You gotta give the other fellow hell...

I’m reading Live and Let Die at the moment. I bought the first three James Bond novels over Christmas and recently sped through the marvellous Casino Royale with glee. If one excuses or ignores the hard yards of political incorrectness that permeate the paragraphs then there are plenty of soaring scrapes and thrilling japes to enjoy hungrily. Fleming’s stories are quite different from the films I’d suggest. Bond seems colder, heartless even, on the page and, without the cinematic need for explosive set-pieces to keep the movie lover interested, more room is available for really beautifully phrased descriptive passages. I particularly look forward to any Bond mealtime; each course is depicted so thoroughly that the lucky reader is almost able to taste every mouthful.

My favoured rugby club, Gloucester, has cascaded out of the European Heineken Cup after a relatively gutsy performance in a windswept and thoroughly soggy Biarritz. I’m a touch perplexed about the side’s recent form and reflect on what may have happened had the last few disappointing matches been played in drier and calmer conditions with a full squad to pick from. I was flicking through a copy of a weekly rugby paper at le supermarché this morn – I think it was called The Rugby Paper – and noted a piece lamenting a lack of investment in the Kingsholm pitch which compared to the billiard table that is Franklin’s Gardens can soon become rough and pitted in poor weather. Could this be addressed to improve our winter form? Player-wise, we do lack bulk in the front five although I am generally satisfied with the back row options when all are fit and raring to go. I’d be content if a huge and frightening lock was recruited in the summer, preferably to replace the unsatisfactory Bortolami who has sank from ebullient cult-hero to going-through-the-motions journeyman in just a couple of seasons. My main concern lies at half-back though. Gloucester, I fear, shall ne’er become a trophy winning side with any of the current crop that wear the famed nine or ten shirts. Frankly, we’ve not really replaced the livewire Peter Richards at scrum-half and I long for another player in his mould sniping and causing havoc from the base of rucks and mauls. And I’d love a outside-half with the ability to actually boss a match, put his stamp on it and play all conditions well. I was impressed with the youngster Lamb three or four years ago but I sense little progress from the fellow and regrettably consider that he may not make the grade at the highest level. I’d settle for a Jonny Wilkinson or a Glen Jackson, steady and unflappable types who week-in and week-out ‘do the business’. We’d miss the occasional snippet of Lamb genius but cameos and occasional acts of jaw-dropping brilliance don’t win trophies or dominate campaigns alas. Here’s hoping.

The kiss of death, the embrace of life

Here’s a brief post script to the last post. Teenaged M, youthful son of the affable but less youthful A, took the above photographs at Wednesday’s Calmer* session. The top picture features a striped David Thomas Broughton fiddlin' with his televsion while the other one displays Sam Amidon and 'is banjo. I am grateful for these atmospheric images.

On a Calmer* theme, I note that The Wiyos, former Slak Bar favourites, are appearing on BBC4 this evening at ten. I recommend.

Come inside where it's okay

Last evening’s Calmer* was rather special I thought. Individually and as a trio, three somewhat different, compelling yet engaging performers offered an earnest and beautiful crowd of hepcats plenty of challenging and engaging fare. A brace of New Yorkers graced the famed Slak Bar stage with poise and energy. Sam Amidon’s haunting voice and delicate banjo-playin’ proved fine bedfellows and I appreciated his evocative renditions of American folk tunes interspersed unconventionally with extended Henry James quotations with accompanying unusual facial contortions and freaky and clumsy dance routines. Thomas Bartlett, who is also known as Doveman, tenderly tickled the ivories and sang with a touching resonance. The fellow’s percussive skills were bright too. His plaintive rendition of Big Star’s Thirteen proved a soaring highlight. The token Englishman, Otley-born but London-based David Thomas Broughton, spent most of the evening supporting his cohorts, idiosyncratically proffering clicking noises, backing vocals whilst sat in the body of the audience and a white-noise accompaniment via an old analogue television set of the portable variety. I would describe his solo set as gripping. Dark, deep and wonderfully earthy extended vocalisations permeated proceedings backed by loops and guitaring. Broughton’s stage presence, a quirky, twitching existence, was an edgy experience and his intense, vaguely aggressive aspect was fascinating. I must salute Calmer*. The erstwhile band of dudes that curates these evenings continues to provide great value for those who seek new and witty aural experiences.

Deflecting the Spin

Oh ‘eck. The wheels came off the wagon at Kingsholm this afternoon, a dire second half performance by Gloucester handing the spoils to a more streetwise, more committed, more cohesive, more intelligent Cardiff group. I stood and applauded the Welsh fellows after the match, ruefully reflecting how my favoured team could do with a Martyn Williams, a Gareth Thomas or a Tom Shanklin right now. As things stand, we lack leadership on and off the park, strong ball carriers to break through the line of gain and, most importantly, decision makers with the nous and wit to boss matches and assess tight situations quickly. Today, the cherry and whites contrived to lose a match they were winning at half time against a side that was reduced to fourteen characters after a red card following a head butt and who struggled to collect a single line-out ball all day. The city club was exposed badly; a brighter outfit would have won at a canter faced with the same set of circumstances. I am not – hopefully – one of those supporters who believes his side to be world-beaters on the back of a victory and, the very next week, lamenting the same collective as a beneath contempt bunch of losers. Howe’er, to suggest I was disappointed at no-side would be a substantial understatement and I would be surprised if we don’t look back at Gloucester vs Cardiff 18.1.09 as a key match in several individuals' association wi’ the famed Kingsholm club.

Do you find this happens all the time?

Gideon Coe continues to provide wondrous value with his 9pm BBC 6Music show. Listening to at least half an hour a night is a fine habit to get into as the courteous host proffers a superb mix of hip new sounds and old beauties. For example, the first half hour of Monday’s programme proved a sublime listen. Martin Carthy’s version of January Man (very different and understated compared with the Rachel Unthank interpretation that I know) kicked proceedings off classily before some epic Power, Corruption and Lies era New Order created an acoustic/electronic compare and contrast pause for thought. I really liked the electro-pop of First Aid Kit and ‘twas mighty to listen to some old Chameleons. A track from mid-eighties outfit 14 Iced Bears sounded wonderful. They must have slipped under this radar. The whole tracklisting is available here. I salute Coe.

Naturally thoughts turn to Sunday and a key rugby union fixture. Gloucester host Cardiff in a Heineken European Cup qualifier that the Kingsholm outfit need to win, hopefully with a yummy four-try bonus point. Injuries cast a shadow over my favoured team; our finest back and forward will probably be missing although the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, and the Fijian flyer, Qera, are apparently approaching fitness. I am disappointed to reflect on injuries, sustained last weekend, to elegant full-back Morgan (my player of the season thus far) and burly midfielder Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall although both may still make the fifteen. I note that Cardiff are languishing near the bottom of the Magners League and I hope this poor form continues when the blue-clad Welsh fellows enter the Kingsholm bearpit. I tip the home side to win but much depends on the form of young Ryan Lamb and his inconsistent and erratic kicking game; I would give anything for a ‘Steady-Eddie’ type like Glen Jackson or Jonny Wilkinson in a cherry and white ten shirt. Good luck all.

Into the steeple of beautiful people

I gratefully picked up a couple of charity shop CDs yesterday. I’m playing Up by R.E.M. as I pen these words. It’s funny how most of the much-loved Georgian collective’s recent work has passed this punter by as I worshipped the band’s first half dozen recordings. I confess I gave up a bit on Stipe and his chums after the blinding commercial success of Out Of Time and Automatic For The People when they mutated from vaguely underground, critically acclaimed hepcats into stadium-dwelling, unit-shifting superstars. Since that brace of mega-hits, I’ve enjoyed the New Adventures In Hi-Fi album and quite liked Reveal but regret that nothing by the group has been able to move this listener as much as Document or Lifes Rich Pageant or Reckoning. I’d never heard any of Up until yesterday apart from the single Daysleeper. It does possess a slightly anti-commercial sound and I am refreshed to learn that the wondrous Radiohead regard Up as a key influence on their peerless Kid A (still my very favourite Radiohead LP). Many of the tracks contain murky and understated electronic riddims and proffer a faintly uneasy listen – a good thing. I’m going to spin this blighter regularly this week. A grower, I reckon.

I also bought Massive Attack’s Mezzanine, a masterpiece by all accounts.

A wistful and forlorn glance outside offers a bleak vista of coldness and grey skies. I long for a hint of sun on the face and a gleeful peek at an azure horizon. I’ve been thinking about festivals today as an antidote to the wintry gloom. There shall be no Glastonbury this year as I’ll be working but I’m determined to attend, after a couple of rain dominated weekends, a hot and dry Green Man. The Big Chill harvests fine reviews but I’m somewhat underwhelmed by the suspicion that dance acts and chill-out (a revolting expression) sounds dominate proceedings. Suffolk’s Latitude Festival is warmly acclaimed but it’s a very long way away especially if all five Coles are attending. I’ll keep ‘em peeled.

Practice Makes Perfect

The Cole family was in the mood for celebrating a birthday last evening and enjoyed a pleasurable double header of frivolity. We kicked off in the structure known locally and beyond as ‘Angel Chef’, an eat-all-you-want (a fee must be proffered for this privilege, naturellement) Chinese buffet facility near the Docks, respected in this household as a fabulous eaterie and a tempting temple of gluttony. As ever, I gorged a tad too heartily but with such a worthy selection of rices, noodle dishes, curries and other treats on offer, it felt negligent not to sample as much as possible. I am a growing lad. I and, I believe, my merry kinfolk departed the place satiated and mildly bloated.

A short and uneventful drive took us to the mighty Gloucester Guildhall for fabulous feature film thrills. Man on Wire is a documentary that examines the remarkable feat (and feet, come to think of it) of Frenchman Philippe Petit, a tightrope walker, who planned and executed an extraordinary plan in 1974: to wirewalk from the top of one World Trade Centre tower to the other. This proved no easy matter and numerous Paris to New York trips were made by Petit and his eccentric cohorts before an attempt was made. Merely avoiding security caused immense problems for the gang while the transporting of getting on for a ton of equipment to the top of the towers meant, unsurprisingly, plenty of effort. As ever when documentary films are made skilfully, the human condition was placed under the microscope and Man on Wire rather brilliantly examined egos (including ‘the clash of’), ambition, friendship, the age-old need to thumb the old nose at authority, amour and that old chestnut, mortality. There was some splendid archive footage of youthful hepcats rigging up practice wires in Gallic meadows interspersed with ‘talking head’ clips of the same dudes, now in their late fifties and early sixties, ruminating, very emotionally at times, on their astonishing adventures. A history of the construction of the WTC offered enlightening insights into a seminal erection and, it goes without saying, much of the footage was breathtaking. Of course, with the sixty year Petit (still as fit as a fiddle) sat there reflecting on it all, one could sagely guess the outcome of the attempt but the film-makers successfully maintained the tension so that the audience was, for the duration of the feature, consistently wondering what was goin’ to ‘appen next. I recommend this film to all. Sources inform me it is available on Digital Versatile Disc as we speak. Hurry, friends.

Home Truths

I’m in the habit of reading a great deal at the moment which is a fine habit to have methinks. I’m halfway through The Olivetti Chronicles, the recently published collection of John Peel’s varied writings, and finding it a smashing and interesting read. Peel penned features and articles for a range of publications over the years; the earlier pieces (early to mid 1970s) appeared in the now defunct Disc and Sounds magazines while the later stuff, with a broader range of subject matter, is selected from, inter alia, Radio Times, Independent on Sunday, Guardian and Observer. I suppose the common thread within these pages is ‘popular culture’ and there are plenty of arresting album, gig, festival and TV reviews, all conveying Peel’s wit and warmth tremendously. I’ve especially enjoyed the concert write-ups depicting sweaty, claustrophobic Extreme Noise Terror events, almost spiritual Misty in Roots reggae recitals and big ‘n’ commercial stadium ‘appenings like Michael Jackson at Wembley (which, incidentally, Peel thoroughly loved). Peel’s family, who chose these pieces and compiled the book, has cleverly arranged the writings in alphabetical order so the reader jumps about merrily over the course of three and half decades. I like this idea. One is able to compare and contrast the author’s style more easily as his more pithy and well-structured later work sits unselfconsciously next to the hippyish, vaguely incoherent earlier jottings. This alphabetical approach means that one is never quite sure what is coming next and this punter appreciates the surprises that await on each turn of the page. For example, a really evocative and tender piece about Captain Beefheart is followed by fascinating articles about Chicago House Music, Children’s TV and Kenny Dalglish and, somehow, it works beautifully. We all miss John Peel, don’t we? However, this book and the charming (auto)biography that came out a while back both serve as fairly essential epitaphs to the great man. I note that the next two chapters are entitled Napalm Death and New Age Music. I can’t wait.

Untitled

I was back to work ce matin, driving carefully through the snow covered backstreets of Longlevens before continuing my commute on the frost-free thoroughfare the cognoscenti call ‘The Golden Valley’. A new (to us) motor car (a Peugeot Partner, as you’re asking) propelled me along, allowing me, for the first time ever, to listen to one of those new-fangled CDs while I spun the steerin’ wheel towards the nearby spa town. I’m going to try and listen, on a more regular basis, to the monthly free CD that comes with Word Magazine and features loads of new sounds. Earlier, en voiture, I listened to a cracking track from the new Paul McCartney/The Fireman LP and a gorgeous song by A Camp that I certainly recall hearing on 6Music recently.

I typed yesterday’s entry while listening to Super Furry Animals’ Fuzzy Logic album while tonight I wrote the spurious nonsense you see above while tapping my foot to the same band’s Radiator long player. I congratulate the esoteric Welsh combo for tempting these ears two nights in succession.

Frost and Fire

I continue to favour rugby union’s Gloucester club and am thrilled to report a fine yet close victory against the Saracens outfit. A packed and frosty Kingsholm witnessed an exciting match which the home side emphatically deserved to win. Doggedness and dubious refereeing decisions kept the visitors in touch although I suggest that the team in cherry could have proved a tad more clinical at times and used a more thoughtful kicking game to pin back those clad in noir. These eyes mist wistfully over when considering the marvellous performance of our hooking behemoth Azam who is playing out of his blinkin’ skin at the moment. The French stalwart was a man possessed yesterday, seeking contact with abrasive intent again and again, making yard after yard and proving an absolute thorn in his rivals’ collective side. This punter lost count of the times the Gallic warlord collected ball as first receiver; my word, he wanted action and sought it with a frenzy that proved both exhilaring and, I confess, a touch frightening. Elsewhere, the boy Morgan enjoyed another fine day at the office and did everything beautifully including being in the right place at the right time to elegantly canter over for a well-taken try that sent the popular side into raptures. Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall is in fine, fine form at the moment; he seems to be breaking more tackles and making more yards than at any other time in his shortish Gloucester career. I also note young Narraway’s growing contributions and value to the side. This is a very vocal fellow and I appreciate the efforts he makes to encourage his team-mates at any opportunity. We need his type.

Can it be that it was all so simple then?

This is 2009. Here’s a photograph of Michael Clive Teague to start the year off merrily.

There’s plenty to look forward to this year. The two greatest sporting events in the whole wide bleedin' world approach this summer. The British and Irish Lions will contest a series of rugby union internationals in South Africa followed almost immediately by Australia visiting these shores for a long awaited Ashes tour. Personally, I can’t wait for either. I have mentioned to the charismatic D the possibility of sneaking a day at the cricket and we must ensure that at least one eye is kept on ticketing arrangements. I have watched one day of Ashes cricket, at the historic Lord’s ground back in 1993, when I witnessed the valiant Atherton reach a deserved nine-and-ninety only to be run out after a disastrous call by the portly Gatting. The malevolent cat-calls and vocal abuse aimed at the bearded and squat ‘Gatts’ afterwards shall live long in the memory. This year, I fancy England to sneak a series win but it shall be close. Those who don the green, baggy caps are not the invincible force they once were and, without the might of Warne and McGrath, are struggling to take the score of wickets required to vanquish in a test and they have just lost at home (to South Africa) for the first time in, I believe, sixteen years. It’ll be a compelling month or two of action.

S and I were discussing the Lions the other night and agreed that this summer’s fifteen could conceivably include very few English players. This, we concluded, is a ‘good thing’ although I think South Africa will prove a tad too tough this time. Any Lions tour is exciting; like any major sporting occasion, a palpable sense of history and tradition lends contemporary events a thrilling backdrop. Of course, the greatest series in recent years came in 1989 when Australia were dispatched 2-1 and the Lions fielded Gloucester’s very own Mike Teague, then the finest rugby footballer on this or any planet. This clip is worth watching. Teague wears the six shirt for the Lions in the deciding third rubber and is always in the thick of the action, even after the match when he belligerently flattens a hapless ball-boy in a successful quest for the match ball. Memories. Misty water-coloured memories.

Finish

The affable S and I ventured into a deserted and rather forlorn Merrie Gloucester last evening for a pint or two. The unpretentious and surprisingly welcoming Imperial hosted us first. They serve a decent Guinness there. Like a pair of eager urchins scampering off to the tennis courts during Wimbledon fortnight, we borrowed a set of arrows from behind the bar to impishly try and replicate the form currently being shown by our heroes contesting the World Championships at London’s Alexandra Palace. A best-o’-three 301 battle ensued, your scribe prevailing by two legs to one, pouncing twice on the fabled double ten area to claim the spoils. I trust that S will not mind me reporting that on each occasion he was left needing double one, a telling indictment of the quality of sport proffered to the grizzled professional drinkers lining the Imperial’s bar who could occasionally be spotted eyeing our progress – or lack of it – with mild disdain. For the record, the evening featured a visit to the doughty Fountain Inn and climaxed with a trip to Dick Whittington’s. In our quest to discover newer places to drink in, we had intended to visit Westgate Street’s Pig Inn The City but it was unfortunately closed because of a family wedding. I wish the bride and groom well, whoe'er they may be.

I'll stand beside myself so I'm not alone

The Uprock Narratives and Unknown Pleasures Album of the Year has been selected by a panel of one. Sadly, the announcement comes too late to save either Woolworths or Zavvi which, my sources tell me, were both banking on the stimulus to CD sales that this award would foster. Fulsome apologies to both organisations.

I’ve been listening to several candidates over the past few days and, out of loyalty to an old hero, gave Paul Weller’s 22 Dreams a final spin earlier this morning. It’s a fabulous long player but the flamboyantly coiffured, ahem, Modfather must wait his turn. I hate to disagree with Andrew Collins because normally I align myself with his ever-interesting views on popular culture but the assertion, on his weblog, that 2008 was a ‘terrible year for albums’ is tangibly wrong. For the first time ever, I’m going to provide a Top Ten because there was so much I enjoyed this year from preppy/perceptive pop (Vampire Weekend) to sultry and emotive balladeering (Joan As Police Woman), noodly electo-wit (TV on the Radio), breathy acoustic breathiness (Bon Iver) and heartrendingly life-affirming songsmiffery (Robert Forster).

Anyhow, with a tug o’ the forelock and a knowing nod o’ appreciation, I salute the young prince o’ pop, Beck. His L.P. bearing the title Modern Guilt is 2008’s Album of the Year in my Gloucester-based citadel. I only wrote about this album a few weeks ago so I won’t repeat myself too much. It is, however, telling that last year’s favourite, Sound of Silver by LCD Soundsystem, is cut from a similar cloth. I must like this sort of thing. Pleasing electronic riddims and sumptuous beats that defy the most reluctant toes to tap support lovely melodies and obtuse yet fascinating lyrical content. Ultimately there are ten lovely songs here that proffer the listener a challenging yet joyful aural thrill and that’s why young Beck is strutting off with the plaudits today. A final note for fans of rugby football: the haunting song, Volcano, the album’s closing number, is emphatically not about the large and vaguely disappointing Gloucester wing-threequarter, Lesley Vainikolo.

Here, pop-pickers, is the Top Ten in full:

1. Modern Guilt by Beck

2. Vampire Weekend by Vampire Weekend

3. To Survive by Joan As Police Woman

4. For Emma, Forever Ago by Bon Iver

5. Carried To Dust by Calexico

6. Partie Traumatic by Black Kids

7. 22 Dreams by Paul Weller

8. The Evangelist by Robert Forster

9. Dear Science by TV on the Radio

10. Fleet Foxes by Fleet Foxes

No longer riding on the merry-go-round

It has been merry to relax a little recently, listen to some new sounds but mainly read some new books. Since St. Stephen’s Day, I’ve been ploughing my way through a mighty tome, Philip Norman’s John Lennon biography, 800+ pages of incredibly well-researched work. There are few surprises to be met here but several telling interviews reveal Lennon to be either utterly cruel or beatifically kind with hundreds of shades of grey in between. The bulk of the book concerns The Beatles which is a shame as the last decade of Lennon’s life, his years living in New York, his up and down solo career, his politicisation, his bringing up of second son Sean merit plenty of investigation. Having read plenty of Beatles biographies, a lot of the stories are familiar but it was refreshing to encounter a revised history of Lennon’s relationship with his father Alfred, so often portrayed as a fly-by-night who rejected and walked away from his wife and young son; it appears they were eventually much closer then I previously believed and it was heartening to learn of reconciliations and forgiveness on both sides. Lennon’s childhood is covered cleverly and it was interesting to discover the self-styled Working Class Hero was brought up by his prim and proper Aunt Mimi in a large and respectable middle-class house that still had a set of servants’ bells in the kitchen. The tales of post-war Liverpool are among the most evocative in the book, the young Beatle enjoying idyllic years of Just William freedom with rascally pals. The level of detail really renders this book a success; one can really hear the harsh screams in Shea Stadium, sense the terrible heat of the packed Cavern and taste the fortified lager in the Reeperbahn nightclubs.

I must strive to publish details of this humble site’s Album of the Year prize before the end of the month. I confess I’m still unsure which way to jump and the shortlist remains worryingly long. There has been plenty of sublime music to celebrate in 2008. The music industry must hold its breath for a day or two more.

The Coles will be going to see Antony and the Johnsons in May. Tickets were obtained this evening for a recital at Bristol’s Colston Hall. I Am A Bird Now is a compelling long player and new material is promised in the spring; I look forward heartily to both the forthcoming album and concert.

Bing Crosby and David Bowie

Most Wanted

It was my official birthday last week and, yet again, I have not received the tool kits, driving gloves and gardening equipment that I crave; a selection of those new-fangled compact discs and popular fiction and non-fiction books were proffered instead. I’ll cope. None of my new long playing albums are contemporary ones. I received a gorgeous Brazilian Funk compilation featuring up-tempo gems and riddims from the 1970s, At My Age by Nick Lowe which is a sumptuous collection of mellow slices of pop perfection, North Marine Drive, Ben Watt’s monochrome and maudlin masterpiece from 1983 and (look at the picture above) Fed by Plush.

I had heard of neither Plush nor the recording Fed until a week or three ago and, for the life of me, I can’t recall where I read about them. Plush is really the Illinoisan hepcat Liam Hayes, a pop perfectionist and purveyor of pristine productions. Fed came out in 2002 and for years had only been available on expensive Japanese import but has recently been rendered available for the masses and I salute its accessibility with warmth and acclaim. I have been playing Fed almost non-stop for the past few days. I note that The Guardian’s reviewer doffs a cap to the songwriting skills of Burt Bacharach and Jimmy Webb when considering these numbers and I’d add a knowing and wistful nod of the head to that shrewd appraisal. Hayes sings plaintively and emotively; it isn’t a perfect voice but it possesses a human quality that I admire. There are many clever melodies here that require a play or two to fully appreciate but when they get under the skin they remain there doggedly. The orchestral arrangements really make the album special and lavish; swathes of glorious strings and elegant horns enhance all the tracks. The sound is dense but fulfilling and one would be correct in thinking the kitchen sink can be detected at times but it works and works beautifully. This may sound pompous but please excuse as I only learnt of Fed myself at the beginning of this month: the album may be the greatest recording you’ve not yet heard of. I recommend. I recommend.

And now we’re gonna dance to a different song...

It has proved a busy week. On Wednesday I joined a group of curmudgeonly middle-aged types at Gloucester’s much-admired and pleasant Guildhall Arts Centre for a concert featuring punk legends, The Damned. To be frank, I enjoyed myself merrily. The band featured only Captain Sensible (who was supping Asda Smart Price lager all evening) and the remarkable Dave Vanian from the original line-up but I appreciated the pair’s showmanship, strength of character and élan. The set was a mixture of old favourites (Neat, Neat, Neat was blisteringly thrilling) and newer material that, controversially, I really valued for its harmonic and melodic qualities. I’m actually tempted to seek out the new Damned album, So Who’s Paranoid?; the long player has harvested rather decent reviews in the press and some of its songs sounded marvellous to these ears. As the gathered throng filed cheerfully out of the auditorium, the affable Sensible reappeared on stage and ebulliently crooned a splendid Happy Talk for a grateful collective, a wonderful conclusion to a fun night out.

I have been in London for a day or two. My word, high living in the capital leaves one wan and fatigued but ‘twas worth it; as ever, I dug my time there. On Friday, the elegant 30-something D and I attended a recital by one of my favoured beat combos, Stereolab, at Camden’s Koko venue. The earnest Anglo-French electronic pioneers created a fine sound and included a swaggering French Disko and dreamy Ping Pong in the set. I must be honest and suggest that the band did not move this punter as much as I had hoped. Many numbers seemed one-paced and a touch forgettable; it proved an engaging and enjoyable hour or so but not life-changing.

My epic journey home was punctuated yesterday by a trip to Reading in order to watch my favoured football (rugby union code) team, Gloucester, engage in battle with the London Irish outfit. The result was dire, a 42-12 reverse that it is impossible to draw any positives from. I sensed that the illness that is reported to have struck the Gloucester squad this week may have caused some of the moribund play that I witnessed but, bluntly, too many of the team are not Premiership quality. Watkins, Foster, Cooper and, surprisingly not for the first time in recent months, Wood looked well below par and I am relieved to read that The Sunday Times’ Stephen Jones shares my view that the youngster Ryan Lamb, an inconsistent chap in my opinion, is unable to control games of such magnitude as yesterday’s top of the table clash. The city club seems inadequately catered for at half back methinks. I’m prepared, and generously so, to write this capitulation off as merely a ‘bad day at the office’ but I shall be viewing forthcoming performances critically and hoping that the lads shape up and improve.

Give us a song/glove

A few small pieces of housekeeping today.

First of all, I have my lift back from London Irish sorted out.

Mrs Cole appeared on Shaun Keavany’s BBC 6Music Breakfast Show last Thursday. She was discussing Merrie Gloucester on the ‘Toast the Nation’ slot, suggesting some interesting facts about the dear place and picking a suitable song to play. The number in question was Elvis Costello’s Everyday I Write The Book commemorating Gloucester’s role in the commission of the Domesday Book. The whole thing can be found on the show’s Listen Again facility (fast forward until 1 hour 14 minutes) until next Wednesday. I apologise in advance for my wife’s use of the word ‘town’ to describe our place of dwelling.

I hate to make readers jealous but I’m publishing images of our Joan As Police Woman oven glove today.

As You Like It

Joan As Police Woman at Bristol Thekla - Monday 8th December

Joan As Police Woman, as any schoolboy knows, is actually the splendid singer and musician Joan Wasser, a sassy New Yorker and all round good egg with an interesting history and two stunning albums under her thrift store belt. Last Monday, backed by a drummer fellow and a bassist/guitarist fellow (both of whom oozed Big Apple attitude), Wasser produced a bewitching set. Bedecked uncompromisingly in silvery robe and sporting big, big, big hair, the chanteuse thrilled an older yet hip Bristol crowd with all the numbers from this year’s To Survive album and many favourites from her sumptuous debut, Real Life. I’d recommend both these recordings to all hepcats. The songs are all achingly melodic, arranged classily, and underpinned by Wasser’s remarkable voice, part Joni Mitchell, part, er, Karen Carpenter, but, in essence, truly special. Her compositions sounded all the more compelling in the intimate environs of the Thekla (‘twas my debut at the merry boat-based venue) and I have rarely encountered such a hushed and respectful gathering. All loved Wasser and loudly indicated a collective glee at every opportunity.

The Coles celebrated by purchasing a Joan As Police Woman oven glove before leaving the auditorium. The artist herself signed said mitten for us and we spoke briefly. Her friendliness to all and sundry was noted and admired but not as much as her musical prowess and ability to captivate an audience with wondrous acts. Hurrah.

Rule of thumb...

This is a request but not an urgent one as other options potentially exist. I’m going to be in London on the 19th of this month, scampering through the busy streets with the modish D, pilfering silk handkerchiefs from toffs’ pockets before attending a concert party at Camden’s fashionable Koko where the mighty Stereolab will be performing some numbers. The next day we’ll be heading t'Reading to view the fabled Cherry and Whites play London Irish and, cor blimey, I’m wondering if anyone who visits these pages and who is driving to that game from Gloucester would be able to provide me safe carriage home? As I suggest, other options (a charabanc, an ‘iron horse’) might be available but I thought I’d ask. Leave a comment if you can help. Thank ye.