To rouse the spirit of the earth and move the rolling sky

I’m aware I haven’t recommended too many 2009 long players but am happy to salute The Decemberists’ The Hazards of Love, a sublime and really rather clever recording that I’ve been spinning relentlessly in recent days. I note that the current Word Magazine is offering this opus as an incentive to sign up for a subscription, accompanied by an unexpected suggestion from editor Mark Ellen that this might be the greatest album of all time. I can see the fellow’s point. It’s an ambitious beggar with seventeen tracks segueing into each other, producing a stunning suite of songs linked thematically. A wiser man than me might dub this a ‘concept album’ and, indeed, a tale is told throughout of two lovers with nods to death, brutality, enchantment and villainy tossed in for good measure. I hadn’t heard much of this band’s work before but I must investigate the back catalogue. Lead vocalist and musical mastermind Colin Meloy possesses a haunting voice which complements the effective folk-rock instrumental ambience splendidly. There are merry riffs and tantalising solos for those who like that kind of thing while the exquisitely chosen female singers add a great deal of delicacy and lushness to proceedings. The Hazards of Love proved a challenging listen to start with but after numerous plays it has become an old friend. This is a rewarding listen, a multi-layered delight brimming with beautiful tunes and ear-catching interludes. I advise all lovers of soaring sounds to contemplate seeking out this recording and spinning it on their radiograms and hi-fis forthwith.

Our gain is your loss, thats the price you pay

The Guide in Saturday’s Guardian consistently provides plenty of advice for hepcats and hipsters, offering sagacity galore pertaining to, inter alia, upcoming music tours, comedy, feature films, events and televisual joy. There’s always a page devoted to the latest appealing internet sites and ‘twas here, today, that I got the idea to open my own online record store. Peoplesmusicstore.com is an offshoot of Warp Records. It allows punters to make their own little online boutique, flog some sounds and, I believe, keep 10% of the proceeds. I’ve created my own cosy store and named it after this humble weblog. There are about fifty albums there, all owned by myself already in some format or other and recommended wholeheartedly. As this land's worst possible businessman, I don’t really expect to actually sell anything to anyone but it was a happy half hour creating the page. However, if by any huge oversight, you don’t already own anything by Sufjan Stevens (the world’s most remarkable recording artist), you can quickly put this right. The same goes for Boards of Canada, The Go-Betweens, Burial or Pavement, all artists I have sighed wistfully about over the past years or decades.

Untitled

There’s still plenty of work to do in the rear garden but at least the paved area is complete. Here are three pictures showing the progress made over the past few days. Please note the presence of our chickens, now spending their last week chez Cole before heading off to a new life at a colleague’s place. We’re keeping our favourite bird, a little bantam we call Duck, and will soon (maybe tomorrow) buy a friend to keep it company. The chickens have been great fun and have produced literally hundreds of eggs for the table; it’s time for a change though.

Troxy Music

I enjoyed a brief chat with London-based D earlier. The charming product of Newent School has secured me a ticket to attend a concert featuring American alt-rockers Wilco. The Illinoisan collective is playing the capital’s Troxy venue a day or two after headlining the Green Man Festival at the fag end of August. I have started my revision for this recital this evening. Already familiar with the group’s marvellous Yankee Hotel Foxtrot long player, I have downloaded that album’s follow-up, A Ghost is Born which is surging joyously through my beloved Sennheiser headphones as I pen these very words. The Troxy seems a fabulous place to attend live performances. It’s a 1930s art deco listed building which saw many years’ service as a cinema; it looks rather beautiful, both inside and out.

panem et circenses

Gloucester’s renowned rugby union club, known affectionately as ‘Gloucester’, will be playing at Twickenham this weekend in the final of the Anglo-Welsh Cup, known sans affection as the EDF Trophy. A combination of tardiness, my brief absence from this sceptred isle, economics and, I admit, a vague lack of interest means I shall not be attending the match in person. I’ll view events via a telecast more, I fear, in hope than expectation of a win for the local heroes. Fitness doubts surround bullish centre Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall, the young prince of rugby, James Simpson-Daniel and that elegant enigma o’ the back three, Iain Balshaw and I worry that, wi’out this international trio of tyros, the fabled cherry ‘n’ whites’ll struggle against a classy Cardiff outfit.

Although I’ve recently reported some exciting matches (tellingly, doughty fight-backs and reasonably unexpected victories at home) this has not been the finest of seasons for my club. Any success, it seems, has arrived thanks to the energy and enterprise of individual players (Delve, Azam, Morgan) and not because of any surging team effort and cohesive or coherent tactical game plan. Seemingly, I approach the ends of seasons either giddy with expectation for the oncoming late summertide and the promise of pre-season friendly fixtures or, and this is emphatically the case this time round, thankful that the ruddy circus is leaving town for a while and I can think about other stuff for a month or four. It appears that the close season is to be dominated by the faintly familiar swish of the revolving doors at Kingsholm Stadium. Comings and goings are promised. The cynic in me detects a pattern, a cyclical, oft-repeated culling of dead wood and resultant heralded arrival of new faces that will finally, we are promised, complete the jigsaw puzzle and bring success. That swish has been heard before here, a joyless noise that followers of more successful clubs, Leicester Tigers and London Wasps for example, would not recognise.

As every season goes by, a little more of my once electric enthusiasm for the club drips away; I confess that after witnessing countless dull bouts of aerial ping-pong permeating too many unremarkable performances in too many meaningless competitions and having contemplated the soul of the club ebbing away with every witless hee-haw from the stands and every stunningly vacuous uttering from our ghastly new Severn Sound announcer, my fervour is waning rapidly. The club should not take my support for granted despite thirty years of loyal service in the Popular Side. Roll on summer.

Way Out

Currently, the favourite long playing record in this house is Exit by the esoteric Japanese musical magician Shugo Tokumaru. This is a short recording that combines quirky and multi-layered instrumentals with more traditional – yet, at the same time, whimsical and textured – popular songs. The numbers are sung in the artist’s native tongue but the delectable melodies, twisting and innovative, are emphatically universal. The tenderly proffered lyrical content remains, of course, incomprehensible but the charm and beauty, both implied and palpable, renders each moment a tangible treasure. This is a sumptuous record that is recommended highly.

I purchased Exit in Other Music, a fabulous record store just off the lower end of Broadway in, I guess, what is New York’s East Village. It’s my kind of place. There are racks and racks of fascinating product and kindly, knowledgeable yet unpretentious staff who offer sage advice and friendly chitterchat. Each salesperson seems to have chosen a personal and up-to-date top ten list of favoured CDs which is displayed above the counter and this non-corporate and individual touch appeals greatly. I also purchased Harmonic 313’s splendidly titled When Machines Exceed Human Intelligence and Martial Canterel’s Refuge Underneath at Other Music. The former is a recent release on Warp, a bewitching electronic and funky belter heavily influenced by the Detroit techno sound. The latter is a terse, slightly Teutonic, dark slice or twenty of minimal and contemplative melancholia overseen by Brooklyn’s Sean McBride. Both long players are compelling and challenging.

The Cement Garden

Rarely, very rarely, a posting arrives here, featuring hints of hard labour being carried out by my humble and wan self. The Coles have a project on the go at the moment. Last year we purchased, for an undisclosed amount of sovereigns and guineas, the bottom half of our neighbours’ rear garden. Last May, after a bout of drilling and breaking of hardcore, a summerhouse was erected and this week we’re laying a paved section in front of it and putting down a winding path that’ll run the full length of our L-shaped area of horticulture. We’re using reclaimed bricks and pammet (a new word for me) tiles for the 'patio' to make it look all red ‘n’ old. I’ll publish a photograph of the finished article later this week but meanwhile, for thrill-seekers everywhere, here’s a pair of carefully posed action shots indicating ‘work in progress’.

Poetry, that's a part of me, retardedly bop; I drop the ancient manifested hip-hop, straight off the block

I’ve spent a few hectic days in New York with my male heir, y’know wha’ I’m sayin’, and despite the otherworldly sensations that arrive with tricky time zones and travel tedium I am happy to sign in and salute comrades. We stayed at the Roger Smith Hotel, a reassuringly old-fashioned establishment in the heart of Manhattan’s East Side and a fabulous base from which to stride purposefully out, clad in Zoot Suits, each morning. Amid varied weather (blistering sun to torrential rain to, absurdly, snow) much was packed in. I enjoyed the hipster-run independent record stores in the south of the borough and picked up some wonderful CDs that I’m sure I’ll mention here soon. There were plenty of new experiences to appreciate, from bloating oneself on diner breakfasts, craning one’s neck at too many skyscrapers to count, haring down the avenues in yellow cabs to strolling contentedly through Central Park and drifting in and out of wonderfully eclectic thrift stores and flea markets. I’d like to return.

Some photographs are proffered. The top features the male heir and ‘oodied hepcat in front of the Flatiron Building. The author stands before the Empire State Building in the middle digital daguerreotype image. Eyes should then be lowered to the bottom image where one can marvel at the view from our hotel room’s window.

And you may find yourself...

I’ve been in poor health this week and unable to summon the energy or inclination to post on here. I apologise.

Last weekend’s trip to Birmingham’s Symphony Hall requires a mention. David Byrne produced a remarkable set of funky, riddimic splendour that had a large crowd merrily bopping and saluting the former Talking Head with fervour and joy. The main ‘set texts’ were, I suppose, Fear of Music and the remarkable Remain in Light although a few tracks from Byrne’s recent collaboration with Brian Eno were showcased as well. The fellow certainly knows how to put on a splendid show. A hip (some would say ‘uber-hip’) dance collective complemented the scorching aural treats with plenty of abstract movements and energetic tomfoolery. As the dashing S mentioned afterwards, with such a marvellous back catalogue you can’t really go wrong. There were too many highlights to mention but I loved all the Remain in Light stuff, dug a vigorous I Zimbra and sighed contentedly at a bewitching Heaven. The two hours rocketed by. I confess that often I’m keen for concerts to err on the side of caution and not go on too long but I acclaimed the length of this recital and was thrilled that three encores were proffered to a delirious audience. A travelled to Bristol to see Byrne last week and wrote of the event with far more eloquence than I can muster. Visit the wistful fellow here; he has multimedia treats for you.

Showin' much flex when it's time to wreck a mic

This is a busy weekend. Last evening, Gloucester’s historic Guildhall hosted the lovable beat combo, Young Knives. The Loughborough anti-hipsters set their stall out early with a bracing brace of belters; cranking the amps up to eleven, the wry indie-rockists bombarded an earnest gathering with a bewitching Terra Firma and then, to unbridled glee, a charismatic rendering of The Decision. The set, a mixture of firm favourites and newer treats, proved entertaining although the traditional onstage banter between the waspish vocalist Henry Dartnall and his portly brother, ‘The House of Lords’, was difficult to hear because of poor sound quality. I thank K of deepest Kingsholm for the above photograph of the band's affable bassist. Remarkably, it was taken on a telephone. Whatever next?

I viewed, via a telecast, earlier this afternoon, the noble Gloucester team defeat the acclaimed Neath/Swansea Ospreys in a tremendously exciting rugby football match. The occasion was the semi-final of the Anglo-Welsh EDF Cup. Despite the Welsh outfit dominating possession and, to an extent, territory, my favoured team defended stoutly and, importantly, took the points when offered. The final score, 17-0 to the self-styled cherry-and-whites, must be saluted. Not only was victory attained against a side brimming with world class internationals but the black-clad Celts failed to trouble the scorers. I salute all concerned. ‘The lads’ now meet Cardiff in the final next month. Twickenham beckons.

The sweet, sweet songs that cloud your eyes

The affable S recently asked me – with admirable eloquence – if there was a decent book about chess he could read. He wasn’t that interested in chess theory but fancied a meaty read about the game’s history. My current book at bedtime, Bobby Fischer Goes To War, might be the one he’s been waiting for. Obviously this tome focuses on a few tremendously interesting years when the world looked on as an acerbic New Yorker took on the might of the Soviet machine and (all too briefly) vanquished. However much of the narrative examines the history of the world title and the backdrop to the U.S.S.R.’s obsession with chess success and shares significant biographical details of Grandmasters. Much of the book examines Boris Spassky, Fischer’s opponent in the immortal 1972 World Championship Final, and, especially, his uneasy relationship with the Soviet hierarchy; the genial Russian was no model communist and the state’s desire to cast him as a human pawn (pun intended) in the East vs. West machinations proved troublesome. Naturally, the remarkable Fischer, falling out appallingly with everybody at every turn, dominates proceedings. There are more anecdotes here then one can shake a pair of knights at and all entertain marvellously. It was merry to learn that the teenaged Fischer proved such a discourteous and quarrelsome youth that his mother ended up moving out of their apartment; in her absence, Fischer put a bed in every room in the house with a chess board next to each of them so he could study different positions wherever he wanted until he fell into slumber. Essentially this is a book that requires little, if any, knowledge of chess to appreciate. It is, first and foremost, a study of the human condition and the assertion – proffered by British chess stalwart Bill Hartson - that chess is a game that ‘doesn't drive people mad (but) keeps mad people sane’.

Is this my wonderful prize?

I ventured to Sixways Stadium, the home of Worcester, er, Warriors yesterday and rather regret doing so. My favoured team Gloucester spurned numerous chances to cross the whitewash and produce a five point scoring act; the Kingsholm fifteen’s domination meant nothing as a lack of coherent game plan coupled with the hosts’ ability to make the most of what few opportunities came their way meant that the afternoon ended in bitter disappointment. This 14-10 reverse surely prevents Gloucester from finishing in first or second place in the league thus denying ‘the lads’ a home semi-final in the end-of-season play-offs. It was all a bit shoddy. Losing to a weaker team always rankles.

Submission

The Wrestler is a remarkable feature film. The Coles attended a screening last evening at Gloucester’s compact and bijou Guildhall Arts Centre cinema. Mickey Rourke plays washed-out grappler Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson magnificently. His greatest days behind him, Robinson clocks into a New Jersey supermarket during the week, donning latex at the weekends in order to wrestle for a few bucks in smaller and smaller arenas. This is a bleak but somehow uplifting feature. The fellow’s depressing life is laid bare; from trailer park austerity to the despair of ruined relationships to low-life associations (Robinson’s love interest is a similarly past-her-best lap dancer) there is little to truly celebrate here apart from the warming camaraderie of his fellow wrestlers (a great bunch o’ lads) and the unbridled affection of a dwindling but obsessive fan base. Years of steroid abuse have taken their toll on the eponymous hero and the resulting chronic ill health dominates the second half of the film. However, apart from the uber-violent scenes of staggeringly vicious ring-based mayhem (staple guns and barbed wire anyone?), it is the small details that compel throughout. The closeness of the camera to Rourke throughout the feature captures a gamut of emotions and feelings from extreme pain to incomparable courage to ironic resignation often underpinned with the uncomfortably vivid heavy breathing of a chronically unwell man. A mixture of the brutal and unexpectedly beautiful, this is a wonderful film. Recommended without reservation.

In Italia Hellas, In Europa Hellas!

A Season With Verona is a tremendous book about association football and so much more. Tim Parks, an English writer and academic and resident of the historic Italian city, spends a whole season attending every match Hellas Verona, his local and favoured team, plays in Serie A, travels with the notorious brigate to away fixtures, and takes his seat in the cauldron-like curva for home games. The ‘gialloblu’ (the ‘yellow and blues’) are threatened with relegation and each chapter focuses on an individual match before printing an up-to-date league table. I still have a fifth to read and I’m intrigued as to how the season will finish. Hellas are about to play Milan in the San Siro so I’m writing that match off as an away win. Along the way, Parks meets players, coaches, commentators and a wide variety of supporters. I would suggest that the association code only accounts for half the subject matter; the book is subtitled ‘Travels Around Italy in Search of Illusion, National Character and Goals’ and the passages recounting the boot-shaped country’s attitude to race, politics, religion and society are as absorbing and as forceful as any description of a last minute goalmouth scramble. I’m learning a lot about a fascinating republic and enjoying some fabulous sporting thrills along the way.

Merit

I am unable to attend this weekend’s rugby union match in which the Gloucester club of Gloucester hosts that London Wasps outfit. It is the last chance to vote for Player of the Season on Saturday and I’ve asked a comrade to cast my slip by proxy. For the first time in the 'ole of 'istory, I have chosen the same footballer for both the Young Player and Player of the Season awards. The thoroughbred Morgan has impressed from the very first minute of the season with his bravery, reliability under the high ball and elegant running style. I salute him as I seek to elect him twice. Olivier Azam’s belligerent grunting for the cause tempted me as did the behemoth Delve for his recent run of tremendous form at the base o’ the scrum.

Flavour

Four Coles made long awaited debuts at Sebz on Saturday night. Sebz is a tapas restaurant in the renowned thoroughfare known as Northgate Street and, verily, we gorged merrily on delight after delight. I hungrily consumed three dishes, Spanish omelette, some spicy potatoes and Portuguese cod fishcakes but also munched on garlic bread (what a concept that is), the house olives and a dish of spicy broad beans. The strong Portuguese beer I supped was gorgeous. It was just great to enjoy some less usual tastes in really pleasant and incredibly friendly surroundings. I’ll certainly visit this establishment again. I’m aware I sound like an agent for the place but I’m tempted by the three tapas for £6.95 deal at lunchtimes.

The only downside to the Sebz experience was the music they played. Rick Astley’s Greatest Hits is not my favoured selection when seeking aural pleasure. I wasn’t aware that the boy Astley had produced so many songs and all of them sounding exactly the same. The evening ended with a bizarre selection of tracks including Booker T and the MGs’ Soul Limbo, 10cc’s Dreadlock Holiday and The Macarana by an unknown (to me) artist.

Anarchoustica

It was a special Acoustica at Gloucester’s mighty Guildhall Arts Centre on Friday. The main stage was utilised for a brace of fine acts and it seemed a tad strange to move away, temporarily, from the more intimate dais that normally serves the willing music lovers of the city. It was a splendid evening though. The last time I had seen Belinda O’Hooley was at 2007’s Green Man Festival when the engaging and pithy Yorkshire keyboarder had formed one quarter of Rachel Unthanks’s Winterset. She has now left that particular collective and has teamed up with the waif-like Heidi Tidow to form a pleasing duo that harmonises sweetly and delivers pleasant folky songs. O’Hooley is a quaint and wry character and this punter appreciated her witty and perceptive banter almost as much as her singing and playing. The main act, Chumbawamba, was tremendous. The controversial anarchistic outfit has mellowed over the years but still delivered a fabulously thought-provoking set. The five-piece sang magnificently, the varied voices complementing each other gorgeously, tackling subject matter that more mainstream combos would pass by: Darwinism, domestic violence, Mrs Thatcher’s mortality and the worst excesses of Facebook to name but four. We were treated to several English rebel songs, hauntingly chanted with dignity and respect. It sounds a touch po-faced and bleak, I know, but there was plenty of irony and knowing humour, both within the numbers and the ‘tween-number bantering. I’m not sure whether the earnest Chumbawamba yet qualify for ‘National Treasure’ status but they must be heading in the right direction. I commend this bunch of free thinkers; they celebrated England and Englishness rather sumptuously on Friday and I congratulate them keenly. It's merry to tap one's foot and cogitate at the same time.

Reservations

The first wave of Green Man acts is as eclectic and interesting as ever. Bon Iver produced this site's fourth favourite long player of 2008 and I’d be pleased to witness the fellow’s tender and emotive a-singin’ and a-playin’ in a live forum. British Sea Power, as reported here, put on smashing shows and I’d love to catch Wilco too. The Yankee Hotel Foxtrot recording remains a true favourite of this punter and I’m keen to hear more of their wares. I am aware that the amiable London trendsetter D rates Wilco as his ‘favourite band’ and can confirm that the fellow is now rather tempted by this festival. My attendance remains far from certain but today’s announcement has been noted with gentle approval.

Ysbeidiau Heulog?

The Green Man Festival announces line-up details tomorrow and I’ll be keeping one eye on developments. I’m vaguely tempted to attend again but at the moment I’m officially down as a ‘Possible’ rather than a ‘Probable’ (although that could change should wondrous acts be declared). It can’t rain again, surely? I’m rather intrigued to note that Super Furry Animals are headlining the Friday at Wychwood this May. They remain a wonderful beat combo and I’d be keen to trot along to the spa town to experience their Welsh melodic wizardry.

Just like way back in the days of old

Hoarseness attends me after I vibrantly encouraged my favoured team known cheerfully as ‘Gloucester’ to a 33-36 victory yesterday. Reaching for a throat lozenge has ne'er proved more pleasurable, I'll tell thee. We have been treated, in recent weeks, to some truly exciting matches at Kingsholm but none as thrilling as this win over Bath in a game that, simply, had everything. Events ebbed and flowed with a rare effervescence and, more than once, I feared that our rivals would emerge victorious only for bayonets to be sharpened and reaffixed in order for the heroes in cherry to attack purposefully once again. History will judge that a five minute period, in which three noble tries were secured, proved pivotal. Yes, ‘twas a fabulous salver of touchin’ down the egg merriment but there was more to proceedings than merely scampering o’er the line. The tries were splendid though. The young prince, Simpson-Daniel, bagged a bewitching brace, first chasing a chip from the chipper Spencer and later galloping home from halfway having intercepted gleefully. A third five-pointer from the sharp and keen and speedy Sharples sent the popular side into scenes of hysterical mayhem. But I would suggest that another gritty performance from a mighty Gloucester forward pack saw the city club home. The warrior they call Delve stole the man of the match plaudits for the third, possibly fourth, match in a row and I warmly salute another performance of raw substance and gainline-breaking magnificence from the engaging Welshman. The livewire Hazell is in the form of his life and snaffled the loose ball and won, not only the 50-50 eggs, but the 40-60 and 30-70 ones also. I must mention the splendid contribution made by Kiwi prop Somerville who, wi’ abrasive cohorts Azam and Wood, contested and dominated the tight exchanges fiercely and made too many hard yards to count, carrying the ball uncompromisingly into, and often, through contact. It was a great occasion yesterday. The lads were marvellous.