Monkey Magic

I miss the Olympics. I admit my feelings have changed over the weeks. ‘Early doors’ I grew tired of the over-exposure of that little diving boy and didn’t warm to his synchronised antics; little else in the first week grabbed my attention and a soupcon of world-weary cynicism entered the psyche especially as we didn’t seem to winning a great deal. However, with a few British gold medals on the table, a large bandwagon bearing the legend ‘Jump on me!’ careered past and I leapt desperately ‘pon it. There was so much I loved watching and even that little diving boy won me over in the end. The single-mindedness and professionalism of our bicycling team proved, I found, utterly awe-inspiring; the daily quest on two wheels for gold by our lads and lasses was joyous to behold. The rowing was a thrill too and I salute those who wielded oars for Team GB and, ultimately, us. I swapped SMS texts with D last evening and we debated which of the nineteen British golds had satisfied the most. The Newent-raised fellow selected the controversial 400m scamperer Christine Ohuruogu and her epic sprint for glory, overtaking rivals galore on the home stretch. I am tempted to agree; this is a supreme athlete and she has now cracked, in the finest style, the elusive World and Olympic ‘double’. It is surely time for the issue of her missed drugs tests to be laid to rest for ever. My favourite gold medal was the last one claimed by our triumphant team by middleweight boxer James DeGale. This was a most exciting bout of pugilism. Our lad built up a seemingly unassailable lead of points which led to his Cuban challenger, Emilio Correa, fighting back in the most aggressive manner possible, landing shot after clumsy shot so that our hero was left holding on by his glove-clad fingertips at the end while I leapt about the front parlour in giddy sports ecstasy. Marvellous stuff.

And when you get the chance...

I do appreciate so-called ‘quality’ cinema and the latest Guildhall Arts Centre brochure indicates this; a variety of serious features has been energetically ticked by this keen punter, demonstrating a desire to go and watch artfully shot bio-pics, earnest documentaries, New Wave classics and low budget nuggets. One or two of these films might even be in a foreign language for heaven's sake. Having said all that, I have to confess that I visited the local multiplex picture house with my family earlier this week to view a piece of cinematic fluff, a lightweight load of old nonsense that I also happened to enjoy as much as any film I’ve seen for ages. I own up; I loved Mamma Mia, every single mad minute of it, every corny song and dance routine, every ridiculous plotline and twist. The story is paper-thin and is something to do with a wedding, some pressing paternity issues, lost love and all that malarkey. What I adored was the gorgeous Greek setting in front of which the likes of Pierce Brosnan, Meryl Streep (acting her bleeding socks off), Colin Firth and Julie Walters (playing Julie Walters), on a fairly regular basis, unexpectedly break into song, belting out with gusto galore an appropriate Abba classic that had something loosely to do with the current state of play with the wedding, the pressing paternity issues etc. For example, Streep runs a hotel and it’s a bit short of cash so she breaks into Money, Money, Money unapologetically; Walters, at the wedding feast, reckons one of the paternity issues blokes should take a chance on her romantically and, well, one can guess the rest. This was an unashamed feel-good feature and I admit I fell for its unsophisticated charms hook, line and sinker; the two hours flew by and I’m not too proud to state that another half an hour or so more would have been fine by me. After all, we didn’t get The Name of the Game, Knowing Me, Knowing You, The Day Before You Came or Eagle and I’m sure the plot could have been stretched even more tightly to allow for these favoured hits.

Try to win and suit your needs

The current issue of Mojo is a belter. Occasionally, my favoured journals produce an edition in which each and every article is resonant and crucial and September’s Mojo is to be acclaimed for its fine array of pieces. Two of its features highlight a pair (I can’t bring myself to type the word ‘brace’ again) of classic albums that are celebrating anniversaries this year and I’ve been revisiting, with no little relish, these recordings on my information pod. The Beatles’ eponymous classic double album, known by the masses as ‘The White Album’, is forty while Murmur, R.E.M.’s mumbled, melancholic masterpiece of a debut, was released five-and-twenty years ago.

I’d suggest there was a period in my life when I played Murmur four or five times a week, on my much-loved and battered old car stereo in my much-loved and battered old car. I would have been wearing desert boots and a plaid shirt. Listening to it again for the first time in ages and having lost some of my familiarity with its songs, I’m staggered how wondrous this long player sounds. Naturally, Perfect Circle exists as the most strikingly beautiful and haunting three and a half minutes in the Athens group’s canon but there are many other moments of greatness and splendour to appreciate. The Stipe fellow’s slanted and enchanted lyrics and, ahem, murmured vocalisations proffer proceedings a murky, dreamy quality with a barrage o’ off-kilter melodies and gee-tar hooks adding a folk-rocky atmosphere that remains irresistible. So many highlights. The first twenty-five seconds of Laughing, with its sparse percussive introduction, evocative and sudden vocal and chiming stringsmithery, is majestic. 9-9 is all Gang of Four austerity and angular menace, a compelling post-punk treasure while the whispered obliqueness of Pilgrimage soars and stuns. Funnily enough, the one song I can live without on Murmur is the opener and single, Radio Free Europe which, for this punter, possesses an over-produced clarity of sound and forceful nature that sits at odds with the understated subtleties of the other eleven numbers. It is a brilliant recording though, and for old time’s sake, I’m going to spin the blighter four or five times this week.

It was once fashionable to suggest that The White Album, if shorn of some of its ‘filler’, could have been one of the greatest single albums ever; it is now modish – and heartening – to notice a new school of thought ululating the proposition that the sprawling, untidy mess of genius, folly and fun should be celebrated for what it is: a hotch-potch of wonder and wit that English popular music has ne’er seen the like of before or since. This is not my most-played Beatles album – Revolver wins that accolade – but so many of these songs are firmly embedded in the old consciousness. For every number I could live without (Piggies, Honey Pie, Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except Me And My Monkey) there are a host of dazzling, clever and essential tracks that maybe I couldn’t. I guess my favourite song is Happiness Is A Warm Gun, a challenging cornucopia of magical moments linked together with aplomb and dexterity. I also adore the pastoral tenderness of Mother Nature’s Son, the fragile and poignant Julia, the lilting whimsy of Dear Prudence and the Nick Drakey acoustic gem, Blackbird. The White Album does appear in many of those Top Albums of All-Time lists and often makes the top ten. I don’t hold it in quite that level of acclaim but I’ve really welcomed its eclectic brew again and, while I know this sounds a bit shallow, I salute the fact that all songs (apart from the experimental musique concrete piece Revolution 9) are all roughly four minutes in length or shorter: one doesn’t have to wait too long for the next jewel.

Happy birthday both.

Party Fears Pesky

It wasn’t a totally negative experience at Green Man. We met some charming people there. At the Café on Thursday night, a group of fellows shared our table and fell laconically into conversation as we supped our pints o’ ale. They hailed from Blackburn and owned plenty of beards although their leader and talisman – name of Vic – was clean-shaven and debonair. My word, they knew their music: a brief mention of Sufjan Stevens and they were quoting obscure lyrics back at one, a fleeting recall of an underground lo-fi band led to them parrying back a brace of e’en more subversive acts. At a certain point I may have lied about owning an early Associates album but one had to try and hold one’s own somehow. The Blackburn boys were great company though and we continued to bump into them (mainly the non-hirsute Victor) throughout our brief sojourn. I salute them.

Less celebrated types frequented the area near our canvas abodes. The first night proved a disastrous non-sleeping marathon. I was awoken about midnight by a couple in the next tent playing music on a portable gramophone; the male partner launched into a long and involved anecdote about tyre pressures that had me silently weeping as I knew I’d struggle to slumber again. At half past three, a group of very drunken Mancunians arrived and started pitching tents near us, holding conversations that were as inane as they were loud. A middle-aged fellow known mysteriously as Pesky was the worst offender; his booming and meandering rants about the housing crisis and other issues had my blood boiling. I’m very easy-going but Pesky and his chums had me seething; I didn’t kip for a minute after that.

They run and hide their heads

Oh heck. What a pathetic display of muddy, ruddy wetness. As S and I discussed, when children it seemed all summers were hot and dominated by skies of dazzling blue and, as youths, festivals proved mainly sunny and unblemished by foul weather. What has gone wrong? Anyone would think the planet is in some way warming up causing meteorological conditions to become haphazard and unpredictable. I suggest that scientists start looking into this especially as, for the second year in a row, the Green Man Festival has been ruined by the wettest rain known to humanity. Friday, it has to be said, was rather fine and S and I caught some decent music. I rather enjoyed the shoe-gazing, nu-gazing intensity of Norfolk’s very own Sennen while, in the evening, the heavy rock and scuzzy Sturm und Drang of Canada’s Black Mountain had my head banging ever-so-slightly. Alela Diane possesses a sweet voice too.

Saturday was a rotter. Grrr. It poured and poured and our spirits sank into the mud. A few hardy souls huddled at the front of the main stage for the raw-boned and idiosyncratic School of Language and I appreciated their fine furrow, ploughed with unusual and quirky angularity. We didn’t do much else. I watched North Sea Radio Orchestra in the Folkey blinking Dokey Tent and they were adequate only. They lacked warmth and were a tad dull. Happily we did approach and get to chat to the remarkable and amiable Jonny Trunk – a hero of S – in the Rumpus Room, the large DJ marquee. This fellow, dressed to kill, runs the eclectic and marvellous Trunk Records. Last year, he was DJ-ing at the festival; this time round he was entertaining the kids on the site with the charms of 1960s Music and Movement recordings. Despite all the best acts appearing on the Sunday, we left for Merrie Gloucester on Saturday night. We’d had enough. Sitting shivering in a tent on a murky evening listening to a million raindrops thudding into the canvas knowing that even a shortish walk to go and get some food would leave one utterly sodden proved too much; we legged it. I’m really gutted that I missed The National but, and I know it sounds as square as square, I’m too long in the tooth and too cosseted by modern comforts to be able to cope with such rank conditions. How disappointing.

Here is a brace-plus-one of photographic images.

1. S on Thursday afternoon: Blue sky, green field, pleasing view, optimistic vibrations, innocence, joy.

2. Friday. Sennen nu-gaze for non-crusties energetically. Footwear: model’s own.

3. Coats, cagoules, capes, caps and creative compositions from School of Language.

A Hardy (Country) Annual

The Cole family has returned to Gloucester, quietly and away from the media glare, having relished a sunny summer holiday in picturesque Dorset. We stayed in a bonny little village called Lulworth and from our abode we could walk to three splendid beaches, Lulworth Cove, Man of War and Durdle Door. The latter has a remarkable sea arch but gorgeous aspects were to be enjoyed at each coastal area. Dorset is a rather beautiful, unspoilt county full of thatched cottages and verdant, sweeping rural views that reminded us a little of Ireland. I’m glad we went. It’s nice to be home though.

Look above for some views:

1. On Chesil Beach, literally

2. Durdle Door

3. View from Maiden Castle, a remarkable Iron Age hill fort near Dorchester

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.