We're on our way/We are Sven's twenty-three

It is fashionable on the Gloucester rugby messageboards to waft disrespect towards the round ball, association code of football but I quite enjoy watching soccer and especially the World Cup which remains the greatest sporting event on the planet. I love it deeply. Like a lot of folk, I am able to chart my life through the four-yearly tournament from the six-month old bairn perched in a high chair while Hurst netted his hat trick to a 36 year old father of three ejaculating a tremulous, ‘Gooooallllll!’ as Beckham’s penalty sinks Argentinian hearts in ’02. I recall little about my 1982 Mathematics ‘O’ Level examination except a school friend telling me straight afterwards that England were one-up against France and that Brian Robson had put the whites in the lead after a few seconds. By the time I had walked down Church Road and through the front door, France had equalised. I remember being in a tent at 1990’s Glastonbury with G and J listening to the England-Egypt commentary and cheers going up when Mark Wright headed the winner. And in 1994 I watched the final with the firstborn Cole lying on my stomach, a fortnight old and not really able to discuss Italy’s offside trap in any real depth. He still isn’t, a dozen years on.

This year, Argentina shall win the thing and I feel quite adamant about this. England will make the last eight and will depart sulkily, blaming the hoo-hah surrounding the blessed Rooney’s toe that will have distracted the talented squad from the more important matter of vanquishing in association football matches. My outside bets for last-four and possible final berths (and therefore worth an each-way punt) are Croatia (unbeaten in qualification and with a ruthless will to win) and Ivory Coast (will need to beat either Argentina or The Netherlands to qualify for the knock-out stage but I think there's a chance of that – and then watch them go) . At the time of writing you can get 100 to 1 for Ivory Coast, 80 to 1 for Croatia while Argentina are 9 to 1. I might make a wager this week.

I’d love England to do it. My heart sinks when I consider that the barely adequate Steve McClaren will be in charge of the team’s fortunes soon so I reckon this will be our last chance for glory for a while. The dreary ex-Middlesbrough gaffer will win us nothing.

Digging My Scene

I haven’t done a great deal this weekend but the onus has been on relaxin’ and rechargin’ after a hectic few weeks. I have made a bit of an effort to play stuff on my MP3 player that I have neglected and hardly, if ever, listened to. The default setting seems to have been ‘Sufjan Stevens, Go-Betweens or Shack’ recently. Yesterday I lay on the bed and played Elliot Smith’s From a Basement on the Hill all the way through for the first time. I dug (sorry, I’m running out of synonyms for ‘enjoyed’ on these pages) its strong sense of melody, and, bearing in mind the artist’s alleged suicide, reflected on the dark-at-times lyrical content and dug that too. I’ll return to it. I think D is a fan. Today I lay down in our new tent – frankly, I’ve been rendering myself supine on a fairly regular basis – and dug Scritti Politti’s Early, a collection of, believe it or not, early songs by the group. This is an uneasy listen but the stop-start, staccato riddims and the quirky sound collages, although challenging, are compelling and worthwhile. I think I fell asleep for a few tracks though. I also tried the first quarter of The Bravery’s eponymous debut. I read a review somewhere that compared this New York band to early New Order but the mumbled delivery and lo-fi swagger reminded me of The Strokes’ debut recording, Is This It. It was satisfactory.

At a car-boot sale this morning I bought three CDs, Liquid Skin and Bring It On by Gomez and Enjoy Melodic Sunshine by Cosmic Rough Riders. They only cost me one and a half English pounds each and all three are albums I have read about and wondered about and felt I might fancy owning. I’m playing Bring It On as I pen these paragraphs and sense ‘a grower’ that I’ll eventually really appreciate and possibly, heck, dig.

Hidden

I attended the Gloucester Guildhall cinema with S on Thursday night and watched Caché, a French film directed by Michael Haneke, known as Hidden in this green and pleasant land. Having read up a bit about it since, it seems it casts a lingering eye over fairly recent French history and, in particular, the brutal treatment of Algerian immigrants by the French in the 1960s. A nation’s guilt is here examined through the actions of the main character Georges, a successful television arts show host, the Gallic equivalent, I suppose, of Mark Lawson. When he and his wife start receiving videos showing that the exterior of their splendid Paris home is being filmed at length, accompanied with disturbing drawings, they naturally become concerned. Georges, however, has childhood secrets that lead him to confront personal guilt while searching for the answers to his family’s treatment. Although some might consider this a thriller – and it certainly thrilled – this film’s examination of the machinations of an individual’s psyche, the aforementioned guilt, the desire for secrecy, and the primitive need to seek denial and apportion blame, remained the most compelling element. It has certainly made me think since.

Bed Early Tonight

I haven’t recovered from Sunday yet. C stayed over on the Saturday night and watched Eurovision with the Coles – for the irony, of course – and we were ‘up with the partridge’ the next morning to drive to S’s by eightish. I finally arrived home past midnight but, still buzzing from the day’s events, I didn’t retire until one and, even then, couldn’t sleep. I am paying for it today. I am completely shattered and looking fondly towards next week and a rest.

I am grateful to S for the CDs he presented me with on Sunday. I know the Shack and Strands recordings he presented for me well having played them to death on tape but I look forward to chucking them on my MP3 player so I am fully Shacked-up. Note to S: I wouldn’t mind HMS Fable somewhen. I’m looking forward to playing The Kinks’ The Village Green Preservation Society as I’m ever up for a bit of English whimsy while I downloaded the Jim Noir album last night too and am keen to listen to his jangle-tinged, sunny pop soon too. Lots to look forward to on the aural front.

As promised I have now posted some documentary evidence of Sunday’s movements.

Here are some captions:

Top – Shack on stage

Middle – Gloucester Supporters

Bottom – Victory

If you click on them they will magically and inexplicably grow before your very eyes. Cosmic...

Rugby/Shack Double Header

Eurpean Challenge Cup Final

Gloucester 36 - London Irish 34 (after extra time)

It is refreshing to complete a rugby season and wish it could last just a few weeks longer especially after one or two terms where I was willing the season to conclude so that I could forget about hapless performances for a month or two. These last few months have been heady and exhilarating and I’m sure I’m not alone in regretting the absence of Lamb, Morgan, Allen and company from my sporting horizon for a while. I hope Lampard, Owen and Gerrard are able to make up for the lack of oval ball action over the next month.

The European Challenge Cup Final was a fitting denouement to a cracking few months of splendid football. The stagnant, conservative play of autumn and winter is a distant memory and, again, yesterday, the youngsters, albeit in testing conditions, carved up some marvellous action. The victory was fulfilling for a number of reasons. It was pleasing to witness old-fashioned Glawster Dog as the team refused to lie down and die in the face of relentless London Irish pressure. Coming from behind was mightily exciting too and, while I felt at least three times that all hope was gone, I am delighted to report that the team didn’t share my lack of belief. The lads wanted it. Finally, this team can only improve and I am sure we have only seen half of what the youngsters can aspire to. The new signings shall add some grit and gloss and experience and that essential strength in depth. I have rarely left an old season and looked forward to a new one with such pleasure and optimism.

Shack at Fleece and Firkin, Bristol

S considers Shack to be the finest band in the country right now and who am I to disagree? Last night at Bristol’s Fleece and Firkin, the swagger and strut of their remarkable tunes and soaring harmonies proved the perfect end to a fine day. The new album tracks sounded sharp and life-affirming while the older stuff (Comedy, Pull Together, X Hits the Spot) was as fresh and gorgeous as ever. Shack possess the knack of being deeply moving and thought-provoking while lacking any pretension whatever and I appreciate that balance being struck. Ultimately though, they write songs that improve one’s life better than most and that is why I admire them greatly.

Jim Noir and his band supported Shack. They jangled and jingled like The Beatles and The Byrds circa 1966 and I appreciated the fellows’ wholehearted enjoyment of making popular music. I quite liked them. Jim wore a bowler hat and a coat on stage but I am yet to decide whether this is a good or bad thing.

I'll post some photos of both yesterday's events later this week

Future Conversations With Mefin Davies

I have made a compilation CD to play in S’s car tomorrow as he, C and I head towards London and Gloucester’s date with (second tier) European destiny. It is a mixture of old classics and a few newer songs but thematically it is upbeat and tuneful with a few sing-along favourites to help the journey whizz by. I can almost hear the cries of, ‘What did you put that on for?’ already but I shall stoically stand by my decisions. The first track is the only song I know to include – and fairly unselfconsciously, it has to be said - the word ‘sericulture’ within its lyrics. It’s a belter.

I didn’t wave but I watched the Gloucester players leaving Kingsholm earlier this afternoon. I must add that this was a coincidence that I happened to come upon ‘the lads’ as I was strolling down the Kingsholm Road to return to my car after a visit to our friendly neighbourhood bank. I wasn’t just hanging about like a loser. A tardy Mefin Davies trotted past me and I noted that he has the same Creative MP3 player as me. This warmed me. Perhaps I can approach him at the Open Day and talk about it with him? I shall weigh the whole concept up between now and August. I can think of worse ice-breakers.

Englishness

The first play of the new Shack album – a recording I sense will grow on me – is encouraging. The Head brothers’ talent for strong melody underpinned with Byrdesque harmonising is as apparent as ever. I do appreciate acts that celebrate Englishness and have already gently warmed to the throwaway mentions of posties, milkmen, cups o’ tea and granny knots that permeate these songs. The world, my world, is a richer place for Shack.

I approve of Amazon’s service. I ordered the Shack album on Sunday and it dropped on the doormat on the morning of the day of Tew. I feel a tinge of guilt not buying from an independent store but, each time I visit Pulp in Gloucester, they haven’t got what I desire. I shall visit Berwick Street again in the summer and chuck some lucre at the record shops there to assuage my lack of ease.

Another Stephen Duffy album, They Called Him Tin Tin, also arrived yesterday but I am yet to play it.

We Will Win Things Next Season

Heady days at my favoured rugby football club with, heavens above, Christian Califano today signing up to join our squad for next season. I don’t think I can cope with any more signings (although M has a source whispering in his ear, ‘Three more to come…’) and reckon that we’re just being greedy now. What a squad though. The current team is playing the most outstanding football at the moment yet we have Bortolomi, Nieto, Lawson, Califano and Balshaw to embellish our ranks. Not to mention Sir Willy of Walker. I am exhilarated by the idea of a gnarled, nasty pack frightening the living daylights out of sundry and all and coughing up perfect ball for our backs to paint beautiful pictures with. My early tip for player to make a sparkling contribution: Rory Lawson. I think he'll electrify the old stadium. Roll on 06/07.

D stole my gig-going thunder this evening, stumbling upon Shack in our capital city’s HMV, playing an acoustic set for the assembled hepcats, a full half dozen days before I travel to Bristol to enjoy them. By all accounts they were on decent form.

Carry On Camping

Today we constructed a new tent in our back garden, a Cath Kidston floral thing. It looks lovely. The plan is for the Coles to camp at the forthcoming Wychwood Festival on the Saturday night and enjoy two fine days appreciating the vibes at Cheltenham Racecourse. I spent an hour or two sitting and reclining in it this afternoon, reading the papers and finishing ‘Said and Done’, the Roger McGough autobiography I have been working through this week. I felt quietly relaxed inside the tent but know that even one night at Wychwood represents quite a challenge; I have developed something approaching a phobia about camping and sleeping in tents and am prone to encounter nasty panicky sensations in the things. Back gardens are fine. I would love to conquer these demons. I cherished my youthful visits to Glastonbury and Reading (although experienced grim tenty panics at both) and feel I am missing out on wistful festival-attending as a result of my reticence to sleep under canvas. Perhaps Wychwood will help.

Football Boots in a West Ham Bag

Is this a silly idea? My wife and I were in Ottakar’s this morning and, while browsing the books on sale, I couldn’t help but be surprised by the number of reading groups there are. I’m aware that there are numerous Richard-and-Judy-esque ‘big names’ in the reading group world but there are thousands of little groups up and down the country, meeting every month, where like minded gentlefolk sit and chew the fat, over tea and Hobnobs, Guinness and pork scratchings, discussing their favourite Garcia Marquez in reverential tones. There was even a ruddy Channel 4 comedy-drama series about one. Well, I mused, how about starting a listening group? A group meets monthly, each member brings along a CD (or vinyl) album, a current release of note or a life-changing old classic, plays a couple of tracks, enthuses, discusses, and improves the quality of life for all those assembled. I actually mentioned something similar to S about eighteen months ago and he probably accused me of being a pompous so-and-so but I felt so enthusiastic about the concept I actually left town with a price-list for meeting room hire at the Guildhall (too expensive!) and a light-hearted – and self-mocking - idea for a poster, “Martin Cole’s Listening Group – No Riff-Raff!”. To be honest and serious, in a perfect world, this is the sort of thing I’d enjoy immensely but I can just imagine the first meeting and my heart sinking with Clive from Abbeydale standing up and announcing, ‘Good evening one and all. Tonight I’d like to introduce you lovely people to No Jacket Required by Phil Collins’.

I’ve typed the above while listening to Liberty Belle and the Black Diamond Express by The Go-Betweens. What a loss.

The Football Association Challenge Cup Final was most exciting this afternoon to the extent that, contravening recent tradition, yours truly managed to stay wide awake all through the match and didn’t doze off after an hour only to awake dribbling to witness the victorious team skipping joyously around the field of play. I was very keen for West Ham to sneak it, especially, as a young lad living on the fringes of London in the 1970s, I used to favour the claret and blues and even proudly carried my football boots to my middle school in a West Ham bag. Having said that, I’m a big Steven Gerrard fan; he remains a model professional in my eyes and, indeed, his dignity and grace and maturity when interviewed by the risible Garth Crookes this afternoon were eye-catching. All the proceedings this afternoon were a credit to the association code.

I have ordered the new Shack album on Amazon tonight. I’m looking forward to seeing them in Bristol next Sunday – hopefully after a successful trip to watch Gloucester triumph in their European final. The reviews for On The Corner of Miles and Gil have been uniformly superb. Here is another combo (see second paragraph above) that have never made a poor record. With most of my Shack recordings being on tape, I wonder if S would do the business? He hasn’t done me a copy of The Kinks’ The Village Green Preservation Society yet either. I never forget.

A Key Signing

Iain Balshaw has joined the city club from Leeds and I salute the move and welcome a man who could make a considerable impact to our side. I guess there have been a couple or three fallow years for Balshaw who, on his own admission, stagnated at Bath before his injury-ridden sojourn up north. At his best he was a clinical finisher and a graceful, elusive runner who could make yard after yard while making the whole process look so simple. I can never forget the headstart Byron Hayward had over him to run back and field a loose ball near the Gloucester line; Balshaw had 50 metres to sprint compared to Hayward's 30 but won the race with plenty to spare and scored a try that is etched in my mind for, a few years on, mainly comedic reasons. If this player can return to anything like his top form while remaining free of injury, we have signed a nugget. I like the fact he can play full back as well as wing too. Strength in depth. Hurrah! We need to sign a tighthead prop forward next. And then, I reckon, world domination will commence.

Grant McLennan

Not had much time to attend to blogger duties over the last day or so. However I must record my deep sadness at the death of Grant McLennan. The Go-Between died in his sleep at the weekend. I so admire that band and, with three gorgeous comeback albums hoisting them back into my consciousness in recent years, I was primed for more wonderful music from this most articulate, literate, melodic outfit. It is not to be. I’m very thankful that S and I got to see them last year. What a treat that concert was. What a shock that it is all over and there'll be no more concerts, no more albums. Here is an Australian obituary and the one from Monday’s Guardian. I think at the weekend I’ll chuck on Oceans Apart or Liberty Belle and raise a glass to the fellow.

I recall a schoolboy coming home
through fields of cane
to a house of tin and timber
and in the sky
a rain of falling cinders

English Chelsea fan this is your last game (Hey!)/We're not Galatasary We're Sparta F.C. (Hey!)

The doughty BBC uses some splendid music on its television programmes. I like this page which answers viewers’ enquiries about what song or other was being played over Match of the Day clips. Of course The Fall’s Theme From Sparta F.C. remains the theme for Final Score despite its slightly aggressive lyrics and a vaguely sinister reference to Chelsea fans. The reason for this mention of the BBC and its choice of clips is that Top Gear, a show I used to loathe with a genuine passion but, thanks to my son, now rather enjoy, used Kalpol Introl by Autechre from the Inculabula album. I was quite shocked but, at the same time, heartened. I had never associated Jeremy Clarkson with sparse and obtuse electronic tinkerings from the Warp label but I suppose there is a first time for everything.

I made a right hash of this today. I have NO idea why this writing is so small! The fonts over the last few days don't match either. Heck.

An Emotional Weekend

The queues were lengthy indeed at Kingsholm this morning with many hundreds of season ticket holders stoically waiting in line in order to purchase their European Challenge Cup Final tickets. It was fascinating in that all these people probably had very little in common with each other on many, many levels but because of one shared interest were able to affably chew the fat about all matters Gloucester, past, present and future. I quite enjoyed it really. At about a quarter to ten, Jake Boer strolled through the car park to board the coach that was waiting to take him and his colleagues to Clifton for the Tens tournament. He was wearing a sports top, shorts, and, I swear, a pair of tights. It was a most unsettling sight. I didn’t know where to look.

 

Naturally, lots of the banter was about yesterday’s remarkable match. I am still buzzing about yesterday’s epic match with the consensus, which I can appreciate, being that that despite the loss, this remains a game to view with no little excitement and huge amounts of encouragement. Ryan Lamb came of age with some visionary football that was, simply, world class. The try that he started with a huge and ambitious pass to Oliver Morgan and finished with a dummy that utterly bamboozled Joe Worsley, the camera man and half the crowd was possibly the best I’ve seen at the old stadium. Certainly ‘Top Five’. His massive pass to Simpson-Daniel which ended with the Bailey score was hugely creative although that move’s finest moment was Sinbad’s almost contemptuous turning hither and thither of the Dallaglio figure. It was joyous. The whole game was really, really marvellous.

 

I must confess I was unable to join in the tumultuous chanting of ‘Terry Fanolua’ during the interval as the old warhorse entered the field of play for the last time to bid, well, his Gloucester family farewell. With his old father proudly by his side, Terry was obviously moved and choked to the extent that he was struggling to get his words out. I just bit my lip and tried to hold it together. The sentimental side of me adores events like this (I was misting over for the Player of the Year announcement for goodness sake) but I found the whole ‘Terry thing’ yesterday much more moving than usual.

 

I met up with, gosh, fifteen or so old school colleagues early yesterday evening and I must say what splendid people that they have become. Actually, they were probably all splendid back in the seventies and eighties too! It was especially fine to touch base with M once again after years of gradually losing touch. He remains incredibly easy company and shares and understands so many of my values and interests and points of view that, despite all the thrills at Kingsholm, our half hour chat proved the highlight of the weekend for me. A dear and charming friend. One of my greatest faults is taking individuals like that for granted and maybe my fifth decade should be dedicated to making sure that doesn’t happen as often.

Martin

Martin Stephenson proved the engaging and delightful performer I had anticipated. The last time I had seen him live was back in 1991 at the wonderful Sheffield Leadmill with the energetic Daintees and not a lot had changed. The voice was plaintive and charged, the guitar playing was bewitching and the banter, as ever, was cheery, witty and relentless. I enjoyed his company. Here is a performer who fully connects with his audience on a quite personal level and is to be lauded for not ‘chasing the yankee dollar’ and preferring the more intimate settings like last night’s Acoustica. I look forward to seeing him again.

I bought a copy of Stephenson’s ‘The Church and the Minidisc’ (from the gentleman himself) after the show and played half of it this morning. It is defiantly lo-fi but I already admire its political edge coupled with a gentle folk leaning.

What would Charlie Coroli Think?

A curt and rather unpleasant email from S chastises me for daring to criticise Send in the Clowns which, naturally, he regards as one of the greatest achievements ever, up there, no doubt, with Beethoven’s Fifth and Turner's The Fighting Temeraire. I beg to disagree. This song is smug, self-satisfied with a few cloudy metaphors chucked at the listener to attempt to convey a depth and welter of meaning that, quite simply, I don’t believe to be there. It is dull. Compare and contrast another standard from the Streisand repertoire, Somewhere, which remains moving, dramatic, lacking in pretension, and possesses a depth that doesn’t require a dodgy circus allusion to prove its worth. Bernstein 1, Sondheim 0 in my humble opinion. I am happy to proffer a very public apology should the noble S convince me what the metaphorical 'sending in' of these ruddy and often rather frightening motleyed entertainers actually means. I won’t hold my breath though

Google Searches

This sounds a bit sad but I have the ability, via my Statcounter subscription, to discover precisely how kindly visitors to these pages actually found their way here. Obviously there a number of ‘regulars’ who have stored the URL in their ‘favourites’ list and a few people find this blog via a link from another blog (usually Partly Porpoise actually). What I find really rather interesting is the manner in which some folk discover this site from a google search. Here are a few searches from just the past three or four days:

‘allen lamb morgan rugby’ Somebody with taste.
‘john gadd gloucester’ Somebody with even finer taste!
‘mcaloon megahertz’ Eager Prefab Sprout fan.
‘mumbles youth calvisano’ I believe Mumbles is in Wales but they found me mumbling about something or other.
‘martin cole gloucester’ Touchingly personal (and from someone in the United States too) and nice use of ‘gloucester’ just to make sure.
‘secret machines bring their’ Obscure wording!

Isn't it rich, are we a pair? Me here at last on the ground, you in mid-air...

It hasn’t been an especially busy weekend but I have enjoyed a relaxed three days. I had never been to a Point to Point meeting before today but the races at Maisemore were exciting and competitive and the whole event was really well organised. I’d go again. I picked the first two winners, the second at a healthy 13 to 2, and a further success beckoned in the fifth race. I finished fifteen pounds up at the end of the day and would certainly have settled for that outcome this morning. We had a lovely view of proceedings too; the raised land provides a fine natural grandstand.

Gloucester qualified for Heineken Cup rugby football on Friday after Saracens failed to defeat what appeared to be, on the highlights, an extremely profligate Leicester outfit that spurned one try-scoring opportunity after another. Yesterday’s 31-7 victory at Leeds, then, meant nothing in terms of qualification but did set up a fascinating battle with Wasps next weekend, a fifth against fourth square-up with the winner snatching a play-off semi-final spot. I have always been against these daft play-offs and the concept of a winner-takes-all final but I can understand the argument this season that nine of the twenty-two league matches have suffered through international calls-up so the best team/squad may not necessarily make it to the top slot. I am less negative about the set-up than I used to be but it is still rather unsatisfactory.

I heard a song on the radio yesterday and, by the time it had finished, I had thought sagely to myself that this was possibly my most hated number ever. Oblique and pretentious – and possibly meaningless - lyrical content, a dire melody as well as a ghastly association with rank, middle-brow entertainers lead me to loathe Send in the Clowns with vigour. Other songs I really, really can’t bear to listen to include I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor, Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes, Java Jive (I Like Coffee, I Like Tea) by The Inkspots, and many others. Anything by The Eurythmics or, particularly, the solo Annie Lennox will lead me to sprint to a radio’s on/off switch with my hands pressed over my ears for protection. I can’t bear Lennox.

Smells Like Team Spirit

I was lucky enough to borrow a video of the last Gloucester match against Worcester which I viewed voraciously last evening. The Simpson-Daniel try (which I watched again and again thanks to this new-fangled and rather spiffing videotape technology) was simply beautiful. Lamb’s jink through the defence was artful and a slight movement inside bamboozled the Worcester defence sufficiently to create enough space for Richards and ‘Sinbad’ to force the score. The whole thing deserved its own South Bank Show. For a while, Gloucester had visited the visitors’ 22 twice and scored two tries – most encouraging. I was also heartened to see the Gloucester bench leaping around like, well, fans when Gloucester had worked their touchdowns. It seems that team spirit is fine at the moment.

Saris

A busy week indeed and neither time nor energy to post on here. I am looking forward to the Bank Holiday weekend with relish not least because I'll be able to stay up late on Sunday and watch Curb Your Enthusiasm on More4 without thinking that I should really be hooking some kip ready for another shift at work. I think the Coles might be sampling some Point to Point horse racing on Monday and buoyed by my success in the Grand National I anticipate further riches heading my way. I wonder if publications like the Racing Post offer form guides for such meetings? Anybody know?

I spoke to the guy from Oxfam yesterday and have secured passes for the Saturday and Sunday at the Wychwood Festival. His broad Yorkshire accent made me ask him to repeat what he desired me to do but it transpired that I hadn't misheard him and I shall be flogging Indian saris.

A note to Adam from the Chronicle: thanks for the non-rugby posting that will have confused 90% of the KC regulars (Green Man? Who did he play for?) and I shall certainly consider that event. The affable 'S', a regular initial on these pages, is a fan of the Green Man and has been known to twist my arm about attending too.

'Lex Go Crazy

A year would not be complete without a jaunt to see the mighty Calexico and, my goodness, the word was out on Friday night with sixteen hundred enthusiastic followers packing the Bristol Academy to the rafters. The songs were as stunning as ever, a mixture of the trademark Calexico sound, evocative, sparse and atmospheric, and the knowing and intelligent material that dominates the recent and heartily life-affirming recording, Garden Ruin. The musicianship was as perfect as ever, underpinned by a fabulous rhythm section and augmented by layer after layer of joyous sounds. Simply, the group knows how to entertain. This is not a po-faced set of musicians showing off their skills; the humanity, exuberance and passion of the collective just engages the audience and rubs off on it relentlessly. I love this band. Iron and Wine were understated, thoughtful and proved that quiet is the new loud; their/his tender, balladic, oft religious offerings were worthwhile and worthy. A smashing little cameo by the expressive and hugely likeable Flamenco guitarist and singer Salvador Duran, all clicks, quirky animal noises and he-man strumming, completed the bill. More than once I gazed up at the stage where a dozen rare talents were weaving the most delirious wall of sound and reflected on my good fortune. This was a marvellous evening and I shall certainly be there next time.

The prescient S has always maintained that should Vashti Bunyan ever tour then St. George’s Hall, Bristol would be inked in as a venue. By huge chance I picked up a flyer off the pavement last night and discovered to my immense glee that the breathy chanteuse is bringing her intimate and pastoral sounds to that very venue at the start of June. Four tickets were acquired this morning via the worldwide web; all concerned can hardly wait.

Saturday was certainly busy. As usual, the morning was spent in Oxfam, shuffling between warehouse and shop-floor, selecting, pricing and putting out the paperbacks and stocking the shelves with the fiction – mostly – of my choice. I do enjoy that gentle hour or so each week. I found a cracking moleskin duffle coat on one of the racks out the back; it is a sort of camel colour and a touch large but I felt it was ‘me’ so snapped it up. With warmer weather approaching I doubt if I’ll wear it before the autumn but it shall certainly grace my wardrobe until then.

Gloucester’s 31-23 victory against Worcester propelled the famed city club into a European final, rugby’s equivalent, I guess, of the association code’s UEFA Cup. In many ways, this fixture was a carbon copy of last weekend’s league match against the same opponents; the young guns combined to set up some sparkling scores, Worcester fought back with a dogged belligerence and Gloucester’s fitness and undoubted class clinched it in the last quarter through a Mark Foster touchdown. Ryan Lamb’s swagger and reading of the game were delightful again and indicated a maturity and poise beyond his teen years. His sniping run through a canny Worcester defence, clever cut inside to draw more defenders and stunningly timed pass to the earnest and alert Richards not only led to a Simpson-Daniel try but justified, in a fleeting yet beautiful moment or two, the couple of hundred knicker I coughed up for my season ticket back in August. If that were not enough, the vision to spot Foster loitering on the left late on and pick him out with a sublimely judged crosskick was art too. I got home in time to listen to some post-match interviews on BBC Radio Gloucestershire and Foster, articulate and interesting it has to be said, described his try-creating kick as ‘world class’. And who am I to disagree? My only regret is that there are only a handful of games left this season to appreciate the riches that are bestowed upon us lucky punters.

Ruin

I have been playing Garden Ruin, the new Calexico album in preparation for tomorrow night’s concert in Bristol. I must say that my feelings generally match that of The Guardian’s reviewer who notes its stripped-back sound which is underpinned by the fine songwriting one would expect from the band. Comparisons are also made to Crowded House which worried me at first but on hearing I could appreciate the similarity while quietly enjoying the plaintive melodies that suggest the Finn Bros’ more mature moments. Garden Ruin is a charming collection of songs and I recommend it.

I am sad to see Phil Vickery leave the Gloucester club. I have watched him grow up really, from a coltish teen galloping around the turf to the established international, every inch the elder statesman – but with that coltish teen never far from the surface. At the end, the sums just didn’t add up and, as a supporter paying his annual dues, I can understand that the return of ten or so games a year on a mighty salary could no longer be justified. I wish him well though. Few players have shown Vickery’s amount of energy and passion over recent years. He surely merits 'Kingsholm Legend' status. Good luck, Phil – and thank you.

Come on Children!

Since Steve Lamacq took over the BBC 6Music early evening show it has become a bit more ‘indie’: I much preferred the eclectic mix of songs, ancient and modern, provided by Andrew Collins. However, as I washed up tonight, he did spin Lazy Sunday by The Small Faces which raised a cheery grin as I’m currently reading All Too Beautiful, a Steve Marriott biography written by key-mod-scribe Paolo Hewitt. It’s a fascinating tome that really conveys the austerity of the post-war East End that Mariott grew up in which contrasts keenly with the vibrant Mod scene of the sixties that he went on to rule. Apparently Marriott hated Lazy Sunday and only recorded it as a bit of a laugh to show how ‘cockney’ he could sound: the need to be taken seriously dominated the Small Faces’ career and they constantly worried that they were merely regarded as a bit of a novelty act. I’m onto Marriott’s Humble Pie career now; less fulfilling simply because I have never heard any of that their stuff and I confess that, from descriptions in the text, it appears to be the turgid unmelodic hard rock that I’d dislike. I am promised a rags-to-riches-to-rags story and I suppose I am still on the ‘riches’ section; I’ll stick with it so I can voyeuristically sneak a peak at Marriott’s descent into mental illness, poverty and the most terrible accidental death.

There are some cracking Small Faces clips on www.youtube.com. The promotional films for Itchycoo Park and Lazy Sunday are the sunny, long-haired, psychedelic gems you’d expect while the band miming to All or Nothing in monochrome splendour is the coolest thing you’ll ever set eyes on. Here’s a tip though: just search for any of the Small Faces clips as they are all utterly stunning.

I wish I’d been a Small Face.

Wishing One's Life Away or The Primitive Need To Have Things To Look Forward To

Back to work tomorrow. Is 40 a tad young to yearn for retirement I ask myself? I do enjoy a stretch of days when I can read, relax, visit places and friends, download and listen to music, watch films and appreciate family time. This weekend should be enjoyable although, all things considered, I might have been thankful for a slightly quieter one. On Saturday there is the second Gloucester against Worcester fixture while in the evening the much longed for Calexico concert arrives. It will only be a fortnight on Friday when Martin Stephenson plays the Guildhall. And I’m off to see John Martyn in a week or so too. Plenty to look forward to then.

I have seen the future and it works...

Gloucester 27 - Worcester 16

I felt very proud of the city club after this match, the most fulfilling and enjoyable result of the season. The home wins against Sale, Northampton and Leicester were all satisfying and delectable for various reasons but the victory against the self-styled warriors allowed the cognoscenti a tantalising glimpse into the future. Where to start when so many players had outstanding games for the city? Behind the pack, Olly Morgan impressed with his head-up, elegant pace and intelligence, Anthony Allen was an absolute thorn in Worcester’s side all afternoon with his mixture of graft, craft, relentless energy and tackle-breaking élan while the little nugget Ryan Lamb wove spells all afternoon especially when he passed the oval with slide rule precision into space (how novel!) for grateful colleagues to run into and collect. James Simpson-Daniel and Michael Tindall are different players, make no mistake, but they complement the abundantly talented trio immensely. And Peter Richards, a keen competitor and sniping nuisance, brought much to the party. It was joyous to watch and more than breathtaking to consider that this bunch can get even better. With a bludgeoning pack, a touch more experience, a tweak here and there (Mark Foster is not really Premiership quality), a fair wind and a pinch of good fortune, the club could be on the verge of a genuine new dawn and golden era. How exciting.

A Nasty Little Club

Obviously I strongly desire my favoured rugby club to win every game they contest but I am especially keen that ‘the lads’ notch a large and satisfying ‘W’ tomorrow against Worcester. Victory would edge the club closer to that all-important European berth and would keep our collective noses in front of Northampton (who are playing at home to Leicester tonight and, naturally, I hope they slip up). Secondly, I can’t abide the Worcester club, a plastic bunch of arrivistes without history, dignity or any real worth frankly. Their ghastly supporters will pitch up at Kingsholm on the morrow with their Warriors helmets and well-rehearsed singalong sing-songs trying desperately not to look like the Johnny-cum-lately chancers they so tangibly are. I can imagine them now. Yuck. I really, really want to win this one.

Festival Round-Up

I must send off an application form to Oxfam HQ today. I’m keen to help man the Oxfam stall at the Wychwood Festival that takes place at Cheltenham Racecourse during half term week. Volunteering results in free entry, a meal and plenty of spare time to check out some music. I must confess that a prejudiced part of me – the Gloucestrian chip-on-shoulder part in particular - does not equate the conservative (small ‘c’) spa town of Cheltenham with a decent, non-mainstream music scene but there are some excellent acts performing at Wychwood. Billy Bragg, a hardy annual, headlines on the Friday, The Guillemots, a band I am beginning to admire, play on the Saturday while Field Music, The Broken Family Band and the astounding Amadou et Miriam all catch the eye on Sunday’s bill.

S and I are discussing the possibility of attending the All Tomorrows Parties festival in December. Thus far the annual Nightmare Before Christmas boasts only Sonic Youth and Iggy and the Stooges in its roster but, heck, that’s a decent start. And instead of trekking to Camber Sands as we did for ATP in the spring of 2004, we only need to trot down the M5 to the baroque surroundings of Minehead’s Butlins to enjoy the best in challenging sounds.

A Sinister Gasmask

Dead Man’s Shoes was a compelling feature, its brooding nastiness and rank portrayal of the underbelly of English life meant one couldn’t keep one’s eyes off the screen. A former soldier seeks revenge for the way his mentally-handicapped brother was treated by a gang of low-life, low-level criminals; just the mention of his name throws them into panic but when he starts breaking into their homes wearing a sinister gasmask and messing with them while asleep they really ‘go ape’. And then it really gets evil. I’m quite keen to discover where it was filmed – it had a vague South Yorkshire* look to it. The haunting soundtrack (Smog, Calexico, Richard Hawley, Adem, Earlies) gave the film a melancholic, contemplative texture; I wouldn’t mind the CD.

* I was close. It was Matlock, Derbyshire.

Rugby Round-Up

I started watching the Sale against Gloucester match more in hope than in expectation but, by no-side, I was delighted with and charmed by the passion, pride, prowess and progress shown by ‘the lads’. With a certain inevitability the Stockport club edged past the city to claim an 18-15 victoire but I was heartened by the young guns in cherry shirts; in particular, the trio of Lamb, Morgan, and Allen ooze class. I look forward to watching their careers develop over the next few seasons. Ryan Lamb could well become the ‘Tredworth Carlos Spencer’; his confidence and range of attacking skills are marvellous to behold. He is only 19. He is only 19.

Reports link Philip Vickery with the Wasps club. Rumours abound. It has been alleged that the club, examining the player’s injury record, have offered him less than expected for the final year of his contract in a similar fashion to the departing Samoan Terry Fanolua. I must admit to be being a huge fan of Vickery’s and wish that all his team mates could wear those famous colours with his zeal and fervour – and skill. However I assume that he is on a mighty salary and, therefore, the mere ten or eleven games per season he starts for the city do not represent value for money in my eyes. I think he might be replaceable. If ‘the Vickster’ does leave it will be with mixed feelings on my part.

S rarely texts me so I was surprised to receive a brace of SMS messages from the fellow on Sunday afternoon. He was at Twickenham watching the Powergen Cup Final and wished to report to me some atrocious crime committed by one Lawrence Bruno Nero Caligula Dallaglio. Reading between the lines, our favourite flank forward had some rank involvement, according to S, either before or after the Easterby injury that had raised the zealous texter’s ire. I shall have to telephone the chap to ascertain what went on. I do hope that S didn’t get too overwrought or agitated though.

Ron Cox I think I love you

I rarely, rarely flutter and can’t honestly remember the last time I gambled on the Grand National so yesterday’s unambitious four-and-a-half English pounds each-way on Numbersixvalverde (I had to look that up) represented a huge triumph and, importantly, yielded a stunning sixty-odd quid for the ol’ back pocket. The race itself was incredibly exhilarating with Niall 'Slippers' Madden (I had to look that up too) keeping the horse safely tucked away for the early stages before timing its run-in to perfection. I salute Ron Cox of The Guardian who steered me away from the joint favourites and towards my chosen filly with some excellent arguments that for the life of me I am unable to recall a day later. Hurrah!

My delightful winnings afforded the Coles a night of luxury yesterday with fine wines, effervescent cordials, exotic snacks and rented DVDs turning our humble semi into a veritable pleasuredome for a fleeting hour or two. We watched Fargo last night and appreciated its memorable cast of characters and offbeat twists. Gosh, it was violent too. The company known simply as 'Blockbusters' is to be acknowledged for the stunning ‘three DVDs for a fiver for a week’ deal which means we still have Donnie Darko and Dead Man’s Shoes to view.

This slightly more considered review of last Friday’s Acoustica made me feel a bit guilty for being so caustic about the artists who were performing. However, I’m glad I was honest in retrospect. A less effusive review gives the more glowing accolades that I have bestowed a lot more meaning and without wishing to impart any importance or gravitas to these humble pages – they have none whatsoever – they are nothing if the custodian of this space doesn’t state what he thinks or believes. I still rate Acoustica as a concept though. Boo Hewerdine, Duke Special and, to a lesser extent, Bela Emerson and The Family Machine were all marvellous. They, in differing ways, challenged – and, heck, that makes so much difference.

A Curate's Egg

I expected a bit more from last night’s Acoustica and have to admit the acts were appealing at best, poor at worst. I must say that I probably enjoyed the first performer Kat Flint the most. She was engaging, refreshingly self-deprecating and managed to render the serious themes she explored in her songwriting as free of cliché as possible. I liked her. New Yorker David Francis was a bit embarrassing to tell the truth and this was a shame because having listened to one or two clips of his stuff online, I expected more. His voice was somewhat evocative and pleasing and reminded me a little of Paul McCartney crossed with a soupcon of Zimmerman and a pinch of Cohen. His songs were rather awful though. He tried so hard to be knowing, witty and poetic but came across as clumsy and ‘sixth form’. I admit to enjoying his cringeworthy ditty about a cigarette lighter for all the wrong reasons; one to be filed under ‘so bad, it’s good’ I feel. Jane Taylor, the headliner, certainly lacked nothing in self-assurance and self-belief; before every song she felt the need to address something that was wrong with the sound. She wasn’t backward in trumpeting her soaring successes either (the playing of a song of hers on the Johnny Walker Show and the background use of one of her numbers on American youth soap Dawson’s Creek!) but the quality of her ‘product’ didn’t really match the hype. I don’t really want to listen to a song inspired by a wall falling down in her back garden and her attempt at a portrait of all the ‘interesting characters’ living in Montpellier, Bristol was just a bit obvious; Suzanne Vega was writing that kind of song with heaps more insight and intelligence twenty years ago. Her singing voice was unusual and strong but I just couldn’t warm to her or her rather unsubtle, insipid material. This was not art. I think this morning I’ll chuck on some Laura Veirs, Laura Cantrell, Lucinda Williams or Gillian Welch and remind myself how it can be done.

They smelt of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs and too many right wing meetings

Although I’m holiday, I am looking forward to the weekend. Tonight the three eldest Coles are a-roving to the Guildhall for the latest Acoustica evening and having missed the last couple because of ill-health and some other reason that escapes me, I am keen to enjoy the charms and talents of tonight’s musicians. Of course the next Acoustica is the one I’m most excited about: Martin Stephenson.

Tomorrow shall be a gentle day but I would hope to watch the Gloucester against Sale match on a television set somewhere. The city will be fielding the same 22 that defeated Brive last weekend but I fear the Stockport based collective will prove doughtier opponents than the French. Our forward pack appears lightweight; Jonathan Pendlebury is not the bruiser that the aesthete Brown needs to keep him company while the back row lacks sufficient brawn and bruising gainline-breaking nastiness. Still, I am glad that the nippers Allen, Lamb and Morgan are given further chances to develop their outrageous skills in exalted company. Sadly I feel Sale will prove too strong by half but Gloucester, as ever, possess the ability to surprise so I should not write them off too early.

I spotted Quinton Davids this morning. He was ambling into Gloucester via the Northgate Street point of entry and when I clocked him was heading past the old Golden Dragon at a sluggish pace. I really hoped it would work out for this player but it seems his Gloucester career will be recalled unenthusiastically in years to come. What is it with the city club and its South African signings? They either turn out to be much-loved, magnificent servants or complete embarrassments. The jury is out regarding Rudi Keil but I’m not raising my hopes.

I downloaded The Jam’s All Mod Cons this morning. This album was one of my great favourites in my teenage years when I absolutely adored The Jam and their passionate and unpatronising evocation of English themes. All Mod Cons was such an ambitious album and represented a tangible leap forward for the band after their lacklustre and lazy second album, This Is The Modern World. Numbers like Down in the Tube Station at Midnight and To Be Someone (Didn't We Have a Nice Time) are refreshingly complex and utterly rewarding as a result. Fly and English Rose are slightly cack-handed and over-wordy love songs but work, really work, because of, not despite, their earnest clumsiness and engaging honesty. And in the spat out ‘A’ Bomb in Wardour Street and Billy Hunt, Weller’s snarling anger and punkish disrespect are expressed brusquely and without a hint of compromise: 'If it’s not you moaning, then it’s someone else/Jumping down my throat, every chance you get.' This remains a wonderful, essentially English album; nice to touch base with it again.

Capital

The Coles enjoyed a few days in London and packed plenty in from the National Gallery to the London Eye to a meal at Young Cheng in Chinatown. I always appreciate the remarkable exhibits at the Tate Modern and particularly valued the Rachel Whiteread commission, EMBANKMENT, a visually stunning structure consisting of 14,000 plastic casts of cardboard boxes. We spent ages exploring its bizarre corridors. The above photo features my dear son stood casually in the bottom right corner. I’ve always wanted a print of Simon Paterson’s The Great Bear and finally bought one in the Tate Modern shop. I just need a frame for it now.

Return

A long weekend in London. Just returned. Tired. Shall watch The Apprentice and retire to my chamber.

The Life of Ryan

This month's Mojo arrived yesterday and I trawled through its ‘Top 100 Albums Since Mojo Started’ list with the usual enthusiasm for such items. With Mojo having been going since 1993 this was a chance to scan the albums mentioned and work out what I have missed and, frankly, do something about it. As a result I have downloaded a couple of the more recent Johnny Cash albums and another country recording that has passed me by, Gillian Welch’s Time (The Revelator). In a fit of excitement I also bagged myself four, yes four, Lilac Time albums. The reviews of these albums on Amazon all glow intensely and if they are half as good as the Stephen Duffy CD I bought recently, I’ll be thrilled.

Incidentally, Grace by Jeff Buckley was voted the best album in the Mojo poll, a recording I own but have only played once and maybe then not all the way through. Essentially, I have always pooh-poohed it. Perhaps I need to reappraise it but shall do so once I’ve played and grown to love all these Lilac Time albums.

I have burnt a copy of I Trawl the Megahertz by Paddy McAloon for S. He deserves it.

To Kingsholm later today. The Brive club visits. I am immensely interested in Ryan Lamb’s display at outside-half having watched the youngster play for the ‘A’ team on a number of occasions and stood agog at the youngster’s vision, skill, speed and maturity. Some might call him a genius. I think I might too. Perhaps in twenty years time, thousands will claim to have witnessed the fellow’s home full debut who weren’t actually there.

....some academics began to murmur about the validity of...

I’ve just finished a Mark Radcliffe novel, ‘Northern Sky’, an undemanding yet reasonably enjoyable read all about the loves, aspirations and interactions of a group of musicians from a north of England folk club named after the plaintive Nick Drake song. As befits a first-rate broadcaster, Radcliffe scatters the text with wit, humour and sharp observations while his characters are rounded enough and possess sufficient depth to make one believe in them. It was a decent read but hasn’t changed my life. Radcliffe’s own band, The Family Mahone, make a cameo appearance towards the end of the novel when they have their backstage passes to a folk festival taken. Nice touch. I’m sure that Radcliffe has snuck in a few favourite song titles into the writing too: ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ and ‘Comfortably Numb’ both snuggle cosily into the middle of sentences. As someone who attempted, as a wan undergraduate, to include every R.E.M. album title into an essay, I can appreciate that kind of caper.

"I will now sell five copies of the Beta Band's Three EPs."

Some would consider that a trip to London purely to slope from one record shop to another all day would constitute an appalling waste of time but I enjoyed a marvellous and relaxing hour or seven yesterday doing precisely that. Berwick Street is a splendid thoroughfare and contains, I would suggest, about eight independent record stores of the Nick Hornby Hi-Fidelity sort. Having met D in the clinical and corporate Virgin Megastore, we strolled down Oxford Street, took a left and spent quality time and money in these more ramshackle establishments before a light lunch and a jaunt to the fine Fopp Records which represents the more acceptable side of record shop chains. In Fopp I bought Sufjan Stevens' Greetings From Michigan which I'm playing and hugely appreciating as I write this, Dandruff by the eccentric Scottish poet and musician Ivor Cutler who died last month and whom I used to listen to avidly on the John Peel Show, and some kicking bass and drum, New Forms by Bristol's Roni Size, a Mercury Prizewinner, no less. The seven pounds I paid for the Stevens album was the most I spent on a single purchase all day.

The smaller shops produced the goods too. For two quid apiece in Mister CD I picked up Shakespeare Alabama, a lost eighties classic by all accounts, by Diesel Park West and Bubblegum by former Screaming Tree and favourite of D, Mark Lanegan. After lunch, I returned to Berwick Street on my own and bought, for a single pound each, Pig Lib by Stephen Malkmus, Monsoon by Preston School of Industry and Spoonface by Ben Christophers. I'm delighted with my spoils. I look forward to hearing them all over the next day or two although I am already familiar with the Malkmus and Size opuses.

There's a couple of pictures of Berwick Street above. Fans of derivative and uninspiring 90s guitar music might recognise the first one.

A Needless Lie in the Supermarket

To London tomorrow on the charabanc. I shall alight at ten at Victoria and have a few things planned. I’m very keen to go to a decent market and will head straight to Brick Lane to peruse the stalls. Later I shall be meeting D and we shall, no doubt, scamper through the streets like a pair of urchins, thieving silk handkerchiefs and pocket watches from wealthy gentlemen. Failing that, we might have a spot of lunch and visit some independent record shops. I’d quite like to go to the Tate Modern too. I have selected 20 CDs from my Amazon wishlist to look out for and while I certainly won’t be buying all of them, I am keen to add to my collection in one or two areas tomorrow. Like an omen, Phill Jupitus played a Young Marble Giants song on 6Music earlier; the melancholic – yet melodic - 1980s Welsh group’s cult classic Colossal Youth nestles on my list. Having played it to death on an old, old tape, I really want a CD copy of Mikey Dread’s African Anthem too. Finding those albums would be wonderful.

It seems that much of my socialising takes place in the confines of J. Sainsbury where I am often bumping into old school friends and figures from the past. Of course, all my school muckers are turning 40 this year and when I encountered J by the cheese and milk we discussed how 40 was now the new 20 or 30. Noticing my Creative Zen MP3 player, he remarked that our parents would never have been seen dead with such a gadget. ‘Let alone playing the Arctic Monkeys,’ I remarked merrily. I was lying. I was actually listening to a Sufjan Stevens album. It troubles me that such deceit comes so easy to my lips but, in my defence, I suppose I figured that J had never heard of the Michigan songsmith and I indubitably couldn’t be bothered to explain who he was.

Oh Heck

Gloucester 15 - Bristol 20

I suppose Peter Buxton was nominally captain so his decision making must take some of the blame for Gloucester’s capitulation yesterday. After a stirring first ninety seconds when the oval was passed majestically through too many hands to count, Allen and Simpson-Daniel looked like the stunning thoroughbreds they surely are, a four try bonus seemed attainable before half-time and the Shed was buzzing, I suppose the tactical reasoning seemed sound: let’s stick the ball up our collective jumpers for the last 78 and a half minutes and try and protect the seven point lead by fronting up to an experienced, gnarled and streetwise bunch of forwards. In hindsight, always dangerous I know, option one should have been to give quick ball to Allen and Simpson-Daniel, option two should have been to give quick ball to Allen and Simpson-Daniel and, if that wasn’t quite working, switching to option three, quick ball to Allen and Simpson-Daniel, might have proved a concept worth flirting with. I’m incredibly disappointed with the city club this morning.

The Secret Machines at Bristol Bierkeller, Friday 24th March

Friday’s Secret Machines concert was more fulfilling. Mixing sturm und drang with the slightest hint of durm und strang, the Texan wunderkinds created a maelstrom of precise, incredibly loud, art-rock. It was a belter. Prefuse 73 didn’t play. That was disappointing.

Our Little Secret

S and I shall be heading to the dark and wondrous Bristol Bierkeller this evening for a blinding double header. Prefuse 73’s enigmatic glitch-hop shall kick off the proceedings before the main event, Secret Machines, bring their epic and most beautiful sound to the West Country. The Guardian gives their new album five stars today and, apparently, ‘every moment shows how special this band are’. Without, in any way, wishing to tempt fate, this one should be a belter.

Cottoning/Recottoning

The Fall at Bristol Academy, Monday 20th March

S and I agreed that the heady days when we would look forward to Fall concerts like five-year-olds for Christmas are long gone. However, we insist on paying our dues at least once a year and recently have been rewarded with some belting performances from Smith and his marvellous combo. On Monday evening The Fall made art again. No prisoners were taken. A short set flew by, a matter-of-fact exposure of The Fall’s strengths: angular and riff-laden pieces, loud, powerful, controlled and underpinned by relentless and rigid riddims. There were no encores. The audience was left wanting more and I welcome and respect that refusal to play the system. I’m now too old in the tooth to shout ‘more’. The curve appears to be up for the group. Last year and the year before they played the smaller Bristol Bierkeller – which does actually suit their sound more – but the larger Academy and a decent sized crowd indicate a growing or returning following has cottoned or recottoned onto this band’s mighty might. This remains a cool group. This remains a cool group.

Attack

I've had a migraine today, the second this year. As I once had two migraine attacks in one day I can live with that rate of affliction. I didn't drink to excess at all last night but the couple of pints of Guinness I supped at The Fall gig may have affected my metabolism. As I'm unwell, I'll write a bit more about the concert later in the week but I'll publish one of the photos I took today.

Eastern European

The Coles didn’t enjoy the now traditional lack of comfort in the Guildhall cinema seats last Thursday but we did appreciate the good-natured and clever feature we had set out to view: Good Bye Lenin! The plot involves a middle-aged woman who has devoted herself to the communist party in East Germany. She falls into a coma but awakens after the Berlin Wall has been dismantled and Germany is reunified so her loving son goes to extremes to hide this from her lest she falls ill again from the shock. I found it all very touching. The period details added to the enjoyment while the history of both pre- and post-unification was captured intelligently. Above all, though, this was a film about how much a son loves his mother and was all the more delightful for that.

Pointless Musings

I have recently passed a milestone and am approaching another. My Creative Zen MP3 player contains 402 albums and 4897 tracks. It would take two and a half weeks to listen to everything on there back to back but I’m not going to try that as I like to sleep and go to the lavatory occasionally. I would suggest that my player remains the favourite object I own by some considerable distance – closely followed by my Pure digital radio methinks. When I took the girls to their swimming lesson this morning I sat poolside and indulged in a sort of Desert Island Discs style activity which proved enormously stimulating. You can search for albums really quickly on the machine but, if you wish, you can scroll all the way through the albums from start (‘#1 Record/Radio City’ by Big Star) to finish (‘Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars’ by David Bowie). At any one time, as you scroll, only six album titles are visible on the screen at once so I wondered which ‘screen of six’ I would take to a desert island or Stroud or Dax or wherever if those bare half dozen recordings were all I was allowed. The three contenders are listed below. The third option is a bit tongue-in-cheek but The Fall’s Peel Sessions are marvellous while the first two on that list are bona fide classics. I would say that Option One wins the day as it covers quite a few bases and covers them rather magnificently: a classic folk album, a classic jazz recording, some peerless seventies reggae, a subtle and delicate soundtrack, a post-punk loud and scary thing and Radiohead’s finest and most challenging hour. Option Two is tempting, mind. After a week or two on the island (or living in Stroud or Dax) I’d probably be crying out for One Hundred Years by The Cure or Horsechimes by Prefab Sprout.

Option One
Just Another Diamond Day by Vashti Bunyan
Kes Original Soundtrack by John Cameron
Kid A by Radiohead
Killing Joke by Killing Joke
Kind of Blue by Miles Davis
King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown by Augustus Pablo

Option Two
Pornography by The Cure
Post by Bjork
Power, Corruption and Lies by New Order
Pretzel Logic by Steely Dan
Protest Songs by Prefab Sprout
Rabbit Songs by Hem

Option Three
The Campfire Headphase by Boards of Canada
The Colour of Spring by Talk Talk
The Complete Peel Sessions 1978-2004 (Disc 1) by The Fall
The Complete Peel Sessions 1978-2004 (Disc 2) by The Fall
The Complete Peel Sessions 1978-2004 (Disc 3) by The Fall
The Complete Peel Sessions 1978-2004 (Disc 4) by The Fall


Talking of The Fall, I’m off to see them tomorrow night at the Bristol Academy. As ever, I’m looking forward to the wonderful and frightening noise that awaits me.

I Love My Friends

I have grown to adore – yes, adore – Stephen Duffy’s 'I Love My Friends' and I sense it will become one of those recordings I am to become evangelical and a little boring about. Apologies in advance to all concerned. Soaring pop melodies, exquisitely poignant lyrics and more wit, wisdom and swaggering insouciance than you can shake a lilac tree at: this is an important recording. Lost cult classics can disappoint but ‘I Love My Friends’ is a majestic triumph. I’m eyeing the fellow’s back catalogue with a wolfish lick o’ the lips.

This morning I played a Fall song for all the wrong reasons.

Shoegazing

Last night I ventured with J to Cheltenham’s Bacon Theatre for a concert celebrating the sixtieth birthday of cult folkster (so ‘cult’ I’d never heard of him) Steve Ashley. A whole raft of folk’s top players appeared including several ‘Fairports’ and Robert Kirby who arranged all Nick Drake’s strings and conducted a small orchestra last night. Ragged Robin, Ashley’s old band plugged in their guitars for a while but nobody shouted ‘Judas’. Alas. It was pleasant but lacked the edge that the folk music I prefer demonstrates. I couldn’t listen to this kind of more traditional stuff for too long but one evening was fine. It was fascinating to chat to Peter Muir the owner of folk record label Market Square in the bar beforehand and during the interval. Here was a gent who really knew his stuff, not only about the folk scene, but about most music of import. I did enjoy his observation that Nick Drake was the first ever shoegazer. Which in a way, he was.

Wales 18 - Italy 18

I do enjoy my trips to the Millennium Stadium. Today’s clash between Wales and Italy was high on endeavour and skill and rather exciting. It was obvious that 95% of the crowd had pitched up expecting a Welsh victory and were shocked by the discipline and proficiency of the visitors who deserved a draw and, possibly, a victory after a relentless period of pressure in the second half that rocked the home side. The Gloucester signings both showed up well although Nieto limped off injured in the first half. Bortolami appears to be a stunning signing; his all round game was superb and I noted his inspirational leadership qualities from close range. He’ll be great for the city.

Again I was heartened by the support for the Welsh; I was surrounded by real fans with not a prawn sandwich to be spotted all afternoon. The atmosphere was startling.

I bought Stephen Duffy’s re-released classic I Love My Friends in a smashing little Cardiff record shop called Spillers. Having played it once I can tell its English whimsy and soaring melodies will hit all the right spots. I downloaded the soundtrack to City of God last night and played it there and back on the train today. This is a sublime collection of Brazilian music, funky, catchy, swinging and sultry. I recommend it.

Libraries Gave Us Power

Is it unusual to get a little bit over-excited by the opening of a new library? I must confess I have watched the new Longlevens library being constructed over the course of the last year and have steadily become more thrilled as a stunningly designed building has taken shape. It finally opened earlier this week and is an absolute joy. There has been significant investment in new stock so the choice is wonderful, there are hundreds of decent CDs and DVDs to browse through, the kids’ section is spacious and bright while a big screen (showing Star Wars when I was in) dominates one wall. I know this sounds overblown but this place is going to seriously improve the quality of my life. I am sure the masses would disagree but a life-affirming building like this is precisely, precisely what I want my taxes invested in. Heaven.

Tomorrow shall be an adventure. My son and I are travelling by locomotive to the city of Cardiff where we shalt alight and stroll to the Millennium Stadium where a brace of tickets will admit us to the Wales against Italy match. I reckon Italy will fancy their chances against a stuttering Welsh side. I’m keen, naturally, to see Gloucester’s new signings, Bortolami and Nieto, in action for the Azzurri. A boyish part of me is looking forward to the train journey as much as the football.

Scotch

Another new arrival today. Rory Lawson has joined the city from Edinburgh. The fellow is a scrum-half and I welcome him. He is the third choice Scotland number nine and it appears he has turned down Glasgow for us so he must fancy his chances of cementing a first team place for himself. I would like one or two more signings. Another monstrous prop would be dandy and an imposing number eight in the mould of Junior Paramore would be marvellous too. Behind the pack a class back three player (or two) would delight this supporter. Here’s wishing, eh?

I have been playing 'Animals' by Pink Floyd to death recently. I never thought that would happen and that if it did, I would admit to it. Stunning album though.

Guinness

I’m a touch hungover today. The Big Laugh Café provided us with merely adequate entertainment – I am ever convinced that I don’t really enjoy stand-up that much – but also with an opportunity to sample the Guildhall’s Guinness in four-pint pitchers. I’ve been a bit tender as a result. In Ireland the Guinness doesn’t tend to give one a hangover which begs an obvious question…

The bulk of yesterday was spent in Bath. John Hegley’s poetry show for children, ‘I am a Potato’ was fun, clever and knowing. My three enjoyed it. Before the show I saw Jonah Lomu strolling up Milsom Street with his female partner. They were contentedly clutching shopping bags. In a charity shop I purchased a Smiths singles compilation for a quid. For a band that used to dominate every waking hour when I was a youth I am surprised how rarely I yearn to listen to their songs any more. I guess they don’t mean so much now that I’m grown although a part of me confesses that I lost interest in the group when they became popular and uber-hip. When C and I were the only ones to know about them, eagerly awaiting early sessions on the John Peel show, they were sparkling and wondrous and ours. I’ll never forget strutting into the school sixth form common room with their debut album, released that day, under my arm and nobody, nobody having the slightest clue who The Smiths were. Heck, I felt smug.

The video to The Beatles’ Something is one I’d never seen before. Its monochrome charm and simplistic quaintness are gorgeous.

I’m sad that Terry Fanolua is leaving Gloucester at the end of the season and admit to experiencing the faintest moisture around the old peepers when I read the message to his fans on his website. Fanolua joined the city club as a lad really and will leave as a legend. Whatever his shortcomings as a player – and I have criticised his over-zealous desire to seek contact and avoid passing the ball – I have always relished his dedication and ability to give his all for the cause. His final match at Kingsholm will be an emotional occasion and the sentimentalist in me can’t wait. Part of me welcomes Ryan’s decision not to offer the Samoan an extra year though. It hints at a steely determination to create the right squad to challenge for honours. I would rather have a Jack Adams or an Anthony Allen in the ranks any time.

May Be Busy

A blooming busy weekend beckons in May. Friday 5th sees Martin Stephenson visit Gloucester for an Acoustica session at the Guildhall, Saturday 6th brings Wasps to Stade Kingsholm for the last league game of the season and Sunday 7th I fully intend to travel to Bristol to catch Shack at the Fleece and Firkin, a much underrated venue (and band). I wonder if they have any new material coming out?

This coming Saturday I’m looking forward to seeing, avec famille, the fantastic performance poet and all-round good egg John Hegley at the Bath Theatre Royal before dashing back to Gloucester to enable the Cs to accompany the Ls to the Gloucester Guildhall for the Big Laugh Café comedy night, always a hoot and always an opportunity to have a few pints and relax.

Flat-Packed Furniture

I don’t really want to bang on and on about last week’s Ryan Adams concert but it actually put me off listening to music for a few days. Yesterday, however, while I gleefully constructed an item of flat-packed furniture I listened to Adams’ ‘Heartbreaker’ and ‘Cold Roses’ albums. This was the musical equivalent of climbing back on one’s bicycle after tumbling off. It was reassuring to hear how marvellous these recordings sounded and, despite his failings in the live arena, what astounding songs he has composed over the years. He is forgiven.

There are a couple of albums I desire. The new Durutti Column album harvested a really fine review in last Friday’s Guardian, prompting me to play their soaring – and superbly named – debut, ‘The Return of the Durutti Column’. The opening track, Sketch for Summer is, frankly, as good as ambient guitar music gets. This remains, after 27 years, outstandingly beautiful music. A re-release has caught my eye also. Stephen Duffy’s ‘I Love My Friends’ has been heralded within the media as a lost treasure full of staggering pop moments.

This month’s Mojo hit the doormat on Friday. I’ve saved if for this week but there is plenty I long to read with articles on Wire, Van Morrison, Pink Floyd and Morrissey to pour over. The free CD features bags of sixties Psychedelic gems and I can’t wait to hear it.

Bath loss; pathos

I don’t want to dwell too much on yesterday’s rugby. Any Gloucester loss to Bath is hard to stomach but I have rarely felt as gutted as I did at the final whistle yesterday. However, a day on I feel a little more positive. Judging by the comments of others, I was the luckiest guy in the ground having missed the dire first half because of work. The second half was wonderfully – and often for the wrong reason - exciting and contained plenty of incident and I relished watching the skill of Simpson-Daniel and, to a lesser extent, Peter Richards carving Bath up and creating plenty of chances. The introduction of Fanolua for the underwhelming Keil was fascinating; the Samoan’s spirit seemed to change the match and the presence of a character who epitomises all the club stands for was almost enough to win the match. It wasn’t to be. The last passage of play was unbearably thrilling and that made defeat all the harder to swallow. One level head at the death would have sent the stadium into delirious raptures but a miss is as good as a mile at this level. I’m still disenchanted today but I know that such dark thoughts will help render the next glorious win all the more agreeable. It certainly is not easy following Gloucester at times. At least my mood indicates how much I still care after all these years.

I have been investigating a website I read about in yesterday’s Guardian, http://www.youtube.com/, a huge archive of music videos, both commercial and bootlegged. The concert footage available is mind-blowing. This recording of Gang of Four playing ‘He’d Send in the Army’ from 1981 is simply joyous. Gill et al seem to be wearing futurist shirts and are definitely as po-faced as ever. There’s a gorgeous bit of Go-Betweens too, playing ‘Clouds’ in concert and looking and sounding imperious. Some kind punter has chucked some footage of Ryan Adams’ Bristol gig from a few days ago enabling more poor suckers to suffer as well. Adams apart, this is a real Aladdin’s Cave.

The majestic Shack are touring this year and playing Bristol. I must tell S.

The picture of the kitten is to help embittered Gloucester supporters focus their energies on something more positive and life-affirming. It's the best I can do. Sorry.

What a Pathetic Display 2

It seems that my rather disparaging comments about Master Ryan Adams are shared by others, and others who are quite prepared to be franker than me. The reviewer in the Evening Post attempts to be balanced in his report of Tuesday’s ghastly occasion but to no avail; a series of anguished punters vent their spleen quite merrily on the newspaper’s webpages. I was obviously not alone in my disappointment. I particularly appreciated the comment, 'I don't want to pay £20 to watch an embarrassing drunk. I can see them for free in Trowbridge park on most days.'

Rugby Football

Verily, the fates have conspired against me and, due to work commitments, I shall be missing the first half of tomorrow’s crunch match against Bath. I finish at midday so shall be bounding speedily down the Valley of Gold, listening intently to Radio Gloucestershire’s commentary, and hopefully parking sufficiently near to the stadium to enter the Kingsholm bear-pit as close to half-time as possible. Although Bath are missing some crucial forwards, they should still possess sufficient grunt and astuteness to cause the city some problems. The key should be to attain at least parity up front, provide quick ball and attack with alacrity and verve. Key figures should be Hazell, Mercier and Simpson-Daniel; if they all play to their considerable potential and the forward effort suffices, the spoils should be Gloucester’s. I take nothing for granted though.

What a Pathetic Display

The Ryan Adams concert on Tuesday night could euphemistically be described as ‘different’ and undoubtedly as 'disappointing'. I was certainly looking forward to seeing Adams, who, if not quite a ‘hero’, is definitely a musician I regard extremely highly. Last year’s trio of albums '29', 'Jacksonville Nights' and 'Cold Roses' emphasised the artist’s prolificacy but also showcased a rare talent for producing incredibly moving, melodic and tender country music. Earlier albums, 'Heartbreaker' and 'Gold' are truly superb too. Tuesday at Bristol’s Colston Hall was awful though. Adams played for almost three hours but a refusal to adhere to a set-list for artistic reasons along with, shall we say, a tendency to behave with a certain eccentricity led to a rambling, disjointed and unsatisfactory event. Too often Adams started a wonderful song only to halt after a minute or so because something or other wasn’t quite right, on one occasion because he realised he had two cigarette lighters in his rear pocket and felt he had to walk off stage to deposit them with a road crew member. He incessantly talked gibberish and spent minutes between songs mumbling and murmuring, moaning and sighing. He indubitably has problems and issues but spending twenty quid and a whole evening being forced to voyeuristically witness them was not what I anticipated or desired. And neither did the other punters: I have never heard so much heckling and disquiet at a gig. A few folk walked out in exasperation and I sympathised. Amid the debris a few moments of clarity and beauty rendered the evening a not total disaster but they were few and far between. 48 hours on, I can reflect calmly on a fairly appalling effort. However, at the time it was like watching a car smash.

Ciao!

Possibly not the greatest ever, ever 24 hours in the city club’s history but certainly up there in terms of positive news and feel good factor. First up, the team eked out a crucial away win against the despised Rob Andrew’s mob in the far north. The four points claimed via a try from the old stager Fanolua and eight points from ‘Monsieur Points’ Mercier could prove essential in the lads’ noble quest for European football next term. Today that news was embellished with the signing of Jake Boer, certainly one of my all time favourite Gloucester players, for an extra year that will mean seven years in a cherry and white shirt for the all-action South African. The icing on the cake was a new signing, and one that this supporter finds incredibly exciting. Gloucester have managed to attract to the club the star Italian lock forward and current captain of the Azzuri, Marco Bortolami. This shows we are keen to build a powerful and skilful pack for next season and with the peerless Alex Brown, imposing Will James, underrated Adam Eustace and improving Jonathan Pendlebury also on the roster, things look good for next season’s engine room. I am both mightily encouraged and excited by this news.

Scandinavian Searches

I have been browsing others’ weblogs today. I couldn’t find anything that changed my life but I enjoyed Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset’s wit and humour and wry look at life. It is bright and possesses a self-assurance that I quietly envy. I stole the idea of adding a short list of favourite postings from this site so the right hand side of my blog has grown noticeably since this morning. I have also added a few new links just to liven things up a bit. A week ago I subscribed to something called Stat Counter which tells me how many hits this site receives and also other fairly interesting (well, to me, anyhow) information. Most visitors to this site are from the UK but characters from as far away as France, Bermuda, Italy, U.S.A., Canada and even Chile have popped by. Today I discovered that someone from Sweden had logged onto this blog after searching for ‘Richard Hawley’ on Google. I hope he or she wasn’t too disappointed by my rather insipid comments about the Sheffield songster.

I’m off to see Ryan Adams at the Colston Hall on Tuesday evening. I must telephone B and make arrangements.

Society

I watched Vera Drake for the first time last night and thoroughly appreciated a moving, thoughtful and superbly acted feature. The tagline, ‘Wife. Mother. Criminal.’ sums up the film well; the double life led by the title character dominates the plot and narrative. However, the evocation of an austere post war England is for me the major charm of the film. Nobody has a great deal, cars and televisions are rarer than hens’ teeth and houses and flats are practical rather than comfortable or luxurious. However the sense of community in the London streets is so deep that a lack of consumer goods is not felt and the love of family and friends more than makes up for any poverty. It is telling that the unhappiest people in the film are those keenest to climb socially. Vera’s friend – and accomplice – Lily is ‘on the make’ and driven by a greed that renders her suspicious, bitter and miserable while the Drakes’ sister-in-law, Joyce, is the epitome of the aspirant new middle class that were to ‘never have it so good’. Her resultant shallowness, voracity and lack of beauty all echo a good deal of what I despair of in today’s Britain.

Pat

I hadn’t thought too much about the Gloucester Player of the Season until I read through today’s postings on the Kingsholm Chronicle. I must confess that I agree with most of the messages and that, right now, Patrice Collazo has my vote. The rugged Frenchman has been the pillar of a much-improved city pack and his uncompromising grittiness must be a real hassle to play against. Taking the silver and bronze medals for me – and it is only February, mind – are the elegant and dashing Oliver Morgan and the noble Alex Brown. Good players.

Chance Meetings with Folk

I downloaded 'Coles Corner' by former Longpig Richard Hawley today. It is one of those albums that appeared on various best-of-2005 lists and generally received glowing reviews. On first listen I must confess that it isn’t my thing but I shall not give up yet. It is a bit too ‘croony’ for my liking; I have gone off big arrangements and overblown orchestrations. I’ll probably love it tomorrow.

This morning’s visit to the barbers proved stressful and uncomfortable. A former teacher of mine strolled in, a fellow who is now in his mid 80s and who retired twenty years ago, a couple of years after I left school. He was not my favourite then and I fear the feeling was mutual. Today’s brief meeting and exchange, facilitated by my affable hairdresser who knew no better, was a touch awkward and one I could have done without. Part of me feels a bit shoddy that I could have rather negative thoughts about someone who was part of my life so long ago and who is now a very elderly and harmless soul. He was welcomed into the shop by the barbers like a long-lost returning hero. My heart, frankly, sank. I probably felt guilty remembering what a terrible fool I was at school as much as everything.

My haircut was cracking so it wasn’t a totally desperate half hour.