Ripples

A gentle and polite ripple of applause in a cricket stylee would be welcome for this site’s 150th posting of the year. Last year I managed a mere 133 postings by way of comparison so the curve is up. A target for next year needs to be considered. I think the double hundred is a tad ambitious especially as I traditionally tend to have a month or two of self-doubt and ennui when my muse departs and I can’t think of anything decent to write about. I’ll go for 183 posts I reckon; this would represent one every other day. We’ll see.

The Sufjan Stevens Christmas Album had another airing tonight. It’s an understated recording, quite lo-fi and a nice little indicator of how the songwriting prowess of the talented American has developed over the years. However, I’m mainly playing the Bjork album Vespertine and the Eg and Alice long player at the moment. Vespertine is a lovely set of songs packed with imagination and rather sensual undertones. It may be the enigmatic Icelandic maid’s finest work although Debut and Homogenic are mighty fine and splendidly challenging also.

D texted me to agree with my recent appraisal of The Royal Tenenbaums. I’m not alone then, and am glad that someone else doesn’t rate this ghastly film. It appears that D blew hot and cold about last weekend’s All Tomorrows Parties festival at Minehead’s Butlins. I await further detail but I sense it was a case of ‘great music, shame about the venue’. The affable Newent-bred Londoner used the word ‘shambles’. Heck.

Foppishness 2

I popped into the new Fopp store in Gloucester on Saturday. What an Aladdin’s cave of wonderful CDs we have been presented with in our fair city. The shop is on two levels. On the upper level there are shelves galore of fabulous back catalogues of fine, fine acts with most CDs costing a fiver while on the lower level there are shelves galore of fabulous back catalogues of fine, fine acts with most CDs costing a fiver. There are books and DVDs there too. I have bought quite a lot of music recently and anticipate a few new albums in the next week or so. However, however, I could happily spend some more time and some more hard-earned currency in Fopp.

Fingers Crossed for Roald

Perhaps I’m not getting the joke and somebody will put me right. We watched The Royal Tenenbaums on Saturday night, having hired the Digital Versatile Disc of said name from our local blockbusting rental store. It was dire. It lacked nothing in imagination but any fool can conjure up a hotchpotch of characters that are quirky and zany and eccentric. Making them do humorous things and utter interesting and thought-provoking and amusing comments is more challenging. This film consisted only of set piece after set piece that looked fairly interesting and visually stimulating but lacked any warmth, depth or intelligence. It was possibly the worst feature film I’ve seen since The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou which was equally shallow and shocking and which I gave a right blasting a year and a half ago. Is it a coincidence that they were both directed by the same fellow? I notice that Wes Anderson is behind the camera for the forthcoming Fantastic Mr Fox feature. I do hope dear Mr Dahl isn’t made to turn in his grave by an unnecessarily wacky and, as a result, dull treatment of a perfectly decent and much loved novel.

Props. Princes. Progress?

Gloucester 38 - Edinburgh 22

This was an exciting football match, more thrilling than it should have been considering Gloucester’s dominance of the tight exchanges and other key areas but concluding with the correct result: a win for the city and the cussed Scots departing with pride intact but lacking an important bonus point that would have flattered them. At 14-0 and with the match still in its first quarter I expected a comfortable victory for the city but the game ebbed and flowed, the opposition demonstrated considerable resilience, errors crept into the home team’s game and early in the second half, the score stood at two-and-twenty apiece with all to play for.

Gloucester’s response was necessary, marvellous but fairly unsurprising having seen glimpses of magic all afternoon. In a heady move, it all clicked. A quick-witted Oliver Morgan managed to keep a ball alive deep in the home 22, the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, was released and fifty metres and countless hapless, hopeless defenders having been left clutching air, the oval was deep into enemy territory; swift hands, flat passing and superb support play saw the ball flung right to left, inspirational skipper Bortolami took the ball close to line before an alert Anthony Allen screamed up to gather and sneak deliriously in at the corner. This proved the finest moment of the match but the countless crunching scrums that Gloucester dominated had the purists purring too. The front row of Collazo, Azam and Nieto utterly destroyed their opposite numbers and if the Scots smelt respite when Collazo was replaced on the hour, it was a short-lived sense of relief as one Christian Califano entered stage left and continued to hammer the Scots in the tight. The official man of the match gong went to the noble and stylish ‘Borts’ but my choice would have been any of the three starting front rowers who were as rugged and brutal and effective as any unit I’ve seen at my favoured stadium.

Essentially, the Gloucester club remains in the European Cup and three further wins might just see us through. Allen’s dashing sprint for the corner might well prove decisive and a score of that quality and class would deserve nothing less.

Master White and Ms Temple's Masterpiece

My instincts proved correct as to the whereabouts of a copy of Eg and Alice’s 24 Years of Hunger and I am grateful for the chance presented to me to get to know and admire such a fine collection of songs. I was chatting to the droll S on the telephone earlier and he asked me to describe the sound of Eg and Alice. I would suggest it to be one part Blue Nile (plaintive vocals and urban themes) mixed with an equal measure of Steely Dan (glossy production and not a bum note to be heard). I sense a slither of Hue and Cry and, in its funkier moments, a pinch of Prince Rogers Nelson. However, as I mentioned during my review of that rabble Boy Kill Boy’s gig this week, you need tunes and this album is chock full of moving melodies and quietly complex and emotive lyrical content. I already appreciate this recording and sense it will grow and grow and become a firm favourite. My favourite track at the moment is Indian, a great little tune but with a really barbed set of lyrics about isolation and rejection:

Jack Malloy came up to me / At a party on the hill / Sad expression on his face / He said though it grieves me so / I’ve been asked to throw you out / By the owner of this place.

And so on.

Foppishness

I was excited to learn via A on Monday evening that record chain Fopp has opened a branch within the city streets of Gloucester, quite near to the old MVC emporium just off the historic Square of Kings. I’ve always enjoyed trotting into Fopp in London and have purchased a fair few items from its well-stacked and generously priced racks ‘n’ shelves. They sell loads of CDs for a fiver or so and it’s all good quality stuff too. Few nasty little bands. It appears that A picked up the third Turin Brakes album for three pounds at the weekend and this augers well for bargain bonanzas to come. Still on the subject of cut price music, an email in my bulging inbox informs me that the library service is to host a CD and media sale every month. As I listen in an awestruck aspect to the blistering Vespertine by Bjork, mine for two pounds a fortnight ago, I am able to vouch for the wondrousness of that particular mart.

Moving Images

Tired tonight and looking forward to a break.

There are a couple of films I wouldn’t mind watching at the Guildhall next week. Part of me is always up for seeing old classics on the big screen so next Tuesday’s Some Like It Hot appeals. If that doesn’t come off, On The Waterfront is on soon to cater for my monochrome longings. I could have been a contender too incidentally. I quite fancy The Queen too – but, heck, not literally! Verily, gentle reader, I refer to the feature film of that name which examines how the death of ‘The People’s Princess’ (remember her?) impacted on the establishment. Helen Mirren is in it. She’s good.

Finally, after days of calls and enquiries, my new phone is working. I had wanted to transfer my old number over from Orange and this proved problematic. It has taken four days for me to be able to receive calls and texts. I could contact folk but not the other way round. It’s been a frustrating few days but indicative of how attached I have become to my phone. I don’t think I had a mobile eighteen months ago.

Adequate

Boy Kill Boy were nothing special on Monday night. Having an inflated ego, a bit of swagger, all the clobber and the ability to chuck out a few rock clichés is all very well but, at the end of the day, you need the tunes to back it up and this particular combo had few decent ones. I didn’t like them too much and witnessing the hip and cool Gloucestershire youth resolutely refusing to holler for an encore indicated that I was not alone in my disquiet. Boy Kill Boy were heralded pre-gig as contenders but, on this evidence, only for the Vauxhall Conference of up-and-coming bands. Poor. The support band, Magnetic, were much more like it. They wore black, adopted po-faces, generally kept their collective gobs shut and let their music, an energetic synth-driven alt-eighties soundscape, do the talking. Magnetic’s lead singer had a great back-combed Barnet and sounded not unlike Mark Hollis of Talk Talk. Well done!

I note that A has written up a review of this event here - with a witty link to these pages thrown in for good measure. I wonder who the 'more mature concert goers' might be....

Scorchio!

Am I alone in thinking that the hepcat sorting out the programme for the Guildhall’s cinema has a cute sense of humour? Next week, An Inconvenient Truth, the Al Gore documentary about global warming that I’m too afraid to go and see is showing. And the very next film on the schedule? Some Like It Hot. Clever. Clever.

The Correct Use of Soap

For the first time all year, the two magazines I have delivered on subscription arrived on the very same day yesterday. What a treat! I have relished the regular weighty thud on the doormat both periodicals have made all year (although I’m not usually here to hear it) and I have appreciated coming home on a humdrum Day of Wodin or Thor to discover some decent reading material awaiting to raise my spirits. I speak of Word Magazine and Mojo. It is now time to renew (well, they are presents so the renewing is not officially down to me) and I have decided to knock the Mojo on the head and continue with Word. Mojo has many strengths and the quality of its writing is peerless but I feel, at times, there is a tendency to look back rather than forward in its features. I can only cope with so many lengthy articles on The Who, Johnny Cash, Neil Young, Led Zeppelin et al. They are worthy artists but I prefer to warmly shake the hand of the zeitgeist rather than bow reverentially at nostalgie. Word’s combination of good journalism, wit, doughty editorial wisdom and the ability to keep its finger on the pulse of new trends and hip and challenging sounds makes me welcome its arrival each month a good deal more than its rival for my affection. It also covers film, television, radio and technology well. It is knowing and intelligent and adds to my life and my lifestyle. Without pre-empting what I’m getting for Christmas, I expect Uncut to replace Mojo in the new year. In a way Uncut is much like Word and covers a gamut of arts issues with sharp and incisive penmanship and I’ve got a lot out of the issues I’ve read this year. I know that the droll S is a Mojo man and the genial D favours Uncut. I hope my decision isn’t taken personally by either of these dear fellows. I would hate for there to be a scene.

My Saturday or Come on! Let’s Boogey to the Elf Dance!

I’ve enjoyed today. I decided not to go to the Gloucester/Bath rugby football match in the Anglo-Welsh competition as, effectively, it represented a dead rubber (that is the expression I’m looking for isn’t it?) and I simply lacked motivation to attend. Instead, I spent an hour or so in Oxfam sorting out the bookshelves and merrily blasting out Bob Dylan’s Desire album on the stereo in the warehouse as I worked. A bit of Christmas shopping followed and I bought the Sufjan Stevens Songs for Christmas box set too. Basically there are 42 Christmas songs, some traditional, some self-penned, on the five CDs that come in the box. There are also a booklet, a poster, some stickers and a comic strip included in the package as well as the usual dollop of genius and life-affirming energy that comes with any Sufjan Stevens release. Have a look and a listen. He’s my favourite. I needed a new book to read so I visited the wondrous Gloucester library and borrowed a pair of tomes, The Autograph Man and Fruit of the Lemon by writers I had enjoyed over the summer, Zadie Smith and Andrea Levy. I got a pair of guide books about Rome out too as I’m quite keen to visit that particular city. Perhaps it is the Marco effect! I picked up a brace of tickets to see Boy Kill Boy at the Gloucester Guildhall tomorrow night with A, got a Guardian from WH Smith and strolled jauntily around the city streets for a while. This afternoon I did the weekly shop listening to a slightly dodgy rap album that has become a recent secret and guilty pleasure on my headphones. Tonight I cooked a huge chilli which we ate during Robin Hood and I’m now comfortably sated and tapping in these words listening to the Burning Spear album I bought last weekend. A good day.

It’s my birthday quite soon so time to share a piece of personal trivia I have discovered over the past twelve months. Which musical legend and member of celebrated punk outfit is exactly, exactly ten years older than me? The answer is here if you are curious, bored or giddy with excitement. Ebullient horse-jockey Frankie Dettori is exactly, exactly five years younger than me. Wow.

Sounds from Santa

Last month, The Guardian printed a list of 49 ‘Musical Secret Weapons’, albums that were ‘obscure but incredible’, overlooked yet, in their way, essential to those who cherished them. Music industry folk (Maconie, Marr, Manzanera etc.) chose the 49; a week or two later ordinary punters suggested albums that should complete the fifty. The pieces proved fascinating reads and have flagged up a number of long players I’d quite fancy for my birthday next month and for Christmas (if you weren't aware, also next month). I’ve asked for the Roy Harper album Stormcock, The Sound’s Jeopardy, Georges Brassens’ Les Amoureux Des Bancs Publics and a few others. I won’t bang on about them but feel free to browse the lists yourself. I wonder if Santa will be kind to me. One album on the lists that I certainly require - but Amazon isn’t flogging at the moment - is Eg and Alice’s 24 Years of Hunger, a genuine lost classic that critics and cognoscenti rave about but which never sold and kinda disappeared. I shall have to put my feelers out and find out if anyone I know owns the blighter. EBay had a copy at the weekend but I was too tardy and, by the time I thought about bidding, it was too late.

I have used the word cognoscenti on consecutive days and I feel a touch self-conscious as a result.

AA

I would place Anthony Allen at number one on my Kingsholm talented youngster chart. Ryan Lamb comes a close second but needs a touch much experience and requires a little more consistency on a game by game basis. Master Oliver Morgan takes bronze. The young prince, Simpson-Daniel and the expressionist James Forrester are now too old to meet the qualification requirements for this imaginary roster but I touch my forelock in their general direction because it needs to be done regularly. Anyhow, my point is that I’m thrilled with today’s news that the boy Allen, capped by England at an age at which I was only occasionally leaving my bed before lunchtime, has signed up to play for the noble and splendid city club for at least another couple of years. Marvellous business. The fellow’s pace, eye for gap and tryline, ability to stay on his feet and recycle ball and general all-round genius have caught the attention of the cognoscenti from day one. His immense maturity, professionalism and ambition sadly make me consider a recent international centre three-quarter, H. Paul, who was found wanting on all three counts. I feel it an apt comparison and indicates how the club is moving in the correct direction and adopting a winning culture instead of blindly accepting a less salient one.

I won’t bore folk with all the technical stuff that goes on behind the scenes to bring this website to the baying and demanding masses but the erstwhile Blogger organisation has offered a few more options to the humble, er, blogger recently. It has become really simple to change the template and settings and colours and the facility is now available to sort all the lists down the side into alphabetical order. Have a look; isn’t it neat now down the right flank? The last thing I want is to become too professional but I quite like these new features; I’ve spent ages seeing what this website would look like in this colour or that and have tried out numerous lay-outs. ‘Geek!’ I hear you ululate.

Forster on McLennan

Robert Forster, former Go-Between, has a new job as Music Critic for Australian magazine, The Monthly. He’s won awards for his journalism too which will come as no surprise to those who were regularly moved and inspired by his articulate and thoughtful lyrics. His tribute to songwriting partner and band-mate Grant McLennan (who died in May) is a beautiful piece and an emotional read for anyone who holds The Go-Betweens close to their heart. It is sad to discover that the pair were working on new material and that, according to the author, any new album would have been ‘something special’ so the band’s legacy of too many life-affirming songs to count will have to suffice. The biographical details of how the pair met, how their early interests in film and music fostered their friendship, how the group was formed and went through numerous peaks and troughs of fortune are all covered intelligently and with honesty. The account of their last meeting is full of the most poignant detail. I have encountered few finer tributes from friend to friend; I feel I know so much more about the great man that was Grant McLennan having read Forster’s piece and this is simultaneously both uplifting and terribly, terribly heart-rending.

The picture above has to be recent. Forster favours the dark suit; McLennan looks as sharp as a razor in his shirt. What a pair. What a pair.

Watch (Out)

It was too good to be true. The watch I bought at the Amsterdam flea market has died. Vivid sun a-came streaming through the Cole bedroom dormer window on Sunday morning but a glimpse at my wrist bizarrely indicated that it was merely half past the merry hour of three. The blighter had stopped. I must add that reading the time on my new chronometer had become slightly tricky as, despite promises offered to me at point of sale, the item had turned out to be less waterproof than I had anticipated and seeking the exact hour had meant squinting through a damp and displeasing liquid film that had formed on the inside of the glass. What an unhappy purchase. I bought a doughty Timex yesterday that I trust won’t let me down. Unhappily I consider that I was seen coming with my wide-eyed West Country naiveté and eye for the bargain that never was. The unscrupulous vendor told me it was a good watch and I believed him. Hiss!

Lost in the Supermarket - with 'im out of Japan

If I were gracelessly manhandled to the floor, held in a Half (or, possibly, Full) Nelson by a masked and dangerous hired killer and told, in no uncertain terms, to name the finest album by a British artist from the last twenty years, I’d risk life and limb by painfully and fearfully spluttering out eight words: ‘Secrets of the Beehive by David Sylvian, sir.’ Naturally, I don’t expect this to happen but neither did I expect my weekly food shopping trip to be embellished and improved so mightily by the aforementioned long player this morning. I decided to put something ‘old’ onto the loyal MP3 Player and consider myself fortunate indeed to have made such a choice. It’s a gorgeous, gorgeous album, full of space and art and wisdom and astoundingly beautiful songs. From the tender opening track September with its spare arrangement and gently knowing and delectably personal and melancholic lyrics (We say that we’re in love/While secretly praying for rain/Sipping Coke and playing games/September’s here again) to the majestic and striking Waterfront, the album proffers elegiac wonders and works of art throughout. There are so many highlights from the subtle and moving build-up of Let The Happiness In, the mystery of The Boy With The Gun and, featuring possibly the most effective and life-affirming fade-in-and-out-half-way-through-a-song in the history of popular music, the plaintive Orpheus. The whole album works marvellously. It is jazzy without being over-complex, deeply intelligent without being unintelligible and intense without being claustrophobic. It’s a wonderful piece of art and this morning’s trawl through the aisles was all the more joyous for its company.

Naturally I’m disappointed that the city club were defeated by old rivals Bristol on Friday night. I watched the match unfold via a telecast that I viewed at the spacious Shed Bar. Unbeaten records have to go sometime and with the atrocious weather conditions proving such a leveller, a loss shouldn’t be regarded as an utter disaster. The team will bounce back. Frankly, the Gloucester club is in a far better state than Bristol with our young and ambitious players giving supporters real hope for the future compared to the short term gain of packing a squad with ageing yet streetwise performers. I’m glad I support the city.

Senses 6 - Purchases 9

A profitable morning was spent in merry Gloucester today. Purely by chance, I alighted upon one of the regular (irregularly regular if y’know what I mean) sales of CDs and other media at the historic and impressive Gloucester City Library. For two British quid a CD you can’t go wrong. My reliable sixth sense alerted me to the presence of A in the city and a brief SMS text summoned the fellow to the racks of musical treats too. I ended up with nine CDs which the kind woman behind the serving counter surprisingly charged me a mere fourteen pounds for. I’m delighted with my purchases but, as ever, I’m concerned that I have too much music to listen to. Maybe I should consider getting up an hour earlier to fit in an extra album each day.

I never bother looking at the DVDs and videos on sale. Maybe I should.

Look, I’ll list what I bought below. OK?

Two albums by the enigmatic ex-Sugarcube Bjork, Vespertine and Medulla. I’m playing the latter as I tap these words in.

Two albums by Lambchop, Nixon and Is a Woman.

Body Song by Jonny Greenwood.

10,000Hz Legend by Air.

Resist by Kosheen.

Geogaddi by Boards of Canada which I already know well and have on my MP3 Player but which I fancied actually owning.

Harder Than The Best by Burning Spear which seems to be a compilation of his mid-1970s stuff. I have quite a few of the tracks off this already but I’m happy to give it houseroom.

Touching the Brakes

Lots to report but so little time.

I thought Turin Brakes (see left, comrades) were wonderful on Monday night. Soaring melodies, stunning vocals and great musicianship all added up to a fabulous concert. I’ve been playing The Optimist LP a fair bit before and since and it really is a lovely collection of songs. The band – a duo really but augmented on the night by a tight rhythm section plus a keyboard fellow – played almost all of their acclaimed debut plus other favourites (Pain Killer, Fishing for a Dream, Long Distance) and brand new songs. They played for almost two hours and I must say the audience were lappin’ it up like nobody’s business – there was a real hardcore of uber-fans there who knew every last lyric and were obviously obsessed by the group. Hats off to them, I say. And more hats off to the mighty Guildhall for staging such a great evening – the folk there seem to be really getting their act together.

The Bond film was very enjoyable too. Daniel Craig’s Bond isn’t bedecked with gadgets galore and corny one-liners but he all the more human for that. This is a more vulnerable hero, prone to mistakes and the follies of youth (this is supposed to be his first case) and I enjoyed the darker tone to the film compared to, say, the Bond films of the 1970s where the secret agent is more a cartoon character made flesh than the rounded and, at times, troubled personality that Craig offers. Of course, the storyline was as farfetched as they come but the set pieces were stunning and the stunts, ahem, cunning. At times the tension proved quite unbearable and the violence appeared most brutal and uncompromising but this helped give the film depth and allowed the viewer to really sympathise with Bond as he finds himself dealing with the ‘big boys’ for the first time. I have spent worse two and a half hours.

The Borat film was fine too. Verily, I guffawed heartily throughout. Americans worry me though.

Shaken and Stirred

Gloucester 27 - London Wasps 21

A mighty afternoon at Kingsholm yesterday. This was a win for the purists with an unyielding tight performance and brutal forward collision paving the way for the expressionist skills of some of our talented and quicksilver backs to make hay. And of course, it’s always gorgeous beating those cynical and unpleasant Wasps. The front row was immense and I’m pleased how Nick Wood has continued to improve game on game. A much improved Olivier Azam and a hugely effective Christian Califano were equally important to the Gloucester cause; it was superb to watch such a committed display.

Both Gloucester tries sent the crowd into delirium. The first was a beauty. A sensational chip, chase and gather by the vigilant Lamb created space for the young prince, Simpson-Daniel to cascade at a splendid angle through the Wasps cover and weave yards galore before a precise pass set the electric Bailey sailing for the corner. Despite the Wasps cover forcing Bailey to the floor, the young winger was able to release the pill which was scooped up by a defender who skewed his clearance into the arms of the grateful and alert speedster who dived bravely for the line. It was a dazzling moment. The second try was a typical and, as ever, thrilling will-he-make-it-or-won’t he sprint for the line with the classy Allen collecting a loose ball and bolting headlong for the whitewash fifty or sixty yards away. The nipper showed a clean pair of heels and galloped clear of the chasing oppos before showing the nous to end his exhausting endeavour under the sticks. Marvellous.

The city club has made a superb start to the league campaign and, after eight matches, remains unbeaten. We need to keep hold of our talented players and, with the England coach under pressure, our unflappable and wise gaffer too. Hurrah!

I'm taking my son to watch Casino Royale tonight. I think the last time I went to see a Bond moving picture was in 1978 when I viewed a double bill of Live And Let Die and The Man with the Golden Gun with bespectacled school chum T. I recall an Indian man sat in front of us having to wipe away tears of laughter with a handkerchief during the famous speedboat chase. My 007 return is long overdue.

WD-40

Two days ago I was cussing that Monday’s Turin Brakes concert at the Guildhall had sold out before I could get my derriere into gear sufficiently to purchase tickets. Today, however, all is well as a clever trip to the historic venue this morning allowed me to pick up a couple of returned tickets, specifically the couple of returned tickets. It should be good. The atmosphere at any sold out gig is special and I have always appreciated Turin Brakes and their folky, intelligent, occasionally dark songs. I only have their first album, The Optimist LP, but I’ve quietly enjoyed all the stuff I’ve heard since. The Optimist contains some lovely, moving songs and I’ve been reacquainting myself with its elegant harmonies and wordy worthiness today. Any plaintive love song that mentions WD-40 gets my vote and the soaring Underdog (Save Me) ticks that particular box splendidly.

I’m glad the Guildhall is getting a few more ‘name bands’ these days as I was concerned at the amount of third rate punk bands and tribute acts. I’ve heard that an arrangement with Warwick University Students’ Union has meant that both venues can book the same act so that they play consecutive nights at Warwick and Gloucester without either place stealing punters from the other. I await further developments and further fun.