How does it feel to know you've just won again?

Nothing released this year has really set this pulse racing but I sense a tripping, hopping cavalry may be about to canter over a nearby hillock, turntables in saddle-bags. Portishead have a new album, Third, which hits the outlets in April. The early reviews are glowing (Uncut magazine was practically salivating) and I shall be adding this product to my Amazon wishlist forthwith. I’m tempted by the latest Nick Cave recording, Dig, Lazurus, Dig!!!, as well. I must confess that the brooding Antipodean and his acclaimed recordings have crept cannily under this radar for years but I appreciated the new single – the album’s title track – and, without wanting to appear a slave to the critics’ outpourings, I have read fine things about the new stuff. I note that Robert Forster has a new album called The Evangelist out, featuring, I believe, at least one song co-penned by his former Go-Betweens partner-in-rhyme, the late Grant McLennan. Again, the critics seem to love it. Happily, there is an online stream of the long player here. It does sound lovely. Frankly, anything to do with The Go-Betweens leaves me misty-eyed.

Again, I was lured and tempted by the Oxfam ‘three tapes for a quid’ shelf on Saturday. I bought The Story of The Clash, Volume One which features mainly early songs by the punk legends. Verily, who could tire of Police and Thieves? I also picked up a copy of Sound On Sound by Bill Nelson’s Red Noise. This looked intriguing. I guess Bill Nelson is better known for his work with Be Bop Deluxe but I’ve heard of Red Noise and noted an interesting merger of post-punk attitude and pioneering electronica. Howe’er, the tape is broken so I shall have to wait to discover the greatness – or otherwise – of Nelson! The third spool contains a long player that I already own on vinyl but have not played for many a merry year: George Best by The Wedding Present. It sounds wonderful, unwithered by age. From the breathy splendour of Everyone Thinks He Looks Daft to the witty evocation of gawkish first love that is A Million Miles, this recording brings back many fond memories of John Peel Festive Fifties, sweaty mosh-pits and countless carefree capers. All the songs are wondrous indie gems with much darkness lurking behind the wit, riffs and repartee: My Favourite Dress is a compelling, powerful and emotional song about jealousy that always catches the breath while Give My Love To Kevin – a personal favourite of D - also resonates with rancour and bitterness directed towards a former lover. This is a splendid album that I am tempted to award ‘masterpiece’ status to, a vibrant independent belter packed to the rafters with passion, melody, intelligence and youthful ebullience. I salute it and shall play it loudly in my motor car on my next excursion. Parp! Parp!

Sporting Matters

A single week from now, the Gloucester club shall exist magisterially and proudly as one of the last four teams in the Heineken European Cup if - and I am not unaware of the immensity of this ‘if’ - the ‘Elver Eaters’ defeat the might of Munster, a whole province, next Saturday. On yesterday’s form, the ‘if’ is visible from space. My favoured team failed disappointingly to finish off a fairly ordinary Worcester outfit at the Sixways stadium, despite entering the half-time interval leading 14-12 with the knowledge that a gale would be in their opponents’ faces for the second period. If Worcester, a scarcely adequate fifteen, can take advantage of Gloucester’s lack of ruthlessness and cutting edge, then our Irish visitors shall enjoy a day to remember. For the record, a last-gasp try by former Kingsholm favourite Thinus Delport finished off the visitors.

I take few positives from yesterday. The young prince, Simpson-Daniel, was, yet again, the finest player on view. His eye for a gap, electrifying pace and acceleration and all-round vision caught this ocular organ all afternoon. My player of the season needs to be wrapped in cotton wool all week. Oliver Morgan enjoyed a splendid return to the fabled colours; his composure under the high ball and his trademark elegant running wi’ ball in hand were welcome. Another returnee, Alex Brown, played with aplomb and determination, securing plenty of Worcester ball in the lines-out as well as sufficient possession from his own team’s set piece. I hope Will James partners him next week; yesterday’s captain Bortolami seems a pale shadow of last term’s colossus and I sense the Irish fellows would cope less well with the physicality of our shaven-headed Welshman than with the more cultured, but less imposing, Italian. Elsewhere, I hope a place is found for the Scot Paterson in the matchday fifteen to face Munster, preferably at the expense of the talented yet erratic Lamb, who is yet to really boss a game for Gloucester. Whatever the permutations, this punter is excited by the prospect of a special occasion and a fantastic atmosphere. I can’t wait.

Count the evening stars

I’ve owned my new iPod for a couple of months now but it feels like longer. I’ve almost forgotten what it was like to manipulate my loyal old Creative Zen and that’s just a little sad as I loved that machine. There are a couple of iPod features that appeal to my slightly nerdish outlook. I rather like the music quiz it offers, asking me questions about all the albums I have stored up in its mighty brain. I also appreciate being able to view, via iTunes, just how many times I have played every song. I couldn’t do that with my Creative although if I were a betting man I’d wager Seven Swans by Sufjan Stevens would have been the most played album on that fine but now deceased Zen. I’ve heard that fine long player just twice on my iPod – I just checked – but have heard a brace of albums no fewer than eight times each. Literally going from A to Z, I’ve listened to Art Brut (Bang Bang Rock & Roll) and The Zombies (Odessey and Oracle) most often. The former is a favourite of all the family and has been mainly relayed via my doughnut-shaped speaker that lives in the kitchen; the latter, a psychedelic pop smasher, remains a personal favourite that I often play through my headphones.

Like dolphins can swim...

I am taking a rest, a sabbatical if you will, from the marathon that is working my way through every episode of The Sopranos. I am well into Series Five so there are not loads and loads of episodes left although I sense that plenty of twists and turns remain. Currently, another TV show has captured my imagination, requiring urgent trips to Blockbusters to collect boxed sets to fuel a raging addiction. The series is called Heroes and I am bewitched by a cracking cast of characters and a plot so sharp and thought-provoking that the word ‘genius’ may be warmly whispered. Essentially, a number of ordinary folk discover they possess incredible powers and much of the storyline deals with how a NYPD cop copes with suddenly being able to read the thoughts of those around him and what an Osaka programmer does when he discovers he can both stop and travel through time. Darker and more sinister forces are at large – quelle surprise! – and, without revealing too much, the ‘heroes’ individually find themselves in peril from one of their own. Another key element to the show sees artist Isaac Mendez able to paint clear prophesies of the future (whilst under the influence of heroin…) forcing the main characters to race against time to save others, each other, and, heck, possibly the blinking world itself. I feel I haven’t sold this show too well but it is immensely clever, brilliantly written and contains sufficient depth to keep all hepcats hooting and hollering heartily. I salute.

Cultivation

Here is a selection of photographs taken today at Westbury Court Gardens. A party of Coles attended this National Trust attraction this afternoon. It proved quaint. There were some ducks there. And hedges.

Thought For Food

It wasn’t a case of ‘any excuse to get the family onto the Kingsholm Road’ but the Coles headed to that renowned thoroughfare last evening for a meal at Mangoes, a Thai café that sits opposite the famed rugby football union stadium. We’d heard fine things about the place and, without wishing to sound an utter Philistine, I had never tasted Thai food before. The food really was splendid. The adult Coles’ starter of various vegetarian treats was merry and came with two delectable sauces. My Thai vegetarian curry was temptingly tasty while the eldest Cole offspring dramatically announced to a hushed throng that his chicken dish involving noodles was one of his most enjoyable meals ever. The service was fantastic and our hostess was incredibly chatty and friendly, happily discussing our food and doing a sterling job for the Thai tourist industry with her exuberant monologues regarding the various charms of Thailand.

At lunchtime, the café becomes a sort of English establishment serving the usual sandwiches and fry-ups. Naturally I asked her – it would have been amiss not to – whether the Gloucester rugby players ever came into Mangoes and I was thrilled to learn that they all did, usually the day before a match, after the traditional ‘team run’ at the ground. With very little prompting I received all the lowdown on the lads and it transpires that (no surprises here) they are smashing blokes. Our hostess especially favours Marco (‘Very Handsome’), Mark Foster (‘Handsome and polite’) and Adam Balding (‘Very quiet and polite…comes in three or four times a week’). The young prince, Simpson-Daniel, quaintly referred to merely as ‘Simpson’, abhors tuna apparently. I got all the gossip about culinary choices and behaviour. It proved a fine evening of spicy pleasure and oval ball related small talk: what could be better?

Errata

Naturally there is no such song as West End Boys and my knowledge of pop history has been exposed most cruelly. Looking back at my choices from last week, I note that nine out of the ten artists are British and only the ‘Ab Four’ come from outside these proud shores. I hadn’t realised that I favoured home-grown acts quite so firmly but I guess it indicates an admiration for a British whimsy and wit and that’s no bad thing in my books.

I may as well cough up all my guilty pleasures. Another recent number hit smash I am especially fond of is Freak Like Me by Sugababes, a rampaging pop frenzy which, by a baroque coincidence, samples - rather merrily - Are ‘Friends’ Electric?, one of the hot ten listed on these pages last week.

Gravy

Here’s a pleasing picture of The Young Knives at the Guildhall taken by A2 and remitted to me via electronic mail. I thank him for it. I see the band is heavily tipped to play Glastonbury this year and, if I attend, I shall seek the fellows out earnestly. The Coles have pencilled in a trip to the Two Thousand Trees festival in July. This event won – or was shortlisted for – the best small festival in The Guardian last year. Art Brut, headliners this year, lure us; the sardonic tunesmiths remain the Cole family’s new favourite band. The Green Man roster is filling up sweetly and I am keen to witness The National, Beirut. Super Furry Animals, School of Language and Richard Thompson in the Welsh countryside, plying their musical trade with gusto.

I met a man who hails from New Jersey yesterday as I went about my business. My opening sortie to the fellow was misguided and unfortunate and, twenty-fours later, I regret my foolishness and am haunted by a soupcon of embarrassment. Not everyone from that state is an expert on The Sopranos as I discovered to my cost.

Toppermost of the Poppermost

I like what Word Magazine has done this month. The august publication – my favourite journal – always presents a 20 Best… and 20 Worst… list with a new theme each month. Previous ideas have been super heroes, cartoon characters and situation comedies but this month the best and worst number one hits have been discussed. As ever, it’s a very arbitrary list, full of fascinating opinions. There are a few obvious choices in the best list (Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush, Ghost Town by The Specials) but also one or two unexpected yet inspired selections (Mouldy Old Dough by Lieutenant Pigeon, Crazy in Love by Beyonce, Ride on Time by Black Box). I don’t agree with their pick for ‘best of the lot’ which is Human League’s Don’t You Want Me, a track I’ve always regarded as only the sixth or seventh finest song off Dare and a fairly ordinary melody and obvious lyric. The choices for the worst list are less interesting but still of huge entertainment value. Two superstar collaborations are justly caned: Bowie and Jagger’s ill-conceived Dancing in the Streets and McCartney/Wonder’s infamous piano keyboard/racial harmony metaphor, Ebony and Ivory. Of course Bryan Adams is knee-capped for Everything I Do; naturally Reg Dwight’s ode to a dull celebrity royal (deceased) is pilloried. The magazine opts for I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker by Sandi Thom when considering the worst chart topper of them all. I think I’ve heard that song once so can’t really argue.

Unable to resist, I present my ten favourite number ones:

Paperback Writer - The Beatles

I know dear S loves this song too. A really unusual subject matter and a most invigorating riff. Hurrah.

All or Nothing – The Small Faces

Steve Marriott at his urgent and soulful best. The most underrated British band ever?

The Name of the Game – Abba

Haunting, melodic and, er, profound.

Uptown Top Ranking – Althia and Donna

A soaring riddim.

Are ‘Friends’ Electric? – Tubeway Army

I was never sure why ‘Friends’ needed the inverted commas but it added to the mystery of an already atmospheric number from the Numanoid. Electronica.

Ashes to Ashes – David Bowie

Major Tom was real, wasn’t he? Unselfconsciously references Space Oddity and includes the line, ‘The shrieking of nothing is killing’ - two excellent reasons for its inclusion.

Ghost Town - The Specials

A chilling political statement. The scariest number one ever?

Tainted Love - Soft Cell

The perfect pop song with undercurrents of pure menace. Such a staple of sixth form discos at Gloucester Leisure Centre’s Cambridge Suite that I can almost taste cider and blackcurrant every time I hear it.

West End Boys - Pet Shop Boys

An original and compelling urban soundscape. Is this what London is like? I must ask D.

Pure Shores - All Saints

A taste of paradise. A fabulous, fabulous record.

It’s a shame that Petula Clark’s Down Town and The Kinks’ Waterloo Sunset only made number two as they are assuredly the finest singles ever. It is a controversial choice but my favourite number one of all the above is probably the shimmering beauty of Pure Shores. All comments are welcome. I used this site to help me decide.

The devil take your stereo and your record collection!

The Guildhall of Gloucester lured me effortlessly through its doors last week, not once, but twice. I suppose the theme could be described as ‘English whimsy’.

The Young Knives played on Thursday and kicked up a heck of a racket. Essentially, the combo consists of three rather intellectual (M informs me that the lead singer possesses a philosophy degree) and engaging characters who dress in sensible shirts and ties and engage in earnest and somewhat quaint conversation on stage. They also ‘bang it up to eleven’ and proffer meaty, beaty, big and bouncy independent rock music with notable tunes and wry and whimsically English lyrical content. They were rather marvellous and a capacity crowd at the ‘hall lapped it all up gratefully and gracefully. I hope they return soon.

On Friday, Acoustica beckoned with two acts I’d seen there before. Sweet Laredo proved a tight four piece playing jazzy and bluesy numbers with no little aplomb. Sarah Scott’s mighty and soulful voice belted out some satisfying numbers and reminded this punter of Amy Winehouse (without the tattoos, cigarillos, needles and potty mouth). The drummer was good. The main act was The Family Machine who took the ‘English whimsy’ baton from the Young Knives and ran with it with ebullience aplenty. Their songs about roadside floral tributes and childhood forays to the woods were heartwarming and charming, eccentric without encroaching into ‘silly territory’. They were fun and I salute them.

The next Acoustica features Ian McNabb and I can’t wait.

The rugby football proved a delight yesterday evening. Gloucester, a team I favour with enthusiasm, hosted London Irish, a team I do not. The home team vanquished with plenty to spare and, importantly, acquired the quartet of tries needed for the precious bonus point. To be frank, I had expected the Reading-based outfit linked to the Hiberian expanses to turn my team over. As often happens, a side that is depleted by international call-ups and injuries is able to raise its collective game and overcome more fancied opponents. This was the case last night: Gloucester seemed hungrier and – cliché alert – wanted it more. A number of young blades and fringe players put down markers for future selection. Dan Touhy, a youthful lock, particularly caught the eye on his debut, but Jack Forster enjoyed a gritty performance in the front row while James Bailey continues to impress at full back. I’d go as far as suggest that the former Bristol speedster remains one of the more underrated Gloucester players; he never lets his team mates down and I am yet to see him have a poor game in the esteemed colours. I wonder if Saturday’s win will prove a turning point in Gloucester’s fortunes this season; confidence has seemed a touch low in recent weeks and I hope a corner has been turned with this win.

A thriving, unspoilt market town

I have hardly posted on here recently and I apologise.

The Coles, with a sniff of spring in their collective nostrils, ventured to Newent this afternoon for a double header of watery thrills. First, we headed to Oxenhall, where the canal is being gradually restored, and, in particular, the lock. To be frank, I’m unsure what the intended end result for this stretch of water might be; it remains a lovely spot though. We then headed to central Newent – the ‘hood – for a gentle stroll round the town’s lake. It was just really pleasant to be outside for an hour or so. Here are three Newent pictures.

I’m appreciating the three albums I purchased from Amazon. I have hardly played the School of Language recording; it seems a challenging scamp and I need a day or two to really play it to death before it clicks. Vampire Weekend’s eponymous debut is a cheeky blighter, full of impish wit and toe-tapping zing. Some of the lyrical content is a touch clever-clever – does the world really need a song about an obscure piece of punctuation? – but I can’t help but admire the band’s energy and intellect. The British Sea Power’s Do You Like Rock Music is a work of admirable quality, a stirring collection of songs about, inter alia, bird flu and immigration, with earnest choruses and rousing sections galore.