It wasn't then a Beatles song

I’m not prone to boasting but whenever I attend a concert with the good-natured A, I tend to post my report a few days before him. It’s not a competition of course. However, he’s beaten me to it this time with an articulate and worthy review of the evening he, S and I spent on Monday visiting The Fall in Bristol. He’s even proffered his recordings of all the songs they played and I simply can’t compete.

It proved a lot of fun. It’s always merry to chalk up a new venue and The Metropolis, near the centre on the Cheltenham Road, was a small but perfectly formed place which joins the pantheon of the numerous arenas I’ve pitched up at to catch Mark E. Smith and his cohorts. I suppose Monday was a fairly typical but nonetheless enjoyable recent-period Fall set with an extremely tight band belting out up-tempo riff-joy underpinned by (Mrs Smith) Elena Poulou’s driving keyboard sturm und drang and, of course, the man himself singing/mumbling/screaming his words of wisdom into any available microphone. It’s been two and a half years since my last Fall gig (at Oxford’s Zodiac) and I’m happy to report a continuation of the fine form I witnessed then. This is a cool group. This is a cool group.

We sit here in torpor by our old fireside and just agree to differ

12-9 is such a comfortingly old-fashioned scoreline. You can sniff the embrocation in those lowish multiples of three; gnarled forwards of yore paid their doughty dues during 12-9 epics while fancy-dan three-quarter team-mates shivered. It’s a back-to-basics score, an unfashionable glimpse into past times, into mudbaths, into half-time team talks on the pitch, into the shadowy mindsets of Malcolm Preedy and Bobby Fowke. If 12-9 were a TV Show it would be a murky World In Action exposé from 1973, it’s Lieutenant Pigeon playing Mouldy Old Dough on Top of the Pops, it’s the Winter of Discontent crossed with an especially violent episode of The Sweeny, it’s a rusting Chopper bike with a slightly flat tyre, it’s a Noddy Holder sideburn of a score. I’ve missed good old 12-9. And last night’s thoroughly exciting 12-9 victory for the Gloucester club of Gloucester against a decent Leicester outfit proved extremely pleasurable. Welcome back.

This was not a classic match but, after weeks and weeks of wistful woes and winless worries, it was wondrous to witness my favoured team playing with the passion, intensity and wholehearted grunt that the inhabitants of the popular side demand. Although concerned by a singular lack of game plan and a significant inability to carry the pill across the try-line, this punter heralds a vast improvement in handling skills, a noticeably accomplished adherence to the arts of the scrums and lines-out, and a reinvigorated rolling maul. Last night’s forward pack caught this eye. It was a mixture of the mature and coltish. Old dogs Buxton and Boer bustled and bruised for the cause with gleeful abandon, their uncompromising work rate and unselfish fetchin’, carryin’, tacklin’ and sweatin’ all indicatin’ a deep affection for the historic club and an acknowledgment that its values and ethos must survive. Younger tyros Attwood and Dawiduik rampaged earnestly too, concentrated well and mixed a youthful gallop in the loose to adherence to the necessities. Behind the scrum, David ‘Dave’ Lewis gave a curate’s egg of a performance, blending iffy passing and slow service with ebullient breaks and zestful sprinting. Young Freddie Burns, donning the famed ten shirt, looks a sparkling prospect; the fellow played heads-up rugby union with a refreshing confidence and is certainly one for the (near-) future. Burly Tim Molenaar is coming into some form too and I appreciated the abrasive Kiwi centre’s rough and ready running; he combined well with the burlier Tongan menace Vainikolo rather well.

Of course there were negatives to Gloucester’s play to counteract the numerous positives but last night wasn’t about detailed analysis and over critical debates. It was about winning and winning with spirit. The last twenty minutes saw this supporter shake off his disquiet about this season’s form and disappointments and shout his ruddy head off, celebrating the referee’s blast at no-side with rare excitement. It was a smashing occasion and the sentimentalist in me relished the scenes as the exhausted yet victorious yeomen paraded in front of the throng. My word, it was wonderful to see the noble Jake Boer among the lads, arms aloft and soaking up the affection. Excitement is back, Jake is back, the Gloucester dog is back and 12-9, in all its low-scoring, edge-of-set majesty, is back too. Hurrah.

Society

I can’t get over how many people pitch up to watch features screened by the Cheltenham Film Society. I trotted over to the Bacon Theatre on Tuesday to view, at the invitation of J, a Brazilian production, Linha de Passé and was stunned to witness throngs of gentlefolk flocking into the building. I genuinely believed there was something else on at the complex; I’m so used to watching films at Gloucester’s Guildhall in an audience of twenty or so (on a good night) that I was thrown by such a multitude. About 250-300 cinema lovers attend each screening at Cheltenham and this rather heartens me but, simultaneously, makes me a tad disappointed that my merry home city lags behind its more well-groomed neighbour. Anyhow, my visit was wholly positive and I’ll attend again and possibly even join.

The film itself proved engaging and thought-provoking. Linha de Passé transports the viewer into a rough and ready Sao Paulo ghetto and scrutinises the lives of an ageing and impecunious single mother and her four sons all of whom scheme and dream of ways out of their impoverished existences. One son dreams of becoming a top footballer and the resultant fame and fortune; one, a petrol pump attendant, is drawn to intense evangelical worship; another seeks money and women and is tempted to supplement a courier’s meagre income with the spoils of increasingly less petty crime; and the youngest, significantly darker skinned than his siblings, sporadically attends school, possesses plenty of streetwise impudence and obsesses about becoming a bus driver. Rich stories of the quartet intertwine offering dark glimpses of the despair that accompanies an inability to escape inequity and poverty; lighter moments indicating earthy humour and a reassuringly benevolent community spirit offer some relief. Hope and hopelessness arrive in equal measures but hopelessness always seems to vanquish.

Nature intended the abstract for you and me

I admit I may have become a Green Man Festival bore in the weeks after last summer’s event. I think the rank disappointment of the previous couple of years, when cold, hard and wetter than usual rain conspired to break the music-lovin’ hearts of my accomplished sidekick and me, had rendered the need for third-time-lucky glee more than crucial. The warm 2009 weather and fine fare and, pardon me, cheerful vibes were heart-warming and welcome. I only say this because I note that ‘early bird’ tickets for next summer’s bash are on sale now. I’m tempted. I don’t self-flagellate (too much) at the prospect of returning to work after a long summer break but a late August sojourn to Brecon did wonders for my, ahem, aura last time and I’m keen to ‘flag up’ a potential intention to attend again. My bet for one of the headliners would be the remarkable Midlake who have a new album out reasonably soon and will be touring in 2010. In my dreams, admittedly over-imaginative and fecund, Midlake would headline on the Friday, The Decemberists would proffer a live version of The Hazards of Love on the Saturday and the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens would wow the crowds on the Sunday and send everyone ‘ome ‘appy. It may yet happen.

I hinted at my admiration for young South-West London collective The XX yesterday and would like to doff my virtual titfer at their splendid debut album now. It’s a hushed and breathy recording reminiscent of the Young Marble Giants’ breathy and hushed classic, Colossal Youth, and it often feels that the youthful band have decided to proffer their listenership as few musical layers as possible at any given moment. A delicate bassline, an occasional strum of a gee-tar, a mere dab of a drum, and sparse electronic musings underpin really beautiful songs of love and youthful considerations. The male/female voices permeate proceedings tenderly and volunteer a conversational tone to the songs that certainly appeals. Their self-titled debut, although whispered and minimalist in texture, possesses a swagger and complexity that utterly engages. All the songs are splendid but my favourite is probably Crystalised with its subtle call-and-respond vocals and wry quiet-(fairly)loud-quiet backing sounds that transport me effortlessly back to 1979 or maybe even 1980. Recommended.

Underneath and unexplored

Earlier today I flicked through this month’s Q Magazine in the palatial environs of Gloucester’s historic Northgate Street branch of J Sainsbury. My heart sank. I was keen to scan the pages to discover what their favoured 50 albums of 2009 were and, alas, my view that Q is a music magazine for people who don’t really like music that much was fortified. I know I’m at risk of sounding an utter snob but the Q list was as conservative and mundane and life-unaffirming and unadventurous as I feared. The top ten contains one album I rather like (Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Pavilion) and one album I quite like and might like a bit more when I have played it a few more times (Phoenix’s Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix). The rest is a landfill into which has been unceremoniously tipped insipid and obvious ‘delights’ by U2, Lily Allen, flippin’ Kasabian, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and, at number two, heck, the unspeakable Florence and the Machine. A couple of weeks ago I tapped out a shortlist of twelve or thirteen albums I regard as the year’s best and only four of my choices sneak into Q’s fifty. I can’t believe The Decemberists’ The Hazards of Love or The XX's sizzling self-titled, er, sizzler aren't there. I apologise if I’m sounding a touch self-regarding in sneering at this publication for daring not to share my views and I admit I’m probably over-reacting a touch but I do rely on the December issues of the music press to prompt me into hoovering* up anything lovely I may have missed over the past twelve months. I’m going to go and have a lie down. I'll put my soap-box away and look forward to my Uncut delivery.

The full list is available (and discussed very eloquently) here. It’s not all bad. An interesting list of 2009's well-reviewed albums can be found at the fascinating metacritic site.

*Other vacuum cleaning devices are available.

Strange Currencies

Last night was rather marvellous. A quartet of ageing hipsters set sail for Stroud and an evening of splendid musical entertainment. Rodborough’s Prince Albert public house was hosting a trio of wonderful acts, with Celtic pop imp, Euros Childs, headlining proceedings. A brief word about the venue. The Prince Albert proved a charming base for jollity, a non-corporate old-style boozer with roaring fire, fine ales, pet dogs striding - wi'out menace - around the carpet and walls covered in esoteric and eye-catching artefacts. The main (only?) bar was an ample L-shape and, without trying to be Madison Square Garden, accommodated plenty of proud punters perfectly.

The music moved the masses merrily. Men Diamler crooned and ululated with passion and verve and ‘is traditional fervour. His dark offerings provided glimpses into forbidding worlds of boneless dogs and other disturbing images. The second act, Sweet Baboo (later to re-emerge as Childs’ bassist) inhabited similar shadowy territory. I liked the fellow’s stuff; he played his guitar eloquently and proffered slightly personal themes tinged with rather oblique imagery.

The main event was a class above though. I’d caught former Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci frontman Euros Childs at Green Man Festival a couple of years ago and appreciated his balmy and bewitching pop sensitivities immensely. What I enjoyed then, I enjoyed last evening albeit in the most cosy and appealing surroundings (as opposed to a mud-splattered field). Childs’ songs are defiantly lo-fi, self-accompanied on fairly basic keyboards, but warm the heart with their sumptuous and sanguine melodies and off-kilter and eccentric subject matter. Verily, the gentleman sang of his love of mayonnaise, the coolness of his fridge and the toilet habits of an imaginary pet monkey and it all made perfect and lovely sense. Childs performed with warmth and humour and the acclaim of a grateful audience was deserved and manifest. I salute this artist.

I recommend the album Son of Euro Child which is available for free download here. It has harvested super reviews and has given this scribe remarkable pleasure. Please enjoy the chap playing album highlights, Like This? Then Try This and How Do You Do?, in his own front parlour.

Merging with a grain of sand

Verily, this is the season of gigs and the latest recital took place last night: Grizzly Bear at Bristol’s Anson Rooms. Mr and Mrs Cole attended and we spent a goodly time before the event enjoying the peculiar ambience of a Students’ Union building. Hipsters galore paraded; some tried too hard but I empathised. A and A joined I and I; ‘twas jolly. The support act was St. Vincent (a solo female artist, for the uninitiated) whom I last viewed/heard supporting the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens, almost exactly three years ago. I appreciate this vocalist’s arty, artful, angular offerings and her songs from the interesting and clever long player, Actor, proved an agreeable hors d’ouvre to the main event. I have rated Grizzly Bear e’er since a remarkable set at last summer’s Green Man Festival and I am gradually acquainting myself with the critically acclaimed recent album, Veckatimest. I sense that the Anson Room’s rather unsatisfactory sound quality didn’t help this group’s cause but, despite a somewhat muffled result, their haunting and ethereal harmonies hushed and wooed a large and expectant multitude. This is a talented collective, playing a range of instruments with acumen and singing really beautifully. The range of voices within the band is quite staggering and it makes for a unique and breathtaking resonance. The drummer was brilliant and I am keen to salute his all-action and effervescent display of stickmanship. I recommend.

Vegemite

Tuesday night at Kingsholm was special and exciting. The 36-5 scoreline flattered Gloucester’s Australian visitors a tad and it was pleasing to witness an abrasive pack performance with plenty to celebrate both in tight and loose. I appreciated Paul Doran-Jones’s adherence to the front row basics and I thought young hooker Darren Dawiduik enjoyed an energetic and bright match. Returning hero Jake Boer performed splendidly for the full eighty minutes with his trademark uncompromising ball-carrying catching the eye again and again; it was rather emotional hearing the legend’s name announced before kick-off with a resounding roar from the popular side indicating huge affection for this fabulous servant. Behind the pack Tom Voyce seemed more at home as a wing-threequarter while Freddie Burns, wearing '15', seemed full of spark and initiative. Alas, the team struggles at half back. David ‘Dave’ Lewis ran with vigour upon the sacred turf but his passing proved poor and a chance or two went begging. Carlos Spencer is off the pace and a shadow of his former elegant and inspirational self; time for the celebrated Kiwi to move on methinks.

Simply, Gloucester vs. Australia represented a cracking occasion. It was merry to attend a match where neither league points nor knock-out cup status were at stake and it certainly reminded me of the old days when this supporter would shout himself hoarse at a ‘mere’ friendly fixture. I’m growing tired of high pressure and mundane rugby football and Tuesday’s splendid event acted as a pleasing antidote to such humdrum fare.