I eat the Canadian? I don't know what you're talking about.

Busy days. Friday proved fun. A and I met in the agreeable surroundings of the Guildhall Arts Centre café-bar in order to enjoy the latest Acoustica evening. The first act played the proverbial ‘game of two halves’. Solo artiste Bethany Porter’s ‘cello-accompanied traditional folk ditties were bewitchingly gorgeous; her more modern, self-penned numbers, backed by efficient ukulele playin’ proved less pleasing and just a tad clumsy ‘n’ silly. The second act was bearded character, Stanton Delaplane, who brought tuba, guitar and one of those clever looping machines to the party. Although less than forty-eight hours have elapsed, I would struggle to hum any of his melodies but I am able to recall some rather complex and catchy sounds that sounded pretty fine. The fellow’s lyrical content was unusual and, at times, self-referential yet quirky. He appealed. Headliners Nuala and her Alchemy Quartet bounced around with gusto but failed with her rootsy glee to win much favour with this punter or the acclaimed A. Sometimes energy and a confident stage presence are not enough and we retired to the bar for a swift beverage – and a happy summit with fraternal hepcats H and A - before heading home in reflective mood. It was a decent evening though.

I watched In Bruges this week and am able to recommend this feature readily. Colin Farrell and Ken Gleason play a pair of Irish villains who need to hide out in the beautiful ‘n’ medieval Belgian city for a couple of weeks after a ‘job’ goes mightily pear-shaped. Essentially, the pair’s dialogue, a mixture of laconic wit and searing observations, carries the film tremendously and there are numerous humorous exchanges to guffaw at. A fairly obvious plot is embellished with plenty of tremendous set-pieces involving overweight American tourists, charismatic drug dealers, intense dwarves and sight-seeing overkill. This is a smashing feature far removed from the usual Hollywood sludge.

I am the record company!

I do love my Word magazine. Apart from peerless film and CD reviews and marvellous features and interviews, there will always be a few priceless nuggets of trivia that illuminate my life. This weekend, I learnt who brought Tony Hancock’s ashes back from Australia and earned himself an upgrade to First Class as a result. Somehow I feel a better person knowing this.

I watched Dig yesterday. Witnessing the differing career trajectories of rival beat combos The Dandy Warhols and Brian Jonestown Massacre proved fascinating. In many ways the BJM produce the more interesting and challenging music but appear to commit career suicide at every turn, aided and abetted by leader Anton Newcombe (pictured above), one of the most self-obsessed and disagreeable characters to ever stalk the earth. Managing to alienate band members, audience members and record company executives quite so regularly and wholeheartedly and on such a regular basis takes a great deal of effort but Newcombe doesn’t flinch from his quest to cause maximum offence to the greatest number of people. All of this seems a shame because the fellow’s musical skills seem tremendous and the clips of the band playing their soaring neo-psychedelic songs are truly captivating. I want to hear more of their stuff. By comparison, The Dandy Warhols play it safe, upset less people (although egos are present here too), produce less contentious sounds and, quelle surprise!, end up enjoying international hits, headlining major festivals and becoming rather large stars. It’s a compelling comparison. Brian Jonestown Massacre never ‘sell out’ I suppose but, considering Newcombe’s unseemly antics, I have little sympathy for the band’s lack of mainstream success. Dig seems to demonstrate an object lesson in how, and how not, to make it.

The word's on the streets and it's on the news

October dawns, the dismal autumnal evenings draw dankly in and the discerning thoughts of dedicated music lovers around the globe start to turn to one burning question: which long player will become the Uprock Narratives and Unknown Pleasures album of the year? Here’s a slither of inside information for hepcats everywhere. The odds remain long, but a trip down to your local turf accountants and a guinea or two each-way on Black Kids’ Partie Traumatic might prove salient. Black Kids hail from New York and have concocted a blissfully catchy sound that encapsulates all that remains marvellous about 1980s pop. Frankly, the kitchen sink (bedecked in leg-warmers and deely-boppers and attempting a Rubik’s Cube) has been thrown at this product. There’s a lot of OMD in there, a smattering of Scritti Politti, a dash of Blow Monkeys and, remarkably, a pinch of Hipsway. A tinny Casio-sounding synth underpins most of the tracks and the lead singer’s voice resembles The Cure’s Robert Smith at his navel-gazing best. This would all be utterly pointless if the songs were dire or moribund and happily they aren’t. Here are ten bewitching slices of pop laden with more heavenly hooks and harmonies than one can shake an Amstrad ZX Spectrum at. My favourite track from the LP and, potentially, the whole darned year is Hurricane Jane, a saccharine yet satisfying melodic feast but there are many highlights to salute. Look At Me (When I Rock Wichoo) is a jolly beast, all swagger and cute-as-you-like call and response fervour while the energetic and uplifting I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You never fails to force these toes to tap. Heck, it’s all as super, smashing and great as a twenty year old edition of Bullseye though and certainly this year’s must-have feel-good pick even if Partie Traumatic is as contemporary as a Sinclair C-5. I recommend.

Variations

The football was mildly diverting last evening. Gloucester, a team I continue to favour, vanquished against an energetic Newcastle outfit. Amid much huffing and puffing and aimless kicking and other uninspiring adequacy, the city club contrived to play some sparkling rugby. Five super tries lit up the old stadium. The enigmatic yet swift Balshaw bagged a hat-trick of tries while the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, nabbed a merry brace of the blighters. The prince’s every touch was sublime, conjuring space and time from who knows where, not once but again and again. I have two observations to make about Gloucester’s tries. All came from simple moves along the back line and not one forward was involved in the handling of the ball and I would also assert that the sluggish Vainikolo would not have possessed the skill, speed or wherewithal to have scored any of them. Thank goodness for our utilisation of guile and wit over bulk and the bludgeon.

I’m looking forward to watching a pair of music documentaries that lie waiting for me at home. Dig! features the rivalry between the Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre and, apparently, is a tremendous feature. I’ve also got Sex Pistols film, The Filth and the Fury to enjoy. My cup doth overflow.

Touching from a distance

Most evenings recently, I’ve made an effort to listen to at least twenty minutes or so of Gideon Coe’s BBC 6Music radio show. I’m trying to make it a habit; the fellow plays a marvellous mix of older and newer stuff and I appreciate the laconic, wise and intelligent banter between numbers. Coe epitomises what the station should be all about: bright, erudite and witty people who dig their sounds sharing a love of fine music. I’m hugely disappointed by the daytime schedules on 6Music. Where Phill Jupitus and Coe once lit up the airwaves, the rank and embarrassing Shaun Keaveny and George Lamb (where did he spring from?) now lurk. Keaveny merely seems to boast about how much he had to drink the night before and I really can’t be bothered to listen to Lamb’s egotistical proclamations. Luckily, quality and intelligence are in abundant supply elsewhere and Coe and his ilk (Tom Robinson, Stuart Maconie, Adam and Joe) shall continue to merit my support.

Bravo

The murky beginnings of a chill haunt me somewhat. A healthy swig of Night Nurse* and a good night’s sleep beckons. I may exceed the recommended dose ever-so-slightly.

My new favourite long player is Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by the American Americana outfit Wilco. I am aware that D has been singing this recording’s praises for ages but I finally downloaded it last week and have been playing it to death ever since. This is a collection of moving country-tinged epics given a gentle experimental stroke or two. The melodies are gorgeous while the lyrical content is at times bitter, at times haunting and at times downright weird. It’s one of those albums where one fabulous number ends and you suddenly think, Oh, this next track is remarkable too. All the songs are rather fine but there is a run of about four or five absolute classics towards the end. I would write more but I’m glancing coquettishly at the Night Nurse with an ignoble glint in the ol’ organ o’ sight.

* Other products are available

A poor man’s Seti Kiole

Yesterday’s rugby union match between my favoured Gloucester and London’s Harlequin FC followed a pattern that many supporters of the Kingsholm-based club would recognise: an early lead gathered by opponents was gradually overtaken through hard graft and a hint of guile, and, despite late scares, a victory was achieved to general delight mixed with a soupcon of relief. I’ve witnessed plenty of similar matches and they sure beat sullen defeats permeated with a murky sense of underachievement and, even, encouraging defeats containing spade-loads of élan. Essentially, it is marvellous to win, especially with the suggestion of a thrilling denouement to keep the old ticker pounding. Yesterday saw the debut of Oliver Barkley, the former Bath centre three-quarter, who will certainly add a touch of class to the Gloucester midfield. Barkley is that rarity in cherry, a member of the back division who is able to kick from hand with skill and tactical nous. There were hints of this talent yesterday and I was encouraged. The most exciting moment of the match saw the rugged and uncompromising flank forward Strokosch burst through the centre of the park and sprint to glory under the old tump end posts chased with gusto by an array of ‘quins characters. The hard-nosed Scot enjoyed a splendid match and is becoming a particular favourite of this punter and potentially merits the tag ‘Enforcer’. The player who is least deserving of his place in the team is the powerful Tongan Vainikolo whom I would describe as a one trick pony whose trick is not really that special. The big man’s performance yesterday was weak. I don’t recall any defenders being beaten, just a series of fairly lumbering collisions that achieved little, challenged nobody and were greeted with general apathy by all and sundry on the popular side of the ground. On current form we are viewing a poor man’s Seti Kiole and I yearn for the return to the fifteen of the unpredictable Balshaw, flaws ‘n’ all, or the willing, ready and improving Foster.

And what will she do with Thursday's rags when Monday comes around?

I’ve hardly seen S since the debacle of the Green Man Festival so we haven’t had much of a chance to conduct a proper post mortem. Chatting yesterday, we possibly came up with a cunning solution to the age old ‘enjoy festivals, hate mud’ dilemma and that is to plot a dramatic return to an All Tomorrow’s Parties weekender. Four years ago, a crack team of five cats travelled laconically down to Pontin’s at Camber Sands, stayed in a functional chalet, and enjoyed three days and nights of challenging modern music. The bars stayed open until the early hours, we caught The Tindersticks, Sonic Youth, Stephen Malkmus, Dizzee Rascal and many, many more, we played air hockey with vigour and ate a few doughy and delectable pizzas. Did it rain? It may have bucketed down but I don’t recall because the only time I spent in the great outdoors was strutting peacock-like between our Hi-di-hi homestead and the cheesy ballrooms that acted as arenas. Was Pesky (see here) there? He may well have been but any drunken and foolish ululations would have been muted by bricks and mortar. Somehow, it all adds up to a dramatic return. All Tomorrow’s Parties now host their festivals at Butlin’s in Minehead which not only is nearer to Gloucester’s metropolis but also hints at slightly more up-market slot machines and novelties. Discussions may, I fancy, prove ongoing.

A change of speed, a change of style

The above photograph may be diminutive but it represents history for a pair of reasons. Not only is it the first image produced by a camera on a mobile phone (cell phone for my American readers) to be sent to me – a delirious and euphoric A doing the honours – but, also, the scoreboard indicates a fine and first win for the noble players of Gloucester over the arriviste hordes of Bath Spa at their Recreation Ground. The affable S joined me in my very front parlour to view proceedings via a telecast Richard Branson and Rupert Murdoch had combined most kindly to provide for us. My word, the battle was thrilling and close; a brace of Gloucester tries from the speedy Narraway and the alert Walker seemingly placed the away side in an unconquerable position before a late and brave Bath fightback almost snatched victory for the blue, black and white clad fellows. Although possibly papering over a few cracks in my favoured team’s make-up, the result was, as they say, everything and should be lauded loudly.

Watched from the wings as the scenes were replaying

There is something most civilised about a cinema that permits a punter to carry a frothy pint of Guinness to one’s seat so it was a soothing pleasure to catch my first feature of the autumn season at Gloucester’s splendid Guildhall Arts Centre. The Joy Division documentary – or, if you will, "rockumentary" – proved a compelling hour and a half. Naturally the film covered a lot of ground that the post-punk cognoscenti already had seen, read and inwardly digested especially if they had tuned into last weekend’s Manchester music night on BBC4. However, the subject matter is ever fascinating and much of the footage chosen was sublime. I admired the juxtaposition of two performances of She’s Lost Control, six months apart, identifying the transformation from earnest yet atmospheric young guns to unleashers of maelstroms and brooding bringers of sturm und drang. The interviews were constructed sagely. It is always pleasing to note just how ordinary and self-deprecating the surviving band members are while the views and messages of sleeve designer Peter Saville, late Factory honcho Anthony Wilson and other assorted label-mates, roadies, and post-punk personalities were rewarding and fine. The music is, of course, everything; as one talking head suggested, one should forget all the myths, all the merchandising and simply remember that there are two ‘set texts’, Unknown Pleasures and Closer and not a lot else matters. Almost thirty years on, this brace of albums remains essential, seminal and utterly influential. This is a startling group. This is a startling group.

One (or two) for the plot

The Coles possess a couple more chickens. A pair of Colombian Blacktails have moved in after their potential plight was highlighted in Saturday’s Citizen. Their tails aren’t at all black and nothing suggests a South American lineage. There is not a hint of a Zapata moustache between them. We’re hoping they lay eggs and keep their beaks shut in the early hours. It’s all we ask for. I’ll take a picture soon to display their speckled beauty.

The rugby football was awful yesterday and I’m lacking any real enthusiasm to report ‘pon it. Rank errors prevented Gloucester’s noble team from bagging a try or two for themselves and rendering the game safeish. I shall highlight a positive. Oliver Morgan’s performance at full back was sublime, a masterclass of running, jumping, catching, thinking and tackling. He even swore with bewitching class; his anguished yell towards the end of the match included more than a indication of Anglo-Saxon and demonstrated just how much victory meant to the well-spoken and flaxen youth.

There's a Place

If you squint you might believe those lovable moptops are posing precociously in the swanky back-streets of Paris. I reckon J, P, G and R are relaxing in Blackpool though. The reason for proffering the perky picture is to advertise my issuing of the answers to the Beatles questions I offered to a grateful nation a week or so ago. The solutions are secreted away in the ‘comments’ area of that particular posting. Take a peep, pop-pickers.

I finally purchased my season ticket this morning and look forward to cheering on my followed team, Gloucester, in the fabled and historic rugby union code of football. Tomorrow, weather permitting, the Tigers of Leicester come calling and it should be a close match. The home side shall miss the effervescent presence of the injured Fijian tyro Qera in the back row but maybe the wet pitch would not suit his expansive skills. The no-nonsense Scot Strokosch wears the fabled ‘7’ shirt which effectively means the old warhorse Hazell is now the third choice on the side they call ‘open’. I note that the colossus James is preferred to the thoroughbred Brown at lock; this is a surprise but one I can live with. Can I flirt with controversy for a moment? I fear my team shall win nothing with the unreliable and inconsistent Lamb at the crucial outside half position. The energetic and stylish Barkeley is rumoured to be heading for Lamb’s ‘10’ shirt and I am convinced this selection will prove more fruitful for the famed fellows who don the cherry and white. Howe’er’, I warmly salute all members of the Gloucester squad on the eve of a new campaign. Play up, gentlemen, play up!

154

It’s funny how being back at work and having less spare time really focuses the mind and emphasises how crucial it is to fully appreciate one’s leisure hours. For example, the pleasing ritual of buying and poring over Friday’s Guardian is a dozen times more enjoyable after five days of earnest and honest toil. I’m keen to listen to more radio this autumn and have started to tune into BBC 6Music in the later evenings more often. Gideon Coe’s show is fantastic, a really intelligent mix of music and banter, although at the moment the ebullient Gary Crowley is filling Coe’s chair and doing a smashing job. Waiting for me when I returned home tonight was a proud package I ‘won’ on EBay: a Digital Versatile Disc boxed set of the first series of The Wire. I have read and heard nothing but praise and plaudits for the Baltimore-set televisual drama and I hope its merits will entertain me vigorously through the dark nights that approach.

Say So

A colleague gave me not one but two unwanted melodicas today. This was somewhat unexpected but I’m thrilled with my new objects. They produce a gorgeous sound, haunting and mightily melancholic and are really quite weighty and, certainly, beautifully made. The Cole children are already generating pleasing tunes on these instruments. Naturally my mind turns to the master of the melodica, Augustus Pablo, who used the handheld woodwind item to stunning effect on such seminal reggae albums as King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown. There’s a lovely clip of the late great maestro here.

Photograph: The middle Cole child cranks up the volume.

Though we have sparred, wrestled and raged ...

I’ve lost a bit of enthusiasm for the rugby football. Normally I would have purchased my season ticket by now, would have spent the summer working out my first choice starting fifteen and could even be querying what Malcolm Preedy might think about Gloucester Rugby’s chances for the forthcoming campaign. I would certainly have attended any pre-season friendlies but yesterday I opted to give the match against Glasgow a miss and instead helped construct a stunning composting area on our front lawn using stakes and wooden palettes. By all accounts, the occasion was fairly typical pre-season fare with mistakes galore and the cherry-wearing fellows making heavy weather of it. Our lads ne’er do themselves justice when there isn’t an ‘r’ in the month. I’m not sure what has caused my lack of zest. I certainly was much more excited about the team’s adventures twenty years or so ago when the fifteen was made up of local heroes who rampaged round the park for nought but pride although the standard of football is much higher these days and I still have my huge favourites from the modern era (the young prince Simpson-Daniel, the noble Boer, the expressionist aesthete-cum-athlete Forrester). The season’s structure bothers me too; I’m tired of the play-off system but even more wearied by the seemingly blind acceptance with which it has been greeted by so many Gloucester supporters. I’m sad that I’ll never be able to salute my team as champions because finishing top means nothing and winning the championship final means even less to this old-fashioned saddo. Luckily in the Heineken Cup there is a trophy with gravitas and dignity and I find myself supporting these fixtures with added zeal. Sorry for such a negative posting. I’ll endeavour to snap out of my maudlin aspect in time for next week’s opener against those Tigers.

A Bunch of Posers

This month’s Uncut magazine contains a smashing little free booklet, a pamphlet containing clever quiz after clever quiz about music and film. The Beatles questions are really enjoyable and cunning and here is a brace of belters:

1. What are the two things that money can’t buy according to Beatles lyrics?

2. The Beatles mention three English towns and cities in their lyrics. What are they? Can you also name two American towns and cities they refer to in their songs?

I’ll try and remember to publish the answers soon. One of the English towns appears in the Liverpool beat combo’s best ever (in my humble opinion) popular song. That’s a clue. You can view my list of favourite Beatles songs here if you need to peek. I’d rather you didn’t though.

Law

One hears of fellows and females who win the national lottery, enter again and miraculously win a fortune for a second time. I can vaguely identify with this. Six or seven years ago I won a sort of lottery: I was selected, at random, to serve on a jury at Gloucester’s Crown Court and, lo!, an official letter has arrived demanding that I should do the same again this autumn. I am twice blessed. I loved the first occasion. It was like being part of a film or television drama with plots and sub-plots being acted out with witnesses, the accused, forlorn victims and thrusting legal personages all cascading in front of the bench and adding to the suspense and excitement. I took the role very seriously and debated the ins and outs of the case with real vigour in the jury room. I proved an earnest ‘Mr Liberal’ figure, keen to lead my rather intolerant colleagues – who would have hung their own grandmamas 'n' grandpapas at the drop of a hat I fancy – to consider any evidence that might prolong the fairly obvious call of ‘Guilty!’. I wonder what will happen this time.

Monkey Magic

I miss the Olympics. I admit my feelings have changed over the weeks. ‘Early doors’ I grew tired of the over-exposure of that little diving boy and didn’t warm to his synchronised antics; little else in the first week grabbed my attention and a soupcon of world-weary cynicism entered the psyche especially as we didn’t seem to winning a great deal. However, with a few British gold medals on the table, a large bandwagon bearing the legend ‘Jump on me!’ careered past and I leapt desperately ‘pon it. There was so much I loved watching and even that little diving boy won me over in the end. The single-mindedness and professionalism of our bicycling team proved, I found, utterly awe-inspiring; the daily quest on two wheels for gold by our lads and lasses was joyous to behold. The rowing was a thrill too and I salute those who wielded oars for Team GB and, ultimately, us. I swapped SMS texts with D last evening and we debated which of the nineteen British golds had satisfied the most. The Newent-raised fellow selected the controversial 400m scamperer Christine Ohuruogu and her epic sprint for glory, overtaking rivals galore on the home stretch. I am tempted to agree; this is a supreme athlete and she has now cracked, in the finest style, the elusive World and Olympic ‘double’. It is surely time for the issue of her missed drugs tests to be laid to rest for ever. My favourite gold medal was the last one claimed by our triumphant team by middleweight boxer James DeGale. This was a most exciting bout of pugilism. Our lad built up a seemingly unassailable lead of points which led to his Cuban challenger, Emilio Correa, fighting back in the most aggressive manner possible, landing shot after clumsy shot so that our hero was left holding on by his glove-clad fingertips at the end while I leapt about the front parlour in giddy sports ecstasy. Marvellous stuff.

And when you get the chance...

I do appreciate so-called ‘quality’ cinema and the latest Guildhall Arts Centre brochure indicates this; a variety of serious features has been energetically ticked by this keen punter, demonstrating a desire to go and watch artfully shot bio-pics, earnest documentaries, New Wave classics and low budget nuggets. One or two of these films might even be in a foreign language for heaven's sake. Having said all that, I have to confess that I visited the local multiplex picture house with my family earlier this week to view a piece of cinematic fluff, a lightweight load of old nonsense that I also happened to enjoy as much as any film I’ve seen for ages. I own up; I loved Mamma Mia, every single mad minute of it, every corny song and dance routine, every ridiculous plotline and twist. The story is paper-thin and is something to do with a wedding, some pressing paternity issues, lost love and all that malarkey. What I adored was the gorgeous Greek setting in front of which the likes of Pierce Brosnan, Meryl Streep (acting her bleeding socks off), Colin Firth and Julie Walters (playing Julie Walters), on a fairly regular basis, unexpectedly break into song, belting out with gusto galore an appropriate Abba classic that had something loosely to do with the current state of play with the wedding, the pressing paternity issues etc. For example, Streep runs a hotel and it’s a bit short of cash so she breaks into Money, Money, Money unapologetically; Walters, at the wedding feast, reckons one of the paternity issues blokes should take a chance on her romantically and, well, one can guess the rest. This was an unashamed feel-good feature and I admit I fell for its unsophisticated charms hook, line and sinker; the two hours flew by and I’m not too proud to state that another half an hour or so more would have been fine by me. After all, we didn’t get The Name of the Game, Knowing Me, Knowing You, The Day Before You Came or Eagle and I’m sure the plot could have been stretched even more tightly to allow for these favoured hits.

Try to win and suit your needs

The current issue of Mojo is a belter. Occasionally, my favoured journals produce an edition in which each and every article is resonant and crucial and September’s Mojo is to be acclaimed for its fine array of pieces. Two of its features highlight a pair (I can’t bring myself to type the word ‘brace’ again) of classic albums that are celebrating anniversaries this year and I’ve been revisiting, with no little relish, these recordings on my information pod. The Beatles’ eponymous classic double album, known by the masses as ‘The White Album’, is forty while Murmur, R.E.M.’s mumbled, melancholic masterpiece of a debut, was released five-and-twenty years ago.

I’d suggest there was a period in my life when I played Murmur four or five times a week, on my much-loved and battered old car stereo in my much-loved and battered old car. I would have been wearing desert boots and a plaid shirt. Listening to it again for the first time in ages and having lost some of my familiarity with its songs, I’m staggered how wondrous this long player sounds. Naturally, Perfect Circle exists as the most strikingly beautiful and haunting three and a half minutes in the Athens group’s canon but there are many other moments of greatness and splendour to appreciate. The Stipe fellow’s slanted and enchanted lyrics and, ahem, murmured vocalisations proffer proceedings a murky, dreamy quality with a barrage o’ off-kilter melodies and gee-tar hooks adding a folk-rocky atmosphere that remains irresistible. So many highlights. The first twenty-five seconds of Laughing, with its sparse percussive introduction, evocative and sudden vocal and chiming stringsmithery, is majestic. 9-9 is all Gang of Four austerity and angular menace, a compelling post-punk treasure while the whispered obliqueness of Pilgrimage soars and stuns. Funnily enough, the one song I can live without on Murmur is the opener and single, Radio Free Europe which, for this punter, possesses an over-produced clarity of sound and forceful nature that sits at odds with the understated subtleties of the other eleven numbers. It is a brilliant recording though, and for old time’s sake, I’m going to spin the blighter four or five times this week.

It was once fashionable to suggest that The White Album, if shorn of some of its ‘filler’, could have been one of the greatest single albums ever; it is now modish – and heartening – to notice a new school of thought ululating the proposition that the sprawling, untidy mess of genius, folly and fun should be celebrated for what it is: a hotch-potch of wonder and wit that English popular music has ne’er seen the like of before or since. This is not my most-played Beatles album – Revolver wins that accolade – but so many of these songs are firmly embedded in the old consciousness. For every number I could live without (Piggies, Honey Pie, Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except Me And My Monkey) there are a host of dazzling, clever and essential tracks that maybe I couldn’t. I guess my favourite song is Happiness Is A Warm Gun, a challenging cornucopia of magical moments linked together with aplomb and dexterity. I also adore the pastoral tenderness of Mother Nature’s Son, the fragile and poignant Julia, the lilting whimsy of Dear Prudence and the Nick Drakey acoustic gem, Blackbird. The White Album does appear in many of those Top Albums of All-Time lists and often makes the top ten. I don’t hold it in quite that level of acclaim but I’ve really welcomed its eclectic brew again and, while I know this sounds a bit shallow, I salute the fact that all songs (apart from the experimental musique concrete piece Revolution 9) are all roughly four minutes in length or shorter: one doesn’t have to wait too long for the next jewel.

Happy birthday both.

Party Fears Pesky

It wasn’t a totally negative experience at Green Man. We met some charming people there. At the Café on Thursday night, a group of fellows shared our table and fell laconically into conversation as we supped our pints o’ ale. They hailed from Blackburn and owned plenty of beards although their leader and talisman – name of Vic – was clean-shaven and debonair. My word, they knew their music: a brief mention of Sufjan Stevens and they were quoting obscure lyrics back at one, a fleeting recall of an underground lo-fi band led to them parrying back a brace of e’en more subversive acts. At a certain point I may have lied about owning an early Associates album but one had to try and hold one’s own somehow. The Blackburn boys were great company though and we continued to bump into them (mainly the non-hirsute Victor) throughout our brief sojourn. I salute them.

Less celebrated types frequented the area near our canvas abodes. The first night proved a disastrous non-sleeping marathon. I was awoken about midnight by a couple in the next tent playing music on a portable gramophone; the male partner launched into a long and involved anecdote about tyre pressures that had me silently weeping as I knew I’d struggle to slumber again. At half past three, a group of very drunken Mancunians arrived and started pitching tents near us, holding conversations that were as inane as they were loud. A middle-aged fellow known mysteriously as Pesky was the worst offender; his booming and meandering rants about the housing crisis and other issues had my blood boiling. I’m very easy-going but Pesky and his chums had me seething; I didn’t kip for a minute after that.

They run and hide their heads

Oh heck. What a pathetic display of muddy, ruddy wetness. As S and I discussed, when children it seemed all summers were hot and dominated by skies of dazzling blue and, as youths, festivals proved mainly sunny and unblemished by foul weather. What has gone wrong? Anyone would think the planet is in some way warming up causing meteorological conditions to become haphazard and unpredictable. I suggest that scientists start looking into this especially as, for the second year in a row, the Green Man Festival has been ruined by the wettest rain known to humanity. Friday, it has to be said, was rather fine and S and I caught some decent music. I rather enjoyed the shoe-gazing, nu-gazing intensity of Norfolk’s very own Sennen while, in the evening, the heavy rock and scuzzy Sturm und Drang of Canada’s Black Mountain had my head banging ever-so-slightly. Alela Diane possesses a sweet voice too.

Saturday was a rotter. Grrr. It poured and poured and our spirits sank into the mud. A few hardy souls huddled at the front of the main stage for the raw-boned and idiosyncratic School of Language and I appreciated their fine furrow, ploughed with unusual and quirky angularity. We didn’t do much else. I watched North Sea Radio Orchestra in the Folkey blinking Dokey Tent and they were adequate only. They lacked warmth and were a tad dull. Happily we did approach and get to chat to the remarkable and amiable Jonny Trunk – a hero of S – in the Rumpus Room, the large DJ marquee. This fellow, dressed to kill, runs the eclectic and marvellous Trunk Records. Last year, he was DJ-ing at the festival; this time round he was entertaining the kids on the site with the charms of 1960s Music and Movement recordings. Despite all the best acts appearing on the Sunday, we left for Merrie Gloucester on Saturday night. We’d had enough. Sitting shivering in a tent on a murky evening listening to a million raindrops thudding into the canvas knowing that even a shortish walk to go and get some food would leave one utterly sodden proved too much; we legged it. I’m really gutted that I missed The National but, and I know it sounds as square as square, I’m too long in the tooth and too cosseted by modern comforts to be able to cope with such rank conditions. How disappointing.

Here is a brace-plus-one of photographic images.

1. S on Thursday afternoon: Blue sky, green field, pleasing view, optimistic vibrations, innocence, joy.

2. Friday. Sennen nu-gaze for non-crusties energetically. Footwear: model’s own.

3. Coats, cagoules, capes, caps and creative compositions from School of Language.

A Hardy (Country) Annual

The Cole family has returned to Gloucester, quietly and away from the media glare, having relished a sunny summer holiday in picturesque Dorset. We stayed in a bonny little village called Lulworth and from our abode we could walk to three splendid beaches, Lulworth Cove, Man of War and Durdle Door. The latter has a remarkable sea arch but gorgeous aspects were to be enjoyed at each coastal area. Dorset is a rather beautiful, unspoilt county full of thatched cottages and verdant, sweeping rural views that reminded us a little of Ireland. I’m glad we went. It’s nice to be home though.

Look above for some views:

1. On Chesil Beach, literally

2. Durdle Door

3. View from Maiden Castle, a remarkable Iron Age hill fort near Dorchester

Like a record, baby

I completed the Andrew Marr book a week ago and have since started The Blair Years, Alastair Campbell’s diaries documenting New Labour’s journey from opposition to power. I must admit I’m appreciating a voyeuristic peek behind the scenes as a whole host of egos (Brown, Mandelson, Cook, Prescott etc.) clash and clash again. The energy of the first Labour administration is captured strongly, especially the relentless pace and ultra-delicate diplomacy required in seeking solutions in Northern Ireland. Blair cuts a fascinating figure, desperate to reach Number Ten and railing with impatience against any agency putting the quest for power at risk; in the early diaries this is mainly the old guard union leaders, later cabinet members with a tendency to produce unwelcome headlines (Clare Short is admonished on a seemingly weekly basis). I suppose this book’s main success is demonstrating just how difficult the job of Prime Minister is, an utterly tiring, some would say thankless, task. As one would expect, ‘spin’ plays a large part in this tome and, with massive decisions being made daily, the need to address how the various media will be briefed and manipulated is rarely far from the surface. I’m also enjoying the humanisation of key figures; Brown comes across as dark, moody and unpredictable, Clinton is ever charming, charismatic and inspirational and Blair flits between panic, vigour, relentless optimism and black humour almost hourly. I suppose my views on Campbell have changed having read his diaries. Yes, this is a cold, calculating operator, suffering not one fool but a more emotional, compassionate side is also manifest especially when dealing with friends, family and a political party he plainly loves. A fascinating read.

Vert Enough

The Green Man Festival is galloping up on the rails; there’s just over a fortnight to go and I’m excited and praying it stays dry. If the weather is like today’s – warm, dry and blue of sky – I’ll be very satisfied. I’m contemplating who I’m most keen on seeing. I would suggest The National is my ‘must-see’ and, indeed, the Sunday line-up looks rather tasty. Iron & Wine and Pentangle complete a hat trick of splendid acts but I’m also keen on Laura Marling and I’ve read such splendid things about Damien Jurado that I’ve snuck onto Amazon today and ordered two or three of his albums. That makes a hat trick plus two. On the Saturday, School of Language bring their off-kilter, angular art rock to Brecon. They precede legends Richard Thompson (I’m really keen to see him) and Super Furry Animals on the main stage. I’ll avoiding Lightspeed Champion like the proverbial plague and lamenting the clash of the Super Furries with Badly Drawn Boy who is strangely playing the tiny Green Man Café. Do you know, nothing stands out on the Friday yet? Spiritualized doesn’t inspire me too much and I don’t really know a great deal about King Creosote or Drive-by Truckers. Maybe I should just go with the flow.

...like your English

Strolling to our local park, the youngest Cole child and I witnessed a pigeon fly at a decent pace into the upstairs window of the house – a late 1950s three bedroomed semi – we were adjacent to. The foolish bird made a cracking thud against the glass but, despite appearing a touch dazed, was able to fly away merrily into the distance. The pair of us stood for a second or two, staring in vague disbelief at the aforementioned pane, when a gentleman appeared at it. He was stern of face and, in the absence of any other human or beast in the immediate vicinity, must have deduced that we were in some way to blame for the resounding crack on his glassy panel. We hurried on. It certainly felt wrong to tarry any longer.

Shell Of Light

The Klaxons, an act I regard as insignificant and humdrum, won the Mercury Music Prize last year and I lost some faith in an award I had grown to respect. Happily, my spirits have been raised this afternoon by a rather more consequential and interesting list of nominees for the 2008 gong. In my opinion, all bets are off; Radiohead and their sublime In Rainbows shall succeed at a canter. However, I’m thrilled that the mysterious and haunting Rachel Unthank and the Winterset’s The Bairns, the witty and catchy Stainless Style by Neon Neon, and the earnest and esoteric Do You Like Rock Music? by British Sea Power have found favour with the nominators. A couple more of my favourite recordings are mentioned too. Robert Plant and Alison Krauss’s Raising Sand is a very special collection of songs while Burial’s dark and menacing soundscapes on Untrue are worthy of inclusion. I’d be more than happy for any of the long players I’ve noted to take the prize but, to counteract last year’s unimaginative and mainstream choice, I would be most satisfied if that Burial fellow triumphed.

Roy

Summer may be here and the time may be right for dancin’ in the streets but, for the time being, I’ve kept a lowish profile; a nasty sore throat, now abating, and migraine hostility have left me wan and delicate.

I’m coming to the end of my Andrew Marr tome, A History of Modern Britain. Out of 600 pages, I note that over one hundred feature the Blair years and I’m ploughing through those now. The Twin Towers have just been attacked and it’s all about to kick off ‘big style’ in Afghanistan. Marr’s appraisal of the Thatcher years has proved interesting; I have ‘views’ on the woman but it was refreshing to read deeper into events such as the Falklands Conflict and the mining strike. The one figure that has truly fascinated me from reading this book is Roy Jenkins. I never knew he was such a liberal Home Secretary in the 1960s, introducing far-reaching legislation and reform on divorce, abortion, homosexual rights and capital and corporal punishment. Beyond this, of course, Jenkins enjoyed tenures as Chancellor, founder and leader of the SDP and President of the EC and must be regarded as one of the most important post-war figures. I’m keen to learn more about him.

Strange Town

Relief washes o’er me with the realisation that a brace of Calmer* shows has been announced. These are always unusual events and the hepcats that a-gather in the spa town to a-seek musical treats do so with the proviso that they should always ‘expect the unexpected’. The second Calmer* features Martin Stephenson who will surely take no prisoners in the compact and bijou Slak Bar with his energetic guitaring style, ebullient banter and accomplished songsmithery. I look forward to these evenings.

Life's a highway

Did the pop world really need a concept album about American automobile engineer and executive, John DeLorean? I insist it did, for Neon Neon’s Stainless Style is one of this year’s most enchanting and hypnotically enjoyable treats. Neon Neon is a collaboration between Animal (Super and Furry variety) and pop prankster Gruff Rhys and producer, ahem, Boom Bip. There is a splendid Eighties charm to this long player, catchy and simple electronic beats forming the backdrop to melodic gems and witty numbers that tell of DeLorean’s personal and business life. It’s an unusual recording really but tremendously pleasing; both groovy and quaintly humorous, Stainless Style is an album this rather damp summer was waiting for.

Looking for a ride to your secret location...

This site is jolly. Muxtape makes me feel youthful again, returning me to the days when, time on my hands, I would construct compilation tapes for the entertainment of myself and of others. I was a notoriously poor taper and many of my chosen tracks had either the beginning or end missing; controlling ‘pause’, ‘record’ and ‘play’ proved consistently troublesome for my wandering mind and trembling digits. Quaintly, S and I used to make a C90 tape to play on the way to festivals each year. I’d pitch up at his house with a bag full of records – or vice versa - and the rule was that we’d select alternate tracks until the blighter was full. These tapes were called ‘Oh You Have To Say That’s Remarkable!’ and they were true labours of love. Occasionally there was a touch of disquiet about a particular choice (I haven’t really forgiven S, over twenty years on, for insisting on One of These Days by Pink Floyd) but generally the selections were justly appreciated by all and sundry. Of the top of my head I can remember plenty of ‘Remarkable’ tracks: The Cross by Prince, Army Dreamers by Kate Bush, Tony’s Theme by The Pixies, World Shut Your Mouth by Julian Cope, Teenage Riot ( or was it (I Got a) Catholic Block?) by Sonic Youth, The Whole of the Moon by The Waterboys and, blimey, Beat Dis by Bomb the Bass.

Anyhow, you can make 12 track digital ‘tapes’ on muxtape and my effort is here. Click on a track to play it and the rest will follow automatically. It was a lot of fun but tricky keeping the number down to the required dozen. I originally selected both Battered Old Bird by Elvis Costello and Reggae Sounds by Linton Kwesi Johnson but ending up deleting them although I can’t really explain why.

Reunion Wilderness

I won’t linger long on Glastonbury lest I be dubbed a bore. However, I welcomed veteran journalist and Guardian columnist Alexander Chancellor’s wry words about his visit to the festival site and I find myself agreeing with plenty of his views. He is correct about the lavatories which require much mental courage to enter and his observation regarding the sheer volume of litter that is merrily cast away onto the ground is spot on. I find myself concurring with the fellow most heartily when he mentions just how friendly everybody is. Although a shy fellow at heart, as the years advance I quite appreciate making small talk with like-minded (and that’s extremely important) strangers and as there were plenty of them wondering around Pilton I managed several rather decent chats wi’ gentlefolk. Queuing up to enter the site, tents in paw, it was engaging to witness a definite abundance of patience among the punters near me, allowing opportunities for chummy ‘Where have you come from?’ and ‘Who are you keen to see?’ exchanges. I enjoyed a smashing conversation with a pair of young hipsters from Derby after Edwyn Collins and before John Cale, despite a twenty year age gap; we debated the current fad for gigs where an artist plays a classic album in its entirety, analysed the Velvet Underground back catalogue and they suggested (for my benefit) the best starting point for someone wanting to check out Nico’s back catalogue.

I’m happy to report a couple of really pleasing meets that took place last weekend. I hadn’t seen my old Sheffield student mucker T for 16 years or so and it proved hearty to catch up with the chap. He was playing tuba with no little gusto for festival stalwarts Carnival Collective and we sat outside the Leftfield Stage after the group’s opening set and merrily conversed and caught up. The meeting was recorded for posterity by a jovial man from, I believe, the Merseyside region who produced the above snap at my behest. I include a ‘compare and contrast’ picture from 1990 for interest and to indicate that time has been much, much kinder to my Brighton-based comrade. By huge coincidence, another dude from my degree course was spotted later that day. I perceived the witty yet warm-hearted A pass me by and I hallooed a halloo to initiate a welcome reunion. Sickeningly, this character has hardly aged either; there must be plenty of portraits in attics up and down the country. The Barnsley balladeer was performing at the festival too and his remarkable antics are announced here. I salute them both.

Manic Pop Pilton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Vampire Weekend make some music.

One swallow doesn't make a summer

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

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

Post-Rockumentary

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

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

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