Wouldn't it be nice to know what the paper doesn't show, what the TV doesn't say?

I salute A. He’s gone all end-of-year crazy over at his place with two lists summarizing his varied highlights. It’s a witty and interesting selection and I’m proud to note I was stood loyally by his side (mainly physically but also, at times, in spirit) on numerous occasions.

Anyhow, it’s time for me to look back and select my album of the year. To be honest, for months it was seeming a one horse race as The Decemberists’ The Hazards of Love eagerly won my heart and the fierce battle for my aural affections. Wilco’s self-titled gem entered the fray back in the summer but, latterly, I have been swooning at several brilliant offerings from these very shores known tenderly by the cognoscenti simply as ‘Britain’. I congratulate the youthful, understated and subtle XX on an unexpected but richly deserved, er, victory. The nippers’ eponymous debut is an absolute treasure and I could (but I won’t) become a touch emotional considering how a collective of earnest young hepcats could produce such a tender, thoughtful and, heck, moving set of songs. It has become my go-to album of choice over the past few months, its breathy and intimate vocals and sparse instrumental swagger proving gripping enough to hold this oft-wavering attention again and again. I think XX by The XX is a masterpiece and will be spoken of in hushed and reverent tones many years from now. I reckon it’s that good. Nice work, lads and lasses.

Here is my Top Ten, pop-pickers:

1. The XX –XX
See above.

2. Euros Childs – Son of Euro Child
Sumptuous melodies coupled with eccentric/compelling lyrical glee.

3. Wild Beasts - Two Dancers
A belter. Packed with swagger and insouciant poise.

4. The Decemberists – The Hazards of Love
Intense and ruddy clever. A bit noodly in places (which I enjoyed).

5. Wilco – Wilco (The Album)
My favourite live act of the year. An album teeming with class and confidence.

6. Dirty Projectors – Bitte Orca
File under ‘Benefits from several plays’. Challenging but wondrously multi-layered.

7. Girls – Album
Madder than a box of frogs. In-your-face pop explosions galore.

8. Madness – The Liberty of Norton Folgate
A classy piece of work. Mature but fun, clever, wry and tender. A wholly unexpected treat.

9. Super Furry Animals Dark Days/Light Years
Celtic masters of melody weave wondrous webs of whimsy and wit.

10. Japandroids – Post-Nothing
A big, big noise from Vancouver. Husker Du-esque mix of mayhem and melody.

Barking in the street to tell what I have hidden there

I thought I’d mention my enormous admiration for the BBC’s Great Lives podcast which has been absent for a while but has, in the past couple of weeks, been slipping elegantly onto my iPod once again. As the title suggests, this is a production dealing with the biographies of fascinating folk but it’s the format that provides this listener with deepest satisfaction. Engaging host Matthew Parris traditionally, er, hosts a couple of characters, one a (forgive me) celebrity enthusiast of the great life in question while the other guest is an expert, often a biographer of that edition’s focus. The (forgive me again) celebrity’s job is to wax lyrical and come over all enthusiastic and devoted while the expert pithily debunks myths and bombards the listener with wondrous facts and tales. The recent edition when Sir Ranulph Fiennes and historian Juliet Barker examine Henry V proved an utterly compelling half an hour and I’m currently loving (but failing to stay awake through) wry comedian Rich Hall’s take on Tennessee Williams. It’s the juxtaposition of (...and again) celebrity and great life that often delights and I’ve appreciated John Major on Rudyard Kipling, Kate Humble (who I’ve ne’er admired really but who came across really well) on Miriam Makeba and, O tempora! O mores!, Paul Daniels on Harry Houdini. I wonder who the next one will be about*.

If any hepcats are reading this and wanting some more recommendations for podcast joy, then I am always thrilled to mention my favoured magazine Word’s weekly (or so) broadcast which never fails to entertain. Essentially, ageing dudes Mark Ellen and David Hepworth and guests chew the fat, reminisce and demonstrate more wit, wisdom and humour than I frankly deserve. Another favourite of mine is Chicago Public Radio’s Sound Opinions during which a pair of cooler-than-cool Illinoisan music journalists and anglophiles (Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot) debate with giddy effervescence new releases and old long playing classics. Guests of the highest vintage (Grizzly Bear, Joan As Policewoman, Steve Earle) often pop by. It’s pleasing to hear views about modern music from a different source although the affable pair love British music with as much unabashed fervour as the latest stateside sounds. You can search for all these treats on iTunes.

*I'm informed that upcoming shows include Neil Innes on Vivian Stanshall and, heck, Christopher Biggins on Nero. The prospect of both, but especially the latter, renders me delirious with excitement.

But I'm changing my scene

The rugby was adequate yesterday. Effectively a dead Heineken Cup rubber against an earnest and energetic Glasgow proved mildly entertaining and reasonably encouraging. An insipid and somewhat dull first half, dominated by aimless kicks, made way for a fairly energetic second period in which the Gloucester backs conspired to run with a touch more guile and grit. A couple of well-taken tries proved ample reward for my favoured team’s ambition and the strong galloping of Morgan, Sharples, the young prince Simpson-Daniel, Robinson, Voyce and Molenaar. It’s hard to judge just how strong or weak this current Gloucester outfit is; sterner tests await and I suspect the away fixture against a wounded Bath and the new year’s opener against the, er, Warriors of Worcester will provide keener clues as to the team’s progress.

But moondust will cover you...

I returned home from the gold-lined streets of the nation’s capital yesterday, weary and wan but contented. It had proved a splendid day and a half in ‘the smoke’ shopping and strolling and, importantly, enjoying an evening of that new-fangled rock music at the large and impressive Barbican Centre. Spiritualized presented the whole of their classic 1997 long player Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space and, my word, ‘twas a mesmerizing, loud and wondrous event. This album has only recently soared into my consciousness and I’ve grown to admire its melodic and introspective allure. This concert enhanced its reputation. A wide, wide stage housed a large number of people; band leader Jason Pierce sat to the right, dressed casually but wearing a huge pair of sunglasses and oversaw a traditional rock line-up, a lively brass section, an intense collective of string musicians and a stylish, riddimic and white-robed gospel choir. Heck it sounded great and from the Cole party’s excellent vantage point (three rows from the front) looked remarkable too. A lot has been written about this recording and its personal nature and its advocation of, er, pharmaceutical usage to help ‘take the pain away’ but challenging and passionate subject matter is nothing without strong tunes and Ladies and Gentlemen... contains a significant number of soaringly beautiful moments which swept over a delighted Barbican audience. I’d suggest the album doubled in length in the live format and this punter approved; longer renditions of the songs allowed hypnotic grooviness to caress the ears and presented fabulous opportunities for the superb musicians to proffer their skills and talents. It was a marvellous night. Here’s a cheeky clip from Youtube.

Listen to the music, shuffle up your feet

Well, the first Green Man Festival headliner was announced today and, although I hadn’t tipped The Flaming Lips in my last posting, I wasn’t too surprised to hear they would be playing on the Saturday. I’m not delirious with happiness at the choice, nor am I sinking into depths of despair. I think they’ll put on a fine show. The Coles enjoyed this combo at Birmingham’s historic Academy 1 a few years ago although I felt they were slaves to the video accompaniments that formed a backdrop to every song. There was a vaguely contrived wackiness to the proceedings which I wasn’t fully comfortable with although the band surely didn’t expect the dancing girl who had donned a panda costume to pass out with heat exhaustion after the third song.

I’m thrilled with my new iPhone which is a breathtaking piece of kit. I almost sob with joy every time I hold it in my hands. My old and loyal iPod mustn’t feel too jealous as I still love it with all my bleedin’ heart too; I’ll still be using this for all my music and podcast needs especially as my new machine contains 16GB of memory and I have over 70GB of music to delight in. I’m loving the news feeds (and plethora of other Apps) I can access on my iPhone and the user-friendly and aesthetically pleasing text messaging and emailing functions. I’m playing plenty of chess with gaming geezers on it and generally having a ball. I confess I’m tweeting on my Twitter page a lot more and sense I will be micro-blogging on a much more regular basis.

Turn the treble and...

The first headline act for the Green Man Festival is to be announced next week. A clue from the official website states giddily: ‘they’re one of the best bands in the world ever, they’ve never played Green Man before and we’re literally going out of our minds with excitement!’ Who could it be? I suppose one hepcat’s idea of a top combo is different to another’s. It hints that this group has been around for a goodly while which (possibly) rules out The Decemberists or Midlake. The word ‘best’ is a touch insipid and I’d rather have seen ‘innovative’ or ‘eccentric’ to help the guessing process. My first thought led me to Super Furry Animals but they have already played the Brecon event. A glance across the Atlantic leads me to proffer the names of both Yo La Tengo and the newly reformed Pavement but I have a horrible feeling it might be housewives’ favourites Elbow taking the stage one late evening next August. Or it might be Sonic Youth. Or Primal Scream.

Some people are on the pitch

I must admit to feeling enormous excitement at the World Cup draw last Friday evening. I know I favour the rugby union code of football but I do love soccer’s main event – possibly more than any other sporting occasion. Well, on Friday it was simply a few balls being selected and countries being allocated groups and locations but this viewer was thrilled and was heard to ululate loudly, ‘Not Portugal! Not Portugal!’ when it was time to select a non-seeded European side to face England. As things stand, one must be contented with the draw; U.S.A., Algeria and Slovenia will prove determined but limited opposition and the nation of my birth should progress with ease. I can’t wait. If time allows, I’ll be watching as many games as possible. The side I picked to win the World Cup at the time of the last European Championships, Russia, aren’t even attending so I am a hapless pundit. It is wide open, isn’t it? However, I fancy the Italians, a heady mix of the pragmatic and pulchritudinous, to come good again and possibly retain the fabled trophy.

I said you've gotta stop chasing rainbows

I’m looking out for something new to read although I’m dipping into one or one things at the moment. The last two books I’ve finished were really enjoyable. Sebastian Faulks’ Engleby was rather different from his classic Birdsong but, nevertheless, compelling and powerful. It’s a first person narrative focussing on the troubled childhood and awkward university years of a socially inept but exceptionally academically gifted misfit. Progressive rock aficionado Mike Engleby is able to breeze into Cambridge but makes appalling decisions and struggles in all social situations away from the lecture halls. Dark happenings, er, happen and Engleby impacts on others’ lives dramatically but, as with many other anti-heroes, you can’t help admiring the central character’s wit and distinctiveness that highlight the humdrumness and conventionality of practically everyone else in the tale. He’s trouble though. Engleby (the novel) is quite unusual and unlike anything I’ve ever read but it’s an absorbing character study that mixes up (the darkest) comedy with plenty of insightful flourishes and magnificent set pieces.

Zoe Heller’s The Believers was a novel I just picked up, started reading without any great excitement or expectation but ended up loving. Heller paints glorious characters and her depiction of the Litvinoff family, a hugely dysfunctional group, headed by prominent liberal New York lawyer Joel and his waspish English wife Audrey. The couple’s three children Karla, Rosa and the adopted Lenny are as different as chalk, cheese and, heck, ectoplasm and the glimpses Heller offers into their lives are packed with wonderful detail and crushingly satirical elements. Essentially the plot evolves after Joel suffers a serious stroke and the family along with other fringe players come to terms with new circumstances. It’s a biting look at left wing politics, political correctness, race, religion and social class – enough for any novel to be sinking its teeth into – and hits the target again and again. Few of the characters are truly likeable but it’s a rare pleasure when key players’ selfishness and awkwardness are exposed with richly comic consequences. This is probably the most enjoyable book I’ve read all year.

The nature of all greatness...

I congratulate my favoured rugby union team on a hard-fought but merited victory over a spirited and hard-running Newcastle this afternoon. Gloucester are much improved from the ramshackle rabble that proffered mediocre fare earlier this term and I am delighted to note a considerable improvement in handling skills, commitment and forward grunt. Despite a tricky twenty minute period in the first half when the visiting side conspired to play some keen and incisive football, the city club won plenty of the key confrontations and offered a fairly simple gameplan that lacked a touch of ambition but made the hard yards, forced mistakes and clinched crucial penalty decisions. Oliver Morgan made a pleasing return to the side and this supporter welcomed his strong running, purposeful chasing and trademark catching acumen. We’ve missed him. Elsewhere, Rory Lawson enjoyed a busy match and linked generally well with half-back partner Nicky Robinson. The ebullient centre Eliota Fuimaono-Sapolu was probably the outstanding back with several sniping runs at the heart of the Newcastle defence while ‘Big’ Dave Attwood took a further stride towards a deserved ‘Player of the Season’ gong with another towering performance in the ‘engine room’. I am encouraged but not carried away by my side’s recent form. The spectre of relegation appears to have abated for the time being and has been replaced by the mundane but comforting cosiness of mid-table respectability. Time will tell if a top six finish beckons; if Gloucester can salvage Heineken Cup qualification from such an unpromising autumn it shall be an achievement of epic proportions.

Wall of Noise

I salute the beat combo Primal Scream for journeying to the (ye?) historic city of Gloucester last Thursday; their set at the compact and bijou Guildhall proved loud, merry, vigorous, up-tempo, melodic, rifftastic and loud. When a ‘big’ group attends the Guild, it’s part recital, part happening and the plethora of hepcats in attendance (some e’en travelling all the way from Cheltenham Spa) indicated that the scene was celebrating itself effervescently. The Scream rocked and rolled with insouciance and cool. The lead vocalist Bobby Gillespie played the part of lead vocalist Bobby Gillespie with wit and swagger, sprinkling a sprinkle of Michael Philip Jagger into a performance of gleeful pop/rock; the fellow, approaching his fiftieth year with alacrity, donned the skinny-hipped trousery, shook his tousled locks, shimmied and swayed like a young ‘un and belted out belters. The band proffered tight and energetic backing and ‘twas merry to witness the legendary Mani wielding his bass and conjuring up a no-nonsense masterclass in riddimic rigour. Highlights included strutting versions of Rocks, Swastika Eyes, Country Girl and Suicide Bomb but this ageing character particularly appreciated a courteous doff of the cap towards some Screamadelica classics: a quick blast of Loaded and Movin’ On Up (and a slow song I’ve forgotten the name of) and it was suddenly 1991 and I was wearing desert boots and plaid shirts and looking young again. I enjoyed this concert and offer gratitude to the movers and shakers at my local Arts Centre for arranging such lively entertainment.

It wasn't then a Beatles song

I’m not prone to boasting but whenever I attend a concert with the good-natured A, I tend to post my report a few days before him. It’s not a competition of course. However, he’s beaten me to it this time with an articulate and worthy review of the evening he, S and I spent on Monday visiting The Fall in Bristol. He’s even proffered his recordings of all the songs they played and I simply can’t compete.

It proved a lot of fun. It’s always merry to chalk up a new venue and The Metropolis, near the centre on the Cheltenham Road, was a small but perfectly formed place which joins the pantheon of the numerous arenas I’ve pitched up at to catch Mark E. Smith and his cohorts. I suppose Monday was a fairly typical but nonetheless enjoyable recent-period Fall set with an extremely tight band belting out up-tempo riff-joy underpinned by (Mrs Smith) Elena Poulou’s driving keyboard sturm und drang and, of course, the man himself singing/mumbling/screaming his words of wisdom into any available microphone. It’s been two and a half years since my last Fall gig (at Oxford’s Zodiac) and I’m happy to report a continuation of the fine form I witnessed then. This is a cool group. This is a cool group.

We sit here in torpor by our old fireside and just agree to differ

12-9 is such a comfortingly old-fashioned scoreline. You can sniff the embrocation in those lowish multiples of three; gnarled forwards of yore paid their doughty dues during 12-9 epics while fancy-dan three-quarter team-mates shivered. It’s a back-to-basics score, an unfashionable glimpse into past times, into mudbaths, into half-time team talks on the pitch, into the shadowy mindsets of Malcolm Preedy and Bobby Fowke. If 12-9 were a TV Show it would be a murky World In Action exposé from 1973, it’s Lieutenant Pigeon playing Mouldy Old Dough on Top of the Pops, it’s the Winter of Discontent crossed with an especially violent episode of The Sweeny, it’s a rusting Chopper bike with a slightly flat tyre, it’s a Noddy Holder sideburn of a score. I’ve missed good old 12-9. And last night’s thoroughly exciting 12-9 victory for the Gloucester club of Gloucester against a decent Leicester outfit proved extremely pleasurable. Welcome back.

This was not a classic match but, after weeks and weeks of wistful woes and winless worries, it was wondrous to witness my favoured team playing with the passion, intensity and wholehearted grunt that the inhabitants of the popular side demand. Although concerned by a singular lack of game plan and a significant inability to carry the pill across the try-line, this punter heralds a vast improvement in handling skills, a noticeably accomplished adherence to the arts of the scrums and lines-out, and a reinvigorated rolling maul. Last night’s forward pack caught this eye. It was a mixture of the mature and coltish. Old dogs Buxton and Boer bustled and bruised for the cause with gleeful abandon, their uncompromising work rate and unselfish fetchin’, carryin’, tacklin’ and sweatin’ all indicatin’ a deep affection for the historic club and an acknowledgment that its values and ethos must survive. Younger tyros Attwood and Dawiduik rampaged earnestly too, concentrated well and mixed a youthful gallop in the loose to adherence to the necessities. Behind the scrum, David ‘Dave’ Lewis gave a curate’s egg of a performance, blending iffy passing and slow service with ebullient breaks and zestful sprinting. Young Freddie Burns, donning the famed ten shirt, looks a sparkling prospect; the fellow played heads-up rugby union with a refreshing confidence and is certainly one for the (near-) future. Burly Tim Molenaar is coming into some form too and I appreciated the abrasive Kiwi centre’s rough and ready running; he combined well with the burlier Tongan menace Vainikolo rather well.

Of course there were negatives to Gloucester’s play to counteract the numerous positives but last night wasn’t about detailed analysis and over critical debates. It was about winning and winning with spirit. The last twenty minutes saw this supporter shake off his disquiet about this season’s form and disappointments and shout his ruddy head off, celebrating the referee’s blast at no-side with rare excitement. It was a smashing occasion and the sentimentalist in me relished the scenes as the exhausted yet victorious yeomen paraded in front of the throng. My word, it was wonderful to see the noble Jake Boer among the lads, arms aloft and soaking up the affection. Excitement is back, Jake is back, the Gloucester dog is back and 12-9, in all its low-scoring, edge-of-set majesty, is back too. Hurrah.

Society

I can’t get over how many people pitch up to watch features screened by the Cheltenham Film Society. I trotted over to the Bacon Theatre on Tuesday to view, at the invitation of J, a Brazilian production, Linha de Passé and was stunned to witness throngs of gentlefolk flocking into the building. I genuinely believed there was something else on at the complex; I’m so used to watching films at Gloucester’s Guildhall in an audience of twenty or so (on a good night) that I was thrown by such a multitude. About 250-300 cinema lovers attend each screening at Cheltenham and this rather heartens me but, simultaneously, makes me a tad disappointed that my merry home city lags behind its more well-groomed neighbour. Anyhow, my visit was wholly positive and I’ll attend again and possibly even join.

The film itself proved engaging and thought-provoking. Linha de Passé transports the viewer into a rough and ready Sao Paulo ghetto and scrutinises the lives of an ageing and impecunious single mother and her four sons all of whom scheme and dream of ways out of their impoverished existences. One son dreams of becoming a top footballer and the resultant fame and fortune; one, a petrol pump attendant, is drawn to intense evangelical worship; another seeks money and women and is tempted to supplement a courier’s meagre income with the spoils of increasingly less petty crime; and the youngest, significantly darker skinned than his siblings, sporadically attends school, possesses plenty of streetwise impudence and obsesses about becoming a bus driver. Rich stories of the quartet intertwine offering dark glimpses of the despair that accompanies an inability to escape inequity and poverty; lighter moments indicating earthy humour and a reassuringly benevolent community spirit offer some relief. Hope and hopelessness arrive in equal measures but hopelessness always seems to vanquish.

Nature intended the abstract for you and me

I admit I may have become a Green Man Festival bore in the weeks after last summer’s event. I think the rank disappointment of the previous couple of years, when cold, hard and wetter than usual rain conspired to break the music-lovin’ hearts of my accomplished sidekick and me, had rendered the need for third-time-lucky glee more than crucial. The warm 2009 weather and fine fare and, pardon me, cheerful vibes were heart-warming and welcome. I only say this because I note that ‘early bird’ tickets for next summer’s bash are on sale now. I’m tempted. I don’t self-flagellate (too much) at the prospect of returning to work after a long summer break but a late August sojourn to Brecon did wonders for my, ahem, aura last time and I’m keen to ‘flag up’ a potential intention to attend again. My bet for one of the headliners would be the remarkable Midlake who have a new album out reasonably soon and will be touring in 2010. In my dreams, admittedly over-imaginative and fecund, Midlake would headline on the Friday, The Decemberists would proffer a live version of The Hazards of Love on the Saturday and the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens would wow the crowds on the Sunday and send everyone ‘ome ‘appy. It may yet happen.

I hinted at my admiration for young South-West London collective The XX yesterday and would like to doff my virtual titfer at their splendid debut album now. It’s a hushed and breathy recording reminiscent of the Young Marble Giants’ breathy and hushed classic, Colossal Youth, and it often feels that the youthful band have decided to proffer their listenership as few musical layers as possible at any given moment. A delicate bassline, an occasional strum of a gee-tar, a mere dab of a drum, and sparse electronic musings underpin really beautiful songs of love and youthful considerations. The male/female voices permeate proceedings tenderly and volunteer a conversational tone to the songs that certainly appeals. Their self-titled debut, although whispered and minimalist in texture, possesses a swagger and complexity that utterly engages. All the songs are splendid but my favourite is probably Crystalised with its subtle call-and-respond vocals and wry quiet-(fairly)loud-quiet backing sounds that transport me effortlessly back to 1979 or maybe even 1980. Recommended.

Underneath and unexplored

Earlier today I flicked through this month’s Q Magazine in the palatial environs of Gloucester’s historic Northgate Street branch of J Sainsbury. My heart sank. I was keen to scan the pages to discover what their favoured 50 albums of 2009 were and, alas, my view that Q is a music magazine for people who don’t really like music that much was fortified. I know I’m at risk of sounding an utter snob but the Q list was as conservative and mundane and life-unaffirming and unadventurous as I feared. The top ten contains one album I rather like (Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Pavilion) and one album I quite like and might like a bit more when I have played it a few more times (Phoenix’s Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix). The rest is a landfill into which has been unceremoniously tipped insipid and obvious ‘delights’ by U2, Lily Allen, flippin’ Kasabian, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and, at number two, heck, the unspeakable Florence and the Machine. A couple of weeks ago I tapped out a shortlist of twelve or thirteen albums I regard as the year’s best and only four of my choices sneak into Q’s fifty. I can’t believe The Decemberists’ The Hazards of Love or The XX's sizzling self-titled, er, sizzler aren't there. I apologise if I’m sounding a touch self-regarding in sneering at this publication for daring not to share my views and I admit I’m probably over-reacting a touch but I do rely on the December issues of the music press to prompt me into hoovering* up anything lovely I may have missed over the past twelve months. I’m going to go and have a lie down. I'll put my soap-box away and look forward to my Uncut delivery.

The full list is available (and discussed very eloquently) here. It’s not all bad. An interesting list of 2009's well-reviewed albums can be found at the fascinating metacritic site.

*Other vacuum cleaning devices are available.

Strange Currencies

Last night was rather marvellous. A quartet of ageing hipsters set sail for Stroud and an evening of splendid musical entertainment. Rodborough’s Prince Albert public house was hosting a trio of wonderful acts, with Celtic pop imp, Euros Childs, headlining proceedings. A brief word about the venue. The Prince Albert proved a charming base for jollity, a non-corporate old-style boozer with roaring fire, fine ales, pet dogs striding - wi'out menace - around the carpet and walls covered in esoteric and eye-catching artefacts. The main (only?) bar was an ample L-shape and, without trying to be Madison Square Garden, accommodated plenty of proud punters perfectly.

The music moved the masses merrily. Men Diamler crooned and ululated with passion and verve and ‘is traditional fervour. His dark offerings provided glimpses into forbidding worlds of boneless dogs and other disturbing images. The second act, Sweet Baboo (later to re-emerge as Childs’ bassist) inhabited similar shadowy territory. I liked the fellow’s stuff; he played his guitar eloquently and proffered slightly personal themes tinged with rather oblique imagery.

The main event was a class above though. I’d caught former Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci frontman Euros Childs at Green Man Festival a couple of years ago and appreciated his balmy and bewitching pop sensitivities immensely. What I enjoyed then, I enjoyed last evening albeit in the most cosy and appealing surroundings (as opposed to a mud-splattered field). Childs’ songs are defiantly lo-fi, self-accompanied on fairly basic keyboards, but warm the heart with their sumptuous and sanguine melodies and off-kilter and eccentric subject matter. Verily, the gentleman sang of his love of mayonnaise, the coolness of his fridge and the toilet habits of an imaginary pet monkey and it all made perfect and lovely sense. Childs performed with warmth and humour and the acclaim of a grateful audience was deserved and manifest. I salute this artist.

I recommend the album Son of Euro Child which is available for free download here. It has harvested super reviews and has given this scribe remarkable pleasure. Please enjoy the chap playing album highlights, Like This? Then Try This and How Do You Do?, in his own front parlour.

Merging with a grain of sand

Verily, this is the season of gigs and the latest recital took place last night: Grizzly Bear at Bristol’s Anson Rooms. Mr and Mrs Cole attended and we spent a goodly time before the event enjoying the peculiar ambience of a Students’ Union building. Hipsters galore paraded; some tried too hard but I empathised. A and A joined I and I; ‘twas jolly. The support act was St. Vincent (a solo female artist, for the uninitiated) whom I last viewed/heard supporting the young prince of popular music, Sufjan Stevens, almost exactly three years ago. I appreciate this vocalist’s arty, artful, angular offerings and her songs from the interesting and clever long player, Actor, proved an agreeable hors d’ouvre to the main event. I have rated Grizzly Bear e’er since a remarkable set at last summer’s Green Man Festival and I am gradually acquainting myself with the critically acclaimed recent album, Veckatimest. I sense that the Anson Room’s rather unsatisfactory sound quality didn’t help this group’s cause but, despite a somewhat muffled result, their haunting and ethereal harmonies hushed and wooed a large and expectant multitude. This is a talented collective, playing a range of instruments with acumen and singing really beautifully. The range of voices within the band is quite staggering and it makes for a unique and breathtaking resonance. The drummer was brilliant and I am keen to salute his all-action and effervescent display of stickmanship. I recommend.

Vegemite

Tuesday night at Kingsholm was special and exciting. The 36-5 scoreline flattered Gloucester’s Australian visitors a tad and it was pleasing to witness an abrasive pack performance with plenty to celebrate both in tight and loose. I appreciated Paul Doran-Jones’s adherence to the front row basics and I thought young hooker Darren Dawiduik enjoyed an energetic and bright match. Returning hero Jake Boer performed splendidly for the full eighty minutes with his trademark uncompromising ball-carrying catching the eye again and again; it was rather emotional hearing the legend’s name announced before kick-off with a resounding roar from the popular side indicating huge affection for this fabulous servant. Behind the pack Tom Voyce seemed more at home as a wing-threequarter while Freddie Burns, wearing '15', seemed full of spark and initiative. Alas, the team struggles at half back. David ‘Dave’ Lewis ran with vigour upon the sacred turf but his passing proved poor and a chance or two went begging. Carlos Spencer is off the pace and a shadow of his former elegant and inspirational self; time for the celebrated Kiwi to move on methinks.

Simply, Gloucester vs. Australia represented a cracking occasion. It was merry to attend a match where neither league points nor knock-out cup status were at stake and it certainly reminded me of the old days when this supporter would shout himself hoarse at a ‘mere’ friendly fixture. I’m growing tired of high pressure and mundane rugby football and Tuesday’s splendid event acted as a pleasing antidote to such humdrum fare.

You know this scene is very humdrum

The Coles went to the nearish and notable city of Bristol on Monday and packed plenty in; a monumental Chinese meal and a trip to @Bristol proved particular crowd pleasers. Personally, it was merry to shop in Fopp, my favoured music store chain which has an outlet at the bottom of Park Street. To be honest, I could have spent longer in there as racks and racks of utterly tempting treats costing as little as 3 or 5 British quids were beckoning me brazenly. I ended up purchasing Our Favourite Shop by The Style Council (as I only read glowing reports of this long player) and a Brazilian post-punk recording by the esteemed 1980s combo As Mercenarias called, rather apocalyptically, The Beginning of the End of the World. I quite like investigating Brazilian records; I have a theory that you can choose a genre (1960s psychedelia, synth-pop, funk, post-punk) and the canny South Americans were producing incredible variants on what their earnest British and American counterparts were crafting. They can play association football a bit too. The As Mercenarias album is fine but a bit shouty and hectic; I prefer my post-punk to convey mystery and gloom and an existential otherness.

Talking of post-punk (this isn’t thrown together, you realise), my favourite Fopp acquisition was a remarkably interesting tome, Totally Wired: Post-Punk Interviews and Overviews by Simon Reynolds. Essentially, this book is a companion volume to the splendid and indispensable Rip It Up but, instead of scholarly prose about that wonderful musical movement, consists of countless delightful interviews with key post-punk movers and shakers. There are too many highlights to mention but, as ever, anything coming out of Green Gartside’s mouth is worth listening to and I liked learning that all he listened to during his youth were recordings of John Peel shows which he’d play again and again during the week. Edwyn Collins wryly looks back at Orange Juice and is agreeably pithy; Steven Morris examines with a refreshing candour the myth of Joy Division and Ian Curtis; Phil Oakey scrutinises early Human League and the impact of sudden fame; Andy Gill, despite Gang of Four’s serious and stern image, emerges as self-deprecating and humorous; and Alan Rankine warmly observes the flawed genius of his Associates band-mate Billy Mackenzie. Totally Wired is a tremendous read and a glorious reminder of, in my opinion, the greatest, most challenging and important field of music that these shores have fostered and nurtured.

What are the implications of the club unit?

I’ve used the last day or three to view (on Digital Versatile Disc) a couple of feature films that for one reason or another I missed when the local and outstanding Guildhall Arts Centre proffered them recently. Both motion pictures possessed an association football theme.

The Damned United was based on the wondrous novel by David Peace and focussed on the infamous forty-four days that Brian Clough managed Leeds United in 1974. I preferred the book. Its pages successfully portrayed the fragility of Clough, his drinking, his insecurities, his reliance on the canny and level-headed Peter Taylor, his uncontrollable ego, his strutting arrogance and his undoubted genius. The feature proved mightily entertaining though. The remarkable casting needs to be saluted. The key characters of, inter alia, Don Revie, Billy Bremner and Taylor were represented accurately and wittily while Michael Sheen’s portrayal of Clough was utterly remarkable and completely mesmerizing. I noted and appreciated the film’s successful attempts to sum up soccer in the 1970s with its complex concoction of brutality and bewitching skills, muddy fields of play, the peeling paint of the stadia and array of multifaceted characters on and off the proverbial park. The Damned United (movie) was a pleasure, an agreeable and nostalgic glimpse at a footballing era that lacked the finesse and moneyed (excuse the pun) sheen of today’s sport but remains forty-four times more interesting.

Looking For Eric was tremendously pleasurable. I was concerned that veteran director Ken Loach had crossed the line into a rather gimmicky realm by making a film where the central character, downtrodden postman Eric Bishop, enjoys an imaginary relationship with retired footballing genius Eric Cantona. However, the two interact beautifully as the Frenchman offers up philosophical gems and more earthy maxims in advising the hapless Bishop to face up to a series of dismal circumstances. The postman’s relationships with his ex-wife, his stepsons, his daughter and his tight-knit colleagues are examined with warmth and intelligence and glimpses into a somewhat bleak life are handled tenderly and, while all the social-realist boxes are ticked, there are enough happy outcomes to warm the hardest of hearts. The interplay between a host of beautifully painted characters is exquisitely and subtly created and this viewer found the camaraderie and community spirit of Bishop’s friends especially striking. Several stunning set-pieces raise laughter, arouse fear or anguish and provoke thought while the final scenes, vivid and unusual, conclude the narrative really satisfyingly. Looking For Eric is an understated and lovingly constructed nugget and I recommend it willingly.