days and, out of loyalty to an old hero, gave Paul Weller’s 22 Dreams a final spin earlier this morning. It’s a fabulous long player but the flamboyantly coiffured, ahem, Modfather must wait his turn. I hate to disagree with Andrew Collins because normally I align myself with his ever-interesting views on popular culture but the assertion, on his weblog, that 2008 was a ‘terrible year for albums’ is tangibly wrong. For the first time ever, I’m going to provide a Top Ten because there was so much I enjoyed this year from preppy/perceptive pop (Vampire Weekend) to sultry and emotive balladeering (Joan As Police Woman), noodly electo-wit (TV on the Radio), breathy acoustic breathiness (Bon Iver) and heartrendingly life-affirming songsmiffery (Robert Forster).

Anyhow, with a tug o’ the forelock and a knowing nod o’ appreciation, I salute the young prince o’ pop, Beck. His L.P. bearing the title Modern Guilt is 2008’s Album of the Year in my Gloucester-based citadel. I only wrote about this album a few weeks ago so I won’t repeat myself too much. It is, however, telling that last year’s favourite, Sound of Silver by LCD Soundsystem, is cut from a similar cloth. I must like this sort of thing. Pleasing electronic riddims and sumptuous beats that defy the most reluctant toes to tap support lovely melodies and obtuse yet fascinating lyrical content. Ultimately there are ten lovely songs here that proffer the listener a challenging yet joyful aural thrill and that’s why young Beck is strutting off with the plaudits today. A final note for fans of rugby football: the haunting song, Volcano, the album’s closing number, is emphatically not about the large and vaguely disappointing Gloucester wing-threequarter, Lesley Vainikolo.

Here, pop-pickers, is the Top Ten in full:

1. Modern Guilt by Beck

2. Vampire Weekend by Vampire Weekend

3. To Survive by Joan As Police Woman

4. For Emma, Forever Ago by Bon Iver

5. Carried To Dust by Calexico

6. Partie Traumatic by Black Kids

7. 22 Dreams by Paul Weller

8. The Evangelist by Robert Forster

9. Dear Science by TV on the Radio

10. Fleet Foxes by Fleet Foxes

No longer riding on the merry-go-round

It has been merry to relax a little recently, listen to some new sounds but mainly read some new books. Since St. Stephen’s Day, I’ve been ploughing my way through a mighty tome, Philip Norman’s John Lennon biography, 800+ pages of incredibly well-researched work. There are few surprises to be met here but several telling interviews reveal Lennon to be either utterly cruel or beatifically kind with hundreds of shades of grey in between. The bulk of the book concerns The Beatles which is a shame as the last decade of Lennon’s life, his years living in New York, his up and down solo career, his politicisation, his bringing up of second son Sean merit plenty of investigation. Having read plenty of Beatles biographies, a lot of the stories are familiar but it was refreshing to encounter a revised history of Lennon’s relationship with his father Alfred, so often portrayed as a fly-by-night who rejected and walked away from his wife and young son; it appears they were eventually much closer then I previously believed and it was heartening to learn of reconciliations and forgiveness on both sides. Lennon’s childhood is covered cleverly and it was interesting to discover the self-styled Working Class Hero was brought up by his prim and proper Aunt Mimi in a large and respectable middle-class house that still had a set of servants’ bells in the kitchen. The tales of post-war Liverpool are among the most evocative in the book, the young Beatle enjoying idyllic years of Just William freedom with rascally pals. The level of detail really renders this book a success; one can really hear the harsh screams in Shea Stadium, sense the terrible heat of the packed Cavern and taste the fortified lager in the Reeperbahn nightclubs.

I must strive to publish details of this humble site’s Album of the Year prize before the end of the month. I confess I’m still unsure which way to jump and the shortlist remains worryingly long. There has been plenty of sublime music to celebrate in 2008. The music industry must hold its breath for a day or two more.

The Coles will be going to see Antony and the Johnsons in May. Tickets were obtained this evening for a recital at Bristol’s Colston Hall. I Am A Bird Now is a compelling long player and new material is promised in the spring; I look forward heartily to both the forthcoming album and concert.

Bing Crosby and David Bowie

Most Wanted

It was my official birthday last week and, yet again, I have not received the tool kits, driving gloves and gardening equipment that I crave; a selection of those new-fangled compact discs and popular fiction and non-fiction books were proffered instead. I’ll cope. None of my new long playing albums are contemporary ones. I received a gorgeous Brazilian Funk compilation featuring up-tempo gems and riddims from the 1970s, At My Age by Nick Lowe which is a sumptuous collection of mellow slices of pop perfection, North Marine Drive, Ben Watt’s monochrome and maudlin masterpiece from 1983 and (look at the picture above) Fed by Plush.

I had heard of neither Plush nor the recording Fed until a week or three ago and, for the life of me, I can’t recall where I read about them. Plush is really the Illinoisan hepcat Liam Hayes, a pop perfectionist and purveyor of pristine productions. Fed came out in 2002 and for years had only been available on expensive Japanese import but has recently been rendered available for the masses and I salute its accessibility with warmth and acclaim. I have been playing Fed almost non-stop for the past few days. I note that The Guardian’s reviewer doffs a cap to the songwriting skills of Burt Bacharach and Jimmy Webb when considering these numbers and I’d add a knowing and wistful nod of the head to that shrewd appraisal. Hayes sings plaintively and emotively; it isn’t a perfect voice but it possesses a human quality that I admire. There are many clever melodies here that require a play or two to fully appreciate but when they get under the skin they remain there doggedly. The orchestral arrangements really make the album special and lavish; swathes of glorious strings and elegant horns enhance all the tracks. The sound is dense but fulfilling and one would be correct in thinking the kitchen sink can be detected at times but it works and works beautifully. This may sound pompous but please excuse as I only learnt of Fed myself at the beginning of this month: the album may be the greatest recording you’ve not yet heard of. I recommend. I recommend.

And now we’re gonna dance to a different song...

It has proved a busy week. On Wednesday I joined a group of curmudgeonly middle-aged types at Gloucester’s much-admired and pleasant Guildhall Arts Centre for a concert featuring punk legends, The Damned. To be frank, I enjoyed myself merrily. The band featured only Captain Sensible (who was supping Asda Smart Price lager all evening) and the remarkable Dave Vanian from the original line-up but I appreciated the pair’s showmanship, strength of character and élan. The set was a mixture of old favourites (Neat, Neat, Neat was blisteringly thrilling) and newer material that, controversially, I really valued for its harmonic and melodic qualities. I’m actually tempted to seek out the new Damned album, So Who’s Paranoid?; the long player has harvested rather decent reviews in the press and some of its songs sounded marvellous to these ears. As the gathered throng filed cheerfully out of the auditorium, the affable Sensible reappeared on stage and ebulliently crooned a splendid Happy Talk for a grateful collective, a wonderful conclusion to a fun night out.

I have been in London for a day or two. My word, high living in the capital leaves one wan and fatigued but ‘twas worth it; as ever, I dug my time there. On Friday, the elegant 30-something D and I attended a recital by one of my favoured beat combos, Stereolab, at Camden’s Koko venue. The earnest Anglo-French electronic pioneers created a fine sound and included a swaggering French Disko and dreamy Ping Pong in the set. I must be honest and suggest that the band did not move this punter as much as I had hoped. Many numbers seemed one-paced and a touch forgettable; it proved an engaging and enjoyable hour or so but not life-changing.

My epic journey home was punctuated yesterday by a trip to Reading in order to watch my favoured football (rugby union code) team, Gloucester, engage in battle with the London Irish outfit. The result was dire, a 42-12 reverse that it is impossible to draw any positives from. I sensed that the illness that is reported to have struck the Gloucester squad this week may have caused some of the moribund play that I witnessed but, bluntly, too many of the team are not Premiership quality. Watkins, Foster, Cooper and, surprisingly not for the first time in recent months, Wood looked well below par and I am relieved to read that The Sunday Times’ Stephen Jones shares my view that the youngster Ryan Lamb, an inconsistent chap in my opinion, is unable to control games of such magnitude as yesterday’s top of the table clash. The city club seems inadequately catered for at half back methinks. I’m prepared, and generously so, to write this capitulation off as merely a ‘bad day at the office’ but I shall be viewing forthcoming performances critically and hoping that the lads shape up and improve.

Give us a song/glove

A few small pieces of housekeeping today.

First of all, I have my lift back from London Irish sorted out.

Mrs Cole appeared on Shaun Keavany’s BBC 6Music Breakfast Show last Thursday. She was discussing Merrie Gloucester on the ‘Toast the Nation’ slot, suggesting some interesting facts about the dear place and picking a suitable song to play. The number in question was Elvis Costello’s Everyday I Write The Book commemorating Gloucester’s role in the commission of the Domesday Book. The whole thing can be found on the show’s Listen Again facility (fast forward until 1 hour 14 minutes) until next Wednesday. I apologise in advance for my wife’s use of the word ‘town’ to describe our place of dwelling.

I hate to make readers jealous but I’m publishing images of our Joan As Police Woman oven glove today.

As You Like It

Joan As Police Woman at Bristol Thekla - Monday 8th December

Joan As Police Woman, as any schoolboy knows, is actually the splendid singer and musician Joan Wasser, a sassy New Yorker and all round good egg with an interesting history and two stunning albums under her thrift store belt. Last Monday, backed by a drummer fellow and a bassist/guitarist fellow (both of whom oozed Big Apple attitude), Wasser produced a bewitching set. Bedecked uncompromisingly in silvery robe and sporting big, big, big hair, the chanteuse thrilled an older yet hip Bristol crowd with all the numbers from this year’s To Survive album and many favourites from her sumptuous debut, Real Life. I’d recommend both these recordings to all hepcats. The songs are all achingly melodic, arranged classily, and underpinned by Wasser’s remarkable voice, part Joni Mitchell, part, er, Karen Carpenter, but, in essence, truly special. Her compositions sounded all the more compelling in the intimate environs of the Thekla (‘twas my debut at the merry boat-based venue) and I have rarely encountered such a hushed and respectful gathering. All loved Wasser and loudly indicated a collective glee at every opportunity.

The Coles celebrated by purchasing a Joan As Police Woman oven glove before leaving the auditorium. The artist herself signed said mitten for us and we spoke briefly. Her friendliness to all and sundry was noted and admired but not as much as her musical prowess and ability to captivate an audience with wondrous acts. Hurrah.

Rule of thumb...

This is a request but not an urgent one as other options potentially exist. I’m going to be in London on the 19th of this month, scampering through the busy streets with the modish D, pilfering silk handkerchiefs from toffs’ pockets before attending a concert party at Camden’s fashionable Koko where the mighty Stereolab will be performing some numbers. The next day we’ll be heading t'Reading to view the fabled Cherry and Whites play London Irish and, cor blimey, I’m wondering if anyone who visits these pages and who is driving to that game from Gloucester would be able to provide me safe carriage home? As I suggest, other options (a charabanc, an ‘iron horse’) might be available but I thought I’d ask. Leave a comment if you can help. Thank ye.

Cover me through the fire

While I toiled at Oxfam yesterday, a middle-aged hipster languidly entered the store and donated boxes of cool stuff. There were more foreign language art films than one could shake un bâton pointu at, some charming and esoteric books and, hurrah, numerous CDs. Many I owned already (Portishead, Blur, Elbow etc.) but I snaffled up and bought a brace of belters from this year that had, thus far, somehow avoided my radar. The Last Shadow Puppets’ The Age Of The Understatement is a stylish blighter, all cinematic poise and orchestral elegance. The media have picked up on Scott Walker comparisons and I, not being a big Walker expert, can’t really comment but the songwriting is epic and beguiling and the arrangements are charismatic and enticing. I like this long player already but sense it will grow on me e’en more. My favourite of the pair on just two playings today is Damon Albarn’s ‘pop opera’, Monkey: Journey to the West, a bewitching marriage of elecronica and Chinese folk music and much more besides. This is not conventional stuff and remains a verse-chorus-verse-free-zone. It’s really beautiful though. I salute the anonymous middle-aged hepcat; he made my weekend.

Martyred, misconstrued

Last Tuesday’s ‘Giggle at the Guild’ was, er, interesting and, er, different. ‘Twas this punter’s debut at the monthly comedic club that meets at the fabled Gloucester Guildhall’s cinema area. A frankly dreadful compere, name of Nik Hill, bewilderingly high on confidence, regretfully low on talent/mirth, introduced three acts ranging from the adequate to the satisfactory. The finest comic was from Oxford, Oxon and I forget his name. He had a beard ‘n’ an electric guitar and carolled the throng with merry parodies of rock stars; the fellow proved generally whimsical, quaint and gently humorous. The other two, er, comics had travelled all the way from Oldham and London, a fact I found remarkable; the former produced a set, sporadically engaging, that dealt, rather predictably, with ‘hoodies’ and teenagers and stuff while the latter spoke about erections ad nauseam.

Unto the sweet bird's throat

Calmer* was tidy last evening. Always a sucker for the end of year lists, I had noted that Pete Greenwood’s long player, Sirens, had been adjudged by Uncut to be the 40-somethingth best album of 2008 so I was keen to see and hear the fellow in a live forum. He was most decent. His guitar picking was complex and haunting, leading to a few fairly obvious Nick Drake comparisons but I enjoyed his work for other reasons. Hushed and sultry tones delivered maudlin tales and I appreciated his slightly downbeat, world weary subject matter. Greenwood wasn’t the headliner though. Mary Hampton’s crystal clear voice proved a beautiful instrument and, accompanied by tender plucking, soared majestically throughout the snug lil venue. I thought she was marvellous. Earlier, Men Diamler was Men Diamler and I ask no more of this favoured troubadour.

From a void to a grain of sand in your hand

I’ve been spinning Beck’s latest long player, Modern Guilt, relentlessly recently. I have been a long term admirer of the young pop prince, especially his more muted, melancholic offerings, Sea Change and Mutations, which are both fabulous. Modern Guilt is a marvellous achievement and certainly one of my favourite albums of this year. Ten immaculately produced tracks, full of swagger, grace, melody and intelligence are proffered. Danger, er, Mouse, the production wizard, has helped conjure up an elegant, breathy, neo-psychedelic ambience, a layered sonic gem that dazzles and challenges without losing a tangible sense of humanity. Funky beats permeate. Repeated plays reward.

The rugby football was exciting again yesterday. Before the start of the season I was concerned that the Northampton club would mount a challenge for honours but on yesterday’s evidence against the mighty Gloucester, a club I favour, the self-styled Saints will be lucky to avoid a close shave with relegation. The home side played with verve and energy and ambition for the second week running and deserved the five point salute for attaining a quartet of touchdowns. Gloucester kicked the ball a little more often than they did against Bristol and this disappointed me a tad. With the strong running Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall, Luke Narraway and varied cohorts banging huge holes in the visitors’ midfield, the guile and poise of numerous strike runners could been unleashed more often had ball been kept in hand. This is not a complaint, merely an observation. Things look good for the city club at the moment. Tougher challenges await but a host of players, notably the skilful and alert Balshaw, are hitting form while plenty of key personnel remain on the sidelines with points to prove on their return.

I wouldn't spend my life just wishing...

White Lies at Gloucester Guildhall Thursday 20th November

This is a derivative group. This is a derivative group. White Lies provided adequate entertainment for the sizeable collection of hepcats that gathered at the fabled Guildhall last Thursday. The black-clad and much hyped youngsters produced epic songs full of gloom and menace but succeeded mainly in inspiring comments such as, ‘This one is like Joy Division, n’est pas?’ and ‘That sounded rather like Interpol’ and ‘Blimey! Editors!’ Early in their set, the earnest, affable and, on this occasion, prescient S even hinted at a Flock of Seagullsesque sound emanating from the ‘istoric dais. White Lies created a big sound without proffering anything that sent shivers down the ol’ spine. I did enjoy, howe’er, watching quite a raw outfit who may go onto great things. The band only played for half an hour or so, after which, I would suggest they ran out of material. I could be wrong. It was just enough to satisfy this punter. File under both 'Adequate' and 'Promising'.

Fine Play

The rugby football proved an exhilarating thrill last evening. The Gloucester club – an outfit I continue to favour – produced a master class in attacking sport; tremendous running lines, snappy passin’ o’ the leather egg and wondrous sprinting skills combined to dispatch a faintly disappointing Bristol team by a decent 39-10 scoreline. The city club scored five tries and at least two were of the highest class. Thoroughbred full back, Oliver ‘Olly’ Morgan galloped home majestically in the first half, sidestepping through tackles and bamboozling many a defender before joyously reaching the tump-end whitewash. The finest touchdown was possibly the yeoman Buxton’s second of a deserved brace which was a team effort of bewitching quality as clever running lines created an overlap that the Cheltenham-born stalwart finished off with merriment. A new star was born last evening; youthful David ‘Dave’ Lewis, a teenager, wore the fabled nine shirt with expertise. He produced smashing ball for the Gloucester backs and ran and sniped with cunning and ambition. He’ll go far. All the lads played well though. Hurrah.

Butler

I’ve been too busy and distracted to visit and post on these pages this week.

It was heartening to listen to the radio commentary from Vicarage Road today (I chose, in a fairly avant-garde manner, Three Counties Radio over BBC Radio Gloucestershire) as my favoured Gloucester club rampaged to victory over the historic yet itinerant Saracens outfit. By all accounts this was the Kingsholm-based team’s finest performance of the season. D, a London media dude, sent me one or two SMS texts during and after the match and I salute his dedication to the cause. He nominates ‘the faultless Morgan’ as man of the match although Messrs. Allen and Lamb are also mentioned in dispatches.

I haven’t dwelt much about the rugby recently but Gloucester host Bristol this Friday so I’ll give ‘the lads’ some thought this week. I have a couple of gigs to look forward to. S and I are strutting to Gloucester’s Guildhall Arts Centre on Thursday evening to cast our eyes and ears over young and dark blades White Lies. I know little of this act but am promised studied gloom in the style of Editors, Interpol et al. Cor! The week after, J and I are popping over to Nailsworth, of all places, to visit Rachel Unthank and her remarkable Winterset. I mustn’t forget Joan As Policewoman. Mr and Mrs Cole will be making our debuts at Bristol’s Thekla venue in December for Ms. Wasser’s emotive crooning.

Reg Varney from On The Buses died today. He was 92 and, beautifully, made the first withdrawal ever from a British cashpoint machine back in 1967. We shall ne’er see his like again. Holiday On The Buses is one of the greatest films of all time.

Jocosity

I like it when the Gloucester Guildhall is packed to the rafters and there was not a spare seat available last evening for the visit of American stand-up comic Rich Hall. The three oldest Coles attended and guffawed merrily throughout. The first half saw the acerbic fellow provide many memorable observations about the recent US election as well as his usual offerings highlighting the fascinating differences between the British and American personalities. After the break, Hall played his popular red-neck country singer character, Otis Lee Crenshaw, and raised more exuberant chortles from the assembled throng. A visit to the London Road Supper Bar on the way home ended the evening nicely.

And the silence makes me lonely

Signs of recession, signs of the so-called credit crunch are becoming more and more unusual. I was delighted to amble around Gloucester’s large and labyrinthine Asda Store earlier this morning and discover one could enjoy a different and unexpected ‘two-for-a-fiver’ offer on, of all things, Super Furry Animals long playing albums. I did, as our American chums would say, ‘the math’ and, seconds later, Radiator and Fuzzy Logic were nestling in my ample trolley. I look forward to playing them. They are both in that new ‘compact disc’ format.

Here's another screen grab. It makes a change.

Processes

Just because I don’t ever write about politics on here (or any of that religion malarkey, come to that) doesn’t mean I don’t hold firm views. As a one-off, I’m very keen to say ‘Nice one, son’ to the Obama fellow. I watched events unfold live in the early hours of this morning and confess to feeling rather emotional as the newly elected President and, cliché alert, Leader of the Free World addressed the euphoric masses in Chicago. The election of a black U.S. President had seemed unthinkable really and I’m thrilled and heartened by the unexpected response of an electorate I had little or no faith in until yesterday. I’ll stop there.

The island of doubt, it's like the taste of medicine

I hinted yesterday at some old classics being spun here at Cole Towers. Specifically, I was referring to a brace of Talking Heads long players that exist in vinyl format ‘ome ‘ere but not, until last week, as what boffins, ICT professionals and Tomorrow’s World presenters call ‘MP3s’. My favoured albums by the aforementioned art-rock collective are Remain In Light and Fear Of Music. If held in a Half-Nelson* by someone nasty, I’d admit to the former being my favourite but both recordings are packed with sublime moments and wondrous songs. Every schoolboy will know Once in a Lifetime from Remain in Light but, lo!, there is so much more to admire here. Wi’ wizard Brian Eno at da controls, the crossover between post-punk earnestness and riddimic African bliss casts a mesmerising spell over the lucky listener. Funky beasts like the soaring Houses in Motion, Born Under Punches and Crosseyed and Painless swagger insouciantly, da riddim section of Tina Weymouth and Chris Franz underpinning gloriously clever musical mayhem. The closing track, The Overload, is the band’s homage to Joy Division, written in the style of the Mancunian four-piece before, astonishingly, any of those Talking Heads had actually heard anything by Curtis, Hook et al. It’s a remarkable track from a remarkable album. Fear Of Music was released in 1979, a year before Remain In Light. It’s a more abrasive listen, less spacious, more angular. There’s more than a hint of paranoia and disturbance in David Byrne’s lyrics and titles and the whole album is a challenging and disturbing glimpse into troubled thoughts, although the beatific Heaven is proffered as a sublime antidote to the uncompromising scratchiness that dominates proceedings. Talking Heads make art.

*Other wrestling holds are available.

I have nothing to declare except...

I’ve been listening to plenty of freshly downloaded delights over the past week or so. Several 2008 long players have been burning themselves wittily into my consciousness and I hope to report on one or two of them here soon. Some old favourites from my youth have been placed onto the welcoming and bewitching hard-drive of my information pod too. I’ve been goin’ MP3 crackers.

However, I’m keen to report and recommend a feature of iTunes that I’ve recently grown to admire greatly. The element known as ‘Genius’ allows the earnest and enterprising user to select a favoured track from which a playlist of 25 similar tracks is then created. I’ve done this a few times now and the results have pleased me mightily. I’m not sure how ‘Genius’ works to be frank, but I am convinced there has to be more than just a vague randomness involved. I sense that the preferences of countless iTunes consumers are taken into consideration so that fabulous matches are made to render each playlist an absolute treat. The phrase, ‘All killer, no thriller’, can be whispered gratefully. ‘Genius’ has offered up a few forgotten songs and allowed me to reappraise a number of artists that I had been neglecting; Neko Case and Adem, in particular, should feel appreciative as I haven’t been playing their stuff at all but ‘Genius’ has nudged their rather beautiful numbers back in my direction. I’ve created a screen-grab of the first ‘Genius’ playlist I made (based on Bonny 'Prince' Billy's sumptuous Strange Form of Life)and offer it for reference purposes above. Click on the image to make it grow magically before your eyes. Eagle-eyes readers will note that Mansion on the Hill by Sir Bruce of Springsteen was blasting out of my loyal Harman/Kardon speakers as I ‘grabbed the screen’; D would be proud of me.

Town

I’ve hardly been busy but I have strayed away from these pages for a week. There is little to report. The Coles, joined by the affable S, watched the latest Shane Meadows feature, Somers Town, last week. This is a shortish film, monochrome and atmospheric, that makes up for a lack of plot and thrills with some decently constructed character sketches and arresting London-based set pieces. There was plenty of warmth in the evocation of a wide-eyed teenage runaway from the delightful East Midlands, the Polish construction worker and his bored and restless son and the kind-hearted Parisian waitress who befriends the nippers. It was a pleasant way to spend an hour, especially in the fine Guildhall cinema, but the overall feeling was merely, ‘Hmmm’.

And always the traffic, always the lights

I’ve neglected the rugby union recently both on these ‘umble pages and in, as they say, real life. A family event in North Wales stole me away from the home European tie against Biarritz, I didn’t make the trip to Cardiff to watch the Gloucester fellows lose rather disappointingly and, as reported yesterday, missed the EDF fixture against the Dragons o’ Newport due to a desire for cinematic fun. I need to regain some enthusiasm for the cause but a fairly lacklustre start to the season coupled with a hugely upsetting injury to my favourite player, the young prince Simpson-Daniel, has left me lacking in zeal. Sorry for being so mundane.

Robert Forster’s solo album The Evangelist is beautiful and utterly moving. The former Go-Between has conjured up seven new songs and has recorded three numbers that he had written with songwriting partner Grant McLennan before his tragic and premature death three years ago. These tracks are the most poignant; they indicate just how wondrous the pair’s talent for melody and lyricism was and, sadly, could have continued to have been. Forster touchingly sings of his deep affection for McLennan throughout the record and it’s incredibly moving. The personal reflections like “It was a head trip, it was a friendship, he picked me up when I might have slipped and not done a thing” bring a lump to the old throat; it all needed saying though. It’s not all melancholia and affecting nostalgia. Forster’s gift for a killer line, a throwaway statement that most songwriters wouldn’t consider, remains. An example from the pleasing and up tempo Let The Light In, Babe: “I live by myself. A mile from the church and do my work at home. The house was a gift, given from a friend on whom I used to care. Named Silius Farm, though it’s not a farm, but a house amidst trees.” That’s classic Forster with its tiny details, the rhyming of 'farm' with 'farm' (!), the story within a story and even the quaint choice of language: I adore the use of ‘amidst’ and ‘on whom’. The Evangelist is a really fine album, critically acclaimed as Forster’s solo masterpiece, and, as a tribute to a lost friend, truly breathtaking.

Fly

S and I forewent today’s rugby union at Kingsholm, preferring instead a pint-cinema-pint sandwich scenario. We enjoyed a brew at the Guildhall Bar (where members of The Rifles who are playing a concert at the venue tonight were enjoying a wholesome meal) before strutting in to watch The Wackness, a diverting feature set in a sweltering 1994 New York. This was a film about young love, drugs and hop-hip and, historically, the first ‘movie’ I have viewed while wearing subscription spectacles. The soundtrack was a toe-tapping joy and Ben Kingsley played Ben Kingsley admirably. Our mini lost weekend concluded with a daring trip to the oft-neglected drinking den, The Imperial in Gloucester’s fabled Northgate Street. We survived.

While the clouds overhead cried "mutiny"

I own the new Calexico long player and have been spinning it again and again. It is called Carried to Dust and is a rather gorgeous collection of songs. Critics have described this album as a ‘return to form’ for the Arizonan collective but I reckon – and I know that S agrees – that this is a tad unfair on their last effort, the understated and subtle Garden Ruin. But I can see what them critical types mean: Carried to Dust sees Calexico doing what they do best, conveying atmospheric subject matter with lush, expansive arrangements and exhilarating blasts of brass that stab joyously at the listener. The Calexico panorama is as it should be; these fellows evoke mystical Western skylines and sumptuous desert road trips with every note and syllable they proffer. Recommended heartily.

A Place to Live

The feature film How to Lose Friends and Alienate People was adequate. The Coles ventured to the heart of the metropolis on Saturday to watch local lad Simon Pegg’s latest role. He plays a British writer, Sidney Young, cast adrift in the irony-free world of New York celebrity with only his erstwhile British wit and vague eccentricity to keep him sane. There were plenty of humorous set pieces to chortle at and a very knowing and enjoyable moment when my dear old home town of Gloucester is mentioned. However, if one really wants to see Pegg in a fabulous piece of work, a perusal of the two series of Spaced is a must. Kirsten Durst played Kirsten Durst with no little aplomb while Miriam Margoyles produced another ‘hilarious’ cameo. I’d read the book if I were you.

And the cardinal hits the window

Here’s a maudlin thought for Sunday evening. I Shot a Man in Reno is a new book by Word Magazine contributor Graeme Thomson and it is all about how death has been portrayed in popular songs over the decades. I heard about it on the latest and very wonderful Word podcast. There’s a competition to win a copy and to enter one needs to suggest a favourite song about death and explain why it is so special. My entry is below. The above portrait is of the Pulaski fellow.

My favourite song about death remains Casimir Pulaski Day from the Illinois long player by Sufjan Stevens. There are no gory shoot-outs or dramatic car wrecks here; simply, the narrator’s girlfriend is diagnosed with bone cancer, lots of beautifully observed details follow and she dies peacefully at the end of the number. The small details render the track so touchingly personal and homespun that it’s impossible not to feel moved. Shirts are untucked, shoes are untied, necks are kissed, blouses are almost touched, unusual tokens are proffered, contrite fathers drive to naval yards; essentially the pictures painted are so tender, precise, occasionally humdrum and occasionally quirky that one almost feels a sense of voyeuristic guilt from peering too closely as the story unfolds. This is a song about young love, about loss and about complication: the narrator’s amorous feelings complicate the illness while the illness complicates, well, life itself. It’s an understated delight throughout. The girl’s death itself is announced so modestly – “ In the morning when you finally go/ And the nurse runs in with her head hung low” – that the passing seems expected, planned for yet chillingly sad. The girl breathes her last on Casimir Pulaski Day, an Illinois public holiday in March, another almost throwaway detail that means little yet such a great deal. I’ve listened to this song countless times and the clarity of the images makes for a compelling six minutes underpinned by the most sublime melody and delightful singing and playing. As for the girl in the song, I’m sure it’s what she would have wanted: a delicate jewel in the stunning Stevens canon. Beautiful.

Django

The 27 Club is the name given to the acclaimed group of rock musicians who, often through their own silly fault, expired at that legendary age. Brian Jones, fallow youth of Cheltenham Spa, was 27 when he did drown; Janis Joplin was 27 when she overdosed, Jim Morrison looked older than 27 but wasn’t when he died of heart failure and we all know what happened to dear Jimi Hendrix when he reached the old seven ‘n’ twenty. Kurt Cobain joined the club in 1994. Road accidents claimed two of the 27 Club’s most bewitching talents, Pete de Freitas of Echo and the Bunnymen and Big Star’s Chris Bell. I salute them all and metaphorically raise a glass of bourbon in doing so.

He’s not a rock star and, unless he has met a tragic, chilling and unexpected exit today, still lives to enjoy another sunrise or two, but James Forrester is 27 too and retiring far too early from professional rugby football union. The sense of loss is still profound though. I loved watching the rangy fellow make his early appearances for the Gloucester academy and burst into my favoured club’s first fifteen with a series of performances that was simply outstanding. A sense of memory for key matches is diminishing in my dotage but the season that Gloucester won the old Powergen Cup against Northampton was dominated by some remarkable feats by the youthful loose forward. He seemed to make ground every time he held the leather egg in his gleeful paw and I recall countless tries – mainly against the long-suffering Bristol club – involving gallant sprints for glory, oft outpacing wing threequarters and other leggy types. Injury dominated the last few seasons and sadly the star that burnt so brightly five or six years ago ne’er lit up the fabled old stadium with quite the same vivacity again. It was a privilege to watch the bloke play though, a real, real privilege. I reckon we only had two or three seasons of Forrester at his explosive best and I hope his amazing, stylish, bewildering talent doesn’t become a mere footnote in the famed club’s history as memories fade. Personally I think there’ll be hundreds of granddads in decades to come who’ll murmur to eager nippers about James Forrester and his epic and vivid adventures for the cause. I know how desperately sad I felt when I heard he couldn’t play on but I’m thrilled to have had the chance to watch, often in awe, this Last of the Corinthians so often. What a player. What a player. Thank you James.

Unbelievably, this is the 500th post on these 'umble pages. Thanks for reading. I know most of the regulars who pop by (more than a mere brace thankfully) and couldn't wish for a finer collection of hepcats to chew the proverbial with. A brief yet warm and affectionate nod of the head towards all of you.

Neither apple pie nor Star-Spangled Banner

I wouldn’t profess to being the world’s greatest fanatic of performance poetry so the heart sank a touch when I pitched up at Slak last night; J, A and I had arrived enthusiastically to view the very marvellous yodelling banjo-player Curtis Eller only to realise that the evening, part of the Cheltenham Literature Festival, was to be dominated by a flurry of rhyming types. ‘It’s going to be a long evening,’ murmured J laconically after the first offering, a vaguely embarrassing ode about, well, weeing oneself by the first performer called, ahem, Dreadlock Alien. I could be acerbic and unkind about the whole verse scene but, actually, Mr Alien and his fellow bards, Lucy English and Steve Larkin proved rather entertaining. English was my favourite; her more personal offerings about youth, relationships and, er, underwear were quite moving and, in a bleak way, quaint and amusing. Larkin (frankly, a daft name for a poet) was a more aggressive performer but I admired his edge and anger. He yelled a lot but it all made good sense. Alien had a more hop-hip vibe about him and I appreciated his riddims ‘n’ style. Being made aware by Alien that the whole audience was white British was a wee bit thought-provoking. I thoroughly approved of all three versifiers and, well, it didn’t seem a long evening after all. It was, though, a different crowd to the usual Calmer* audience, a little bit bluer of the rinse methinks, but all and sundry were wooed by the ebullient charms of Eller, his gorgeous playing, nostalgic yet challenging subject matter, flamboyant elasticity and fine moustache. In the current climate, his sepia-tinged numbers, touched with an essence of the Great Depression, seemed especially vivid and, like the last time I saw him, I learnt plenty about the backwaters of American history. He’s great.

And now we ride the circus wheel

A small wireless gadget is allowing me to play my information pod whilst driving my automobile. This is hardly life-changing but my journey from Gloucester to Cheltenham this morning was hugely enhanced by Neutral Milk Hotel’s In An Aeroplane Over The Sea blasting out of the car speakers. On the way home, I played the last four songs from the aforementioned long player before swiftly choosing a new album when briefly waiting in a short traffic queue in the Hatherley region. Time was not on my side so another album starting with ‘I’ was required; the remarkable Innervisions by Stevland ‘Stevie’ Wonder accompanied me on the famed Golden Valley by-pass. Simple pleasures.

We might be getting one or two tortoises. We have a contact at Chester Zoo.

I eat the Canadian? I don't know what you're talking about.

Busy days. Friday proved fun. A and I met in the agreeable surroundings of the Guildhall Arts Centre café-bar in order to enjoy the latest Acoustica evening. The first act played the proverbial ‘game of two halves’. Solo artiste Bethany Porter’s ‘cello-accompanied traditional folk ditties were bewitchingly gorgeous; her more modern, self-penned numbers, backed by efficient ukulele playin’ proved less pleasing and just a tad clumsy ‘n’ silly. The second act was bearded character, Stanton Delaplane, who brought tuba, guitar and one of those clever looping machines to the party. Although less than forty-eight hours have elapsed, I would struggle to hum any of his melodies but I am able to recall some rather complex and catchy sounds that sounded pretty fine. The fellow’s lyrical content was unusual and, at times, self-referential yet quirky. He appealed. Headliners Nuala and her Alchemy Quartet bounced around with gusto but failed with her rootsy glee to win much favour with this punter or the acclaimed A. Sometimes energy and a confident stage presence are not enough and we retired to the bar for a swift beverage – and a happy summit with fraternal hepcats H and A - before heading home in reflective mood. It was a decent evening though.

I watched In Bruges this week and am able to recommend this feature readily. Colin Farrell and Ken Gleason play a pair of Irish villains who need to hide out in the beautiful ‘n’ medieval Belgian city for a couple of weeks after a ‘job’ goes mightily pear-shaped. Essentially, the pair’s dialogue, a mixture of laconic wit and searing observations, carries the film tremendously and there are numerous humorous exchanges to guffaw at. A fairly obvious plot is embellished with plenty of tremendous set-pieces involving overweight American tourists, charismatic drug dealers, intense dwarves and sight-seeing overkill. This is a smashing feature far removed from the usual Hollywood sludge.

I am the record company!

I do love my Word magazine. Apart from peerless film and CD reviews and marvellous features and interviews, there will always be a few priceless nuggets of trivia that illuminate my life. This weekend, I learnt who brought Tony Hancock’s ashes back from Australia and earned himself an upgrade to First Class as a result. Somehow I feel a better person knowing this.

I watched Dig yesterday. Witnessing the differing career trajectories of rival beat combos The Dandy Warhols and Brian Jonestown Massacre proved fascinating. In many ways the BJM produce the more interesting and challenging music but appear to commit career suicide at every turn, aided and abetted by leader Anton Newcombe (pictured above), one of the most self-obsessed and disagreeable characters to ever stalk the earth. Managing to alienate band members, audience members and record company executives quite so regularly and wholeheartedly and on such a regular basis takes a great deal of effort but Newcombe doesn’t flinch from his quest to cause maximum offence to the greatest number of people. All of this seems a shame because the fellow’s musical skills seem tremendous and the clips of the band playing their soaring neo-psychedelic songs are truly captivating. I want to hear more of their stuff. By comparison, The Dandy Warhols play it safe, upset less people (although egos are present here too), produce less contentious sounds and, quelle surprise!, end up enjoying international hits, headlining major festivals and becoming rather large stars. It’s a compelling comparison. Brian Jonestown Massacre never ‘sell out’ I suppose but, considering Newcombe’s unseemly antics, I have little sympathy for the band’s lack of mainstream success. Dig seems to demonstrate an object lesson in how, and how not, to make it.

The word's on the streets and it's on the news

October dawns, the dismal autumnal evenings draw dankly in and the discerning thoughts of dedicated music lovers around the globe start to turn to one burning question: which long player will become the Uprock Narratives and Unknown Pleasures album of the year? Here’s a slither of inside information for hepcats everywhere. The odds remain long, but a trip down to your local turf accountants and a guinea or two each-way on Black Kids’ Partie Traumatic might prove salient. Black Kids hail from New York and have concocted a blissfully catchy sound that encapsulates all that remains marvellous about 1980s pop. Frankly, the kitchen sink (bedecked in leg-warmers and deely-boppers and attempting a Rubik’s Cube) has been thrown at this product. There’s a lot of OMD in there, a smattering of Scritti Politti, a dash of Blow Monkeys and, remarkably, a pinch of Hipsway. A tinny Casio-sounding synth underpins most of the tracks and the lead singer’s voice resembles The Cure’s Robert Smith at his navel-gazing best. This would all be utterly pointless if the songs were dire or moribund and happily they aren’t. Here are ten bewitching slices of pop laden with more heavenly hooks and harmonies than one can shake an Amstrad ZX Spectrum at. My favourite track from the LP and, potentially, the whole darned year is Hurricane Jane, a saccharine yet satisfying melodic feast but there are many highlights to salute. Look At Me (When I Rock Wichoo) is a jolly beast, all swagger and cute-as-you-like call and response fervour while the energetic and uplifting I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You never fails to force these toes to tap. Heck, it’s all as super, smashing and great as a twenty year old edition of Bullseye though and certainly this year’s must-have feel-good pick even if Partie Traumatic is as contemporary as a Sinclair C-5. I recommend.

Variations

The football was mildly diverting last evening. Gloucester, a team I continue to favour, vanquished against an energetic Newcastle outfit. Amid much huffing and puffing and aimless kicking and other uninspiring adequacy, the city club contrived to play some sparkling rugby. Five super tries lit up the old stadium. The enigmatic yet swift Balshaw bagged a hat-trick of tries while the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, nabbed a merry brace of the blighters. The prince’s every touch was sublime, conjuring space and time from who knows where, not once but again and again. I have two observations to make about Gloucester’s tries. All came from simple moves along the back line and not one forward was involved in the handling of the ball and I would also assert that the sluggish Vainikolo would not have possessed the skill, speed or wherewithal to have scored any of them. Thank goodness for our utilisation of guile and wit over bulk and the bludgeon.

I’m looking forward to watching a pair of music documentaries that lie waiting for me at home. Dig! features the rivalry between the Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre and, apparently, is a tremendous feature. I’ve also got Sex Pistols film, The Filth and the Fury to enjoy. My cup doth overflow.

Touching from a distance

Most evenings recently, I’ve made an effort to listen to at least twenty minutes or so of Gideon Coe’s BBC 6Music radio show. I’m trying to make it a habit; the fellow plays a marvellous mix of older and newer stuff and I appreciate the laconic, wise and intelligent banter between numbers. Coe epitomises what the station should be all about: bright, erudite and witty people who dig their sounds sharing a love of fine music. I’m hugely disappointed by the daytime schedules on 6Music. Where Phill Jupitus and Coe once lit up the airwaves, the rank and embarrassing Shaun Keaveny and George Lamb (where did he spring from?) now lurk. Keaveny merely seems to boast about how much he had to drink the night before and I really can’t be bothered to listen to Lamb’s egotistical proclamations. Luckily, quality and intelligence are in abundant supply elsewhere and Coe and his ilk (Tom Robinson, Stuart Maconie, Adam and Joe) shall continue to merit my support.

Bravo

The murky beginnings of a chill haunt me somewhat. A healthy swig of Night Nurse* and a good night’s sleep beckons. I may exceed the recommended dose ever-so-slightly.

My new favourite long player is Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by the American Americana outfit Wilco. I am aware that D has been singing this recording’s praises for ages but I finally downloaded it last week and have been playing it to death ever since. This is a collection of moving country-tinged epics given a gentle experimental stroke or two. The melodies are gorgeous while the lyrical content is at times bitter, at times haunting and at times downright weird. It’s one of those albums where one fabulous number ends and you suddenly think, Oh, this next track is remarkable too. All the songs are rather fine but there is a run of about four or five absolute classics towards the end. I would write more but I’m glancing coquettishly at the Night Nurse with an ignoble glint in the ol’ organ o’ sight.

* Other products are available

A poor man’s Seti Kiole

Yesterday’s rugby union match between my favoured Gloucester and London’s Harlequin FC followed a pattern that many supporters of the Kingsholm-based club would recognise: an early lead gathered by opponents was gradually overtaken through hard graft and a hint of guile, and, despite late scares, a victory was achieved to general delight mixed with a soupcon of relief. I’ve witnessed plenty of similar matches and they sure beat sullen defeats permeated with a murky sense of underachievement and, even, encouraging defeats containing spade-loads of élan. Essentially, it is marvellous to win, especially with the suggestion of a thrilling denouement to keep the old ticker pounding. Yesterday saw the debut of Oliver Barkley, the former Bath centre three-quarter, who will certainly add a touch of class to the Gloucester midfield. Barkley is that rarity in cherry, a member of the back division who is able to kick from hand with skill and tactical nous. There were hints of this talent yesterday and I was encouraged. The most exciting moment of the match saw the rugged and uncompromising flank forward Strokosch burst through the centre of the park and sprint to glory under the old tump end posts chased with gusto by an array of ‘quins characters. The hard-nosed Scot enjoyed a splendid match and is becoming a particular favourite of this punter and potentially merits the tag ‘Enforcer’. The player who is least deserving of his place in the team is the powerful Tongan Vainikolo whom I would describe as a one trick pony whose trick is not really that special. The big man’s performance yesterday was weak. I don’t recall any defenders being beaten, just a series of fairly lumbering collisions that achieved little, challenged nobody and were greeted with general apathy by all and sundry on the popular side of the ground. On current form we are viewing a poor man’s Seti Kiole and I yearn for the return to the fifteen of the unpredictable Balshaw, flaws ‘n’ all, or the willing, ready and improving Foster.

And what will she do with Thursday's rags when Monday comes around?

I’ve hardly seen S since the debacle of the Green Man Festival so we haven’t had much of a chance to conduct a proper post mortem. Chatting yesterday, we possibly came up with a cunning solution to the age old ‘enjoy festivals, hate mud’ dilemma and that is to plot a dramatic return to an All Tomorrow’s Parties weekender. Four years ago, a crack team of five cats travelled laconically down to Pontin’s at Camber Sands, stayed in a functional chalet, and enjoyed three days and nights of challenging modern music. The bars stayed open until the early hours, we caught The Tindersticks, Sonic Youth, Stephen Malkmus, Dizzee Rascal and many, many more, we played air hockey with vigour and ate a few doughy and delectable pizzas. Did it rain? It may have bucketed down but I don’t recall because the only time I spent in the great outdoors was strutting peacock-like between our Hi-di-hi homestead and the cheesy ballrooms that acted as arenas. Was Pesky (see here) there? He may well have been but any drunken and foolish ululations would have been muted by bricks and mortar. Somehow, it all adds up to a dramatic return. All Tomorrow’s Parties now host their festivals at Butlin’s in Minehead which not only is nearer to Gloucester’s metropolis but also hints at slightly more up-market slot machines and novelties. Discussions may, I fancy, prove ongoing.

A change of speed, a change of style

The above photograph may be diminutive but it represents history for a pair of reasons. Not only is it the first image produced by a camera on a mobile phone (cell phone for my American readers) to be sent to me – a delirious and euphoric A doing the honours – but, also, the scoreboard indicates a fine and first win for the noble players of Gloucester over the arriviste hordes of Bath Spa at their Recreation Ground. The affable S joined me in my very front parlour to view proceedings via a telecast Richard Branson and Rupert Murdoch had combined most kindly to provide for us. My word, the battle was thrilling and close; a brace of Gloucester tries from the speedy Narraway and the alert Walker seemingly placed the away side in an unconquerable position before a late and brave Bath fightback almost snatched victory for the blue, black and white clad fellows. Although possibly papering over a few cracks in my favoured team’s make-up, the result was, as they say, everything and should be lauded loudly.