Wildlife Analysis

Our new pond is appealing. Two or three months ago we dug a hole large enough to place an old bathtub in and filled it with pebbles, plant-life and, of course, that hardy annual found in all ponds, that new-fangled water stuff. A couple of lovely frogs have pitched up there in the past fortnight and some spawn we were donated from another pond lover has now turned into tadpoles which have very recently grown legs. Our in-between tad-frogs are smashing. The pond changes every day; it’s a pleasant area to gaze upon and pass a merry minute.

Swell Maps

Two hot new albums are rocking dis boat at the moment. We Can Create by Maps is a swirling, swaggering, modern shoe-gazing classic and, by the power of Greyskull, it is growing on this eager punter with every listen. I appreciate the fact that We Can Create was created and written in the Northampton bedroom of someone called James because its euphoric, insouciant swagger suggests a more epic origin. I forced my MP3 player’s headphones deep into my ears ce matin, cranked the volume up to onze and shook to this album as I did the weekly shop at the Coles’ supermarché of choice. Against the backdrop of these dreamlike and evocative numbers, selecting the appropriate detergent proved a joy. Well done!

I’m also mightily impressed by Tromatic Reflexxions by Von Sudenfed, a splendid collaboration between The Fall’s Mark E. Smith and German techno pioneers Mouse on Mars. I confess that I told someone last week that it was Smith and Modest Mouse that had got together and made this recording; I feel foolish to have confused my Mittel-European electronica with my po-faced US indie but the sensation/guilt will pass. All these mice! I digress. Tromatic Reflexxions is a superb collection of funky, bluesy, hip-hoppy ‘tronic sounds, mumbled over by Smith’s laconic drawl and wit and underpinned by a fabulous sense of riddim, and, importantly, melody. It works.

Run Run Run

The new BBC series, Seven Ages of Rock, is enthralling. The first episode focussed on the end on the 1960s and, in particular, the impact a certain Jimi Hendrix had on the British music scene. Personally, I’ve always considered Hendrix to be a tad, shhhh, overrated so it was enlightening to listen to the likes of Clapton, Richards and Bruce (Jack not Forsyth) eulogising about the Seattle-born virtuoso. It was an interesting start to the series but the second episode was tremendous. Bearing the title, ‘White Light, White Heat’, the show examined the art rock of the late 1960s and early 1970s and drew marvellous comparisons between Velvet Underground and Pink Floyd and the manner in which both acts ‘pushed the envelope’ (dreadful expression, apologies…) with their innovative multimedia live appearances and musical experimentalism. David Bowie, Roxy Music and early Genesis were also featured and it really made me want to listen to early albums by all three of these artists. I must talk to S about early Genesis. It is only recently I’ve got into Pink Floyd after years – well, decades – of dismissing them insouciantly. The Wall is a superb and ambitious album and I really appreciate the melodic intelligence and wry cynicism of Wish You Were Here and Animals. Dark Side of the Moon is alright too. Why did I wait so long? The finest moments of ‘White Light, White Heat’ featured the stagecraft of Peter Gabriel and, in particular, the concert where, to the substantial shock of his bandmates, he emerged from the back of the stage to sing something off Foxtrot, wearing a fox’s head and a red party dress. I admired him for that. Look above to experience the moment too.

Next week’s episode is about punk rock.

But it's been no bed of roses

Being a fan of the quirky sporting statistic, I rather enjoy the concept behind the Unofficial Football World Championships website. The idea is that the first ever association football international, between Scotland and England in 1872, gave the winner the right to call itself World Champion. And, from there on in, that victorious footballing nation continued as World Champs until another country defeated it. That vanquishing nation then took the prize until it, in turn, lost an international match. And so on. And so on. It is a premise similar to boxing where a glove-donning pugilist will retain a world belt until a challenger conquers him in the ring. England became the first sole champions in 1873 – the first international proved a draw – and, with so many early international ties taking place between the home nations, the mantle was shared between England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland until 1931 when Austria hammered the Scots 5-1 in Vienna. Since then countless countries have earned the spurious right to call themselves Unofficial Football World Champions including, since the new millennium, Zimbabwe, Israel, Uruguay and those perennial underachievers Spain. Scotland, by pipping Georgia 2-1 in March became champions but a 2-0 defeat to Italy in Bari saw this brief reign end. Italy are currently official and unofficial champions but face the Faroe Islands in a week for the latest in a huge list of World Finals that stretches back 135 years. I post the Italian flag as tribute.

Sonic Boo

Another night, another jaunt to Gloucester Guildhall. Friday’s Acoustica event was a refreshing antidote to the slightly unsatisfactory ‘appenings at the Julian Cope recital. I enjoyed a wonderful evening. The first act delivered some really tender, delicate folk material. Kirsty McGee and her partner Mat Martin seem quite shy characters but I appreciated their self-deprecating and understated good humour. Their personal and evocative songs sounded gorgeous in such an intimate venue and the mix of acoustic guitar and banjo accompanied their thoughtful and thought-provoking lyrics with an affecting subtlety. I didn’t expect too much from them, to be honest, but, as is often the case, the pleasure one derives by being surprised by the quality of a performance can be substantial. I congratulate them on a splendid set.

I expected great things from the main act, Boo Hewerdine and was not disappointed. He was accompanied on stage by his friend and former Any Trouble head honcho, Clive Gregson. Hewerdine remains an engaging stage presence and his banter with Gregson and the audience proved a warm and witty highlight of the evening. But banter is nothing without good songs and we were treated to some glorious and moving numbers from the former Bible frontman’s repertoire. I really do rate this guy. The power to move an audience the way Hewerdine manages, armed with just a guitar, a ready quip and a bagful of tunes cannot be acknowledged more vigorously. His gentle charisma sent me tumbling onto the dark, mean streets of Gloucester with a broad smile on my face. This is a cool acoustic performer. This is a cool acoustic performer. I look forward to seeing him again.

Coping

For some, Julian Cope deserves the slightly over-used accolade, ‘National Treasure’ but, at the Guildhall on Thursday, I saw only a fellow, old enough to know better, wearing a daft ‘tit for tat’, trying desperately – too desperately? – to shock and consistently failing to move this punter on any significant level. One or two of numbers hit the right spot, in particular a luxurious You Disappear From View played on the mellatron, but overall I was disappointed. He was alright. A fairly dull evening was redeemed by a rather remarkable stand-off between the self-styled, ahem, Arch Drude and a slightly sad dreadlocked maid who had been yelling mundane tripe at Cope all night. Saint Julian finally cracked as the new age type attempted to hijack a sensitive rendition of Sunspots by shouting out some more meaningless tosh or other. A plaintive cry of ‘Shut the **** up!’ commenced a tirade that saw the Krautrock-admiring antiquarian branding the wench a fascist and informing her, with no little aggression, that he wanted her to leave. The former leader of The Teardrop Explodes ended his tirade by comically jumping up and down while he chanted ‘Get out! Get out!’ at the bewildered bellower. The poor love fled the auditorium in tears. Her numerous humdrum ejaculations had rankled; his petulance exposed him as spoilt and graceless. Neither party emerged with any real credit but it proved splendid theatre on a night that nothing much else caught the eye or ear.

Look at my bantam

It took me ages to get through its pages but the effort was worth my while. Snow Falling on Cedars proved an absorbing read and its profound ending offered a shrewd insight into human nature and the dilemmas that permeate one’s life. I was challenged by the passages that dealt with the ‘big issues’ of war and racism but it was the denouement, where a key character is forced into making a decision that carries huge, huge significance for others, that proved the most compelling read.

Frankly, I’ve not been listening to tons of music recently but I’m catching up now. I hadn’t been in the mood. Perhaps I’m being a tad churlish but I don’t think 2007 is proving a vintage year for sounds. Maybe my views will change over the next week or so. I have new albums by Maps, Fountains of Wayne, The Aliens and Bill Callahan to sample. All have been acclaimed critically. I shall report on my acclaim or otherwise soon.

Look at my bantam.

The dull thunder of approximate words

I watched yesterday’s Premiership Final from the sumptuous comfort of S’s sofa with the aforementioned S and the affable K for company. I don’t really buy into the play-off system although am not as hardline as S on the subject. I can’t feel too much disappointment at losing a fairly meaningless fixture and had Gloucester defeated Leicester, I wouldn’t have felt too much elation either. I really miss the old system but, it has to be said, my first years visiting Kingsholm and cheering on the boys were done so when no leagues existed. It is difficult to believe that I once experienced tangible excitement at friendly fixtures but those midweek matches against the likes of Pontypool and Newport were thrilling and somehow meant more. Perhaps it was because I was younger. Anyhow, I’m not going to think about the rugby for a while apart from musing over the pre-season signings. As ever the rumours are fascinating.

I borrowed three CDs from the newly married S yesterday. A brace of Richmond Fontaine long players and one from the folkster Alasdair Roberts adorn my rack and I look forward to hearing them properly although I have already dipped into them. Both acts are playing Green Man so I am keen to revise their back catalogues.

Well.....

Apologies for not posting for so long. Lots of stuff has happened with all manner of japes and jaunts to report. Look, I’ll simply chuck a few photographs up for now. The headlines read:

1. The Fall at Oxford’s Zodiac.

A fine evening. It was fun to check out a new venue and The Fall were on good form. Luckily, Youtube has come up trumps and it is possible to view a euphoric rendition of Big New Prinz. A bubbly S is to be spotted bopping away at 05.35 with the author of these pages poised just behind him adopting an ironic post-punk pose. The opening number, Reformation, is here but, sadly, there are no crowd scenes to drool over. The idea of the evening was to celebrate S's impending nuptials and we did so in style.

2. S’s Wedding

Hello Magazine wanted this photograph but I won’t be bought by anyone. The last few moments of the young blade’s bachelordom captured on film. It was a smashing day.

3. The Evening ‘Do’

We all went to 5 North Street in Winchcombe for a slap-up meal. This place is only one of two establishments in the county with a Michelin star and the Coles were bowled over by every aspect of the meal. The photograph features the evening cabaret warming up.

A Cautionary Tale

Cor blimey, I nearly came a cropper at the weekend. I have often looked at the intriguing world of spread betting but only on Sunday did I seriously consider having a punt myself. I was checking out the Sporting Index site and specifically examining the options open to someone wishing to gamble on the Biarritz versus Northampton rugby football fixture. There was a projected spread on the French side’s performance where Biarritz were awarded 25 points for winning the fixture, fifteen points for each try they scored and five point for every successful kick. Five points were to be deducted for each missed kick and every yellow card. Well, I reckoned Biarritz would slaughter, slaughter the Midland outfit; they were at home with the sun on their backs, Saints stood bottom of the Premiership with confidence at seemingly an all time low and the class of players such as Yashvili, Betsen and Harinoroquy would surely rack up the points. If they were to win, score four or five tries and pop over a few kicks, I would be quids in. The spread was 88-94 so, if I gambled a pound, and Biarritz’s performance rating was considerably higher than that - and surely that would be the case - I would win a fair bit. If I gambled a fiver, I’d clean up. I’m relieved I didn’t have a bet. With missed kicks, no tries and a loss, the Biarritz performance scored exactly nil. Placing five pounds on them doing well would have lost me 450 pounds. Spread betting is scary and I’m happy to report a lucky, lucky escape.

Flurry with a Fringe (Festival) on Top

In a flurry of activity, the Coles have sorted out summer. In the middle of last week, I booked flights and hotel so that I and the two eldest Cole children (for optimum effect, the last few words should be read in a Robert Robinson Ask the Family voice) can travel to the beautiful city of Amsterdam for a couple of days. We can check out stuff like Ann Frank’s house and the Van Gogh museum and also travel along the canals on some kind of craft. We are all going to Disneyland Paris for a week as well but certainly aim to spend some of the time in your actual Paris too. With Green Man to look forward to as well as, perhaps, WOMAD, it’ll prove a busy holiday but it should be fun. I really need some big events to look forward to and I apologise if that sounds self-centred.

I'm looking forward to next weekend's Bath versus Gloucester fixture but, having seen our West Country rivals destroy Bristol in the European Challenge yesterday, I've decided, as a one-off, to cheer on the blue, black and white shirts for a change next Saturday. After all, we never seem to win at the Recreation Ground.

Woof

I purchased The Aliens’ Astronomy for Dogs this morning and I’m playing it as I type these words. I sense it will prove a ‘grower’; nothing sounds startling yet but I do whiff a bit of the magic that made the Beta Band so interesting. I was served by a young bloke with dreadlocks at Fopp who uttered an admiring, ‘Good album!’ as I offered him my wares. We chatted briefly and I explained, without patronising the nipper in the least, the history of The Aliens. He said he’d have to find out more about them. Exchanges like this put a spring into the stride.

B & Q?

I’ve got some time off work soon and I am keenly looking forward to a break. Out in the real world, fellows are planning DIY jobs and a touch of car maintenance for the hols; in my world, I’m working out what to read and what new sounds to cotton onto. I like it my way. I’ve actually just started to read David Guterson’s Snow Falling on Cedars and I’m already appreciating its measured and intelligent prose, gently sustained tension and array of closely observed characters. It appears to be a courtroom drama with some very effective flashbacks lending the varied events a deal of depth. I smell quality.

I’m quite interested in Astronomy for Dogs, the new album by The Aliens. The reviews have been generally excellent and the former members of the marvellous Beta Band appear to have regained a decent amount of form. I’ve also added a few folk albums to my Amazon wishlist. With Starless and Bible Black, Vetiver and Tunng playing the Green Man, I want to hear some of their stuff. I’ve also been leafing through last December’s Mojo which lists dozens of epoch-making folk long players and have added a couple of albums from the 1970s by Trees and Clive Palmer.

Manners Maketh Man

I experienced a moral dilemma today in Sainsbury’s. I had my headphones pushed in as close to the brain as is medically possible and was really banging out Jonny Greenwood is the Controller, a sumptuous collection of reggae riddims that I wrote about here. It sounded fabulous. However, in the pasta sauces section, I spotted an old school colleague – with wife – approaching. Normally I would have said hello, and, as I had spotted this fellow at the rugby yesterday, would have discussed the game and swapped opinions about the state of the noble city club. I must confess that today I kept the phones in the skull, smiled, winked and muttered a brief, ‘How do’, hoping I wasn’t shouting too much. At the time, I felt the wink was an act of genius, a cheeky gesture that somehow excused my lack of chitter-chat. Six hours later, I am slightly lamenting my lack of grace and guiltily reappraising my lack of manners. Popular music had defeated the basics of society and community. It is a cracking album though.

Gloucester defeated the Falcons of Newcastle yesterday by 24 points to 18. It was a slightly anti-climactic event really. The rugby seemed a bit flat as my favoured team missed too many tackles and was forced to rely on individual acts of wit and skill to create its tries. The visitors’ backs, a real who’s who of young English talent, carved the Cherry and Whites up again and again while their forward pack, supposedly a weak link, fronted up strongly and were a match for the more exalted home eight. Our victory was fortuitous and Newcastle probably deserved more than a losing bonus point. They were the best team I’ve seen visit the famed old stadium all season.

Other Blindside Flankers of Note

I am disappointed that none of the squad have canvassed me personally in order to receive my vote, but today I have selected my Gloucester player (and young player) of the season. Ironically, it is the forward who has achieved the seemingly unachievable and wrested the six shirt from the mighty Jake Boer that has won the Cole nod of approval. The hastily scribbled nomenclature ‘Peter Buxton’ adorns my slip as a reward for week after week of honest endeavour and unfashionable pushing, carrying and defending. Every Ryan Lamb dummy, every sprint for the line by the young prince owes something to the unrelenting and often unnoticed grafting by the honest yeoman they call 'Bucko'. In today’s press Dean Ryan used a superb word to describe Jake Boer’s standing within the historic sport of rugby football union: credibility. Peter Buxton has credibility in spades too. I warmly salute his efforts this season. Hurrah.

The other players I considered were Christian Califano for his immense efforts in tight and loose, Marco Bortolami for his charismatic leadership, fine play and canny understanding of what the marvellous city club is all about and requires from its forwards, Andrew Hazell for another series of high quality performances in the back row and Rory Lawson for hard work and commitment and skill.

My Favourite Player

My favourite rugby player of the past ten years will be running out at Kingsholm for the last time on Saturday. Jake Boer will captain the Gloucester side against Newcastle and I find it hard to believe that the rugged South African will never again grace the famed Castle Grim turf. For me, Boer epitomises all that is marvellous about the city club. For years and years, his dedication to the cause, his unfashionable team-before-self ethic, his courageous eagerness to put his body on the line, his will to win, his will not to lose, his modesty, his skill, his tangible intelligence, all of these qualities and hundreds of others have won this supporter over and thousands more besides me. Jake Boer is my favourite player of recent times and, heck I’ll admit it, is a finer six than even the mighty John Gadd. I know I’ll be biting the old lower lip at 4.28 on Saturday when the matchless hero leads the lads out for the last time. Like all the greats, I imagined Jake Boer would go on for ever and it is difficult to imagine the city club without him. Thank you, Jake.

London to Brighton proved a shocking hour and a half but I sat quietly compelled throughout. The feature portrayed a seedy underbelly of British life and, to its credit, the array of runaways, prostitutes, paedophiles, gangsters, dropouts, and lowlifes was utterly convincing. Few – if any - of the characters emerged with any credit; even the ‘tart with a heart’ lead, street worker Kelly, was beyond redemption; her close relationship with underage runaway Joanne commenced after she had befriended her merely with a view to procuring her, for her own financial gain, for a paedophile client. It was all a bit grim yet incredibly thrilling as gang members hunted down Kelly and Joanne. In a way, it reminded me of Dead Man’s Shoes, another British thriller examining a stratum of British society that most of us would prefer to pretend didn’t exist. People actually experience these kinds of lives and that is some wake-up call.

Dinah Sheridan

The Coles are off to the Guildhall cinema this evening to view a moving picture, London to Brighton, which promises to be a bleak hour and a half of haunting despair and malevolent violence. Just a typical Wednesday night then. Runaways, prostitutes and inhuman hard men permeate the plot. I hope nobody pitches up expecting a remake of Genevieve.

Comedy Breasts and Krautrock

Today I finally got round to organising the accommodation for S’s ‘Stag Do’ in Oxford. I have booked a couple of rooms at the city’s Travelodge and I’m pleased with the deal I found. A small assembly of hipsters will be attending a Fall gig at the Zodiac next month and, now I know where we shall be staying, I’m looking forward to events immensely. For years, S and I have been discussing the concept of watching The Fall ‘somewhere different’ and it’ll be exciting to check out my most seen live band in a new venue and, before and afterwards, toasting the soon-to-be-wed young blade purposefully in bars, snugs and smoking rooms that I have never before encountered. It shall not be a ‘Stag Do’ in the traditional – and horrific - sense and I predict that S won’t end the evening naked and tied to a lamppost - although that mental image is oddly captivating. I do however have a touching fantasy involving Mark E. Smith glancing down into the crowd during a rendition of Mr. Pharmacist and clocking the acerbic S draped in a pair of comedy breasts. It can’t happen, can it?

I thank S for getting me into the remarkable Fujiya & Miyagi (pictured) although I had already read one or two reviews of the act’s smashing album Transparent Things. There is something charming about three English lads from Brighton giving themselves Japanese names and banging out driving Krautrockesque rock gems with considerable aplomb, wit and energy. The band’s lyrical content is packed with clever lines and smart imagery. I insist that all hepcats that assemble to read these pages go forth to the marvellous Fujiya & Miyagi website and watch the video (look under ‘News’) to the sumptuous Photocopier. Play it loud. It may change your life. This is my new favourite band.

The rugby union was good yesterday. The club I know simply as ‘Gloucester’ should have been out of sight with the amount of chances the team created but must content itself with a fine and necessary 34-25 over the club I know simply as ‘Harlequins’. Andrew Hazell enjoyed a dashing eighty minutes of undiminished effervescence while Will James proved a thunderous presence in both tight and loose. The shaven-headed lock would have the Cole vote in any elective process to find the ‘most improved player’ this season; someone suggested to me that it has taken the former Cornish Pirate this long to attain the fitness levels required for the English Premiership. He is certainly up to speed now and he put in another splendid and tumultuous performance on Saturday.

Sensitivities

I’ve been playing the Gruff Rhys album, Candylion as a bit of research for the Green Man Festival. I like it. I’d be lynched for suggesting that the long player possesses a slight English whimsy when Rhys is as Welsh as Max Boyce holding a daffodil, but it does remind me a little of the marvellous Shack twinned with the sensitivities of a Nick Drake. The songs are understated but melodic and packed with interesting ideas and sweet melodies and hushed and thoughtful vocals.

Talking of the Green Man, a host of artists have been added to the line-up since the last time I checked out the festival’s website. Stephen Malkmus, formerly, of course, of the splendid Pavement (my favourite band of the 1990s?) is headlining the Sunday and I welcome this although he doesn’t seem to fit the folk tag that I associate with Green Man. Vashti Bunyan will be there and I guess that was always on the cards. Her presence is a good thing. Other acts announced include Earlies, Vetiver, Bill Callahan and Richmond Fontaine. I know that S and D both admire the latter immensely so I’ll have to investigate them sooner rather than later. I need guidance in order to discover their best work and I’m sure that pair of hipsters will suggest where to go.

Julian Cope is playing the Guildhall in May. One can only expect the unexpected when he marches into town.

Oval/Egg

Gloucester’s 28-24 victory over the esteemed – and, yet, rather cynical – Tigers of Leicester was welcome, thrilling and mightily important in the ol’ scheme of things. It proved a topsy-turvy encounter with the home players starting proceedings with verve and pace and enterprise before the ruggedness and power of the visitors took over and carved out two fine tries before the break. The second half saw the Cherry and Whites use their collective expertise in broken play with the young prince Simpson-Daniel, the youthful Allen and, especially, the majestic and quicksilver Richards carving up the Leicester ranks with some bewitching running. The blindside scamper and sprint by the fair-headed scrum half that took play from his own ten metre line to the shadow of his opponents’ posts was worth the admission fee alone and when the erstwhile and energetic Hazell collected the pass to bundle over for a try, the popular side erupted as only the popular side can. The match ended with Gloucester defending a five metre line-out, a man short, and with Leicester poised to claim the match with a pushover maul. Slightly anticlimactically, the throw was deemed not straight, Leicester were penalised for dissent and the city were able to punt to safety and victory. Marvellous.

One of the Coles’ new chickens came up trumps today and produced its first egg. The shell was as white as birch-bark and, verily, a thing of gentle and beguiling beauty. We are back in business. Well done m’bird!