'W'

Gloucester 18 - Wasps 17

Afore the three of the clock kick-off time, I had resigned myself to defeat. A series of lacklustre performances, including last weekend’s rather stilted victory against Ulster – a whole province – had led to a pessimistic disposition and a furrowed brow. Wasps’ recent ejection from the Heineken Cup worried me too: an angered striped and buzzing insect oft spells danger. As it happened, the noble city club known fondly as ‘Gloucester’ performed admirably and with commendable passion. The bullish William James enjoyed a splendid match of chargin’, carryin’ and doin’ the basics extremely well. His colleague Gareth Delve aided and abetted in the strong-arm stuff superbly and it was marvellous to watch the scampering terrier Andrew Hazell back in action. The match proved almost to be the proverbial ‘game of two halves’. Gloucester’s half-time 12-3 lead edged upwards to 18-3 almost immediately after the orange segments had been devoured. Then appeared the long-awaited Waspish backlash, swarms of nasty attacks bamboozling the hosts, leading to a brace of well-taken tries. With a quarter of an hour remaining, the Kingsholm outfit led 18-17 and the hearts of lions were called for. Sterling defence kept the visitors out, especially five minutes from the end when a raid almost reached the tryline. A penalty awarded for – I believe – holdin’ onto the oval was cleared for touch, the resulting line-out was snaffled and a series of pick ‘n’ drives succeeded beautifully in running the clock down. The baying noise emanating from the popular side was mighty as a triumphant crowd urged its heroes to victoire. Hurrah indeed!

I'm in the Moog for Dancin', Romancin'

My current favourite album came free with Mojo this month. Slightly clumsily entitled ok_computer, this 15 track electronica compilation is a stunning collection of non-guitar nuggets. I’d suggest that this selection covers a whole range of bases from ambient and atmospheric lounge electronica to what I might well regard as, well, er, techno. It’s pleasing to listen to some old stuff that had strayed under the radar; I don’t think I’ve heard more than one or two John Foxx tracks over the years and the same could be said of German pioneers Tangerine Dream. Both their offerings here are sublime. I’ve read plenty of fine things about Swedish duo The Knife and the track Silent Shout is a brooding beauty reminiscent of early Aphex Twin and certainly a catalyst for me to investigate more of their work. Frankly, there’s so much gorgeous music on this sampler and if the intention was to turn listeners onto new acts, it has certainly worked. Who needs guitars?

Playing for blood as grandmasters should...

Bobby Fischer died last week. Reading the headline in yesterday’s Guardian – and I’m delighted it made the front page – was quite a shock. The chess champion's passing represents a rarity, a ‘celebrity’ (excuse the ‘c’ word) death impacting on me to a substantial degree. I suppose the disappointing aspect of Fischer’s genius was that very few could really appreciate it. While the genius of, say, Best, Clay, McEnroe and any number of writers and musicians can be dug by thousands and millions, the profound intellect of a chess maestro remains so immense that only a handful can truly claim to comprehend the subtleties. I know I couldn’t come close to appreciating his finest moments but I admired the charisma of the guy, revelled in the stories of those 1970s battles with the Soviet grandmasters and, despite a legion of unforgivable utterances and acts doing him no favours, couldn’t help but be drawn to any news piece or article featuring the fellow. My 60 Memorable Games by Bobby Fischer proudly sits on a bookshelf next to me now and I’m tempted to spend an hour or two soon, working through one or two of the great matches annotated therein, and striving to understand at least a little of the sublime acumen that underlies so much of Fischer’s match play.

I bought the Classic 80gb iPod yesterday and, after hours and hours of toil, have finally put all my music onto it. I’m quietly fond of the item already but feel I should have some brand new sounds to ‘christen’ it properly. I might download the new British Sea power album.

The sport was adequate earlier. Gloucester defeated Ulster – a whole province – by 29 rugby points to 21 rugby points. Although the home side managed five tries, the result was in doubt right until the end and I feel a tad underwhelmed by the whole occasion. I am aware that Munster – a whole province – will destroy the noble Kingsholm-based outfit in the quarter finals unless vast improvements are made to my favoured team. The key areas, for me, are the lines-out which stutter and embarrass and the pivotal role of outside-half where I am yet to witness any player (possibly with the exception of Walker away at Leicester) really ‘boss’ a game.

The Single Life

Rugby at Kingsholm beckons. It’ll be exciting on Sunday to witness a match with ‘something on it’. The noble and historic Gloucester club of Gloucester need to defeat Ulster – a whole province – in order to progress to the last eight of the Heineken Cup with, lo!, a home draw guaranteed. I predict an easy victory for the cherry-hued fellows but sterner tests approach. Stay focused lads!

Here’s a pleasant little cryptic quiz for those that admire such events. I purchased from Oxfam for S’s birthday, four seven-inch pop singles as I know he loves his newish gramophone so much. Three singles were bona fide classics and one was a rotten stinker, a nasty art threat and make no mistake. I wrapped said items and annotated them with cryptic clues so that guesses could be made as to the identity of the song. Dear old S was only allowed to keep three of the four records so the pressure was on to select the trio of belters and sniff out the bad egg. Two of the three aforementioned belters were The Back of Love by Echo and the Bunnymen and Up, Up and Away by The Fifth Dimension. Here are the other two clues. Can you solve them and separate the delight from the dross? Clicking on each clue should reveal the answer.

1. Do you want a donkey ride? Do you want a donkey ride?

2. Sounds like a moan after a holiday kiss.

Product

I bought my Creative Zen MP3 player back in May 2005 and I’m afraid it is dying. Almost all of its two-score gigabytes are full of hundreds of albums and thousands of songs. More than once I have opined that it would be the first thing I grabbed in the event of fire, flood or other, unnamed but sinister, act of god or occurance*. It has become a friend, a rattlebag of riddim and rhyme. Anyhow, the blighter is now stuck, ‘rebuilding library’ continually and an internet search indicates that other Creative owners recognise this disease and many consider it terminal. My eye is taken by an 80gb iPod although I feel a slight disquiet at my disloyalty to the less fashionable Creative brand.

12 Crass Songs by Jeffery Lewis is the album I mentioned here. I have now presented it to not-so-young S so my purchase of it remains a secret no longer. Basically, the prolific New York anti-folk artist has reinterpreted, rather tenderly, a dozen of the anarchist punk band’s angry, raucous and somewhat shouty creations and produced sumptuous acoustic versions where the political anger of the originals is rather quaintly embellished by an unusual treatment. It works merrily. Lewis’s studied vocalisations of the varied rants are fresh and compelling and helped this listener realise just how witty Crass actually were beyond the sloganeering and the screed.

* Perhaps a 'dirty bomb' explosion.

Everybody Have Fun Tonight

After a non-fiction fest (Jon Snow, Tony Benn, Charlie Brooker alors) I’m appreciating ‘the novel’ this year. I completed Then We Came To The End at the weekend and am able to recommend it wholeheartedly. There are dark moments within its pages and, for the first time in my reading life, I had to fold down the corner of a page at the end of a chapter I was on: the subject matter was so affecting that I needed to know how much longer I had to cope with the poignancy. Coward. There are some wry, marvellous and, importantly, believable set pieces to appreciate and the characterisation is a witty triumph. It’s all fantastic.

I’m now onto Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections.

Look at the stars, look how they shine for you...

I viewed, via a telecast, Gloucester’s 10-5 defeat to Bath last evening. The teams were playing rugby football union in the most awfully muddy/boggy conditions which, in my opinion, humble as ‘tis, rendered the occasion a complete farce. Admittedly the Bath club handled the swamp with more thought and skill than my favoured outfit but I am happy to consign to whole occasion to history; on a dry and drained pitch Gloucester would have proved too strong for their West Country rivals. The losing bonus point was, ahem, a bonus. Enough already.

I downloaded a lovely album earlier that I am also purchasing from Amazon for not-so-young S for his 40^th birthday next week. Sadly, as I need to keep it a secret, I can’t reveal the title of said recording. It is a charming item though.

The eye is looking ugly and yellow now. It was upsetting to walk through the broad streets of the county town this morning to find passers-by recoiling and shuddering at the unsightly vision. I know people were judging me poorly. My confidence has been dented.

I'll Tumble 4 Ya

Last evening I stumbled, then tumbled down the stairs sans grace or dignity and harmed eye, shoulder and rump. Despite aching and feeling rather stiff today, I’m rather proud of the above shiner.

Material

The Coles secretly slipped away to Yorkshire for New Year and have now returned to the shire what we live in. I thank the Ws for their hospitality. The new pool table that has appeared in the dining space since our last visit made me tingle and sigh. I covet it.

Whilst in the North Riding I purchased and consumed On Chesil Beach, the recent novella penned by the earnest Ian McEwan. I must admit it reminded me of the author’s early short stories with its candid subject matter interlaced with intricate details. The mention of, say, a glacé cherry or a patched trouser intelligently evokes the period – early 1960s – when wartime austerity and sobriety was finally giving way to a bit more style, swagger and choice. An ultimately tragic relationship dominates the pages but ‘tis the backdrop featuring class division, contemporary political thought and the heralding of a new era, equally exhilarating and frightening, that commands most attention. On Chesil Beach proved, in places, a less than comfortable read but the suggestion of a fascinating period of societal change was incredible and, I consider, McEwan’s finest achievement.

I’ve another book on the go now. Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris is a wry glance at office life, its mundanities and minor dramas, in novel format. I’m finding this book tremendously entertaining. The author, a young man, has carved out a bewitching yet believable cast of characters and has weaved a host of delicious vignettes about them. There is a delicious website that goes with this novel, packed with details that make this punter beam. Some of the book’s characters appear to have their own MySpace pages. The map of the office is exquisite. The video is worth watching; it contains some fairly typical office shots with some quotations from the novel recited, deadpan, over the top. I’m enthusing about the whole enterprise. I used to work in an office.

I am going to try and get fit this year.

"The atmosphere is so tense, if Elvis walked in with a portion of chips, you could hear the vinegar sizzle on them"

The Sky Sports coverage of the Ladbrokes World Darts is, once again, drawing me in with its mixture of high drama, wondrous personalities and top notch commentary. My hot tip is for ‘Hawaii 5-0-1’ Wayne Mardle to upset the top seed Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor in the quarter-finals and to win the whole darned thing. From a musical perspective, the media mover who compiled a montage of Raymond Van Barneveld clips with Brown Paper Bag by Roni Size playing in the background deserves some kind of gong; the hybrid of quality arrows and soaring Bristolian drum ‘n’ bass inspired awe galore.

IDM

By Jupiter, I have grown mightily fond of Sound of Silver, the fun, funky and far-out long player by LCD Soundsystem. I first wrote about it in the month of Augustus and despite an array of aural temptations assaulting my senses and leading me away from its charms and riddims, I still continue to spin it and love it. It is playing right now and I feel like scampering from this keyboard and attempting some kind of frantic robotic dance to its hypnotic grooves and upbeat pulse-beats. But I won’t. Instead I shall dwell on the record’s ability to chuck one great, great song after the other at the listener, moving songs, funny songs, uplifting songs, witty songs, all driven by intelligent and irrepressible music tracks. The resulting hybrid of New Order’s grandeur, Talking Heads’ wired magnetism and a lickle bit of everythin' from Blondie’s Rapture to Human League’s Being Boiled to D. Bowie’s Sound and Vision makes for a fabulous and fulfilling fifty-odd minutes. It is this website’s Album of the Year by a fairly lengthy margin and I salute it with warmth and affection.

Mrs Cole took the above photographs.

The 2007 Top Five is listed below in its entirety. The links take the reader to pages on this weblog where these long players were originally mentioned.

1. LCD Soundsystem – Sound of Silver

2. Radiohead – In Rainbows

3. Field Music – Tones of Town

4. The Aliens – Astronomy For Dogs

5. Gruff Rhys - Candylion

Concert-ed Efforts

I’m heartened to learn that a couple of acts shall be appearing at Gloucester’s Guildhall early next year. I know little about neither Art Brut nor Young Knives but it reassuring to note that ‘name’ bands are choosing to frequent the Eastgate Street venue. I know one fellow who raves about Art Brut and I value his opinion. I also telephoned the jovial M in his North Yorkshire abode last evening as I am aware of his admiration for the Young Knives. His advice was to ‘go see’ and I shall take it. There was a stunning rumour on the go during this month’s Acoustica that a very, very, very big act might be playing the Hall of the Guild in 2008. And I don’t mean Travis. Although they are playing there too.

I tapped eight album titles into a secret Word document earlier. The shortlist for this site’s Album of the Year is complete and I shall be posting the results very soon. I do like bleep.com’s Top 50. There are plenty of fine recordings in the fifty and, possibly, several of the Uprock Narritives and Unknown Pleasures shortlist.

See the street-litter twisting in the wind

As I strolled down the London Road today, intent on Christmas shopping in the metropolis, I cascaded past a used and discarded surgical mask, the mandatory broken ale bottle, a fairly fresh pile of vomit and a Citizen hoarding referring to the recent departure of Gloucester rugby winger, Karl Pryce, that read ‘Glos Star to Join Wigan’. After a few seconds reflection I decided that it was the use of the word ‘star’ in the local rag’s advert that had caused me most repugnance.

If they were me and I was you...

Well, it was my birthday last weekend – the segment known in this nation as ‘Saturday’ - and I celebrated by watching the feted Gloucester club vanquish in a match of rugby union against a fine French outfit known as Bourgoin before travelling to Bristol for the Portishead recital. My gifts included a decent crop of CDs and I shall attempt to list them now.

My most played item is the Burial album, Untrue, which builds on the murky anti-glamour of the eponymous debut album by the young prince of dubstep, but is, if possible, even more evocative and redolent of the dank and drizzly streets of a forgotten and unfashionable London district. It is a splendid, challenging long player. And The Refinement Of Their Decline by Stars of the Lid is a remarkable double CD of minimalist ambient electronica. I’m playing it late at night and it’s putting me to sleep faster than a double dose of Night Nurse. I’ve always admired a drone and the very long synthesised notes on this recording overlap hypnotically. It’s very unusual and by no means an easy listen. I also got another Trojan reggae compilation. Comic artist Savage Pencil has compiled a host of Trojan treasures and called it Lion Versus Dragon In Dub. I’m spinning this recording as I write these words actually. The sleeve notes warn that a predilection for the sounds of Augustus Pablo means that there is quite a lot of melodica on the album. I’m not complaining; the choices are intelligent and blend together beatifically. Riddim!

I have the latest Rachel Unthank and the Winterset album, The Bairns, a folky treat that has been much lauded this year and named in many best-of-2007 lists. It’s a very beautiful, almost fragile, set of songs and the version of Robert Wyatt’s Sea Song is, like the delicate and respectful cover of Nick Drake’s River Man on the first Winterset long player, breathtaking. I’ve got the three disc Young Marble Giants collection too. Disc one is the astounding post punk classic, Colossal Youth, a stunning and skeletal act of genius. The other discs contain EPs, singles and the obligatory Peel session. The sleeve notes, by Simon Reynolds, are worth the effort of unwrapping the blighter alone. File under ‘Must Have’. Finally, Stephen Duffy and the Lilac Time’s Runout Groove remains forlornly unplayed. I’m working on it.

The elder Cole daughter merrily models the Savage Pencil reggae compilation.

Hop-Trip or A Sort of Homecoming

Portishead at Carling Academy, Bristol

This is a startling group. This is a startling group. Portishead really pulled it off last night. Reportedly this was only the band’s second concert in a decade but no rust was detected. The trademark sound was sharp and powerful, a strong fusion of more traditional instrumentation and hop-hip scratchin’, knob-twidllin’ and riddim-makin’ with the crystal clear and bewitching voice of Beth Gibbons forming the touchstone to everything. Afore an arty monochrome backdrop, the collective, monochrome also, produced a stunning set of old favourites from the Dummy and Portishead long players as well as some compelling and thoughtful fresh material. The newer stuff included some rather pastoral sounds reminiscent of Ms. Gibbons’s alt-folk recordings with Talk Talk’s Paul Webb. I approved. The older numbers sounded perfect, a series of sad songs underpinned with eerie musical brilliance. I note with some chagrin that there was no room for It Could Be Sweet on the setlist but all other bases were covered luminously. A moody yet uplifting Sour Times was a soaring highlight but a sassy, classy Glory Box and a pensive and brooding Roads were equally glorious. But, it has to be stated, all of the recital was stunning. Behind the timid and tiny Gibbons, the Geoff Barrow figure stood out, hunched o’er his turntables like a witty wizard scratching feverishly at his vinyl with aplomb and style. He was fantastic. Adrian Utley smiled more than the others while his studied guitar shapes added refined textures to the whole darned thang. As a unit, the band, augmented by other players, sounded amazingly fresh and the songs so contemporary that I had to physically check that Dummy was released in 1994. It could have been yesterday.

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.