Martin Cole

No precaution leaving the fold

2010-02-28T14:28:00.003Z

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

2010-02-20T12:54:00.003Z

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

2010-02-18T20:54:00.003Z

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

2010-02-15T12:14:00.003Z

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

2010-02-13T21:24:00.003Z

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

2010-02-06T20:29:00.003Z

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?

I said don't stop, do punk rock

2010-01-31T15:13:00.004Z

Just popping by to greet hepcats. Without ever knocking plaintively at death’s door, I’ve been a touch under the weather for the past week and I’m already working out the most constructive time to slurp some Night Nurse.

The rugby union was pleasing and moderately enjoyable yesterday. Although there was, officially, a competitive edge to proceedings, Gloucester’s clash against Worcester carried more of a ‘friendly’ feel and it was refreshing to witness a fair degree of adventure and verve from, it has to be said, both teams. I liked Freddie Burns’s composure at full back and, not for the first time, appreciated the complementary skills of Molenaar and Fuimaono-Sapolu in midfield. The home side’s 17-5 victory was deserved but hard-fought. It proved an engaging and diverting hour and one half but I anticipate more meaningful fixtures keenly.

I’ll be glad to see the back of January. It’s been cold, dark and wet and the delayed return to work proved frustrating. The nights and mornings seem a touch lighter now and I’ll salute spring to the rafters when it returns.

Mrs Cole has been fedging this morning, a completely legal practice that refers to the construction of a living fence, a hedge/fence if you will. This erection will form a useful barrier between the peaceful contentment of the summer house and patio and the more prosaic trampoline. I think it looks bonny. Also scoring top marks for general bonniness is the new arbour that a courteous and articulate craftsman constructed for us – in return for fiscal remuneration – yesterday. Both look thin and bare at the moment but months and years of growth should transform the fedge and arbour into eye-catching garden features. I wish them well as they mature.

Fab Five Freddie told me everybody's high; DJ's spinnin' are savin' my mind

2010-01-24T15:21:00.006Z

It’s always fine to have things to look forward to and I am contented that tickets have been acquired this week for a brace of splendid-sounding future events. The Coles will be attending Tony Benn’s, er, gig at the Guildhall next month. I don’t often pull rank and insist on Master Cole’s attendance at an ‘appening but I’ve bought him a Tony Benn ticket and am keen for him to listen to one of the great names in post-war British politics. I’m imposing at least a two line whip on the lad. It should prove a thought-provoking and fascinating evening; we live in interesting times, readers. I’m struggling to think of any link between Tony Benn and the other act we’re going to see apart from my deep admiration of both. LCD Soundsystem are touring this spring and this grateful punter is now promised the aural double-whammy of new LP and concert to anticipate. This is a remarkable popular music combo and I’d recommend both their existing long players to all hepcats. I’m banging out the group’s eponymous debut on iTunes as I type these weary words (The track Too Much Love as you’re asking...) and, as ever, am relishing the intoxicating hybrid of Remain In Light and Power, Corruption and Lies and the resultant swagger, insouciance and style. LCD Soundsystem’s sophomore (sorry) effort, Sounds of Silver, was even finer and, remarkably fought off the likes of Radiohead and Field Music to become these august pages’ LP of the year in 2007. I can’t wait. Bristol Academy should be the perfect venue for these hipsters.

I’ve been a little disappointed with the Guildhall’s filmic profferings (I simply can’t believe there are nine showings of Amelia) in the wintry month of January but the city’s majestic arts centre has redeemed itself with a wicked roster for February. The quartet of Bright Star, Nowhere Boy, A Serious Man and Me and Orson Welles shall keep aficionados of the silver screen more than happy. March looks good too.

I can’t speak highly enough of the new Vampire Weekend long player, Contra. If you fancy a bit of inside information, it could be a potential album of 2010 for this music lover’s weblog. Get yourselves down to Ladbrokes now. Reassuringly – and this often happens – my early disquiet and ambivalence have dissipated and made way for celebratory fervour. Cousins if the catchiest song in recorded musical history and I sang (in my head) I Think UR A Contra non-stop for about two and a half hours yesterday. This is a brilliant pop group. I received the new Eels recording on Friday and I’ll let you know my views on it soon.

Operator's Choice

2010-01-17T17:59:00.003Z

I’m back in the habit of playing plenty of long playing albums although, having written that, I’m struggling to recall a time when the habit left me. 1975 possibly. Anyhow, I have a hat trick of home deliveries to appreciate this month and the first one arrived on Friday. Vampire Weekend’s long awaited follow-up to their eponymous debut is entitled Contra and early spins indicate a slight departure from the earlier stuff. There’s a bit of unexpected electronic enhancement to Ezra Keonig’s vocals and a few less guitars and more synthesized pleasures to enjoy. Plenty of the learned combo’s constants remain with sufficient up-tempo rattlers and staggering rhymes to satisfy loyal fanatics. My favourite track is, thus far, Cousins, a blitzkrieg of high-life shimmer and quick-fire wit and wordplay. It rocks. Happily, new layers and new quirks emerge with each listen and I think I could grow to really appreciate this recording. Releases by Midlake and Eels will complete the aforementioned hat trick soon. I’ll report back.

Talking of Eels, I’m really enjoying their/his back catalogue at the moment. I span Daisies of the Galaxy this morning, a recording that is teeming with gorgeous melodies and personal and affecting lyrics (as well as plenty of that new-fangled cursin’). Jeanie’s Diary is my favourite track which, in true Eels style, couples a sweet tune with heartrendingly tender and evocative words. Reviews promise the listener similar bittersweet treasures on the forthcoming LP.

When your birth right is interest you could just accrue it all

2010-01-17T16:37:00.003Z

It is curious how one’s mindset changes in a short space of time. Yesterday morn, I steered my motor car elegantly past Kingsholm Stadium, noted the flags were flying proudly, the age-old indicator that a rugby football match would be played out that afternoon, and cogitated sombrely. I reflected upon my differing outlooks towards my favoured sporting team, the Gloucester outfit of Gloucester. As a youth I would have glanced up at the flapping ensigns and be filled with great excitement that my heroes would be running out upon the fabled turf before nightfall. Yesterday I deliberated how my peep up at the large flapping pennants brought me no such sense of electric anticipation. I knew I would be attending the afternoon’s fixture but was not exactly punching the air with delight.

Ironically, at a quarter to five I was punching the air with delight. My team, hosting a fancy-dan Biarritz side who were certainly keen to claim the Heineken Cup points, was a revelation, evicting lacklustre form and moribund tactics, playing with great ambition, élan and enterprise and mixing will-o’-the-wisp wit wi’ strong-arm sturdiness and surly shrewdness. I’m sure my eyes didn’t deceive me but at one point the city club contrived to run the ball from the shadow of their own posts, making forty-five fine yards and giving the popular side, browbeaten by too many pointless kicks to count this term, something to shout their collective throats raw with. It was wonderful to witness so much fluent and fabulous running rugby football.

Plenty clicked. The centre partnership of ‘Big’ Tim Molenaar and ‘Less Big’ Eliota Fuimaono-Sapolu proved a handful, the former’s abrasive, no-nonsense straight running complementing the latter’s subtle sleight of hand and sublime sprinting. The young prince, Simpson-Daniel, relished his return to the wing and seemed back to his electrifying best, appreciating the extra space and a rare chance to paint expressionist canvases rather than whitewash breezeblocks; fresh freedom over failed functionality made the skilful sorcerer twice the player yesterday. The behemothic Tongan, Vainikolo enjoyed one of his more productive days, roaming the field with delicious intent and I savoured his keenness to leave the wing and come seeking the egg in midfield; the South Sea Islander is much more effective when he appears aggressively on a comrade’s shoulder. Elsewhere, behind the pack, Rory Lawson was as busy and hardworking as ever, Nicky Robinson mixed things up nicely and demonstrated his deceptive pace and eye for a space on several occasions while Olly Morgan produced a masterclass in full back play with too many fearless catches and counter-attacking careers upfield to count. It was marvellous.

An abrasive pack performance both in tight and loose provided the spadework for the back division to strut its stuff. Scott Lawson galloped round the park with gleeful abandon while his rival, in my opinion, for a player of the season gong, Dave Attwood, continued to further his claims for representative honours with another burly showing alongside the stylish Alexander Brown. The wing forward Qera is, thankfully, returning to some decent form; the fizzing Fijian was a right handful yesterday and is happily breaking more and more tackles and gain lines. The side needs him firing on all cylinders; at his best he remains a potent weapon in the Elver Eaters’ armoury.

I am aware of the old proverb featuring swallows and summers but shall ignore its lessons and simply reflect upon a hugely satisfying victory. Leaving beside the more pragmatic requirements of yesterday (potential qualification for future European quests), I’m more content to consider gained confidence, rugby football played with smiles on faces, adventurous and effective tactics and the whole team exhibiting spirit and grit and guile. I salute the Gloucester players warmly and with gratitude.

The photograph (taken with my iPhone – a new and potentially annoying habit) is entitled ‘A Triumphant Army Returns From Battle’.

Thought that I'd forget all about the past but it doesn't let me run too fast

2010-01-08T17:21:00.003Z

My Christmas holidays are lasting longer than expected. I was supposed to head back into work on Wednesday and here I am, on Friday, still to return. Britain is freezing and ice and snow dominate the section of Regency Longlevens that I call home – and beyond. The Cole females and I met for lunch at Gloucester’s splendid Guildhall earlier (a warming spicy lentil broth, since you were curious) and the walk home from the bus proved utterly chilling. I sense the temperature may drop further. It is unsettling and awkward but there are worse off than me.

May I recommend a sports book? Duncan Hamilton’s biography of Harold Larwood is a superb read. It’s a tale of class and politics and ruthlessness and, ultimately, forgiveness. The world of Gentlemen and Players is ever fascinating to glimpse and the loyalty ex-miner Larwood, ‘the world’s fastest bowler’, shows to his patrician skipper Douglas Jardine is remarkable. The whole Bodyline episode is examined in minute detail but the chapters that deal with Larwood’s life after cricket are equally captivating. The humble and vaguely anonymous former hero’s emigration to Australia is dealt with tenderly while the recurring motif of Larwood’s rivalry with Donald Bradman (which continued until both cricketers were well into their nineties) is captured skilfully. This is a marvellous story.

May I recommend a feature film? A rare trip to the city’s large and imposing Cineworld complex proved worthwhile. My two eldest children and I attended a screening of the sequence of moving images known worldwide as Avatar. This is a spectacular piece of work, shimmeringly beautiful and captivatingly imaginative. I won’t give away the plot although the basic premise (‘Hey, we don’t care enough about the, y’know, environment, man’) is relatively simplistic. It’s the setting that really impresses. A lot of the reviews compare the planet known as Pandora to a series of sumptuous Roger Dean album covers and I can appreciate the comparison. The imagined flora and fauna of Pandora are tremendously unusual and splendid to gaze ‘pon and the scenery is stunning and breathtaking. It looks great. The bonny backdrops sit there, all lovely, while a fierce man-vs.-alien dispute rages and rather clumsy good guy/bad guy caricatures battle it out cartoonishly. Refreshingly the aliens, thin, tall, blue, cat-faced athletic types are cast as symbols of beauty, integrity and ecological hope while us humans, it pains me, are gun-toting, greedy, insensitive ne’er-do-wells. I suppose Avatar is a feature film to make one think although similar environmental messages are to be discovered within any daily newspaper and any news bulletin. Conversely, it’s a film where, if you desire, it’s possible not to think too much and just let splendour and magnificence wash over you. It’s a win-win. We caught the 2D version, by the way. 3D is yet to lure this punter.

Don't you think life would be a little drab if we had the same thoughts?

2010-01-03T16:18:00.002Z

I thank A, whose love of podcasts is rapidly eclipsing mine, for subtly introducing me to my latest favourite, the Classic Albums production. This is a defiantly lo-fi, under-produced half hour which remains utterly charming and fascinating thanks to the giddy enthusiasm conjured up by the genial hosts Gary and Stephen. These two fellows, hailing possibly from Manchester (but we’re never told) have devised a beautifully simple format. Effectively at the end of each show they swap long playing records that are personal favourites and that they want to introduce or reacquaint their affable cohort to. These recordings are taken away, diligently played to death (usually on the hosts’ much-loved iPods) and then discussed earnestly on the next occasion the podcast is recorded. I’m pleased to report that the pair’s taste in music is similar to mine and it is marvellous (and mightily reassuring) to hear my favourites (Sufjan Stevens, Wilco, Bonnie “Prince” Billy, Ryan Adams etc.) being eulogised with such warmth and vigour. Gary and Stephen also spend five minutes or so at the start checking up what else each other has been listening to since the last podcast and there’s a neat little interlude between the discussions of the swapped LPs when they exchange, nerdily and ebulliently, themed Top Fives that were also decided upon in the previous episode. This is simple broadcasting but all the better for it. Like all the best podcasts (Word, Sound Opinions), the sense of eavesdropping on an enthralling conversation is evident; Gary and Stephen remind me a little of myself in that they are not backward in coming forward when proclaiming the worth, wonder and wonderfulness of a particular long playing record although I wish I could conjure up a tenth of their articulacy and ability to sum up a record’s essence with real clarity and astuteness. My dilemma at the moment is choosing which of the 40-odd episodes to select next. Thus far I’ve been mainly choosing those which feature albums I already know and love but I am very keen to be alerted to newer sounds so will be seeking out those shows that highlight stuff by artists (Willard Grant Conspiracy, David Kitt, The Auteurs) that have ne’er appeared on this radar. I really admire Stephen and Gary for producing such a treat; Classic Albums is obviously a true labour of love with its do-it-yourself quirkiness and the sense of homespun enjoyment it conjures up. This is cracking stuff and I can’t recommend it highly enough. Thanks, fellows.

Blind to the last curse of the fair pistols and countless eyes

2010-01-03T13:21:00.004Z

I did enjoy yesterday’s rugby union action at Kingsholm Stadium. Other commitments insisted that I arrived two minutes before kick-off and had to guiltily scurry away at the very, very death (although I missed not one second of the drama). It was strange not being stood in the Popular Side an hour or so before the referee’s 3pm blast and, in a strange way, my tardiness meant it took me a while to really warm up, focus on the match and analyse the performance. Scampering up Worcester Street at 2.53pm, I was surprised to witness so many supporters making their way to the stadium too although I would confidently venture that the vast majority of the late-cats were sitters rather than standers.

The match itself, while no classic, was rather exciting and I enjoyed watching my favoured team, the Gloucester outfit of Gloucester, dismiss, to an extent, the mundane aerial pong-ping of recent months and attempt to overcome a routine and mundane side (Worcester, ahem, Warriors) through some incisive and inventive back-play. The home side’s outside-half Nicholas ‘Nicky’ Robinson caught this eye with some splendid surges through the visitors’ midfield and, in the second half, our enterprise stepped up a gear when the (slightly below par) wing-threequarter Sharples departed injured, the burly Molenaar entered the fray and the wasted-in-the-centre young prince, Simpson-Daniel found himself out wide and with more space. The final score 13-13 flattered the South Midlanders despite the home side trailing until the time period formerly known as 'injury time'. A last gasp try by the energetic and hugely promising Attwood levelled the scores but a tricky conversion proved too difficult for the enigmatic Spencer. Frankly, the game was there for the taking so a draw could be considered a disappointment. Robinson missed two or three fairly routine attempts at the posts and, on too many occasions to count, Gloucester failed to capitalise on gilt-edged opportunities to cross the whitewash for tries. Whilst encouraged by my team’s ambition, I shall be more content when chances are taken with a tad more ruthlessness.

Wouldn't it be nice to know what the paper doesn't show, what the TV doesn't say?

2009-12-31T16:50:00.004Z

I salute A. He’s gone all end-of-year crazy over at his place with two lists summarizing his varied highlights. It’s a witty and interesting selection and I’m proud to note I was stood loyally by his side (mainly physically but also, at times, in spirit) on numerous occasions.

Anyhow, it’s time for me to look back and select my album of the year. To be honest, for months it was seeming a one horse race as The Decemberists’ The Hazards of Love eagerly won my heart and the fierce battle for my aural affections. Wilco’s self-titled gem entered the fray back in the summer but, latterly, I have been swooning at several brilliant offerings from these very shores known tenderly by the cognoscenti simply as ‘Britain’. I congratulate the youthful, understated and subtle XX on an unexpected but richly deserved, er, victory. The nippers’ eponymous debut is an absolute treasure and I could (but I won’t) become a touch emotional considering how a collective of earnest young hepcats could produce such a tender, thoughtful and, heck, moving set of songs. It has become my go-to album of choice over the past few months, its breathy and intimate vocals and sparse instrumental swagger proving gripping enough to hold this oft-wavering attention again and again. I think XX by The XX is a masterpiece and will be spoken of in hushed and reverent tones many years from now. I reckon it’s that good. Nice work, lads and lasses.

Here is my Top Ten, pop-pickers:

1. The XX –XX
See above.

2. Euros Childs – Son of Euro Child
Sumptuous melodies coupled with eccentric/compelling lyrical glee.

3. Wild Beasts - Two Dancers
A belter. Packed with swagger and insouciant poise.

4. The Decemberists – The Hazards of Love
Intense and ruddy clever. A bit noodly in places (which I enjoyed).

5. Wilco – Wilco (The Album)
My favourite live act of the year. An album teeming with class and confidence.

6. Dirty Projectors – Bitte Orca
File under ‘Benefits from several plays’. Challenging but wondrously multi-layered.

7. Girls – Album
Madder than a box of frogs. In-your-face pop explosions galore.

8. Madness – The Liberty of Norton Folgate
A classy piece of work. Mature but fun, clever, wry and tender. A wholly unexpected treat.

9. Super Furry Animals Dark Days/Light Years
Celtic masters of melody weave wondrous webs of whimsy and wit.

10. Japandroids – Post-Nothing
A big, big noise from Vancouver. Husker Du-esque mix of mayhem and melody.

Barking in the street to tell what I have hidden there

2009-12-22T14:28:00.005Z

I thought I’d mention my enormous admiration for the BBC’s Great Lives podcast which has been absent for a while but has, in the past couple of weeks, been slipping elegantly onto my iPod once again. As the title suggests, this is a production dealing with the biographies of fascinating folk but it’s the format that provides this listener with deepest satisfaction. Engaging host Matthew Parris traditionally, er, hosts a couple of characters, one a (forgive me) celebrity enthusiast of the great life in question while the other guest is an expert, often a biographer of that edition’s focus. The (forgive me again) celebrity’s job is to wax lyrical and come over all enthusiastic and devoted while the expert pithily debunks myths and bombards the listener with wondrous facts and tales. The recent edition when Sir Ranulph Fiennes and historian Juliet Barker examine Henry V proved an utterly compelling half an hour and I’m currently loving (but failing to stay awake through) wry comedian Rich Hall’s take on Tennessee Williams. It’s the juxtaposition of (...and again) celebrity and great life that often delights and I’ve appreciated John Major on Rudyard Kipling, Kate Humble (who I’ve ne’er admired really but who came across really well) on Miriam Makeba and, O tempora! O mores!, Paul Daniels on Harry Houdini. I wonder who the next one will be about*.

If any hepcats are reading this and wanting some more recommendations for podcast joy, then I am always thrilled to mention my favoured magazine Word’s weekly (or so) broadcast which never fails to entertain. Essentially, ageing dudes Mark Ellen and David Hepworth and guests chew the fat, reminisce and demonstrate more wit, wisdom and humour than I frankly deserve. Another favourite of mine is Chicago Public Radio’s Sound Opinions during which a pair of cooler-than-cool Illinoisan music journalists and anglophiles (Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot) debate with giddy effervescence new releases and old long playing classics. Guests of the highest vintage (Grizzly Bear, Joan As Policewoman, Steve Earle) often pop by. It’s pleasing to hear views about modern music from a different source although the affable pair love British music with as much unabashed fervour as the latest stateside sounds. You can search for all these treats on iTunes.

*I'm informed that upcoming shows include Neil Innes on Vivian Stanshall and, heck, Christopher Biggins on Nero. The prospect of both, but especially the latter, renders me delirious with excitement.

But I'm changing my scene

2009-12-21T13:55:00.003Z

The rugby was adequate yesterday. Effectively a dead Heineken Cup rubber against an earnest and energetic Glasgow proved mildly entertaining and reasonably encouraging. An insipid and somewhat dull first half, dominated by aimless kicks, made way for a fairly energetic second period in which the Gloucester backs conspired to run with a touch more guile and grit. A couple of well-taken tries proved ample reward for my favoured team’s ambition and the strong galloping of Morgan, Sharples, the young prince Simpson-Daniel, Robinson, Voyce and Molenaar. It’s hard to judge just how strong or weak this current Gloucester outfit is; sterner tests await and I suspect the away fixture against a wounded Bath and the new year’s opener against the, er, Warriors of Worcester will provide keener clues as to the team’s progress.

But moondust will cover you...

2009-12-19T17:24:00.003Z

I returned home from the gold-lined streets of the nation’s capital yesterday, weary and wan but contented. It had proved a splendid day and a half in ‘the smoke’ shopping and strolling and, importantly, enjoying an evening of that new-fangled rock music at the large and impressive Barbican Centre. Spiritualized presented the whole of their classic 1997 long player Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space and, my word, ‘twas a mesmerizing, loud and wondrous event. This album has only recently soared into my consciousness and I’ve grown to admire its melodic and introspective allure. This concert enhanced its reputation. A wide, wide stage housed a large number of people; band leader Jason Pierce sat to the right, dressed casually but wearing a huge pair of sunglasses and oversaw a traditional rock line-up, a lively brass section, an intense collective of string musicians and a stylish, riddimic and white-robed gospel choir. Heck it sounded great and from the Cole party’s excellent vantage point (three rows from the front) looked remarkable too. A lot has been written about this recording and its personal nature and its advocation of, er, pharmaceutical usage to help ‘take the pain away’ but challenging and passionate subject matter is nothing without strong tunes and Ladies and Gentlemen... contains a significant number of soaringly beautiful moments which swept over a delighted Barbican audience. I’d suggest the album doubled in length in the live format and this punter approved; longer renditions of the songs allowed hypnotic grooviness to caress the ears and presented fabulous opportunities for the superb musicians to proffer their skills and talents. It was a marvellous night. Here’s a cheeky clip from Youtube.

Listen to the music, shuffle up your feet

2009-12-15T18:32:00.002Z

Well, the first Green Man Festival headliner was announced today and, although I hadn’t tipped The Flaming Lips in my last posting, I wasn’t too surprised to hear they would be playing on the Saturday. I’m not delirious with happiness at the choice, nor am I sinking into depths of despair. I think they’ll put on a fine show. The Coles enjoyed this combo at Birmingham’s historic Academy 1 a few years ago although I felt they were slaves to the video accompaniments that formed a backdrop to every song. There was a vaguely contrived wackiness to the proceedings which I wasn’t fully comfortable with although the band surely didn’t expect the dancing girl who had donned a panda costume to pass out with heat exhaustion after the third song.

I’m thrilled with my new iPhone which is a breathtaking piece of kit. I almost sob with joy every time I hold it in my hands. My old and loyal iPod mustn’t feel too jealous as I still love it with all my bleedin’ heart too; I’ll still be using this for all my music and podcast needs especially as my new machine contains 16GB of memory and I have over 70GB of music to delight in. I’m loving the news feeds (and plethora of other Apps) I can access on my iPhone and the user-friendly and aesthetically pleasing text messaging and emailing functions. I’m playing plenty of chess with gaming geezers on it and generally having a ball. I confess I’m tweeting on my Twitter page a lot more and sense I will be micro-blogging on a much more regular basis.

Turn the treble and...

2009-12-08T21:43:00.004Z

The first headline act for the Green Man Festival is to be announced next week. A clue from the official website states giddily: ‘they’re one of the best bands in the world ever, they’ve never played Green Man before and we’re literally going out of our minds with excitement!’ Who could it be? I suppose one hepcat’s idea of a top combo is different to another’s. It hints that this group has been around for a goodly while which (possibly) rules out The Decemberists or Midlake. The word ‘best’ is a touch insipid and I’d rather have seen ‘innovative’ or ‘eccentric’ to help the guessing process. My first thought led me to Super Furry Animals but they have already played the Brecon event. A glance across the Atlantic leads me to proffer the names of both Yo La Tengo and the newly reformed Pavement but I have a horrible feeling it might be housewives’ favourites Elbow taking the stage one late evening next August. Or it might be Sonic Youth. Or Primal Scream.

Some people are on the pitch

2009-12-07T07:24:00.003Z

I must admit to feeling enormous excitement at the World Cup draw last Friday evening. I know I favour the rugby union code of football but I do love soccer’s main event – possibly more than any other sporting occasion. Well, on Friday it was simply a few balls being selected and countries being allocated groups and locations but this viewer was thrilled and was heard to ululate loudly, ‘Not Portugal! Not Portugal!’ when it was time to select a non-seeded European side to face England. As things stand, one must be contented with the draw; U.S.A., Algeria and Slovenia will prove determined but limited opposition and the nation of my birth should progress with ease. I can’t wait. If time allows, I’ll be watching as many games as possible. The side I picked to win the World Cup at the time of the last European Championships, Russia, aren’t even attending so I am a hapless pundit. It is wide open, isn’t it? However, I fancy the Italians, a heady mix of the pragmatic and pulchritudinous, to come good again and possibly retain the fabled trophy.

I said you've gotta stop chasing rainbows

2009-12-06T15:08:00.004Z

I’m looking out for something new to read although I’m dipping into one or one things at the moment. The last two books I’ve finished were really enjoyable. Sebastian Faulks’ Engleby was rather different from his classic Birdsong but, nevertheless, compelling and powerful. It’s a first person narrative focussing on the troubled childhood and awkward university years of a socially inept but exceptionally academically gifted misfit. Progressive rock aficionado Mike Engleby is able to breeze into Cambridge but makes appalling decisions and struggles in all social situations away from the lecture halls. Dark happenings, er, happen and Engleby impacts on others’ lives dramatically but, as with many other anti-heroes, you can’t help admiring the central character’s wit and distinctiveness that highlight the humdrumness and conventionality of practically everyone else in the tale. He’s trouble though. Engleby (the novel) is quite unusual and unlike anything I’ve ever read but it’s an absorbing character study that mixes up (the darkest) comedy with plenty of insightful flourishes and magnificent set pieces.

Zoe Heller’s The Believers was a novel I just picked up, started reading without any great excitement or expectation but ended up loving. Heller paints glorious characters and her depiction of the Litvinoff family, a hugely dysfunctional group, headed by prominent liberal New York lawyer Joel and his waspish English wife Audrey. The couple’s three children Karla, Rosa and the adopted Lenny are as different as chalk, cheese and, heck, ectoplasm and the glimpses Heller offers into their lives are packed with wonderful detail and crushingly satirical elements. Essentially the plot evolves after Joel suffers a serious stroke and the family along with other fringe players come to terms with new circumstances. It’s a biting look at left wing politics, political correctness, race, religion and social class – enough for any novel to be sinking its teeth into – and hits the target again and again. Few of the characters are truly likeable but it’s a rare pleasure when key players’ selfishness and awkwardness are exposed with richly comic consequences. This is probably the most enjoyable book I’ve read all year.

The nature of all greatness...

2009-12-05T20:57:00.003Z

I congratulate my favoured rugby union team on a hard-fought but merited victory over a spirited and hard-running Newcastle this afternoon. Gloucester are much improved from the ramshackle rabble that proffered mediocre fare earlier this term and I am delighted to note a considerable improvement in handling skills, commitment and forward grunt. Despite a tricky twenty minute period in the first half when the visiting side conspired to play some keen and incisive football, the city club won plenty of the key confrontations and offered a fairly simple gameplan that lacked a touch of ambition but made the hard yards, forced mistakes and clinched crucial penalty decisions. Oliver Morgan made a pleasing return to the side and this supporter welcomed his strong running, purposeful chasing and trademark catching acumen. We’ve missed him. Elsewhere, Rory Lawson enjoyed a busy match and linked generally well with half-back partner Nicky Robinson. The ebullient centre Eliota Fuimaono-Sapolu was probably the outstanding back with several sniping runs at the heart of the Newcastle defence while ‘Big’ Dave Attwood took a further stride towards a deserved ‘Player of the Season’ gong with another towering performance in the ‘engine room’. I am encouraged but not carried away by my side’s recent form. The spectre of relegation appears to have abated for the time being and has been replaced by the mundane but comforting cosiness of mid-table respectability. Time will tell if a top six finish beckons; if Gloucester can salvage Heineken Cup qualification from such an unpromising autumn it shall be an achievement of epic proportions.

Wall of Noise

2009-12-05T12:02:00.003Z

I salute the beat combo Primal Scream for journeying to the (ye?) historic city of Gloucester last Thursday; their set at the compact and bijou Guildhall proved loud, merry, vigorous, up-tempo, melodic, rifftastic and loud. When a ‘big’ group attends the Guild, it’s part recital, part happening and the plethora of hepcats in attendance (some e’en travelling all the way from Cheltenham Spa) indicated that the scene was celebrating itself effervescently. The Scream rocked and rolled with insouciance and cool. The lead vocalist Bobby Gillespie played the part of lead vocalist Bobby Gillespie with wit and swagger, sprinkling a sprinkle of Michael Philip Jagger into a performance of gleeful pop/rock; the fellow, approaching his fiftieth year with alacrity, donned the skinny-hipped trousery, shook his tousled locks, shimmied and swayed like a young ‘un and belted out belters. The band proffered tight and energetic backing and ‘twas merry to witness the legendary Mani wielding his bass and conjuring up a no-nonsense masterclass in riddimic rigour. Highlights included strutting versions of Rocks, Swastika Eyes, Country Girl and Suicide Bomb but this ageing character particularly appreciated a courteous doff of the cap towards some Screamadelica classics: a quick blast of Loaded and Movin’ On Up (and a slow song I’ve forgotten the name of) and it was suddenly 1991 and I was wearing desert boots and plaid shirts and looking young again. I enjoyed this concert and offer gratitude to the movers and shakers at my local Arts Centre for arranging such lively entertainment.

It wasn't then a Beatles song

2009-11-25T20:41:00.003Z

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

2009-11-21T19:06:00.009Z

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

2009-11-19T19:27:00.001Z

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

2009-11-15T11:39:00.004Z

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

2009-11-14T11:53:00.008Z

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

2009-11-12T20:42:00.004Z

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

2009-11-07T19:57:00.001Z

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

2009-11-05T20:20:00.001Z

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.

You know this scene is very humdrum

2009-10-29T21:25:00.003Z

The Coles went to the nearish and notable city of Bristol on Monday and packed plenty in; a monumental Chinese meal and a trip to @Bristol proved particular crowd pleasers. Personally, it was merry to shop in Fopp, my favoured music store chain which has an outlet at the bottom of Park Street. To be honest, I could have spent longer in there as racks and racks of utterly tempting treats costing as little as 3 or 5 British quids were beckoning me brazenly. I ended up purchasing Our Favourite Shop by The Style Council (as I only read glowing reports of this long player) and a Brazilian post-punk recording by the esteemed 1980s combo As Mercenarias called, rather apocalyptically, The Beginning of the End of the World. I quite like investigating Brazilian records; I have a theory that you can choose a genre (1960s psychedelia, synth-pop, funk, post-punk) and the canny South Americans were producing incredible variants on what their earnest British and American counterparts were crafting. They can play association football a bit too. The As Mercenarias album is fine but a bit shouty and hectic; I prefer my post-punk to convey mystery and gloom and an existential otherness.

Talking of post-punk (this isn’t thrown together, you realise), my favourite Fopp acquisition was a remarkably interesting tome, Totally Wired: Post-Punk Interviews and Overviews by Simon Reynolds. Essentially, this book is a companion volume to the splendid and indispensable Rip It Up but, instead of scholarly prose about that wonderful musical movement, consists of countless delightful interviews with key post-punk movers and shakers. There are too many highlights to mention but, as ever, anything coming out of Green Gartside’s mouth is worth listening to and I liked learning that all he listened to during his youth were recordings of John Peel shows which he’d play again and again during the week. Edwyn Collins wryly looks back at Orange Juice and is agreeably pithy; Steven Morris examines with a refreshing candour the myth of Joy Division and Ian Curtis; Phil Oakey scrutinises early Human League and the impact of sudden fame; Andy Gill, despite Gang of Four’s serious and stern image, emerges as self-deprecating and humorous; and Alan Rankine warmly observes the flawed genius of his Associates band-mate Billy Mackenzie. Totally Wired is a tremendous read and a glorious reminder of, in my opinion, the greatest, most challenging and important field of music that these shores have fostered and nurtured.

What are the implications of the club unit?

2009-10-27T11:51:00.005Z

I’ve used the last day or three to view (on Digital Versatile Disc) a couple of feature films that for one reason or another I missed when the local and outstanding Guildhall Arts Centre proffered them recently. Both motion pictures possessed an association football theme.

The Damned United was based on the wondrous novel by David Peace and focussed on the infamous forty-four days that Brian Clough managed Leeds United in 1974. I preferred the book. Its pages successfully portrayed the fragility of Clough, his drinking, his insecurities, his reliance on the canny and level-headed Peter Taylor, his uncontrollable ego, his strutting arrogance and his undoubted genius. The feature proved mightily entertaining though. The remarkable casting needs to be saluted. The key characters of, inter alia, Don Revie, Billy Bremner and Taylor were represented accurately and wittily while Michael Sheen’s portrayal of Clough was utterly remarkable and completely mesmerizing. I noted and appreciated the film’s successful attempts to sum up soccer in the 1970s with its complex concoction of brutality and bewitching skills, muddy fields of play, the peeling paint of the stadia and array of multifaceted characters on and off the proverbial park. The Damned United (movie) was a pleasure, an agreeable and nostalgic glimpse at a footballing era that lacked the finesse and moneyed (excuse the pun) sheen of today’s sport but remains forty-four times more interesting.

Looking For Eric was tremendously pleasurable. I was concerned that veteran director Ken Loach had crossed the line into a rather gimmicky realm by making a film where the central character, downtrodden postman Eric Bishop, enjoys an imaginary relationship with retired footballing genius Eric Cantona. However, the two interact beautifully as the Frenchman offers up philosophical gems and more earthy maxims in advising the hapless Bishop to face up to a series of dismal circumstances. The postman’s relationships with his ex-wife, his stepsons, his daughter and his tight-knit colleagues are examined with warmth and intelligence and glimpses into a somewhat bleak life are handled tenderly and, while all the social-realist boxes are ticked, there are enough happy outcomes to warm the hardest of hearts. The interplay between a host of beautifully painted characters is exquisitely and subtly created and this viewer found the camaraderie and community spirit of Bishop’s friends especially striking. Several stunning set-pieces raise laughter, arouse fear or anguish and provoke thought while the final scenes, vivid and unusual, conclude the narrative really satisfyingly. Looking For Eric is an understated and lovingly constructed nugget and I recommend it willingly.

While my dreams decay

2009-10-25T17:54:00.006Z

I don’t want to dwell too long on last night’s rugby union. My favoured club Gloucester appeared devoid of ideas and inspiration and lost heavily to a Wasps outfit that appeared mediocre and below par itself. It was, by a margin, the worst Wasps side I’ve seen at Kingsholm and they had the city on toast. Alas, I’m finding myself more and more adrift from the Gloucester club and am beginning to question why I continue to proffer it my support. Almost everything that I loved about the Kingsholm culture has either disappeared or been dramatically diluted as the years have passed. Back in the day I relished the genuinely witty and passionate crowd, heralded the committed, brave, steely (and defiantly local) characters on the park, and soaked up the history, the heritage, the uniqueness, the insouciant us-against-themness of the scene. What brings me to the terraces nowadays apart from force of habit? On Friday, the lack of imagination displayed by the players was overwhelming. I don’t doubt that several of the team were proud to wear the colours and demonstrated significant endeavour and enterprise but, alas, a tangible lack of game plan and a dubious selection of key players out of position stymied the city club’s attempts to win the fixture.

I envy the Saracens club from the south-east and I ne’er thought I’d type those words. They possess a coach with true vision, intelligence and an ability to think outside the box (our leader has an inability to think outside the box-kick) and has transformed an underachieving rabble into a real force in English rugby. The Gloucester club could really do with a Brendan Ventner; anyone with imagination or verve or creativity would be an improvement on the current regime, a team that dominated last season’s failure-dominated management structure but yet still, somehow, clings to power. I can see this proving a watershed season for my favoured team. Relegation is certainly possible and, I confess, an outcome that may not haunt this scribe too much. A season in the second tier did not seem to do Harlequin FC or Northampton any harm and this supporter would welcome the chance to rebuild the club’s infrastructure, shed the overpaid dross that permeates our squad, rediscover some of the values that drew me to Kingsholm in the first place, and allow a new and lively coaching panel (led by the ebullient Mark Mapletoft) to instil wit and excitement into our play. As things stand I care less and less with every defeat and I’m becoming worryingly laissez-faire about the present woes. I’m no recent arrival or fair weather fan and the organisation should note my increasing disappointment with and, sadly, lack of interest in a club I’ve supported for over thirty years.

Tonguehorns belched fire

2009-10-23T20:26:00.002Z

Here is the Top Ten and I’m rather pleased with it. There’s a bit of dance music, some esoteric British aptitude/attitude and experimentalism, plenty of guitars and plenty of synthesisers, some hearts worn on sleeves and some curious meanderings that keep you guessing. These are recordings I return to again and again, old friends and worthy cohorts. I could cope quite happily with just these ten LPs for company and ne’er feel bored or unchallenged. Deciding which Sufjan Stevens album was my favourite proved tricky but the sheer class and majesty of Michigan won through.

1. Sufjan Stevens – Michigan

More breathy and less vigorous than Illinois. An understated classic teeming with subtle glimpses into ordinary lives and humble routines. Makes trailer parks and K-Mart jobs appear utterly mesmerizing. Contains countless unreservedly astounding and beautiful songs. Spine-tingling and essential.

2. Sufjan Stevens – Illinois

A colossal kitchen sink is dropped on the Prairie State from a considerable height; the resulting blast offers significant aural treasures. Songs about serial killers, superheroes and sightings of extraterrestrial craft intersperse with more personal reflections on death and self-discovery. Striking American songcraft dominates every second. Every home should possess this recording and play it at least fortnightly.

3. Midlake – The Trials of Van Occupanther

A delectable and rather unfashionable collection of songs transporting the listener into a strange other-world of isolated communities, hunting trips, hardship and youthful brides. Authentically bewitching.

4. Wilco – Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

Perfect songs galore. Uncompromising and belligerent and challenging and tuneful and gritty and poignant: a grateful audience genuflects.

5. Sufjan Stevens – Seven Swans

Weighty and reflective. Endorses the ‘less is more’ maxim with pared down arrangements supporting introspective musings and spiritual contemplations. Utterly beautiful.

6. Calexico – Feast Of Wire

A spectacular aural trip into sun-baked one horse towns and scorpion-infested desert-scapes. Evocative and resonant. Big, big music as wide and as awesome and as sweeping as a Monument Valley sunset.

7. Radiohead – Kid A

A guitar-free zone and convincing evidence that electronic music can proffer moving and emotional sentiments. Challenging yet reassuring; obtuse yet charismatic; otherworldly yet recognizable.

8. Scritti Politti – White Bead, Black Beer

Homemade treats. Tender, delicate and haunting lyrical offerings and soaring melodies. A plush pleasure from start to finish and - important this - a grower that throws up new hooks, new ideas with each spin.

9. Ryan Adams - Gold

Was playing this fellow’s Heartbreaker this morning and experiencing pangs of guilt that it hadn’t made the thirty. Gold deserves this high placing though. A storming and sprawling set of brooding and/or bombastic belters.

10. LCD Soundsystem – Sound of Silver

Sardonic wit and acerbic knowingness gleefully smothered in big beat beauty. Glorious songs about cultural differences, growing old and general world-weariness with the catchiest IDM rampaging in the background. All killer, no filler from the coolest man on the planet.

Green Moths Shivered

2009-10-22T11:32:00.004Z

Here are the twentieth to the eleventh finest long playing records of the past decade (in the opinion of your humble host). As Radiohead crooned – but far too early to qualify for this list – ‘No surprises’. The Top Ten follows soon. Blazin' Squad, Scouting for Girls, Maroon 5, Does It Offend You Yeah? inter alia wait with bated breath.

11. Joan As Police Woman – Real Life
As 15. but wi’ a touch more sass and sizzle.

12. The Go-Betweens – Oceans Apart
A sumptuous farewell from the Antipodean Lennon and McCartney. The final contribution to a most peerless body of work. Dripping with wit and wonder and wisdom and wistfulness.

13. Beck – Modern Guilt
Elegant, breathy, neo-psychedelic ambience. A dazzling and challenging sonic gem.

14. Wilco – A Ghost Is Born
Distortion, nods to Krautrock, euphoria. Vital.

15. Joan as Police Woman – To Survive
Sultry perfection shimmering with coolness and melody and assurance.

16. Vampire Weekend – Vampire Weekend
Unashamedly smart, knowing and cerebral. More hooks than a very, very large cloakroom.

17. Boards of Canada – Geogaddi
Not for the fainthearted. Sinister and dark electronica as far removed from ‘chill-out’ as possible. An uneasy yet compelling listening experience. A disturbing masterpiece.

18. White Stripes – White Blood Cells
The wounded and obtuse cousin of 20. Percussive hammer blows underpinning growling guitars and frenzied vocals. A manic pop thrill.

19. Blur – Think Tank
A bewitching collection. Something original, refreshing and challenging reaching the ears every three and a half seconds.

20. The Strokes – Is This It
Skinny ties, Converse All-Stars, cheekbones, attitude, cool. Perfect pop song following perfect pop song following perfect pop song.

Midges Hovered

2009-10-20T13:15:00.007Z

Was it really almost ten years since I cowered, trembling, expecting the Millennium Bug to cause planes to fall from the sky and nuclear power stations to go into meltdown? Where did that decade go? Whoosh... There’s been some wondrous music produced in that time period though. Having pored, brow furrowed, over Uncut’s 150 albums of the decade, I’ve drawn up a longlist of my own which, over the past few days, I’ve snipped away at and rearranged lovingly. Twenty or so (it has to be said) absolute belters have been discarded and I have constructed my Top Thirty favourite long players released since 1st January 2000. I have deliberately ignored any 2009 recordings; they are perhaps too fresh in the memory to analyse too minutely and, besides, I have the traditional album of the year to decide upon yet. This current year’s favoured sounds will be debated in December.

I shall announce my Top Thirty in three stages. Today I 'umbly present numbers thirty to twenty-one.

21. Kate Bush - Aerial
Whoops. Only three albums on the list are by womenfolk. Apologies to da sisters. Can you guess the other two, gentle reader? This is a clever-clever and compelling listen. Eccentric and eventful.

22. Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – Master And Everyone
See 25. More of the same but equally as inspiring.

23. The National – Alligator
Velvety tones mask dark subjects. Uplifting melancholia for hipsters.

24. Richard Hawley – Coles Corner
Epic and soaring songsmithery. Big voice and bags of charm.

25. Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – The Letting Go
Breathy acoustic joy. Fabulous backing vocals. Timeless loveliness. Beards.

26. Bon Iver – For Emma, Forever Ago
A surprise hit. Slow-burning classics of love and loss. Deer harmed in making of this album.

27. Beck – Sea Change

Nick Drake time-travels to 2002, has a bit of a haircut, and records fragile, wistful masterpiece.

28. Wilco – Sky Blue Sky
Fabulous first three songs followed by other gems. Cultured and elegant rock music.

29. Boards of Canada – The Campfire Headphase
Superb title. Electronic pastoral splendour with – shock! – guitars.

30. Fleet Foxes – Fleet Foxes
Harmonic and contemplative beauty. Echoes of Laurel Canyon at its finest.

Jake Boer witnessed in rugby crowd

2009-10-20T12:12:00.004Z

I joined A at Kingsholm Stadium last evening; a last minute decision to attend the Gloucester club’s ‘A’ team fixture against counterparts from the Harlequin FC tempted me away from the warmth and comfort of the front parlour. I haven’t been to one of these fixtures for a while. I used to trot along to most of the old style United matches a few years ago and enjoyed spotting players on the way up and players on the way down – there were often several from both category. I made the fundamental error last evening (as did the noble A) of expecting to position myself in my usual spot in the popular side of the ground. As it happens, the entire crowd were given no choice; all sat in the new South Stand. It was comfortable and pleasing to witness the action from a different spot although the pillars are large and do block significant areas of the pitch. We ended up in front of the said columns and it was merry. The match itself was fairly uninspiring. Gloucester, despite being under the cosh, somehow contrived to turn round 14-7 in the lead but the more streetwise, well-drilled and, well, imposing visitors pulled ahead deservedly and comprehensively in the second half. Nobody caught the eye too dramatically but Freddie Burns showed a few classy touches, the centre Tim Molenaar occasionally ran with abrasiveness and intent while the home team’s openside, James Davies (I think) was busy and prominent in the face of a dominant Quins pack. Young Jonny May took his try nicely. It was pleasing to witness so many first team players in the seats supporting the fellows. The mighty Jake Boer was there, in earnest conversation with another legend of the blindside, Peter ‘Pete’ Glanville and ‘twas reassuring to consider the South African talisman is now, happily, back where he belongs.

Was it really murder? Were you just pretending?

2009-10-18T16:51:00.005Z

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.

The vinyl front...here...

2009-10-11T16:44:00.006Z

Well, the new scheme to set up a vinyl listening area is gathering pace. Earlier, during a visit to a local supermarket store, I purchased a home cinema surround system which I constructed with sagacity before plugging in my turntable. It sounds wonderful. Ironically, perhaps, the first song I blasted out of my new speakers was the sublime It’s Better This Way by The Associates from the peerless Sulk long player. I’ve also been spinning - literally, pop-pickers - some Go-Betweens and some Fall 33 and a third treats. The plan is to buy some ‘new’ vinyl soon. I browsed the racks in the city’s numerous charity stores yesterday and will begin my collection in earnest during the half term holidays. I expect Stroud or Cheltenham might have a few treasures hidden away in the rear of their Age Concerns and Oxfams. As I mentioned recently, I don’t really want any brand new products or recent releases but am keen to snaffle some old recordings, things I wouldn’t normally think of owning. A Glen Campbell Greatest Hits album caught this eye and I warmly held a Tony Bennett recording in the Mind shop which I contemplated owning. I may return.

And when a train goes by it's such a sad sound...

2009-10-11T15:48:00.004Z

Gloucester’s narrow victory against on Friday against a limited and pretty ordinary Newport/Gwent Dragons collective was barely deserved. A late Nicky Robinson penalty snatched the spoils for the home side but the crowd filed out of the Kingsholm arena muted and with a hollow sensation that this season could prove long and arduous. It seemed as if Gloucester were fielding a scratch fifteen; any evidence of a team ethic was well hidden and it proved frustrating to witness a tangible lack of cohesion, passion and skill from my favoured side. I confess I look back to April 2003 and wonder what has gone so terribly wrong since then. The Powergen Cup winning side contained player after player that the club has emphatically failed to replace. The likes of Boer, Paramore, Forrester, Woodman, Vickery, Roncero, Gomarsall, Delport and, even, Mercier would have added grit, guile and class to Friday’s rabble. They are missed. Without players of that quality the club is heading ever downwards. I would also suggest that a coach with the wisdom and nous of Nigel Melville is equally as missed. The taciturn and over-pragmatic Ryan proved a barely adequate replacement for Melville, while all I hear from Brian Redpath are clichés and manager-speak. I don’t detect a hint of vision or strategy or inspiration beyond the obvious. Part of me would like some of the club’s highest earning players to depart at the end of the season and the resulting surplus spent on a visionary coach with a hard-nosed back-up staff who can construct a squad of hungry, zestful and talented youngsters underpinned by an experienced backbone of canny and proven performers. As things stand too many of our athletes are below par and straining to attain satisfactory status.

But when the music is loud, we all get down

2009-10-10T19:37:00.006Z

The Cult proved a blast on Thursday night. It was pleasing to chalk up a new venue - Wolverhampton’s Civic Hall – and reassuring to realise how close said auditorium is to my home city of Merrie Gloucester. The concert showcased 1985’s classic Love album and the hits came thick and fast. Naturally, a highlight was the seminal She Sells Sanctuary but Nirvana, Big Neon Glitter and Phoenix all rocked triumphantly. Well-chosen and interesting video images accompanied the singing and the playing (being a champion of the smaller venue, I’m not used to all that multimedia malarkey) although at times the bleedin’ obvious was stated: during Rain there were some arty rain images, a wolf and a moon featured heavily during Brother Wolf, Sister Moon while the gathered crowd gasped at a montage of revolutionaries during Revolution. The band was tight and loud and cranked it up to eleven. The lead vocalist Ian Astbury was adorned with a Jim Morrison-esque beard and flowing locks; he spoke in an American drawl which was surprising for man born and raised in the Merseyside region. He was a bit silly. Billy Duffy, on the other hand, was a down to earth gentleman with his flat northern vowels and affable nature evident on the few occasions he addressed the throng. His guitar playing was fabulous; I’m not really a rock dude but I rated Duffy’s forceful and persuasive, er, axe-work. Some of the audience were old enough to know better; Gothic embellishments and styling are suitably distasteful at twenty but appear frankly ridiculous over the age of forty. Yuck.

CL

2009-10-04T19:28:00.003Z

Uncut Magazine produced its 150th edition this month and celebrated with a list (‘Not another one!’ I hear certain hepcats sob) of the finest, in its opinion, 150 long playing albums of the first decade of the twenty-first century. Perhaps it was the impending end of the ‘noughties’ that prompted this register of recordings. Anyhow, it’s interesting enough although, not unexpectedly, a few of the decisions are open to debate. The list, which can be viewed here, contains no less than seven albums associated with Jack White and proffers respectful nods (perhaps a few too many?) to several old stagers (Dylan, Bowie, Waits, Cohen, Young, Thompson, Cash, Wilson). I’m disappointed that Sufjan Stevens’ Michigan or Illinois albums weren’t placed higher and that no room was found for the young prince of popular music’s bewitching Seven Swans. The wrong Go-Betweens long player was selected; Oceans Apart is a far more enjoyable and essential listen than the (admittedly very lovely) The Friends of Rachel Worth. There is quite a Wilco love-in (no bad thing) but I was surprised that Yankee Hotel Foxtrot wasn’t that combo’s highest placed effort and that A Ghost is Born was placed as high as third in the roster. I’ll think of my Top Ten of the decade soon or at least before the end of the year.

Theres a destination a little up the road from the habitations and the towns we know

2009-10-04T10:49:00.006Z

I thought Wild Beasts were superb last night. S, A and I embarked on a noble and brave quest to journey from the calm and charm of our GL postcodes to the edgy city streets of Bristol and the fabulous venue known simply as the Thekla. It was fine to view such a compelling and original pop group in a compact and atmospheric arena. Wild Beasts provide epic, sweeping soundscapes utilising a persuasive combination of voices; the thrusting falsetto of Hayden Thorpe complements the croony, Scott Walkery tones of Tom Fleming earnestly and well. The songs from the band’s latest long player, Two Dancers, are elegiac, magisterial and, well, big and the small stage and the wonderful sound of the Thekla embellished these well-honed slices of art perfectly. Highlights included an imposing All The King’s Men and a striking Hooting And Hollering. The haircuts were splendid too; I particularly enjoyed the guitarist Ben Little’s angular quiff. This is an unusual group with real presence. The new album is packed with ostentatious treasures and it was merry to witness this young collection of hepcats proffering their delightful wares with such energy, wit and aptitude.

I note that little is happening gig-wise at the Gloucester Guildhall this autumn and this disappoints. I am pleased to report that tickets have been obtained for a couple of Bristol concerts though and I look forward to seeing The Fall and Girls soon. I am off to Wolverhampton on Thursday evening to witness The Cult showcasing their lively Love LP and I am happy to revisit my youth for an hour or so. I’m tempted by the tasteful and melodic Grizzly Bear at Bristol’s Anson Rooms in November too.

I made a compilation CD last night to play to my chums as we travelled on that Holy Trinity of motorways (M5, M4, M32) towards our recital. The song titles spelled out ‘Wild Beasts Thekla’ (I had a bit of time on my hands yesterday) and it was engaging to watch my comrades trying to guess each song from its intro and second-guessing what my next selection might be. I publish my setlist for posterity above.

A place we saw the lights turn low; Jigsaw jazz and the get-fresh flow

2009-10-03T13:38:00.005Z

I am vaguely planning a scheme. I have loads of vinyl upstairs, long players galore that have not felt the delicate touch of a stylus upon their subtle grooves for years and years. Having said that, I’m not sure I want to play much of it. Plenty of it has been replaced by the new Compact Disc format or the even newer MPEG-Audio Layer 3 files. And plenty of it, it pains me to state, I have no great yearning to play anymore. My eighteen year old alter ego would have scoffed should you have remarked to him (perhaps as part of a science fictionesque time-travelling experiment) that one day there would no longer be any love in his heart for The Smiths but that’s the way it is. I purchased every Smiths recording on the day it was released for several years but, despite an occasional frisson of excitement when I hear This Charming Man, Hand In Glove or What Difference Does It Make? on the wireless, I no longer yearn for this combo’s numbers. I guess the same could be said for a few groups. Time and age have dulled my affection.

What’s my scheme then? I have a turntable and have today placed it (after giving it a ruddy good clean) in the summer house at the bottom of the garden. I’m going to get some speakers and turn this horticulturally-based space into a designated vinyl area. I’m tempted not to play any of my old vinyl but to start building a new collection from - excuse the pun - scratch. I don’t want to buy anything I can’t get on CD or MP3 as it is very convenient to play stuff I really want and admire and dig on my iPod or on the lounge’s hi-fi system. I scoured Gloucester’s charity shops this morning and browsed the vinyl on sale. There were of heaps of easy listening recordings that I’d quite like owning, lots of 80s synth pop and plenty of other so-out-it’s-in treasures. I sense that I only – please excuse the pun again – scratched the surface of what is available too. Car boot sales, eBay, junk shops and the myriad of charity shops that I didn’t visit must house tremendously exciting acquisitions. I’ll report back. I need some speakers first though.

Take off your watch, your rings and all

2009-10-02T19:34:00.003Z

I was engaged by the feature film I watched last evening. S and I laconically strutted down Eastgate Street and, with not one backwards glance, entered Gloucester’s Guildhall Arts Centre in order to view Broken Embraces, the recent motion picture directed by Pedro Almodóvar. I enjoyed the fellow’s last feature, Volver, and its star Penelope Cruz sparkled again in Broken Embraces. Cruz plays a secretary-cum-call girl whose attempts to become an actress impact on a range of finely crafted characters. The plot is fascinating, full of twists and turns, while the varied personalities’ idiosyncrasies and nuances entwine with wit. It proved a fun and challenging hour or two.

I encountered a charming fellow in my local Cooperative Store this evening. P was in my year at school and I haven’t seen or spoken to him since 1984. It was pleasant to shake his hand (in the biscuit aisle) and chew the fat but it was vaguely unsettling to meet a chap after 25 years and be casually discussing the cricket score within just three minutes of crying ‘Halloa’.

Consumerism

2009-09-27T12:39:00.003Z

An unwritten rule when ordering goods from online emporia dictates that one should never purchase just one item. Long playing records, like humankind, require mesmerizing travelling companions and should ne’er journey alone. I have pre-ordered the forthcoming Sufjan Stevens product that I mentioned here and have chosen the album called simply Album by the combo known succinctly as Girls to accompany it. Girls aren’t girls but a couple of California fellows with interesting pasts and, according to Friday’s Guardian, proffer bewitching sounds to a grateful listenership. Ever a sucker for my favoured journal’s five star reviews, I look forward gleefully to this disc’s arrival on the doormat.

I worry about Calmer*. This county’s most mesmerizing musical night out has gone all quiet and I note that no new shows are planned. A chat with young R of that organisation at Green Man (we met up by chance just before Wilco were about to stroll onto the stage) hinted that all was not well behind the scenes. I hope that any wheels that have come off are soon eased back on. Those who crave unusual and challenging sounds welcome Calmer* and its eclectic choices and would hate to lose it.

In the slipstream we will stay

2009-09-20T17:21:00.005Z

The noble D, product of Newent School, informed me yesterday that my favourite band of the 1990s, Pavement, are reforming and are likely to tour next year. I shall keep ‘em peeled. I’d recommend Pavement to all hepcats. Their series of long players remains a peerless and enviable back catalogue. Their debut, Slanted and Enchanted, is a classic example of an album that, on first hearing, appears impenetrable, difficult, dense and, er, dreadful only for its melodic genius, wry wit and life-affirming wistful beauty to become revealed after several plays. If any hepcats with no knowledge of this band have half a day or so to spare then I recommend giving Slanted and Enchanted six or seven plays in a row and experiencing the ride from ‘What was that rubbish?’ to ’I can’t live wi’out this remarkable long playing album!’. My favourite Pavement LP, and I know the cognoscenti will be raising a collective eyebrow and narrowing a collective eye, is Brighten the Corners which is a bewitching collection of longer, almost anthemic, beauties. Wowee Zowee is a patchier recording but it does contain my two of my favourite Pavement songs, Rattled By The Rush and Father To A Sister Of A Thought. My favourite Pavement song is called simply Here. This is a majestic band. This is a majestic band.

The two male Coles travelled to nearby Tewkesbury on Friday night to see a feature film at the Roses Theatre. Moon proved a fascinating slice of science fiction, a bleak vision of loneliness, despair and bewilderment. The ending was clever – but not complex – and was very affecting on a human level (which, I guess, all good sci-fi should aspire to). I won’t publish any plot-spoilers as this feature will be at the Gloucester Guildhall in a few weeks and I know a few of the gentle people who pass by these pages will be attending. I recommend this feature.

The rugby football was dreary yesterday. I can cope with the Gloucester club of Gloucester losing but not in the lacklustre manner that they capitulated to a very ordinary Northampton side. I sense it might prove a long and difficult season for my favoured club. We struggle without the guile and grace of Morgan and the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, behind the scrum and the terrier-like vivacity of Hazell at the breakdown. The side desperately requires a classy scrum-half. Neither David ‘Dave’ Lewis (too small and predictable) or Rory Lawson (gritty but limited) possess enough class to lift the team and orchestrate play.

Demise

2009-09-17T17:57:00.002Z

Word reaches these ears that the charming monthly musical club, Acoustica, has hosted its last evening and won’t be returning for a new season o’ shows this autumn. This is a shame. I’m unsure why the shows aren’t continuing but, I suppose, such a niche evening is never going to draw the large crowds required by the Gloucester Guildhall to keep the coffers full. I’ve had some great times at Acoustica. The host, the affable A, always provided a warm welcome and, over the years, proffered some wondrous acts to a grateful crowd. I think the Coles’ first ever Acoustica featured a classy and charismatic Boo Hewerdine and our last visit, earlier this year, saw an earnest Chumbawamba present a challenging and melodic set. I doff my cap at this event and mourn its passing. As a tribute, here’s a few of my mumblings about Acoustica over the years:

Bela Emerson - January 2006

Thomas Truax - February 2007

David Ford - December 2007

Upwards to the vanguard where the pressure is too high

2009-09-13T19:35:00.004Z

I’m afraid my interest in the Mercury Music Prize is diminishing wi’ the passing of every year. The last three awards have disappointed. Two years ago the very ordinary Klaxons picked up the gong, twelve months ago the worthy enough Elbow won the prize but at the expense of the remarkable Burial and last week Speech Debelle vanquished to a sigh and a muttered ‘hmm’ from this scribe. To be fair, the vast majority of the 2009 nominees underwhelmed. Looking back at the list of previous winners, only Portishead’s Dummy (1995) and the first Franz Ferdinand long player (2004) really catch the eye as deserved prize winners.

I am intrigued by this thread on the wondrous Word Magazine website that ruminates on the plethora of fabulous long players released thirty years ago in 1979 (I can do maths, me) and debates what the winner of the Mercury Prize would have been that year. I do enjoy a hearty hypothetical question. For the record, my choice would have been Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures with earnest mentions in despatches for Metal Box by Public Image Ltd., The Specials’ self-titled debut, Gang of Four's Entertainment, The Clash’s London Calling and The Fall’s Live at the Witch Trials. I do think that there is so much fabulous music around these days but a brief scan of the nuggets available back in ’79 does make me consider that any golden age of long playing recordings may be firmly in the past.

It was dark as I drove the point home

2009-09-13T12:20:00.007Z

Three Coles attended an evening of musical comedy last Thursday. The nearby spa town, Cheltenham, hosted a fellow called Tim Minchin. The kids love him. The Antipodean chap has a rock star look and aspect and he delivers witty, pithy, occasionally angry songs which he accompanies on pianoforte or guitar. A decent proportion of his act consists of stand-up repartee and even some poetry. The audience were lapping it all up and rendered acclaim and near adoration at the end of the show. Alas, my reaction proved muted in comparison. At comedy nights I like to receive a decent number of figurative bangs for my, er, metaphorical buck and, although I nodded wistfully at times (I appreciated and shared his views on religion in particular), I merely chortled out loud on a humble brace of occasions. Minchin’s charm and image are a bit too studied for my taste, his targets too easy, his audience’s leanings and world view too simple to gauge and feed. Ultimately, cynically heaping scorn on spiritual matters, ill thought out superstition or our leaders’ political failings equated to shooting fish in a barrel. There’s no doubting Minchin’s popularity and I’m sure that if I was sixteen and three quarters, I’d have been lapping it up. But I have seen better and have been more challenged and I'm forty-three and three quarters. File under ‘Talented but a tad obvious’.

What the water wants is hurricanes and sailboats to ride on its back

2009-09-12T16:51:00.005Z

I note with interest that the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens, is playing New York’s All Tomorrows Parties festival this evening. And, gasp, 'e is performing the peerless Seven Swans album in its entirety. My word, I would love to be in attendance. The fellow then appears to be touring North America. I hope he considers Europe soon. New Stevens product hits the stores next month. The enigmatic and engaging talent releases a short film (shot by himself on Super 8 and Standard 16 film) about, of all things, New York’s Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Stevens’ orchestral soundtrack accompanies the moving images. Preternaturally I took the above photograph myself back in the Eastertide. I would have welcomed a collection of more traditional popular songs from my favourite artist but beggars can’t be choosers, y’know wha’ I mean?

These 'umble syllables were typed into (onto? upon? across?) the wondrously useful Microsoft Word facility whilst listening, awestruck, to Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky. I don’t want to open a ‘what are the best three opening tracks on a long player ever’ debate (or maybe I do) but this recording’s Either Way, You Are My Face and Impossible Germany are about as good as it gets. Beautiful music.

I'm hiding out in the big city blinking

2009-09-06T18:58:00.002Z

Gloucester 24 - Bath 5

I salute and acknowledge my favoured rugby union outfit known the world over as 'Gloucester'. This punter lacked a touch of confidence before today’s home derby fixture against Bath Rugby. He considered the powerful front five and slick offloading game of our opponents would prove too, er, powerful and slick for our lads to deal wi’. I apologise unreservedly for referring to myself in the third person in the last two sentences; I blame the excitement of the past few hours which was tangible and mighty. I am thrilled with the manner in which the home side played. The overall performance was, happily, enhanced by every player from one to fifteen and it was fabulous to witness a pleasing team ethic. I doff my hat to Nicholas ‘Nicky’ Robinson, wearing the fabled ten shirt on his competitive debut and running the show with grace, style and intelligence; it was compelling to view a Gloucester outside-half ‘boss’ a game with such composure and reassuring to witness shrewd and thoughtful decisions being made by the Welsh Wizard at key points in the match. He ran with élan, passed wittily and ambitiously and kicked for touch with skill and for the uprights with accuracy. His proved a fine debut. Elsewhere there were heroes galore to recognise. I’d like to single out Young/Big (take your pick) Dave Attwood who impressed last week and took his smashing form into today’s contest. His rugged and uncompromising rampaging and doughty adherence to the basics of the shove of the scrums and the leap of the lines-out caught this eye merrily. Other players wearing the cherry for the first time did well too. Eliota Fuimaono-Sapolu was a handful in midfield with thrusting gallops and forceful forcefulness while another former Bath favourite, Tom Voyce, impressed with a steady and bright outing at full back. Old heroes were splendid too and I noted the elegant way the young prince, Simpson-Daniel took his brace of tries and the commitment shown by gnarled veterans Hazel, Brown and Somerville. I hope today’s performance will prove a catalyst for finer play and even more pleasant results. Hurrah!

The birds swoop down upon the crosses of old grey churches

2009-09-05T19:06:00.006Z

The first weekend of a new year at work and it is good to take it fairly easy. I’m really looking forward to an evening of Beatles-related televisual programmes on the BBC tonight. I think it might be Beatles week for some reason or other. Is it because Apple is releasing all the Fab Four albums in remastered format? Or has the new Beatles Rock Band video game got anything to with it? Maybe the 40th anniversary of the part-genius (Something, Sun King, the ‘long medley’), part-stinker (Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, Octopus’s Garden) Abbey Road long player is the catalyst? No matter. I can happily sit through any number of Beatles documentaries.

The new Prefab Sprout album was waiting for me when I returned home from work yesterday afternoon. I’d pre-ordered Let’s Change The World With Music ages ago and had forgotten all about its impending release. The reviews in the press have proved universally positive and it is a fine and interesting recording. The album, however, sounds precisely how I expected it to and while appreciating the generic Prefab Sprout sound - well-crafted melodies, crisply vocalised wi' clever-clever lyrics - I’m questioning how badly the world needed this collection. Perhaps further listens will improve my opinion.

Westmoreland Corker

2009-08-31T14:48:00.004Z

Thoughts turn to my favoured long playing records of 2009 and a brace of splendid recent beauties that hail, remarkably, from the shores of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. American recordings have come to dominate my turntables an’ devices so I’m chuffed to bits for the two acts I’m about to laud. Well done.

Wild Beasts hail from Kendal within the northern landscapes. They are neither beasts nor wild (I hope) but they do produce shimmering pop perfection that sends shivers down spines. Their recording is named Two Dancers. This is self-consciously pompous music (no bad thing), fusing enigmatic and swaggering fancy-compositions with the electrifying falsetto of no-shrinking-violet lead vocalist Hayden Thorpe. The closest comparison to Thorpe’s vocal antics that I can proffer is the high-pitched wonderment of the late, great Billy Mackenzie o’ The Associates; plenty of the glamour, ambition and insouciance of these Wild Beast songs reflect merrily the work of that fine Scottish combo of yore. These are songs to shoegaze to, songs to sway to, songs to smile at and with. It’s a splendidly unusual album. Presently I’m enjoying every second.

Slightly more traditional aural fare comes from a group who wowed me at the Green Man Festival and, indeed, the long player that I lovingly spin so often was purchased at said event. The Leisure Society’s The Sleeper is a sweeping and elegiac, er, sweep of acoustic elegance aided and abetted by sensuous string sensations and a wee bit of flute action. Soaring melodies and splendid orchestrations dominate these slightly bucolic and autumnal tracks that one could lazily deem ‘chamber pop’. This is simply a very pretty album packed with gorgeous and rather literate songs. I recommend.

Oh, but my blessings get so blurred

2009-08-30T18:03:00.004Z

Pre-season rugby union friendlies remain strange beasts. It is all too easy to swoop upon a smashing victory, glow in optimistic fervour for a week, earnestly predict a campaign to rate among the greatest, only to be blown away a week later by an unfancied outfit. The opposite can occur also. Wailing and gnashing of teeth can accompany the referee’s shrill blast for no-side after a disappointing defeat only for the team to turn things round munificently in the first match that counts. I hope that this will be the case after Gloucester’s defeat to a lively Ospreys fifteen at Kingsholm yesterday. This punter enjoyed the experience though. The first half was a fairly turgid ‘appening enriched by a latish Charlie Sharples try. Not a lot clicked for the home team although Dave Attwood looked a splendid acquisition. The former Bristol inhabitant-o’-the-engine-room took line-out ball with insouciant ease but, importantly, galloped around the paddock with uncompromising zeal and used his undeniable bulk to sizeable effect. I rate him. The second half contained more shape and the cherry and whites attacked with a touch more creativity and, although gifting the visitors a late try and a (possibly) deserved win, proffered an expectant throng a few treats and hints of encouraging times to come. I’m most pleased with our signing from the forgotten wastelands of Nottingham, centre Tim Molenaar, who demonstrated more aggression, verve, energy, thrust and threat in twenty minutes than his illustrious colleague Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall managed in sixty. This fellow could prove a super signing; I can see his rasping, no-nonsense approach becoming a thorn in the side of unsuspecting opposition midfields. Young Freddie Burns looked composed, elegant and creative during his tenure at full back and, when chasing the game with seconds to go, appeared to be full of ideas and wit and guile. Nicky Robinson seemed assured at ten; some of his kicking for touch was marvellous. Most of the other players were satisfactory or better but the forwards lacked a hint of grunt at times and I expected more of the Fijian flyer, Qera, who contributed little and seems a shadow of the explosive force who galloped into our imaginations with such vigour a year and a half ago. Effectively, though, more positives emerged from yesterday’s battle than negatives and if the result was disappointing, it was merry to stand with comrades after a month or three away, and appreciate wry banter and fun. I enjoyed the event.

Turf Wars

2009-08-29T10:49:00.003Z

It was touch and go this year but I’m giving that lot over in Kingsholm Village another chance. I purchased my 23rd (I think) season ticket an hour ago; this product permits me entry to the home football (rugby union code, verily) matches contested by the Gloucester club of Gloucester this term and I look forward to using it wisely. Last season left a bitter taste in this mouth – as growled elsewhere – but I’m hoping the canny and charismatic coaching Celt, Brian Redpath can instil some pride in the ‘istoric shirt and allow the players to display their expressionistic sides more often. As ever, I look forward to witnessing the prowess of new players. Young Dave Attwood of Bristol, a lock forward, is my tip to make an unexpected impact on the first team this season. From what I have read, he’s the sort of hungry, talented athlete we require at the noble club. No superstars here please. The classy Nicky Robinson should run things with erudition and a wry wit from the outside half berth; the side kept faith with the skilled but ultimately unsatisfactory Lamb for too long and it’ll merry to witness a proven playmaker at work. And could young Henry Trinder’s star rise this year? Shrewder judges than me consider him to possess similar magical skills to the young prince, Simpson-Daniel. We shall see. I think Gloucester will do well this year, better than many guides and gurus have predicted. Leicester appear to be the leading club still but my local outfit sits defiantly amid several that could challenge for honours with a fair wind and a coquettish wink from Lady Luck. I salute the Gloucester players. Good luck, fellows. Don't let me down again.

Put on your headphones before you explode

2009-08-27T18:16:00.008Z

My brief sojourn to our nation’s capital has drawn to a close. The main purpose of the visit was to attend Wilco’s concert at Limehouse’s exotic and classy Troxy. Essentially, the combo played a similar albeit a touch longer set to the one proffered to the Green Man hordes. It was nice to be seated. The admirable D (who took the charming top photo on his mobile telephone) had procured balcony seats and the view of Tweedy (celebrating his birthday wi’ fervour) and his able cohorts was merry and clear. Having eulogised this group during my last but one posting it would prove a tad dull to repeat my acknowledgements. My favourite Wilco song, Jesus Etc. sounded glorious and I do appreciate the newer material. No hint of sullenness could be detected upon my exultant comrade D’s face but I know he was crying out for an Ashes of American Flags. Maybe next time. I didn’t buy a hat afterwards.

Earlier that day (Tuesday) I trotted on my Jack Jones (as the Cockneys bark rather gracelessly on the city’s streets) to a new place for me, the Imperial War Museum. I found this a remarkable building, full of fascinating exhibits and tremendously moving subjects. Importantly, war didn’t seem to be glorified in the museum’s rooms but merely reported with intelligence, sensitivity and insight. The holocaust exhibition was especially poignant and told the history of this gruesome period simply and with an arresting clarity. I enjoyed the look at the Cold War and the wealth of material examining the two World Wars was overwhelming. I found the personal tales from the Home Front really touching. This is a superb museum and I recommend it.

It took me years to write, will you take a look?

2009-08-25T09:21:00.004Z

I salute the Green Man Festival’s literature tent. I can’t recall if there was such a marquee on either of my previous visits to this event, possibly because I was spending most of my time shivering and slopping through mud while bearing a dark demeanour of despair and disillusionment. This time I patronised the tent with energy. The hour and a half spent listening to the remarkable Joe Boyd speak of his varied 1960s encounters with the Dylans, Drakes and Thompsons. The (folk-) rock Zelig talked with the warmth and passion of a fan and it was, well, chilling to reflect that standing before us was the fellow who sat alone with a nervous Nicholas “Nick” Drake and listened to the troubled troubadour play his early songs. The event was extra special because the wonderful Robin Hitchcock interspersed the narrative by performing key songs from Boyd’s career as a producer and record company man. It was enchanting and worth the admission fee alone. The hour with Jah Wobble was fabulous too. The former PIL bassist was honest and humorous and pored over a intriguing life (punk, violence, drug addiction and tube train driving) with an effervescent East End, er, effervescence. I wanted to buy his book but it sold out. Christmas maybe. Also caught in this tent were Keith Allen (hugely entertaining), Will Hodgkinson (very earnest) and David Thomas of Pere Ubu (demonic).

Here are some captions to the above pictures. They look small but a click works wonders. They then grow. :

1. Left to right - Robin Hitchcock, Joe Boyd, a pillar

2. Jah Wobble talking about stuff

I'm outta here. London's swanky streets beckon. The elegant D waits for me there. We join the capital's hepcats tonight for a Wilco concert party. I can't wait to see this combo again. I might have my hair cut first.

Refreshed

2009-08-24T15:31:00.007Z

No welcoming committees or reverential banners lined the ‘istoric city streets of Gloucester but A and I arrived back from the Green Man Festival in the early hours of this morning. It was a low key return witnessed only by the furtive creatures of the shadows. The gentle and kindly fellow was a late replacement for all three Cole females; illness had scuppered their plans to accompany me.

Where to begin? Well, I have plenty to report and I may have to write a bit today and bit more on the morrow. I am wan and weary but keen to post.

I think I can speak for my comrade in proclaiming Green Man 2009 as one of the finest festival experiences ever. After a brace of disheartening wash-outs I was hoping only for fine weather and was ready to salute anything else as a pleasing bonus. Merrily, the sun shone and the site remained dry and there were bonuses galore. The whole vibe of the place was majestic. More kindred spirits thronged the arenas and alleyways than one could shake a Word Magazine subscription form at and the overwhelming friendliness of all Green Manners led to some tremendous chummy chats and the making of some pleasing new pals. Funnily enough, the fifth Ashes Test bonded many a hipster. With thrilling events at the Oval distracting plenty of cats, trannies were pressed to ears and conversations about cricketing matters were manifold. Comradeships galore were nurtured over debates over whether one or two spinners were needed and who should comprise the home side’s middle order. It was so gloriously English and rather beautiful and when the peerless urn was finally reclaimed by a brave eleven, the euphoria proved tangible.

With one or two exceptions (the moribund and uninspiring Roky Erickson and the disappointingly sterile Animal Collective), the music was consistently bewitching, challenging and – important word this – entertaining. “Highlights?” you ask with just a hint of impatience, and rightly so. For me, the most tremendous hour and a half was provided by a sensational Wilco weaving warmth, wisdom and wistful wonder underpinned by charming and exquisite musical skills. This is a remarkable beat combo able to proffer unusual and unconventional soundscapes within fairly traditional country rock terms of reference. I’d bestow ‘essential’ status upon the gnarled Jeff Tweedy and his adroit players. I commend Wilco’s compelling and wondrous numbers to all hepcats. They were remarkable last evening.

If Tweedy (on behalf of the whole band) bounds proudly onto the Cole podium to claim a gold medal for a mesmerising set, who receives the other prizes? Earnest Bon Iver would collect a worthy silver for a stunning quiet-is-the-new-loud performance. Justin Vernon’s renditions of his fragile and reflective masterpieces (against the odds, really, considering how quiet and introspective his songs are) managed to subtly captivate a huge Saturday night crowd with an understated swagger and poise. Bagging a bronze would be the Phantom Band who didn’t exactly exude rock star cool but banged out belter after belter to a remarkably receptive and animated crowd. This affable Scottish collective conjure up magical and textured gems, mixing krautrock sturm und drang wi’ captivating rock riddims. They were fabulous and graced the main stage like old troopers.

Plenty of other acts caught the eye and ear. Grizzly Bear were tremendous value; they harmonised sumptuously and tendered multi-layered brilliance. British Sea Power were as energetic and quirky as ever. Beach House’s studied sonic sensitivities soared smoothly. And I loved the Leisure Society’s affable, raffish allure; this group’s ultra-melodic treasures had me sprinting towards the Rough Trade record store soon after they had finished in order to purchase their latest long player. Heck, it was (almost, almost) all splendid.

I'll write more soon. Glance confidently above for pictures. They, as ever, grow cleverly if clicked. I provide captions:

1. Your host in relaxed mode near the Green Man Cafe stage. All the gentlefolk on the table were charming (even the Cardiff Blues rugby fan sat opposite me) and were desperate for cricket knowledge. England were one wicket away from scooping the Ashes when this photo was taken.

2. A

3. Wilco...Wilco...Wilco

There is a view that reaches far where we see the universe; I see the fire, I see the end

2009-08-13T17:00:00.003Z

I took my girls to Gloucester Cathedral this afternoon for a tour of the tall tower. We climbed 269 narrow steps going up and 269 coming down again but ‘twas worth it. On the way up our guide showed us the belfry and we were only a yard or two from the twelve cathedral bells as they struck to announce the third hour post meridian. Eventually we emerged at the very highest point of the historic building and appreciated splendid views. On a clear day one is supposed to be able to see for forty miles and it was bright and sunny today so it was a tremendous vista. Naturally most landmarks were easy to spot although we ambitiously tried to find our house (from which we can see the cathedral) but were thwarted. It is a fine way to spend an hour or so and I recommend the whole tower tour scene. The Whispering Gallery at Gloucester Cathedral is pleasing too.

I took the above photographs earlier. As ever, clicking on the pictures will make them grow and become mighty. Here are captions looking from top to bottom.

1. A kestrel’s view of the nave

2. The famed rugby union stadium at Kingsholm. And a UFO.

3. The top

4. A view from below

Untitled

2009-08-12T18:01:00.004Z

I supped a few ales with S last evening in the centre of the metropolis that gentlefolk and less-than-gentlefolk, in hushed and deferential tones, call ‘Gloucester’. Our first port of call was a new inn for this punter. Robert Raikes’s House has been done up rather tastefully and, I observe, at no little expense. The courtyard at the back is rather charming and I’m pleased that my city boasts such an elegant area in which to sit and imbibe. I salute this hostelry. In my youth, it was known as the Golden Cross, and one of the first places I drank in as an earnest and wry sixth form student. The Cross was connected to my favourite pub, the now defunct Malt ‘n’ Hops, via a miniature yard and the adolescent popinjays and dandies could spend Saturday night parading flamboyantly between both inns. The Golden Cross attracted a slightly rougher crowd; the Hops exuded cool. If I am correct, the Robert Raikes’s House courtyard is geographically where the Malt ‘n’ Hops used to stand. Memories.

Our second and final destination also has a place in my past. The Café Rene was, when I were a juvenile, the Inner Court Wine Bar, a vaguely underused venue for drinking but characterful and interesting nonetheless. I don’t dislike the Rene but I am not as fond as I used to be of this place. The beer was a touch below par last night and, as S and I agreed, this isn’t as remarkable a drinking den as it likes to think it is. I ended the evening pouring a Red Stripe or two down my ageing neck which my tender head regrets a day later. It had proved a pleasant session though.

Pumped up full of vitamins on account of all the seriousness

2009-08-10T21:28:00.006Z

I’ve read well this summer and have sucked the marrow from a wide range of tomes from contemporary fodder to famed humorous charmer to gritty detective, er, grit to evergreen children’s classic. I should mention, in more detail, a brace of sporting volumes that have brought particular pleasure.

Norman Mailer’s The Fight is ostensibly an account of the Zaire-hosted 1974 Muhammad Ali - George Foreman heavyweight boxing contest but proffers the reader so much more. The book is split into two parts. The Dead Are Dying Of Thirst examines the build-up to the bout, the training, the sparring, the political machinations of the media and, most interesting of all, the social structure of a newish nation; N’Golo is a touch shorter but utterly compelling and comprises an almost blow-by-blow account of the so-called Rumble in the Jungle (an expression Mailer uses once or twice only). Utilising unprecedented access to both pugilists, the writer paints such persuasive portraits of the egotistic yet complex Ali and the more sensitive and brooding Foreman that when the two clash under the Kinshasa stars one is able to consider a confrontation between two fascinating, well, humans as well as two primed athletes. The Fight is first rate journalism, unusually phrased at times (Mailer often refers to himself in the third person) and is splendidly informative as well as exquisitely thrilling (despite one knowing the result) during the rounds of the fight itself. Recommended.

Mike Burton’s Never Stay Down is possibly my favourite sports book ever and a must for any supporter of the famed Gloucester rugby side. I confess the sentimentalist in me is blinking away the tears from the first page where gnarled Kingsholm legend Digger Morris towers over the teenaged Burton, crocked and supine, during a physical junior fixture and offers the uncompromising advice that lends the book its title and underpins the hero’s at times controversial approach to the sport. I am with my fabled comrade D, the pride o’ Newent, in holding great affection for the chapter entitled We The Undersigned; The Gloucester Story which offers an bewitching insight into the club’s amateur era of the 1960s and 1970s when just pulling on the cherry and white shirt meant the world to its players and the only tangible rewards were the support of a proud city and the comradeship of true friends. Elsewhere Burton earnestly contemplates his careers with England and the Lions and considers, ruefully at times, his abrasive and notorious style of play. Burton never took a backwards step, never avoided confrontation, never – after the Digger’s rugged intervention - stayed down. The chapters bearing the titles Off! Off! and Props and Punchers are each split into parts one and two such is the wealth of fisticuff-based anecdotal splendour the author (aided and abetted by the peerless Stephen Jones) provides for the grateful reader. I just missed seeing Burton play (he retired in the spring of 1978, a matter of months before I entered the glorious stadium for the first time) but, in a way, Never Stay Down represents my truest feelings for the club that I admire for its recent ability to flourish in a commercial and professional era but love for the old-fashioned, raw, hard-nosed ethos that existed before anyone standing in the popular side had heard of salary caps or experimental law variations. This is a superb book.

It sounds like a pocketful of rain

2009-08-07T16:26:00.007Z

Despite a couple of years when the appalling weather broke the hearts of heppest hepcats, I shall be returning to the Green Man Festival later this month. The sun must surely shine this time. Tickets were purchased via an online ticket agency last evening. My erstwhile comrade S will not be accompanying me on this occasion but Mrs Cole and the two female Cole offspring shall be joining me in Brecon. My record of catching the Sunday night headliners has been frankly poor (I had returned to my Gloucestershire abode, sodden and melancholic before both Stephen Malkmus in ’07 and Pentangle in ’08 had taken to the stage) but I am determined to witness the remarkable Wilco this time round. It still rankles that I missed The National last year too. I sense I may be trotting to the children’s field a fair bit this year but I am certainly keen to salute British Sea Power and Animal Collective on the Friday evening ‘n’ The Phantom Band, Grizzly Bear and Bon Iver on the Saturday. As ever, there are plenty of acts I’ve kind of heard of and shall endeavour to research and revise as much as possible before setting out. There seems to be more comedy and literature stuff to enjoy this time around. I’m keen to catch writer Jon Savage, the fellow behind the finest tome on the subject of punk rock, England’s Dreaming and I note that the veteran folk-rock hipster and mastermind Joe Boyd is appearing too. I’m looking forward to the event but shall be hoping for dry meteorological conditions.

To celebrate the forthcoming festival I am happy to offer some previously unpublished photographs taken two years ago. From top to bottom the pictures are entitled 'General Crowd Scene', 'Another General Crowd Scene' and 'Ritz Crackers and Wellies: A Maudlin Tent Interior'.

Counting miles before we set

2009-08-06T16:03:00.002Z

It’s always good to be home. The Coles have been engaged in holiday frolics for almost a fortnight. Holland was the destination, specifically a Keycamp (“This is the life!”) site in the pleasing coastal town of Wassenaar. There were swimming pools, an amusement park and numerous other distractions. We hired Dutch bicycles that require one to peddle backwards in order to brake and, in convoy formation, used said two-wheeled devices to propel ourselves to the nearby beach at pleasant Katwijk. We also spent a day in Amsterdam, another in Dan Haag (it’ll be nice when it’s finished) and, luckily, visited Delft on the day of the wondrous floating flower parade in which the canal banks of this quaint town were packed for a carnival style procession of small boats bedecked in all manner of vegetation. Lively characters – many in clogs – danced and sang without a hint of self-consciousness amid the tulips and other vegetable matter. It was rather lovely. Here is a fairly typical craft. Well, the time whizzed by – ever a good sign – but it is reassuring to be back in Merrie Gloucester and in one’s own bedchamber.

Frank

2009-07-24T20:53:00.001Z

It was wryly noted last evening that a major difference exists between the Guildhall Arts Centre cinema and the Cineworld Multiplex near the Docks. Yes, the screens are larger at the Cineworld but you can’t take a steamin’ mug of tea or a frothin’ pint of Guinness in with you like at the Guildhall. And the seats are more comfortable at Cineworld too. But we knew that already. It dawned on me that at the Guildhall the whole audience remains seated at the end of the film and reverentially views the credits, nodding unselfconsciously and sagely on learning the name of the best boy or gaffer; at the Cineworld, the whole ruddy auditorium is emptying within a second of the merest hint of an end credit. I found this a fairly interesting sociological observation and I reckon it indicates two very separate film-going groups.

Anyway, The Coles were out watching Brüno last evening. I must admit I laughed like a drain throughout this feature which deserves every year of its 18 certificate. A bit like its star Sacha Baron Cohen’s previous vehicle, Borat, this film is essentially a series of set-pieces woven together into a loose narrative, in this case a gay Austian fashionista’s feckless attempts to seek fame and fortune in Los Angeles and other varied parts of the United States and, indeed, the wider world. It’s a churlish criticism to suggest that Baron Cohen seeks easy targets but it proves all-too-easy for the film-makers to discover rabid homophobia within redneck hunting groups, cage fighting fans, the fundamentalist Christian community and the military. This is of no real matter. The situations conjured up are so clever, so painfully inventive and, at times, so dangerous and risky that to censure the producers for setting traps for only the most gullible and stupid is difficult to justify. Importantly for a comedy, Brüno, is very, very funny; the character’s nuances, both physical and vocal, are beautifully observed, the dialogue, often adlibbed, is exquisite while the ideas which bombard the viewer (extremely graphically at times) are first class and consistently hilarious. Basically, if you want to vigorously express amusement and, simultaneously, witness a bunch of barely evolved dolts looking pitifully dim-witted then this film might be for you.

Rob me a colour, make the sound duller, but never go away

2009-07-21T14:24:00.004Z

Word reaches these ears that new Prefab Sprout product will be hitting the record shops this autumn. The album is called, with admirable understatement, Let’s Change The World With Music and I’m sure it will enrich lives throughout the shires of Merrie England. I recommend this group to all hipsters. I suppose the starting point for anyone investigating Prefab Sprout would be the 1985 classic long player, Steve McQueen which contains the peerless When Love Breaks Down and the delicate and almost fragrant Appetite. Howe’er, other LPs by the combo are even more treasured by this punter. The 1984 debut album Swoon remains a key component in the Cole record collection; it is oblique, wordy, difficult and takes a good half dozen plays to ‘get’ but once it’s under the skin it stays there. Swoon is an old and treasured friend, purchased after hearing the opening track Don’t Sing on The Tube. I salute it. Protest Songs is a fabulous album too, a whimsical and breathy collection of songs full of warmth and joy. And Andromeda Heights is a favourite as well; any punter requiring a superior collection of sumptuous pop delirium should seek out this underrated and almost forgotten record. This is an eccentric, arty and enthralling group. This is an eccentric, arty and enthralling group.

And our talk was old and dust would flow

2009-07-20T19:05:00.005Z

I salute the England cricket team. I confess I was despairing at close of play last evening. A not unexpected declaration had set the intrepid Australians a massive 522 to win the second Test Match but a tremendous sixth wicket partnership between the spirited Clark and Haddin had propelled the outfit from the Antipodes to an overnight score of 300-odd. The odds still favoured the home team but one should always fear the nuggety manner of the Southern Hemisphere side. At my pessimistic worst, I was convinced the Aussies would cruise to victory this morning. Unable to face the torture of the telecast, I hastened to a local supermarché for the first hour of play and committed myself to buy-one-get-one-free offers and the like while the English bowlers did their best at Headquarters. Nervously tuning into Test Match Special in the store’s car park proved a happy occasion as the two key batsmen who had started the morning had both been dismissed. On returning home I was able to watch the giddy scenes at Lord’s as the talismanic Flintoff and the wily Swann mopped up the last three wickets. England go one-up with three to play. This is the greatest sporting event in the world.

Hazy cosmic jive

2009-07-16T07:31:00.002Z

Ok, it wasn’t Citizen Kane or Battleship Potemkin but the feature film entitled simply Star Trek proved an unexpectedly pleasurable treat at Gloucester’s impressive Guildhall Arts Centre last evening. It was one of those prequel things and not, I venture, based on a true story. The grateful audience learned how the youthful Kirk, Spock, Bones, Uhuru and the rest of the merry company came to work together on the good ship Enterprise. This aspect of the film was rather charming and worked well; the actors (including local hero Simon Pegg portraying Scotty with élan and vigour) developed their characters with rewarding subtlety and warmth. The main plot concerned, er, black hole devices, magnetic fields, time travel and nasty aliens called Romulans and was both reasonably easy to understand (except the time travelling bit) and remarkably pleasing on the eye. The two hours raced by. There was a happy ending. An infinitive was split. Star dates were ululated. Iconic tunics were worn. Engines were given all they’ve got. Concepts were decreed ‘logical’. Beaming-up went on gleefully. And phasers were set to ‘Stun’. Marvellous.

Strung out in heavens high, hitting an all-time low

2009-07-15T07:28:00.004Z

I shall tune in and watch the start of the second Ashes Test on the merry morrow but, and I warn them publicly, the English team cannot bank on my unconditional support if they continue to play as inadequately as they did in last week’s first rubber. The draw was fortunate indeed. After all, the earnest yet unspectacular Australians managed to take nineteen English wickets while the home bowlers toiled mundanely to take a mere ‘alf dozen in return. Twenty wickets are required to vanquish in a five day Test and I’m unsure whether in Stuart Broad (although he possesses a fine haircut) or either of our spinners we possess the artillery to bundle out sufficient Antipodean batters. I’d like Stephen ‘Steve’ Harmison to return to the eleven. I am convinced the Aussies would prefer him not to be in the team; the lofty Durham fellow can bowl wi’ real pace and venom and we require his unpredictable sturm und drang at Lord’s. Most of my ire from Cardiff is reserved for the hugely talented but irresponsible Kevin Pieterson. Where the pragmatic and hard-nosed wearers-of-the-green-baggy batted with guts and drive and determination, Pieterson chose to put personal glory ahead of any team ethic. His attempted sweep (resulting in the simplest of catches) in the first innings was embarrassing, his decision to flamboyantly leave a delivery which then knocked his stump clean out in the second was simply foolish. The ruthless and indomitable Aussie skipper, Ponting, would have attempted neither stroke (or lack of one); for this fellow the team comes before the individual and I hope that this Pieterson chap soon grasps the importance of constructing a major innings not for himself but for the wider good. Despite these moans and groans, I’m right behind the team and excited by its upcoming challenges. As Michael Parkinson declared on the Today Programme earlier, this is The Ashes and it remains the greatest cricketing contest on the planet.

Volume

2009-07-14T20:32:00.003Z

I rattled through another book today. John Healy’s The Grass Arena is, I’ll have you know, a Penguin Modern Classic. It’s one of those new-fangled autobiographies but is not for the fainthearted. Essentially, Healy tells a tale of his hugely violent and horrifying childhood which unsurprisingly leads to years and years of alcohol abuse, criminality, brutality and, interspersed with numerous spells in forbidding prisons, the unrelenting misery of living rough on the unforgiving streets of this nation’s capital. The ‘grass arena’ of the title refers to the parks where Healy and an ever-changing cast of vagrants, no-hopers and vicious felons meet, drink, pop pills and inflict mayhem on each other and society as a whole. It’s a wretched and miserable picture but Healy’s honest and fascinating prose renders the whole sorry tale compelling. There are glimpses of hope throughout the narrative. A successful fledging boxing career and a brief sojourn in the army provide glimmers of optimism but alcohol and an inability to conform utterly ruin the fellow’s chances. As it is, an unexpected addiction to the game of chess, learnt in prison, saves Healy. His dependence on the intricacies of the black and white squares replaces a reliance on liquor; remarkably Healy becomes a hugely successful and skilful player and, although never fully accepted in the rather middle class and traditional world of club chess, relishes the cut and thrust of match play. A discovery of yoga helps the author put his alcoholic past even further behind him and, although this is not implicitly mentioned in the book, a flair for writing completes the journey from complete desolation to something approaching peaceful and uneventful normality. Healy now lives frugally in a London council flat. He’s lucky to be alive, frankly. His story is principally bleak but, ultimately, one of courage and accomplishment.

Check the guy's track record

2009-07-14T12:35:00.001Z

I’m looking forward to relaxing for a while. I am now on leave for a number of weeks and it’s pleasing to ease into a less hectic way of life for a change.

I completed Renegade, Mark E. Smith’s memoirs, yesterday. It proved an unusual read, more an off-the-cuff monologue than a traditional autobiography although there is a roughly chronological sequence of events to explore. The sections dealing with The Fall front man’s childhood are poignant and I suppose, for a fan of the band, the sections where Smith discusses group members and the merits of various long players are worthwhile. There are a few too many incoherent rants for my liking though. Everyone and everything from the Match of the Day team to New Labour falls victim to Smith’s snarling pithiness while praise is seldom won although, surprisingly for a Manchester City supporter, a deep admiration for both Sir Alex Ferguson and George Best is displayed on more than one occasion. Renegade is a rambling read. It’s entertaining but I would have appreciated more structure and more substance.

There's a splinter in your eye and it reads "react"

2009-07-11T12:11:00.004Z

There’s a cracking article about R.E.M.’s bewitching sophomore long player, Reckoning, in this month’s Uncut Magazine. I recall plenty of celebratory prose saluting the 25th anniversary of the band’s mighty debut, Murmur, last year (not least on these earnest pages) and, verily, a year on, the silver-jubilee-celebrating Reckoning seems to be getting the same retrospective, under-the-microscope treatment. It’s my favourite R.E.M. album. It’s a little less murky and mystical then Murmur and I appreciate the crisp sound and the cascade of brittle pop majesty that bombards the listener. A melancholic air pervades my favoured tracks. The haunting Letter Never Sent and Camera are tender and evocative mini-masterpieces of regret and lament while the introspective Time After Time (Annelise) and the plaintive So. Central Rain (I’m Sorry) convey similar sentiments; these are beautiful songs. More upbeat treats lurk elsewhere. Harborcoat is a rousing opener, full of swagger and lo-fi elegance, Seven Chinese Brothers is an arty yet melodic slice of idiosyncrasy while the powerful Pretty Persuasion remains an indie gem, full of melody and guitar-led bliss. I recommend Reckoning wi’ no little zest. I note that each of the next four years shall herald twenty-fifth birthdays for the group’s other early-period tours de force (Fables of the Reconstruction, Lifes Rich Pageant, Document and Green) and I look forward to reflecting sagely on each of these wondrous works.

Rockets

2009-06-28T14:43:00.002Z

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...

2009-06-20T19:28:00.007Z

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

2009-06-14T15:42:00.003Z

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

2009-06-13T12:24:00.008Z

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

2009-06-07T14:11:00.004Z

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.

Gladsome, Humour and Blue

2009-05-30T17:18:00.001Z

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...

2009-05-26T20:17:00.003Z

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

2009-05-25T15:17:00.004Z

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

2009-05-24T14:15:00.005Z

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

2009-05-17T15:39:00.007Z

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...

2009-05-17T10:41:00.004Z

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

2009-05-16T10:57:00.007Z

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

2009-05-12T19:55:00.004Z

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

2009-05-10T14:29:00.004Z

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

2009-05-09T19:48:00.003Z

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...

2009-05-09T10:52:00.005Z

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

2009-05-03T17:42:00.002Z

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.

Broadcasting

2009-04-28T18:27:00.003Z

I was looking forward to a radio show this evening. John Humphrys has conducted an interview with Andy Kershaw for the ‘On The Ropes’ programme, due to be broadcast this morning and repeated tonight. Unfortunately the show was ‘pulled’ at the eleventh hour due to, I believe, the privacy of Kershaw’s former partner and his children being affected. Simply, I was keen to hear Kershaw’s voice again. His travails of recent years encompassing domestic disorder, prison, problems with alcohol and the subsequent ‘radio silence’ are reasonably well-documented. Kershaw is hoping to return to the airwaves but has been offered nothing yet by the BBC. I trust and hope that Kershaw’s recent controversies are not behind any decisions to delay any return to the corporation’s airwaves. When the likes of Brand, Ross and Moyles are routinely forgiven for foibles, it seems unjust and disappointing to think that a fellow with ten times the broadcasting talent of those mentioned, with a glorious passion for many forms of music and the erudition to convey this to an enthusiastic following, is denied an audience because of a desperately sad private life. The airwaves need as many Andy Kershaws as possible; I look forward to the engaging Lancastrian making as full a recovery as possible and, one day, gracing the nation’s wirelesses once more.

Water

2009-04-26T18:05:00.009Z

I spent an hour or so shopping in Asda (formally Associated Dairies) this morning, amid unexpected scenes of sports-related bewilderment. Remarkably, my home city of Gloucester's GL1 Leisure Centre is hosting the European synchronised swimming championships this week and, I’m guessing, today was the opening ceremony*. Naturally, when young athletes and coaches complete the formal pomp and processes that commence a major tournament, all are keen to explore the exotic surroundings of a new nation and where better (where else?) for the top European artists-of-the-pool to start off their tour of duty in Gloucester than the fabled aisles of Asda? First to catch my eye was a gaggle of Ukrainian womenfolk, bedecked proudly in man-made fibres, gaping wide-eyed at the wonders of the west while static crackled malevolently from their vivid tracksuit tops. A Spanish coach sauntered around clutching a packet of Hobnobs while a German counterpart stood transfixed by the luxuries available in the tissue aisle. As I departed the establishment, the Israeli squad strutted in, focus and professionalism etched on furrowed brows followed almost immediately by several Poles, more relaxed and exuding good humour. What heady and remarkable scenes on the Bruton Way! If you squinted it was almost like being in the Olympic Village in Beijing. But only for a fleeting moment.

*A quick peek informs me that today was the closing ceremony. The athletes were obviously bidding Asda a fond farewell and stocking up on sweetmeats and dainties for the long journey back to mainland Europe or, ahem, Israel.

Ken Bruce

2009-04-26T15:58:00.006Z

The Coles attended a concert party on Friday evening; Duke Special, who we last saw back in the winter of 2005, was headlining an ‘Acoustica Special’ at Gloucester's famous Guildhall. Duke remains a fine talent although subtle changes in the fellow’s material, stage presence and in the overall presentation and arrangement of his songs have conspired, in our opinion, to water down the whole package. Back in 2005, this artist impressed mightily. There was a hint of the underground about his act then, the songs were edgy and unusual while a shy, almost diffident, demeanour kept the audience enthralled. On Friday (and I ‘blame’ the securing of a record contract with the ensuing influx of agents and managers and industry nous) the songs were pleasing, interesting but a touch safe, more eye contact and repartee with the crowd suggested a more relaxed but less remarkable personality while the well-rehearsed combo backing Special added plenty of musical acumen but not one ounce of the spontaneity or eccentricity that so astounded last time. I’m happy for Duke Special that his career has developed and that, by all accounts, his songs are all over Radio Two like a rash. I guess success can be measured in different ways but part of me regrets that a once mesmeric and quirky performer has embraced the mainstream so wholeheartedly and lost many of the facets that constituted a captivating and idiosyncratic niche.

To rouse the spirit of the earth and move the rolling sky

2009-04-19T19:35:00.003Z

I’m aware I haven’t recommended too many 2009 long players but am happy to salute The Decemberists’ The Hazards of Love, a sublime and really rather clever recording that I’ve been spinning relentlessly in recent days. I note that the current Word Magazine is offering this opus as an incentive to sign up for a subscription, accompanied by an unexpected suggestion from editor Mark Ellen that this might be the greatest album of all time. I can see the fellow’s point. It’s an ambitious beggar with seventeen tracks segueing into each other, producing a stunning suite of songs linked thematically. A wiser man than me might dub this a ‘concept album’ and, indeed, a tale is told throughout of two lovers with nods to death, brutality, enchantment and villainy tossed in for good measure. I hadn’t heard much of this band’s work before but I must investigate the back catalogue. Lead vocalist and musical mastermind Colin Meloy possesses a haunting voice which complements the effective folk-rock instrumental ambience splendidly. There are merry riffs and tantalising solos for those who like that kind of thing while the exquisitely chosen female singers add a great deal of delicacy and lushness to proceedings. The Hazards of Love proved a challenging listen to start with but after numerous plays it has become an old friend. This is a rewarding listen, a multi-layered delight brimming with beautiful tunes and ear-catching interludes. I advise all lovers of soaring sounds to contemplate seeking out this recording and spinning it on their radiograms and hi-fis forthwith.

Our gain is your loss, thats the price you pay

2009-04-18T20:38:00.003Z

The Guide in Saturday’s Guardian consistently provides plenty of advice for hepcats and hipsters, offering sagacity galore pertaining to, inter alia, upcoming music tours, comedy, feature films, events and televisual joy. There’s always a page devoted to the latest appealing internet sites and ‘twas here, today, that I got the idea to open my own online record store. Peoplesmusicstore.com is an offshoot of Warp Records. It allows punters to make their own little online boutique, flog some sounds and, I believe, keep 10% of the proceeds. I’ve created my own cosy store and named it after this humble weblog. There are about fifty albums there, all owned by myself already in some format or other and recommended wholeheartedly. As this land's worst possible businessman, I don’t really expect to actually sell anything to anyone but it was a happy half hour creating the page. However, if by any huge oversight, you don’t already own anything by Sufjan Stevens (the world’s most remarkable recording artist), you can quickly put this right. The same goes for Boards of Canada, The Go-Betweens, Burial or Pavement, all artists I have sighed wistfully about over the past years or decades.

Untitled

2009-04-18T19:35:00.005Z

There’s still plenty of work to do in the rear garden but at least the paved area is complete. Here are three pictures showing the progress made over the past few days. Please note the presence of our chickens, now spending their last week chez Cole before heading off to a new life at a colleague’s place. We’re keeping our favourite bird, a little bantam we call Duck, and will soon (maybe tomorrow) buy a friend to keep it company. The chickens have been great fun and have produced literally hundreds of eggs for the table; it’s time for a change though.

Troxy Music

2009-04-17T20:57:00.003Z

I enjoyed a brief chat with London-based D earlier. The charming product of Newent School has secured me a ticket to attend a concert featuring American alt-rockers Wilco. The Illinoisan collective is playing the capital’s Troxy venue a day or two after headlining the Green Man Festival at the fag end of August. I have started my revision for this recital this evening. Already familiar with the group’s marvellous Yankee Hotel Foxtrot long player, I have downloaded that album’s follow-up, A Ghost is Born which is surging joyously through my beloved Sennheiser headphones as I pen these very words. The Troxy seems a fabulous place to attend live performances. It’s a 1930s art deco listed building which saw many years’ service as a cinema; it looks rather beautiful, both inside and out.

panem et circenses

2009-04-14T11:59:00.005Z

Gloucester’s renowned rugby union club, known affectionately as ‘Gloucester’, will be playing at Twickenham this weekend in the final of the Anglo-Welsh Cup, known sans affection as the EDF Trophy. A combination of tardiness, my brief absence from this sceptred isle, economics and, I admit, a vague lack of interest means I shall not be attending the match in person. I’ll view events via a telecast more, I fear, in hope than expectation of a win for the local heroes. Fitness doubts surround bullish centre Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall, the young prince of rugby, James Simpson-Daniel and that elegant enigma o’ the back three, Iain Balshaw and I worry that, wi’out this international trio of tyros, the fabled cherry ‘n’ whites’ll struggle against a classy Cardiff outfit.

Although I’ve recently reported some exciting matches (tellingly, doughty fight-backs and reasonably unexpected victories at home) this has not been the finest of seasons for my club. Any success, it seems, has arrived thanks to the energy and enterprise of individual players (Delve, Azam, Morgan) and not because of any surging team effort and cohesive or coherent tactical game plan. Seemingly, I approach the ends of seasons either giddy with expectation for the oncoming late summertide and the promise of pre-season friendly fixtures or, and this is emphatically the case this time round, thankful that the ruddy circus is leaving town for a while and I can think about other stuff for a month or four. It appears that the close season is to be dominated by the faintly familiar swish of the revolving doors at Kingsholm Stadium. Comings and goings are promised. The cynic in me detects a pattern, a cyclical, oft-repeated culling of dead wood and resultant heralded arrival of new faces that will finally, we are promised, complete the jigsaw puzzle and bring success. That swish has been heard before here, a joyless noise that followers of more successful clubs, Leicester Tigers and London Wasps for example, would not recognise.

As every season goes by, a little more of my once electric enthusiasm for the club drips away; I confess that after witnessing countless dull bouts of aerial ping-pong permeating too many unremarkable performances in too many meaningless competitions and having contemplated the soul of the club ebbing away with every witless hee-haw from the stands and every stunningly vacuous uttering from our ghastly new Severn Sound announcer, my fervour is waning rapidly. The club should not take my support for granted despite thirty years of loyal service in the Popular Side. Roll on summer.

Way Out

2009-04-13T18:48:00.003Z

Currently, the favourite long playing record in this house is Exit by the esoteric Japanese musical magician Shugo Tokumaru. This is a short recording that combines quirky and multi-layered instrumentals with more traditional – yet, at the same time, whimsical and textured – popular songs. The numbers are sung in the artist’s native tongue but the delectable melodies, twisting and innovative, are emphatically universal. The tenderly proffered lyrical content remains, of course, incomprehensible but the charm and beauty, both implied and palpable, renders each moment a tangible treasure. This is a sumptuous record that is recommended highly.

I purchased Exit in Other Music, a fabulous record store just off the lower end of Broadway in, I guess, what is New York’s East Village. It’s my kind of place. There are racks and racks of fascinating product and kindly, knowledgeable yet unpretentious staff who offer sage advice and friendly chitterchat. Each salesperson seems to have chosen a personal and up-to-date top ten list of favoured CDs which is displayed above the counter and this non-corporate and individual touch appeals greatly. I also purchased Harmonic 313’s splendidly titled When Machines Exceed Human Intelligence and Martial Canterel’s Refuge Underneath at Other Music. The former is a recent release on Warp, a bewitching electronic and funky belter heavily influenced by the Detroit techno sound. The latter is a terse, slightly Teutonic, dark slice or twenty of minimal and contemplative melancholia overseen by Brooklyn’s Sean McBride. Both long players are compelling and challenging.

The Cement Garden

2009-04-12T20:11:00.004Z

Rarely, very rarely, a posting arrives here, featuring hints of hard labour being carried out by my humble and wan self. The Coles have a project on the go at the moment. Last year we purchased, for an undisclosed amount of sovereigns and guineas, the bottom half of our neighbours’ rear garden. Last May, after a bout of drilling and breaking of hardcore, a summerhouse was erected and this week we’re laying a paved section in front of it and putting down a winding path that’ll run the full length of our L-shaped area of horticulture. We’re using reclaimed bricks and pammet (a new word for me) tiles for the 'patio' to make it look all red ‘n’ old. I’ll publish a photograph of the finished article later this week but meanwhile, for thrill-seekers everywhere, here’s a pair of carefully posed action shots indicating ‘work in progress’.