For when she thought of summer rain

I’m going to go to Green Man again next year. The mud and the rain were drags and I don’t regret nipping off on the Sunday morning. I’m frustrated that it wasn’t sunny and dry because it would have been lovely to stretch out on the grass and read and chill and eat and drink. An extra day’s music and vibe would have been splendid but it was not to be. It’s a grand event with three great venues to catch acts as well as the Rumpus Room where hipster DJs spun some fabulous sounds. The chief music writer on The Times, Pete Paphides, produced a cracking set on Friday night, opening with Dylan’s Maggie’s Farm, followed by Summer Babe by Pavement and Teenage Riot by Sonic Youth. An inspired trio of belters! He finished his set with the glorious Come All Ye by Fairport Convention; I respect this man and his taste.

I caught two heroes on the Friday. On the main stage, a nervous Stephen Duffy and The Lilac Time were playing together for the first time in years. They were superb. All the old classics were belted out with gusto and sublime musicianship and I admired Duffy’s wit, wisdom and self-deprecating humour. I stood at the front among a gaggle of Lilac Time aficionados all a-swaying and a-tapping feet and all wearing huge grins. Having read an old Word Magazine feature praising Duffy to the rafters last week, it was engaging to find myself next to the item’s author Caitlin Moran (Pete Paphides’s wife, trivia lovers) who was absolutely lapping up the set with her kids. Despite my clumsy opening sortie – ‘Are you Caitlin?’ – we had a briefish chat and both agreed that Duffy was ‘da man’. I am heartened to learn that a new Lilac Time album will be hitting the shelves this autumn and I hope they tour.

Later that evening, we saw Martin Stephenson produce a fabulous set at the Green Man Café. As ever, the engaging Geordieman combined marvellous tunes, fantastic playing and engaging banter to keep a slightly damp crowd in raptures. After a beer or three, I felt sufficiently brave to shout out for Crocodile Cryer which, to my delight, Stephenson played with great verve and power. This is a special performer.

Earlier in the day I dug the exquisite folk tenderness of Rachel Unthank and the Winterset (I bought her debut album on the strength of the performance) and admired the cheery and cheering pop classiness of Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci man Euros Child.

In an episodic format that none other than Mr Charles Dickens would acknowledge and salute (if, readers, he were still alive) I shall write about the Saturday on the morrow.

Here are some photographs. The captions read:

1. The Green Man Cafe arena. Nice.

2. The author ponders the weather with the main arena in the background. Spot the bubble.

3. The Lilac Time perform.

Muddy Waters

S and I returned from Green Man today, a full twenty-four hours earlier than anticipated. The rank rain and the resulting dreadful mud (see Cole boot above) took their toll and we had concerns about getting the car out of the car park that looked utterly brown and sodden this morn. We made a bolt for it. The two days, weather apart, were packed with excellent performances and fine sounds and I’ll write more tomorrow. I’m quite frustrated about the damp conditions; had the sun shone, the weekend would have been idyllic.

The sound is deep in the dark

Into the Woods by Malcolm Middleton (one of those new-fangled compact discs that Tomorrow’s World featured the other day) is dominating the listening schedules at Radio Cole FM at the moment. The former Arab Strap master of murky melancholia has managed to marry the miserabilism of his former combo’s lyrics to some uplifting electronic soundscapes and acoustic charm. The songs are witty and intelligent but the themes of isolation and despair that dominated much of Arab Strap’s output are still apparent and, again, the listener finds himself or herself as voyeur, glancing nervously into a mind dominated by bleak thoughts and uncertainties. This is a fine and rewarding album. I recommend it.

On the Links

I’ve tidied up the links on this site’s right hand panel. It needed doing. I’ve pruned a few links and added a few current favourites. I have also added quite a few more blogs to the extent that I’ve now split these sites into those that deal with MP3s and those that are more prose based. If you have a spare hour, you might like to trawl though the MP3 blogs. There are some absolute nuggets to be had there; plenty of punters have ‘zipped’ some classic old albums which are there for the taking. Last night I bagged a copy of 1968’s Nancy & Lee (by N. Sinatra and L. Hazlewood) and the Manfred Hubler and Siegfried Schwab soundtrack to the cult vampire/soft porn cult flick Vampyros Lesbos.

I ventured to the supermarket an hour ago to pick up some necessary items (toilet rolls, Ritz crackers, fruit juice etc.) for the weekend’s festival frolics. By my good fortune, a Gloucester rugby legend queued behind me at the checkout although I didn’t engage the fellow in conversation. It was nippy back row athlete Paul Ashmead who loaded his goods onto the conveyor belt of oblivion directly after me. I always felt Ashmead underachieved a tad during his Gloucester career; his early performances in the famed shirt were energetic, creative and no-nonsense and I tipped the chap for international honours. A brief internet search tells me that Ashmead occupied the blindside flank during Mike Teague’s farewell performance against a Harlequins outfit that included a retiring (in one sense) Brian Moore. If I am correct, a certain Philip Bradley Thomas Greening made his league debut that day. It all seems a terribly long time ago.

Bryter Later

I’m now reading Norwegian Wood by Murakami Haruki. Clive James can leave the building. I completed about three chapters of North Face of Soho but decided to forgo the last 200 pages or so. All of the joy of his first three volumes of memoirs – and, in particular, the lively and hilarious Unreliable Memoirs that deals with his Australian childhood – is missing and is replaced by one dreary and self-congratulatory ‘anecdote’ after another about contract negotiations. How disappointing.

Green Man on Friday. I keep glancing nervously at the wet weather outside. The tent is still up in the back garden getting soaked and I will need to have it packed on Thursday so drying it out will be an issue. My main cause for cloudbursting concern is, of course, the festival itself. There is a world of difference between strolling round a site with a hot sun on your back and having to suffer showers when your favourite act is on stage. All fingers are crossed for an improvement and the five day forecast indicates an upturn by the end of the week. The full running order with timings has been posted on the Uncut site.

It only takes a second to score a goal

I’ve ploughed through a few books this holiday. The new Harry Potter was more of an event than a read but I got through it and, it has to be said, found the last chapters quietly moving. It was pleasing to finally discover some of the truths surrounding some of the key characters and I don’t regret all the hours I’ve spent over the past few years turning the pages of the whole series. My favourite book of the season was The Damned United by David Peace (given to me by D and A – thanks) and its no holes barred account of the forty-four day long Brian Clough era at Leeds United. Beyond the bust-ups and boozing, the novel managed to convey the human side of Clough sagely and sensitively. There are plenty of remarkable set pieces within the book not least during the flashback sections that deal with Clough’s tenures, in tandem with his astute sidekick Peter Taylor, at Derby County and Hartlepool United.

I’m currently reading the fourth instalment of Clive James’s memoirs, North Face of Soho, which deals with the Australian writer’s early career in the world of criticism and letters. Frankly, it is proving a touch dull.

il miglior fabbro

I was a tad delicate this morning after last night’s fact-finding mission. S and I sauntered into the epicentre of the metropolis known the world over as ‘Gloucester’ and attempted to discover somewhere different to imbibe an alcoholic beverage or two. Café Rene has become, over recent years, the default setting for a pint o’ ale or porter so we wondered if a distinctive and atmospheric alternative existed. After a swift ‘un in the Rene, we trotted to Bull Lane and supped a couple in the Poet’s Bar (pictured). I witnessed no poets in our midst, only a gaggle of gentlemen singing discordantly along to a D. Bowie compilation but my beer, a strongish Czech brew, proved tasty. I hadn’t swigged a snifter in The Fountain for years and we headed there next; it’s a decent pub and the garden was packed with an up market crowd who may have been to a Three Choirs gig at the cathedral. One fellow wore a boating blazer; there exists no excuse for that level of dandyism methinks. We ended our evening of research at the Dick Whittington where S waxed lyrical about his honey flavoured ale. The night was successful; I would return to all three of the ‘new’ establishments. To misquote Johnson: When a man is tired of Gloucester, he is tired of life.

Kingsholm

My annual pilgrimage to Kingsholm was made yesterday. Within the cooling shade of the ‘Shed Bar’, I casually handed the young female employee of the city club two hundred and twenty pounds sterling. In return, I received my season ticket allowing me entry to the forthcoming months of rugby football action. I left the stadium in contented mood. The muddied visage of Lord Alex Brown adorns the plastic front cover while, on the rear, Michael ‘Mike’ Tindell, Andrew ‘Andy’ Hazell and the young prince, James ‘James’ Simpson-Daniel are pictured in celebratory mood, ostensibly celebrating a five point scoring act. In two photographs, the honest toil of the forward pack and the exuberant verve of the three-quarter line are epitomised; it is my wish that both aspects of the sport are executed keenly this season by the most talented Gloucester squad the historic city has witnessed.

The stadium looked remarkable. The groundsman was mowing the pitch as I arrived and I derived pleasure from a most verdant and lush looking lawn. The new main stand is a most impressive and imposing looking project and behind each set of posts, the Buildbase Stand and the hospitality end appeared modern and eye catching. The popular side remains the old-fashioned popular side where ghosts from the past still bellow and howl and I look forward to strolling into it soon with all the excitement and expectation a new season brings.

The Beloved Entertainer

I took the above photograph yesterday evening. We popped out to sort out the chickens for the evening – a ritual in itself – and came across no less than three little hedgehogs in the corner of the garden. Finding just one hedgehog is quite unusual but to discover a trio was rather exciting. By the time I had trotted back into the house to find the camera two had sneaked under the outer skin of the tent; you will need to increase the size of the picture to see them clearly. I doff my hat to nature.

Cross-Code Cavaliers, Cardinals and Clappers

I spotted the behemoth and cross-code rugby traveller known with affection as ‘The Volcano’ yesterday. Lesley Vainikolo was strolling casually up Westgate Street in merry Gloucester, enjoying the Sunday sun with a couple of comrades, one of the male, ahem, gender and one of the female. He appeared relaxed and content with life, and, as far as one could ascertain, physically fit. I didn’t approach him but was tempted and in retrospect, wish I’d barked a brief ‘halloa!’ and enquired how things were goin’.

As I type these words, I’m playing Gold by Ryan Adams, a true 21^st century classic packed with emotionally wrought numbers, sung with vitality and vim. The tunes are striking and elegant. It remains a lovely album, one of my favourites. A couple of nights ago, thanks to my Virgin+ Box (me bleedin’ pride and joy) I was able to watch Adams, with his backing group The Cardinals, in concert at London’s St Luke’s. It is my belief that the presence of a backing group lends Adams more discipline as a live performer and the collective appeared tight and talented. If only Adams had been on this form when I travelled to Bristol, with high expectations, to see him ‘in concert’ a while ago; that evening remains possibly the nadir of my gig-going past rivalled only by the inexcusable Earnest Cox/Cuban Heels/Ghosting triple bill from hell at Gloucester Guildhall that still finds me waking, drenched in sweat, some nights, whimpering sorrowly, ‘Megaphone... why?’. The television coverage of Adams was embellished by regular shots of the endearing and appealing Newent-raised media player D, who was obviously targeted by the show’s producer for his well-honed talent for applauding with warmth and vigour. His childlike beam at the end of Carolina Rain almost brought a tear to these world weary eyes.

Houses in Motion

My word, I love the new album by LCD Soundsystem, Sound of Silver. I’ve unashamedly played it to death over the past week or so. I purchased it for a crisp five pound note in Associated Diaries and Farm Stores Ltd. – a brilliant bargain. It’s a funky little beast, awash with pulsating electronic beats and riddims and some of the exhilarating numbers make one want to dance a little (in the kitchen) and even whoop occasionally. It certainly is a marvellous long player. The closest comparisons I can contemplate are Power, Corruption and Lies by New Order for its electronic splendid splendour and Talking Heads’ Remain in Light for the strutting and fascinating rhythmic resonance that permeates the whole effort. I salute this recording and effortlessly recommend it to all hepcats.

It is now less than one of those fortnight things until the Green Man Festival. I note that A is ‘biggin’ up’ an act that is appearing on the Sunday and I glad that his revision for the event seems to be progressing satisfactorily. This morning I practised putting the tent up in the rear garden and I may (or may not) slumber in it this very night. I’ve photographed it so that S can gaze upon it and realise that it’s a floral item that might raise the occasional eyebrow in the fields of Brecon. I’d rather experience his antipathy towards my flowery and pastel-hued mini-marquee now than when we arrive at the site and start putting the blighter up.

Film and Music

I’m a critter of habit when it comes to reading about music. Twice a month, the doormat is raucously clattered by magazines arriving via Royal Mail. My favourite remains Word Magazine, an erudite pot pourri of stuff I like and, importantly, will like while Uncut features much of the same but written and edited, methinks, with less warmth and sophistication. I always reckon that Word Magazine understands me more. I buy The Observer when its Music Monthly is attached; it’s a decent publication but slightly hit and miss and, in recent months, in my opinion, more miss than hit. I suppose Observer Music Monthly has a wider demographic to cater for so one shouldn’t moan if it caresses the mainstream a little too often.

My weekly ‘fix’ comes with Friday’s Guardian. Its weekly ‘Film and Music’ supplement is a treasure and today’s, a classic, is what prompted me to pen these words. My favourite music journalist, the pithy and intelligent Alexis Petridis, travels to the backwaters of Scotland to interview lost Folk legend Ann Briggs, there’s a charming piece about the making of Fairport Convention’s Liege and Lief and a witty and affectionate chat between Sheffield’s troubadour par excellence, Richard Hawley and young pop monkey Alex Turner. The CD reviews are thoughtful and entertaining and certainly sort the wheat from the chaff: Petridis uses a slightly cynical appraisal of a new long playing offering by someone called Kate Nash to consider the new pop scene and how its fast moving nature ain’t necessarily a good thing.

I have been in Amsterdam for a couple of days. I took my eldest two children mainly because I found dirt cheap flights there and neither had flown anywhere before. It’s a great city. I bought Blackheart Man by Bunny Wailer and Tribute to the Martyrs by Steel Pulse in the Waterlooplein market. It is great to be home though and I am keen to relax for a while now.

Parklife

We had a lot of fun at Eurodisney – or Disney Resort, Paris as it has been cunningly renamed in recent years. I’m quite cynical about the ol’ Disney brand but I was won over by the whole experience of the park. Having a seven year old helps but the parades were really impressive and all the characters that roamed the expanses, signing autographs and hugging the nippers were rather charming. The rides ranged from the quaint to the exhilarating and we managed to go just about everything. My knuckles grew less white as the week went on and, accompanied by son and heir, tried all the big rides. My first lily-livered attempt at the terrifying Space Mountain is pictured above; I grew to enjoy it though and managed to keep my eyes open on my second expedition. The Coles also managed a couple of days in Paris and did all the usual stuff: the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Pompidou Centre and the obligatory boat trip on the Seine.

I thank those who texted me with news that Chris Paterson is joining the mighty Gloucester club from Edinburgh. I’m heartened by the signing. Here is a player who has accumulated a mass of points at international level but is not just a points machine; I rate his attacking verve and his wit with ball in hand. He will dominate games for the club and not be content with mere cameo roles. I know D will not appreciate my appraisal of the boy Lamb but I don’t recall the youngster ‘bossing’ too many matches last term; his time will come but, for now, I wish to see the level-headed and classy Scot at ten with Ryan Lamb continuing his education within the matchday 22.

Europe Endless

We picked a fine time to be in Paris with the mighty floods causing power and water cuts in merry Gloucester. It is pleasing to be home although our taps are still empty of liquid. I am thankful we have escaped any flooding; nearish neighbours have not been so lucky.

The week before Paris was quite busy. One day was spent in London, shopping for chess items and a few CDs. One of my purchases is gently providing the backdrop for my writing now; Spirit of Love by Clive’s Original Band (C.O.B.) is an ethereal folk trip from the early 1970s and I’m digging its tender tones and blessed-out atmospherics. C.O.B.’s second album, the quaintly named Moyshe McStiff and the Tartan Lancers of the Sacred Heart remains a favourite in this house and, much as I am enjoying Spirit of Love, is still the one I would recommend. I also bought another folk classic from that period, On The Shore by Trees which is a beautiful and delicate recording from 1970. If I had the money I’d fund a Trees reunion and get them to play On The Shore in its entirety on a concert tour starting at the Gloucester Guildhall. I’d be hailed a hero and saviour in the folk community and be toasted wherever people gather to listen to fine sounds. This shall have to remain a mere pipedream alas; I have insufficient resources to tempt ageing folksters out of retirement but shall continue to be keen on the album. It is marvellous. Before adjourning to Notting Hill’s Windsor Castle hostelry to meet D and A for a drink, I also bought The Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs which I have dipped into and look forward to hearing more of.

On the Monday of last week, I ventured with A and J to the nearby spa town’s Slak Bar for another night of musical mayhem and a bill of varied delights and delirium. A has written sagely on the evening here and I echo most of his sentiments and acknowledge that, regarding the main act, Cheese on Bread, I am part of the ‘some’ in this sentence: I know that for some the unrelenting tweeness began to grate by the end of the evening, but I have to say I was not one of them. Once again, I found the intense musings and emotional lo-fi leanings of Men Diamler the most rewarding element of the night although the cute and warm indie musical peardrops bashfully offered by The Limechalks also found favour with this scribe. The hip-hop duo of Puppybucket and Danny Choonara was embarrassing; the only thing worse than smug self-satisfaction is smug self-satisfaction when inadequate art is being proffered and, verily, this was the case with this pair of grinnin’ chancers. Cheese on Bread were alright; they were well-rehearsed, portrayed their kitsch bobby-sox pop songs with verve and energy and were mildly entertaining for about a quarter of an hour when the joke began to wear thin. They were just a bit silly.

I shall write a bit more about Paris soon but here is a pair of photographs (I know the date is wrong on the second picture) that represent the week stirringly. Look above, readers. By Jupiter, I shall be heading to Amsterdam in two days time.

A chance to watch, admire the distance

I’m not going to wish the summer away (‘What summer!?’ I hear ye exclaim reasonably affectionately but with the merest hint of venom) but I’m coyly admiring the list of films that the remarkable and doughty Gloucester Guildhall Arts Centre will be showing this autumn. As ever, a few highlights stand out. The Shane Meadows feature This Is England kicks off September and I’m keen to watch this (apparently) evocative portrayal of the skinhead movement of the 1980s. The Australian feature Jindabyne has picked up plenty of very favourable reviews and, despite that dreary Bono Vox specimin appearing in it, the Scott Walker documentary 30^th Century Man should be worth striding purposefully out for. And being a lover and student of the popular beat combo known as Joy Division, I’m looking forward to the Ian Curtis biopic Control immensely. Plenty of other decent stuff is on too. Salutations.

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.