Choosing Choices

The line up for the Green Man Festival has been finalised and cleverly fitted into the above graphical representation of the weekend’s frolics. Click on the image and, verily, gentle reader, it shall grow magically before your very eyes. I observe that Martin Stephenson is playing and I didn’t know that until five minutes ago. He clashes, it seems, with Joanna Newsom and I’m tempted to trot to the Green Man Café to witness the affable Northerner and his charming songsmithery. Saturday sees a huge skirmish between the Main Stage and the Folkey Dokey (I’m not sure I admire that expression) Stage; the choice between Robert Plant, Vashti Bunyan and Richmond Fontaine and Battles, Fridge and the wondrous James Yorkston is regrettable and almost heartbreaking. On the Sunday, I’m tempted to plump for The Aliens over Stephen Malkmus. I’m not quite sure what Malkmus is doing at Green Man, to be frank.

Looking Ahead

A longish summer of rest and relaxation awaits. To be honest, I’ve mainly got my listening pleasures sorted out. S had promised and has produced for me a veritable smorgasbord of melodic delights including a couple of recentish David Sylvian albums, some Devendra Banhart and several other long players that have passed me by. He really wants to get me into early Jethro Tull; there’s a challenge! I am on the look out for reading material though. I must confess I’ll devour the forthcoming Harry Potter novel as I have done with the previous six. Leaving aside any criticisms of this series from a literary perspective, I have simply enjoyed them because the school-based japes remind me of all the Jennings and Billy Bunter books I read as a nine or ten year old. I find the Potter books rather quaint and endearing. I shall be getting a copy of David Peace’s The Damned United, the football-based novel that deals with Brian Clough’s short reign as Leeds manager. D recommended that one to me. I do like Andrew Collins and I felt the previous volumes of his memoirs (Where Did It All Go Right? and Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now) were splendidly evocative and summed up the 1970s and 1980s superbly. His latest instalment, That’s Me in the Corner, deals with the affable broadcaster’s foray into the world of work, and, specifically, music journalism. I’ll purchase that, for sure. I think I ought to read – or, reread - a ‘classic’ so I’ll give that some thought too. As ever, any recommendations are gratefully received.

I came across this lovely ‘obituary’ of Fopp written for a Scottish newspaper and felt I had to share it.

Berlin

Another ‘band photo’ is posted above and one that was defiantly posed, I’m embarrassed to say. The venue was a courtyard somewhere in East Berlin in the mid-1980s. This was a fine holiday that took these three intrepid hipsters (plus C2 who took the picture) through Europe by train in order to stay in Berlin for a week or so and then Munich for about three nights. I remember very little about Munich apart from a boozy afternoon in a huge park. Berlin, on the other hand, was an uplifting experience to the extent that a return trip took place one year later. We (apart from C2, who was far too chic for such capers) ebulliently and innocently played dice cricket (also known as ‘owzat’) throughout the train journey which true Goths would never have done. The next year we packed the Subbuteo and ‘flicked to kick’ endlessly before striding confidently into the city to experience the Berlin nightlife. I bet David Bowie and Lou Reed never did that when they lived there. If ‘the band’ had existed, it would have played Sisters of Mercy and Cure styled compositions and would have been unapologetically gloomy.

Left to right: C, the author, B. We were teenagers.

Simon Morris

Simon Morris, the stylish and elegant former Gloucester centre-cum-winger, bicycled past me today in the Montpellier region of Cheltenham Spa. I was waiting patiently at a roundabout and he cascaded past me from the right and exited stage-left, so to speak. It was his right of way, for heaven’s sake. He still looks as fit as a butcher’s dog and I reckon he could still do a job for the mighty city club. He remains, possibly, S’s all-time favourite Gloucester back to the extent that my earnest and engaging comrade actually expressed a wish that Morris should defect to a more fashionable club back in the nineties to further any international ambitions more keenly. He was a great player though, elusive and flippin’ pacy with cracking hands and a firm sense of the team ethic. I associate him with a splendid period in Gloucester back play when, in the aftermath of the dreadful drubbing in the 1990 Cup Final, a few new players emerged and a few old ones were re-energised. Paul Holford, Neil Matthews, Donald ‘Don’ Caskie and the young full back Mark Mapletoft all, at one time or another, complemented the expansive skills of Simon Morris. That was rather a pleasing period when the pint pots of the cognoscenti started, after a few dismal years, to appear half-full instead of half-empty.

Shop

I’m no businessman and I am unsure of the whys and wherefores but I am saddened that the Fopp record chain appears to have ceased trading. All shops have closed and it seems that staff have not been remunerated for their efforts over the past month. I really liked Fopp. I first encountered the retail outlet in London a year and one quarter of a year ago. After a morning browsing the quirky stores in Berwick Street, the benevolent burgher of Highgate (out of Newentville), D, graciously led me, an innocent abroad, to the world of Fopp and, specifically, the Shaftsbury Avenue branch. I was impressed by the wide range of long players available, the sense that fans of the mainstream weren’t overtly catered for and the unstinting attempts to produce extremely fine value. My first visit to Fopp is tenderly recorded here and I’m suddenly hugely tempted to put on the Roni Size album in a while (I’m playing Alligator by The National as I pen these heartfelt words). I hope something is sorted out soon. I want my Fopp back.

Tempting to think now it will all be plain sailing...

A pleasant and relaxing day. This morning was spent in the merry city of Gloucester, avec famille, buying buttons and the Guardian newspaper before lunching in the Guildhall café-bar. This afternoon I shall prepare a vegetarian curry and listen to some music. This evening I shall serve and eat the aforementioned spicy dish, watch the Seven Ages of Rock, listen to some more music and retire to my bedchamber sated and calm.

I’ve discovered a splendid little website called Lost-in-Tyme that offers many albums for download. I tend to click on the Alternative - Punk - New Wave..... link but the others are worth exploring as well. The bulk of the recordings can be filed under ‘lost classic’ and I’ve been dipping in and out a fair bit recently, replacing some vinyl that has been gathering dust for too long and discovering some new stuff. I downloaded Kilimanjaro by The Teardrop Explodes this morning, an album I own and absolutely played to death at 33 rpm during the now distant 1980s. I know all the songs off this album backwards and reacquainting myself with the likes of Bouncing Babies, When I Dream and Went Crazy after all these years was rather charmingly nostalgic; I felt two-and-twenty again. I’ve also downloaded the second album by The Sound, From the Lion’s Mouth, which I’m playing as I write this. I also own the first Sound long player, Jeopardy, and I’d contest that both offerings represent a slightly diluted Echo and the Bunnymenesque ambience. It’s satisfactory but not world changing fare. The debut album by McCarthy, I am a Wallet, sits stoically on my desktop waiting for a click. The guy and gal from McCarthy formed the marvellous Stereolab so I’m keen to check this out.

The Fall will be headlining this year’s Ashton Court Festival on the Saturday. On the Sunday, The Good, The Bad and The Queen will receive the baton from Mr Smith and his crew. Gravenhurst are playing. So is Horace Andy. I’m tempted. Are you? Here's an action photo (taken at the height of that summer's Cole family cartwheel craze) from the 2005 festival to whet your whistle.

Photo-Journalism

I didn’t really enjoy the BBC’s Glastonbury coverage too much. This may sound pompous but I thought the Pyramid Stage’s fare was rather conservative and predictable and, sadly, the corporation appeared to stray from that arena rarely. The like of The Killers (who are they?) and the tiresome Kaiser Chiefs mean little to me and I was crying out for something a little more leftfield. The few times the cameras pitched up the John Peel Stage were worthwhile. I’d never heard of Jack Penate before but I appreciated his energetic and witty set. I blow hot and cold with the whole Glastonbury scene. Having been three or four times in the late eighties and early nineties when less hype surrounded the festival, I feel a touch of nostalgia for those days. It was huge back then but I don’t recall the media going overboard about it all and there seemed to be more quality control; perhaps I’m wrong but style over substance appears to be the order of the day. Having said that, I wouldn’t mind going again. I always liked the myriad of stalls and shops as well as the tremendous array of foods available. The comedy and theatre tents were always great to sample too.

It is funny how one’s mind works. I was contemplating my festival-going history at the weekend – effectively a handful of Glastonburys and Readings – and at the same time thinking and writing about Battles and searching online for a decent photo of the New York electronic rockers. Having ruminated about how good a picture the one below was, I had to rush and find my all-time favourite band picture which actually isn’t of a band at all. I took the above photograph myself at 1989’s Reading Festival by our tents. My beautiful and ancient blue Ford Fiesta creeps into the foreground. The picture was in no way posed. I just shouted a warning and everyone stopped and looked at me. It does look like a fabulous band shot though. If I didn’t know the individuals in the frame so well (left to right, D, N, S, S and S) I could easily be persuaded that the quintet was really a hardcore noise terrorist collective from Belper. It has always been known, with affection, as ‘The Band Photo’ and I know that dear S (who hasn’t aged more than a minute) treasures it.

The Bulge, Iwo Jima, Bunker Hill and Agincourt

That sultry Dusty didn’t have long at the top. I have a new favourite today. Mirrored by Battles is playing as I write this, cranked up as loud as a man living in a suburban semi-detached abode dares. This is music for itchy feet and itchy brains. It is driven by a relentless krautrockesque riddim. This is clever and precise music and the ‘math-rock’ tag fits with the album’s hypnotic feel drawing the listener in as he or she (‘he’ in my case, forsooth) ponders the ‘is it rock or is it electronica or is it, Good Lord, both?’ question. The vocals are effect heavy and are used, effectively, as an extra layer of instrumentation over quiet-loud-quiet playing that remindeth this punter of noisy and provocative Scottish noise provocateurs Mogwai. File under ‘Challenging’ but cross-reference under ‘Uplifting’ and ‘Big’. This is a stimulating group. This is a stimulating group.

Like a ghost, a ghost of something old

My new favourite album was released back in 1969. I’ve been playing it often over the past day or two. Sumptuous arrangements, the intelligent interpretation of standards and a superlative blue-eyed soul voice would not have interested me twenty years ago but, as a reflective 41 year old, I am able to nod with appreciation and purr with admiration at the delights that Dusty Springfield’s Dusty in Memphis brings. Springfield’s sultry, laid back and smoky tones add so much to an array of beautiful numbers penned by the masters of the songwriting game, Bacharach and David, Goffin and King inter alia. The rendition of Breakfast in Bed is wonderful; being a reggae aficionado, I have always adored the exquisite version by Lorna Bennett but Springfield’s is an exotic reading of the song and is, in my opinion, of equal merit.

Front (Room) of House

My faith in ‘The Arts’ has returned after Wednesday’s awful experience at the Guildhall. This afternoon the Coles headed out to sample some theatre, not in any of the traditional venues but in the front room of some friends in the centre of merry Gloucester. A company called Planet Arts specialises in bringing vibrant theatre to the living rooms of the south west and beyond and today, as you can see, a packed crowd watched Caribbean Angels, a shortish three-hander dealing energetically with the perceptions linked to encroaching middle age. I was outside in the back garden peering jauntily through the window, enjoying every moment and emphatically appreciating the intimacy such a venture brings. The play centred around Joy, lonely and maudlin as she approaches her half century, but reinvigorated by the visit of two angels who bring thrilling tidings of secrets in her family’s past. The plot was embellished through several poignant songs, delivered beautifully, that added depth to the developing narrative. I can think of worse ways of spending a Sunday afternoon; the entertainment was different and it worked splendidly.

Not Waving But Drowning

S and I went to the Guildhall cinema on Wednesday to watch a film called The Seventh Wave that was written, directed and acted in by locals. Where to start? I remain slightly irritated with the Guildhall for hosting such an amateur piece of tosh but I feel most annoyed with the ‘film makers’ (the use of the inverted commas is ironic) for being arrogant or deluded (probably both) enough to consider that such an ill-made, ill-conceived venture might be shown at the city’s art centre. The script was abysmal and devoid of wit, consisting mainly of clumsy exchanges between thirtysomethings (played by people who couldn’t act) about Star Wars and relationships. The writer obviously desperately wanted to create a kind of Reservoir Dogs-esque series of communications that touched drolly on popular culture but instead conjured up a host of conversations that were as disappointing and unfunny as the fact that I gave up my evening to attend this nonsense. I think the writer liked Spaced too as one of the characters played on a games console for a while; unfortunately one couldn’t see the character’s face as he leaned back and you could only see his shirt for a minute or so. It was that kind of production. There was so much wrong with this film; the editing lacked any spark or imagination, the sound was dire and the plot was sub-juvenile. One could accuse The Seventh Wave of being ‘sixth form’ but as S (who teaches film studies) pointed out, he’d be mildly disappointed if any of his sixth-formers had produced this. I don’t enjoy criticising for the sake of it but I’m bemused and somewhat angry that someone in my city could have such an inflated ego that he could think that an intelligent audience might derive some pleasure from this junk. I don’t mind someone having film-making as a hobby as long as they keep it as a hobby but it was emphatically wrong for many reasons to show this to an audience that associates the Guildhall cinema with fine and worthy British, European and World productions.

I’ve been peering through my fingers at the website of Nightshift Films (the production company behind The Seventh Wave) and ghoulishly reminding myself of Wednesday’s horrors. Apparently, there’s another blockbuster in the pipeline. I won’t be watching it. Ever.

Dont tell your poppa or he'll get us locked up in fright

I knew I’d like it eventually. The Aliens’ Astronomy For Dogs has proved a slow burner but my perseverance has paid off. This is a fine recording and I’m playing it more and more and really digging it, man. It is not always possible to listen to some music and simultaneously think, ‘This is really clever’ and ‘This is really melodic and pleasing’ but Astronomy For Dogs allows one to indulge in an array of blistering tunes and toe-tapping numbers while nodding appreciatively at the verve and innovation on display. Along with offerings by Field Music and Maps, this is an early contender for this august website’s Album of the Year, and a shoe-in for Album of the First Half of the Year. I both endorse it and congratulate it.

Sipping Coke and Playing Games

I’m not sure whether I reported this on here or not, but earlier this jolly year of 2007, I spent the afternoon at Birmingham’s Symphony Hall ruminating sagely at a performance of Petrushka (what was written by Stravinsky). The music was merry but what truly made the visit was simply admiring the amazing Symphony Hall itself, a huge auditorium, stunningly designed with incredible acoustics. Why do I mention this now, gentle reader? Well, the Coles have purchased tickets to attend a couple of concert parties there this September and I’m extremely excited. Richard Hawley is playing there on the 7^th and, by Jupiter!, we’ll be sat smugly ‘n’ snugly in the front bleedin’ row. I really rated Hawley's last long player, Coles Corner, and note that a new recording will be hitting the music emporia in the month of Augustus. Hurrah! My main cause for excitement, though, comes a week and a half later when Mr David Sylvian a-comes flouncing into the second city. I’ve waited about twenty years to see Sylvian. S and I had tickets to see him at Bristol’s Colston Hall in about 1987 or 1988 but our plans were rocked first by S tragically contracting gastroenteritis - I still remember the fellow's weak and faltering voice on the telephone as he broke the dreadful news while I simultaneously pondered, "Who the heck am I going to go with now?" - and, then, by the concert itself being cancelled (not because of my comrade’s infirmity but because Sylvian’s guitarist had, if memory serves, broken his arm). A true double whammy of mishap. We have a lot of catching up to do, Mr Sylvian and me. I can’t wait. I think it’ll be one of those occasions where I spend the first song or two just thinking, ‘That’s David Sylvian over there. Heck, that’s actually David Sylvian.”

A Disppointment

One of my favourite websites closed down today. I suppose the Kingsholm Chronicle had been limping along for a year or so now and the once thriving guestbook was being used less and less. However, I always maintained a real soft spot for the site, especially in the glory days when the affable and sharp Steve Hawker organised the content with tangible style. In those days, the KC appeared to be full of fabulous articles and features and statistics and it was always a pleasure to log on and check out the latest offerings. This sounds appallingly pompous but the online community back then seemed more mature, erudite and cerebral; I salute the fact that every Tom, Dick and Harry owns a PC nowadays but it doesn’t lead to more reasoned and knowledgeable debate alas. I shall miss the Chronicle. In recent times I’ve enjoyed the Fantasy Rugby and Guess the Score competitions; Tim Holder’s reports have been well worth a read and I’ve really appreciated Alex’s efforts and loyalty to the cause. I bid the old place the fondest of farewells.

Here’s a bit of Kingsholm Chronicle trivia for those who might value it. Steve Hawker based the early look of the KC on another website he was linked with, the unofficial Deep Purple pages, The Highway Star. Can you see what I mean?

Rotten device, I'll say it twice

Despite not believing for a nanosecond that there were/are seven ages of rock, I continue to enjoy the BBC series Seven Ages of Rock. Last night came Punk’s turn and despite not learning anything especially new - I have, after all, read and reread this – there were some above average talking heads (John Lydon, Glen Matlock, Mick Jones, Richard Hell) to offer insights into the era. I did learn that the riff from Pretty Vacant was stolen by Matlock from the Abba hit, S.O.S., and I did enjoy hearing of Patti Smith and band’s visit to the 100 Club to watch the Pistols where an enraged Rotten snarled accusations of hippiedom at them from the stage. The London/New York scenes were very different with the Americans being more arty, and the English more, I guess, political. The show strove to point this out with limited success; there was a lot to pack in. In a way, I’m looking forward more avidly to next week’s excursion into Heavy Metal territory, a subject I know little about and still peer at a little condescendingly. Maybe I shall be converted. But I doubt it.

I can't, for the life of me, explain how that strange little white rectangle appeared at the start of the text above. I can merely apologise for it.

I've seen your double dares - everything extraordinaire

I suppose that, if one regards Acoustica as the quirky yet good-natured fellow of the Gloucestershire music scene, then Calmer* could be viewed as its scampish and eccentric younger brother. In that case, extending the clumsy and slightly regrettable music-nights-as-relatives metaphor, Chapter 24, the new kid on the block, must be the mad aunt in the attic who screams a lot. It was a crazy night at the Slak Bar last Thursday but I don’t regret for a moment my presence among the hepcats and hipsters of Cheltenham Spa. My comrade A writes here that the first act was the finest and I humbly concur with that discerning blogger. Richard Davies, who organised the night, played just the one song under his stage name of Men Daimler. He ululated violently, sang tenderly, held his head in his hands in a wrought fashion, fell off his stool and shook his three-stringed guitar (which contained stones) a good deal. I admired his passion and certainly wanted a song or two more from the gent. He was good.

What else happened? There was an unaccompanied folk singer who filled the room with some traditional numbers. Then a Belgian dude, Ignatz by name, sat behind a large speaker and played his blues gee-tar over a drone and sang through an electronic device. Finally, Arrington de Dionyso from Washington (U.S.A. not Tyne and Wear) produced a challenging set that enthusiastically amalgamated the separate joys of nose flute, jew’s harp and bass clarinet. He groaned through a machine like a moose or something. The encore featured most of the evening’s performers who gathered on stage together like some deranged supergroup to challenge us all a tiny bit more. Then we all went home. It proved a lot of fun.

Wildlife Analysis

Our new pond is appealing. Two or three months ago we dug a hole large enough to place an old bathtub in and filled it with pebbles, plant-life and, of course, that hardy annual found in all ponds, that new-fangled water stuff. A couple of lovely frogs have pitched up there in the past fortnight and some spawn we were donated from another pond lover has now turned into tadpoles which have very recently grown legs. Our in-between tad-frogs are smashing. The pond changes every day; it’s a pleasant area to gaze upon and pass a merry minute.

Swell Maps

Two hot new albums are rocking dis boat at the moment. We Can Create by Maps is a swirling, swaggering, modern shoe-gazing classic and, by the power of Greyskull, it is growing on this eager punter with every listen. I appreciate the fact that We Can Create was created and written in the Northampton bedroom of someone called James because its euphoric, insouciant swagger suggests a more epic origin. I forced my MP3 player’s headphones deep into my ears ce matin, cranked the volume up to onze and shook to this album as I did the weekly shop at the Coles’ supermarché of choice. Against the backdrop of these dreamlike and evocative numbers, selecting the appropriate detergent proved a joy. Well done!

I’m also mightily impressed by Tromatic Reflexxions by Von Sudenfed, a splendid collaboration between The Fall’s Mark E. Smith and German techno pioneers Mouse on Mars. I confess that I told someone last week that it was Smith and Modest Mouse that had got together and made this recording; I feel foolish to have confused my Mittel-European electronica with my po-faced US indie but the sensation/guilt will pass. All these mice! I digress. Tromatic Reflexxions is a superb collection of funky, bluesy, hip-hoppy ‘tronic sounds, mumbled over by Smith’s laconic drawl and wit and underpinned by a fabulous sense of riddim, and, importantly, melody. It works.

Run Run Run

The new BBC series, Seven Ages of Rock, is enthralling. The first episode focussed on the end on the 1960s and, in particular, the impact a certain Jimi Hendrix had on the British music scene. Personally, I’ve always considered Hendrix to be a tad, shhhh, overrated so it was enlightening to listen to the likes of Clapton, Richards and Bruce (Jack not Forsyth) eulogising about the Seattle-born virtuoso. It was an interesting start to the series but the second episode was tremendous. Bearing the title, ‘White Light, White Heat’, the show examined the art rock of the late 1960s and early 1970s and drew marvellous comparisons between Velvet Underground and Pink Floyd and the manner in which both acts ‘pushed the envelope’ (dreadful expression, apologies…) with their innovative multimedia live appearances and musical experimentalism. David Bowie, Roxy Music and early Genesis were also featured and it really made me want to listen to early albums by all three of these artists. I must talk to S about early Genesis. It is only recently I’ve got into Pink Floyd after years – well, decades – of dismissing them insouciantly. The Wall is a superb and ambitious album and I really appreciate the melodic intelligence and wry cynicism of Wish You Were Here and Animals. Dark Side of the Moon is alright too. Why did I wait so long? The finest moments of ‘White Light, White Heat’ featured the stagecraft of Peter Gabriel and, in particular, the concert where, to the substantial shock of his bandmates, he emerged from the back of the stage to sing something off Foxtrot, wearing a fox’s head and a red party dress. I admired him for that. Look above to experience the moment too.

Next week’s episode is about punk rock.

But it's been no bed of roses

Being a fan of the quirky sporting statistic, I rather enjoy the concept behind the Unofficial Football World Championships website. The idea is that the first ever association football international, between Scotland and England in 1872, gave the winner the right to call itself World Champion. And, from there on in, that victorious footballing nation continued as World Champs until another country defeated it. That vanquishing nation then took the prize until it, in turn, lost an international match. And so on. And so on. It is a premise similar to boxing where a glove-donning pugilist will retain a world belt until a challenger conquers him in the ring. England became the first sole champions in 1873 – the first international proved a draw – and, with so many early international ties taking place between the home nations, the mantle was shared between England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland until 1931 when Austria hammered the Scots 5-1 in Vienna. Since then countless countries have earned the spurious right to call themselves Unofficial Football World Champions including, since the new millennium, Zimbabwe, Israel, Uruguay and those perennial underachievers Spain. Scotland, by pipping Georgia 2-1 in March became champions but a 2-0 defeat to Italy in Bari saw this brief reign end. Italy are currently official and unofficial champions but face the Faroe Islands in a week for the latest in a huge list of World Finals that stretches back 135 years. I post the Italian flag as tribute.