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.

Watched from the wings as the scenes were replaying

There is something most civilised about a cinema that permits a punter to carry a frothy pint of Guinness to one’s seat so it was a soothing pleasure to catch my first feature of the autumn season at Gloucester’s splendid Guildhall Arts Centre. The Joy Division documentary – or, if you will, "rockumentary" – proved a compelling hour and a half. Naturally the film covered a lot of ground that the post-punk cognoscenti already had seen, read and inwardly digested especially if they had tuned into last weekend’s Manchester music night on BBC4. However, the subject matter is ever fascinating and much of the footage chosen was sublime. I admired the juxtaposition of two performances of She’s Lost Control, six months apart, identifying the transformation from earnest yet atmospheric young guns to unleashers of maelstroms and brooding bringers of sturm und drang. The interviews were constructed sagely. It is always pleasing to note just how ordinary and self-deprecating the surviving band members are while the views and messages of sleeve designer Peter Saville, late Factory honcho Anthony Wilson and other assorted label-mates, roadies, and post-punk personalities were rewarding and fine. The music is, of course, everything; as one talking head suggested, one should forget all the myths, all the merchandising and simply remember that there are two ‘set texts’, Unknown Pleasures and Closer and not a lot else matters. Almost thirty years on, this brace of albums remains essential, seminal and utterly influential. This is a startling group. This is a startling group.

One (or two) for the plot

The Coles possess a couple more chickens. A pair of Colombian Blacktails have moved in after their potential plight was highlighted in Saturday’s Citizen. Their tails aren’t at all black and nothing suggests a South American lineage. There is not a hint of a Zapata moustache between them. We’re hoping they lay eggs and keep their beaks shut in the early hours. It’s all we ask for. I’ll take a picture soon to display their speckled beauty.

The rugby football was awful yesterday and I’m lacking any real enthusiasm to report ‘pon it. Rank errors prevented Gloucester’s noble team from bagging a try or two for themselves and rendering the game safeish. I shall highlight a positive. Oliver Morgan’s performance at full back was sublime, a masterclass of running, jumping, catching, thinking and tackling. He even swore with bewitching class; his anguished yell towards the end of the match included more than a indication of Anglo-Saxon and demonstrated just how much victory meant to the well-spoken and flaxen youth.

There's a Place

If you squint you might believe those lovable moptops are posing precociously in the swanky back-streets of Paris. I reckon J, P, G and R are relaxing in Blackpool though. The reason for proffering the perky picture is to advertise my issuing of the answers to the Beatles questions I offered to a grateful nation a week or so ago. The solutions are secreted away in the ‘comments’ area of that particular posting. Take a peep, pop-pickers.

I finally purchased my season ticket this morning and look forward to cheering on my followed team, Gloucester, in the fabled and historic rugby union code of football. Tomorrow, weather permitting, the Tigers of Leicester come calling and it should be a close match. The home side shall miss the effervescent presence of the injured Fijian tyro Qera in the back row but maybe the wet pitch would not suit his expansive skills. The no-nonsense Scot Strokosch wears the fabled ‘7’ shirt which effectively means the old warhorse Hazell is now the third choice on the side they call ‘open’. I note that the colossus James is preferred to the thoroughbred Brown at lock; this is a surprise but one I can live with. Can I flirt with controversy for a moment? I fear my team shall win nothing with the unreliable and inconsistent Lamb at the crucial outside half position. The energetic and stylish Barkeley is rumoured to be heading for Lamb’s ‘10’ shirt and I am convinced this selection will prove more fruitful for the famed fellows who don the cherry and white. Howe’er’, I warmly salute all members of the Gloucester squad on the eve of a new campaign. Play up, gentlemen, play up!

154

It’s funny how being back at work and having less spare time really focuses the mind and emphasises how crucial it is to fully appreciate one’s leisure hours. For example, the pleasing ritual of buying and poring over Friday’s Guardian is a dozen times more enjoyable after five days of earnest and honest toil. I’m keen to listen to more radio this autumn and have started to tune into BBC 6Music in the later evenings more often. Gideon Coe’s show is fantastic, a really intelligent mix of music and banter, although at the moment the ebullient Gary Crowley is filling Coe’s chair and doing a smashing job. Waiting for me when I returned home tonight was a proud package I ‘won’ on EBay: a Digital Versatile Disc boxed set of the first series of The Wire. I have read and heard nothing but praise and plaudits for the Baltimore-set televisual drama and I hope its merits will entertain me vigorously through the dark nights that approach.

Say So

A colleague gave me not one but two unwanted melodicas today. This was somewhat unexpected but I’m thrilled with my new objects. They produce a gorgeous sound, haunting and mightily melancholic and are really quite weighty and, certainly, beautifully made. The Cole children are already generating pleasing tunes on these instruments. Naturally my mind turns to the master of the melodica, Augustus Pablo, who used the handheld woodwind item to stunning effect on such seminal reggae albums as King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown. There’s a lovely clip of the late great maestro here.

Photograph: The middle Cole child cranks up the volume.