Out of the quarrel with ourselves

An earnest quintet of Coles attended the local spa town’s Bacon Theatre last evening. Wry and witty poet John Hegley entertained those gathered with his Beyond Our Kennel show, essentially an alphabetically arranged series of poems with an animal theme. As ever with the Hegley fellow, poignant reflections jostled with pithy rib-ticklers and there were the usual fabulous and unexpected rhymes ("I am a guillemot / I don't eat krill a lot"). Audience participation allowed us all the chance to ask and answer questions, belt out backing vocals ebulliently and, towards the end of the night, unselfconsciously make little doggies with our hands that we could pretend to feed fig rolls to and show off to complete strangers. It was fun. John Hegley, I worked out this morning, is my second most seen performing artist. I’ve seen him five times now but the affable poet has a lot of catching up to do to reach The Fall.

All understandings must come by this way

I’ve added a trio of links in the ‘other blogs’ list that sits in the right hand panel of this humble site. They are all blogs attended to by fine musicians that, over the years, I have admired greatly. Bob Mould used to be a key member of pivotal hardcore band Hüsker Dü and enjoyed critical success as a solo artist and as the leader of edgy post-punkers Sugar. His jottings dwell on his life in New York where he DJs as much as he proffers power chords these days. It’s a gentle and interesting read. Lloyd Cole’s pages are as well kept and neatly tended as a topiarised buxus sempervirens. Cole cuts a charming and modest figure, eloquently offering opinions, spreading news and politely answering fans’ questions. He seems ever such a nice fellow. David Byrne’s weblog is the finest of the three. His fluent and detailed writing style is pleasant to read and offers a stimulating glimpse into the everyday life of a genius. A lot of effort goes into this site and the varied evocative photographs and vivid video clips add welcome texture. Byrne had done a fine, fine job but what else would one expect?

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music

Sunday proved fun. I collected the affable S from his idyllic A38 hideaway and drove the fellow to Bristol’s Thekla venue for an evening of concert pleasure. The last time we saw The Secret Machines was three years ago at the fabled Bristol Bierkeller when they wooed and wowed a keen audience with a maelstrom of stomping alternative rock brilliance. They were on remarkable form at the weekend too. Despite having lost guitarist Ben Curtis a year or two ago, the three piece still kick up an unholy racket and their slightly noodly, slightly hypnotic space rock ticked all the right boxes for this punter. The chaps cranked it ‘up to eleven’ and belted out riff-led beauty after riff-led beauty. The support act, Filthy Dukes, was a superb surprise. You can’t beat three hepcats, backed by a riddimic big dude at the back on drums, crouched over keyboards and laptops twiddling knobs earnestly and banging out very loud electro-pop melodies that caused more toes to tap than one could conceivably count. Think LCD Soundsystem sprinkled with a dusting of Krautrock and dusted with a sprinkle of 1980s joie de vivre. They were marvellous.

Early days thinking is only so much

Gloucester 24 - Sale 17

I am delighted to report, albeit tardily, another fine victory for my favoured rugby team, the Gloucester side of Gloucester. For the second home match running, they who wear cherry and white were struggling and all seemed lost only for a remarkable comeback to dazzle and send the loyal spectators into raptures. Naturally, all eyes were on new signing, Carlos Spencer who slotted in splendidly and produced a masterclass in the basics of the sport, probing cunningly with his kicks, passing the ‘egg’ expertly with vision and, when possible, running the ball himself with class. At one point, the crafty Kiwi collected the ovoid pig’s bladder in his own 22 and scampered almost sixty metres, shimmying here, jinking there, past countless hapless defenders; for a fellow who, we are informed, lacks pace this was a stunning piece of skill and agility that was worth the price of admission alone. The resulting penalty (Sale’s players were forced to illegally kill the attack) took Gloucester ahead minutes after a well-executed try had dragged ‘the lads’ back into contention. Spencer naturally deserved plaudits galore for his witty contributions but I am as happy with the physicality brought to the side by Gareth Delve who, along with other abrasive behemothic specimens, Azam, Somerville, James and Satala (looking more comfortable wearing a six than a seven), made hard yards all afternoon, seeking collisions and confrontations until no-side was announced and the celebrations could commence. If all players are fit and available, Gloucester now looks strong enough to challenge for the Premiership title. I continue to have and express doubts about the play-off system but the club needs silverware to reward its investment in players and the loyalty of supporters. Spencer could be pivotal in any such quest and I look forward to watching him weave his magic again soon.

Bumble

I shall be attending the rugby union later and look forward with as much energy as I can muster to the debut of Carlos Spencer in Gloucester colours. Could the enigmatic New Zealander prove to be the missing piece in the cherry ‘n’ white jigsaw and, indeed, live up to the ‘Next Les Jones’ tag that has stymied the careers of so many that have worn the mythical ten shirt? My prediction, for what it is worth, is that the fellow shall enjoy a tremendous debut this afternoon and wow the assembled throng with magical, near mystical, skills that create varied opportunities for the likes of Balshaw and the young prince, Simpson-Daniel to pounce upon. Harder grounds may suit the Kiwi’s remarkable talents and, with a full squad to select from in the last quarter of the season, Spencer shall prove the catalyst as the club claims the ‘official’ Premiership title for the first time. We’ll see.

The Wedding Present have been added to the roster of beat combos that are going to play Gloucester’s Guildhall this spring. I would like to attend their concert party and, once in the sanctity of the auditorium, shall be crying out for a My Favourite Dress or an A Million Miles. There is obviously a 'good egg' in charge of booking bands for the local venue.

Dreams, they complicate my life

I alluded here that there may be one or two R.E.M. albums that might be rather fine and, sadly, may have passed me by. There was a time in my life when I would have fiercely squared up to any fellow – gentleman or not – who hinted that one day I’d be letting R.E.M. long players pass me by. It’s happened though. Up is a belting long player and I’ve spun it on numerous occasions recently and grooved rigorously to its classy aural soundscapes. Anyhow, I’ve now downloaded Monster, the 1994 offering by the Georgian art-rock collective and I look forward to reporting on it here soon. There’s an interesting thread on the Word site where a hepcat has pondered whether any band has ever produced more than four essential albums. I’d suggest R.E.M.’s first five albums could be classed as ‘essential’. I won’t list them and bore all and sundry, but you can spy the titles here.

During the days when I was stuck inside festering because of the snowfall, I signed up and created a Twitter account for myself. I am yet to post anything. I’m not sure I either understand or fully appreciate Twitter yet. It seems a bit pointless. Perhaps it will all become clear one day.

Different colours, different shades

I’ve been playing a long player that was released in 2008 and which, had I discovered it earlier, may have wormed its way into contention for this website’s album of the year bouquets. Third by Portishead is a stunning recording and a remarkable achievement for a beat combo that had slipped off the radar for a number of years. Mark my words, this is a challenging listen but, like anything of lasting and tangible quality, this sublime collection of songs requires a few plays for the astounding creativity and brilliance to shine through. My favourite tracks are an obdurate amalgam of Krautrock repetition, industrial robustness and an electronic precision that reminds this listener of Blue Monday era New Order. Machine Gun, in particular, is a swaggeringly insouciant slice of drum machine assault and battery, an awesomely exact mugging-by-riddim that demands to be played extremely loudly. The soundscapes on Third are bleak, claustrophobic, defiantly urban and more than a touch frightening; this LP could be considered an uneasy and unfazed nephew of Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures and is certainly worthy of mention in the same breath as the Mancunians’ desolate classic. That is not to suggest that Third is not beautiful. Beth Gibbons’s striking vocals are gorgeous and add humanity to the uncompromising maelstrom that is whipped up around them. This is a compelling piece of art and I salute it energetically. File under 'Austere Sturm und Drang'.

Please ask me for an invitation to join spotify. The Guardian proffered praise for it yesterday.

Music is my hometown

I picked up the latest Gloucester Guildhall brochure this morning with the traditional combination of trepidation and wild, wild excitement. There’s some decent stuff coming up methinks, although not a great deal that is new to these ears ‘n’ eyes. I have seen Duke Special, The Young Knives and David Ford at the venue before and they all pleased this punter. The Coles shall certainly visit the auditorium for The Young Knives; I admire their anti-fashion quaintness, acerbic banter and tremendously rousing indie-rock melodies. I’m not so sure about Duke Special. He produced an incredible set at Acoustica a few years ago and impressed the normally bashful and reserved Coles to such an extent that we, on the cusp of leaving the building, hurried back, on a whim, so that we could shake the Belfast-born songwriter by the hand and congratulate him with uninhibited fervour on a stunning performance. We caught him at Bristol University too, supporting The Divine Comedy, and he was more than adequate although, with a machinery of a determined record company now behind him, some of the magic had dissolved. Any lack of enthusiasm to attend a Duke Special concert is connected to a sense that he couldn’t possibly be as good as he was that first time. David Ford will be well worth revisiting. I bought his long playing record after his last show and I’ve spun it a fair bit. His songs were bitter, clever, moving and thought-provoking. I rate the fellow.

I’m pleased that Chumbawamba are playing an Acoustica Special at the beginning of March. I expect an evening of uncompromising and challenging singin’ and playin’. The support act is Belinda O’Hooley who used to be the keyboardist for Rachel Unthank and the Winterset and remains a warm, witty and wondrous stage presence. She’ll suit the Acoustica vibe and (if it had one) its mission statement perfectly. I’m intrigued that Patrick Wolf is coming to the Guildhall. I am not fully acquainted with the chap’s work but he does seem a unique and somewhat leftfield performer, a cult figure perhaps. I can’t imagine him striding round the Eastgate Shopping Centre pre-gig. I’ll research his stuff and reserve judgement until then.

Some obsessions take me back

Unexpectedly, I’m enjoying a longer weekend than usual. This morning’s heavy snow surprised me as I thought the worst was over. Yesterday, another ‘snow day’, I spent ages creating a Powerpoint presentation about Bobby Fischer which I’ll use at work next week. I’m quite pleased with it. I've encountered some cracking photographs of Fischer on the internet and I’ve posted a few of my favourites above. I guess many folk, when considering this wondrous talent, concentrate on the World Championship match against Boris Spassky in 1972 which (cliché alert) put chess on the front pages. Howe’er, it’s worth remembering that the boy Fischer was a remarkable chess prodigy and became the USA open and closed champion at a callow fourteen and a grandmaster just a year later. I love the photo of Fischer, chewing a fingernail, surrounded by the cognoscenti of the New York chess scene at the Brooklyn club. I wish I possessed enough chess know-how to appreciate but a tenth of his skill and genius across the black and white squares.

Today I’ve watched some old episodes of The Adam & Joe Show, flicked through my Guardian and continued to mess around with spotify. I’m playing Dylan’s Blonde On Blonde as I write this, having listened to a bit of John Martyn’s One World earlier. A spot of luncheon beckons before an hour or so viewing the West Indies against England test cricket. My copy of Live and Let Die winks conspiratorially across the front parlour at me too so I might catch a chapter or three later. That’s a productive day I reckon.

So throw those curtains wide!

I’ve been playing with spotify. The peerless Word Magazine loves spotify (and explicates it better than me) and I’m growing kinda fond of it too. Word describes it as ‘like iTunes, but made out of magic’ and I can appreciate that description. I’m not that clever at explaining technical stuff but, essentially, more music than one can imagine is at one’s fingertips, stored not on your ol’ hard-drive but, er, elsewhere. Melodies are instantly available to stream (you can’t download any tunes) which is fine if, like me, you possess a fine pair of speakers connected to your computing machinery. Cheltenham-based A kindly invited me to join and, like him, I’m using it to sample new sounds. As I earnestly type these words, I’m listening to Pram Town by Darren Hayman and the Secondary Modern on spotify, furrowing my brow slightly and considering this album’s worth. This LP exists on my Amazon wishlist but I’m welcoming the chance to hear it now for free. It’s quirky and reminds me a little of The Lilac Time. Spotify will also be useful when I receive my monthly magazines; I can read the reviews and then trot vivaciously to load up the application and hear the sounds that I crave immediately. It’s legal, by the way, as advertisers pay the bill. You need an invitation to join I believe and I'm happy to oblige with one should anyone be tempted. I know I haven’t explained this very well. It’s good though.

Ten

Carlos Spencer joined Gloucester today on a year and a half deal. A week ago this move seemed utterly unlikely with the New Zealand legend seemingly ensconced happily in the East Midlands. A sudden tearing up of his contract and a hurried bit of business by the movers and shakers at Kingsholm mean he will be wearing cherry from now on. As ever, it is worth popping over to other clubs’ message boards to ascertain the gut feeling about departures and, generally, the Northampton supporters are sad to see the fellow leave Franklins Gardens. He is held in high regard by those who chant 'Jimmys!' it seems and many Saints fanatics believe he will offer my favoured club a great deal. I lick my lips at the prospect of harder pitches and Spencer, with his remarkable bag o’ tricks, unleashing the young prince Simpson-Daniel, the strong-running Qera, the elegant Balshaw and their various cohorts. Where does this leave young Ryan Lamb? I would suggest that Spencer and Lamb are similar types of player, with attacking zeal and an ability to unlock miserly defences. Spencer is a different class though and it may be a difficult year or so for Lamb as he is forced to play understudy to a classier act. I welcome this signing. It’ll be a fascinating final few months of the season.

A woodbine and a match...

The good-natured P, a comrade-in-arms in the noble and worthy cause of supporting the mighty Gloucester club, brought a pair of old rugby programmes to the game on Saturday. He’d mentioned them to the equally good-natured D recently in a conversation about old rugby ‘n’ stuff and scanned ‘em and emailed ‘em to me earlier tonight. I believe the matches, both in 1947, were among the first P’s father, who still follows the cherry-shirted fellows avidly, attended as a lad. As slices of history and pieces of memorabilia for those that admire all things Kingsholm, these programmes are rather wonderful. It is tremendous to gaze on the illustrious names in black and white, Morris, Hook, Day, Hudson et al, heroes of a different and less complicated age and poignantly reflect on an amateur era when donning the famed hoops meant nothing about money, sponsorship and endorsements but everything about personal integrity, representing the dreams of a grateful city and making your workmates and families proud. Have a look for yourself. A humble click with your loyal mouse shall enable the pictures to grow magically. Those were more honest and thrilling sporting times methinks and I salute them.

Opulent seaside home

My first 2009 music arrived a few days ago from my Amazonian internet emporium of choice. Animal Collective has fresh produce and it has gathered rather wondrous reviews from all and sundry. The album from the folktronic cavaliers is called Merriweather Post Pavilion and is a quite a treat. Like much of the Animal Collective work that I’ve heard, there’s a lot going on during each song with quirky riddims, lush harmonisations and busy, vivid melodies dominating every darn’d millisecond. It’s certainly a challenging listen but I’m getting there and while one or two songs need a bit more patience before they unravel, several are already lodged in my brain all beautiful and charming and loverley and stuff. I think I’m going to admire this recording greatly. The cover (see above) freaks me out though.

I also had ordered and received the new long player by Antony and the Johnsons which carries the title The Crying Light. The Johnsons’ last offering I Am A Bird Now proved a tender, dainty creature without ever coming close to earning the epithet ‘bundle of laughs’. This recording is similar. Antony Hegarty’s voice soars and warbles and trembles mysteriously while the subject matter (the first track features that old staple of the popular song, epilepsy) defiantly prevents the old sides from splittin’. It’s pleasing music though and I shall carry on spinning the blighter. The Coles are going to see the band later this spring at Bristol’s historic Colston Hall.

And I Naturally Fled

Gloucester 23 - London Irish 21

I suppose the most satisfying of all rugby union victories for my favoured outfit, the Gloucester club of Gloucester, are those when all seems lost and insipid defeat appears to be certain but, with a potent mix of grit, skill and sweat, the fellows in cherry turn matters around to sneak victory. Yesterday was a classic of that genre. At half time and beyond, the green-clad warriors of London Irish dominated proceedings, held sway at the set-piece and clinically impressed behind the scrum. Tactically and, seemingly, in terms of attitude and execution, the home side were second best for fifty minutes and this punter, still haunted by recent losses, expected a hiding. How wrong I was. The final half hour witnessed a wonderfully committed and abrasive effort from ‘the lads’; the ball was kept in hand more and a blend of the rugged and the resourceful resulted in a series of successful penalty kicks and, finally, a joyous touchdown to seal a remarkable triumph. We are fortunate that some key players are returning. Gareth Delve, the belligerent behemoth, blazed away bravely from the base o’ the scrum; the determined Welshman was this punter’s man of the match and ‘twas refreshing to witness a fellow, a long-term injury victim, seek contact and make hard yards for the cause all afternoon. He was magnificent. Greg Somerville, the wise old Kiwi head, added guile and poise to the forward eight while the sentimentalist in me could be excused a slight mistiness in the eye watching that loyal old warhorse Andrew Hazell back in the thick of things, creating havoc for the club he loves, and urging and inspiring aching limbs around him to success. The ‘sixteenth man’ shouted loudly all match and if I was hoarse and spent at no-side then I was not alone. The popular side was as thunderous and steadfast as it has been in ages and it must have helped the troops in no small way. It was a privilege to stand and support the team yesterday.

You gotta give the other fellow hell...

I’m reading Live and Let Die at the moment. I bought the first three James Bond novels over Christmas and recently sped through the marvellous Casino Royale with glee. If one excuses or ignores the hard yards of political incorrectness that permeate the paragraphs then there are plenty of soaring scrapes and thrilling japes to enjoy hungrily. Fleming’s stories are quite different from the films I’d suggest. Bond seems colder, heartless even, on the page and, without the cinematic need for explosive set-pieces to keep the movie lover interested, more room is available for really beautifully phrased descriptive passages. I particularly look forward to any Bond mealtime; each course is depicted so thoroughly that the lucky reader is almost able to taste every mouthful.

My favoured rugby club, Gloucester, has cascaded out of the European Heineken Cup after a relatively gutsy performance in a windswept and thoroughly soggy Biarritz. I’m a touch perplexed about the side’s recent form and reflect on what may have happened had the last few disappointing matches been played in drier and calmer conditions with a full squad to pick from. I was flicking through a copy of a weekly rugby paper at le supermarché this morn – I think it was called The Rugby Paper – and noted a piece lamenting a lack of investment in the Kingsholm pitch which compared to the billiard table that is Franklin’s Gardens can soon become rough and pitted in poor weather. Could this be addressed to improve our winter form? Player-wise, we do lack bulk in the front five although I am generally satisfied with the back row options when all are fit and raring to go. I’d be content if a huge and frightening lock was recruited in the summer, preferably to replace the unsatisfactory Bortolami who has sank from ebullient cult-hero to going-through-the-motions journeyman in just a couple of seasons. My main concern lies at half-back though. Gloucester, I fear, shall ne’er become a trophy winning side with any of the current crop that wear the famed nine or ten shirts. Frankly, we’ve not really replaced the livewire Peter Richards at scrum-half and I long for another player in his mould sniping and causing havoc from the base of rucks and mauls. And I’d love a outside-half with the ability to actually boss a match, put his stamp on it and play all conditions well. I was impressed with the youngster Lamb three or four years ago but I sense little progress from the fellow and regrettably consider that he may not make the grade at the highest level. I’d settle for a Jonny Wilkinson or a Glen Jackson, steady and unflappable types who week-in and week-out ‘do the business’. We’d miss the occasional snippet of Lamb genius but cameos and occasional acts of jaw-dropping brilliance don’t win trophies or dominate campaigns alas. Here’s hoping.

The kiss of death, the embrace of life

Here’s a brief post script to the last post. Teenaged M, youthful son of the affable but less youthful A, took the above photographs at Wednesday’s Calmer* session. The top picture features a striped David Thomas Broughton fiddlin' with his televsion while the other one displays Sam Amidon and 'is banjo. I am grateful for these atmospheric images.

On a Calmer* theme, I note that The Wiyos, former Slak Bar favourites, are appearing on BBC4 this evening at ten. I recommend.

Come inside where it's okay

Last evening’s Calmer* was rather special I thought. Individually and as a trio, three somewhat different, compelling yet engaging performers offered an earnest and beautiful crowd of hepcats plenty of challenging and engaging fare. A brace of New Yorkers graced the famed Slak Bar stage with poise and energy. Sam Amidon’s haunting voice and delicate banjo-playin’ proved fine bedfellows and I appreciated his evocative renditions of American folk tunes interspersed unconventionally with extended Henry James quotations with accompanying unusual facial contortions and freaky and clumsy dance routines. Thomas Bartlett, who is also known as Doveman, tenderly tickled the ivories and sang with a touching resonance. The fellow’s percussive skills were bright too. His plaintive rendition of Big Star’s Thirteen proved a soaring highlight. The token Englishman, Otley-born but London-based David Thomas Broughton, spent most of the evening supporting his cohorts, idiosyncratically proffering clicking noises, backing vocals whilst sat in the body of the audience and a white-noise accompaniment via an old analogue television set of the portable variety. I would describe his solo set as gripping. Dark, deep and wonderfully earthy extended vocalisations permeated proceedings backed by loops and guitaring. Broughton’s stage presence, a quirky, twitching existence, was an edgy experience and his intense, vaguely aggressive aspect was fascinating. I must salute Calmer*. The erstwhile band of dudes that curates these evenings continues to provide great value for those who seek new and witty aural experiences.

Deflecting the Spin

Oh ‘eck. The wheels came off the wagon at Kingsholm this afternoon, a dire second half performance by Gloucester handing the spoils to a more streetwise, more committed, more cohesive, more intelligent Cardiff group. I stood and applauded the Welsh fellows after the match, ruefully reflecting how my favoured team could do with a Martyn Williams, a Gareth Thomas or a Tom Shanklin right now. As things stand, we lack leadership on and off the park, strong ball carriers to break through the line of gain and, most importantly, decision makers with the nous and wit to boss matches and assess tight situations quickly. Today, the cherry and whites contrived to lose a match they were winning at half time against a side that was reduced to fourteen characters after a red card following a head butt and who struggled to collect a single line-out ball all day. The city club was exposed badly; a brighter outfit would have won at a canter faced with the same set of circumstances. I am not – hopefully – one of those supporters who believes his side to be world-beaters on the back of a victory and, the very next week, lamenting the same collective as a beneath contempt bunch of losers. Howe’er, to suggest I was disappointed at no-side would be a substantial understatement and I would be surprised if we don’t look back at Gloucester vs Cardiff 18.1.09 as a key match in several individuals' association wi’ the famed Kingsholm club.

Do you find this happens all the time?

Gideon Coe continues to provide wondrous value with his 9pm BBC 6Music show. Listening to at least half an hour a night is a fine habit to get into as the courteous host proffers a superb mix of hip new sounds and old beauties. For example, the first half hour of Monday’s programme proved a sublime listen. Martin Carthy’s version of January Man (very different and understated compared with the Rachel Unthank interpretation that I know) kicked proceedings off classily before some epic Power, Corruption and Lies era New Order created an acoustic/electronic compare and contrast pause for thought. I really liked the electro-pop of First Aid Kit and ‘twas mighty to listen to some old Chameleons. A track from mid-eighties outfit 14 Iced Bears sounded wonderful. They must have slipped under this radar. The whole tracklisting is available here. I salute Coe.

Naturally thoughts turn to Sunday and a key rugby union fixture. Gloucester host Cardiff in a Heineken European Cup qualifier that the Kingsholm outfit need to win, hopefully with a yummy four-try bonus point. Injuries cast a shadow over my favoured team; our finest back and forward will probably be missing although the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, and the Fijian flyer, Qera, are apparently approaching fitness. I am disappointed to reflect on injuries, sustained last weekend, to elegant full-back Morgan (my player of the season thus far) and burly midfielder Michael ‘Mike’ Tindall although both may still make the fifteen. I note that Cardiff are languishing near the bottom of the Magners League and I hope this poor form continues when the blue-clad Welsh fellows enter the Kingsholm bearpit. I tip the home side to win but much depends on the form of young Ryan Lamb and his inconsistent and erratic kicking game; I would give anything for a ‘Steady-Eddie’ type like Glen Jackson or Jonny Wilkinson in a cherry and white ten shirt. Good luck all.

Into the steeple of beautiful people

I gratefully picked up a couple of charity shop CDs yesterday. I’m playing Up by R.E.M. as I pen these words. It’s funny how most of the much-loved Georgian collective’s recent work has passed this punter by as I worshipped the band’s first half dozen recordings. I confess I gave up a bit on Stipe and his chums after the blinding commercial success of Out Of Time and Automatic For The People when they mutated from vaguely underground, critically acclaimed hepcats into stadium-dwelling, unit-shifting superstars. Since that brace of mega-hits, I’ve enjoyed the New Adventures In Hi-Fi album and quite liked Reveal but regret that nothing by the group has been able to move this listener as much as Document or Lifes Rich Pageant or Reckoning. I’d never heard any of Up until yesterday apart from the single Daysleeper. It does possess a slightly anti-commercial sound and I am refreshed to learn that the wondrous Radiohead regard Up as a key influence on their peerless Kid A (still my very favourite Radiohead LP). Many of the tracks contain murky and understated electronic riddims and proffer a faintly uneasy listen – a good thing. I’m going to spin this blighter regularly this week. A grower, I reckon.

I also bought Massive Attack’s Mezzanine, a masterpiece by all accounts.

A wistful and forlorn glance outside offers a bleak vista of coldness and grey skies. I long for a hint of sun on the face and a gleeful peek at an azure horizon. I’ve been thinking about festivals today as an antidote to the wintry gloom. There shall be no Glastonbury this year as I’ll be working but I’m determined to attend, after a couple of rain dominated weekends, a hot and dry Green Man. The Big Chill harvests fine reviews but I’m somewhat underwhelmed by the suspicion that dance acts and chill-out (a revolting expression) sounds dominate proceedings. Suffolk’s Latitude Festival is warmly acclaimed but it’s a very long way away especially if all five Coles are attending. I’ll keep ‘em peeled.