Darkness on the Edge of Town

Curtis Eller deals in nostalgia. Sportin’ exuberant ‘tache and donnin’ clothes exuding a depression era chic, his songs tell tales of bygone times, of Buster Keaton, old time religion, Lon Chaney, a youthful Elvis and a myriad of strange happenings down south. Last night’s set for Calmer* proved a gripping hour or so, a gothic ride into quite dark waters, permeated with murky characters that could have stepped mysteriously out from a Tom Waits number or a Tennessee Williams subplot. A hushed audience, choosing ‘ugly’ over more merry themes, learnt what happens to a horse bitten by a rattler, what becomes of elephants that, through ill-fortune, find themselves in small-town Texas ‘tween the wars and just how it feels to speak in tongues ‘unknown to men’. All these shadowy treasures came with a bewitching banjo backdrop, elegant choreography with ebullient high-leg action and more than one haunting stroll through a slightly nervous crowd. His mordant slice of Americana, neither apple pie nor Star-Spangled Banner in sight, was an unusual world-view but one that proved evocative and compelling to the cool cats of the county who cascade to Calmer*. A hit.

Other dark and esoteric tales had emerged earlier in the evening from the earnest and ever-engaging Men Diamler who belted out his songs of wit, wonder and world weary wisdom with the passion and energy one has come to expect and admire. It is tempting to suggest that this was the third time I had watched the fellow play and the third time he had stolen the show but I shall merely note that he complemented the Eller figure deliciously and disappointed not one punter. New fans were made. I salute him.

Cheer Up....

A subtle glance at my record collection would indicate an approval of the more maudlin side of popular music. From the darkness of early Cure and Joy Division to the wry soul-searching of The Smiths and Radiohead and the urban melancholia of my recent favourite, Burial, there is a pattern and a theme to be filed sullenly under 'noir'. For that reason, I anticipated keenly last Friday’s Acoustica headliner, David Ford, a fellow who, for Morrissey’s sake, called his first long player, I Sincerely Apologise For All The Trouble I’ve Caused, and who has a reputation for emotional and plaintive songsmithery and for laying bare his soul. The reality was a touch different. Ford proved a witty and quite chirpy character, a charming performer full of self-deprecation and sardonic humour who debated his reputation knowingly and suggested that he preferred to deal with disappointment rather than despair in his writing. He created a splendid noise on Friday. Taking a selection of instruments and looping them to create gorgeous layers of sounds, Ford presented a superb set of challenging and uncompromising numbers, some angry, some contemplative, some rueful, some aggressive, all compelling. His tender reading of The Smiths’ There Is A Light That Never Goes Out was an unexpected highlight but all the songs sent shivers down the ol’ spinal column. Not an acerbic word was wasted and, joy!, not one sensitive singer-songwriter cliché was lazily proffered and it was a rare pleasure to witness a one-off, a truly independent talent with the wit and wisdom to command an audience’s attention so vividly. I salute him. This was a splendid night. Ford cascades effortlessly into the pantheon of ‘Acoustica greats’ alongside Truax, Special, Stephenson and Hewerdine. Hurrah!

A brief bravo for the support act, Ruth Royall. The gal’s elegant and gentle songs proved an impressive hors d’oeuvre before the main event. I liked her.

Sour Times

The Coles are off to see the shimmeringly beautiful and rather marvellous Trip-Hop combo, Portishead, a week on Saturday. They are playing the Bristol Academy. Tickets went on sale at ten this morning and by five past, had all gone. I managed to bag a brace but, alas, failed to obtain a third permit of entry for the affable and loyal S. I apologise publicly but insist I did my best; punters were allowed only two tickets each and by the time I withdrew a second credit card from my wallet, the concert was sold out. Frankly, I can’t wait to see Portishead in such an intimate venue. Here’s a sweet clip of the band in action for all to enjoy.

T.B. Sheets

I'm getting into books about politics again. Having recently completed Jon Snow's memoirs, I'm now contentedly tackling the final volume of Tony Benn's diaries which covers his post-parliamentary years from 2001 to 2007 and are humorously subtitled 'More Time For Politics'. I'm struggling to recall which volumes of Benn's diaries I've already completed. I know I've read the earliest years from 1940 to the 1970s when it was refreshing to catch a vivid and candid glimpse at the Wilson governments. There seemed to be less 'spin' back then while cabinet proved more of a debating chamber than it appears nowadays. More recent diaries dealt with the illness and death of Benn's beloved wife, Caroline; those passages were incredibly poignant and moving.

This current volume sees our hero free of any parliamentary shackles and able to contend wholeheartedly and busily with a post 9/11 world and an Anglo-American alliance determined to wage war in Afghanistan and Iraq. Beyond the anti-war arguments, accounts of telephone calls and meetings and briefings, it is the human side of Benn that commands most attention. Here is an elderly man approaching eighty, coping with deafness, the unreliability of modern appliances, no-smoking restrictions and missing his late wife terribly. He appears to break down and cry almost weekly at memories and sudden thoughts as well as at sad parts in films (he sobs unselfconsciously during the first Harry Potter feature film) and during memorial services for old colleagues. This is so endearing. The juxtaposition of hard-hitting former statesman and lachrymose and tender grandfather makes for compelling reading and all the background details (love of family, dearly treasured friendships, ordinary encounters and conversations with strangers) really do add so much to the overall picture of a hugely admired public figure that history will judge - and is beginning to judge - fondly and with knowing acceptance of great gravitas, wisdom and integrity.

And I was looking for some friends of mine...

It can’t be December already, can it?

I would never admit to knowing what I’m getting for my birthday the weekend after next as this would imply that I have surreptitiously gazed at emails informing other family members of impending deliveries from Amazon. I’d never do that. So, it must be extra sensory perception that informs me that the second Burial album, Untrue, is wrapped and ready to be bestowed upon my grateful self. I’m playing the debut Burial album, eponymously named forsooth, a great deal at the moment in order to prepare for this eventuality and it is a bewitchingly lugubrious and atmospheric product. This appeals. Electronic and dub-heavy riddimic soundscapes proffer dark and mournful insights into urban melancholia that are compelling and challenging in equal measure. The track titles – Night Bus, Broken Home, U Hurt Me, Gutted – add to the murky ambience and the occasional haunting vocal helps create e’en more tension. It’s a marvellous recording, full of layers and texture and I’d suggest that’s the kind of album Boards of Canada would create if they resided in a bleak inner London rather than the bucolic splendour of the Scottish wilds.

I don’t know a great deal about Burial, the person. He is famously secretive and I am sure that not even close friends of his are aware that he is even producing music. I’m fairly certain that there are no official videos of his work but a creative being has posted the sultry tones of Gutted on Youtube over a clip from the wondrous Eraserhead. Pump up da volume.

A blindness that touches perfection

The Gloucester Guildhall, in its wisdom, hosted a showing of the Ian Curtis biopic, Control last Saturday and, despite a sorry inability to locate a long bottle-green raincoat, I attended with S and A2. I suppose I know the Joy Division story well. As a young man, weight on shoulders, I embraced this remarkable combo’s dark and compelling sounds with wholehearted vim. I possess countless books about the group and, naturally, all the recordings. I even own a book of Joy Division lyrics in Italian translation format which I believe I purchased in Berlin in 1989. You can’t pick that up in ASDA. The feature film was compelling and interesting nonetheless; after all, this is a tale where you don’t need to avoid spoilers. I confess the suicide element, although tragic and worthy of a hundred ‘what if?’ conversations, takes second place to the music. I appreciated the grainy reconstruction of backroom gigs and grubby backstage environs and the portrayal of the rather haphazard manner in which a band that created some of the most searingly beautiful soundscapes of the last century was marketed and managed was fascinating too. The film highlighted the ordinariness of the Joy Division fellows cleverly: the bonhomie, laddishness, youth and unpretentious wide-eyed enthusiasm of Curtis, Hook, Morris and Sumner is clearly demonstrated. They wrote Decades though. And The Eternal. And New Dawn Fades. And Atmosphere. Here is the incredible story for me. The film was marvellous and fascinating but if you really require an insight into the art and genius of four down to earth blokes from the north-west, give yourself a spare hour or two and listen to Unknown Pleasures and Closer and the three main singles, Transmission, Love Will Tear Us Apart and Atmosphere. Joy Division make art. This is an essential group. This is an essential group.

This is the winter of your mind

Gloucester 27 – Harlequins 25

Here was the proverbial ‘game o’ two halves’. A rude awakening awaited those expecting the might of the city club to overcome a visiting Harlequin FC with ease and pomp. The first thirty minutes saw the visitors pounce four times for beautifully taken tries and, with the stylish young back Strettle seemingly cantering through a troubled defence at will, an embarrassing and shocking defeat seemed on the cards. A well-taken reply from the volcanic behemoth, Vainikolo and a brace of penalties from the assured Paterson took the Cherries in for the half-time orange segments, a flattering 25-13 down.

The second half proved an emotional event. A key substitution brought the abrasive Azam on for Titterrell and the rugged Frenchman, not for the first time, brought steel, passion and go-forward fervour to his beloved team. Terrific tidal waves of surging forward attacks brought Gloucester into key areas of the pitch and, importantly, the home players were starting to hog possession with a rare gluttony. Local lips were licked lasciviously. With the Harlequin fellows struggling to stem the tide, the penalty count rose quicker than something that rises very quickly and, unsurprisingly a brace of London types were dispatched to the bin marked ‘sin’. Pressure told and a joyous Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall and the volcanic behemoth both crossed to general delirium. Both tries were converted and, despite scares, the 27-25 scoreline remained thus for the remainder of the match

This was not a lucky win but a few newish players were assimilated into the fifteen which produced a fairly disjointed and messy first forty minutes. If this was a gamble, it was a gamble that worked. The likes of Delve, Cooper and Paterson will have benefited from the experience and the squad, as a unit, will certainly improve. The impact of Delve, a ball carrying brute, became increasingly visible as the afternoon progressed. My man o’ the match gong would probably be conceptually presented to the young full-back Morgan, safe under the high ball, defensively sure and a handful in attack with his elegant heads-up galloping keenness. I salute him.

Harold Wilson

The coveted Uprock Narratives and Unknown Pleasures album of the year award is still up for grabs. There is both a shortlist and a front runner but it could all change. A month and a half is a long time in popular music. The world’s music scene holds its breath. It’s my birthday next month and I’m requesting albums that were released this year as presents. There might just be time for one of these long players to oust Artist X from the lofty position he/she/they hold in my affections. Gosh, all this secrecy. For the record, I’m asking for, inter alia, Untrue by Burial, Runout Groove by The Lilac Time, The Bairns by Rachel Unthank and The Winterset, From Here We Go Sublime by Field and And Their Refinement Of Their Decline by Stars of the Lid. I'm naturally giddy with excitement.

Realm of Dusk

Gloucester 26 – Ospreys 18

This was a great occasion. As always, the floodlights heightened the thrills and spills and the vivid Technicolor spectacle was never less than pulsating and compelling. Two splendid teams battled for victoire. The glory boys of Ospreys looked the part, thoroughbreds galore, all fake tan and fanciness, throwing the ball about with pace and pomp and verve and commanding the opening exchanges. This punter was not alone in believing the match was slipping away from the mighty Gloucester after the first twenty minutes when a mixture of careless play and effervescent ebullience from the opposition saw the Welsh fellows take a deserved lead. Doggedness, desire and determination rather than any tangible splendour from the city kept the lead pegged back to a respectable three points at the interval. It was all to play for though and the sin-binning of a Welshman at the whistle proffered hopes to the cherry ‘n’ white hordes.

The second half proved a magnificent event. Within seconds of the restart, coltish prodigy Anthony Allen emerged from nowhere, burst through the midfield, pinned back his organs of hearing and careered with pleasing promptness under the sticks. The famed old stadium erupted. Advantage Gloucester. A further touch down from Simpson-Daniel, il principe giovane, after a tremendous leg race with the playboy Henson, gave Gloucester hope but further twists and turns kept the entranced spectators on edge until the final whistle. Gleeful back play warms the heart certainly, but the old ghosts that rattle round the historic arena will have appreciated the attritional final five minutes when the home eight fixed bayonets and contrived phase after phase of close-quarters rugby football. The crowd bayed, the clock crept towards no-side and the lads cannily and merrily frustrated their opposite numbers. Victory!

I salute the Gloucester players but, in particular, congratulate young Luke Narraway on a mature and dynamic performance with the legendary ‘8’ shirt on his back. I like the way the unselfish and uncompromising workhorses Buxton and Strokosch roll their sleeves up and graft for the outfit too. Quietly and intelligently, young Strokosch is becoming a very important member of the squad. The backs combined reasonably well last evening and took the chances keenly when they emerged. The volcanic behemoth Vainikolo enjoyed a decent home debut and was a busy and dangerous entity without really threatening the tryline. Paterson’s twenty-five minutes on the park, controlling and closing the game with intelligent kicking and nippy running and passing, was fabulous and, hopefully, a satisfactory augury for future success. Hurrah.

Bass and Drum

Bleep.com is a smart website. It used to be the place where you could purchase and download tracks and albums from Warp artists (Boards of Canada, Autechre, Broadcast etc.) but now there are scores of independent labels that you can browse and buy songs from. I love its clever design; it’s a cool place. Trunk Records is there as well as the doughty Bella Union, Domino and Rough Trade. You can play whole tracks but the sounds fade out after each thirty seconds and you have to quickly press ‘pause’ then ‘play’ in order to fade the sound up. If you have a look, you’ll see what I mean. This is a startling confession for a gentleman of my advanced years but I was lurking there seeking out a bit of Dubstep. I’m intrigued by this genre which fuses electronica, dub bass riddims and urban edge. I'm keen to investigate.

With a childlike vision leaping into view...

It was remarkable to watch the football (the rugby union code, bien sur) on Friday night via a telecast from Belfast. Incredibly, in its first Heineken Cup match of the season, the city club of Gloucester not only defeated the Ulster province – a whole province! – but contrived to play such bewitching sport that the bonus point for attaining four tries was obtained after approximately a mere fifteen and one half seconds, an amazing feat in this day and age. The tries came mainly from deep. The youthful Lamb pulled the strings well at ten and the behemoth Vainikolo, the young prince Simpson-Daniel, Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall and the elegant Balshaw all benefited from some thrilling passin’ and runnin’ and catchin’. To be fair, Ulster, despite being a whole province, were poor and a sterner test shall come next Friday when a star-studded Ospreys outfit visits Kingsholm Stadium. Ospreys are my tip to win the whole blessed tourney. My man of the match was the yeoman Buxton who was everywhere, putting in the tackles, carrying unselfishly into the heart of the opposition and generally contributing to a forward effort that gave the city club’s half backs an armchair ride. I salute this effort but exhort my heroes to refrain from relaxing yet. The Welsh warriors will be seeking a victory this coming Friday.

Cut my swaith and spread my fear

Six of the Best – The Go-Betweens

Thanks to a cassette tape (remember them?) found under the bed, I’ve been playing lots of Go-Betweens this week. The tape features the wonderful Spring Hill Fair album on one side and the sublime but slightly more orchestral (there’s strings and woodwind and stuff on it) 16 Lovers Lane. I made the tape myself from the vinyl copies I own; when I started my degree course in merry Sheffield I didn’t want to lug all my albums up north so created tons of tapes with my favourites on. A strong case could be made for the Go-Betweens being the best blinking band ever. Certainly, using the formula that multiplies a combo’s critical acclaim by its inability to trouble the mainstream, the Australian band would score massively. My favourite Go-Betweens period would probably be the sort-of mid-1980s and the uplifting hat trick of long players, Spring Hill Fair (1984), Liberty Belle and the Black Diamond Express (1986) and Tallulah (1987). 16 Lovers Lane came out in 1989 and, although I really like its array of marvellous songs, there is a sense that it’s a touch too polished and over-produced. The band produced two earlier albums and, after a break of several years, three more corkers. If an inquisitive punter wanted to buy a Go-Betweens album as an introduction, not one of their recordings would disappoint. However, at the moment I can’t really believe how incredible Spring Hill Fair is. As sadly documented on these pages, the great songwriting partnership of Grant McLennan and Robert Forster came to an end last year when McLennan passed away suddenly and tragically. Luckily S and I managed to catch the pair at the Birmingham Academy not long before the awful event. It was a superb evening.

Look, I’m copying A’s idea here a bit. I’ve made a little Go-Betweens compilation and you can download it by clicking here and peeking at the bottom of the page. There are only six tracks. I don’t want to put people off. The tracks are zipped so, if you haven’t already, you’ll probably need to download WinRar. You can do that here. It’s easy.

The songs are:

Part Company (Spring Hill Fair)

Apology Accepted (Liberty Belle and the Black Diamond Express)

Bye Bye Pride (Talullah)

Streets Of Your Town (16 Lovers Lane)

Darlinghurst Nights (Oceans Apart)

The Statue (Oceans Apart)

Part Company and Apology Accepted are, as the titles suggest, rather lovelorn numbers, full of angst and introspection. They are both evocative and lovely songs. Bye Bye Pride is possibly my favourite Go-Betweens track with some haunting cor anglais underpinning a beautiful melody and complementing some gorgeous poetic imagery. Streets Of Your Town is a slice of social realism, on first listen a lightweight pop gem but, on further spins, darker ideas lurk. Darlinghurst Nights is a nostalgic look back at youth and is full of tangible charm; I know that dear S adores this ditty. The Statue is a really sweet and tuneful Grant McLennan song from the band’s last album. Enjoy.

I'll take the tracks down if anyone is unhappy with this scheme.

Pica Pica

Like a nervous apprentice handling a heady and dangerous elixir, I have treated the new Radiohead album, In Rainbows, with utmost care, not playing it to death, choosing my moments to sample it thoughtfully and gradually getting to grips with its multi-layered, multi-textured bewitching bewilderment. I’m getting there now. The reviews have been marvellous and I am thankful to report that there is a tangible link to Kid A, the Oxfordshire beat combo’s most complex and rewarding work. House of Cards reminds this punter of Goin’ Back by The Byrds; this is a good thing. I commend this album to the house.

I admire what the affable A has done on his site. He has lovingly created a dainty compilation of some of his old favourites and rendered said selection available for download. I’m listening to it now with an earnest expression on my face. I consider myself a keen reggae fan but I admit the artist known as Scientist (not his real name I fancy) has always passed me by so I’m glad to have the chance to hear one of his creations and, lo!, it is a bass-heavy delight. Like an evil and calculating pop magpie, I’m keen to do something similar on this site and as soon as I work out how to share music files via the World Weary Web, I’ll post up some tunes and riddims of my own choice. I might call mine ‘Six of the Best’ but I’m not sure yet.

Film

I awoke, coughing and wheezing, this morning at about one of the clock and for the life of me could not return to meaningful slumber. I ventured downstairs and became hooked on a film I’d never heard of before that was a-showing on the Film 4 network. The moving picture was named The Low Down, a British feature from 2000 that tells the tale of Frank, an artist in his late 20s who lives in Bohemian semi-squalor in a London flatshare in a dodgy part of the capital. The film focuses on his relationships with a new girlfriend and his two colleagues who work with him constructing props for TV shows. To be honest, not a lot happens. The style is almost documentary and fly-on-the-wall but the dialogue, while understated, is beautifully and wittily observed. There’s a bit of tension at work between the trio and the plot examines this as well as how the young lady gently coerces Frank to subtly change his life and better his surroundings. There are no massive set pieces or dramatic denouements, no stunts or jaw-dropping action scenes and I sense that is why I enjoyed it so much. The characters were so believable and stunningly crafted that I could genuinely feel I was voyeuristically witnessing a set of interesting – but not that interesting – lives. The acting was top notch and the ensemble contained a few faces that went onto greater things since the turn of the century. Frank was superbly played by Queer As Folk’s Aiden Gillen while his two work friends were, rather quaintly, Tobias Menzies (a sublime, sublime Brutus in the remarkable Rome) and Dean Lennox Kelly (the Gallagher’s cheeky neighbour, Kev, in Shameless). Frank’s gal was ‘er out of Shaun of the Dead, Kate Ashfield. I’m tempted to get the blighter on DVD and watch it again. Hurrah. Thank goodness for that cough.

Look out kid...

Here’s a screengrab from one of my Bob Dylan styled emails I sent recently. Thanks to S2 for telling me how to produce a still from a moving image from that internet thing. He was correct; it was easy. Naturally, those gazing at the picture above will be debating who the greater genius was, Dylan or Preedy? That, comrades, is a discussion for another time.

A Friendly Intervention

Blimey. Tickets for the 2008 Green Man Festival are available. I’m very tempted but shall keep my powder dry until the new year when I shall start lobbying S and persuade him that his threatened festival retirement might be too early. Part of me wants to apply for tickets to Glastonbury next year, not for the commercial Razorlight nonsense that dominates the main stage but for all the smaller venues where nuggets might lurk lurkily.

The fellow who puts the Yo! into Yorkshire, M, has heralded a new favourite album. I was hurt and worried when he suggested that this recording had replaced in his affections the varied long players released by the young prince of music, Sufjan Stevens, but we’ve talked it through. I now have a copy of Poses by Rufus Wainwright and, out of loyalty to Stevens, I’ve tried very hard to dislike it but have failed abysmally. After three or four listens, I have grown to admire the textured songwriting skills of Wainwright and I am greatly enjoying some very beautiful numbers. I publicly express my gratitude. As a symbolic act to remind myself who is still number one chez Cole, I did listen to the second half of Illinoise this evening while I let my evening meal, heavy in carbohydrates, settle.

Please her, please him, buy totebags

According to the Iron & Wine web presence, Sunday’s purchase is not a shopping bag but a totebag. This is a new word for me. I doubt it has anything to do with the gambling emporium. I can’t imagine Sam Beam putting a fiver each-way on the 5.15 at Kempton Park. Here’s a picture of the official Iron & Wine totebag to render all readers of these humble pages green with envy.

I have been having enormous fun here. You can create your own Bob Dylan Subterranean Homesick Blues message which you then email to a comrade. You surely know the ‘video’ to that song; the boy Dylan peels off page after page of lyrics as the ditty plays. He doesn’t mime or anything as uncool as that. You can merrily view the original here. Anyway, the clever website permits you to choose what goes on the sheets. This allowed me to send J an unusual thank you letter for driving me to Bristol on Sunday night; S, D and A should have received a list of my favourite Gloucester rugby players from yesteryear surreally revealed by the folk genius/hepcat.

Made To Realise

The dainty surroundings of Bristol’s beatific Saint George’s Hall gently and tastefully hosted Iron & Wine last evening. From my vaguely uncomfortable seat, three rows back, I appreciated the fine and studied musicianship of Sam Beam and his comrades (including, if I’m correct, the slide-guitarist from the mighty and splendid Calexico) and, at times, marvelled at the sumptuous soundscapes the eight-piece, underpinned by a splendid percussion collective, mustered. The songs were tender and gently melancholic but a tad one-paced for my liking; the folksy tones and whispered vocals remained pleasant enough throughout but the mighty and near orchestral clamour that soared through the aisles when the band really hit top gear came not often enough. I bought an Iron & Wine shopping bag afterwards; My Bloody Valentine never used to offer punters such a product.

I’ve suffered a migraine today, the first since the summer.

I do relish political memoirs written either from the perspective of the politician or the journalist and I am racing through Jon Snow’s account of a fascinating career at the moment. Shooting History has, thus far, taught me plenty about various episodes that I was either too young or, I’m ashamed to confess, too ambivalent to engage with at the time. His account of the varied conflicts within Central America during the Reagan era has proved fascinating while the sections examining the role of the papacy on world politics (and vice versa) are truly disturbing but not in the least surprising. His love affair with Africa and, in particular, Uganda is vibrantly described. The book is written with a moving emotionality; the author is often witnessing history behind tear-filled eyes and it is obvious that much that he has reported continues to influence, affect and haunt him. It’s a compelling read. I would place it alongside John Simpson’s Strange Places, Questionable People as a benchmark for quality writing about foreign news. John Sergeant’s Give Me Ten Seconds is my favoured tome that focuses mainly on domestic matters.

It's not the sort of job I'd do myself, but then I'm not him...

A cataclysmic mix-up involving the hasty texting of a Wedding Present song title to a comrade has dominated the weekend. I meant well. The fall-out may eclipse even the notorious Bryan Adams/Ryan Adams confusion of 2006 that rocked the very fabric of society and still haunts me. The Beth Orton/Beth Gibbons misunderstanding between me and S of four or five years ago came close. Now, that was embarrassing. Ouch.

Gloucester 18 - Newcastle 18

I forlornly meandered to the rugby on my own yesterday and found myself, completely sans self-consciousness, leaping about like a crazed tapir as, ten minutes into injury time, the young prince they call ‘Simpson-Daniel’ scampered cheerfully over for a try that tied the match for the Gloucester club of Gloucester. The EDF Cup fixture against Newcastle ended in an 18-all draw and I would suggest that the home side would feel more satisfied with a result that flatters a lacklustre display. It was, nonetheless, a thrilling ending to a match especially as the Cherries found themselves 18-3 down with less than a quarter of the match remaining. The brave and bloody-minded fight back proffered a rare positive on a day where little else gave cheer. Karl Pryce has surely played his last match for the noble club; the colossal winger lacked pace, positional sense and, seemingly, any tangible clue as to what his job required. He conveniently limped off after thirty minutes and was replaced by the lively and sharp James Bailey but had the coaches dragged him off after ten, I would not have complained nor experienced a modicum of surprise. The line-out was shocking but I suppose that fielding a hooker who was residing in a different hemisphere until midweek helped not. The introduction of the waspish Titterrell after the break improved matters to an extent but this is an area that requires urgent action. There were positives though. Chris Paterson enjoyed his first start in the ten shirt and produced a no-frills display of sharp and considered passing and intelligent kicking. He should remain first choice with the steady Walker as back-up; the youngster Lamb has produced a series of fairly interesting cameos but has failed to really ‘boss’ a match for a good while. The fabulous match against Wasps where his prodigious skills lit up Kingsholm took place the season before last; since then this scribe has felt rather underwhelmed by the fellow. The mature Paterson is a class above and I felt authentic relief that now we actually have a stand-off who can dominate matches and bring out the best in the massive talent that surrounds him. Elsewhere I enjoyed Balshaw’s skill and confidence at full back and some of his work with the incredible Simpson-Daniel was electrifying. Lines-out aside, the pack produced a fairly no-nonsense performance but we miss the terrier Hazell badly; the Fijian Qera produced a couple of scintillating runs but, possibly, didn’t do as much of the dirty work that ‘Haze’ gets down to with such unselfishness. I think the team needs to improve a great deal to do itself justice in the Heineken Cup and the addition to the matchday 22 of such luminaries as Tindall, Morgan, Nieto, Buxton and Azam will help.

Bob Dylan/Pineapple Upside-Down Cake

I completed Bob Dylan’s Chronicles: Volume One this morning. Any dude wanting a chronological account of this hipcat’s life will be disappointed as the book focuses on just a few periods. The height of Dylan’s fame – the mid sixties, I guess – is not mentioned and other important events (his motorcycle crash, his relationship with Joan Baez) are skirted over in a sentence or two. Much of the book features the pre-fame years, his burgeoning musicianship, the folk clubs in Minneapolis and New York and how varied influences (notably Woody Guthrie, Bertolt Brecht and Robert Johnson) combined to create his sound. The book ends as Dylan signs to Columbia and hooks up with manager Albert Grossman. In between, a couple of weighty sections dwell on the making of 1970’s New Morning (an album I confess I’d never really heard of) and 1989’s Oh Mercy! (which I’d heard of but not heard but now want to) and go into immense detail about the formation of individual songs and sounds. It’s a fabulous read, not just for the mesmerizing subject matter but because of the slightly rambling, conversational tone in which it is written. I could almost imagine the great man whispering his confessions in my ear as I turned the pages. I don’t class myself as a massive Bob Dylan fan although I really appreciate a lot of his stuff: I played Bringing It All Back Home over breakfast and am listening to Modern Times as I pen these words. I’m now keen to acquaint myself with Oh Mercy! and maybe one or two other albums that have passed me by (Time Out Of Mind, Love And Theft, Desire etc.)

I baked a marvellous pineapple upside-down cake earlier this week. This was the first cake I have cooked in my life and, by all accounts, proved a minor triumph. It was a very sweet item, packed with sugar both to sweeten the sponge and to caramelise the pineapple. It was devoured more like a pudding than a cake with cream adding to the overall scene. It gave me a touch of heartburn but it was worth it. I might make another soon. My card modelling and bakery experiments haven’t changed my life but I’ve enjoyed trying out new things. What next? Patchwork quilting? To be frank, I wouldn’t mind learning to knit or crotchet.