Three Shipped Discs

It is halfway through February and I am yet to own a 2008 CD recording. Until Saturday that is. Or maybe Monday. It depends on the British postal system. I’ve made a bolt for it and frantically logged onto Amazon, debit card in paw, in order to purchase a trio of promising long players. It would be plain daft to proffer the readership of these august pages any meaningful review of said items as they, no doubt, remain languishing in some suburban warehouse unheard by these tender ears. However, with nine or twelve urgent and vaguely impatient clicks of the fingers, I have summoned the new one by British Sea Power, and debuts by Vampire Weekend and School of Language. School of Language is ‘im out of Field Music, a collective I admire. I shall report back.

Talking of future frolics, I have registered the married Coles plus eldest child (now ostensibly a 'youth') for Glastonbury Festival tickets. I am aware that this guarantees precisely nothing but with three computers on the go here and fairly decent broadband speeds at our disposal, I should hope for a clinically planned operation on the morning the tickets go on sale and, with a bit of luck, a trio of permits.

The Rebirth of Spool

Oxfam sells audio tapes. They cost 49 new pence each or a round pound for three. This represents a bargain and I am gradually amassing a whole stack of cassettes that I am playing in my automobile and enjoying vigorously. My motor car contains no CD player but I quite like playing tapes; in these days of MP3 files and those new-fangled compact discs (Whatever next? A process to record telecasts onto tape maybe? Jugs that you plug into the wall in order to boil water through the use of electrical magic?) I appreciate the link with the past offered by the use of cassettes. On Saturday, I spent my pocket money on Club Classics Volume 1 by Soul II Soul, Girls + £ ÷ Girls = $ & Girls (I copied and pasted that) by Elvis Costello and an antique punk collection called Twenty Of Another Kind that features one song too many by Sham 69 but is otherwise quaintly pleasurable. I’m sliding the Costello bobbin of sound into my ‘deck’ most often. It is a compilation from 1989 and contains nugget after nugget. Costello’s original version of Girls Talk is a poignant gem while Brilliant Mistake is a stunningly honest and superb number.

Last week I bagged Doolittle by The Pixies, Songs To Learn And Sing by Echo and the Bunnymen and Let Me Come Over by Buffalo Tom. Americana aficionado D is particularly impressed by the latter purchase: ‘Classic Tom’ read his texted response. Frankly, I’m looking forward to my next foray into the shelves of sound at the ‘fam and am saving up already.

Whistling in the Dark

Acoustica last Friday proved a bit of a curate’s egg. I had heard tremendous things about the first act, Vijay Kishore, from a couple of trusted sources and was anticipating something special as a result. The Birmingham-based singer-songwriter possesses a mighty and soaring voice with an incredible range and the Jeff Buckley comparisons proffered on the Acoustica home pages were, to a degree, apt. Howe’er, the expression ‘Nice voice, shame about the material’ rears its ugly, unwelcome head. The lyrical content offered little challenge and provoked less thought while, forsooth, I detected few melodies that made the heart leap. I certainly wasn’t whistling any Kishore numbers as I ambled earnestly down the historic Eastgate Street at evening’s end. Throw in to the mix a fairly taciturn and monosyllabic stage presence, a bewildering need to tune and retune after every song and a compulsion to continually, continually request less light (until I could barely make out the fellow in the gloom) and the frustration is complete. File under ‘Adequate’.

Luckily, the headliner, Kit Holmes, proved a pleasing antidote to her humdrum predecessor. She entered the stage, all hair and brightness, and proceeded to thrill with a sumptuous display of hugely impressive guitar playing. I suppose her set represented the quintessential ‘game o’ two halves’. Her guitar instrumentals, technically outstanding and rather bewitching, were interwoven among her endearing, poppy and pretty songs that, without setting the world alight, were entertaining and catchy. I admired her jolly ways too; her good humoured manner and ready wit proved welcome after the somewhat sullen Kishore. File under ‘Engaging’.

The rugby football proved a tad disappointing on Saturday. The Gloucester club of Gloucester were defeated at home for the first time in ages by the Leicester club of Leicester. Frankly, the number of players missing on both teams rendered the occasion relatively meaningless but I am pleased with the endeavours made by some of the city club's fringe players. James Bailey, at full-back, proved keen and alert while Mark Foster was an abrasive and tough-tackling presence at wing-threequarter. Young Jack Adams, enjoying a rare start in the midfield, caught the eye with more than one mesmerising, strong and speedy sprint through the opposition ranks. Gloucester’s deserved losing bonus point keeps my favoured team at the top of the league.

Giant Sand

Raising Sand by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss is a special recording. Here is a collection of a baker’s dozen haunting and atmospheric slices of Americana, enhanced by sparse production and exquisitely understated musicianship. The Plant fellow is on restrained form and the numbers benefit from his tender and thoughtful interpretations. Krauss possesses a beautiful voice, its clarity reminding me a little of - don’t mock - sixties song thrush Mary Hopkin. Both voices complement each other splendidly and some of the harmonies are ethereal, subtle and rather magical. Not one note is wasted; every second is exceptional. A pleasure.

Here’s hoping for fine weather this August. A trickle of artists has been announced to play this summer’s Green Man Festival. Super Furry Animals are headlining on the Saturday. Here is a band that has slipped under the Cole radar so I’ll be keen to examine the back catalogue before heading west with my inflatable double mattress. Richard Thompson is appearing too and will no doubt be commanding the ‘legend’ slot that the aforementioned Plant so superbly assumed last time out.

Discovery Channel

He’s a bit of a scamp at updating it regularly and numerous punters seem to be logging on just to mock his photograph, but I do admire Alexis Petridis’s weblog. This posting lavishes praise on the wonderful BBC 6Music show, The Freak Zone, but importantly hints at other aural delights available to those hepcats tuning into a variety of radio stations that exist away from the humdrum. As a result, in a Damascun style, I have been awakened to the enchanting and esoteric world of Resonance FM. The station’s brief is to ‘provide a radical alternative to the universal formulae of mainstream broadcasting’ and from what I’ve heard, it succeeds bountifully. Last night’s ‘Clear Spot’ show was a mix of splendid numbers, some poppier than others, interspersed with wry and pithy reflections distributed to the dudes in a deadpan and droll delivery. ‘Twas quaint. I’m now listening to a fairly experimental show called, I believe, Wavelength, that has, thus far, featured records being deliberately played at the wrong speed, some improvised jamming involving electric violin and flute and some poetry inspired by Morse code. There simply isn’t enough of this kind of thing on Severn Sound methinks. Unless you live within a 5km radius of London Bridge you can’t find the magic of Resonance FM (endorsed by The Guardian) by twisting the knob on a traditional wireless but this unique and unconventional station is easily available through the internet.

"Gloucester twinned with Altamont...."

Gloucester Guildhall is celebrating its twentieth anniversary in some style. A host of fairly decent acts are lined up to play the smashing and homely venue. I’m especially looking forward to smartly dressed art-rockers Young Knives in a month or two’s time and am heartened to learn that Icicle Worker, Ian McNabb will be headlining an Acoustica in April. Last Thursday, Art Brut came to town. I rather like this band. Their Fall-styled riffing appeals and complements some wry lyrical content which is half-sang, half-uttered, er Fall-style, by the charismatic (and slightly overweight) Eddie Argos. The band knows how to put on a good show. An energetic set saw Argos emerge into the crowd on several occasions, interact with ‘da kids’ heartily, and produce the proverbial 110%. Importantly, the songs were mighty fine. I only know the first album, Bang Bang Rock and Roll, which is packed with minor masterpieces full of acerbic wit and catchy tunes and many of these numbers were belted out with gusto at the Hall of Guilds. An almighty fistfight broke out amongst the aforementioned kids which put a bit of a dampener on proceedings and a good deal of human blood on the fabled sprung floor. I hope Eliza Carthy doesn’t have to witness such nasty pugilism when she plays the venue in May. I salute Argos for his Altamont comment (see title) although I’m sure it would have been lost on those loutish pumpions intent on punching. Fisticuffs aside, I enjoyed the evening; Art Brut lack a bit of depth I suppose, but what they aspire to do, they do well. I recommend them.