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.

Join The Fanclub

Teenage Fanclub at Kentish Town Forum

This was the perfect summer gig. Good vibes and sunshine melodies dominated proceedings at the Kentish Town Forum; Teenage Fanclub produced a deliriously optimistic, singalong set which the gathered cognoscenti lapped up in droves. The first half adhered religiously to the Don’t Look Back rules ‘n’ regulations: a band should play a classic album in its entirety and each Bandwagonesque classic was greeted with unbridled yet touching enthusiasm. It was obvious that the band enjoyed returning to the seminal tunes of 1991. What You Do To Me sounded like the Power-Pop classic it is, all swagger and joy while December’s delicately constructed guitar underpinned a beautiful melody and emotional lyric. To be honest every song was a bona fide belter and demonstrated why the album is so warmly thought of. The second half was even more rewarding though. Unshackled by the regimentation of ‘the rules’, the band could explore its wondrous back catalogue. Plundering mainly Songs From Northern Britain and Grand Prix, the group bombarded the now sweaty yet exuberant hordes with too many gems to mention. Personal favourites included an earnest I Don’t Want Control Of You, a plaintive and elegiac Ain’t That Enough and an ecstatic I Need Direction from Howdy! that had hundreds of delirious grown-ups attempting harmonious backing vocals with gusto. I was desperate for a Planets but most of my pre-gig wishlist had been ticked off by the close of play. I blow hot and cold when it comes to nostalgia and don’t fully approve of ‘greatest hits’ packages. It seemed more of a celebration on Monday night though and I guess the Don’t Look Back concerts allow bands to unselfconsciously embrace the past without embarrassment. This was a wonderful evening.

Gigging apart, London was a hoot. I enjoyed it. On Monday, S, D and I trotted around and explored record shops. I do like Fopp Records where bargains lurk in every nook. I picked up a shimmering King Tubby Boxed Set, Fourth Drawer Down by The Associates, the classic 1960s psychedelic compilation, Nuggets, a bewitching collection by cool French sixties chanteuse Francoise Hardy called Les Chansons D’Amour and, I confess, a Gary Numan album. We lunched jovially at the Grape Street Wine Bar before strolling to Euston Road where I needed to buy a few bits and pieces from the London Chess and Bridge Centre. As we approached that thoroughfare we spotted a very long queue of people snaking around the corner. A prescient D murmured that he hoped said queue wasn’t for the chess shop but, to our shock, it was and the reason for such a body of (rather nerdy) humanity was suddenly stood next to us surrounded by burly security men. Esteemed World Chess Champion Garry Kasparov had arrived to sign copies of his new book and give a lecture. Being a chess aficionado this proved a very exciting encounter but I chose not to fork out twenty-five English pounds on his latest tome in order to meet and greet the controversial chess genius. Later in the evening, both before and after the concert, I sampled strawberry flavoured beer for the first time. A simple gentleman from the west, I was overwhelmed by the experiences the capital city offered me. I thank D and A publicly for their hospitality. Strawberry beer, eh?

I think I'll write something about the rugby soon. It has been a while.

New Music; Newent

I’m finally off to the fabled city of London tomorrow and shall be seeking out some bargains in the Berwick Street record shops with S and D before heading to Kentish Town and the Teenage Fanclub concert. It should prove a long but worthwhile day. I am especially keen to purchase some of the post-punk records featured in Rip It Up And Start Again and right now I am gunning for early Associates albums, the more obscure Postcard Records stuff and, certainly, Colossal Youth by Young Marble Giants.

I’m actually bombarded with new stuff to play without tomorrow’s antics. On Thursday, A, knowing I enjoy my reggae, kindly presented me with a copy of King Tubby’s Freedom Sound in Dub. I am able to borrow stuff from Oxfam and on Wednesday I took home and ripped three Kate Bush albums, The Kick Inside, Never For Ever, and The Sensual World. From my download site of choice I have purchased the new Thom Yorke album, The Eraser, as well as the David Bowie ‘Berlin Trilogy’, Low, Heroes and Lodger. And today I joined the Emusic download website and banged onto my hard drive and from there onto my MP3 player the almost forgotten early electronic Sufjan Stevens album, Enjoy Your Rabbit, lost folk masterpiece Penguin Eggs by Nic Jones and a bit of space rock, Slow Riot for New Zero Kanada by Godspeed You Black Emperor! It’s a good job it is the summer holidays.

It is Newent week on these pages. I paid homage to the lost son of Newent, Joe Meek, on Wednesday. Tomorrow I shall visit London-based but Newent-raised and Newent-educated, D. This afternoon was actually spent near the quaint market town itself. The Coles (minus scout camp dwelling son) sought out a favourite walk near a little place called Oxenhall. The old canal there has been renovated and it really is a gorgeous spot. A family of swans glided majestically past as we began our stroll and we spent a peaceful time sat by the area of canal that sits near the beautiful old lock keeper’s cottage, soaking up the sun and enjoying the wealth of wildlife that calls this marvellous place home. I’ve posted some photos but they don’t really do the place justice.

A Summery Summary

I did aim to write loads and loads for these pages once the holidays started but it just hasn’t happened. I have been busy and tired and, for the past day or so, laid low by a migraine. I feel better today.

My migraine inconveniently commenced on Thursday evening in Cheltenham’s Slak Bar where A and I had convened to attend the latest Calmer* evening. My immediate reaction was to ignore the oncoming malaise, sup a few lagers and worry about the consequences later. It worked and I enjoyed the two bands that were playing. First up were two thirds of Misterlee – the other third was sunning himself on holiday in a place beginning with ‘C’: at first it was assumed Corfu had been the destination but eventually Cornwall (my home county) was settled upon. They were quirky yet challenging. Fairly conservative guitar shapes were juxtaposed against some out-there percussion, labyrinthine yet effective knob-twiddling, howling vocals and distortion and feedback galore. They were rather post-punk and as I am in a post-punk mood right now, I appreciated their sterling efforts to entertain. The main act Flipron were a pleasure too and it is hard to put a delicately tanned finger on who their influences might be. At the time The Small Faces came to mind and there was a tangible Englishness and whimsy about them that could place them in that category although there were more angles, more surprises and more danger about this merry band than one would associate with any worthy 1960s beat combo. They sang a few songs about old people.

I’ve been busy looking into live action. Yesterday I booked a brace of tickets for my wife and me to see Divine Comedy at Bristol University in October. I have never really been one of their greatest fans but I shall happily give them a go. Fellow Ulsterman Duke Special will be the support act and I really fancy seeing him again after a triumphal appearance at Acoustica last year. I also booked a pair of seats on a plane to Amsterdam. To my huge regret I noticed that Sufjan Stevens’ two gigs in England this November (Manchester University and London’s Barbican) are both sold out. After sobbing uncontrollably for a while I noted that he was also playing Amsterdam’s Paradiso on Saturday 11th November. We have the plane tickets but no concert tickets! They go on sale on the 29th of this month so a military operation will need to be planned in order to acquire the blighters. D knows the ropes when it comes to overseas concert ticket purchases so I shall ask him what to do. The W’s will hopefully be joining us. With or without the estimable Sufjan, it should be a fabulous weekend in a city I have never visited. The Coles are also keen to go and see Scritti Politti play an outdoors set at the Tate Britain in a week or two. It’s part of a free Rough Trade evening. And, of course, it is Teenage Fanclub this Monday. Busy.

The 'Telstar' Man

I decided last night not to travel to London today. My feet are blistered from running around in sandals I haven’t worn for a while at my older daughter’s sports day (long story!) and I am sunburnt too. I had a disaster with lotion yesterday. I purchased from the local Co-op what I believed to be suntan lotion but turned out to be self-tanning lotion. I simply didn’t look closely enough at the label. A day spent spreading this all over me was a huge mistake. Of course, it offered me no protection from the fierce sun and I am now orange in places, dyed by all manner of chemicals. Frankly, I feel cheap. Embarrassed too. Countless people must have seen me plastering myself with the stuff at yesterday’s event.

Instead of seeking out streets paved with gold today, I sought out streets paved with Southern Fried Chicken wrappers: namely, my fine home city of Gloucester. I worked in Oxfam most of the time and, breaking from my usual weekend chores, spent some time opening up bags that contained all the books deposited in those book banks one sees near supermarkets. I rather enjoyed doing that although at least 90% of the stuff is thrown straight into the bins because it is obsolete (old manuals, out of date text books etc.) or just too bent, dirty or scuffed to sell. The finest wares are sorted to be sent to the specialist bookstores in Cheltenham, Tewkesbury and Cirencester while we retain the lower grade stock for our own use. We know our place in Gloucester.

I had a smashing lunch hour. I relaxed near the old church near Café Rene and devoured a lovely and wholesome salad courtesy of Peppers, read my Guardian and sipped demurely at an effervescent cordial. I then strutted to the Folk Museum where there is an absolutely splendid specialist exhibition. The Joe Meek Appreciation Society is desperate to create a museum devoted to its hero, the Newent-born record producer and sound pioneer, but have been unable to secure sufficient funding to do so. As an interim move, there is a superb collection of letters, photographs, record sleeves, press cuttings, clothing and other assorted memorabilia associated with the fellow downstairs at the Folk Museum. It is the sort of discovery that makes one glow and I felt incredible good fortune that such an array of fascinating material could be tucked away in a tiny corner of Gloucester. The letters to record companies and artists he wrote are especially interesting and demonstrate the man’s determination to succeed and become a major player in the industry. His obituaries in local newspapers speak of his ambition to ‘make a million’ and this drive is self-evident. His spelling was atrocious – ‘gitar’, ‘littel’ – but musical geniuses are allowed their foibles! Meek was an extremely troubled man, a homosexual when such an orientation was illegal and prone to mood swings. His tragic suicide - he murdered his landlady before shooting himself – has bestowed upon Meek a cult status but it is worth remembering that Telstar, a record he both wrote and produced, attained Number One status on both sides of the Atlantic and remains the highest selling instrumental single ever. There is substance behind the murkiness.

When I first saw you, something stirred within me...

I purchased Rip It Up And Start Again by Simon Reynolds yesterday to ease me into my summer reading frolics. The book focuses on the post-punk era and specifically the years between 1978 and 1984 which Reynolds considers a rival to the mid-to-late 1960s for the sheer amount of fine music being produced and for the way that music reflected and connected with what was ‘appening within society and politics at the time. I suppose that, despite my belief that it is misguided to look back too energetically, this period remains ‘my period’ too. Aged 13 to 18, I experienced so many new sounds and they can mainly be categorised and classified as ‘post-punk’. I was just too young for punk itself although, for all that movement’s influence, Reynolds regards it as mainly a return to raw rock ‘n’ roll and I can appreciate that too. After the first wave of punk there were two quite disparate routes for ‘the kids’ to follow. One group craved the aggression and accessibility of punk rock and so remained ‘real punks’ which later evolved into the Oi! scene. The other group, ‘arty middle-class bohemians’ – and I purred at that description! – regarded punk as a clarion call to embark on change and to snub tradition. Reynolds calls it the ‘unfinished revolution’ and the wealth of bands that set about seeking out new aural possibilities is over-whelming although some critics regarded this new ‘art-rock elitism’ as a return to what punk itself had tried to eradicate a year or two before. The energy, experimentation, originality, wit, swagger, intelligence and ambition of the following bands changed my life and this book explores the impact of each of them: The Fall, Scritti Politti, Joy Division, Gang of Four, The Associates, The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, Talking Heads, Human League, PiL, Siouxsie and the Banshees. So far I have only read the prologue and flicked through and looked at photos but I sense that my shopping trip to London on Wednesday might involve searching for stuff I missed back then and, in particular, Young Marble Giants, The Mekons, Swell Maps, DAF, The Pop Group and, possibly, Heaven 17.

There are lots of marvellous things to read about the book and the post-punk period at the author's own site. It really is worth a visit.

Industrial Estate

Midlake at Fiddlers, Bristol

It is always pleasing to patronise a new venue (‘Oooh! You’re a really great venue…’) and, although Bristol’s Fiddlers Nightclub was nothing special, it was intimate and served its purpose sufficiently. It seemed to be, if not in the middle, then on the edge of an industrial estate. I wonder what Midlake thought. They remain a very fine band, beardily intense but keen to please. Their melodies are mainly ‘growers’ and they managed to convey the sense of melancholia that permeates many of their numbers successfully on Wednesday. Although the latest album sounds very acoustic, in the live arena one realises the extent they utilise synths. I think we counted four. The ‘violin’ that I found so refreshing on Young Bride was actually played on a keyboard but, heck, I don’t mind. I enjoyed A’s appraisal that it was gratifying to listen to three blokes singing at the same time; the harmonies were splendid and skilfully offered. It is funny really how much one really gets into a band. I’ve steadily grown to admire The Trials of Van Occupanther so much recently that I had somehow convinced myself that the world and his wife/her husband had also discovered Midlake and I expected Fiddlers to be packed with awestruck uber-fans. Actually it was about half full but those gathered had a more than decent night of esoteric American softish-rock. I was tired the next day but buoyed by the memory of a fine evening.

Mais Pourquoi!

YouTube has a cracking clip of Zidane's moment of madness. The commentary is from French TV and I admire the sense of incredulity one detects. What was he playing at?

Wager

The above betting slip would not have made me a millionaire but I was convinced that the Argentinians were destined to win the World Cup this year. My each way wager on Croatia was merely foolhardy. I must admit I’m looking forward to tonight’s final and confess to a soft spot for both teams. I have a lot of time for Veira, Henry and, especially, Zidane and a second World Cup would be a fitting end to the Frenchman’s career. Italy have probably impressed me the most out of all the teams who contested the knock-out stages. Their two late goals against Germany were sublime and if they can recreate that kind of fast-flowing, attacking zeal tonight, the ageing Bleus will struggle to contain them. In their skipper, Cannavaro, Italy have the player of the tournament; his style and calmness in defence have been nothing less than majestic while his distribution has been wondrous. He rarely wastes a ball.

I think Italy will win this evening reasonably comfortably.

I Don't Watch a Lot of Television but...

The three eldest Coles are watching loads of Black Books at the moment. I picked up the second and third series on DVD pretty cheaply in Tescos a couple of weeks ago and gave my son the first for his birthday last weekend. There are echoes of Father Ted in the writing – Series One was co-written by Graham Linehan - but the quirky farces and the unflattering characters that permeate the plots really work well and bear favourable comparison with the Craggy Island-based sitcom. I laugh out loud a lot when I watch it and, on occasions, guffaw.

Gloucester RFC vs Americana

I’ve ordered Midlake’s first album, Bamnan and Silvercork, from Amazon and await its delivery with refreshing keenness. I admire The Trials of Van Occupanther because it takes me to another place; its evocation of a kind of frugal nineteenth century backwater community resonates very deeply to the extent that I can almost imagine living there. It is a melancholic recording and one can almost feel the hunger pangs, despair at leaking roofs, the need to hunt, to marry, to survive. It is very clever, a concept album I suppose. The lead singer of Midlake is called Tim Smith and I appreciate this too as his namesake remains probably my all-time favourite Gloucester full back. It can’t be the same Tim Smith, can it?

This reminds me of another Gloucester RFC/North American popular music crossover. D, confident, no doubt, that I was now off the dentist’s chair, texted me last week to inform me, with zest, that the man in front of him at the John Fogerty concert was the spitting image of Phil Blakeway. I had promised D my own fond thoughts of the affable Blakeway as the formidable and burly prop had entered my mind recently too. The other week at Oxfam I discovered in the cavernous and cool warehouse that exists, TARDIS-like ‘out the back’, a signed copy of the tome, Rubbing Shoulders, Blakeway’s autobiography. With eyes misting over a touch, I constructed a small hand written sign which I attached to the cover before displaying both in the glass cabinet set aside for special items. My sign read, ‘Gloucester Rugby Legend. Signed Copy’. A week later it had been bought. I hope the vendor appreciated my sign and sensed that a kindred spirit had been at work.

Forlorn

I am blinking feebly as I write this as a nasty migraine has struck today. As ever, I feel lousy but I should be fine after a decent night’s sleep – but they are rarer than hens’ teeth right now with the heat and everything. Despite feeling forlorn, I did manage to telephone Bristol Ticket Shop and bag a brace of tickets for my wife and me to see my new favourite band Midlake next week. They are playing at Fiddlers Club (more apostrophe worries…) in the Bedminster area of Bristol, a new venue for me. Can’t wait.

I might go to bed now and read a bit more of Brick Lane.

What's Happening Brother?

I picked up a couple of albums in the HMV sale yesterday. I own Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On already on the format categorised ‘vinyl’ and always enjoyed it without being awestruck. Soul music has never moved me, to be frank, and I reckon I only bought What’s Going On as a youth because it had appeared with regularity on those ‘All Time Greatest Recordings’ list that permeate music publications. I shall reappraise this Motown product with studied contemplation this summer. I also bought The La’s by The La's which came out in 1990. This is a recording that has passed me by although There She Goes is etched into my very marrow. Many people speak highly of this album here. There is a place in my heart for jangly pop with a 1960s ambience and I reckon The La’s should hit the right spots. I type The La’s with effort. I don’t think there should be an apostrophe* but I’m merely replicating what is on the album cover.

I may wait a while before I play either of these albums. Right now I am only playing two albums and I play them constantly and with joy in my heart. Scritti Politti’s White Bread Black Beer and Midlake’s The Trials of Van Occupanther have become old and comforting friends over the last couple of weeks and I adore them both. Their quality and warmth and, shhh, genius deserve more than a discarding for a couple of £2.99 bargainettes. Pickering-based M would worship Midlake. Of that I am sure.

I am not the only person to have endured dental agony recently.

* See Rule 3 here.

On the oche

Naturally I’m most disappointed with England’s World Cup exit after another ruddy penalty shoot-out. I immediately booked a coach ticket to London for the 19th of this month as if the promise of a day spent browsing record shops and buying chess nick-nacks would make things better. I even did the weekly shop this evening with Midlake blasting in my ears so that I could avoid dwelling on Rooney’s idiocy and the heartfelt efforts of the remaining ten who were Trojans for the hour they fought with every sinew to stay in the match. Their tears at the end showed how much they cared and wanted it – and at times I have doubted this. The check-out lad at Sainsburys, a sixth-former I reckon, (unwisely) asked me if I had watched the soccer which allowed me to express my frustrations at a fellow who was only making small talk with a haunted looking customer. After listening to my diatribe and outpourings of misery, he uttered the most remarkable and unexpected statement. ‘At least we’ve got Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor,’ he gaily offered. The young chap didn’t appear to have the rapier wit that one would associate with such a killer comment so I’m assuming he actually thought that our country having produced the World Darts Champion somehow made England’s defeat today easier to bear. I felt like kicking his head in frankly but instead smiled generously and murmured, ‘Guess so…’

Earlier on I had to remove my headphones because an elderly man wanted me to tell him the sell-by date on a pint of milk. Apparently he’d bought some recently that was ‘off’. Life goes on. Life goes on.

England Football

A busy weekend beckons but, for the first time in quite a few weeks, I shall feel unburdened by tasks I need to complete.

I shall certainly be watching England play Portugal. I am thinking of the quarter final in these terms: A victory for England shall mean they start their next competitive match a mere 90 minutes away from the World Cup Final. I think they can defeat the fellows from the Iberian Peninsula but ‘the lads’ and Rooney in particular will require discipline in the tackle. I would hate for a spate of yellow cards to weaken our squad. I mention Rooney because he is the key for World Cup glory now. In general, we could just about cope with the loss of a star name but without the talismanic ‘Roo’ we are nothing.

I predict wins this weekend for Germany (perhaps after extra time and penalties), Italy, England (by two clear goals) and France. An all European semi-final line-up and no new winner of the famed trophy.

Alan Hansen remains the finest and most articulate pundit around. I relish his intelligent opining. Martin O’Neill impresses too and, although he can be a touch snide when commentating, Mark Lawrenson talks a lot of sense. However, the addition of the Brazilian, Leonardo to the BBC panel has proved a masterstroke. He speaks with real erudition and passion about the sport and I find myself hanging on to his every word. Importantly, he has both talked the talk and walked the walk at the highest level too. He’s great. I can sum up the ITV1 team with a single word: dross. From the shocking and out of depth Gabby Yorath to the mundane Ruud Gullit to the ramshackle collection of spivs who barely utter a coherent word, it really is embarrassing.

Looking Back

There I was yesterday, pontificating how ‘looking back’ at old music didn’t always meet my approval. Today, a volte face, as I breezed through the list of albums on my MP3 player and felt the most incredible craving to play Miss America, the 1988 (I had to look that up) folk?, country?, jazz? album by the queen of the where-are-they-nows, Mary Margaret O’Hara. It really a fabulous record, full of immense vocal performances the like of which I’ve never encountered since or had met before. O’Hara’s lyrics are heartfelt, her delivery remains almost fractured and unusually phrased throughout. The songs stray from the traditional verse-chorus-verse but there is a refreshing structure to be discovered. After twelve listens it all makes perfect sense. I believe it was one of the first CDs I ever bought. Nothing like it exists in my record collection to this day.

Don't Look Back

I’ve been far too busy to trot onto these pages as often as I would like. I still care. I’m tired though.

I can’t wait for the summer holidays.

It looks likely I’ll be joining D for a London concert in the Don’t Look Back series that the ubercool ATP organise each year. Basically, selected bands play the whole of a classic album (and a few other favourites) for the masses. I don’t always approve of ‘looking back’ musically but it seems a jolly process and a pinch of nostalgia never did anyone any harm. Any road up, Teenage Fanclub are showcasing their 1991 (I had to look that up) second album Bandwagonesque. It should be fun. I actually prefer their albums Songs From Northern Britain and Grand Prix which aren’t quite as ‘indie’ as Bandwagonesque but Bandwagonesque will do for me. It’ll be nice to go to a new venue for me, The Forum in Kentish Town.

I see that there is a Calmer* night in Cheltenham on the 20th July with a band called Flipron playing. They look quite interesting and possibly ‘up me street’. I wonder if A might be interested in nipping over?

I’m keen to buy a bit more new music in London too and spend a few pleasant hours browsing the record shops. There are a few things I’d like.

Gob

I had my troubled and troubling tooth extracted on Monday amid scenes that Dante himself would have baulked at. Four injections I endured. Four. I, supine and quivering, received an SMS text message about popular beat music from D after the third jab. The absurdity of the timing cheered me and helped me face the challenge of having such unpleasant surgery. I thank him. I was spitting blood for the rest of the day.

I’m enjoying the new Scritti Politti long player, White Bread Black Beer. I sense it will prove 'a grower' but I am already charmed by its sumptuous tones and breathy vocals. A week or two ago, Simon Reynolds wrote a glowing feature about Green Gartside and the new album which might be worth a look.

Modern Life is Rubbish

I am totally charmed by The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society. S sorted me out with a copy a few weeks back and I’ve only managed to play it seriously for the last day or two. I love Ray Davies’ style; when the rock and pop mainstream were singing of peace, love and psychedelia in the late 1960s, he rather quaintly released songs about village greens, grocer boys, old oak trees and Sunday Schools. I read somewhere that Davies had rejected all things American after Uncle Sam failed to grasp the whimsy of his Kinks and this album as is English as, well, village greens. The songs absolutely drip with melody, the swaggering creations of a group and a writer bloated with confidence and talent. There is nothing over three minutes here and the resulting effect is like being assaulted with a pop sledgehammer – gem follows gem follows gem. This is a delicious and really unusual recording.

After a listen or two, one realises that this album could never have been made without The Village Green Preservation Society. Although released a quarter of a century after The Kinks’ classic, its evocation of a quirky England and the country’s eccentric characters is too similar to be coincidental. Even the two album titles mean the same thing really, don’t they?

Snookered

A busy time of the year for me this. A heady mix of too much to do elsewhere, the heat, the World Cup and recent dental miseries has kept me away from these pages. Regular visitors to these pages should expect a quietish period.

England’s 2-0 victory against Trinidad and Tobago was probably deserved but was nonetheless frustrating and nerve-wracking. I am keen to sign up to the theory that a slow starting England might just peak at the right time and use later improvements to carry themselves a long way in the tournament. It was reassuring to watch an enthusiastic Rooney enter the field of play. Lennon did well too.

I played snooker for the first time in about twelve years last night and acquitted myself reasonably well. My highest break was a tasty thirteen, a canny pink and black clearance to snatch a tense victory. I scored lots of breaks of one. I left the club satisfied that I hadn't made a complete fool of myself and that shall form my finest achievement.

Trials

I bought the Midlake album this morning and am playing it now. It does possess a seventies soft-rock feel but I say this not as a bad thing. The Trials of Van Occupanther is charming. The song I love is Young Bride. I’ve heard it on BBC 6Music about three or four times and it is a stunning song full of haunting melody and a tangible melancholia. The use of violin is perfect. I don’t know if anyone shares this view but when I buy an album and I know one of the songs already, I’m often tempted to skip that track for a while in order to let the rest of the album ‘catch up’. I might do that on this occasion. Or maybe not*.

The England match against Paraguay was tense and error strewn, particularly in the second half when ‘the lads’ lacked a little shape. The early goal settled the nerves (for me and ‘the lads’) though and, to be fair, the South Americans rarely threatened the England area or goal. The Paraguayans are no mugs having defeated both Brazil and Argentina in qualification. Their pedigree should put today’s result into context. Yes, it was a touch scrappy and somewhat disappointing but the three points were crucial. A win against Trinidad and Tobago next week should see England into the last 16.

* I didn't.

I've Got A Feeling

The penicillin has started to kick in and swelling on my jowl/cheek/chin is diminishing although I still retain a hamsteresque countenance. A colleague remarked jauntily this morning that I appeared ‘more symmetrical’ today which is an encouragement of sorts.

There are two albums I strongly desire. Twelve Stops and Home by The Feeling has harvested fine reviews for its melodic nods to the likes of Wings and E.L.O.and I reckon I could do with a dollop. Another album I’d like is The Trials of Van Occupanther by wistful Texans, Midlake. Again, the reviews have proved fabulous and the one song I’ve heard on BBC 6Music (which, as ever, I gently endorse) is just beautiful and really tenderly arranged. On each occasion it has been played I have had to stop what I’m doing and just soak it up – and that happens rarely these days.

Desperate Dan, Desperate Pain

A few days away from here and toothache is to blame. I’ve been suffering all week and a (rare) trip to the dentist this morning confirmed that an abscess is causing me all this pain and is responsible for my newly acquired Desperate Dan chin. A course of penicillin shall ease the swelling and I’ve been popping more pills than the late period Happy Mondays to relieve the rotten pain. Naturally, I’m milking this for all it is worth.

Of course, I have been following the Wayne Rooney broken foot saga with fierce concentration and am delighted that ‘the boy’ has been passed fit enough to return to the squad. He may make the knock-out stages but one report this morning indicates that Eriksson may play the jovial young Scouser against the Swedes. I’m still concerned about our attacking options with Owen not at his sharpest, Walcott lacking experience and Crouch, although reassuringly awkward, maybe not the fully rounded international striker we need against the better nations. I wish Defoe was still with the squad at the expense of Jenas or Hargreaves.

Festival Feelings

Although I spent much of the weekend at the Wychwood Festival, I didn’t really manage to catch much music. I savoured a few Squeeze classics played by Chris Difford, lounged about and enjoyed half an hour of Eliza Carthy’s collaboration with Salsa Celtica (which was superb!) and loved what I saw of Field Music (edgy and angular and sharp) to the extent that I’m keen to purchase some of their stuff. I did want to watch the Amadou et Miriam set but I had my elder daughter with me on the Sunday and it was getting late. School the next day and all that. Most of the time I was flogging fancy dress, leathers, fake furs and old designer clothes in the Oxfam tent and that was a lot of fun. There was a (mostly) young team working for Oxfam and they were energetic and interesting and great company. I’m not sure I’d do a festival again for Oxfam – regrettably, I concede that it’s a youngster’s game – but it proved a worthwhile experience. I’m young at heart but I simply couldn’t cope with dressing up like Santa and dancing round with an umbrella for hours on end like some of the nippers on the stall. I cocked a snook at that rag week style japery when I was 20 too, mind you. I wore a Mexican hat for a while but that’s as zany as it got and I didn’t really enjoy that either. This sounds awfully selfish but the next time I visit a festival I want to catch more sounds and visit more stalls and sample more food.

The Great Vashti Bunyan

Vashti Bunyan at St. George’s Hall, Bristol

This was tingles down spine territory. Vashti and her delightful band only played for 45 minutes but it was utterly gorgeous stuff, an enchanting mixture of newer songs from Lookaftering and old ‘classics’ from Just Another Diamond Day and beyond. The voice was hushed and whispered, the playing understated and dainty but the strength and quality of the songs underpinned everything. The three minute glimpses into gentle worlds and daydreams were captivating. Vashti herself was utterly shy and modest, timidly peering at the audience from behind a fringe like a coy teen despite being (you wouldn’t think it) sixty years of age. Her broad smiles when the warmest applause filled the fine hall were worth the admission price alone. Lovely.

Living is easy with eyes closed

The latest Mojo Magazine is a corker featuring a piece on The Beatles’ 1966 opus, Revolver as well as the 101 (why not 100?) best Beatles songs chosen by a large panel of expert-texperts. All this Beatledom was, frankly, right up my street. Before I opened the edition I was keen to guess the Top Three and I was nearly right; A Day in the Life and Strawberry Fields Forever exotically claimed numbers one and two as predicted but my choice for third best song, I am the Walrus only came 38th. Goo goo gajoob. Yesterday was third in the list, by the way. One glaring omission, for me, was Baby You’re a Rich Man from the Magical Mystery Tour soundtrack, a Lennon swipe, I believe, at the hippy generation. It remains a wonderful song that should have made the final list, especially as so many dull-in-comparison early Beatlemania era numbers did sneak in. Anyhow, here is my top ten that will probably change tomorrow:

1. A Day in the Life
2. Strawberry Fields Forever
3. I am the Walrus
4. Penny Lane
5. For No One
6. Eleanor Rigby
7. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
8. Hey Bulldog
9. Hey Jude
10. Happiness is a Warm Gun

Two songs in a row starting with the word, 'Hey'. Hey.

Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?

The Tesco receipt, humble and unassuming, that you see above, led to a bit of an unfortunate incident this lunchtime. The alert and mathematically skilled amongst you will notice that I, apart from favouring the cheaper end of the baked bean market, decided to approach the ‘ten items or fewer’ till with, shockingly, eleven separate grocery pieces. This led to problems. I am normally greeted cheerfully by whoever serves me and I regularly respond in a similar jovial fashion to the check-out person. Today’s lack of eye contact from a rather surly young lady should have warned me that trouble was afoot. As the eleventh item bleeped, she had a blast at me, informing me with barely disguised contempt that, in the future, I should desist from advancing towards her stall with so many objects. She was actually very rude. I didn’t react or reply in the least and adopted a slightly languid, devil-may-care posture. I suppose this lack of reaction fuelled her anger even more as she loudly muttered to the middle-aged fellow who next in line, ‘Sorry about the delay…!’ and then slammed my change down on the counter. No word of thanks for my custom. No bidding me farewell. I was displeased rather than cross but I decided to complain to the store manager who listened politely as I articulated my concerns. Her apologies were fulsome and well-meant as she reassured me that bringing eleven items to that till was perfectly fine and that her colleague’s behaviour was unnecessary and regrettable. Our exchange was as lucid and coherent as the young lady’s attitude was needless. She promised to deal with my grievance and I departed on good terms. I honestly can’t recall complaining in a shop before - I'm not that sort of person - but I did so today calmly and without a hint of antagonism. It just seemed the right thing to do.

We're on our way/We are Sven's twenty-three

It is fashionable on the Gloucester rugby messageboards to waft disrespect towards the round ball, association code of football but I quite enjoy watching soccer and especially the World Cup which remains the greatest sporting event on the planet. I love it deeply. Like a lot of folk, I am able to chart my life through the four-yearly tournament from the six-month old bairn perched in a high chair while Hurst netted his hat trick to a 36 year old father of three ejaculating a tremulous, ‘Gooooallllll!’ as Beckham’s penalty sinks Argentinian hearts in ’02. I recall little about my 1982 Mathematics ‘O’ Level examination except a school friend telling me straight afterwards that England were one-up against France and that Brian Robson had put the whites in the lead after a few seconds. By the time I had walked down Church Road and through the front door, France had equalised. I remember being in a tent at 1990’s Glastonbury with G and J listening to the England-Egypt commentary and cheers going up when Mark Wright headed the winner. And in 1994 I watched the final with the firstborn Cole lying on my stomach, a fortnight old and not really able to discuss Italy’s offside trap in any real depth. He still isn’t, a dozen years on.

This year, Argentina shall win the thing and I feel quite adamant about this. England will make the last eight and will depart sulkily, blaming the hoo-hah surrounding the blessed Rooney’s toe that will have distracted the talented squad from the more important matter of vanquishing in association football matches. My outside bets for last-four and possible final berths (and therefore worth an each-way punt) are Croatia (unbeaten in qualification and with a ruthless will to win) and Ivory Coast (will need to beat either Argentina or The Netherlands to qualify for the knock-out stage but I think there's a chance of that – and then watch them go) . At the time of writing you can get 100 to 1 for Ivory Coast, 80 to 1 for Croatia while Argentina are 9 to 1. I might make a wager this week.

I’d love England to do it. My heart sinks when I consider that the barely adequate Steve McClaren will be in charge of the team’s fortunes soon so I reckon this will be our last chance for glory for a while. The dreary ex-Middlesbrough gaffer will win us nothing.

Digging My Scene

I haven’t done a great deal this weekend but the onus has been on relaxin’ and rechargin’ after a hectic few weeks. I have made a bit of an effort to play stuff on my MP3 player that I have neglected and hardly, if ever, listened to. The default setting seems to have been ‘Sufjan Stevens, Go-Betweens or Shack’ recently. Yesterday I lay on the bed and played Elliot Smith’s From a Basement on the Hill all the way through for the first time. I dug (sorry, I’m running out of synonyms for ‘enjoyed’ on these pages) its strong sense of melody, and, bearing in mind the artist’s alleged suicide, reflected on the dark-at-times lyrical content and dug that too. I’ll return to it. I think D is a fan. Today I lay down in our new tent – frankly, I’ve been rendering myself supine on a fairly regular basis – and dug Scritti Politti’s Early, a collection of, believe it or not, early songs by the group. This is an uneasy listen but the stop-start, staccato riddims and the quirky sound collages, although challenging, are compelling and worthwhile. I think I fell asleep for a few tracks though. I also tried the first quarter of The Bravery’s eponymous debut. I read a review somewhere that compared this New York band to early New Order but the mumbled delivery and lo-fi swagger reminded me of The Strokes’ debut recording, Is This It. It was satisfactory.

At a car-boot sale this morning I bought three CDs, Liquid Skin and Bring It On by Gomez and Enjoy Melodic Sunshine by Cosmic Rough Riders. They only cost me one and a half English pounds each and all three are albums I have read about and wondered about and felt I might fancy owning. I’m playing Bring It On as I pen these paragraphs and sense ‘a grower’ that I’ll eventually really appreciate and possibly, heck, dig.

Hidden

I attended the Gloucester Guildhall cinema with S on Thursday night and watched Caché, a French film directed by Michael Haneke, known as Hidden in this green and pleasant land. Having read up a bit about it since, it seems it casts a lingering eye over fairly recent French history and, in particular, the brutal treatment of Algerian immigrants by the French in the 1960s. A nation’s guilt is here examined through the actions of the main character Georges, a successful television arts show host, the Gallic equivalent, I suppose, of Mark Lawson. When he and his wife start receiving videos showing that the exterior of their splendid Paris home is being filmed at length, accompanied with disturbing drawings, they naturally become concerned. Georges, however, has childhood secrets that lead him to confront personal guilt while searching for the answers to his family’s treatment. Although some might consider this a thriller – and it certainly thrilled – this film’s examination of the machinations of an individual’s psyche, the aforementioned guilt, the desire for secrecy, and the primitive need to seek denial and apportion blame, remained the most compelling element. It has certainly made me think since.

Bed Early Tonight

I haven’t recovered from Sunday yet. C stayed over on the Saturday night and watched Eurovision with the Coles – for the irony, of course – and we were ‘up with the partridge’ the next morning to drive to S’s by eightish. I finally arrived home past midnight but, still buzzing from the day’s events, I didn’t retire until one and, even then, couldn’t sleep. I am paying for it today. I am completely shattered and looking fondly towards next week and a rest.

I am grateful to S for the CDs he presented me with on Sunday. I know the Shack and Strands recordings he presented for me well having played them to death on tape but I look forward to chucking them on my MP3 player so I am fully Shacked-up. Note to S: I wouldn’t mind HMS Fable somewhen. I’m looking forward to playing The Kinks’ The Village Green Preservation Society as I’m ever up for a bit of English whimsy while I downloaded the Jim Noir album last night too and am keen to listen to his jangle-tinged, sunny pop soon too. Lots to look forward to on the aural front.

As promised I have now posted some documentary evidence of Sunday’s movements.

Here are some captions:

Top – Shack on stage

Middle – Gloucester Supporters

Bottom – Victory

If you click on them they will magically and inexplicably grow before your very eyes. Cosmic...

Rugby/Shack Double Header

Eurpean Challenge Cup Final

Gloucester 36 - London Irish 34 (after extra time)

It is refreshing to complete a rugby season and wish it could last just a few weeks longer especially after one or two terms where I was willing the season to conclude so that I could forget about hapless performances for a month or two. These last few months have been heady and exhilarating and I’m sure I’m not alone in regretting the absence of Lamb, Morgan, Allen and company from my sporting horizon for a while. I hope Lampard, Owen and Gerrard are able to make up for the lack of oval ball action over the next month.

The European Challenge Cup Final was a fitting denouement to a cracking few months of splendid football. The stagnant, conservative play of autumn and winter is a distant memory and, again, yesterday, the youngsters, albeit in testing conditions, carved up some marvellous action. The victory was fulfilling for a number of reasons. It was pleasing to witness old-fashioned Glawster Dog as the team refused to lie down and die in the face of relentless London Irish pressure. Coming from behind was mightily exciting too and, while I felt at least three times that all hope was gone, I am delighted to report that the team didn’t share my lack of belief. The lads wanted it. Finally, this team can only improve and I am sure we have only seen half of what the youngsters can aspire to. The new signings shall add some grit and gloss and experience and that essential strength in depth. I have rarely left an old season and looked forward to a new one with such pleasure and optimism.

Shack at Fleece and Firkin, Bristol

S considers Shack to be the finest band in the country right now and who am I to disagree? Last night at Bristol’s Fleece and Firkin, the swagger and strut of their remarkable tunes and soaring harmonies proved the perfect end to a fine day. The new album tracks sounded sharp and life-affirming while the older stuff (Comedy, Pull Together, X Hits the Spot) was as fresh and gorgeous as ever. Shack possess the knack of being deeply moving and thought-provoking while lacking any pretension whatever and I appreciate that balance being struck. Ultimately though, they write songs that improve one’s life better than most and that is why I admire them greatly.

Jim Noir and his band supported Shack. They jangled and jingled like The Beatles and The Byrds circa 1966 and I appreciated the fellows’ wholehearted enjoyment of making popular music. I quite liked them. Jim wore a bowler hat and a coat on stage but I am yet to decide whether this is a good or bad thing.

I'll post some photos of both yesterday's events later this week