Was it really murder? Were you just pretending?

Verily, gentle reader, it has proved a busy weekend. Last night proved late and giddy; a colleague’s wedding near the Welsh border entertained and diverted. This fellow is wan and delicate as a result. On Friday night – and it seems like ages ago to be honest – the crack squad of S, A and your humble host cascaded down to Bristol to attend a musical concert.

Girls were playing at a new venue for me, The Cooler Club on the mighty and pleasing Park Street and, I’ll tell you what, I haven’t enjoyed a gig as much for a long while. Girls aren’t, er, girls but an uber-hip collective of Californian fellows of varying hair length who proffer woozy and wistful and wondrous treats, drenched in melody and Beach Boys-esque harmonic brightness. Girls might be lo-fi. Their new album named, er, Album is currently the most-spun disc at Cole headquarters and this recording’s exotic slices of pop perfection sounded glorious in a tiny club and from a low stage. The intimacy of the recital took S and me back to the glory days when we’d check out up-an’-coming acts like Pixies and My Bloody Valentine in similar small arenas. Girls are slightly shambolic and lack the sheen and the tightness that arrive with rehearsal, rehearsal, rehearsal but they have tunes galore and it was charming and fascinating to witness a triumphant and very loud noise a couple of nights ago.