Rockets

Eg White’s Adventure Man is a charming long playing record. The Coles are spinning it relentlessly in these balmy early summer days. I am a huge fan of the underrated and undervalued 24 Years of Hunger that White made with model Alice Temple back in 1991; Adventure Man is reminiscent of this recording. It’s a soulful blighter and teeming with numbers so melodic that one wakes up singing them in your head each morning. The White fellow has spent the last few years making his name as a songwriter, creating tuneful tracks for the likes of Will Young, Adele and Duffy (whoever they are) but this should not be held against him. Adventure Man is an appealing set of delights, packed with wit and quirkiness and a tuneful bliss. It remains warmly recommended and, if this site had an album of the month would, verily, deserve this honour.

Yesterday’s rugby really got me down. The Lions were defeated by a canny South African side in the last seconds of the second test and, sadly, the series has now been lost. The match was certainly there for the taking with the red shirts dominating possession and showing laudable verve and alacrity in attack. Losing a brace of props and a similar number of centres disturbed the away side’s rhythm but, it could be argued, the referee’s disappointing – and very early - decision to display only a yellow card at the rugged loosie, Schalk Burger, after a nasty gouging incident proved equally pivotal. These defeats, when gleeful victory seems there for the taking, really hit hard. I’ve felt this way after losses for my favoured local team, Gloucester, but can’t recall feeling as miserable as I did at no-side yesterday afternoon for many a month.

Oh that didn't come out right at all...

I’m struggling to remember the last time I saw The Wedding Present before last Thursday’s concert at Gloucester’s splendid Guildhall. It may have been at the Bristol Bierkeller back in the heady and cheerful days of the late 1980s or it may have been further north. As mentioned elsewhere on these pages, I greatly admired the band’s George Best long player although sager experts than your humble correspondent inform me that both Bizarro and Seamonsters are the ones to own and savour. These albums passed me by and I only have myself to blame. Any road up, it was fine to revisit the band last week and I am happy to report that Dave Gedge and his cohorts were on tremendous form. The combo proffered a shortish set (no bad thing) and although I only recognised three of the numbers (Everyone Thinks He Looks Daft, Brassneck and a satisfying A Million Miles), I appreciated the wholehearted, tuneful and earnest songs that constituted the rest of the set. There is, as S postulated on the evening, a trademark Wedding Present guitar sound, a quick-fire chiming maelstrom of glee and it sounded pleasing and reassuringly fresh. The banter was merry; Gedge is pithy and laconic, bordering on the arch and he held court with an effervescent and appreciative Gloucester multitude contentedly. I was crying out for a My Favourite Dress but you can’t have everything.

The Coles attended a screening of the Swedish vampire flick, Let The Right One In, on the Friday evening (my fourth visit to the Guildhall in little over a week). I always have a mug of strong sugary tea and a Mars Bar when I watch films at the Eastgate Street Arts Centre and I was happy to continue this pleasing habit yesterday night. The film was rather stark, tense and somewhat violent in places but I appreciated its dark humour and delicately painted characters. A sensitive and bullied Stockholm lad, Oskar, discovers a young vampire girl living in the next door flat. The film portrays a touching friendship as the boy learns to face up to his tormentors while growing closer and closer to the mysterious and serious Eli. Rather sad, maudlin and realistic glimpses into Oskar’s rather lonely existence are cleverly interspersed with flashes of supernatural terror and nasty gore. It works pretty well. This punter was diverted and intrigued.

The world's growing old

Another one bites the dust. I’m struggling to mentally list all the head coaches that have plotted and planned on behalf of the Gloucester club of Gloucester over the past few decades. Did Richard Hill immediately follow the murky figure of Barrie Corless or did, as I reckon, the no-nonsense Viv Woolley enjoy a brief tenure in the buck-stops-here hot seat? No matter. Another one has, as the ghastly Mercury once expostulated, masticated the proverbial fine powdery stuff. Dean Ryan has departed the Kingsholm organisation and, to be frank, I am relieved. The past season proved unsatisfactory and hard going. The tactics and the play seemed turgid and unimpressive with too much respect given to the now vilified experimental law variations with not enough worshipping at the altars marked ‘entertainment’ and ‘expressionism’. In latter months I sensed a lack of determination and will-to-win from certain members of the squad, a situation I partially blame Ryan for. Too much faith in certain underperforming players meant that the fifteen struggled as a result. I would argue that the unreliable and inconsistent young outside-half, Lamb, should not have been given another year at the club while the disastrous and embarrassing Barkley should not have been signed in the first place. Bryan Redpath replaces Ryan and I wish the affable Scot well. I sense his man-management skills will be welcomed by the fascinating blend of experienced old pros and wet behind the ear nippers that comprise the first team squad. This punter notes indications that Redpath’s ideas and innovations as backs coach may have been smothered by the more pragmatic Ryan over the past year or so. I hope that the new fellow is able to conjure up some remarkable play from the likes of the young prince Simpson-Daniel, the heir apparent Trinder, the earnest and noble Morgan and company. And I wish that the shirt, the famed stripes mean more for those wearing them. I apologise for barking on and on about the chap but the lack of pride in the evocative cherry and white colours shown by the foolish Barkley was a disgrace last term and I never want to witness a repeat of such sulky ridiculousness. I wish Redpath the best o' British and salute him warmly.

Whenever you look you can see that everybody wants to be part of the rock scene

In retrospect, the great reviews-written-in-advance experiment of June 2009 proved a dreary failure although sneakers were worn and clumsy attempts at ruefulness were made. The reality proved different for both acts I witnessed last week. Peter Doherty was alright but did not change my life. He was a touch late arriving on stage and, although his songs were mildly pertinent and interesting, cut a somewhat irritating figure, more keen to demonstrate a fairly transparent bohemian attitude than engage a warm and kindly crowd maturely and coherently. As, no doubt, everyone who reads this will know already, the wan and fragile fop ‘ad ‘is collar felt within half an hour of leaving the Guildhall auditorium for a gleefully hefty array of offences. This comes as no surprise. He seemed a selfish, indulged creature at the concert; his rather pitiful attempt to rage against the system by lighting cigarillo after cigarillo on the podium proffered a laughable image. File under ‘Silly’ cross-referenced with ‘Old enough to know better’.

Athlete, I reflected, were rather splendid. I have coined a new phrase to sum them up: Cabaret Indie. Akin to old-fashioned light entertainers, the Deptford alternative rock collective understood an earnest audience’s requirements and proved charming fellows, involving all and sundry warmly, wittily and wi’ pleasing self-deprecation. They had nice haircuts and are probably nice to their grans. Four and twenty hours after a close encounter with Master Doherty, I appreciated pleasant and appealing and selfless attitudes. As not predicted, the group attacked a decent back catalogue with ebullience although the several brand new numbers offered were deft and agreeable. Various highlights from the worthy debut album, Vehicles and Animals, were fondly lapped up and even the later material, acerbically described on the way out by R as ‘Keane-Light’, was beautifully presented and played with vigour and meaning. It was a really cracking show and I salute the affable popsters responsible.

We're out of mints, pass the lifesavers

I think June could prove a slow month on here. I have lots of other stuff that needs doing and I’d feel guilty sneaking on here instead. July and, certainly, August should be jam-packed with news and jollity. Apologies in advance.


I’m off to a brace of sell-out shows at Gloucester’s remarkable Guildhall this week. On Wednesday, the Coles are setting forth purposefully to see Master Peter Doherty, while on Thursday I’ll be attending a recital provided by the veteran indie hipsters, Athlete. Can I be lazy and write my reviews now? Pete Doherty will be surprisingly coherent, charming and I’ll be heartened by the number of dainty tunes he produces for a tolerant and engaging crowd. His wit will win me over causing me to re-examine his back catalogue and I’ll nod at him on the way out. Athlete will be a tad grumpy and steer away from their ‘hits’. There will be no nodding. On both occasions I’ll be wearing sneakers and looking vaguely rueful.

The finest use of the xylophone in popular music can be found on the song Gone Daddy Gone from The Violent Femmes’ eponymous debut. This is currently my favourite album. Blister in the Sun is as rockingly jaunty an opening track on a long player as one can hope for, although it has been overplayed a touch in recent months due to its appearance in this commercial.