Y Viva Espana!

Winter in Madrid by C. J. Sansom is not a book I would have chosen myself. I was given it for Christmas and completed it this afternoon, having immersed myself in its drama and complexities for the past three or four days. Having half-heartedly studied the Spanish Civil War at school I was vaguely aware of the intricacies of a dark and bloody period and this book’s detailed exploration of that time and the politically strained aftermath when Spain’s role in the World War was under watchful examination from all sides brought a fascinating subject into close focus. The novel proved more than just a history lesson though. As a thriller, albeit one with more dialogue than raw action, its twists kept the pages turning routinely and the close attention paid to the nuances of the characters meant the denouement was all the more electrifying as one’s sympathies with or antipathies towards various individuals kept one on edge for the last hundred pages. I can imagine this book being filmed and envisage the last paragraph in particular, an absolute belter of a surprise, really jolting audiences. I’m not usually one for espionage-dominated thrillers but this novel certainly had me thinking and, importantly, made the heart race as events conspired and combined relentlessly towards a stirring conclusion.

London Irish/London

The splendid and celebrated city club faces a battle and a half on New Year’s Day. The visitors, London Irish, are renowned for their physicality and forward strength and I mournfully recall a defeat in the corresponding fixture last term when an immense Reading-based eight out-muscled and bullied the Gloucester forwards. A similar struggle meets the Cherry and Whites this time although the addition of Nieto, Califano and Bortolami to the pack will lend the home side more parity this time. The performance of Ryan Lamb (pictured) will prove crucial. The nipper has enjoyed an inconsistent season thus far but I am sure a performance where it all clicks and the Tredworth Tyro cuts an opposition fifteen to shreds will arrive sooner or later. Naturally I hope it is against Irish and the selection of energetic Scot Rory Lawson will help; the former Edinburgh scrummie has indubitably impressed recently and his keen pass and alert ways will help ‘The Lambster’ no end. I am glad the stylish Oliver Morgan is back at full-back but wish Balshaw was still in the fifteen, in place of the satisfactorily functional but vaguely underwhelming Foster.

I am taking the elder of the Cole girls to London next Wednesday, travelling on a locomotive for a change. We intend to visit the Tate Modern where Carsten Höller has filled the vast Turbine Hall with a series of huge slides. The Tate’s website calls it an ‘exploration of communal human experience’ but I sense we’ll just call it ‘a lot of fun’. I hope the weather is fine. I have embarked on a couple of ‘flights’ on the outstanding London Eye but each time the weather has been overcast and a touch damp. It would be good to enjoy the views from this remarkable erection on a clear day to really appreciate it. Third time lucky, hopefully.

180

I have become slightly addicted to the coverage of the World Darts Championships that Sky Sports is telecasting to a grateful nation. Some of the matches in Purfleet’s Circus Tavern have been incredibly tense and thrilling with a hint of controversy on occasions. Last night there was a right palaver when Chris ‘The Ace’ Mason verbally abused his vanquisher, Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor at the conclusion of their battle. Taylor was not happy. My favourite, Colin ‘The Wizard’ Osborne was knocked out this afternoon. I enjoyed the Middlesbrough-born darter’s modest and unassuming manner; his lack of histrionics and aggression proved a pleasing antidote to some of his less erudite and cultured rivals’ conduct. On achieving a ‘maximum’ or on winning a leg or set, the self-effacing Northerner seemed content to merely nod his approval rather than leap up and down or contort his face as others prefer. He was rather cool and the tournament is poorer for his absence. To be frank, I long to be actually in the Purfleet crowd if only for one evening, imbibing and bellowing unselfconsciously among the other ‘arrows’ fans. I would adopt a look of ironic detachment between matches but in the heat of the action might well ‘lose it’ slightly.

New

Whoosh. Christmas went quickly and is over for another year. I am happy to slip back into a semblance of a routine now and concentrate on listening to all the new CDs I have received and purchased with vouchers recently. Last week’s end of year Top Five may have been constructed a little too hastily as a trio of long players, all released within the last twelve months, is keeping me entertained and contented. I have mentioned Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan’s Ballad of Broken Seas already but I have also been listening to Cat Power’s The Greatest and Fionn Regan’s The End of History. The Greatest – not a Greatest Hits package, heaven forbid - is a classy piece of work, fragile yet striking, mainly down-tempo songs delivered in a country style with the crystal-clear and delicate voice of chanteuse Chan Marshall to the fore. It’s lovely. I have also grown fond of Fionn Regan’s album. A and I saw this young Irish troubadour supporting Midlake back in July and since then his debut album has been released to plenty of acclaim. And rightly so. The End of History is a charming, clever young scamp, packed with appealing melody and razor-sharp, world-weary and, at times, confessional lyricism. A few reviews make inevitable Nick Drake comparisons and Regan’s dextrous fingering of his guitar strings does suggest similarities but I sense more of a Ryan Adams influence in several of the numbers. I recommend.

Handy Beacon

The Coles (photographed standing in descending age order, left to right) enjoyed a bracing walk on Painswick Beacon this morning. It was a tad cold but, happily and like a chip oil of olden times, crisp and dry. The usual collective of dog walkers, golfers, runners, cyclists, horse folk, ramblers and gentlefolk merrily permeated the area. We usually have a stroll out on Christmas Eve, often in the Forest of Dean. Other activities planned for today include peeling vegetables, wrapping presents, wondering how Marco Bortolami is celebrating Christmas and listening to the Sufjan Stevens Christmas boxed set. I am participating in the last of those deeds (CD 5, ‘Peace’, if you’re asking) as I type these words.

Season's Greetings.

Festival Fever/Frenzy

A recent email from D highlighted problems with the recent All Tomorrows Parties festival at Butlin’s in Minehead that he and his posse attended. There seems every indication that the organisation may have overstretched itself on moving from the cosy, slightly ramshackle but extremely enjoyable Pontin’s at Camber Sands. When my cohort and I went to ATP a couple of years ago, there were no queues to speak of, one was able to drift between arenas and see who you wanted, when you wanted and, generally, chill. This appears not to be the case now. The articulate D maintains, ‘I hope they (ATP) can recover what they had,’ and if they can, I am quietly tempted by either of the Easter festivals when, inter alia, Echo and the Bunnymen, Shellac, Nick Cave, Joanna Newsom, Sparklehorse, Cat Power and Low are due to appear.

I was with S last night (not that S, but another one who is dear to me) and early negotiations took place regarding us attending next summer’s Green Man Festival. I await others’ views.

Punks Jump Up

The youngest Cole nonchalantly - and with the merest hint of insouciance - models a prize winner. Scritti Politti’s White Bread Black Beer is this humble website’s Album of the Year (2006). I informed D, on the Kingsholm terracing of all places, that WBBB was this year’s finest long playing record back in September to which he rather casually retorted, ‘Ah, there’s a long way to go yet’ or words to that effect. Well, he’ll be laughing on the other side of his face now. The Gartside fellow has pulled it off.

White Bread Black Beer really is a sweet record, full of personal reflections, tenderness, self-deprecation and mea culpas galore. It’s a clever recording too, packed with subtleties and nuances that only reveal themselves after several listens and I congratulate it for bringing a bit of patience and perseverance back into my listening life. Repeated plays really do harvest riches. To be frank, I’m just chuffed that someone I admired twenty years has returned, not with a clumsy reunion tour and a stewed, skewed greatest hits package, but with a fresh and vibrant piece of art that enhances a reputation and adds maturity, class and warmth to an already remarkable back catalogue. Bravo!

I know the music industry is waiting with bated breath so here’s my Top Five in full:

1. White Bread Black Beer – Scritti Politti
2. The Trials of Van Occupanther – Midlake
3. Ys – Joanna Newsom
4. Anti-Depressant – Lloyd Cole
5. The Avalanche - Sufjan Stevens

'Nothing by My Chemical Romance?' I hear you yell.

No Whole-Wheat Bisks Today

It is good to relax. Tonight we’re going to watch A Very Long Engagement on Sky Movies, sip pleasing drinks and indulge in up-market snacks. Not having to use one brain cell considering what to do tomorrow is so life-affirming after a hectic few weeks. Sitting here typing these few sentences into the computer while listening to Neutral Milk Hotel’s In The Aeroplane Over The Sea is as animated as I intend to be today. My breakfast this morning symbolised my holiday mood. Instead of the usual, rushed brace of whole-wheat bisks und soya milk, I was able to poach a pair of freshly laid eggs, fry a handful of closed cup mushrooms and lay said items tenderly upon some toasted wholemeal bread with a splash of Soy sauce and a scattering of sea salt to season the serving. This meal set me up for the day beautifully.

The Rugby

Edinburgh 14 - Gloucester 31

Although I watched the match on my own – we had Sky Sports and Movies reinstalled last week as a Christmas treat – I feel a bit hoarse. I was yelling like a demonic demon when Oliver Morgan flashed through to collect a Willy Walker kick and canter deliriously over the whitewash for Gloucester’s crucial fourth try. Gloucester deserved to win; the forward platform the dignified Bortolami and colleagues provided was awesome and, especially when Richards and Walker formed the half-back duo, the backs attacked with no little élan. It was terribly exciting.

With hindsight, I am glad that Leinster defeated Agen yesterday. The French team are rather unsatisfactorily positioned to qualify now and I’m not sure how much of a struggle they will put up against the esteemed and mighty city club in our next Heineken Cup fixture. If Gloucester can sneak another 5-0 victory (or 5-1 or 5-2) then the Leinster match will be a huge and historic battle. But, let’s take one game at a time and not consider the Irish for a while; I’ve suffered too many anti-climaxes to start fantasising about silverware yet.

Before Jimmy's machine and the rocksteady rub

My birthday was pleasant and low-key. The five Coles strolled to the Balti Hut in deepest Longlevens in the evening for a nosh-up. After twenty or thirty consecutive Vegetable Biryanis I have moved on to a new favourite: the Vegetable Bhuna. I have now had two on the trot. It’s a touch spicier and I rather like the texture of the thing. I was as full as a barrel at the end of the meal. We all trooped into the Co-op on the way home to buy some ice creams to consume when we arrived home. That was a nice touch.

The lucky birthday boy has got loads, loads of new music to play. I had five CDs on the day itself and some vouchers for Fopp and His Master’s Voice that I spent voraciously on seven further recordings this morning. The tokens were, as they say, burning a hole in my trouser pocketage. I won’t be a boring chump and list all I received and chose but it is a fine mixture of old and new. I’ve been sampling the ‘old’ mainly today while I viewed a host of superb European rugby football matches with the sound turned down, supine on the sofa, adopting a languorous and indolent manner. I especially appreciated Dexys Midnight Runners’ Searching for the Young Soul Rebels and I’m playing it for the second time now. The newish Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan album is a dainty and melodic treat and, by heck, I’ve loved reacquainting m’self with Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Juju, a powerful, macabre and haunting long player. I also got The Beatles’ Love album which sounds wonderful; I’m not entirely sure what the point of it is though.

I could have spent a fortune in Fopp. I unexpectedly alighted upon S in that shop, casually flicking through the jazz racks, a young and sharp blade that one wouldn’t guess was approaching his fortieth year. He described Fopp as ‘dangerous’; he is right – there is so much of quality to buy there. So many choices.

I say, I say, I say...

I’ve been a nervous wreck waking up in recent weeks knowing I have to tune in and discover the latest state of play in the Ashes fixtures down under. I honestly feel it has affected my sleep to a certain extent as stirring in the middle of the night during a Test has meant I’ve been immediately bolt upright worrying about Freddie and Harmy and company. This morning was fine though and I’m delighted that the irrepressible ‘Monty’ has lit up a day’s play with a 'five for'. With Australia, who won the toss, dismissed for 244 and England on 51 for the loss of a couple, it is all to play for. The team needs a big partnership or two and, hopefully, a three figure lead. The nerves are building; once again I’m not looking forward to switching on the radio tomorrow morning.

The Coles went to see The Queen tonight at t’Guildhall. It was quietly thought-provoking and, dealing with the events after the death of the saintly Diana, a tangible jog to the old memory. I recall a kind of mass hysteria in 1997 where, if you weren’t overcome, lachrymose and haunted by the passing of, in my humble opinion, a fairly humdrum individual, you felt you ran the risk of being lynched. In many ways it was not this country’s finest moment methinks. It worried me.

I was horrified to read a posting on a Gloucester rugby messageboard today where an individual had chosen to share three jokes about the recent and tragic murder of five sex workers in Ipswich. Young lives, young tragic lives are snuffed out and wasted, the lives of somebody’s daughter, sister, mother and someone is sad enough not only to find this humorous but is insensitive and ignorant enough to consider that others would welcome the chance to share in the fun. I ain't laughing. At times, contemplating the sort of thoughtless morons who sully our society with such a tactless lack of gumption depresses the life out of me. Is that all those girls' lifes were worth? The chance for a bit of a titter about hookers... Brilliant.

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.

Something for the Weekend

After the delights of Amsterdam last week and the excitement of the jet-setting continental gig lifestyle, it is rather pleasant to anticipate a more relaxing weekend. After a splendid takeaway of the Chinese variety, I think I shall take to my bed early this evening, chuck some music - maybe the new Joanna Newsom album which I'm gradually getting slightly obsessed with - on my headphones and do a bit of reading. I’m really getting into Black Swan Green by David Mitchell and, unusually for me, I’m appreciating the use of a child as narrator, in this case a stutterer called Jason who lives just up the road in Worcestershire. Tewkesbury got a mention in the last chapter. The 1980s references are rather jolly too and I’m particularly valuing the rather bleak look at adolescence that the book offers. I used to be a teenager once.

Tomorrow rugby football beckons – the union code naturellement. The city club hosts the Wasps of London and with the Cherry and Whites still unbeaten in league endeavour, this shall prove a stern test despite our visitors being harder hit by international call-ups. Of course, the corresponding fixture last term was a classic even though Gloucester were defeated and Saturday will be a marvellous chance to gain some revenge. The youngster Lamb appears to be hitting some form at last and I’m keen to see the classy centre pairing of Tindall and Allen in action again. I predict a fairly comfortable victory for the home side and a first winning bonus point of the campaign.

Boyce

I won’t bang on and on about Sufjan Stevens but I have been sneaking a look at other blogs written by other hepcats who were, in the words of Max Boyce, there. An Amsterdam gal called Naomi had a whale of a time and posted a couple of video clips of the event on her weblog as well as a lovely set of stills on flickr. A Czech named Loydd had a ball too and writes about it here. I reckon the back of my head might be visible in silhouette on his last but one photo. And there’s loads of stuff in Dutch here.

Yes, I have changed the settings to this site. Let's call it an early Christmas present. I hope the purists don't lynch me. I can always change it back.

Grunts 'R' Us

The grey-haired gentleman in his sixties who served me with a brace of tickets to view the Borat moving picture at the Bristol Road Cineworld this evening was a delight. He greeted me warmly, listened to my request patiently, displayed the options on the screen with bewitching clarity and, having printed my tickets, used a ball point pen to point out and reiterate the relevant gobbets of information for me. He casually used 24 Hour Clock times in his conversation – a nice touch. His parting shot was a jaunty, ‘Enjoy!’ He was great. Ten minutes earlier I had traipsed through the depressing aisles of Toys ‘R’ Us (where was the Subbuteo?!) hunting for a birthday present and a card for a nephew. The monosyllabic drones (I had the unhappy misfortune to require serving twice) who dealt with me there, avoiding eye contact, and barely summoning up enough energy to mutter, ‘En’er ya PIN num’er’ were shocking. I didn’t expect to leave the cinema feeling such pride and joy at the way I had been treated but ‘old man’ had come along at just the right moment. Compare and contrast. Compare and contrast.

The Coles are off to see that prankster Borat tomorrow night and are looking forward to an evening of merry humour.

Here are some more photographs from the Amsterdam weekend. This evening’s theme is ‘transport’. The captions read, 1. Tram (a hipster in foreground); 2. Cyclists; 3. Interesting Red Soup Delivery Vehicle.

Well, I Declare

The weekend in Amsterdam was splendid. It really is a lovely city, very different from anything I’ve experienced before with bikes and trams and canals and stuff everywhere. To be honest, Saturday was spent just strolling around the streets, shopping at the flea market (my new watch is growing on me) and just getting a feel for the old place. I feel very relaxed today and I consider that a decent chunk of Amsterdam’s ambience has rubbed off on me. Of course, the main raison d’être was to attend the Sufjan Stevens concert at the Paradiso Club, a short walk from our hotel. I have been a huge fan of the esoteric American for quite some time so Saturday was an important night really and I’m thrilled to report that the fellow didn’t disappoint. As predicted, many songs came from the delectable Seven Swans album, including a soaring Sister as an opener, the band and Stevens sporting wings of varied flamboyance as well as mysterious masks as they entered the arena. The whole evening was faultless with so many boxes ticked: gorgeous and utterly moving songs, a charismatic and engaging performer, stunning and enthusiastic musicianship, a cool and receptive crowd and a marvellously intimate venue. There were too many highlights to mention but the mesmeric encore of Concerning The UFO Sighting Near Highland, IL, John Wayne Gacy Jr., and That Dress Looks Nice on You had the hairs on the back of the neck standing on end. I want to see him again.

The above photographs are captioned:
1. Stevens
2. Amsterdam

A Little Mouse With Clogs On

To suggest that I am looking forward to this coming weekend’s canter across the channel to the historic lanes of Amsterdam – and Saturday’s concert party featuring Master Sufjan Stevens – would be an understatement of immense proportions. I can’t wait. I’ve hardly thought of the Amsterdam aspect of the weekend as I’ve been so keen to see Stevens but a Rough Guide to the city has arrived home so I can flick through that later. I quite fancy the Saturday flea market that takes place there.

I have been trying hard to find reviews of Stevens’s gigs last week in Manchester and London but, unless I have been searching with a tangible lack of skill, I have discovered little. I didn’t learn a great deal from this Evening Standard piece but this blog made up for it with some touching words, a couple of pictures, and some opportunities to download a few songs (I’d recommend Seven Swans if I was pushed to pick one). That setlist looks impressive and I’m thrilled that my favourite album, Seven Swans is so heavily represented. Hurrah etc. There are some gorgeous Barbican pictures here too. I’m tempted to chuck the first one on my desktop as wallpaper.

My last trip to mainland Europe to enjoy popular music was reported here.

My Elton John research project is gaining pace.

Footnote:
Half an hour later and my searching skills have returned. Andy Gill has a piece about the Barbican concert in today's Independent and gives it five whole stars. There was a bit in yesterday's Guardian which I failed to spot in the actual paper version of the journal but is here in all its online glory.

Going to the John

It is up there with the great moral dilemmas of our age so it was with no little trepidation that I posed the question to my attractive and attentive gaggle of comrades on Saturday night: Is it ok to enjoy early period Elton John? I’ve read too many glowing reviews of his early seventies albums to ignore this any longer. S reacted with some vehemence but balanced his fierce – yet articulate – tirade against Dwight by saying he’d heard a song called Tiny Dancer that was actually rather good. Well, I’ve since downloaded 1970’s Tumbleweed Connection and I’ll give it a try over the next few days. Apparently it was inspired by the singer’s love of The Band and has a tangible Western feel. It might change my life. I doubt it though.

Stop Your Messing Around

Gloucester 21 – Saracens 12

Last night’s match was in no way a classic but the fireworks that lit up the Gloucestershire heavens didn’t distract this punter from a quietly compelling eighty-odd minutes that may prove reasonably important come next spring. I am pleased the tyro Lamb returned to form. A below par performance against Agen last week led to some doubting the lad’s talent but each of Gloucester’s tries, both scored by an energetic Rudi Keil, were as a result of keen thinking and elegiac passing from Lamb. I was thrilled for Keil too. It has taken the affable African a while to win the supporters over so to hear his name being chanted yesterday delighted the sentimentalist in me. Simpson-Daniel’s return was another positive. The young prince enjoyed little time on the ball last night – perhaps a good thing as he returns from a nasty injury – but his elegant presence always reassures me. I still reckon he is Gloucester’s best back ever. I must mention the skipper Bortolami again. What great business it was to deliver the charismatic Italian to Kingsholm! His controlled reading of the game, his mastery of the basics, his utter commitment, his shrewd and influential captaincy skills all impress greatly. And one day he’ll get a pass on the wing! His exotic bow to the shed after the match was a moment to treasure. I think he likes us too.

I was working then on my great unfinished novel

The new Lloyd Cole album, Anti-Depressant, is a joy. Not a word is wasted and the knowing wit and sharp intellect that wooed me as a young chap remain twenty-odd years on. The rhyming of ‘Scarlett Johansson’ and ‘driven to distraction’ is worth the admission price alone but there are lyrical gems galore. Right now, my favourite is, “I said ‘I’m working on my novel’ / She said ‘Neither am I’” – very Lloyd Cole. The tunes are marvellous too and complement the world-weary thoughts of Chairman Cole with a pleasing subtlety. Of course, I had the chance to name my son Lloyd Cole but bottled it. It might have worked.

I made copies of the above album, the last Scritti Politti long-player (the album of the year chez Cole – this Cole, not Lloyd - although you never know) and the gorgeous Seven Swans by Sufjan Stevens for C yesterday and with complete foolishness posted the package without any stamps on it. I feel such a chump.

Brief Rugby Post

I am overjoyed to see the city club continue its fine unbeaten run and away to Leicester too. With the Tigers’ impressive home record, any points snuck away from Welford Road are welcome. Importantly not many of our rivals for the top places in the league will win or draw at the historic East Midlands venue so we have stolen a march on them albeit in a small way. All these advantages add up at the end of the season though. As ever on drawing, one feels a slight pang of regret that the lads didn’t go the whole way and bag a wondrous victory but such thoughts are a touch churlish when the Gloucester engine is running so smoothly. We’re not quite in ‘We’ve never had it so good’ territory but are certainly approaching it.

Fitter, Happier, Skankier

I won’t bore readers with the details (which involve misplaced battery chargers, eBay, newly purchased battery chargers, miraculously found old battery chargers, the sullen juxtaposition of old and new battery chargers, the expression ‘what was it doing in there?’ and a heavy sigh or two) but I had, until this week, been unable to use my gorgeous Creative MP3 player for a while. It was like missing my right arm especially as a good deal of my music exists only in downloaded format. It is back in use now and I am whole. The universe is aligned.

I love reggae and I love Radiohead so it makes sense that I should admire deeply the new album by a host of classic reggae artists (Horace Andy, Sugar Minott etc.) recording under the banner Easy Star All-Stars. They have come up with a reggae version of OK Computer called Radiodread (what else?!) and, despite reservations as I usually dislike such ‘novelties’, I reckon it’s a cracking listen. The production is superb and it is obvious that a lot of work and thought and , importantly, affection went into making it. The singing and playing are tight and uplifting throughout and all the re-examined and revamped songs benefit from such an unusual approach. The little touches render it a delight. The Augustus Pabloesque melodica that introduces Subterranean Homesick Alien is a lilting joy while the dub effects that permeate the bass-heavy Exit Music (For a Film) are reminiscent of Lee Perry or Mikey Dread. And I love the lyric towards the end of Paranoid Android where ‘Jah loves his children’ instead of God. This could become one of the surprise hits of the year in Cole-world.

I thank D for his texted updates as Gloucester soared to victory away to NEC Harlequins. His half-time reassurances did the trick and, indeed, as predicted by the fellow, Gloucester had more than enough in the locker to drag themselves back from 16-6 to vanquish comfortably. Alas, it appears that the noble – and some would say aristocratic – Alexander Brown appears to have fractured his arm and may be out until the new year. The strength in depth that was so happily lauded pre-season will now certainly be required. It is time for Will James to show what he is made of methinks.

Battles

A while away from these pages and I sense a few weeks of intermittent posting as I return to work and earn my corn. Excuse any absence but I’ll try to post at least a couple of times a week. We shall see how it goes.

A couple of events to briefly celebrate. It was pleasant to return to the Guildhall and its somewhat uncomfortable cinema seats on Thursday evening. Ken Loach’s The Wind That Shakes The Barley was a compelling hour or two, a stark and uncompromising history lesson that explored the origins of the Irish republican movement via a fictional account of two brothers united in their resolution to rid Ireland of English rule characterised by the ruthlessness of the notorious Black and Tan soldiers. More human drama follows when the Irish Free State is formed and the brothers take separate sides, one fighting on for the republican cause, one accepting the new agreement.

Less crucial battles were fought out yesterday as Gloucester hosted Bath in a gripping opening fixture that the city deserved to win but contrived to almost throw away. With numerous key players missing (Boer, Simpson-Daniel, Nieto, Tindall and Lamb) the club’s strength in depth imposed itself on a willing and competitive Bath outfit. I enjoyed a capable Gloucester performance and the second half brace of tries were certainly worth the price of admission. Jack Adams’ dancing feet and composure with the line beckoning were thrilling while the ruthlessness of the back division when finishing off a typically heroic Andrew Hazel gallop was refreshing. The captaincy of Marco Bortolami again caught the eye. His line-out work was splendid and his contributions to loose play were intelligent and welcome but I especially enjoyed his energetic geeing-up of his troops and constant appraisal of the match situation. I felt during the match that the Shed had found a new hero but his desire to lead the lads back onto the park to salute the punters went down a storm too. He might well be my new favourite player.

A Chip off the Old Blockley

Although I phoned the venue in Bristol and made enquiries, the Coles did not venture to Bristol on Tuesday for a second helping of Wiyos magic. One can only have too much of a good thing. I truly hope our paths cross once again though. Another review of Sunday’s Calmer* and some links to audio and video clips appear on these esteemed pages.

I get emails from the Scritti Politti organisation and I note that the Gartside fellow will be playing the Birmingham Academy in November, exactly one week after the Sufjan Stevens concert. Verily, my cup doth overflow.

The Coles ventured to IKEA today. After checking-out, a confident middle-aged woman approached me. ‘Are you from Blockley?’ she enquired. ‘Er, no,’ I offered politely in reply. ‘Well, you have a twin who lives there,’ she concluded. This vaguely unsettles me. She obviously doesn’t really know my North Cotswolds doppelganger too well otherwise she would have known it was not he surrounded by flat-packed furniture. What if I had said, ‘Yes’? I want to meet this man.

This is Vaudeville

Cheltenham Spa’s Calmer* evenings are growing on me like an exotic ivy and I am beginning to really appreciate the eclectic mix of music these showcases provide. Last night’s cracking double bill made a fine impression. First up was American one-man band Philip Roebuck thumping his banjo strings in a frenzied and frenetic fashion and beating out relentless riddims on his back to complement his plaintive and personal numbers. He rocked. I always enjoy encountering novel musical experiences and Roebuck’s set was an unusual and challenging excursion. Frankly, I had approached the evening unaware of any other acts on the line-up so New Yorkers The Wiyos’ incredible set was a delightful surprise. I’m not supposed to like jug-bands who harmonise old-style country songs backed by double bass, washboard and geetar but, I confess, this was the most delirious forty minutes entertainment (not a dirty word, I reckon) I have encountered for ages. The flyer used the word ‘vaudeville’ and the stagecraft, musicianship and ability to get the audience’s toes a-tappin’ adhered to that old-fashioned scene too. Their songs were fabulous, they looked great and, importantly, they made this punter grin from ear to ear with their well-rehearsed antics and humorous interplay. I thoroughly dug them and I sensed the whole Calmer* crowd had taken the trio to their hearts too judging by the extent of the warmth of the applause and the volume of the cheering at the end. I have yelled ‘More!’ on numerous occasions over the years but have rarely meant it as much as last night. Their long player, Hat Trick, captures their live show perfectly and the Coles are considering popping down to Bristol on the morrow to witness The Wiyos experience once more. For now, they are this house’s favourite new band.

This is Kingsholm

Gloucester 29 – Llanelli 22

This was encouraging. Doughty and determined heads in the Scarlets line-up ensured this was no gimme but a gritty Gloucester performance containing sufficient craft to complement the graft won the spoils. And, despite a need for the city to produce an encouraging display, the victory, any victory, had more import attached to it. The club could not welcome Bath next week with three straight defeats under the collective belt.

For sure, there was scrappiness at times but, certainly, fixtures like these are designed to expose and remedy that. Evident were a series of cameos and displays that heartened and comforted. I liked Bortolami’s style. He is a pacy fellow who, while adhering nattily to the basics of the tight, was able to make himself a nuisance in a variety of game situations. He’ll add a good deal to our fifteen. His captaincy skills were apparent throughout; an encouraging slap on the back here, a few words of encouragement there. He possesses ‘people skills’ for sure. He can inspire. He is welcome.

It was strange to see Iain Balshaw wearing the cherry hue but he showed a lot of class yesterday and by no-side his reputation was, in my eyes, enhanced. Naturally one associates raw pace with the fellow but he demonstrated his intelligence on a number of occasions, choosing a clever line, seeking out a comrade, selecting a place to enter the line or, in defence, demonstrating shrewd organisational skills. He’ll prove an asset to the crew.

Newbies Walker and Califano did nothing wrong all afternoon. The Kiwi outside-half controlled things well, generally kicked with aplomb and appears to be a decent signing who will fill the Lamb-shaped void steadily and with no little poise. Califano is the wily old fox I expected. I’m reassured that he’ll be around to steady ships and add his nous to proceedings over the months.

It was refreshing too to witness the enthusiasm and zeal of others. Peter Richards enjoyed a snarling and energetic match and his will to win and quickness of thought caught the eye. This livewire shall be key to our chances this season but I appreciated Rory Lawson’s twenty minute cameo that was almost Richardsesque in its effervescence and appetite for action. Peter Buxton had a pleasing match and, especially in a ten minute purple patch after the break, proved a colossus and almightily difficult to bring to ground. Andrew Hazel remains Andrew Hazel and I salute the terrier. To state that England’s loss is the city’s gain is obvious but there shall ne’er be a truer word spake all term methinks. For me, James Forrester deserves the man-of-the-match nod. It is churlish to suggest that he could, on occasions, seek out a team mate more readily when he is making such clean breaks and scoring such bewitching tries as yesterday but that remains my only minor criticism of the youngster. As I see it, his confidence levels are sky-high, he is carrying the ball with a tad more power than usual and, my word, he wants to win rugby football matches for the city club.

There were many positives on show yesterday but to defeat the old rivals from Bath next week, a touch more ruthlessness, a tad more streetwise, heads-up ‘thinking rugby’ needs to permeate the team. At times Gloucester made the heaviest of weather when attempting to cross the try-line and this was against, at times, only fourteen fellows who were not, despite a fierce collective competitive nature, seeking league points. That said, I tip my favoured team to open the new season with a win next weekend and I would be pleased to see the gnarled and rugged Collazo back in the fifteen as well as old lag Tindall and young pup Allen replacing Keil (steady enough, to be fair) and Adams in midfield. Would there be a better way to start a new season than with a merciless dismantling of the Somerset side? Can’t wait…

Northern Skies

I shall write more about the Coles’ Scottish (and Mancunian and Yorkshirian) jaunt at another juncture. However, I shall briefly report that a marvellous time was had by all although, as ever, it is lovely to be home. There’s a couple of photographs above to indicate the coast/city japes we embraced.

I have plenty to report and plenty on the horizon. I bought my new rugby season ticket today and shall trot to the Kingsholm area tomorrow to exhort my heroes to play up and vanquish against a Llanelli fifteen. I remain disappointed by the two losses incurred thus far pre-season and dismayed to learn of the nasty injury suffered by the young prince, Simpson-Daniel. I’m just keen to see the lads in action for myself. I note that Bortolami has been named as captain for this weekend’s clash; we need a strong leader so I hope this is an experiment that works.

I seem to have had my head in a book fairly constantly for the past couple of weeks. I’ve polished off a couple of music books which shared similar themes. Joe Boyd’s White Bicycles was a fascinating swoop through the sixties and the key strands of the fascinating underground scene that Boyd, to an extent, fostered and inspired. I finished Patrick Humphries’ biography of Nick Drake today. The book contained few surprises and missed the input of two key figures, Drake’s sister, Gabrielle, and Joe Boyd (Drake’s close friend and producer), both of whom refused to cooperate with the project. I read a couple of novels while away too. I enjoyed Zadie Smith’s White Teeth a while back and tackled On Beauty, her latest work, while in Scotland and this proved a remarkable read full of insightful ruminations on class, race and gender. It reminded me a little of some of David Lodge’s campus novels and the portrayal of university politics proved a hoot. I also read Small Island by Andrea Levy which examined race issues during and after the Second World War and considered the treatment of Jamaican servicemen, and later, immigrants by a predominantly white and suspicious English population. I welcomed a peek at a forgotten chapter of British history.

Gloucester Rugby: A New Season

The Coles shall be heading north midweek, to the land of the Scots via Manchester and with a visit to Pickering, I believe, to slip in on the way home. I understand modern parlance calls it ‘breaking the journey up’. I shall report back in a couple of weeks but there won’t be any posts until then methinks.

The holiday means I shall miss the first Gloucester RFC friendly match - against Saracens this Friday - which is a shame as I always enjoy checking out and analysing new players and this season, in particular, there are many new ‘uns to behold and celebrate. I don’t recall sitting here in August and feeling quite so confident about the chances for the city. For once we appear to have found a potent balance of pace and power, strength and style.

Our future successes will depend heavily on our front five and I am optimistic that we have a set of superb props that will see us through the term well. The experienced continental swagger of Nieto, Collazo and Califano represents a trio of bruisers that no club will want to encounter while the hugely promising Forster and the effective and, in my opinion, vastly underrated Wood will let no side down. The hookers are contrasting characters. The burly Azam is a frightfully physical gentleman and, again, is a name that other teams will not appreciate seeing on the teamsheet before a match. The lighter but nippier Mefin Davies enjoyed a decent run in the team last spring and demonstrated what a clever and unselfishly effective component he is. Both have roles to play. Azam is scarier; Davies does the basics more consistently. Again youth waits in the wings in the shape of the enthusiastic and ambitious Elloway and the rated new boy Macmillan.

We have rarely been so blessed in the second row as this season. The signing of the inspirational Italian skipper Bortolami is an outstanding one. His leadership skills, high levels of skill and competitiveness and, importantly, his aura, should serve us well. He has to prove the real deal. The noble and intelligent Brown should continue to impress but the new fellow James should be pressing for a starting berth; by all accounts he is a no-nonsense and rugged behemoth in the mould of Worcester’s Gillies or Collier. The enterprising Pendlebury and the old hand Eustace make up the numbers.

I suppose a major challenge for coach Ryan will be to discover the most successful balance in a back row that still lacks a ball carrier of the class of the, as yet, unreplaced Junior Paramore. Of course Hazell remains a nugget in the seven shirt while a lot depends on how much Forrester has bulked up to add a more steely presence to his expressionist array of skills at eight. The three ‘B’s should contest the blindside berth. I hope Balding regains the form of two years ago when he illuminated a disappointing campaign for the club with a series of old-fashioned and passionate performances that shamed a good many of his insipid team mates. Peter Buxton quietly and modestly enjoyed a fine last season but, personally, I’d love to see the honest and hard working Jake Boer clinch the six jersey and really run the ball aggressively at (and through!) enemy lines. If push came to shove, I’d nominate the South African as my favourite player of the past decade; he represents all I’d expect from a player wearing the famous cherry. Youngsters Narraway, Merriman and Matthews await chances; of the three, Will Matthews has most to prove and the new season should allow the lad sufficient opportunities to really fulfil his potential.

Behind the pack, there merrily exists a good deal of healthy competition for each position although I do have a favoured first choice selection. At scrum half, Peter Richards enjoyed a really encouraging season last time out. Although question marks remain over his service, his pace, eye for the gap, attacking zeal and ruthless will to win all impressed this scribe. Haydn Thomas has done nothing wrong and remains a worthy understudy while the new Scottish lad, Rory Lawson, could be another dark horse; by all accounts he has pace and skills in abundance. I suppose one could suggest it is a case of ‘horses for courses’ but the thrilling Lamb should be inked in as the city’s playmaker with the steady Mercier in reserve. Both are match winners but only wunderkind Lamb has the cognoscenti whispering the blessed word ‘genius’. I can’t wait to see the kiddo play again. Willy Walker can also play at outside half but I know little about the Kiwi.

The midfield should comprise Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall and the coltish and ebullient Allen. The mix of experience and youthful zest should really click. Jack Adams returns of course and I really rated his gainline-breaking élan last autumn before his nasty injury. How well and how fearlessly the boy Adams plays after his recovery will be interesting. I guess Rudi Keil will be cover and Walker and Simpson-Daniel are able to slot into the centre too.

I would prefer Simpson-Daniel to play at wing three-quarter though. The space that a bullying pack will create for the likes of Lamb and Richards to control matches will prove a fillip for ‘Sinbad’ and I expect Iain Balshaw to be his partner in crime. This could prove a potent pairing. The earnest and improving Mark Foster, speedy and clinical James Bailey, experienced and wholehearted Rob Thirlby all indicate the club’s strength in depth. Olly Morgan remains a thoroughbred at full back and I look forward to watching his heads-up, elegant counter-attacking again. I suggest that Willy Walker will be second choice as the unfortunate and loyal Jon Goodridge heads to Pertemps Bees for a loan spell.

I would suggest this to be the strongest squad that Gloucester has ever assembled and I anticipate a top three finish in the league and, depending on our results against Leinster, a European semi-final. Having suffered many false dawns I think the time has finally arrived for the supporters to have a really top notch team without conceivable weakness to salute. I can’t wait.

Museum

A childhood – possibly teenaged – visit to South Kensington’s Victoria and Albert Museum had always stuck in my mind for the wrong reasons. Frankly, I found the place dull and uninspiring, full of pointless costumes and objets that held no appeal. A second trip, avec famille, last Friday blew my prejudices and simmering distrust of the place out of the water. Obviously, the institution has been revamped in the two decades or so since I last strolled through its corridors but it proved a fabulous collection of too many beautiful and fascinating pieces to mention and I am unable to sing its praises loudly enough. The new Islamic Art wing is stunning, the Asian artefacts are wondrous while the statues simply took the breath away. And the John Madjedski Garden (pictured) is a fabulous oasis of calm and beauty in the centre of the city. I’ll visit again and spend more time. An edgy part of me thinks that the V & A may have been rather splendid on my previous visit and that it is me that has changed the most.

Mixed Vegetables Fried Rice

It has been a busy few days for one reason or other and I have relished the chance to relax and recharge this evening. I feel sated und enhanced by a delectable takeaway of Chinese origin; I have listened with a tangible glow to Tom Robinson interviewing Green Gartside on the splendid 6Music (and he read out my email asking the Scritti Politti main man something or other of little import); and now I’m sat here, without a care in the world, tapping these mundane thoughts into the computer while I listen avidly to The Associates’ Fourth Drawer Down. Life couldn’t get any better.

Martha's Harbour

Tonight is the last ever Top of the Pops. If you had told the sixteen year old version of me that one day in the future the show would be deemed obsolete by the BBC’s powers-that-be, my spotty young face would have guffawed and probably snarled, ‘Whatever!’ Top of the Pops was massive in my life and I longed for the end credits of Tomorrow’s World every Thursday so that I could immerse myself in (generally) heroes. That fact that I still have VHS tapes galore packed with clips of Lloyd Cole, The Smiths, Scritti Politti et al. is testament to my addiction. I doubt if I missed more than one or two shows between 1981 and 1985 and if I did there must have been a darned good reason. I loved the programme. Laughably, I recall no grey areas; I either adored a record or loathed it with a passion. Having chucked a list on here last time, I am reluctant to post a ‘Martin’s Top Ten Favourite Top of the Pops Moments’ but Japan doing Ghosts would feature as would anything by The Jam (Paul Weller wearing an apron as he sang Going Underground anyone?) and, certainly, Legs and Co. dancing to Orange Juice’s Rip It Up while simultaneously ripping up pieces of paper. Gosh, I’ve misted over. I will not be watching tonight’s show though.

A military operation took place yesterday morning as I logged on just before 9am in order to secure a quartet of tickets to see Sufjan Stevens in Amsterdam. The mission was successful and we are off in the middle of November to see, in my humble opinion, the world’s finest and most moving recording artist. I can’t remember looking forward to anything as much since, well, Top of the Pops circa 1984.

My Favourite Gigs

‘Top Ten, I reckon’, I mumbled deliriously to S as we left the Kentish Town Forum on Monday night. The exuberance of Teenage Fanclub’s harmony driven power-pop had made such an impression that I considered their lengthy set worthy of inclusion in my Top-Ten-Gigs-Of-All-Time. Such spur of the moments pronouncements (fuelled by alcohol, on occasions) are able to come back to haunt one but, 72 hours down the line, I reckon I might just have been correct in my judgement. It was that good. So what other concerts can proudly boast Top Ten status? Here are the other nine in no particular order:

The Fall at Cheltenham Town Hall, 1987. This was the first time I’d seen The Fall who remain my most-seen act. A classic line-up and so many wondrous songs! They opened with Shoulder Pads, U.S. 80s-90s and Gut of the Quantifier, a belting hat trick of stunners! I was only young. What a treat. More details are to be found here.

Burning Spear, Jamaican Sports and Social Club, Gloucester, 2002. A council strike meant the original venue, Gloucester Guildhall, was unavailable so the gig was switched to this perfect little arena. Ageing West Indian dudes were playing dominos as one of the key reggae acts climbed onto the makeshift stage. S, S and I supped Red Stripe unselfconsciously as the tightest of ensembles belted out hit after hit.

The Go-Betweens, Birmingham Academy, 2005. See here. All the more poignant after Grant McLennan’s untimely death recently. This was a gorgeous and emotional evening.

The Pixies, Bristol Bierkeller, 1988 and Bristol Studio, 1989. The only band to appear twice on this list but two deserved entries for the Bostonians. These were really intense, sweaty happenings and the aggressive and energetic songs came thick and fast. The Bierkeller gig was the more memorable. My Bloody Valentine supported with the loudest set of all time. Amazing times.

Gang of Four, Bristol Academy, 2005. Another corker from last year which I wrote about here. I’m not sure about bands reforming to relive past glories but this bunch was awesome. Andy Gill’s angular guitar noise was a history lesson I was privileged to attend. Art.

The House of Love, Bristol Bierkeller, 1988. I always bundle this one with the first Pixies gig as they were pretty close together. The House of Love was a cracking and really rather underrated band. Their debut album which they showcased this evening remains a classic. They conjured up a remarkable noise; Terry Bickers’ guitar work was nothing short of majestic.

R.E.M., Newport Leisure Centre, 1989. There is a set-list here. I stood with one hand on the stage throughout. The opening salvo of Pop Song '89, These Days and Disturbance at the Heron House rivals The Fall for gig-opening wonderment.

Lloyd Cole and the Commotions, Birmingham Hummingbird, 1985. I went on the train with B. They played all of Rattlesnakes and one or two other songs in a tiny little venue. The Blow Monkeys supported. Superb.