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

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

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

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

Photo-Journalism

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

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

The Bulge, Iwo Jima, Bunker Hill and Agincourt

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

Like a ghost, a ghost of something old

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

Front (Room) of House

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

Not Waving But Drowning

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

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

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

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

Sipping Coke and Playing Games

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

A Disppointment

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

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

Rotten device, I'll say it twice

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

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

I've seen your double dares - everything extraordinaire

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

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