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.