Like a record, baby

I completed the Andrew Marr book a week ago and have since started The Blair Years, Alastair Campbell’s diaries documenting New Labour’s journey from opposition to power. I must admit I’m appreciating a voyeuristic peek behind the scenes as a whole host of egos (Brown, Mandelson, Cook, Prescott etc.) clash and clash again. The energy of the first Labour administration is captured strongly, especially the relentless pace and ultra-delicate diplomacy required in seeking solutions in Northern Ireland. Blair cuts a fascinating figure, desperate to reach Number Ten and railing with impatience against any agency putting the quest for power at risk; in the early diaries this is mainly the old guard union leaders, later cabinet members with a tendency to produce unwelcome headlines (Clare Short is admonished on a seemingly weekly basis). I suppose this book’s main success is demonstrating just how difficult the job of Prime Minister is, an utterly tiring, some would say thankless, task. As one would expect, ‘spin’ plays a large part in this tome and, with massive decisions being made daily, the need to address how the various media will be briefed and manipulated is rarely far from the surface. I’m also enjoying the humanisation of key figures; Brown comes across as dark, moody and unpredictable, Clinton is ever charming, charismatic and inspirational and Blair flits between panic, vigour, relentless optimism and black humour almost hourly. I suppose my views on Campbell have changed having read his diaries. Yes, this is a cold, calculating operator, suffering not one fool but a more emotional, compassionate side is also manifest especially when dealing with friends, family and a political party he plainly loves. A fascinating read.

Vert Enough

The Green Man Festival is galloping up on the rails; there’s just over a fortnight to go and I’m excited and praying it stays dry. If the weather is like today’s – warm, dry and blue of sky – I’ll be very satisfied. I’m contemplating who I’m most keen on seeing. I would suggest The National is my ‘must-see’ and, indeed, the Sunday line-up looks rather tasty. Iron & Wine and Pentangle complete a hat trick of splendid acts but I’m also keen on Laura Marling and I’ve read such splendid things about Damien Jurado that I’ve snuck onto Amazon today and ordered two or three of his albums. That makes a hat trick plus two. On the Saturday, School of Language bring their off-kilter, angular art rock to Brecon. They precede legends Richard Thompson (I’m really keen to see him) and Super Furry Animals on the main stage. I’ll avoiding Lightspeed Champion like the proverbial plague and lamenting the clash of the Super Furries with Badly Drawn Boy who is strangely playing the tiny Green Man Café. Do you know, nothing stands out on the Friday yet? Spiritualized doesn’t inspire me too much and I don’t really know a great deal about King Creosote or Drive-by Truckers. Maybe I should just go with the flow.

...like your English

Strolling to our local park, the youngest Cole child and I witnessed a pigeon fly at a decent pace into the upstairs window of the house – a late 1950s three bedroomed semi – we were adjacent to. The foolish bird made a cracking thud against the glass but, despite appearing a touch dazed, was able to fly away merrily into the distance. The pair of us stood for a second or two, staring in vague disbelief at the aforementioned pane, when a gentleman appeared at it. He was stern of face and, in the absence of any other human or beast in the immediate vicinity, must have deduced that we were in some way to blame for the resounding crack on his glassy panel. We hurried on. It certainly felt wrong to tarry any longer.

Shell Of Light

The Klaxons, an act I regard as insignificant and humdrum, won the Mercury Music Prize last year and I lost some faith in an award I had grown to respect. Happily, my spirits have been raised this afternoon by a rather more consequential and interesting list of nominees for the 2008 gong. In my opinion, all bets are off; Radiohead and their sublime In Rainbows shall succeed at a canter. However, I’m thrilled that the mysterious and haunting Rachel Unthank and the Winterset’s The Bairns, the witty and catchy Stainless Style by Neon Neon, and the earnest and esoteric Do You Like Rock Music? by British Sea Power have found favour with the nominators. A couple more of my favourite recordings are mentioned too. Robert Plant and Alison Krauss’s Raising Sand is a very special collection of songs while Burial’s dark and menacing soundscapes on Untrue are worthy of inclusion. I’d be more than happy for any of the long players I’ve noted to take the prize but, to counteract last year’s unimaginative and mainstream choice, I would be most satisfied if that Burial fellow triumphed.

Roy

Summer may be here and the time may be right for dancin’ in the streets but, for the time being, I’ve kept a lowish profile; a nasty sore throat, now abating, and migraine hostility have left me wan and delicate.

I’m coming to the end of my Andrew Marr tome, A History of Modern Britain. Out of 600 pages, I note that over one hundred feature the Blair years and I’m ploughing through those now. The Twin Towers have just been attacked and it’s all about to kick off ‘big style’ in Afghanistan. Marr’s appraisal of the Thatcher years has proved interesting; I have ‘views’ on the woman but it was refreshing to read deeper into events such as the Falklands Conflict and the mining strike. The one figure that has truly fascinated me from reading this book is Roy Jenkins. I never knew he was such a liberal Home Secretary in the 1960s, introducing far-reaching legislation and reform on divorce, abortion, homosexual rights and capital and corporal punishment. Beyond this, of course, Jenkins enjoyed tenures as Chancellor, founder and leader of the SDP and President of the EC and must be regarded as one of the most important post-war figures. I’m keen to learn more about him.

Strange Town

Relief washes o’er me with the realisation that a brace of Calmer* shows has been announced. These are always unusual events and the hepcats that a-gather in the spa town to a-seek musical treats do so with the proviso that they should always ‘expect the unexpected’. The second Calmer* features Martin Stephenson who will surely take no prisoners in the compact and bijou Slak Bar with his energetic guitaring style, ebullient banter and accomplished songsmithery. I look forward to these evenings.

Life's a highway

Did the pop world really need a concept album about American automobile engineer and executive, John DeLorean? I insist it did, for Neon Neon’s Stainless Style is one of this year’s most enchanting and hypnotically enjoyable treats. Neon Neon is a collaboration between Animal (Super and Furry variety) and pop prankster Gruff Rhys and producer, ahem, Boom Bip. There is a splendid Eighties charm to this long player, catchy and simple electronic beats forming the backdrop to melodic gems and witty numbers that tell of DeLorean’s personal and business life. It’s an unusual recording really but tremendously pleasing; both groovy and quaintly humorous, Stainless Style is an album this rather damp summer was waiting for.

Looking for a ride to your secret location...

This site is jolly. Muxtape makes me feel youthful again, returning me to the days when, time on my hands, I would construct compilation tapes for the entertainment of myself and of others. I was a notoriously poor taper and many of my chosen tracks had either the beginning or end missing; controlling ‘pause’, ‘record’ and ‘play’ proved consistently troublesome for my wandering mind and trembling digits. Quaintly, S and I used to make a C90 tape to play on the way to festivals each year. I’d pitch up at his house with a bag full of records – or vice versa - and the rule was that we’d select alternate tracks until the blighter was full. These tapes were called ‘Oh You Have To Say That’s Remarkable!’ and they were true labours of love. Occasionally there was a touch of disquiet about a particular choice (I haven’t really forgiven S, over twenty years on, for insisting on One of These Days by Pink Floyd) but generally the selections were justly appreciated by all and sundry. Of the top of my head I can remember plenty of ‘Remarkable’ tracks: The Cross by Prince, Army Dreamers by Kate Bush, Tony’s Theme by The Pixies, World Shut Your Mouth by Julian Cope, Teenage Riot ( or was it (I Got a) Catholic Block?) by Sonic Youth, The Whole of the Moon by The Waterboys and, blimey, Beat Dis by Bomb the Bass.

Anyhow, you can make 12 track digital ‘tapes’ on muxtape and my effort is here. Click on a track to play it and the rest will follow automatically. It was a lot of fun but tricky keeping the number down to the required dozen. I originally selected both Battered Old Bird by Elvis Costello and Reggae Sounds by Linton Kwesi Johnson but ending up deleting them although I can’t really explain why.

Reunion Wilderness

I won’t linger long on Glastonbury lest I be dubbed a bore. However, I welcomed veteran journalist and Guardian columnist Alexander Chancellor’s wry words about his visit to the festival site and I find myself agreeing with plenty of his views. He is correct about the lavatories which require much mental courage to enter and his observation regarding the sheer volume of litter that is merrily cast away onto the ground is spot on. I find myself concurring with the fellow most heartily when he mentions just how friendly everybody is. Although a shy fellow at heart, as the years advance I quite appreciate making small talk with like-minded (and that’s extremely important) strangers and as there were plenty of them wondering around Pilton I managed several rather decent chats wi’ gentlefolk. Queuing up to enter the site, tents in paw, it was engaging to witness a definite abundance of patience among the punters near me, allowing opportunities for chummy ‘Where have you come from?’ and ‘Who are you keen to see?’ exchanges. I enjoyed a smashing conversation with a pair of young hipsters from Derby after Edwyn Collins and before John Cale, despite a twenty year age gap; we debated the current fad for gigs where an artist plays a classic album in its entirety, analysed the Velvet Underground back catalogue and they suggested (for my benefit) the best starting point for someone wanting to check out Nico’s back catalogue.

I’m happy to report a couple of really pleasing meets that took place last weekend. I hadn’t seen my old Sheffield student mucker T for 16 years or so and it proved hearty to catch up with the chap. He was playing tuba with no little gusto for festival stalwarts Carnival Collective and we sat outside the Leftfield Stage after the group’s opening set and merrily conversed and caught up. The meeting was recorded for posterity by a jovial man from, I believe, the Merseyside region who produced the above snap at my behest. I include a ‘compare and contrast’ picture from 1990 for interest and to indicate that time has been much, much kinder to my Brighton-based comrade. By huge coincidence, another dude from my degree course was spotted later that day. I perceived the witty yet warm-hearted A pass me by and I hallooed a halloo to initiate a welcome reunion. Sickeningly, this character has hardly aged either; there must be plenty of portraits in attics up and down the country. The Barnsley balladeer was performing at the festival too and his remarkable antics are announced here. I salute them both.

Manic Pop Pilton

Having showered, shaved, stretched, scrubbed, slumbered and speculated, it is time to announce my return from the Glastonbury Festival of Contempory Performing Arts. Well, all three Coles remain shattered but the consensus was that ‘it was worth it’; our adventure is decreed to be a success. I spent all of Wednesday and most of Thursday on my own, sauntering around, exploring and clocking up, on average, a visit to an ethnic wares stall every eight and a half minutes. I was surprised how many people chose to arrive, as I did, at the earliest possible moment, eight (ante meridian) on the Day of Woden but the mood was merry despite the remarkable crowds of characters. It is hard to describe the scale of Glastonbury but my aching calves bear witness to many miles hiked to many a stage, many a meadow in search of musical delights and sundry experiences. The weather proved to be generally fine despite a smattering of rain on the Friday that resulted in the now traditional muddy walkways; this was a temporary meteorological downturn as Saturday emerged dry and the grounds firmed up pleasantly.

My word, there are highlights to report. Perhaps I had better start with the greatest performance of the weekend. The Park Stage required most stamina to reach but I reckon it was the most rewarding part of the site to encounter. On Friday evening I rambled to this splendid natural amphitheatre in search of Edwyn Collins, the former Orange Juice frontman who, three years ago, suffered a really serious and life-threatening cerebral haemorrhage and has been on the slow road to recovery ever since. His unsteady but determined walk to centre stage, aided by stick, was an emotional moment for all that hold this man’s work dear to their hearts and, if I confess to being moist of eye on Friday eve, I know I wasn’t the only one in the audience that was brushing away a tear. Perched on a speaker, Collins produced a compelling set, aided sublimely by a sharply dressed Roddy Frame (he looked fantastic in bespoke suit, natty kerchief in top pocket) on guitar. The first three songs doffed a coquettish ‘tit for tat’ at Orange Juice’s outstanding back catalogue with a spine-tingling Falling and Laughing deliriously followed by What Presence!? and Poor Old Soul. Poignant recent number Home Again was delivered to a hushed and reverential throng, old favourites Rip It Up and, to the delight of this punter, Blue Boy followed before a searing A Girl Like You brought matters to a close with Frame cranking it up to eleven and Collins rhyming ‘allegorically’ with ‘metaphorically’ with suitable aplomb. This was truly bewitching stuff and certainly the most wonderful forty minutes of the weekend.

What else did I enjoy? The atmospheric John Peel stage hosted several notable performances. The Young Knives proved as engaging and quirky as ever and Hadouken!, ebullient new rave grimies and favourites of Master Cole, were loud, fabulous, utterly energetic and gripping. Verily, dear reader, my toes were a-tapping. The lead singer, James Smith, a former grime producer (yes, I am really down wi’ the kids, innit) used to have his early efforts played by Peel and I found the yout’ful troubadour’s tribute to the maestro DJ rather touching. The eccentric and engaging British Sea Power produced a brilliant show that encompassed female Bulgarian choirs, air raid sirens, foliage, the vigorous chanting of ‘Easy! Easy!’, crowd surfing and the scaling of scaffolding. A barrage of witty, rousing, intelligent yet unconventional anthems permeated proceedings. File this marvellous bunch under ‘National Treasure’. The finest recital I witnessed in the John Peel area came from bookish but brilliant Vampire Weekend who scorched through a stunning set. Their eponymous debut is among the front-runners for this site’s prestigious Album of the Year award (don’t write off Paul Weller though) and its catchy and witty tracks were delivered with real gusto. This is a great group. This is a great group. If Collins’s forty minutes were the most moving of the festival, Vampire Weekend’s rendition of A-Punk, the bounciest, happiest single of this or any year, proved the giddiest hundred-and-twenty seconds. I salute this act.

Elsewhere, Panic at the Disco, the ‘emo-band it’s ok for your dad to like’, were fantastic. They played the Other Stage and I truly dug their array of Beatleseque melodic treats. Saturday night at the Park Stage was a cosmic happening with MGMT banging out their psychedelic nuggets, those uber-hip Battles furrowing their collective brow and wigging out in some style and bewitching Brazilians CSS closing the evening with half and hour or so of the most electrifying electro-pop you’ll ever encounter. Other acts were part-viewed: Imagined Village, Amy Winehouse, The Enemy, The Courteeners while others, rank or dull, were regrettably viewed in their entirety. Lightspeed Champion was dreadfully tedious and lacking in substance; a silly fur bonnet and an ironic use of cape cannot disguise a shocking lack o’ tune or talent and the moribund Glasvegas proved an utter waste of time and space. It would be amiss of me to end on a low though; this year’s Glastonbury line-up was eclectic and ambitious and I only wish I’d had the energy or time to see more acts. What I did view proved, on the whole, really delightful and indicates just how much astounding music there is to appreciate these days. I wondered if I’d be a bit of an it-was-better-in-my-day curmudgeon this year but I’m happy to state this wasn’t the case. I believe lovers of decent music have never had it so good and last weekend helped demonstrate this.

Look above for some digital daguerreotype images. One can view them more happily if you click on the blighters and I urge visitors to do so. They get bigger. Here are some simple captions:

1. The obligatory Pyramid Stage photo. Kate Nash (cockney or mockney?) is on there singing 'er songs. We didn't hang around.

2. Edwyn Collins makes his triumphant entrance. Roddy Frame (left) already looks ultra cool. Backstage, Edwyn’s wife and son look on proudly.

3. Sunset at the Jazz/World Stage. Your host moodily awaits Imagined Village.

4. Vampire Weekend make some music.

One swallow doesn't make a summer

I believe the young scamp has made it two weeks in a row. To have one email read out on BBC 6Music’s Freak Zone may be regarded as fortunate, to have two may be considered favouritism. Last week dear S was quoted by the arch and wry Stuart Maconie on the subject of The Fall, specifically the meaning behind the lyrics of up tempo ditty Bournemouth Runner from 1986’s opus Bend Sinister. Yesterday, the combination struck again as the laconic presenter provided a grateful nation with S’s musings on the minutiae of late 80s post-punkers, King of the Slums. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing but am proud of the lad. I shall be at Pilton on Sunday so shall be unable to listen in and discover if the hat-trick has been attained. Maybe Leonard Cohen’ll announce it from the Pyramid Stage.

My departure for Glastonbury on Wednesday means I’ve probably watched my final match of association football in the current Euro 2008 tourney. I confess I’ve gone from searing ambivalence to keen interest and have really enjoyed plenty of the matches. Along with Newent’s finest D, I had invested a small amount of my hard-earned spoils in a bet, a wager if you will, on the orange-clad expressionists of Holland to win the whole blessed event; I truly thought I was quids in when the chaps from the Low Countries comprehensively dismantled both France and Italy in the group stages. My worries that the Hollandic hordes had peaked too early proved prescient when a youthful and ebullient Russian outfit (my tip for success at the next World Cup) played them off the blinkin’ park at the weekend. I hope the men from the former Soviet bloc go on to win the trophy but I sense those Germans, efficient and well-drilled as ever, may just triumph.

Post-Rockumentary

In a way, it proved a rehearsal for the festival season. I stood towards the rear of a throng digging some challenging music, it seemed a touch chilly (I had wantonly situated myself by an open door) and the summer’s day was changing slowly but surely into the noir o’ nightfall. I speak of last evening and I speak not of a gig nor concert recital. The Coles trotted to the bohemian Stroud Valley Artspace to behold a feature film, a documentary called Heima, that highlighted Icelandic post-rockers Sigur Ros, their return to a beloved homeland after many moons of travelling, and a determination to provide countrymen and women wi’ a series of free performances. This was a beautiful piece of work. The atmospheric, mesmerising, haunting and, at times, minimalist songs were proffered before a range of sublimely chosen backdrops. The band played in disused fishing complexes, old country cottages, vast and controversial dams, pubs, clubs, caves and huge outdoor arenas. The Icelandic public were photographed splendidly, all cheekbone and retro knitwear, bewitched by the bewitching bewitchery. The four members of the group were interviewed and came across nicely, unspoilt by worldwide acclaim, affable and normal unless gathered together a-singin’ and a-playin’ when they metamorphosed into intense and talented giants capable of weaving the simplest of instruments into aural magnificence.

I’ve started to read Andrew Marr’s A Modern History of Britain, a brick of a book that should keep me going for a few weeks. I’m still on the first chapter, an appraisal of the Attlee Government, and the coherent, good-humoured yet scholarly tone is bringing that austere yet pivotal period alive with rare intelligence. I’m rather chuffed that I still have over five hundred pages to plough through. I’m looking forward to a treat, a captivating history lesson from the perfect tutor.

I head to Glastonbury on Wednesday and am avidly poring over weather reports. Everything is crossed hoping for sunny sessions.

Music's my imaginary friend...

Good morning. Here’s a brief appraisal of what I’m listening to at the moment. Paul Weller’s 22 Dreams still impresses. I’m slightly horrified to learn that I own the nation’s current Number One chart album but can offset the embarrassment by digging these really pleasant ‘n’ well written numbers. I’m rather surprised to run a quick search on these ‘umble pages and discover that I’ve not once mentioned how much I value 2006’s Real Life, the debut album by New York based Joan As Policewoman, possibly one of my favourite long players of recent times, and a delicate and personal collection of haunting and charming and beatifically arranged chansons. Naturally, the artist’s chosen nomenclature is one of them alias things; Joan Wasser is her real name and she possesses a fascinating CV. She was an aggressive indie rocker, she was the sweetheart of Jeffrey Buckley and she played violin with Anthony and the Johnsons. Any road up, she has a new record, To Survive. It is tender and beautiful and I’ve started to spin it once or twice. I’m taking it slowly though and choosing my moments: this is quality work. I am simultaneously revisiting Real Life and loving every note. Her duet with Anthony Hegerty on I Defy is the most beautiful song ever performed in the history of the world. Maybe.

I’m also playing the Belbury Poly emo-nostalgitronica album a fair bit and continuing to dip into – and, mark my words, with no little relish - the double folk/beard whammy of Fleet Foxes and Bon Iver. For a bit of light relief I’m playing the eponymous debut by Brazilian electro-rockists Cansei De Ser Sexy, a blitzkrieg of funky, cheeky, catchy, big and, er, bouncy pop nuggets. They are headlining one of the Glastonbury stages and, By Jairzinho!*, I am heartily tempted to chivvy them out. I’m also playing Yo La Tengo’s 1997 classic I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One lots and lots at the moment. This is a breathy, lo-fi tour-de-force that could melt the sternest o’ hearts. I’m also revising for Pilton pleasures by checking out favoured individual tracks by, inter alia, Young Knives, Vampire Weekend and British Sea Power.

*I would ne'er bully readers of these pages to click on any links but I urge all to try this one out.

Ecce

Behold a tent. The Coles are taking two tents to Glastonbury and the pictured temporary dwelling place is the most recent arrival to our horde of mini marquees. This weekend’s warm weather gave us a chance to erect the blighter ‘out the back’ and a couple of night’s camping has resulted. I shall be spending five nights at Pilton; I intend to leave the shire of Gloucester very, very early on Wednesday morning in order to grab a worthwhile pitch and shall await Mrs and Master Cole who’ll be arriving late on Thursday evening. I am not sure how to feel about spending almost eight-and-forty hours alone at the site; there’ll be plenty to gaze upon I suppose and perhaps some music to appreciate on the day of Thor.

I really am enjoying the latest Paul Weller album, 22 Dreams, although it categorically isn’t the experimental masterpiece some journalists are claiming. Being unaware of some of the fellow’s more recent offerings I am unable to dub it ‘a return to form’ with any credibility but it is certainly a strong set of songs performed with both a folksy understatement and a jazzy swagger. There is nothing especially groundbreaking on show but the, ahem, modfather’s determination to offer a display of eclecticism, a song cycle that veers from acid folk to synthesized noodling, is touching and warming. There will be more challenging listens this year but, to be honest, I’m rather keen to spin the rascal again. I approve and recommend.

Mulholland Drive

When this website sneezes, The Guardian catches a cold. I only mentioned the quaint and esoteric Belbury Poly last Saturday and, lo!, this very day, my favoured journal runs a neat little piece on that very collective, their record label Ghost Box and the whole darned emo-nostalgitronica* scene. One can read it here.

*I made this term up.

A Promissory Note

It was a last minute decision to trot over to the spa town but a decent one. Cheltenham’s Wychwood Festival on Sunday saw a mainly folky line-up but quality told. Each act I (and J) watched proved a delight. Rachel Unthank and the Winterset performed in the Big Top and had to compete with a heap of noise coming from the main stage. The affable northern lasses produced a gorgeous set though; the perfect unaccompanied singing, the exuberant clog-dancing, the unashamed respect for traditional songs, all impressed. A has recently penned a few words about Dengue Fever over at his place. This Los Angeles outfit play, rather remarkably and with commendable effervescence, classic sixties hits from Cambodia with a psychedelic grooviness that is wondrously catchy. The band really ‘got down’ on stage with much bounciness and liveliness to report. They were splendid. Kate Rusby fashioned a fine set too, full of tune and earthy good humour. She were gritty. The final act I witnessed was The Imagined Village, an amalgam of world vibes, traditional folk sensitivities and rootsy modern stuff. I must confess the concept left this punter a touch cold but the reality was stunning. The various singers and players, including Billy Bragg, Martin Carthy and Sheila Chandra, managed to kick up an almighty racket, involving sitars, ethnic drums, violoncello and much, much more, that succeeded in being evocative, passionate, thought-provoking and heartily toe-tappin’ simultaneously. The songs were soaringly beautiful and I’m tempted to go and buy the album as a result. I salute Wychwood. It has certainly whetted this appetite for this summer’s festival frolicking.

I offer two photographs. The captions read:

1. Those Unthanks glow in the dark.

2. Dengue Fever makes me want to rug out.

I have ordered the Paul Weller album, 22 Dreams, from Amazon. I’ll report back soon on this one. The reviews are glowing.

Don't Walk Away

It was pleasing to enjoy a pint or two with the earnest S last evening. Our hostelry of choice was Café Rene in the centre of the metropolis known in these ‘ere parts and beyond as ‘Gloucester’. The Rene is quite a success story, I’d venture. When I was a young fellow, it used to be called The Inner Court, a wine bar type establishment, with an indie club for hipsters and groovesters called The Underground, er, under the ground. The place was fairly popular back then, but nothing like it is now. There was a really decent sized crowd drinking there last night, with many making the most of a fine evening and supping out of doors. Before setting out, music was exchanged. I provided S with the Bon Iver and Fleet Foxes albums I have swooned over in recent days while S passed me The Willows, the Belbury Poly long player he had purchased to cheer himself up after the rugby union play-off debacle. The first play indicates the clipped textures and soundscapes of early Boards of Canada but without the brooding air of mystery that surrounds the Scottish duo’s work. Belbury Poly’s elektronik niche is to pay homage to library music and 1970s public information films with psychedelic and folky grooves adding to the synthesised musings. It sounds wondrous.

Talking of Boards of Canada, I note that three years have passed since their most recent amd, in my opinion, most splendid long player,The Campfire Headphase, was released. New material would be welcome. In the mean time, trot along here and play Roybgiv or Aquarius or Dayvan Cowboy loudly. This is as good as it gets.

Boom! Boom!

I note that The Guardian proffered Fleet Foxes’ eponymous debut long player five stars today. I concur with the august publication’s acclaim and fervour. This is a beautiful album, full of soaring harmonies that would melt the sternest heart and giddy melodies that evoke the merriest moments of American music wi’ oodles of acoustic ‘n’ folky bliss to boot. This is a vulpine group. This is a vulpine group.

I’m quietly intrigued by the glowing reviews I have studied that pour praise upon Paul Weller’s latest offerin’. By all accounts, 22 Dreams is an experimental masterwork, miles away from the rather plodding, occasionally interesting, ahem, ‘dad-rock’ that one has come to expect from the, ahem, ‘Modfather’. I noted my youthful love of Weller’s collective The Jam on my old weblog, here and here and, lo!, downloaded my favourite Jam album, Sound Affects, earlier today. That album meant a lot to me as a teenager; sometimes Weller’s lyrics seem a touch ‘sixth-form’ in retrospect but there are plenty of profound, politically aware, edgy and, importantly, somewhat experimental moments on Sound Affects. It’s a great album.

...a large Neopolitan

I am unused to manual labour so the above photograph possesses novelty value if nothing else. The path I am captured drilling/breaking so masterfully belonged, until recently, to our next-door neighbours; some sovereigns and guineas changed hands and we now own half their rear garden. I am not a gardening type but the prospect excites. Yesterday was spent, all hands to the pump, breaking concrete paths, dealing with unwanted and unsightly erections and ferrying wheelbarrow loads of hardcore to our sturdy custard-hued skip. My once smooth and elegant paws are now cut, grazed and rough. I ache. It was worth it though. The plan is to purchase a small summerhouse and to create a quiet area for contemplation and reflection. The first thing I shall reflect upon and contemplate will be how relieved I am that I don’t have to wield a medium duty electric breaker for a living.

That ain't no etch-a-sketch...

A while away from here. I’m embarrassed to note that I have reported suffering from a migraine a dozen times on these pages. This seems a touch self-obsessed and I apologise. Howe’er, I shall make it a baker’s dozen today. I do not have too many of the blighters but, when they do strike, they appear to be growing more nasty as the years pass. Last Thursday morning, a migraine began but it wasn’t until 36 hours later that I felt most unwell, achy, breaky and utterly fatigued. I also picked up a chill so I haven’t been at my best for three or four days.

I’m viewing quite a few feature films on my information pod. I do feel a touch guilty that I haven’t been listening to as much music as usual as a result; maybe the novelty of watching cinema on my ickle screen will wear off soon. Anyhow, Juno was a delight and I recommend it with ebullience and effervescence. This is the tale of a teenage pregnancy, told with style, wit and total warmth. The dialogue is droll and sharp and the characters are rich, quirky yet believable. I’ve also seen a pair of films based on novels that are close to my heart. Love in the Time of Cholera was based on the sumptuous tome by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and proved a delicious couple of hours. The feature manages to successfully convey the mysticism and magic of the book, the sweeping South American settings, so enchantingly described by the author, more than satisfactorily captured for the viewer. The story is gorgeous and unusual, at times heart-wrenchingly sad, occasionally humorous, often uplifting, always compelling. Brick Lane was faithful to the Monica Ali novel too and I appreciated the feature’s juxtaposition of bleak east London streets with the pastoral beauty and colour of the Bangladeshi village from which the main character hails. File under 'Watchable'.

I was at Kingsholm Stadium yesterday watching Bath take on Worcester in the final of the European Challenge Cup. My cousins support Bath – my own flesh and blood! – so I stood with them and watched the match as a neutral. For the first time ever at the proud old arena, I watched the tie from behind the posts, at the historic ‘tump end’. Viewing end-on was very different and a touch more enjoyable than I anticipated. The spectator spots gaps more quickly I reckon and one feels closer to the action when a team is attacking the line nearest to one’s vantage point. It was not an unpleasant experience although I look forward to being in the ‘popular side’ again next time, especially with the famed cherry and white shirts running out to do battle. I missed the sensation of utter partisanship among the yellow and blue shirts, flags and banners yesterday.

Wildspot

I’ve been boring all and sundry with my glowing appraisals of possibly my favourite long player of the year: Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago. Bon Iver is really Justin Vernon, a former member of DeYarmond Edison – yes, never heard of them either – who, it seems, took himself away to an isolated cabin in the cold wilds of Wisconsin for a few months, cut logs, killed deer to feed himself, brooded aplenty and emerged from the winterland hinterland with this delightful series of hauntingly beautiful numbers. I keep returning to this recording; breathy, brittle vocals express, albeit via somewhat obtuse and complex imagery, rather dark and emotional intimacies over the most delicate and warm acoustic playin’. The melodies build, soar, bewitch and, mark my words, get under your skin. The journey through this album is a tad bleak but well worth the effort; a dozen or so plays and it seems like an old friend, thoughtful and intelligent, uplifting and life-affirming. I recommend.

The New Mobility

A melancholic S telephoned within the past half hour; he had decided to buy a Belbury Poly CD to cheer himself up. If only all our maudlin moments could be cured by purchasing an item from the esoteric and remarkable Ghost Box record label. Of course, the Kingsholm cognoscenti that frequent these pages will realise the cause of the young fellow’s misery although S, a hardliner when it comes to the rugby play-off system was more upset about the situation the city club found itself in today as opposed to the result, a single point loss against Leicester Tigers. We both feel terribly sorry for our brave players who gave everything over the past few weeks, and indeed over the course of a long and tiring campaign. Gloucester should be kicking themselves to be honest as Leicester really were there for the taking today just as Munster were in the Heineken Cup a month or two ago. Hopefully next term will see some silverware to celebrate. The squad is strong and deep and the signing of Oliver Barkley will provide the team with more options. Generally, this season’s newcomers have all proved excellent acquisitions – who had heard of Qera and Strokosch a year ago? – and maybe one or two further clever swoops will bring success to the famous side. Tonight, I might just go online and buy a CD and see if that cheers me up. Any suggestions?

Always Be Closing

I am fully aware that I am not reporting the technological breakthrough of the twenty-first century but I am still astounded that I’ve managed to work out how to convert DVDs so that I can watch them on my newish information pod’s small but perfectly formed screen. Glengarry Glen Ross was the feature I succeeded with and it was a real pleasure to relax, supine, late at night, headphones in, and admire that film’s peerless performances (Lemmon and Pacino are sublime) and gritty dialogue. I have since viewed Sideways, a perennial favourite, but have a few delights waiting on the pod’s meaty, beaty, big and bouncy hard-drive: the modern Irish acoustic musical Once, cult classic Godzilla, recent biopic Moliere, European monochrome brow-furrower Closely Observed Trains and, bizarrely, the 1966 World Cup Final and England’s 60 Greatest Goals. The association football discs both came free with the News of the World but I picked them up in Oxfam for five-and-twenty new pence apiece.

Despite my misgivings about the play-off system, I have acquired a ticket guaranteeing entry to this Sunday’s rugby union contest. Gloucester host Leicester in the Premiership semi-final and, after two fabulous victories, I tip the mighty cherry and whites to vanquish. A lot depends on the fitness of talisman Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall who turned an ankle against Bath; if the centre is raring to go then the city club has every chance. I shall not be attending any final.

The Football

Gloucester 8 - Bath 6

A grand and emotional occasion indeed. This rugby football club can prove the most exasperating of comrades but every insipid loss, every false dawn is easily forgiven on days like yesterday. The sun shone, the sporting gods beamed on the city club and Gloucester, from shirt numbers one to fifteen, collided with their West Country rivals with skill, intensity, passion, verve and might. Bath had proved a free-scoring menace to their recent opponents, an ability to offload in the tackle leading to a free-flowing style that teams had struggled mightily to defend against. Not so Gloucester: sustained aggressive defence and an expertly executed tactic of attacking the man with the ball in pairs, one to halt the fellow, the other to prevent a pass, proved the undoing of our visitors from the regency city. In the end, the away side must have felt acute frustration; a seemingly divine right to collect try after try had been thwarted. Drop goals, attempted from half way and speculative chips told their own tale and it was a tale of a door slammed belligerently shut. All were heroes for the cherry and whites. Simpson-Daniel, il principe giovane, earned the telecast’s man of the match gong, and, indeed, his talent shone throughout and he took his five-pointer marvellously. However, for me, the Fijian Qera epitomised the city’s recent emergence as a fine football force with his rugged and abrasive they-shall-not-pass defending married with a keen eye on enterprising attack. His stunningly timed pass that led to the young prince’s try was sublime, a split-second master class in subtlety and flair. One could pen tributes to all that wore the famed colours against Bath but in a way that would undermine the teamwork, the all-for-one magnificence that was on show. The proud old stadium was rocking yesterday , the grizzled ghosts from the past gazing on with approval, the future appearing bright and full of sheer promise. Electric stuff. Electric stuff.

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour

The Coles made their debut at Cheltenham Spa’s Cineworld complex last evening. The latest Mike Leigh offering, Happy-Go-Lucky, lured us over and I am pleased it did so. I have long been a fan of Leigh’s work, from his early made-for-TV stuff like Abigail’s Party and Nuts In May to his later, mainly fairly bleak, features such as Naked, Vera Drake and Career Girls. Happy-Go-Lucky was, er, happy-go-lucky in comparison but the trademark emphasis on character and insightful glances into ordinary lives were evident. One doesn’t watch this director’s work for gripping and twist-dominated plot-lines. The film focuses on optimistic and overtly cheerful primary school teacher, Poppy, and her interactions with flat-mate, driving instructor (supremely played by Eddie Marsan), colleagues, family and, towards the end of the feature, a new love. The dialogue was sharp, witty and had the adlibbed feel that one associates with Leigh and, apart from one bizarre interlude where the heroine meets and interacts with a tramp late one night, the gentle but compelling plot proved fascinating.

Well, I fully expected the famed Gloucester club to lose, and possibly fairly heavily, against the rugby side known as London Wasps. As it happened, our young and brave team scored two tries in the first ten minutes and held out magnificently in the face of some relentless pressure from the home side not only to vanquish, but to deny the black-clad south-easterners a losing bonus point. I listened online and was entertained merrily. My word, it was tense. I salute these heroes. Next week, Bath visits Gloucester in a battle to discover which West Country outfit shall top the table at the end of the traditional season. The Somerset fellows are on fine form, destroying a powder-puff Saracens at The Rec yesterday, but key Gloucester players (the noble Bortolami, Lamb, Wood, the young prince Simpson-Daniel, Qera inter alia) appear to be in the form of their lives right now. It should be a cracker.

A bit folky from a distance...

I won’t quote S exactly, but, suffice to say the SMS text message I received from him today indicated deep pleasure that Pentangle are headlining the Green Man Festival on the Sabbath. For many years, the only Pentangle music I’d heard was the really rather beautiful theme song to Take Three Girls, a BBC drama from the late sixties. However, this week I downloaded Sweet Child, the band’s double long player from 1968 and I’ve been spinning said product a fair bit. Essentially, the album is the proverbial game of two folk halves, one part live concert recordings, one part studio product and, I must confess, it is the live stuff I prefer. The musical talents of the five members are showcased neatly, Jacqui McShee’s voice sounds heavenly while individual cameos – Terry Cox’s glockenspiel work is especially fine – all sound splendid. I am enjoying my research.

I’ve started copying and pasting some of the album reviews I’ve penned on these pages over the years onto my online music store of choice, Amazon. They were only gathering dust. My pride took a blow this evening when I logged on and checked my account only to discover that I am ranked as the site’s 268, 881^st reviewer. The only way, as Yazz and the Plastic Population would have it, is up.

Merely a trick of the light

The Glastonbury line-up has been announced and I’m neither overwhelmed nor underwhelmed. I am simply whelmed, I guess. I’m keen to see the effervescent yet bookish Noo Yorkers, Vampire Weekend with their merry African rhythmic sounds; British Sea Power will be marvellous too, I venture. The band I’m playing as I pen these words, The National, headline the John Peel Stage on the Sunday and I’d hope to be there for their set. Edwyn Collins is probably a must-see too; I admire him greatly and would go all misty-eyed for a What Presence?! or a Salmon Fishing In New York.

Epitome

I’m tempted by a hop-hip concert. Public Enemy are performing at Bristol Academy next month, proffering the entire It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back long player to an adoring public. This is an album I own – possibly one of the first dozen compact discs I ever purchased, thinking about it – and there was a period when I played it non-stop and admired its uncompromising and hard-hitting agenda. I have read nothing to suggest that it isn’t the original line-up playing Bristol so all the big names – Flav, D, X, Griff et al. – may be involved. It should be a huge occasion and I’m rather keen to attend.

The only previous occasion I’ve stood in a hop-hip crowd was at the ATP Festival in Camber Sands back in 2004. Young Dizzee Rascal produced a raw set to a small but packed arena that was hailed in the end-of-year round-ups as ‘the’ hop-hip event of that twelve month period. I remember being mildly engaged but couldn’t help feeling bothered that I was missing The Tindersticks who were strutting their elegant stuff elsewhere. If I recall, Har Mar Superstar came on after the self-styled rascal and blew the bleeding house down with his exhilarating antics.

Nationalism

I’m somewhat aware that quite a few fine albums from the past year or two have slipped slyly under my Radio Detection and Ranging apparatus and I’m earnestly engaged in rectifying this sorry state of affairs. Boxer by The National was released almost one year ago but I have only grown to know and love this recording very recently. Here are twelve intense popular songs, richly crafted and featuring shimmering pianoforte, elegant percussion, soaring guitar soundscapes that underpin one of the most maudlin and melancholic voices in music. Here lurks introspection; hints of alienation, loneliness and urban gloom permeate the fairly subdued proceedings. The arrangements are upliftingly beautiful, the melodies take a while to appreciate but once under the skin, remain there like old 'n' loyal comrades. I’m always faintly reassured when I fail to ‘get’ an album on first hearing; Boxer proves that repeated listens really do bear fruit with recordings of quality. I recommend.

I must confess that I yearn for a new recording from the young prince of esoteric Americana, Sufjan Stevens. Almost three years have passed since the release of the mighty and soaring masterpiece, Illinois and, while the worthy outtake collection Avalanche and the at times haunting, at times kooky, Christmas boxed set have helped to sustain this punter, the appetite for a new album remains unsated. I read somewhere that the new album will have a ‘bird’ theme. There’s a lovely and delicate new song called Barn Owl, Night Killer on You Tube and I still recall most fondly the splendour of Majesty Snowbird that Stevens and his noble band performed when I saw the fellow in Amsterdam. Here’s hoping for new material and soon from this scribe’s very, very favourite recording artist.

A bit folky close-up...

Last year’s grey skies and muddy walkways have obviously been erased from the Cole memory as I have booked up to visit the Green Man Festival again this August. The dude known as ‘S’ shall be joining me. Despite the weather, Green Man proved a very special weekend and I’m hoping that bluer skies will help this summer’s event be a smashing success. The full line-up is to be announced on May Day but several acts already booked catch this eye merrily. I’m playing the three albums by The National to death at the moment and this act’s sombre yet reflective numbers continue to hit the spot. They are appearing and I rejoice. The School of Language’s off kilter avant-pop shall prove a highlight methinks while I welcome both the quirky melodic antics of Super Fury Animals and the low fidelity magnificence of Iron and Wine. The acclaimed Richard Thompson ticks the box annotated ‘Legend’ but I am sure further treats and surprises await.

Look above for a 2007 Green Man memory. The photograph is entitled ' View from my Tent'. S's back can be spotted in the distance.

Remember, concentrate on the moment. Feel, don't think. Trust your instincts.

The young prince has claimed my vote for this year’s ‘Player of the Season’ award, presented to the Gloucester player deemed most irreplaceable, irresistible and, excuse the Jamaican, irie by supporters. James Simpson-Daniel has remained fairly injury free this season and has never failed to capture this punter’s imagination game on game. His performances have never been less than wholehearted and full to the brim of commitment and dedication, while his craft, his creativity, his composure with ball in paw continue to catch the eye. I am yet to see the youthful fellow perform poorly in the famed colours and, this season, his imagination, style, pace and skill have consistently set him apart from his peers and opponents. I salute him.

Young Jack Forster’s name is fluently inked in on my voting slip as ‘Young Player of the Season’. The adolescent powerhouse has not managed too many games for the first fifteen but, when called upon, has demonstrated maturity in spades and a belligerence and fortitude in ‘the tight’ that older and more experienced players would gaze upon with a soupcon of jealousy. To paraphrase Senator Palpatine (pictured) in Star Wars Episode 1: We’ll be watching his rugby career with great interest.

Excursions

The past week was spent in Tenby, admiring blue skies and golden sands, and relaxing and chilling. Alas, although there remains plenty to report and mention, insufficient time and opportunities have meant that these pages have remained forlornly neglected. For this, I apologise.

A week and a day ago, your humble host was gallivanting in the capital, purchasing some of those new-fangled compact discs at the wondrous Fopp emporium, dining and imbibing like a lord at BBC TV Centre with D and A (my generous hosts) before trotting to the Hammersmith Apollo to witness the splendid hop-trippers Portishead in concert. The following day, I walked for England and spent many a merry hour in the British Museum encountering treasure after treasure. The London trip was a success; I have chalked up my annual London gig (2005 Yo La Tengo; 2006 Teenage Fanclub) and I salute the exquisite music served up by Beth Gibbons and company. I thought the Apollo was a fine venue; the vast sloping floor meant all hepcats enjoyed a super view of proceedings.

I had barely returned from my trip to the east when the Guildhall o' Gloucester beckoned. The monthly Acoustica evening was in session and a legend topped the bill. Former Icicle Works front man, Ian McNabb produced a cracking set full of wit, wisdom and wisecrackery. His combination of homely and dark subject matter delivered with a rich and earthy voice was a real pleasure. The support act, two members of Bristol’s Slow, proved an engaging and warming talent. Their intelligent, lyrically intense numbers built to really rather exquisite musical denouements. They were an unexpected but worthwhile treat.

Peeps

Obtaining tickets for this summer’s Glastonbury Festival of Contemporary Performing Arts proved relatively straightforward last Sabbath morn. The married Coles and our eldest child who shall be fourteen in the month of the festival will all be attending. I’m actually really looking forward to the weekend but, after witnessing at first hand (and foot) the mud at Green Man last August, I earnestly hope for very dry weather. Ticket sales, I note, are down and, for the first time in many a merry year, the event failed to sell out within an hour or two. I am certain that all tickets will sell though. I felt a touch underwhelmed by the headliners that were announced earlier this year and wonder if other punters have withheld their custom because of a fairly lacklustre trio of main acts for the Pyramid Stage? Of the three, I suppose Kings of Leon are the most palatable. I quite enjoy their ditties when played on the wireless, but quite enjoying a combo’s ditties on t’wireless does not equate to exuberantly anticipating a live set. I have no axe to grind wi’ the hip-hop/soul community – heaven forbid - but I can think of no conceivable reason why I am likely to want to witness Jay-Z a-rappin’ ‘n’ a-rhymin’ on the Saturday night. The Verve, a nasty little third division indie band, headline on the Sunday and I shall be avoiding them like the ruddy plague. I can imagine the cigarillo lighters held aloft during Bittersweet Symphony now. Yuk.

Anyhow, it shouldn’t be about the headline acts. I have attended the festival thrice, my visits straddling the decades known fondly as the eighties and nineties so there must have been nine headline acts available to me and I can only recall watching a couple, Elvis Costello (who was fabulous) and, sorry, Tom Jones (who was Tom Jones). Perhaps there were more and I hope that S, who would have loyally been by my side for most of these weekends, will remind me. My favourite moments took place at other stages, within and without the world of music. The comedy tent is always marvellous and just strolling around visiting the stalls and sideshows makes for a pleasant hour or so. Because of work commitments, this is the first year I’ve been able to attend since, staggeringly, 1992* so it’ll be, if nothing else, interesting to see how the festival has changed.

* I was amazed to read here who headlined Glastonbury that year: Carter USM, Shakespear’s Sister and Youssou N’Dour. I wouldn’t have guessed any of those three and can emphatically state I didn’t view any of their sets. Especially Carter USM who, in my humble-ish opinion, exist in Division Four of the indie leagues. Or maybe the Conference.

Nothing but education...

Gloucester 3 - Munster (a whole province) 16

‘Twas a great occasion at Kingsholm Stadium yesterday. The hordes of Munster supporters added vibrancy and warmth to an already electric atmosphere; with the devaluing of the knockout cup and the watering down of the importance of league fixtures, there are less ‘big games’ these days but this match was mighty and of tangible importance. It felt like the ‘old days’ before kick-off. It was a shame that the city club underperformed in key areas but, generally, the fellows in cherry played with commitment and satisfactory enterprise. A day after the disappointment of defeat, my thoughts are more rational. Criticisms have been levelled at the club’s coaches for a perceived lack of strategy but yesterday the fifteen on the park had plenty of chances to take the spoils. Several missed penalty attempts helped the cause not one iota and try-scoring chances were spurned through a dropped pass here, stern Irish defence there. Frankly, it wasn’t Gloucester’s day but, with one or two exceptions, I feel quiet pride in the players. Hopefully the squad can pull a few decent results together and qualify for next term’s Heineken Cup; the impending visit of Saracens, a buoyant club now in the last four of the major European tourney, shall prove a test and a half for the city and a top four finish (required, in these eyes, for Heineken qualification rather than any end of season domestic loot-fest) may well depend on victory.

The Munster supporters were charming and gracious, garrulous and engaging. I warmed to those that I was fortunate enough to meet both in the ground and, later, in the snugs and smoking rooms of the famous city. I wish I could salute the home supporters so heartily. I felt obliged to apologise to one Munster fellow after the game on behalf of one oaf that I noted was far from welcoming to him during the match. When gentle people travel hundreds of miles to visit our community they deserve better than to be treated with aggression and boorishness. Some folk simply have no idea how to behave. This heart sank today too when encountering an online poll seeking views whether or not Chris Paterson deserves another chance in a cherry and white jersey. With ‘supporters’ like these, who needs opponents? My opinion on the subject is ‘Yes, yes, and thrice, yes’ but I shall not be offering the pollster my vote, thereby proffering credence to a nonsensical, ignorant and rank idea. Aren’t we supposed to get behind the team?

My codename's 'Cedar Plank'

Prop forwards, like fine wine, mature with age so I’m hoping that the return to Gloucester of Christo Bezuidenhout, the mighty rugby behemoth and former Springbok, will prove a fillip to the city club’s forward prowess and general progress next season. Reports in the South African press convince me that it’s a done deal; it is just a shame the colossal figure won’t be available to face the Munster men on Saturday.