Gladsome, Humour and Blue

The intimacy and charm of Cheltenham Spa’s Slak Bar renders the Calmer* musical evenings special and ever-so-riveting. The place’s ambience and aura were made for the legendary Martin Stephenson whose part-guitarist, part-raconteur act entertained a most fortunate audience of hepcats last evening. The fellow was on fine form. An understated yet compelling Crocodile Cryer proved a fitting climax to the show which mixed old favourites – Rain, Little Red Bottle, Running Water – with tender and persuasive newer stuff all tinged with Stephenson’s trademark bonhomie and stream-of-consciousness musings on life, the universe and Lloyd Cole’s turtle neck sweaters. This is a complex character and I sense the on-stage confidence disguises a few demons but I relish an hour or so in his company every so often and, when joining the calls for ‘More!’ as the witching hour approached, keenly sought another half hour of the fellow’s warmth and aptitude. Nice one, Calmer*. Thank you, Martin.

One step beyond...

I was not a fan of Madness as a youth. The greatest compliment I can pay the Camden-based, self-styled Nutty Boys is that I tolerated their energetic slices of pop mayhem and would never race for the off switch on my loyal trannie when one of their breezy 45rpm singles appeared on the airwaves. They were alright but in the 1980s I had other, po-faced, black-clad fish to fry.

This makes my searing admiration for the group’s new recording, The Liberty of Norton Folgate, all the more surprising. This is a grown-up long player for grown-ups, a concept album about Madness’s much loved London Town and it’s full of insight, depth, wit, wisdom and, gulp, beauty; there are more life-affirming heart-warming songs on the blighter than a cockney fellow could conceivably shake a pork pie hat at. I adore the first proper song on the LP, We Are London, a blissfully affectionate homage to our nation’s capital that endorses tolerance and community with warmth and maturity. Sugar and Spice is reminiscent of Squeeze’s Up The Junction, a cosy narrative packed with earnest and touching details - ‘We bought a flat in Golders Green/A second hand fridge and a washing machine’ - delivered over an exquisite melody. The whole album continues in this vein with slice after slice of utter charm served up, accompanied by soaring and delicate arrangements and catchy-but-not-cheesy tunes. A lot of the press reviews I’ve read have acclaimed this as Madness’s finest work ever and a true career highlight and I can appreciate why so many bouquets are heading in the combo’s direction. It’s a delicious piece of work and I’m more than happy to admit an error in not believing a band I have always regarded as lightweight, fun and relatively inconsequential could create something this special.

Filigree and Shadow

The Coles attended a concert party at Bristol’s spacious and historic Colston Hall last evening. The mesmeric and exotic Antony Hegerty was in town, accompanied by a raft (as in ‘a large number’ as opposed to ‘a basic wooden sea-going vessel’) of Johnsons. This proved a remarkably tasteful and rather bewitching hour or two. Hegerty, shrouded in a half light for the duration, was seated behind a grand piano throughout, a-singing and a-playing tenderly, backed by his gorgeously stylish group on guitars, drums, violins, saxophone and a haunting violoncello. Material from the fellow’s last two long players dominated proceedings. I confess, after a brief flurry of earnest spins, I have neglected this year’s offering, The Crying Light, but after hearing delectable renditions of Epilepsy Is Dancing, Kiss My Name, the poignant title track and, especially, an extraordinarily gripping Another World, I am keen for another listen. The greatest audience acclaim came for the songs from the Mercury Prize winning I Am A Bird Now and the spare arrangements of Hope There’s Someone, You Are My Sister and For Today I Am A Boy proved evocative and moving highlights. Hegerty’s unusual stage presence and atypical vocal style render him a performer who sits uncompromisingly apart from the mainstream; his work, his songsmithery, his affecting arrangements are special and to be treasured though. I salute him and his cohorts. They put on a fine show yesterday.

We supped cooling beverages before the show in a grisly tavern next door to the Bristol Hippodrome which is a couple of hundred yards away from the Colston Hall. Sixties vocal harmonisers and crooners The Drifters were playing the 'drome last night and it was fascinating to compare and contrast the punters attending our concert with the masses that supported the smooth Rhythm and Blues specialists. Verily, cast adrift among the gruesome Drifters fanatiques, it was akin to being thrown mercilessly into a cheap fags and homemade tattoo convention. It proved an unpleasant crew, make no mistake. We drank with no little alacrity and, with an occasional worried glance over the shoulder, scurried to the Colston Hall where a reassuringly different crowd awaited.

A Slight Hitch

It’s surprisingly rare for me to sit down and watch a feature film in this family house, despite subscribing to or having access to countless movie channels that the nice Mr Branson benevolently proffers me. I do leave the home fairly often for some big screen kicks, usually at Gloucester’s Guildhall, but a lack of time and an often disappointing selection means I rarely attempt to view a motion picture on the Coles’ televisual equipment. I aim to change this over the next few days. I’m excited by Sky Movie Classics' decision to broadcast a season of Alfred Hitchcock talkies and have effervescently V-plussed (apologies for that appalling expression) several that have either passed me by or that I saw so long ago that another view is overdue. I’m going to fill my celluloid boots with Marnie, The Birds, Vertigo, Spellbound and Rear Window methinks. I might watch Strangers on a Train once more although I’ve seen and admired this feature on numerous occasions. I might give Psycho a miss; it’s a wonderfully tense and thrilling narrative (especially after the famed set piece known fondly as the ‘shower scene’ has finished) but I could probably quote large tracts of the 1960 classic having watched it many times and only fairly recently too. Ditto North by Northwest.

This Sporting Strife

I’ve kept a dignified silence on all matters pertaining to the on and off-field travails of my local rugby union club, Gloucester. The last match I viewed was an insipid and inadequate defeat at home to the, ahem, Warriors of Worcester. Towards the end of this fixture, I witnessed a fellow leave the popular side early, strut and swagger in the direction of the exits but not before he had tossed his season ticket aggressively onto the field of play. I sympathised with his disquiet but couldn’t help consider the emptiness of such a gesture when only six or seven minutes of the season he had bought into remained. Would this gentleman have been so forthright with his brash act o’ rebellion in September or October? I feel not. Apparently, another chap, after the referee had blasted his whistle to indicate no-side, emptied a rubbish bin onto the playing area. Without condoning littering or, indeed, fly-tipping, I’d have liked to have witnessed this action; the fantastic image I have since conjured up of a ruddy-faced and angry man, manhandling a waste basket with wanton antagonism, maybe shouting incoherent one-liners in the direction of a bemused Marco Bortolami, is potent. 'You provide us with trash, I send you some back!' he calls. The symbolism is clear and heady.

I confess I share plenty of the ire demonstrated by Kingsholm’s equivalent of the International Brigade. My main cause of misery is the amount of riches paid this season to Oliver Berkley, a footballer who has looked as miserable as sin all year, sulked about being at our noble club and sought, as soon as possible, a retreat to the Bath club that remains his comfort zone. I’m insulted that the Gloucester shirt, worn in days of yore by committed, hard-as-nails players with such pride and joy (I’m imagining Richard Mogg as I type these words, incidentally) could also be pulled on by someone who was transparently not in the least interested in playing for the city. Good riddance to the man. I think he owes me some money though.

I admit I’m keen for a change of management although it is rumoured that the head coach, Dean Ryan, might be on too long a contract for the club to dismiss him without coughing up a king's ransom. I’ve lost confidence in Ryan. I don’t believe his tactics (kick, kick or, as a last resort, kick) have worked this term and I have been left dismayed by the lack of verve shown by a team containing many a flair player compared to the likes of Bath and London Irish (smaller clubs in comparison) who have provided their paying punters with attractive rugby football. Suggestions that Ryan is a poor man-manager concern me. If someone in his position is unable to inspire the troops or, even, communicate with respect or erudition with them, then I am bothered. One only has to examine the impact an inspirational coach can have on a sporting squad (see John Bracewell at the shire’s cricket team) to lament the absence of such a figurehead at Kingsholm. I hope Ryan’s reign ends soon. We need a fresh approach at the helm.

I shall report my views on the comings and goings of players another time.

Well you know...

I enjoy the fact that most Saturdays one can watch a feature film at Gloucester Guildhall at two of the clock in the afternoon. This is most civilised and, importantly, it means that ageing characters like myself are less likely to doze off during the second reel. I note that soon one will be able to see Guildhall films at 10.45am for a fiver. The deal includes a cup of tea and a slice of homemade cake. If that doesn’t put a spring in the stride of all hepcats in the shire then I don’t know what will.

Anyhow, S and I sauntered to the above cinema this afternoon for a screening of The Baader Meinhof Complex, a historical drama examining the activities of the German terrorist group (also known as the Red Army Faction) during the late 1960s and 1970s. This was an uncompromising and hard-hitting production which demonstrated rather graphically the deadly deeds carried out by the gang and focussed on key members’ imprisonment and trial. The early scenes deal intelligently with the radicalisation of that era’s youth. Against a backdrop of Vietnam, Nixon, the assassinations of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, it appears that the Iranian Shah’s Berlin visit and resultant violent demonstrations combine to form a major catalyst for Germany’s revolutionary young to consider brutal means to bring about change. I must admit the two and a half hours of the feature flew by; I was fascinated to learn plenty about events that were merely fuzzy news items during my childhood. This is not a criticism but with so many key events (the kidnapping and murder of industrialist Hanns Martin Schleyer, a spate of bank robberies, the Stockholm embassy siege etc.) and personalities (er, Baader and, er, Meinhof inter alia) to reconstruct and portray there is a sense that the narrative spreads itself a touch too thinly. I would like to have learnt more about fringe characters and discovered more information about the planning and aftermath of key operations. Overall, this was a absorbing glimpse into the mind of the terrorist and the range of dispositions, from ruthless and cold to irrational and insecure to be found in these communities and gangs. File under ‘disturbing yet thought-provoking’.

And when you write a poem

Welcome Wagon’s Welcome to the Welcome Wagon is a tremendous listen. The Brooklyn pastor and his spousal companion that comprise this duo have concocted a soaringly lovely long player although it is fair to state that is the guiding hand of the young prince of popular music Sufjan Stevens that renders this recording so pleasurable. The haunting arrangements are trademark Stevens from the joyful banjo twanging to the imperious brass interventions. The aforementioned pastor, Vito Aiuto*, possesses a subtle and mellow voice akin to his producer and musical mentor and, if one attempts the aural equivalent of squinting, one could merrily believe that a new Sufjan Stevens album was playing ebulliently on one’s radiogram. The lyrical content is defiantly religious and seems dominated by the more dramatic tracts within The Bible; there are more mentions of blood, wounds and nails than are usually expected in a popular music product but non-believers, non-conformists, nom-de-plumed nonentities and non-committal nonagenarians can emphatically dig this scene too. Trust me. A surprise version of The Smiths’ Half A Person sneaks into he second half o’ proceedings, a glorious Frank ‘n’ Nancy styled two-part harmony adding distinction and tenderness to some of Stephen Morrissey’s most quirky words. This whole album is a sweet melodic trip allowing toes to tap to splendid orchestration and lush tunefulness. I’m enjoying this greatly. It’s different. Well done.

*One of my favourite Sufjan Stevens tracks (among dozens and dozens) is the jaw-droppingly sumptuous Vito’s Ordination Song from the remarkable Greeting From Michigan long player. I wondered if it might be about the Welcome Wagon fellow. I think it might be and I may be right looking at this page.

Parody

The Flight of the Conchords returns to a grateful nation’s television sets this evening. The first season of this comedic feast wowed the three oldest Coles. The charming Bret and Jermaine, a pair of down-at-heel folkies from New Zealand trying to make it in a frantic New York, provided hoots of merriment with their comical antics and, in particular, fabulously crafted songs.

I am keen to share my favourite moments from Series One. The Pet Shop Boys pastiche, Inner City Pressure, is a blast. The pronunciation of the word ‘expanding’ was worth last year’s license fee alone. Bowie in Space is an affectionate homage to the Thin White Duke with gloriously over the top impersonations of the glam rock pioneer. Spoof Gallic chanson Foux Da Fa Fa is a blissful treat mixing third form French with a cheeky melody avec Yé-Yé girls bouncing about zealously in an exuberant sixties style. I salute this act and hope the next series (and HBO which produces Flight of the Conchords enjoys a high success rate) lives up to our expectations.

Technique

A minute’s silence for Gloucester’s The Brunswick, please. The Park Road public house shut down this week after, it seems, all manner of business problems that are beyond my ken. Although I’ve supped in there maybe just once or twice in the past decade, I’m keen to doff my cap and acknowledge the passing of a place I spent many a happy evening in during my youth and young manhood. It was always packed at the weekends in the late 1980s and although it wasn’t quite ‘the scene that celebrated itself’, it was ever a decent crowd coexisting pleasantly and without menace. Like ravens at the Tower of London, an anti-fashion brigade of pool players inhabited the right hand side of the inn oblivious to the posturing of the bright young things in the main body of the establishment. The pool players were a fixture; perhaps they recently moved out and The Brunswick was immediately and fatally doomed. I have too many memories of this tavern to list here but the images are still vivid. I lament its demise.

The lantern, the lotion, the wind that wakes the ocean

I suggest that my desire to purchase the Welcome Wagon long player (mentioned last time) could be traced to my growing impatience that no new material from the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens, appears to be forthcoming. I am hoping that the fellow’s arrangements and skilful playing of instruments will compensate for the lack of product. There is, however, a long player available online that may appeal to Stevens fanatics. The Montreal producer who bears the name ‘Tor’ has created a seven track hop-hip album called Illinoize on which rapping types confabulate riddimically o’er mixed-up and mashed-up Sufjan Stevens instrumentations. It’s worth a listen. One can either download (for free) or stream the blighter when visiting Mr Tor’s website. I approve of the venture. It indicates how highly Stevens’s musicianship is regarded that a hop-hip gentleman is keen to utilise his work in this way. Despite the title, only three tracks are based on songs from the remarkable Illinois album. A brace of tunes from A Sun Came are subtly arranged plus one each from the peerless Seven Swans and the eclectic Christmas Boxed Set.

I purchased a pair of tickets to see veteran Indie mockneys Athlete who are appearing at Gloucester’s Guildhall in the merry month of June. I used to appreciate this band greatly and earnestly reflect that I regarded their 2004 debut offering, Vehicles and Animals, to be the sixth best album of that year. I confess I have hardly played it since. I caught the affable A this morning as I exited the National Westminster Bank in Gloucester’s ‘istoric Eastgate Street and the kindly fellow, clad modishly in scarf and fleece to escape the draughtiness of an early spring morn, solemnly echoed my views on this combo. Perhaps it is time to revisit and reappraise the Deptford collective?

So last year...

I don’t have a lot to report. My 2009 affinity with 2008 music continues as yesterday I banged in an order with a major online store for a brace of long players from that recent yet fondly recalled year. The Bug’s London Zoo gained soaring acclaim for its part dubstep, part dancehall sounds, its potent riddims and righteous lyrical content. I’ve heard one or two tracks and am keen to explore the album as a whole. I’ve also summoned from the South American river-based emporium, an album by Welcome Wagon, wittily entitled Welcome to the Welcome Wagon. This act comprises a husband and wife team, Vito and Monique Aiuto. He’s a Presbyterian minister and the record appears to possess a somewhat religious theme. I was wooed by the fact the album was produced and arranged by the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens, and, indeed, released on that maverick genius’s Asthmatic Kitty label. Stevens also plays loads of the instruments and provides some vocals. How thrilling. What I’ve heard sounds glorious. I shall let all hepcats know my opinions when both discs have arrived and have been spun earnestly in my secret pop laboratory.

Now I've got a lot to say now baby but it doesn't concern me today now baby

Several of my recent favourite long playing albums were released last year (Exit by Shugo Tokumaru; Third by Portishead) and my current most spun collection continues this theme. Frank Turner’s Love, Ire and Song is an uncompromisingly blunt, yet simultaneously tender, evocative and thought-provoking set of tracks. Turner is a fascinating character, an Old Etonian and former shouty punk, and has matured into a candid and, ahem, frank singer-songwriter not afraid to examine the past and cock a snook at failed stances and ideologies. These are very personal and, as a result, compelling songs examining friendship and matters of the heart (the remarkable Better Half is as beautiful and haunting as popular music gets) alongside more political themes. The melodies and arrangements are utterly splendid but it is the wisdom, wit, hilarity and discernment of the lyrics that impress; few notes and fewer words are wasted and I’d venture that several of the couplets convey significant and life-affirming (if not life-changing) impact. This is great stuff and enthusiastically recommended. Frank Turner is playing Cheltenham in July and I am keen to attend.