Manic Pop Pilton

Having showered, shaved, stretched, scrubbed, slumbered and speculated, it is time to announce my return from the Glastonbury Festival of Contempory Performing Arts. Well, all three Coles remain shattered but the consensus was that ‘it was worth it’; our adventure is decreed to be a success. I spent all of Wednesday and most of Thursday on my own, sauntering around, exploring and clocking up, on average, a visit to an ethnic wares stall every eight and a half minutes. I was surprised how many people chose to arrive, as I did, at the earliest possible moment, eight (ante meridian) on the Day of Woden but the mood was merry despite the remarkable crowds of characters. It is hard to describe the scale of Glastonbury but my aching calves bear witness to many miles hiked to many a stage, many a meadow in search of musical delights and sundry experiences. The weather proved to be generally fine despite a smattering of rain on the Friday that resulted in the now traditional muddy walkways; this was a temporary meteorological downturn as Saturday emerged dry and the grounds firmed up pleasantly.

My word, there are highlights to report. Perhaps I had better start with the greatest performance of the weekend. The Park Stage required most stamina to reach but I reckon it was the most rewarding part of the site to encounter. On Friday evening I rambled to this splendid natural amphitheatre in search of Edwyn Collins, the former Orange Juice frontman who, three years ago, suffered a really serious and life-threatening cerebral haemorrhage and has been on the slow road to recovery ever since. His unsteady but determined walk to centre stage, aided by stick, was an emotional moment for all that hold this man’s work dear to their hearts and, if I confess to being moist of eye on Friday eve, I know I wasn’t the only one in the audience that was brushing away a tear. Perched on a speaker, Collins produced a compelling set, aided sublimely by a sharply dressed Roddy Frame (he looked fantastic in bespoke suit, natty kerchief in top pocket) on guitar. The first three songs doffed a coquettish ‘tit for tat’ at Orange Juice’s outstanding back catalogue with a spine-tingling Falling and Laughing deliriously followed by What Presence!? and Poor Old Soul. Poignant recent number Home Again was delivered to a hushed and reverential throng, old favourites Rip It Up and, to the delight of this punter, Blue Boy followed before a searing A Girl Like You brought matters to a close with Frame cranking it up to eleven and Collins rhyming ‘allegorically’ with ‘metaphorically’ with suitable aplomb. This was truly bewitching stuff and certainly the most wonderful forty minutes of the weekend.

What else did I enjoy? The atmospheric John Peel stage hosted several notable performances. The Young Knives proved as engaging and quirky as ever and Hadouken!, ebullient new rave grimies and favourites of Master Cole, were loud, fabulous, utterly energetic and gripping. Verily, dear reader, my toes were a-tapping. The lead singer, James Smith, a former grime producer (yes, I am really down wi’ the kids, innit) used to have his early efforts played by Peel and I found the yout’ful troubadour’s tribute to the maestro DJ rather touching. The eccentric and engaging British Sea Power produced a brilliant show that encompassed female Bulgarian choirs, air raid sirens, foliage, the vigorous chanting of ‘Easy! Easy!’, crowd surfing and the scaling of scaffolding. A barrage of witty, rousing, intelligent yet unconventional anthems permeated proceedings. File this marvellous bunch under ‘National Treasure’. The finest recital I witnessed in the John Peel area came from bookish but brilliant Vampire Weekend who scorched through a stunning set. Their eponymous debut is among the front-runners for this site’s prestigious Album of the Year award (don’t write off Paul Weller though) and its catchy and witty tracks were delivered with real gusto. This is a great group. This is a great group. If Collins’s forty minutes were the most moving of the festival, Vampire Weekend’s rendition of A-Punk, the bounciest, happiest single of this or any year, proved the giddiest hundred-and-twenty seconds. I salute this act.

Elsewhere, Panic at the Disco, the ‘emo-band it’s ok for your dad to like’, were fantastic. They played the Other Stage and I truly dug their array of Beatleseque melodic treats. Saturday night at the Park Stage was a cosmic happening with MGMT banging out their psychedelic nuggets, those uber-hip Battles furrowing their collective brow and wigging out in some style and bewitching Brazilians CSS closing the evening with half and hour or so of the most electrifying electro-pop you’ll ever encounter. Other acts were part-viewed: Imagined Village, Amy Winehouse, The Enemy, The Courteeners while others, rank or dull, were regrettably viewed in their entirety. Lightspeed Champion was dreadfully tedious and lacking in substance; a silly fur bonnet and an ironic use of cape cannot disguise a shocking lack o’ tune or talent and the moribund Glasvegas proved an utter waste of time and space. It would be amiss of me to end on a low though; this year’s Glastonbury line-up was eclectic and ambitious and I only wish I’d had the energy or time to see more acts. What I did view proved, on the whole, really delightful and indicates just how much astounding music there is to appreciate these days. I wondered if I’d be a bit of an it-was-better-in-my-day curmudgeon this year but I’m happy to state this wasn’t the case. I believe lovers of decent music have never had it so good and last weekend helped demonstrate this.

Look above for some digital daguerreotype images. One can view them more happily if you click on the blighters and I urge visitors to do so. They get bigger. Here are some simple captions:

1. The obligatory Pyramid Stage photo. Kate Nash (cockney or mockney?) is on there singing 'er songs. We didn't hang around.

2. Edwyn Collins makes his triumphant entrance. Roddy Frame (left) already looks ultra cool. Backstage, Edwyn’s wife and son look on proudly.

3. Sunset at the Jazz/World Stage. Your host moodily awaits Imagined Village.

4. Vampire Weekend make some music.

One swallow doesn't make a summer

I believe the young scamp has made it two weeks in a row. To have one email read out on BBC 6Music’s Freak Zone may be regarded as fortunate, to have two may be considered favouritism. Last week dear S was quoted by the arch and wry Stuart Maconie on the subject of The Fall, specifically the meaning behind the lyrics of up tempo ditty Bournemouth Runner from 1986’s opus Bend Sinister. Yesterday, the combination struck again as the laconic presenter provided a grateful nation with S’s musings on the minutiae of late 80s post-punkers, King of the Slums. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing but am proud of the lad. I shall be at Pilton on Sunday so shall be unable to listen in and discover if the hat-trick has been attained. Maybe Leonard Cohen’ll announce it from the Pyramid Stage.

My departure for Glastonbury on Wednesday means I’ve probably watched my final match of association football in the current Euro 2008 tourney. I confess I’ve gone from searing ambivalence to keen interest and have really enjoyed plenty of the matches. Along with Newent’s finest D, I had invested a small amount of my hard-earned spoils in a bet, a wager if you will, on the orange-clad expressionists of Holland to win the whole blessed event; I truly thought I was quids in when the chaps from the Low Countries comprehensively dismantled both France and Italy in the group stages. My worries that the Hollandic hordes had peaked too early proved prescient when a youthful and ebullient Russian outfit (my tip for success at the next World Cup) played them off the blinkin’ park at the weekend. I hope the men from the former Soviet bloc go on to win the trophy but I sense those Germans, efficient and well-drilled as ever, may just triumph.

Post-Rockumentary

In a way, it proved a rehearsal for the festival season. I stood towards the rear of a throng digging some challenging music, it seemed a touch chilly (I had wantonly situated myself by an open door) and the summer’s day was changing slowly but surely into the noir o’ nightfall. I speak of last evening and I speak not of a gig nor concert recital. The Coles trotted to the bohemian Stroud Valley Artspace to behold a feature film, a documentary called Heima, that highlighted Icelandic post-rockers Sigur Ros, their return to a beloved homeland after many moons of travelling, and a determination to provide countrymen and women wi’ a series of free performances. This was a beautiful piece of work. The atmospheric, mesmerising, haunting and, at times, minimalist songs were proffered before a range of sublimely chosen backdrops. The band played in disused fishing complexes, old country cottages, vast and controversial dams, pubs, clubs, caves and huge outdoor arenas. The Icelandic public were photographed splendidly, all cheekbone and retro knitwear, bewitched by the bewitching bewitchery. The four members of the group were interviewed and came across nicely, unspoilt by worldwide acclaim, affable and normal unless gathered together a-singin’ and a-playin’ when they metamorphosed into intense and talented giants capable of weaving the simplest of instruments into aural magnificence.

I’ve started to read Andrew Marr’s A Modern History of Britain, a brick of a book that should keep me going for a few weeks. I’m still on the first chapter, an appraisal of the Attlee Government, and the coherent, good-humoured yet scholarly tone is bringing that austere yet pivotal period alive with rare intelligence. I’m rather chuffed that I still have over five hundred pages to plough through. I’m looking forward to a treat, a captivating history lesson from the perfect tutor.

I head to Glastonbury on Wednesday and am avidly poring over weather reports. Everything is crossed hoping for sunny sessions.

Music's my imaginary friend...

Good morning. Here’s a brief appraisal of what I’m listening to at the moment. Paul Weller’s 22 Dreams still impresses. I’m slightly horrified to learn that I own the nation’s current Number One chart album but can offset the embarrassment by digging these really pleasant ‘n’ well written numbers. I’m rather surprised to run a quick search on these ‘umble pages and discover that I’ve not once mentioned how much I value 2006’s Real Life, the debut album by New York based Joan As Policewoman, possibly one of my favourite long players of recent times, and a delicate and personal collection of haunting and charming and beatifically arranged chansons. Naturally, the artist’s chosen nomenclature is one of them alias things; Joan Wasser is her real name and she possesses a fascinating CV. She was an aggressive indie rocker, she was the sweetheart of Jeffrey Buckley and she played violin with Anthony and the Johnsons. Any road up, she has a new record, To Survive. It is tender and beautiful and I’ve started to spin it once or twice. I’m taking it slowly though and choosing my moments: this is quality work. I am simultaneously revisiting Real Life and loving every note. Her duet with Anthony Hegerty on I Defy is the most beautiful song ever performed in the history of the world. Maybe.

I’m also playing the Belbury Poly emo-nostalgitronica album a fair bit and continuing to dip into – and, mark my words, with no little relish - the double folk/beard whammy of Fleet Foxes and Bon Iver. For a bit of light relief I’m playing the eponymous debut by Brazilian electro-rockists Cansei De Ser Sexy, a blitzkrieg of funky, cheeky, catchy, big and, er, bouncy pop nuggets. They are headlining one of the Glastonbury stages and, By Jairzinho!*, I am heartily tempted to chivvy them out. I’m also playing Yo La Tengo’s 1997 classic I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One lots and lots at the moment. This is a breathy, lo-fi tour-de-force that could melt the sternest o’ hearts. I’m also revising for Pilton pleasures by checking out favoured individual tracks by, inter alia, Young Knives, Vampire Weekend and British Sea Power.

*I would ne'er bully readers of these pages to click on any links but I urge all to try this one out.

Ecce

Behold a tent. The Coles are taking two tents to Glastonbury and the pictured temporary dwelling place is the most recent arrival to our horde of mini marquees. This weekend’s warm weather gave us a chance to erect the blighter ‘out the back’ and a couple of night’s camping has resulted. I shall be spending five nights at Pilton; I intend to leave the shire of Gloucester very, very early on Wednesday morning in order to grab a worthwhile pitch and shall await Mrs and Master Cole who’ll be arriving late on Thursday evening. I am not sure how to feel about spending almost eight-and-forty hours alone at the site; there’ll be plenty to gaze upon I suppose and perhaps some music to appreciate on the day of Thor.

I really am enjoying the latest Paul Weller album, 22 Dreams, although it categorically isn’t the experimental masterpiece some journalists are claiming. Being unaware of some of the fellow’s more recent offerings I am unable to dub it ‘a return to form’ with any credibility but it is certainly a strong set of songs performed with both a folksy understatement and a jazzy swagger. There is nothing especially groundbreaking on show but the, ahem, modfather’s determination to offer a display of eclecticism, a song cycle that veers from acid folk to synthesized noodling, is touching and warming. There will be more challenging listens this year but, to be honest, I’m rather keen to spin the rascal again. I approve and recommend.

Mulholland Drive

When this website sneezes, The Guardian catches a cold. I only mentioned the quaint and esoteric Belbury Poly last Saturday and, lo!, this very day, my favoured journal runs a neat little piece on that very collective, their record label Ghost Box and the whole darned emo-nostalgitronica* scene. One can read it here.

*I made this term up.

A Promissory Note

It was a last minute decision to trot over to the spa town but a decent one. Cheltenham’s Wychwood Festival on Sunday saw a mainly folky line-up but quality told. Each act I (and J) watched proved a delight. Rachel Unthank and the Winterset performed in the Big Top and had to compete with a heap of noise coming from the main stage. The affable northern lasses produced a gorgeous set though; the perfect unaccompanied singing, the exuberant clog-dancing, the unashamed respect for traditional songs, all impressed. A has recently penned a few words about Dengue Fever over at his place. This Los Angeles outfit play, rather remarkably and with commendable effervescence, classic sixties hits from Cambodia with a psychedelic grooviness that is wondrously catchy. The band really ‘got down’ on stage with much bounciness and liveliness to report. They were splendid. Kate Rusby fashioned a fine set too, full of tune and earthy good humour. She were gritty. The final act I witnessed was The Imagined Village, an amalgam of world vibes, traditional folk sensitivities and rootsy modern stuff. I must confess the concept left this punter a touch cold but the reality was stunning. The various singers and players, including Billy Bragg, Martin Carthy and Sheila Chandra, managed to kick up an almighty racket, involving sitars, ethnic drums, violoncello and much, much more, that succeeded in being evocative, passionate, thought-provoking and heartily toe-tappin’ simultaneously. The songs were soaringly beautiful and I’m tempted to go and buy the album as a result. I salute Wychwood. It has certainly whetted this appetite for this summer’s festival frolicking.

I offer two photographs. The captions read:

1. Those Unthanks glow in the dark.

2. Dengue Fever makes me want to rug out.

I have ordered the Paul Weller album, 22 Dreams, from Amazon. I’ll report back soon on this one. The reviews are glowing.