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.

Don't Walk Away

It was pleasing to enjoy a pint or two with the earnest S last evening. Our hostelry of choice was Café Rene in the centre of the metropolis known in these ‘ere parts and beyond as ‘Gloucester’. The Rene is quite a success story, I’d venture. When I was a young fellow, it used to be called The Inner Court, a wine bar type establishment, with an indie club for hipsters and groovesters called The Underground, er, under the ground. The place was fairly popular back then, but nothing like it is now. There was a really decent sized crowd drinking there last night, with many making the most of a fine evening and supping out of doors. Before setting out, music was exchanged. I provided S with the Bon Iver and Fleet Foxes albums I have swooned over in recent days while S passed me The Willows, the Belbury Poly long player he had purchased to cheer himself up after the rugby union play-off debacle. The first play indicates the clipped textures and soundscapes of early Boards of Canada but without the brooding air of mystery that surrounds the Scottish duo’s work. Belbury Poly’s elektronik niche is to pay homage to library music and 1970s public information films with psychedelic and folky grooves adding to the synthesised musings. It sounds wondrous.

Talking of Boards of Canada, I note that three years have passed since their most recent amd, in my opinion, most splendid long player,The Campfire Headphase, was released. New material would be welcome. In the mean time, trot along here and play Roybgiv or Aquarius or Dayvan Cowboy loudly. This is as good as it gets.

Boom! Boom!

I note that The Guardian proffered Fleet Foxes’ eponymous debut long player five stars today. I concur with the august publication’s acclaim and fervour. This is a beautiful album, full of soaring harmonies that would melt the sternest heart and giddy melodies that evoke the merriest moments of American music wi’ oodles of acoustic ‘n’ folky bliss to boot. This is a vulpine group. This is a vulpine group.

I’m quietly intrigued by the glowing reviews I have studied that pour praise upon Paul Weller’s latest offerin’. By all accounts, 22 Dreams is an experimental masterwork, miles away from the rather plodding, occasionally interesting, ahem, ‘dad-rock’ that one has come to expect from the, ahem, ‘Modfather’. I noted my youthful love of Weller’s collective The Jam on my old weblog, here and here and, lo!, downloaded my favourite Jam album, Sound Affects, earlier today. That album meant a lot to me as a teenager; sometimes Weller’s lyrics seem a touch ‘sixth-form’ in retrospect but there are plenty of profound, politically aware, edgy and, importantly, somewhat experimental moments on Sound Affects. It’s a great album.

...a large Neopolitan

I am unused to manual labour so the above photograph possesses novelty value if nothing else. The path I am captured drilling/breaking so masterfully belonged, until recently, to our next-door neighbours; some sovereigns and guineas changed hands and we now own half their rear garden. I am not a gardening type but the prospect excites. Yesterday was spent, all hands to the pump, breaking concrete paths, dealing with unwanted and unsightly erections and ferrying wheelbarrow loads of hardcore to our sturdy custard-hued skip. My once smooth and elegant paws are now cut, grazed and rough. I ache. It was worth it though. The plan is to purchase a small summerhouse and to create a quiet area for contemplation and reflection. The first thing I shall reflect upon and contemplate will be how relieved I am that I don’t have to wield a medium duty electric breaker for a living.

That ain't no etch-a-sketch...

A while away from here. I’m embarrassed to note that I have reported suffering from a migraine a dozen times on these pages. This seems a touch self-obsessed and I apologise. Howe’er, I shall make it a baker’s dozen today. I do not have too many of the blighters but, when they do strike, they appear to be growing more nasty as the years pass. Last Thursday morning, a migraine began but it wasn’t until 36 hours later that I felt most unwell, achy, breaky and utterly fatigued. I also picked up a chill so I haven’t been at my best for three or four days.

I’m viewing quite a few feature films on my information pod. I do feel a touch guilty that I haven’t been listening to as much music as usual as a result; maybe the novelty of watching cinema on my ickle screen will wear off soon. Anyhow, Juno was a delight and I recommend it with ebullience and effervescence. This is the tale of a teenage pregnancy, told with style, wit and total warmth. The dialogue is droll and sharp and the characters are rich, quirky yet believable. I’ve also seen a pair of films based on novels that are close to my heart. Love in the Time of Cholera was based on the sumptuous tome by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and proved a delicious couple of hours. The feature manages to successfully convey the mysticism and magic of the book, the sweeping South American settings, so enchantingly described by the author, more than satisfactorily captured for the viewer. The story is gorgeous and unusual, at times heart-wrenchingly sad, occasionally humorous, often uplifting, always compelling. Brick Lane was faithful to the Monica Ali novel too and I appreciated the feature’s juxtaposition of bleak east London streets with the pastoral beauty and colour of the Bangladeshi village from which the main character hails. File under 'Watchable'.

I was at Kingsholm Stadium yesterday watching Bath take on Worcester in the final of the European Challenge Cup. My cousins support Bath – my own flesh and blood! – so I stood with them and watched the match as a neutral. For the first time ever at the proud old arena, I watched the tie from behind the posts, at the historic ‘tump end’. Viewing end-on was very different and a touch more enjoyable than I anticipated. The spectator spots gaps more quickly I reckon and one feels closer to the action when a team is attacking the line nearest to one’s vantage point. It was not an unpleasant experience although I look forward to being in the ‘popular side’ again next time, especially with the famed cherry and white shirts running out to do battle. I missed the sensation of utter partisanship among the yellow and blue shirts, flags and banners yesterday.

Wildspot

I’ve been boring all and sundry with my glowing appraisals of possibly my favourite long player of the year: Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago. Bon Iver is really Justin Vernon, a former member of DeYarmond Edison – yes, never heard of them either – who, it seems, took himself away to an isolated cabin in the cold wilds of Wisconsin for a few months, cut logs, killed deer to feed himself, brooded aplenty and emerged from the winterland hinterland with this delightful series of hauntingly beautiful numbers. I keep returning to this recording; breathy, brittle vocals express, albeit via somewhat obtuse and complex imagery, rather dark and emotional intimacies over the most delicate and warm acoustic playin’. The melodies build, soar, bewitch and, mark my words, get under your skin. The journey through this album is a tad bleak but well worth the effort; a dozen or so plays and it seems like an old friend, thoughtful and intelligent, uplifting and life-affirming. I recommend.

The New Mobility

A melancholic S telephoned within the past half hour; he had decided to buy a Belbury Poly CD to cheer himself up. If only all our maudlin moments could be cured by purchasing an item from the esoteric and remarkable Ghost Box record label. Of course, the Kingsholm cognoscenti that frequent these pages will realise the cause of the young fellow’s misery although S, a hardliner when it comes to the rugby play-off system was more upset about the situation the city club found itself in today as opposed to the result, a single point loss against Leicester Tigers. We both feel terribly sorry for our brave players who gave everything over the past few weeks, and indeed over the course of a long and tiring campaign. Gloucester should be kicking themselves to be honest as Leicester really were there for the taking today just as Munster were in the Heineken Cup a month or two ago. Hopefully next term will see some silverware to celebrate. The squad is strong and deep and the signing of Oliver Barkley will provide the team with more options. Generally, this season’s newcomers have all proved excellent acquisitions – who had heard of Qera and Strokosch a year ago? – and maybe one or two further clever swoops will bring success to the famous side. Tonight, I might just go online and buy a CD and see if that cheers me up. Any suggestions?

Always Be Closing

I am fully aware that I am not reporting the technological breakthrough of the twenty-first century but I am still astounded that I’ve managed to work out how to convert DVDs so that I can watch them on my newish information pod’s small but perfectly formed screen. Glengarry Glen Ross was the feature I succeeded with and it was a real pleasure to relax, supine, late at night, headphones in, and admire that film’s peerless performances (Lemmon and Pacino are sublime) and gritty dialogue. I have since viewed Sideways, a perennial favourite, but have a few delights waiting on the pod’s meaty, beaty, big and bouncy hard-drive: the modern Irish acoustic musical Once, cult classic Godzilla, recent biopic Moliere, European monochrome brow-furrower Closely Observed Trains and, bizarrely, the 1966 World Cup Final and England’s 60 Greatest Goals. The association football discs both came free with the News of the World but I picked them up in Oxfam for five-and-twenty new pence apiece.

Despite my misgivings about the play-off system, I have acquired a ticket guaranteeing entry to this Sunday’s rugby union contest. Gloucester host Leicester in the Premiership semi-final and, after two fabulous victories, I tip the mighty cherry and whites to vanquish. A lot depends on the fitness of talisman Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall who turned an ankle against Bath; if the centre is raring to go then the city club has every chance. I shall not be attending any final.

The Football

Gloucester 8 - Bath 6

A grand and emotional occasion indeed. This rugby football club can prove the most exasperating of comrades but every insipid loss, every false dawn is easily forgiven on days like yesterday. The sun shone, the sporting gods beamed on the city club and Gloucester, from shirt numbers one to fifteen, collided with their West Country rivals with skill, intensity, passion, verve and might. Bath had proved a free-scoring menace to their recent opponents, an ability to offload in the tackle leading to a free-flowing style that teams had struggled mightily to defend against. Not so Gloucester: sustained aggressive defence and an expertly executed tactic of attacking the man with the ball in pairs, one to halt the fellow, the other to prevent a pass, proved the undoing of our visitors from the regency city. In the end, the away side must have felt acute frustration; a seemingly divine right to collect try after try had been thwarted. Drop goals, attempted from half way and speculative chips told their own tale and it was a tale of a door slammed belligerently shut. All were heroes for the cherry and whites. Simpson-Daniel, il principe giovane, earned the telecast’s man of the match gong, and, indeed, his talent shone throughout and he took his five-pointer marvellously. However, for me, the Fijian Qera epitomised the city’s recent emergence as a fine football force with his rugged and abrasive they-shall-not-pass defending married with a keen eye on enterprising attack. His stunningly timed pass that led to the young prince’s try was sublime, a split-second master class in subtlety and flair. One could pen tributes to all that wore the famed colours against Bath but in a way that would undermine the teamwork, the all-for-one magnificence that was on show. The proud old stadium was rocking yesterday , the grizzled ghosts from the past gazing on with approval, the future appearing bright and full of sheer promise. Electric stuff. Electric stuff.

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour

The Coles made their debut at Cheltenham Spa’s Cineworld complex last evening. The latest Mike Leigh offering, Happy-Go-Lucky, lured us over and I am pleased it did so. I have long been a fan of Leigh’s work, from his early made-for-TV stuff like Abigail’s Party and Nuts In May to his later, mainly fairly bleak, features such as Naked, Vera Drake and Career Girls. Happy-Go-Lucky was, er, happy-go-lucky in comparison but the trademark emphasis on character and insightful glances into ordinary lives were evident. One doesn’t watch this director’s work for gripping and twist-dominated plot-lines. The film focuses on optimistic and overtly cheerful primary school teacher, Poppy, and her interactions with flat-mate, driving instructor (supremely played by Eddie Marsan), colleagues, family and, towards the end of the feature, a new love. The dialogue was sharp, witty and had the adlibbed feel that one associates with Leigh and, apart from one bizarre interlude where the heroine meets and interacts with a tramp late one night, the gentle but compelling plot proved fascinating.

Well, I fully expected the famed Gloucester club to lose, and possibly fairly heavily, against the rugby side known as London Wasps. As it happened, our young and brave team scored two tries in the first ten minutes and held out magnificently in the face of some relentless pressure from the home side not only to vanquish, but to deny the black-clad south-easterners a losing bonus point. I listened online and was entertained merrily. My word, it was tense. I salute these heroes. Next week, Bath visits Gloucester in a battle to discover which West Country outfit shall top the table at the end of the traditional season. The Somerset fellows are on fine form, destroying a powder-puff Saracens at The Rec yesterday, but key Gloucester players (the noble Bortolami, Lamb, Wood, the young prince Simpson-Daniel, Qera inter alia) appear to be in the form of their lives right now. It should be a cracker.

A bit folky from a distance...

I won’t quote S exactly, but, suffice to say the SMS text message I received from him today indicated deep pleasure that Pentangle are headlining the Green Man Festival on the Sabbath. For many years, the only Pentangle music I’d heard was the really rather beautiful theme song to Take Three Girls, a BBC drama from the late sixties. However, this week I downloaded Sweet Child, the band’s double long player from 1968 and I’ve been spinning said product a fair bit. Essentially, the album is the proverbial game of two folk halves, one part live concert recordings, one part studio product and, I must confess, it is the live stuff I prefer. The musical talents of the five members are showcased neatly, Jacqui McShee’s voice sounds heavenly while individual cameos – Terry Cox’s glockenspiel work is especially fine – all sound splendid. I am enjoying my research.

I’ve started copying and pasting some of the album reviews I’ve penned on these pages over the years onto my online music store of choice, Amazon. They were only gathering dust. My pride took a blow this evening when I logged on and checked my account only to discover that I am ranked as the site’s 268, 881^st reviewer. The only way, as Yazz and the Plastic Population would have it, is up.

Merely a trick of the light

The Glastonbury line-up has been announced and I’m neither overwhelmed nor underwhelmed. I am simply whelmed, I guess. I’m keen to see the effervescent yet bookish Noo Yorkers, Vampire Weekend with their merry African rhythmic sounds; British Sea Power will be marvellous too, I venture. The band I’m playing as I pen these words, The National, headline the John Peel Stage on the Sunday and I’d hope to be there for their set. Edwyn Collins is probably a must-see too; I admire him greatly and would go all misty-eyed for a What Presence?! or a Salmon Fishing In New York.

Epitome

I’m tempted by a hop-hip concert. Public Enemy are performing at Bristol Academy next month, proffering the entire It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back long player to an adoring public. This is an album I own – possibly one of the first dozen compact discs I ever purchased, thinking about it – and there was a period when I played it non-stop and admired its uncompromising and hard-hitting agenda. I have read nothing to suggest that it isn’t the original line-up playing Bristol so all the big names – Flav, D, X, Griff et al. – may be involved. It should be a huge occasion and I’m rather keen to attend.

The only previous occasion I’ve stood in a hop-hip crowd was at the ATP Festival in Camber Sands back in 2004. Young Dizzee Rascal produced a raw set to a small but packed arena that was hailed in the end-of-year round-ups as ‘the’ hop-hip event of that twelve month period. I remember being mildly engaged but couldn’t help feeling bothered that I was missing The Tindersticks who were strutting their elegant stuff elsewhere. If I recall, Har Mar Superstar came on after the self-styled rascal and blew the bleeding house down with his exhilarating antics.

Nationalism

I’m somewhat aware that quite a few fine albums from the past year or two have slipped slyly under my Radio Detection and Ranging apparatus and I’m earnestly engaged in rectifying this sorry state of affairs. Boxer by The National was released almost one year ago but I have only grown to know and love this recording very recently. Here are twelve intense popular songs, richly crafted and featuring shimmering pianoforte, elegant percussion, soaring guitar soundscapes that underpin one of the most maudlin and melancholic voices in music. Here lurks introspection; hints of alienation, loneliness and urban gloom permeate the fairly subdued proceedings. The arrangements are upliftingly beautiful, the melodies take a while to appreciate but once under the skin, remain there like old 'n' loyal comrades. I’m always faintly reassured when I fail to ‘get’ an album on first hearing; Boxer proves that repeated listens really do bear fruit with recordings of quality. I recommend.

I must confess that I yearn for a new recording from the young prince of esoteric Americana, Sufjan Stevens. Almost three years have passed since the release of the mighty and soaring masterpiece, Illinois and, while the worthy outtake collection Avalanche and the at times haunting, at times kooky, Christmas boxed set have helped to sustain this punter, the appetite for a new album remains unsated. I read somewhere that the new album will have a ‘bird’ theme. There’s a lovely and delicate new song called Barn Owl, Night Killer on You Tube and I still recall most fondly the splendour of Majesty Snowbird that Stevens and his noble band performed when I saw the fellow in Amsterdam. Here’s hoping for new material and soon from this scribe’s very, very favourite recording artist.

A bit folky close-up...

Last year’s grey skies and muddy walkways have obviously been erased from the Cole memory as I have booked up to visit the Green Man Festival again this August. The dude known as ‘S’ shall be joining me. Despite the weather, Green Man proved a very special weekend and I’m hoping that bluer skies will help this summer’s event be a smashing success. The full line-up is to be announced on May Day but several acts already booked catch this eye merrily. I’m playing the three albums by The National to death at the moment and this act’s sombre yet reflective numbers continue to hit the spot. They are appearing and I rejoice. The School of Language’s off kilter avant-pop shall prove a highlight methinks while I welcome both the quirky melodic antics of Super Fury Animals and the low fidelity magnificence of Iron and Wine. The acclaimed Richard Thompson ticks the box annotated ‘Legend’ but I am sure further treats and surprises await.

Look above for a 2007 Green Man memory. The photograph is entitled ' View from my Tent'. S's back can be spotted in the distance.

Remember, concentrate on the moment. Feel, don't think. Trust your instincts.

The young prince has claimed my vote for this year’s ‘Player of the Season’ award, presented to the Gloucester player deemed most irreplaceable, irresistible and, excuse the Jamaican, irie by supporters. James Simpson-Daniel has remained fairly injury free this season and has never failed to capture this punter’s imagination game on game. His performances have never been less than wholehearted and full to the brim of commitment and dedication, while his craft, his creativity, his composure with ball in paw continue to catch the eye. I am yet to see the youthful fellow perform poorly in the famed colours and, this season, his imagination, style, pace and skill have consistently set him apart from his peers and opponents. I salute him.

Young Jack Forster’s name is fluently inked in on my voting slip as ‘Young Player of the Season’. The adolescent powerhouse has not managed too many games for the first fifteen but, when called upon, has demonstrated maturity in spades and a belligerence and fortitude in ‘the tight’ that older and more experienced players would gaze upon with a soupcon of jealousy. To paraphrase Senator Palpatine (pictured) in Star Wars Episode 1: We’ll be watching his rugby career with great interest.

Excursions

The past week was spent in Tenby, admiring blue skies and golden sands, and relaxing and chilling. Alas, although there remains plenty to report and mention, insufficient time and opportunities have meant that these pages have remained forlornly neglected. For this, I apologise.

A week and a day ago, your humble host was gallivanting in the capital, purchasing some of those new-fangled compact discs at the wondrous Fopp emporium, dining and imbibing like a lord at BBC TV Centre with D and A (my generous hosts) before trotting to the Hammersmith Apollo to witness the splendid hop-trippers Portishead in concert. The following day, I walked for England and spent many a merry hour in the British Museum encountering treasure after treasure. The London trip was a success; I have chalked up my annual London gig (2005 Yo La Tengo; 2006 Teenage Fanclub) and I salute the exquisite music served up by Beth Gibbons and company. I thought the Apollo was a fine venue; the vast sloping floor meant all hepcats enjoyed a super view of proceedings.

I had barely returned from my trip to the east when the Guildhall o' Gloucester beckoned. The monthly Acoustica evening was in session and a legend topped the bill. Former Icicle Works front man, Ian McNabb produced a cracking set full of wit, wisdom and wisecrackery. His combination of homely and dark subject matter delivered with a rich and earthy voice was a real pleasure. The support act, two members of Bristol’s Slow, proved an engaging and warming talent. Their intelligent, lyrically intense numbers built to really rather exquisite musical denouements. They were an unexpected but worthwhile treat.

Peeps

Obtaining tickets for this summer’s Glastonbury Festival of Contemporary Performing Arts proved relatively straightforward last Sabbath morn. The married Coles and our eldest child who shall be fourteen in the month of the festival will all be attending. I’m actually really looking forward to the weekend but, after witnessing at first hand (and foot) the mud at Green Man last August, I earnestly hope for very dry weather. Ticket sales, I note, are down and, for the first time in many a merry year, the event failed to sell out within an hour or two. I am certain that all tickets will sell though. I felt a touch underwhelmed by the headliners that were announced earlier this year and wonder if other punters have withheld their custom because of a fairly lacklustre trio of main acts for the Pyramid Stage? Of the three, I suppose Kings of Leon are the most palatable. I quite enjoy their ditties when played on the wireless, but quite enjoying a combo’s ditties on t’wireless does not equate to exuberantly anticipating a live set. I have no axe to grind wi’ the hip-hop/soul community – heaven forbid - but I can think of no conceivable reason why I am likely to want to witness Jay-Z a-rappin’ ‘n’ a-rhymin’ on the Saturday night. The Verve, a nasty little third division indie band, headline on the Sunday and I shall be avoiding them like the ruddy plague. I can imagine the cigarillo lighters held aloft during Bittersweet Symphony now. Yuk.

Anyhow, it shouldn’t be about the headline acts. I have attended the festival thrice, my visits straddling the decades known fondly as the eighties and nineties so there must have been nine headline acts available to me and I can only recall watching a couple, Elvis Costello (who was fabulous) and, sorry, Tom Jones (who was Tom Jones). Perhaps there were more and I hope that S, who would have loyally been by my side for most of these weekends, will remind me. My favourite moments took place at other stages, within and without the world of music. The comedy tent is always marvellous and just strolling around visiting the stalls and sideshows makes for a pleasant hour or so. Because of work commitments, this is the first year I’ve been able to attend since, staggeringly, 1992* so it’ll be, if nothing else, interesting to see how the festival has changed.

* I was amazed to read here who headlined Glastonbury that year: Carter USM, Shakespear’s Sister and Youssou N’Dour. I wouldn’t have guessed any of those three and can emphatically state I didn’t view any of their sets. Especially Carter USM who, in my humble-ish opinion, exist in Division Four of the indie leagues. Or maybe the Conference.

Nothing but education...

Gloucester 3 - Munster (a whole province) 16

‘Twas a great occasion at Kingsholm Stadium yesterday. The hordes of Munster supporters added vibrancy and warmth to an already electric atmosphere; with the devaluing of the knockout cup and the watering down of the importance of league fixtures, there are less ‘big games’ these days but this match was mighty and of tangible importance. It felt like the ‘old days’ before kick-off. It was a shame that the city club underperformed in key areas but, generally, the fellows in cherry played with commitment and satisfactory enterprise. A day after the disappointment of defeat, my thoughts are more rational. Criticisms have been levelled at the club’s coaches for a perceived lack of strategy but yesterday the fifteen on the park had plenty of chances to take the spoils. Several missed penalty attempts helped the cause not one iota and try-scoring chances were spurned through a dropped pass here, stern Irish defence there. Frankly, it wasn’t Gloucester’s day but, with one or two exceptions, I feel quiet pride in the players. Hopefully the squad can pull a few decent results together and qualify for next term’s Heineken Cup; the impending visit of Saracens, a buoyant club now in the last four of the major European tourney, shall prove a test and a half for the city and a top four finish (required, in these eyes, for Heineken qualification rather than any end of season domestic loot-fest) may well depend on victory.

The Munster supporters were charming and gracious, garrulous and engaging. I warmed to those that I was fortunate enough to meet both in the ground and, later, in the snugs and smoking rooms of the famous city. I wish I could salute the home supporters so heartily. I felt obliged to apologise to one Munster fellow after the game on behalf of one oaf that I noted was far from welcoming to him during the match. When gentle people travel hundreds of miles to visit our community they deserve better than to be treated with aggression and boorishness. Some folk simply have no idea how to behave. This heart sank today too when encountering an online poll seeking views whether or not Chris Paterson deserves another chance in a cherry and white jersey. With ‘supporters’ like these, who needs opponents? My opinion on the subject is ‘Yes, yes, and thrice, yes’ but I shall not be offering the pollster my vote, thereby proffering credence to a nonsensical, ignorant and rank idea. Aren’t we supposed to get behind the team?

My codename's 'Cedar Plank'

Prop forwards, like fine wine, mature with age so I’m hoping that the return to Gloucester of Christo Bezuidenhout, the mighty rugby behemoth and former Springbok, will prove a fillip to the city club’s forward prowess and general progress next season. Reports in the South African press convince me that it’s a done deal; it is just a shame the colossal figure won’t be available to face the Munster men on Saturday.

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

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

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

Sporting Matters

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

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

Count the evening stars

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

Like dolphins can swim...

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

Cultivation

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

Thought For Food

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

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

Errata

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

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

Gravy

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

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

Toppermost of the Poppermost

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

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

Paperback Writer - The Beatles

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

All or Nothing – The Small Faces

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

The Name of the Game – Abba

Haunting, melodic and, er, profound.

Uptown Top Ranking – Althia and Donna

A soaring riddim.

Are ‘Friends’ Electric? – Tubeway Army

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

Ashes to Ashes – David Bowie

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

Ghost Town - The Specials

A chilling political statement. The scariest number one ever?

Tainted Love - Soft Cell

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

West End Boys - Pet Shop Boys

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

Pure Shores - All Saints

A taste of paradise. A fabulous, fabulous record.

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

The devil take your stereo and your record collection!

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

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

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

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

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

A thriving, unspoilt market town

I have hardly posted on here recently and I apologise.

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

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