No precaution leaving the fold

I’m happy to report a fine victory for my favoured rugby team yesterday. My word, the Kingsholm pitch was wet and muddy and grassless but the players responded intelligently and seven tries wi’out reply tell the story well. Gloucester continue to climb the league table but will require doughtier opponents than yesterday’s lacklustre and underwhelming Sale outfit to truly test progress and prowess. This season seemed to be slipping away before Christmas but now the club finds itself in two cup semi-finals and with a chance to end the season in sixth spot and achieve Heineken Cup qualification. I would settle for that sixth place now at the expense of cup joy; it would prove a decent reward for improved form of the squad and the improved skills and imagination of numerous squad members.

Yesterday’s match saw a belligerent and confrontational eight wield large spades and construct a pleasing platform for the backs to spin magic. The wing-threequarters, in particular, relished the battle. The young prince, Simpson-Daniel made countless yards with electrifying running and will-o’-the-wisp craftiness while his less subtle partner, the Tongan behemoth Vainikolo sought contact abrasively and bounced through tackle after tackle. The pair is scoring tries for fun at the moment and will relish firmer pitches and sunnier skies. This punter is satisfied that there is plenty still to play for this spring.

I’ve been listening to plenty of sounds. I am going through a huge Super Furry Animals/Gorkys Zygotic Mynci phase and lapping up as much melodic Welsh mischief as possible. Recommendations include the, ahem, Furrys’ MWNG which is sung purely in Welsh but is utterly beautiful and teems with subtle treasures. As a lovely companion piece to MWNG, I would suggest Gruff Rhys’s solo effort, Yr Atal Genhedlaeth, another non-English-speaking offerin’ that drips with pastoral and gentle songsmithery. Gorkys Zygotic Mynci’s Barafundle is becoming my ‘go to’ long player of choice; it’s a charming and jaunty beast with many moments of pop perfection. I span former Gorky fellow Euros Childs’s recent album, Son of Euro Child, yesterday. I rated this collection to be the second finest of last year and my view has not changed in the least; here is an eccentric, quirky and lovable set of songs.

I bought the new Field Music album a week ago. It remains an album I admire rather than like at the moment. It lacks a bit of warmth. A few spins may change this.

I hope I can continue to keep this blog going but I’m posting less and less often. My affection for micro-blog facility Twitter (although I am sulking today because I’m not receiving the tweets of those I follow for some reason) grows and grows daily and I suppose this is having an impact on the time I spend here. I had had a PC-based Twitter account for a good few months but it was only on owning an iPhone and summoning the marvellous Echofon App that my attention was fully grabbed. I am now hooked and am beginning to learn more about Twitter daily. My enjoyment would be more complete if I could harvest a few more like-minded followers but I’m just two months in really and I’m more than content with the quality and affability of those I mainly engage with. I’m just warmed by the amount of intelligence and creativity that floods my Twitter feed every day. Things like the forthcoming General Election, for example, are hugely embellished by Twitter and a steady stream of insightful messages (often with hyperlinks taking one to fuller pieces) by political analysts, bloggers, journalists and certain key politicians adds a vibrant and brilliant dimension to events. All my interests – music, news, films, sport – are caressed lovingly by tweets from fascinating folk. I’m entertained greatly by this world; it’s making me a lot more informed and enriched. Stereotyped ideas about Twitter being a log of what people have just had for breakfast remain low brow, lazy and manifestly ill-informed. This is a splendid scene bristling with intellect and vibrancy and I recommend it wholeheartedly. I’m afraid that this old place is suffering a touch though.

I woke up in your sheets of rain and everything you touch around here

Like London omnibuses, when one moving image period drama examining a 20th century icon appears over the horizon, another is sure to follow imminently. It was the turn of John Lennon last evening. Gripping steaming mug of tea and with Mars Bar coquettishly poking out of breast pocket, I entered the Guildhall kino with expectations high. Nowhere Boy awaited, impatiently tuning a banjo. It did not disappoint.

This proved a beautiful feature film, highlighting a fascinating section of the youthful Beatle’s life. Here was the era of skiffle, drainpipe trousers, fleeting glimpses of a shimmering young Elvis and the nation’s gradual emergence from post-war austerity. Against these landmarks, a young scouse rebel strutted, forming bands, meeting George and Paul, learning chords, sucking on scrounged ciggies, dodging fares and, crucially, coming to terms with a complex and hauntingly sad mother-aunt-absent father triangle. The story of the young Lennon is familiar and one that this punter has read again and again, most latterly within the many pages of the fine Philip Norman tome (which heavily influences plenty of this film’s narrative methinks). The impact on screen of such a well-documented, well, legend was tangibly forceful; the tremendous acting, the evocative late-fifties interiors, the capture of a characterful city’s heart all combined to proffer a sumptuous hour or two. It was all so believable and raw and exciting and sharp. The details – deckchairs, tea-pots, crates of ale – were deliriously thrown at the viewer and would have sufficed to keep most audiences riveted; add to the mix a joyous script and a breathtakingly exhilarating tale and one is privy to some brilliant film-making. Nowhere Boy was a tremendous treat and this grateful fellow can’t recommend it highly enough. I’d like to see it again.

The sun upon the roof in winter will draw you out like a flower

Me and Orson Welles proved an engaging feature last evening. A party of three Coles enjoyed the hospitality of our favoured arts centre; warming beverages, invigorating cola drinks and an array of chocolate treats accompanied us into the auditorium. It was merry.

I would suggest that the ‘Orson Welles’ of the title engaged this viewer more than the ‘Me’ aspect. ‘Me’ was Richard Samuels, played fairly routinely by teen heartthrob Zac Efron, a youthful chap decreed by fate to join Welles’s company and play the small part of Lucius in his 1937 production of Julius Caesar. The nipper’s elevation from high school routine to the centre of theatrical splendour proved an interesting and enjoyable plot. The film’s main purpose was to proffer an autobiographical snapshot of one fascinating slither of a fabulous life (played brilliantly by Christian McKay). This is Orson Welles before the War of the Worlds controversy, before Citizen Kane, The Magnificent Ambersons and The Third Man. The portrait of the flowering of a genius is splendid. Welles’s production of Julius Caesar, a ground-breaking modern-dress effort, quite brutally edited and set in a European fascist state, was highly acclaimed in its day; this feature’s ability to recreate a master’s directorial hand, taking a diverse yet talented cast through rather eccentric rehearsal processes, through rows and rages to a triumphant opening night is worthy and credible. The last hour of the feature is truly compelling. The ‘Me’ portion of the film is generally left to one side in order for Welles’s alchemy to be displayed; a series of scenes from the play are presented and it is jaw-dropping stuff. I can only imagine what an impact this play would have had on a 1930s audience; being privy to such original thinking and brave conceptualisations must have been tremendous. The feature succeeds partially in suggesting the sense of wonder a young actor must have experienced but fully in demonstrating the awesome talent of one of the last century’s major players.

Take me down from the ridge where the summer ends; watch the city spread out just like a jet's flame

My favoured rugby club, the Gloucester outfit of Gloucester, is enjoying a year of feel-good fervour. Key players are re-signing in droves, the coaching team seems focussed and invigorated and the first fifteen seems to be on fire with splendid wins arriving relentlessly.

Last Saturday was smashing. There are many genres of Gloucester victories (rearguard, gritty grind; forward slog rewarded by high penalty count; elegiac comeback against all odds; insipid limp-to-the-line against poor quality opposition etc.) and I am able to classify our latest victory against an adequate Harlequins team thus: a widely expected win embellished by sparkling and witty play and an unimpeachable team ethic.

This was one of those matches that the enthusiastic supporter wishes would last just a few minutes longer. Teams within teams seemed to be clicking beautifully for the city club. Its centre three-quarters, Fuimaono-Sapolu and Molenaar, continued to link merrily and form a sensational combination, the front row (Wood, Azam and Somerville) were abrasive and to-be-feared, the back three (Morgan, Vainikolo and the young prince Simpson-Daniel) attacked wi’ verve and intent while the back row twinned defensive duty with offensive glee. All individuals performed zestfully and with skill. ‘The lads’ are playing rugby union with smiles on their faces and, by heck, it’s catching.

I’ll highlight three Elver Eaters. The aforementioned prince of the wing seems back to his best. The fellow they call ‘Sinbad’ hardly touched the oval in the first quarter of the match but responded with some breathless support running, great guile, and general intelligence. Another hat-trick for the young thoroughbred was deserved and wildly acclaimed. I shall mention the under-mentioned outside-half Nicky Robinson too. He ran proceedings calmly and cleverly at the weekend. One of my favoured sights at Kingsholm is the alert Welshman spotting a gap and surging through it at pace. Robinson looks marvellous with ball in hand. I rate him. My third doff of the cap is attempted in the direction of another Celt, the charismatic captain Delve. I believe his Gloucester career is drawing to an end but the loyal Gloucester support will remember him fondly for performances like Saturday’s. The Welshman ran and ran, sought contact (and gaps) vigorously and capped a man of the match display with a sumptuous interception and sixty yard dash. His vision and ability to sense the rapidly arriving Simpson-Daniel on his shoulder and deliver a cracking pass was worth the admission fee alone.

I salute all associated with the club’s playing and coaching organisations for a fabulous afternoon.

The above photograph originally appeared on my Twitter feed. It was captioned at the time, '1.40pm. The popular side waits and expects. Japandroids on my iPod cannot hide the buzz of eager chat.'

Angle for the ringside seats

It was a special occasion on Wednesday. Former Trade Minister and Postmaster General Tony Benn was appearing as part of Gloucester Guildhall’s ‘Speakers’ series and it was merry to witness quite a key figure in our nation’s recent history. The evening kicked off with Benn being interviewed about his life, influences and outlooks before the audience was given the chance to question the ageing politico. It was an interesting event although understandably Benn, at 85, cuts a more tired and less passionate figure than the firebrand that stood at the centre of British politics for decades. It proved charming to meet the fellow afterwards; he had time for all that queued to have books signed and I appreciated his cheery words and firm handshake.

Endless treads like waves of regret

Heck, I’ve been playing the new Midlake album to death. A quick glance at my iTunes facility (wi’ a grateful tap of the forelock) informs me that I’ve spun The Courage of Others a dozen times and each listen has been intense and focussed. It’s that kind of record – it demands attention and concentration. This is the embodiment of the long-awaited follow-up. Midlake’s last collection The Trials of Van Occupanther proved to be one the few classic albums of the past decade and wooed this consumer with its evocative and atmospheric songs and tales. Could the earnest and bearded collective pull it off once more? I am delighted to report in the affirmative. The Courage of Others is ambitious, thoughtful and successful.

Essentially, this is a lovingly crafted homage to these shores’ folk-rock to the extent that vocalist Tim Smith appears to these ears to be singing in a studied English voice. The musicianship is tremendous; not a note is wasted from guitar solo to drum fill and the arrangements are absolutely splendid. It sounds beautiful and especially wondrous on headphones. There’s a melancholic feel to proceedings though. Eleven of the twelve tracks are in minor keys and I’m guessing (no expert here) that this adds to a fairly dark ambience. The songs are of a similar tempo too, mid paced but all possessing subtly different melodic structures and striking harmonisations. Lyrically – and this reminds me of Van Occupanther – we are taken far away from the mundanity of modernity and transported to some undesignated point in history. Personally, the songs’ wearisome and bleak themes and frequent references to the mysteries of the earth and to fertility lead me to consider they are being sung from the point of view of a thoughtful, troubled and tremendously articulate medieval serf. Perhaps it’s just me. Anyhow, I’m aware that fans of the last Midlake LP occasionally pass by these pages and I’m happy to answer the unasked question, ‘I loved The Trials of Van Occupnther but would I dig the follow-up?’ My answer is unequivocal. This is an utterly sumptuous recording and a shining treasure. You’ll have to spin the blighter in the knowledge that it’s no bundle of laughs but the textures, the intellect, the precision, the haunting and soaring music all more than compensate. Who needs giddy pop thrills all the time?