A thriving, unspoilt market town

I have hardly posted on here recently and I apologise.

The Coles, with a sniff of spring in their collective nostrils, ventured to Newent this afternoon for a double header of watery thrills. First, we headed to Oxenhall, where the canal is being gradually restored, and, in particular, the lock. To be frank, I’m unsure what the intended end result for this stretch of water might be; it remains a lovely spot though. We then headed to central Newent – the ‘hood – for a gentle stroll round the town’s lake. It was just really pleasant to be outside for an hour or so. Here are three Newent pictures.

I’m appreciating the three albums I purchased from Amazon. I have hardly played the School of Language recording; it seems a challenging scamp and I need a day or two to really play it to death before it clicks. Vampire Weekend’s eponymous debut is a cheeky blighter, full of impish wit and toe-tapping zing. Some of the lyrical content is a touch clever-clever – does the world really need a song about an obscure piece of punctuation? – but I can’t help but admire the band’s energy and intellect. The British Sea Power’s Do You Like Rock Music is a work of admirable quality, a stirring collection of songs about, inter alia, bird flu and immigration, with earnest choruses and rousing sections galore.

Three Shipped Discs

It is halfway through February and I am yet to own a 2008 CD recording. Until Saturday that is. Or maybe Monday. It depends on the British postal system. I’ve made a bolt for it and frantically logged onto Amazon, debit card in paw, in order to purchase a trio of promising long players. It would be plain daft to proffer the readership of these august pages any meaningful review of said items as they, no doubt, remain languishing in some suburban warehouse unheard by these tender ears. However, with nine or twelve urgent and vaguely impatient clicks of the fingers, I have summoned the new one by British Sea Power, and debuts by Vampire Weekend and School of Language. School of Language is ‘im out of Field Music, a collective I admire. I shall report back.

Talking of future frolics, I have registered the married Coles plus eldest child (now ostensibly a 'youth') for Glastonbury Festival tickets. I am aware that this guarantees precisely nothing but with three computers on the go here and fairly decent broadband speeds at our disposal, I should hope for a clinically planned operation on the morning the tickets go on sale and, with a bit of luck, a trio of permits.

The Rebirth of Spool

Oxfam sells audio tapes. They cost 49 new pence each or a round pound for three. This represents a bargain and I am gradually amassing a whole stack of cassettes that I am playing in my automobile and enjoying vigorously. My motor car contains no CD player but I quite like playing tapes; in these days of MP3 files and those new-fangled compact discs (Whatever next? A process to record telecasts onto tape maybe? Jugs that you plug into the wall in order to boil water through the use of electrical magic?) I appreciate the link with the past offered by the use of cassettes. On Saturday, I spent my pocket money on Club Classics Volume 1 by Soul II Soul, Girls + £ ÷ Girls = $ & Girls (I copied and pasted that) by Elvis Costello and an antique punk collection called Twenty Of Another Kind that features one song too many by Sham 69 but is otherwise quaintly pleasurable. I’m sliding the Costello bobbin of sound into my ‘deck’ most often. It is a compilation from 1989 and contains nugget after nugget. Costello’s original version of Girls Talk is a poignant gem while Brilliant Mistake is a stunningly honest and superb number.

Last week I bagged Doolittle by The Pixies, Songs To Learn And Sing by Echo and the Bunnymen and Let Me Come Over by Buffalo Tom. Americana aficionado D is particularly impressed by the latter purchase: ‘Classic Tom’ read his texted response. Frankly, I’m looking forward to my next foray into the shelves of sound at the ‘fam and am saving up already.

Whistling in the Dark

Acoustica last Friday proved a bit of a curate’s egg. I had heard tremendous things about the first act, Vijay Kishore, from a couple of trusted sources and was anticipating something special as a result. The Birmingham-based singer-songwriter possesses a mighty and soaring voice with an incredible range and the Jeff Buckley comparisons proffered on the Acoustica home pages were, to a degree, apt. Howe’er, the expression ‘Nice voice, shame about the material’ rears its ugly, unwelcome head. The lyrical content offered little challenge and provoked less thought while, forsooth, I detected few melodies that made the heart leap. I certainly wasn’t whistling any Kishore numbers as I ambled earnestly down the historic Eastgate Street at evening’s end. Throw in to the mix a fairly taciturn and monosyllabic stage presence, a bewildering need to tune and retune after every song and a compulsion to continually, continually request less light (until I could barely make out the fellow in the gloom) and the frustration is complete. File under ‘Adequate’.

Luckily, the headliner, Kit Holmes, proved a pleasing antidote to her humdrum predecessor. She entered the stage, all hair and brightness, and proceeded to thrill with a sumptuous display of hugely impressive guitar playing. I suppose her set represented the quintessential ‘game o’ two halves’. Her guitar instrumentals, technically outstanding and rather bewitching, were interwoven among her endearing, poppy and pretty songs that, without setting the world alight, were entertaining and catchy. I admired her jolly ways too; her good humoured manner and ready wit proved welcome after the somewhat sullen Kishore. File under ‘Engaging’.

The rugby football proved a tad disappointing on Saturday. The Gloucester club of Gloucester were defeated at home for the first time in ages by the Leicester club of Leicester. Frankly, the number of players missing on both teams rendered the occasion relatively meaningless but I am pleased with the endeavours made by some of the city club's fringe players. James Bailey, at full-back, proved keen and alert while Mark Foster was an abrasive and tough-tackling presence at wing-threequarter. Young Jack Adams, enjoying a rare start in the midfield, caught the eye with more than one mesmerising, strong and speedy sprint through the opposition ranks. Gloucester’s deserved losing bonus point keeps my favoured team at the top of the league.

Giant Sand

Raising Sand by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss is a special recording. Here is a collection of a baker’s dozen haunting and atmospheric slices of Americana, enhanced by sparse production and exquisitely understated musicianship. The Plant fellow is on restrained form and the numbers benefit from his tender and thoughtful interpretations. Krauss possesses a beautiful voice, its clarity reminding me a little of - don’t mock - sixties song thrush Mary Hopkin. Both voices complement each other splendidly and some of the harmonies are ethereal, subtle and rather magical. Not one note is wasted; every second is exceptional. A pleasure.

Here’s hoping for fine weather this August. A trickle of artists has been announced to play this summer’s Green Man Festival. Super Furry Animals are headlining on the Saturday. Here is a band that has slipped under the Cole radar so I’ll be keen to examine the back catalogue before heading west with my inflatable double mattress. Richard Thompson is appearing too and will no doubt be commanding the ‘legend’ slot that the aforementioned Plant so superbly assumed last time out.

Discovery Channel

He’s a bit of a scamp at updating it regularly and numerous punters seem to be logging on just to mock his photograph, but I do admire Alexis Petridis’s weblog. This posting lavishes praise on the wonderful BBC 6Music show, The Freak Zone, but importantly hints at other aural delights available to those hepcats tuning into a variety of radio stations that exist away from the humdrum. As a result, in a Damascun style, I have been awakened to the enchanting and esoteric world of Resonance FM. The station’s brief is to ‘provide a radical alternative to the universal formulae of mainstream broadcasting’ and from what I’ve heard, it succeeds bountifully. Last night’s ‘Clear Spot’ show was a mix of splendid numbers, some poppier than others, interspersed with wry and pithy reflections distributed to the dudes in a deadpan and droll delivery. ‘Twas quaint. I’m now listening to a fairly experimental show called, I believe, Wavelength, that has, thus far, featured records being deliberately played at the wrong speed, some improvised jamming involving electric violin and flute and some poetry inspired by Morse code. There simply isn’t enough of this kind of thing on Severn Sound methinks. Unless you live within a 5km radius of London Bridge you can’t find the magic of Resonance FM (endorsed by The Guardian) by twisting the knob on a traditional wireless but this unique and unconventional station is easily available through the internet.

"Gloucester twinned with Altamont...."

Gloucester Guildhall is celebrating its twentieth anniversary in some style. A host of fairly decent acts are lined up to play the smashing and homely venue. I’m especially looking forward to smartly dressed art-rockers Young Knives in a month or two’s time and am heartened to learn that Icicle Worker, Ian McNabb will be headlining an Acoustica in April. Last Thursday, Art Brut came to town. I rather like this band. Their Fall-styled riffing appeals and complements some wry lyrical content which is half-sang, half-uttered, er Fall-style, by the charismatic (and slightly overweight) Eddie Argos. The band knows how to put on a good show. An energetic set saw Argos emerge into the crowd on several occasions, interact with ‘da kids’ heartily, and produce the proverbial 110%. Importantly, the songs were mighty fine. I only know the first album, Bang Bang Rock and Roll, which is packed with minor masterpieces full of acerbic wit and catchy tunes and many of these numbers were belted out with gusto at the Hall of Guilds. An almighty fistfight broke out amongst the aforementioned kids which put a bit of a dampener on proceedings and a good deal of human blood on the fabled sprung floor. I hope Eliza Carthy doesn’t have to witness such nasty pugilism when she plays the venue in May. I salute Argos for his Altamont comment (see title) although I’m sure it would have been lost on those loutish pumpions intent on punching. Fisticuffs aside, I enjoyed the evening; Art Brut lack a bit of depth I suppose, but what they aspire to do, they do well. I recommend them.

'W'

Gloucester 18 - Wasps 17

Afore the three of the clock kick-off time, I had resigned myself to defeat. A series of lacklustre performances, including last weekend’s rather stilted victory against Ulster – a whole province – had led to a pessimistic disposition and a furrowed brow. Wasps’ recent ejection from the Heineken Cup worried me too: an angered striped and buzzing insect oft spells danger. As it happened, the noble city club known fondly as ‘Gloucester’ performed admirably and with commendable passion. The bullish William James enjoyed a splendid match of chargin’, carryin’ and doin’ the basics extremely well. His colleague Gareth Delve aided and abetted in the strong-arm stuff superbly and it was marvellous to watch the scampering terrier Andrew Hazell back in action. The match proved almost to be the proverbial ‘game of two halves’. Gloucester’s half-time 12-3 lead edged upwards to 18-3 almost immediately after the orange segments had been devoured. Then appeared the long-awaited Waspish backlash, swarms of nasty attacks bamboozling the hosts, leading to a brace of well-taken tries. With a quarter of an hour remaining, the Kingsholm outfit led 18-17 and the hearts of lions were called for. Sterling defence kept the visitors out, especially five minutes from the end when a raid almost reached the tryline. A penalty awarded for – I believe – holdin’ onto the oval was cleared for touch, the resulting line-out was snaffled and a series of pick ‘n’ drives succeeded beautifully in running the clock down. The baying noise emanating from the popular side was mighty as a triumphant crowd urged its heroes to victoire. Hurrah indeed!

I'm in the Moog for Dancin', Romancin'

My current favourite album came free with Mojo this month. Slightly clumsily entitled ok_computer, this 15 track electronica compilation is a stunning collection of non-guitar nuggets. I’d suggest that this selection covers a whole range of bases from ambient and atmospheric lounge electronica to what I might well regard as, well, er, techno. It’s pleasing to listen to some old stuff that had strayed under the radar; I don’t think I’ve heard more than one or two John Foxx tracks over the years and the same could be said of German pioneers Tangerine Dream. Both their offerings here are sublime. I’ve read plenty of fine things about Swedish duo The Knife and the track Silent Shout is a brooding beauty reminiscent of early Aphex Twin and certainly a catalyst for me to investigate more of their work. Frankly, there’s so much gorgeous music on this sampler and if the intention was to turn listeners onto new acts, it has certainly worked. Who needs guitars?

Playing for blood as grandmasters should...

Bobby Fischer died last week. Reading the headline in yesterday’s Guardian – and I’m delighted it made the front page – was quite a shock. The chess champion's passing represents a rarity, a ‘celebrity’ (excuse the ‘c’ word) death impacting on me to a substantial degree. I suppose the disappointing aspect of Fischer’s genius was that very few could really appreciate it. While the genius of, say, Best, Clay, McEnroe and any number of writers and musicians can be dug by thousands and millions, the profound intellect of a chess maestro remains so immense that only a handful can truly claim to comprehend the subtleties. I know I couldn’t come close to appreciating his finest moments but I admired the charisma of the guy, revelled in the stories of those 1970s battles with the Soviet grandmasters and, despite a legion of unforgivable utterances and acts doing him no favours, couldn’t help but be drawn to any news piece or article featuring the fellow. My 60 Memorable Games by Bobby Fischer proudly sits on a bookshelf next to me now and I’m tempted to spend an hour or two soon, working through one or two of the great matches annotated therein, and striving to understand at least a little of the sublime acumen that underlies so much of Fischer’s match play.

I bought the Classic 80gb iPod yesterday and, after hours and hours of toil, have finally put all my music onto it. I’m quietly fond of the item already but feel I should have some brand new sounds to ‘christen’ it properly. I might download the new British Sea power album.

The sport was adequate earlier. Gloucester defeated Ulster – a whole province – by 29 rugby points to 21 rugby points. Although the home side managed five tries, the result was in doubt right until the end and I feel a tad underwhelmed by the whole occasion. I am aware that Munster – a whole province – will destroy the noble Kingsholm-based outfit in the quarter finals unless vast improvements are made to my favoured team. The key areas, for me, are the lines-out which stutter and embarrass and the pivotal role of outside-half where I am yet to witness any player (possibly with the exception of Walker away at Leicester) really ‘boss’ a game.

The Single Life

Rugby at Kingsholm beckons. It’ll be exciting on Sunday to witness a match with ‘something on it’. The noble and historic Gloucester club of Gloucester need to defeat Ulster – a whole province – in order to progress to the last eight of the Heineken Cup with, lo!, a home draw guaranteed. I predict an easy victory for the cherry-hued fellows but sterner tests approach. Stay focused lads!

Here’s a pleasant little cryptic quiz for those that admire such events. I purchased from Oxfam for S’s birthday, four seven-inch pop singles as I know he loves his newish gramophone so much. Three singles were bona fide classics and one was a rotten stinker, a nasty art threat and make no mistake. I wrapped said items and annotated them with cryptic clues so that guesses could be made as to the identity of the song. Dear old S was only allowed to keep three of the four records so the pressure was on to select the trio of belters and sniff out the bad egg. Two of the three aforementioned belters were The Back of Love by Echo and the Bunnymen and Up, Up and Away by The Fifth Dimension. Here are the other two clues. Can you solve them and separate the delight from the dross? Clicking on each clue should reveal the answer.

1. Do you want a donkey ride? Do you want a donkey ride?

2. Sounds like a moan after a holiday kiss.

Product

I bought my Creative Zen MP3 player back in May 2005 and I’m afraid it is dying. Almost all of its two-score gigabytes are full of hundreds of albums and thousands of songs. More than once I have opined that it would be the first thing I grabbed in the event of fire, flood or other, unnamed but sinister, act of god or occurance*. It has become a friend, a rattlebag of riddim and rhyme. Anyhow, the blighter is now stuck, ‘rebuilding library’ continually and an internet search indicates that other Creative owners recognise this disease and many consider it terminal. My eye is taken by an 80gb iPod although I feel a slight disquiet at my disloyalty to the less fashionable Creative brand.

12 Crass Songs by Jeffery Lewis is the album I mentioned here. I have now presented it to not-so-young S so my purchase of it remains a secret no longer. Basically, the prolific New York anti-folk artist has reinterpreted, rather tenderly, a dozen of the anarchist punk band’s angry, raucous and somewhat shouty creations and produced sumptuous acoustic versions where the political anger of the originals is rather quaintly embellished by an unusual treatment. It works merrily. Lewis’s studied vocalisations of the varied rants are fresh and compelling and helped this listener realise just how witty Crass actually were beyond the sloganeering and the screed.

* Perhaps a 'dirty bomb' explosion.

Everybody Have Fun Tonight

After a non-fiction fest (Jon Snow, Tony Benn, Charlie Brooker alors) I’m appreciating ‘the novel’ this year. I completed Then We Came To The End at the weekend and am able to recommend it wholeheartedly. There are dark moments within its pages and, for the first time in my reading life, I had to fold down the corner of a page at the end of a chapter I was on: the subject matter was so affecting that I needed to know how much longer I had to cope with the poignancy. Coward. There are some wry, marvellous and, importantly, believable set pieces to appreciate and the characterisation is a witty triumph. It’s all fantastic.

I’m now onto Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections.

Look at the stars, look how they shine for you...

I viewed, via a telecast, Gloucester’s 10-5 defeat to Bath last evening. The teams were playing rugby football union in the most awfully muddy/boggy conditions which, in my opinion, humble as ‘tis, rendered the occasion a complete farce. Admittedly the Bath club handled the swamp with more thought and skill than my favoured outfit but I am happy to consign to whole occasion to history; on a dry and drained pitch Gloucester would have proved too strong for their West Country rivals. The losing bonus point was, ahem, a bonus. Enough already.

I downloaded a lovely album earlier that I am also purchasing from Amazon for not-so-young S for his 40^th birthday next week. Sadly, as I need to keep it a secret, I can’t reveal the title of said recording. It is a charming item though.

The eye is looking ugly and yellow now. It was upsetting to walk through the broad streets of the county town this morning to find passers-by recoiling and shuddering at the unsightly vision. I know people were judging me poorly. My confidence has been dented.

I'll Tumble 4 Ya

Last evening I stumbled, then tumbled down the stairs sans grace or dignity and harmed eye, shoulder and rump. Despite aching and feeling rather stiff today, I’m rather proud of the above shiner.

Material

The Coles secretly slipped away to Yorkshire for New Year and have now returned to the shire what we live in. I thank the Ws for their hospitality. The new pool table that has appeared in the dining space since our last visit made me tingle and sigh. I covet it.

Whilst in the North Riding I purchased and consumed On Chesil Beach, the recent novella penned by the earnest Ian McEwan. I must admit it reminded me of the author’s early short stories with its candid subject matter interlaced with intricate details. The mention of, say, a glacé cherry or a patched trouser intelligently evokes the period – early 1960s – when wartime austerity and sobriety was finally giving way to a bit more style, swagger and choice. An ultimately tragic relationship dominates the pages but ‘tis the backdrop featuring class division, contemporary political thought and the heralding of a new era, equally exhilarating and frightening, that commands most attention. On Chesil Beach proved, in places, a less than comfortable read but the suggestion of a fascinating period of societal change was incredible and, I consider, McEwan’s finest achievement.

I’ve another book on the go now. Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris is a wry glance at office life, its mundanities and minor dramas, in novel format. I’m finding this book tremendously entertaining. The author, a young man, has carved out a bewitching yet believable cast of characters and has weaved a host of delicious vignettes about them. There is a delicious website that goes with this novel, packed with details that make this punter beam. Some of the book’s characters appear to have their own MySpace pages. The map of the office is exquisite. The video is worth watching; it contains some fairly typical office shots with some quotations from the novel recited, deadpan, over the top. I’m enthusing about the whole enterprise. I used to work in an office.

I am going to try and get fit this year.

"The atmosphere is so tense, if Elvis walked in with a portion of chips, you could hear the vinegar sizzle on them"

The Sky Sports coverage of the Ladbrokes World Darts is, once again, drawing me in with its mixture of high drama, wondrous personalities and top notch commentary. My hot tip is for ‘Hawaii 5-0-1’ Wayne Mardle to upset the top seed Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor in the quarter-finals and to win the whole darned thing. From a musical perspective, the media mover who compiled a montage of Raymond Van Barneveld clips with Brown Paper Bag by Roni Size playing in the background deserves some kind of gong; the hybrid of quality arrows and soaring Bristolian drum ‘n’ bass inspired awe galore.

IDM

By Jupiter, I have grown mightily fond of Sound of Silver, the fun, funky and far-out long player by LCD Soundsystem. I first wrote about it in the month of Augustus and despite an array of aural temptations assaulting my senses and leading me away from its charms and riddims, I still continue to spin it and love it. It is playing right now and I feel like scampering from this keyboard and attempting some kind of frantic robotic dance to its hypnotic grooves and upbeat pulse-beats. But I won’t. Instead I shall dwell on the record’s ability to chuck one great, great song after the other at the listener, moving songs, funny songs, uplifting songs, witty songs, all driven by intelligent and irrepressible music tracks. The resulting hybrid of New Order’s grandeur, Talking Heads’ wired magnetism and a lickle bit of everythin' from Blondie’s Rapture to Human League’s Being Boiled to D. Bowie’s Sound and Vision makes for a fabulous and fulfilling fifty-odd minutes. It is this website’s Album of the Year by a fairly lengthy margin and I salute it with warmth and affection.

Mrs Cole took the above photographs.

The 2007 Top Five is listed below in its entirety. The links take the reader to pages on this weblog where these long players were originally mentioned.

1. LCD Soundsystem – Sound of Silver

2. Radiohead – In Rainbows

3. Field Music – Tones of Town

4. The Aliens – Astronomy For Dogs

5. Gruff Rhys - Candylion

Concert-ed Efforts

I’m heartened to learn that a couple of acts shall be appearing at Gloucester’s Guildhall early next year. I know little about neither Art Brut nor Young Knives but it reassuring to note that ‘name’ bands are choosing to frequent the Eastgate Street venue. I know one fellow who raves about Art Brut and I value his opinion. I also telephoned the jovial M in his North Yorkshire abode last evening as I am aware of his admiration for the Young Knives. His advice was to ‘go see’ and I shall take it. There was a stunning rumour on the go during this month’s Acoustica that a very, very, very big act might be playing the Hall of the Guild in 2008. And I don’t mean Travis. Although they are playing there too.

I tapped eight album titles into a secret Word document earlier. The shortlist for this site’s Album of the Year is complete and I shall be posting the results very soon. I do like bleep.com’s Top 50. There are plenty of fine recordings in the fifty and, possibly, several of the Uprock Narritives and Unknown Pleasures shortlist.

See the street-litter twisting in the wind

As I strolled down the London Road today, intent on Christmas shopping in the metropolis, I cascaded past a used and discarded surgical mask, the mandatory broken ale bottle, a fairly fresh pile of vomit and a Citizen hoarding referring to the recent departure of Gloucester rugby winger, Karl Pryce, that read ‘Glos Star to Join Wigan’. After a few seconds reflection I decided that it was the use of the word ‘star’ in the local rag’s advert that had caused me most repugnance.

If they were me and I was you...

Well, it was my birthday last weekend – the segment known in this nation as ‘Saturday’ - and I celebrated by watching the feted Gloucester club vanquish in a match of rugby union against a fine French outfit known as Bourgoin before travelling to Bristol for the Portishead recital. My gifts included a decent crop of CDs and I shall attempt to list them now.

My most played item is the Burial album, Untrue, which builds on the murky anti-glamour of the eponymous debut album by the young prince of dubstep, but is, if possible, even more evocative and redolent of the dank and drizzly streets of a forgotten and unfashionable London district. It is a splendid, challenging long player. And The Refinement Of Their Decline by Stars of the Lid is a remarkable double CD of minimalist ambient electronica. I’m playing it late at night and it’s putting me to sleep faster than a double dose of Night Nurse. I’ve always admired a drone and the very long synthesised notes on this recording overlap hypnotically. It’s very unusual and by no means an easy listen. I also got another Trojan reggae compilation. Comic artist Savage Pencil has compiled a host of Trojan treasures and called it Lion Versus Dragon In Dub. I’m spinning this recording as I write these words actually. The sleeve notes warn that a predilection for the sounds of Augustus Pablo means that there is quite a lot of melodica on the album. I’m not complaining; the choices are intelligent and blend together beatifically. Riddim!

I have the latest Rachel Unthank and the Winterset album, The Bairns, a folky treat that has been much lauded this year and named in many best-of-2007 lists. It’s a very beautiful, almost fragile, set of songs and the version of Robert Wyatt’s Sea Song is, like the delicate and respectful cover of Nick Drake’s River Man on the first Winterset long player, breathtaking. I’ve got the three disc Young Marble Giants collection too. Disc one is the astounding post punk classic, Colossal Youth, a stunning and skeletal act of genius. The other discs contain EPs, singles and the obligatory Peel session. The sleeve notes, by Simon Reynolds, are worth the effort of unwrapping the blighter alone. File under ‘Must Have’. Finally, Stephen Duffy and the Lilac Time’s Runout Groove remains forlornly unplayed. I’m working on it.

The elder Cole daughter merrily models the Savage Pencil reggae compilation.

Hop-Trip or A Sort of Homecoming

Portishead at Carling Academy, Bristol

This is a startling group. This is a startling group. Portishead really pulled it off last night. Reportedly this was only the band’s second concert in a decade but no rust was detected. The trademark sound was sharp and powerful, a strong fusion of more traditional instrumentation and hop-hip scratchin’, knob-twidllin’ and riddim-makin’ with the crystal clear and bewitching voice of Beth Gibbons forming the touchstone to everything. Afore an arty monochrome backdrop, the collective, monochrome also, produced a stunning set of old favourites from the Dummy and Portishead long players as well as some compelling and thoughtful fresh material. The newer stuff included some rather pastoral sounds reminiscent of Ms. Gibbons’s alt-folk recordings with Talk Talk’s Paul Webb. I approved. The older numbers sounded perfect, a series of sad songs underpinned with eerie musical brilliance. I note with some chagrin that there was no room for It Could Be Sweet on the setlist but all other bases were covered luminously. A moody yet uplifting Sour Times was a soaring highlight but a sassy, classy Glory Box and a pensive and brooding Roads were equally glorious. But, it has to be stated, all of the recital was stunning. Behind the timid and tiny Gibbons, the Geoff Barrow figure stood out, hunched o’er his turntables like a witty wizard scratching feverishly at his vinyl with aplomb and style. He was fantastic. Adrian Utley smiled more than the others while his studied guitar shapes added refined textures to the whole darned thang. As a unit, the band, augmented by other players, sounded amazingly fresh and the songs so contemporary that I had to physically check that Dummy was released in 1994. It could have been yesterday.

Darkness on the Edge of Town

Curtis Eller deals in nostalgia. Sportin’ exuberant ‘tache and donnin’ clothes exuding a depression era chic, his songs tell tales of bygone times, of Buster Keaton, old time religion, Lon Chaney, a youthful Elvis and a myriad of strange happenings down south. Last night’s set for Calmer* proved a gripping hour or so, a gothic ride into quite dark waters, permeated with murky characters that could have stepped mysteriously out from a Tom Waits number or a Tennessee Williams subplot. A hushed audience, choosing ‘ugly’ over more merry themes, learnt what happens to a horse bitten by a rattler, what becomes of elephants that, through ill-fortune, find themselves in small-town Texas ‘tween the wars and just how it feels to speak in tongues ‘unknown to men’. All these shadowy treasures came with a bewitching banjo backdrop, elegant choreography with ebullient high-leg action and more than one haunting stroll through a slightly nervous crowd. His mordant slice of Americana, neither apple pie nor Star-Spangled Banner in sight, was an unusual world-view but one that proved evocative and compelling to the cool cats of the county who cascade to Calmer*. A hit.

Other dark and esoteric tales had emerged earlier in the evening from the earnest and ever-engaging Men Diamler who belted out his songs of wit, wonder and world weary wisdom with the passion and energy one has come to expect and admire. It is tempting to suggest that this was the third time I had watched the fellow play and the third time he had stolen the show but I shall merely note that he complemented the Eller figure deliciously and disappointed not one punter. New fans were made. I salute him.

Cheer Up....

A subtle glance at my record collection would indicate an approval of the more maudlin side of popular music. From the darkness of early Cure and Joy Division to the wry soul-searching of The Smiths and Radiohead and the urban melancholia of my recent favourite, Burial, there is a pattern and a theme to be filed sullenly under 'noir'. For that reason, I anticipated keenly last Friday’s Acoustica headliner, David Ford, a fellow who, for Morrissey’s sake, called his first long player, I Sincerely Apologise For All The Trouble I’ve Caused, and who has a reputation for emotional and plaintive songsmithery and for laying bare his soul. The reality was a touch different. Ford proved a witty and quite chirpy character, a charming performer full of self-deprecation and sardonic humour who debated his reputation knowingly and suggested that he preferred to deal with disappointment rather than despair in his writing. He created a splendid noise on Friday. Taking a selection of instruments and looping them to create gorgeous layers of sounds, Ford presented a superb set of challenging and uncompromising numbers, some angry, some contemplative, some rueful, some aggressive, all compelling. His tender reading of The Smiths’ There Is A Light That Never Goes Out was an unexpected highlight but all the songs sent shivers down the ol’ spinal column. Not an acerbic word was wasted and, joy!, not one sensitive singer-songwriter cliché was lazily proffered and it was a rare pleasure to witness a one-off, a truly independent talent with the wit and wisdom to command an audience’s attention so vividly. I salute him. This was a splendid night. Ford cascades effortlessly into the pantheon of ‘Acoustica greats’ alongside Truax, Special, Stephenson and Hewerdine. Hurrah!

A brief bravo for the support act, Ruth Royall. The gal’s elegant and gentle songs proved an impressive hors d’oeuvre before the main event. I liked her.

Sour Times

The Coles are off to see the shimmeringly beautiful and rather marvellous Trip-Hop combo, Portishead, a week on Saturday. They are playing the Bristol Academy. Tickets went on sale at ten this morning and by five past, had all gone. I managed to bag a brace but, alas, failed to obtain a third permit of entry for the affable and loyal S. I apologise publicly but insist I did my best; punters were allowed only two tickets each and by the time I withdrew a second credit card from my wallet, the concert was sold out. Frankly, I can’t wait to see Portishead in such an intimate venue. Here’s a sweet clip of the band in action for all to enjoy.

T.B. Sheets

I'm getting into books about politics again. Having recently completed Jon Snow's memoirs, I'm now contentedly tackling the final volume of Tony Benn's diaries which covers his post-parliamentary years from 2001 to 2007 and are humorously subtitled 'More Time For Politics'. I'm struggling to recall which volumes of Benn's diaries I've already completed. I know I've read the earliest years from 1940 to the 1970s when it was refreshing to catch a vivid and candid glimpse at the Wilson governments. There seemed to be less 'spin' back then while cabinet proved more of a debating chamber than it appears nowadays. More recent diaries dealt with the illness and death of Benn's beloved wife, Caroline; those passages were incredibly poignant and moving.

This current volume sees our hero free of any parliamentary shackles and able to contend wholeheartedly and busily with a post 9/11 world and an Anglo-American alliance determined to wage war in Afghanistan and Iraq. Beyond the anti-war arguments, accounts of telephone calls and meetings and briefings, it is the human side of Benn that commands most attention. Here is an elderly man approaching eighty, coping with deafness, the unreliability of modern appliances, no-smoking restrictions and missing his late wife terribly. He appears to break down and cry almost weekly at memories and sudden thoughts as well as at sad parts in films (he sobs unselfconsciously during the first Harry Potter feature film) and during memorial services for old colleagues. This is so endearing. The juxtaposition of hard-hitting former statesman and lachrymose and tender grandfather makes for compelling reading and all the background details (love of family, dearly treasured friendships, ordinary encounters and conversations with strangers) really do add so much to the overall picture of a hugely admired public figure that history will judge - and is beginning to judge - fondly and with knowing acceptance of great gravitas, wisdom and integrity.

And I was looking for some friends of mine...

It can’t be December already, can it?

I would never admit to knowing what I’m getting for my birthday the weekend after next as this would imply that I have surreptitiously gazed at emails informing other family members of impending deliveries from Amazon. I’d never do that. So, it must be extra sensory perception that informs me that the second Burial album, Untrue, is wrapped and ready to be bestowed upon my grateful self. I’m playing the debut Burial album, eponymously named forsooth, a great deal at the moment in order to prepare for this eventuality and it is a bewitchingly lugubrious and atmospheric product. This appeals. Electronic and dub-heavy riddimic soundscapes proffer dark and mournful insights into urban melancholia that are compelling and challenging in equal measure. The track titles – Night Bus, Broken Home, U Hurt Me, Gutted – add to the murky ambience and the occasional haunting vocal helps create e’en more tension. It’s a marvellous recording, full of layers and texture and I’d suggest that’s the kind of album Boards of Canada would create if they resided in a bleak inner London rather than the bucolic splendour of the Scottish wilds.

I don’t know a great deal about Burial, the person. He is famously secretive and I am sure that not even close friends of his are aware that he is even producing music. I’m fairly certain that there are no official videos of his work but a creative being has posted the sultry tones of Gutted on Youtube over a clip from the wondrous Eraserhead. Pump up da volume.

A blindness that touches perfection

The Gloucester Guildhall, in its wisdom, hosted a showing of the Ian Curtis biopic, Control last Saturday and, despite a sorry inability to locate a long bottle-green raincoat, I attended with S and A2. I suppose I know the Joy Division story well. As a young man, weight on shoulders, I embraced this remarkable combo’s dark and compelling sounds with wholehearted vim. I possess countless books about the group and, naturally, all the recordings. I even own a book of Joy Division lyrics in Italian translation format which I believe I purchased in Berlin in 1989. You can’t pick that up in ASDA. The feature film was compelling and interesting nonetheless; after all, this is a tale where you don’t need to avoid spoilers. I confess the suicide element, although tragic and worthy of a hundred ‘what if?’ conversations, takes second place to the music. I appreciated the grainy reconstruction of backroom gigs and grubby backstage environs and the portrayal of the rather haphazard manner in which a band that created some of the most searingly beautiful soundscapes of the last century was marketed and managed was fascinating too. The film highlighted the ordinariness of the Joy Division fellows cleverly: the bonhomie, laddishness, youth and unpretentious wide-eyed enthusiasm of Curtis, Hook, Morris and Sumner is clearly demonstrated. They wrote Decades though. And The Eternal. And New Dawn Fades. And Atmosphere. Here is the incredible story for me. The film was marvellous and fascinating but if you really require an insight into the art and genius of four down to earth blokes from the north-west, give yourself a spare hour or two and listen to Unknown Pleasures and Closer and the three main singles, Transmission, Love Will Tear Us Apart and Atmosphere. Joy Division make art. This is an essential group. This is an essential group.

This is the winter of your mind

Gloucester 27 – Harlequins 25

Here was the proverbial ‘game o’ two halves’. A rude awakening awaited those expecting the might of the city club to overcome a visiting Harlequin FC with ease and pomp. The first thirty minutes saw the visitors pounce four times for beautifully taken tries and, with the stylish young back Strettle seemingly cantering through a troubled defence at will, an embarrassing and shocking defeat seemed on the cards. A well-taken reply from the volcanic behemoth, Vainikolo and a brace of penalties from the assured Paterson took the Cherries in for the half-time orange segments, a flattering 25-13 down.

The second half proved an emotional event. A key substitution brought the abrasive Azam on for Titterrell and the rugged Frenchman, not for the first time, brought steel, passion and go-forward fervour to his beloved team. Terrific tidal waves of surging forward attacks brought Gloucester into key areas of the pitch and, importantly, the home players were starting to hog possession with a rare gluttony. Local lips were licked lasciviously. With the Harlequin fellows struggling to stem the tide, the penalty count rose quicker than something that rises very quickly and, unsurprisingly a brace of London types were dispatched to the bin marked ‘sin’. Pressure told and a joyous Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall and the volcanic behemoth both crossed to general delirium. Both tries were converted and, despite scares, the 27-25 scoreline remained thus for the remainder of the match

This was not a lucky win but a few newish players were assimilated into the fifteen which produced a fairly disjointed and messy first forty minutes. If this was a gamble, it was a gamble that worked. The likes of Delve, Cooper and Paterson will have benefited from the experience and the squad, as a unit, will certainly improve. The impact of Delve, a ball carrying brute, became increasingly visible as the afternoon progressed. My man o’ the match gong would probably be conceptually presented to the young full-back Morgan, safe under the high ball, defensively sure and a handful in attack with his elegant heads-up galloping keenness. I salute him.

Harold Wilson

The coveted Uprock Narratives and Unknown Pleasures album of the year award is still up for grabs. There is both a shortlist and a front runner but it could all change. A month and a half is a long time in popular music. The world’s music scene holds its breath. It’s my birthday next month and I’m requesting albums that were released this year as presents. There might just be time for one of these long players to oust Artist X from the lofty position he/she/they hold in my affections. Gosh, all this secrecy. For the record, I’m asking for, inter alia, Untrue by Burial, Runout Groove by The Lilac Time, The Bairns by Rachel Unthank and The Winterset, From Here We Go Sublime by Field and And Their Refinement Of Their Decline by Stars of the Lid. I'm naturally giddy with excitement.

Realm of Dusk

Gloucester 26 – Ospreys 18

This was a great occasion. As always, the floodlights heightened the thrills and spills and the vivid Technicolor spectacle was never less than pulsating and compelling. Two splendid teams battled for victoire. The glory boys of Ospreys looked the part, thoroughbreds galore, all fake tan and fanciness, throwing the ball about with pace and pomp and verve and commanding the opening exchanges. This punter was not alone in believing the match was slipping away from the mighty Gloucester after the first twenty minutes when a mixture of careless play and effervescent ebullience from the opposition saw the Welsh fellows take a deserved lead. Doggedness, desire and determination rather than any tangible splendour from the city kept the lead pegged back to a respectable three points at the interval. It was all to play for though and the sin-binning of a Welshman at the whistle proffered hopes to the cherry ‘n’ white hordes.

The second half proved a magnificent event. Within seconds of the restart, coltish prodigy Anthony Allen emerged from nowhere, burst through the midfield, pinned back his organs of hearing and careered with pleasing promptness under the sticks. The famed old stadium erupted. Advantage Gloucester. A further touch down from Simpson-Daniel, il principe giovane, after a tremendous leg race with the playboy Henson, gave Gloucester hope but further twists and turns kept the entranced spectators on edge until the final whistle. Gleeful back play warms the heart certainly, but the old ghosts that rattle round the historic arena will have appreciated the attritional final five minutes when the home eight fixed bayonets and contrived phase after phase of close-quarters rugby football. The crowd bayed, the clock crept towards no-side and the lads cannily and merrily frustrated their opposite numbers. Victory!

I salute the Gloucester players but, in particular, congratulate young Luke Narraway on a mature and dynamic performance with the legendary ‘8’ shirt on his back. I like the way the unselfish and uncompromising workhorses Buxton and Strokosch roll their sleeves up and graft for the outfit too. Quietly and intelligently, young Strokosch is becoming a very important member of the squad. The backs combined reasonably well last evening and took the chances keenly when they emerged. The volcanic behemoth Vainikolo enjoyed a decent home debut and was a busy and dangerous entity without really threatening the tryline. Paterson’s twenty-five minutes on the park, controlling and closing the game with intelligent kicking and nippy running and passing, was fabulous and, hopefully, a satisfactory augury for future success. Hurrah.

Bass and Drum

Bleep.com is a smart website. It used to be the place where you could purchase and download tracks and albums from Warp artists (Boards of Canada, Autechre, Broadcast etc.) but now there are scores of independent labels that you can browse and buy songs from. I love its clever design; it’s a cool place. Trunk Records is there as well as the doughty Bella Union, Domino and Rough Trade. You can play whole tracks but the sounds fade out after each thirty seconds and you have to quickly press ‘pause’ then ‘play’ in order to fade the sound up. If you have a look, you’ll see what I mean. This is a startling confession for a gentleman of my advanced years but I was lurking there seeking out a bit of Dubstep. I’m intrigued by this genre which fuses electronica, dub bass riddims and urban edge. I'm keen to investigate.

With a childlike vision leaping into view...

It was remarkable to watch the football (the rugby union code, bien sur) on Friday night via a telecast from Belfast. Incredibly, in its first Heineken Cup match of the season, the city club of Gloucester not only defeated the Ulster province – a whole province! – but contrived to play such bewitching sport that the bonus point for attaining four tries was obtained after approximately a mere fifteen and one half seconds, an amazing feat in this day and age. The tries came mainly from deep. The youthful Lamb pulled the strings well at ten and the behemoth Vainikolo, the young prince Simpson-Daniel, Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall and the elegant Balshaw all benefited from some thrilling passin’ and runnin’ and catchin’. To be fair, Ulster, despite being a whole province, were poor and a sterner test shall come next Friday when a star-studded Ospreys outfit visits Kingsholm Stadium. Ospreys are my tip to win the whole blessed tourney. My man of the match was the yeoman Buxton who was everywhere, putting in the tackles, carrying unselfishly into the heart of the opposition and generally contributing to a forward effort that gave the city club’s half backs an armchair ride. I salute this effort but exhort my heroes to refrain from relaxing yet. The Welsh warriors will be seeking a victory this coming Friday.

Cut my swaith and spread my fear

Six of the Best – The Go-Betweens

Thanks to a cassette tape (remember them?) found under the bed, I’ve been playing lots of Go-Betweens this week. The tape features the wonderful Spring Hill Fair album on one side and the sublime but slightly more orchestral (there’s strings and woodwind and stuff on it) 16 Lovers Lane. I made the tape myself from the vinyl copies I own; when I started my degree course in merry Sheffield I didn’t want to lug all my albums up north so created tons of tapes with my favourites on. A strong case could be made for the Go-Betweens being the best blinking band ever. Certainly, using the formula that multiplies a combo’s critical acclaim by its inability to trouble the mainstream, the Australian band would score massively. My favourite Go-Betweens period would probably be the sort-of mid-1980s and the uplifting hat trick of long players, Spring Hill Fair (1984), Liberty Belle and the Black Diamond Express (1986) and Tallulah (1987). 16 Lovers Lane came out in 1989 and, although I really like its array of marvellous songs, there is a sense that it’s a touch too polished and over-produced. The band produced two earlier albums and, after a break of several years, three more corkers. If an inquisitive punter wanted to buy a Go-Betweens album as an introduction, not one of their recordings would disappoint. However, at the moment I can’t really believe how incredible Spring Hill Fair is. As sadly documented on these pages, the great songwriting partnership of Grant McLennan and Robert Forster came to an end last year when McLennan passed away suddenly and tragically. Luckily S and I managed to catch the pair at the Birmingham Academy not long before the awful event. It was a superb evening.

Look, I’m copying A’s idea here a bit. I’ve made a little Go-Betweens compilation and you can download it by clicking here and peeking at the bottom of the page. There are only six tracks. I don’t want to put people off. The tracks are zipped so, if you haven’t already, you’ll probably need to download WinRar. You can do that here. It’s easy.

The songs are:

Part Company (Spring Hill Fair)

Apology Accepted (Liberty Belle and the Black Diamond Express)

Bye Bye Pride (Talullah)

Streets Of Your Town (16 Lovers Lane)

Darlinghurst Nights (Oceans Apart)

The Statue (Oceans Apart)

Part Company and Apology Accepted are, as the titles suggest, rather lovelorn numbers, full of angst and introspection. They are both evocative and lovely songs. Bye Bye Pride is possibly my favourite Go-Betweens track with some haunting cor anglais underpinning a beautiful melody and complementing some gorgeous poetic imagery. Streets Of Your Town is a slice of social realism, on first listen a lightweight pop gem but, on further spins, darker ideas lurk. Darlinghurst Nights is a nostalgic look back at youth and is full of tangible charm; I know that dear S adores this ditty. The Statue is a really sweet and tuneful Grant McLennan song from the band’s last album. Enjoy.

I'll take the tracks down if anyone is unhappy with this scheme.

Pica Pica

Like a nervous apprentice handling a heady and dangerous elixir, I have treated the new Radiohead album, In Rainbows, with utmost care, not playing it to death, choosing my moments to sample it thoughtfully and gradually getting to grips with its multi-layered, multi-textured bewitching bewilderment. I’m getting there now. The reviews have been marvellous and I am thankful to report that there is a tangible link to Kid A, the Oxfordshire beat combo’s most complex and rewarding work. House of Cards reminds this punter of Goin’ Back by The Byrds; this is a good thing. I commend this album to the house.

I admire what the affable A has done on his site. He has lovingly created a dainty compilation of some of his old favourites and rendered said selection available for download. I’m listening to it now with an earnest expression on my face. I consider myself a keen reggae fan but I admit the artist known as Scientist (not his real name I fancy) has always passed me by so I’m glad to have the chance to hear one of his creations and, lo!, it is a bass-heavy delight. Like an evil and calculating pop magpie, I’m keen to do something similar on this site and as soon as I work out how to share music files via the World Weary Web, I’ll post up some tunes and riddims of my own choice. I might call mine ‘Six of the Best’ but I’m not sure yet.

Film

I awoke, coughing and wheezing, this morning at about one of the clock and for the life of me could not return to meaningful slumber. I ventured downstairs and became hooked on a film I’d never heard of before that was a-showing on the Film 4 network. The moving picture was named The Low Down, a British feature from 2000 that tells the tale of Frank, an artist in his late 20s who lives in Bohemian semi-squalor in a London flatshare in a dodgy part of the capital. The film focuses on his relationships with a new girlfriend and his two colleagues who work with him constructing props for TV shows. To be honest, not a lot happens. The style is almost documentary and fly-on-the-wall but the dialogue, while understated, is beautifully and wittily observed. There’s a bit of tension at work between the trio and the plot examines this as well as how the young lady gently coerces Frank to subtly change his life and better his surroundings. There are no massive set pieces or dramatic denouements, no stunts or jaw-dropping action scenes and I sense that is why I enjoyed it so much. The characters were so believable and stunningly crafted that I could genuinely feel I was voyeuristically witnessing a set of interesting – but not that interesting – lives. The acting was top notch and the ensemble contained a few faces that went onto greater things since the turn of the century. Frank was superbly played by Queer As Folk’s Aiden Gillen while his two work friends were, rather quaintly, Tobias Menzies (a sublime, sublime Brutus in the remarkable Rome) and Dean Lennox Kelly (the Gallagher’s cheeky neighbour, Kev, in Shameless). Frank’s gal was ‘er out of Shaun of the Dead, Kate Ashfield. I’m tempted to get the blighter on DVD and watch it again. Hurrah. Thank goodness for that cough.

Look out kid...

Here’s a screengrab from one of my Bob Dylan styled emails I sent recently. Thanks to S2 for telling me how to produce a still from a moving image from that internet thing. He was correct; it was easy. Naturally, those gazing at the picture above will be debating who the greater genius was, Dylan or Preedy? That, comrades, is a discussion for another time.