You gotta give the other fellow hell...

I’m reading Live and Let Die at the moment. I bought the first three James Bond novels over Christmas and recently sped through the marvellous Casino Royale with glee. If one excuses or ignores the hard yards of political incorrectness that permeate the paragraphs then there are plenty of soaring scrapes and thrilling japes to enjoy hungrily. Fleming’s stories are quite different from the films I’d suggest. Bond seems colder, heartless even, on the page and, without the cinematic need for explosive set-pieces to keep the movie lover interested, more room is available for really beautifully phrased descriptive passages. I particularly look forward to any Bond mealtime; each course is depicted so thoroughly that the lucky reader is almost able to taste every mouthful.

My favoured rugby club, Gloucester, has cascaded out of the European Heineken Cup after a relatively gutsy performance in a windswept and thoroughly soggy Biarritz. I’m a touch perplexed about the side’s recent form and reflect on what may have happened had the last few disappointing matches been played in drier and calmer conditions with a full squad to pick from. I was flicking through a copy of a weekly rugby paper at le supermarché this morn – I think it was called The Rugby Paper – and noted a piece lamenting a lack of investment in the Kingsholm pitch which compared to the billiard table that is Franklin’s Gardens can soon become rough and pitted in poor weather. Could this be addressed to improve our winter form? Player-wise, we do lack bulk in the front five although I am generally satisfied with the back row options when all are fit and raring to go. I’d be content if a huge and frightening lock was recruited in the summer, preferably to replace the unsatisfactory Bortolami who has sank from ebullient cult-hero to going-through-the-motions journeyman in just a couple of seasons. My main concern lies at half-back though. Gloucester, I fear, shall ne’er become a trophy winning side with any of the current crop that wear the famed nine or ten shirts. Frankly, we’ve not really replaced the livewire Peter Richards at scrum-half and I long for another player in his mould sniping and causing havoc from the base of rucks and mauls. And I’d love a outside-half with the ability to actually boss a match, put his stamp on it and play all conditions well. I was impressed with the youngster Lamb three or four years ago but I sense little progress from the fellow and regrettably consider that he may not make the grade at the highest level. I’d settle for a Jonny Wilkinson or a Glen Jackson, steady and unflappable types who week-in and week-out ‘do the business’. We’d miss the occasional snippet of Lamb genius but cameos and occasional acts of jaw-dropping brilliance don’t win trophies or dominate campaigns alas. Here’s hoping.

The kiss of death, the embrace of life

Here’s a brief post script to the last post. Teenaged M, youthful son of the affable but less youthful A, took the above photographs at Wednesday’s Calmer* session. The top picture features a striped David Thomas Broughton fiddlin' with his televsion while the other one displays Sam Amidon and 'is banjo. I am grateful for these atmospheric images.

On a Calmer* theme, I note that The Wiyos, former Slak Bar favourites, are appearing on BBC4 this evening at ten. I recommend.

Come inside where it's okay

Last evening’s Calmer* was rather special I thought. Individually and as a trio, three somewhat different, compelling yet engaging performers offered an earnest and beautiful crowd of hepcats plenty of challenging and engaging fare. A brace of New Yorkers graced the famed Slak Bar stage with poise and energy. Sam Amidon’s haunting voice and delicate banjo-playin’ proved fine bedfellows and I appreciated his evocative renditions of American folk tunes interspersed unconventionally with extended Henry James quotations with accompanying unusual facial contortions and freaky and clumsy dance routines. Thomas Bartlett, who is also known as Doveman, tenderly tickled the ivories and sang with a touching resonance. The fellow’s percussive skills were bright too. His plaintive rendition of Big Star’s Thirteen proved a soaring highlight. The token Englishman, Otley-born but London-based David Thomas Broughton, spent most of the evening supporting his cohorts, idiosyncratically proffering clicking noises, backing vocals whilst sat in the body of the audience and a white-noise accompaniment via an old analogue television set of the portable variety. I would describe his solo set as gripping. Dark, deep and wonderfully earthy extended vocalisations permeated proceedings backed by loops and guitaring. Broughton’s stage presence, a quirky, twitching existence, was an edgy experience and his intense, vaguely aggressive aspect was fascinating. I must salute Calmer*. The erstwhile band of dudes that curates these evenings continues to provide great value for those who seek new and witty aural experiences.

Deflecting the Spin

Oh ‘eck. The wheels came off the wagon at Kingsholm this afternoon, a dire second half performance by Gloucester handing the spoils to a more streetwise, more committed, more cohesive, more intelligent Cardiff group. I stood and applauded the Welsh fellows after the match, ruefully reflecting how my favoured team could do with a Martyn Williams, a Gareth Thomas or a Tom Shanklin right now. As things stand, we lack leadership on and off the park, strong ball carriers to break through the line of gain and, most importantly, decision makers with the nous and wit to boss matches and assess tight situations quickly. Today, the cherry and whites contrived to lose a match they were winning at half time against a side that was reduced to fourteen characters after a red card following a head butt and who struggled to collect a single line-out ball all day. The city club was exposed badly; a brighter outfit would have won at a canter faced with the same set of circumstances. I am not – hopefully – one of those supporters who believes his side to be world-beaters on the back of a victory and, the very next week, lamenting the same collective as a beneath contempt bunch of losers. Howe’er, to suggest I was disappointed at no-side would be a substantial understatement and I would be surprised if we don’t look back at Gloucester vs Cardiff 18.1.09 as a key match in several individuals' association wi’ the famed Kingsholm club.

Do you find this happens all the time?

Gideon Coe continues to provide wondrous value with his 9pm BBC 6Music show. Listening to at least half an hour a night is a fine habit to get into as the courteous host proffers a superb mix of hip new sounds and old beauties. For example, the first half hour of Monday’s programme proved a sublime listen. Martin Carthy’s version of January Man (very different and understated compared with the Rachel Unthank interpretation that I know) kicked proceedings off classily before some epic Power, Corruption and Lies era New Order created an acoustic/electronic compare and contrast pause for thought. I really liked the electro-pop of First Aid Kit and ‘twas mighty to listen to some old Chameleons. A track from mid-eighties outfit 14 Iced Bears sounded wonderful. They must have slipped under this radar. The whole tracklisting is available here. I salute Coe.

Naturally thoughts turn to Sunday and a key rugby union fixture. Gloucester host Cardiff in a Heineken European Cup qualifier that the Kingsholm outfit need to win, hopefully with a yummy four-try bonus point. Injuries cast a shadow over my favoured team; our finest back and forward will probably be missing although the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, and the Fijian flyer, Qera, are apparently approaching fitness. I am disappointed to reflect on injuries, sustained last weekend, to elegant full-back Morgan (my player of the season thus far) and burly midfielder Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall although both may still make the fifteen. I note that Cardiff are languishing near the bottom of the Magners League and I hope this poor form continues when the blue-clad Welsh fellows enter the Kingsholm bearpit. I tip the home side to win but much depends on the form of young Ryan Lamb and his inconsistent and erratic kicking game; I would give anything for a ‘Steady-Eddie’ type like Glen Jackson or Jonny Wilkinson in a cherry and white ten shirt. Good luck all.

Into the steeple of beautiful people

I gratefully picked up a couple of charity shop CDs yesterday. I’m playing Up by R.E.M. as I pen these words. It’s funny how most of the much-loved Georgian collective’s recent work has passed this punter by as I worshipped the band’s first half dozen recordings. I confess I gave up a bit on Stipe and his chums after the blinding commercial success of Out Of Time and Automatic For The People when they mutated from vaguely underground, critically acclaimed hepcats into stadium-dwelling, unit-shifting superstars. Since that brace of mega-hits, I’ve enjoyed the New Adventures In Hi-Fi album and quite liked Reveal but regret that nothing by the group has been able to move this listener as much as Document or Lifes Rich Pageant or Reckoning. I’d never heard any of Up until yesterday apart from the single Daysleeper. It does possess a slightly anti-commercial sound and I am refreshed to learn that the wondrous Radiohead regard Up as a key influence on their peerless Kid A (still my very favourite Radiohead LP). Many of the tracks contain murky and understated electronic riddims and proffer a faintly uneasy listen – a good thing. I’m going to spin this blighter regularly this week. A grower, I reckon.

I also bought Massive Attack’s Mezzanine, a masterpiece by all accounts.

A wistful and forlorn glance outside offers a bleak vista of coldness and grey skies. I long for a hint of sun on the face and a gleeful peek at an azure horizon. I’ve been thinking about festivals today as an antidote to the wintry gloom. There shall be no Glastonbury this year as I’ll be working but I’m determined to attend, after a couple of rain dominated weekends, a hot and dry Green Man. The Big Chill harvests fine reviews but I’m somewhat underwhelmed by the suspicion that dance acts and chill-out (a revolting expression) sounds dominate proceedings. Suffolk’s Latitude Festival is warmly acclaimed but it’s a very long way away especially if all five Coles are attending. I’ll keep ‘em peeled.

Practice Makes Perfect

The Cole family was in the mood for celebrating a birthday last evening and enjoyed a pleasurable double header of frivolity. We kicked off in the structure known locally and beyond as ‘Angel Chef’, an eat-all-you-want (a fee must be proffered for this privilege, naturellement) Chinese buffet facility near the Docks, respected in this household as a fabulous eaterie and a tempting temple of gluttony. As ever, I gorged a tad too heartily but with such a worthy selection of rices, noodle dishes, curries and other treats on offer, it felt negligent not to sample as much as possible. I am a growing lad. I and, I believe, my merry kinfolk departed the place satiated and mildly bloated.

A short and uneventful drive took us to the mighty Gloucester Guildhall for fabulous feature film thrills. Man on Wire is a documentary that examines the remarkable feat (and feet, come to think of it) of Frenchman Philippe Petit, a tightrope walker, who planned and executed an extraordinary plan in 1974: to wirewalk from the top of one World Trade Centre tower to the other. This proved no easy matter and numerous Paris to New York trips were made by Petit and his eccentric cohorts before an attempt was made. Merely avoiding security caused immense problems for the gang while the transporting of getting on for a ton of equipment to the top of the towers meant, unsurprisingly, plenty of effort. As ever when documentary films are made skilfully, the human condition was placed under the microscope and Man on Wire rather brilliantly examined egos (including ‘the clash of’), ambition, friendship, the age-old need to thumb the old nose at authority, amour and that old chestnut, mortality. There was some splendid archive footage of youthful hepcats rigging up practice wires in Gallic meadows interspersed with ‘talking head’ clips of the same dudes, now in their late fifties and early sixties, ruminating, very emotionally at times, on their astonishing adventures. A history of the construction of the WTC offered enlightening insights into a seminal erection and, it goes without saying, much of the footage was breathtaking. Of course, with the sixty year Petit (still as fit as a fiddle) sat there reflecting on it all, one could sagely guess the outcome of the attempt but the film-makers successfully maintained the tension so that the audience was, for the duration of the feature, consistently wondering what was goin’ to ‘appen next. I recommend this film to all. Sources inform me it is available on Digital Versatile Disc as we speak. Hurry, friends.

Home Truths

I’m in the habit of reading a great deal at the moment which is a fine habit to have methinks. I’m halfway through The Olivetti Chronicles, the recently published collection of John Peel’s varied writings, and finding it a smashing and interesting read. Peel penned features and articles for a range of publications over the years; the earlier pieces (early to mid 1970s) appeared in the now defunct Disc and Sounds magazines while the later stuff, with a broader range of subject matter, is selected from, inter alia, Radio Times, Independent on Sunday, Guardian and Observer. I suppose the common thread within these pages is ‘popular culture’ and there are plenty of arresting album, gig, festival and TV reviews, all conveying Peel’s wit and warmth tremendously. I’ve especially enjoyed the concert write-ups depicting sweaty, claustrophobic Extreme Noise Terror events, almost spiritual Misty in Roots reggae recitals and big ‘n’ commercial stadium ‘appenings like Michael Jackson at Wembley (which, incidentally, Peel thoroughly loved). Peel’s family, who chose these pieces and compiled the book, has cleverly arranged the writings in alphabetical order so the reader jumps about merrily over the course of three and half decades. I like this idea. One is able to compare and contrast the author’s style more easily as his more pithy and well-structured later work sits unselfconsciously next to the hippyish, vaguely incoherent earlier jottings. This alphabetical approach means that one is never quite sure what is coming next and this punter appreciates the surprises that await on each turn of the page. For example, a really evocative and tender piece about Captain Beefheart is followed by fascinating articles about Chicago House Music, Children’s TV and Kenny Dalglish and, somehow, it works beautifully. We all miss John Peel, don’t we? However, this book and the charming (auto)biography that came out a while back both serve as fairly essential epitaphs to the great man. I note that the next two chapters are entitled Napalm Death and New Age Music. I can’t wait.

Untitled

I was back to work ce matin, driving carefully through the snow covered backstreets of Longlevens before continuing my commute on the frost-free thoroughfare the cognoscenti call ‘The Golden Valley’. A new (to us) motor car (a Peugeot Partner, as you’re asking) propelled me along, allowing me, for the first time ever, to listen to one of those new-fangled CDs while I spun the steerin’ wheel towards the nearby spa town. I’m going to try and listen, on a more regular basis, to the monthly free CD that comes with Word Magazine and features loads of new sounds. Earlier, en voiture, I listened to a cracking track from the new Paul McCartney/The Fireman LP and a gorgeous song by A Camp that I certainly recall hearing on 6Music recently.

I typed yesterday’s entry while listening to Super Furry Animals’ Fuzzy Logic album while tonight I wrote the spurious nonsense you see above while tapping my foot to the same band’s Radiator long player. I congratulate the esoteric Welsh combo for tempting these ears two nights in succession.

Frost and Fire

I continue to favour rugby union’s Gloucester club and am thrilled to report a fine yet close victory against the Saracens outfit. A packed and frosty Kingsholm witnessed an exciting match which the home side emphatically deserved to win. Doggedness and dubious refereeing decisions kept the visitors in touch although I suggest that the team in cherry could have proved a tad more clinical at times and used a more thoughtful kicking game to pin back those clad in noir. These eyes mist wistfully over when considering the marvellous performance of our hooking behemoth Azam who is playing out of his blinkin’ skin at the moment. The French stalwart was a man possessed yesterday, seeking contact with abrasive intent again and again, making yard after yard and proving an absolute thorn in his rivals’ collective side. This punter lost count of the times the Gallic warlord collected ball as first receiver; my word, he wanted action and sought it with a frenzy that proved both exhilaring and, I confess, a touch frightening. Elsewhere, the boy Morgan enjoyed another fine day at the office and did everything beautifully including being in the right place at the right time to elegantly canter over for a well-taken try that sent the popular side into raptures. Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall is in fine, fine form at the moment; he seems to be breaking more tackles and making more yards than at any other time in his shortish Gloucester career. I also note young Narraway’s growing contributions and value to the side. This is a very vocal fellow and I appreciate the efforts he makes to encourage his team-mates at any opportunity. We need his type.

Can it be that it was all so simple then?

This is 2009. Here’s a photograph of Michael Clive Teague to start the year off merrily.

There’s plenty to look forward to this year. The two greatest sporting events in the whole wide bleedin' world approach this summer. The British and Irish Lions will contest a series of rugby union internationals in South Africa followed almost immediately by Australia visiting these shores for a long awaited Ashes tour. Personally, I can’t wait for either. I have mentioned to the charismatic D the possibility of sneaking a day at the cricket and we must ensure that at least one eye is kept on ticketing arrangements. I have watched one day of Ashes cricket, at the historic Lord’s ground back in 1993, when I witnessed the valiant Atherton reach a deserved nine-and-ninety only to be run out after a disastrous call by the portly Gatting. The malevolent cat-calls and vocal abuse aimed at the bearded and squat ‘Gatts’ afterwards shall live long in the memory. This year, I fancy England to sneak a series win but it shall be close. Those who don the green, baggy caps are not the invincible force they once were and, without the might of Warne and McGrath, are struggling to take the score of wickets required to vanquish in a test and they have just lost at home (to South Africa) for the first time in, I believe, sixteen years. It’ll be a compelling month or two of action.

S and I were discussing the Lions the other night and agreed that this summer’s fifteen could conceivably include very few English players. This, we concluded, is a ‘good thing’ although I think South Africa will prove a tad too tough this time. Any Lions tour is exciting; like any major sporting occasion, a palpable sense of history and tradition lends contemporary events a thrilling backdrop. Of course, the greatest series in recent years came in 1989 when Australia were dispatched 2-1 and the Lions fielded Gloucester’s very own Mike Teague, then the finest rugby footballer on this or any planet. This clip is worth watching. Teague wears the six shirt for the Lions in the deciding third rubber and is always in the thick of the action, even after the match when he belligerently flattens a hapless ball-boy in a successful quest for the match ball. Memories. Misty water-coloured memories.