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.