In Memoriam

Growing up, it fascinated me that my parents would always (every single day) read out loud the names of people who had died from the hatches, matches and dispatches column of the Huddersfield Daily Examiner (or, as we fondly named it, The Exaggerator - "Leaf On Line Brings Train To Standstill", and all-time favourite:

Martin Hoyle was arrested by police after a passing motorist found a Staffordshire bull terrier, called Badger, having sex with him at the side of a road in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire. Prosecutor Ben Crosland said the couple had stopped to help because they thought Hoyle was being attacked by the animal but when they got closer they saw that he had his trousers round his ankles, was down on all fours and the dog was straddling him from behind.

Another passing motorist contacted the police and Hoyle was arrested as he walked with the dog down the road. Hoyle, of Marsh, Huddersfield, told police, "I can't help it if the dog took a liking to me. He tried to rape me." He repeated the rape allegation at the police station and added, "The dog pulled my trousers down." Hoyle, who has a long-standing alcohol problem, was jailed for 12 months after he admitted committing an act which outraged public decency.

His barrister said Hoyle had no memory of the incident because of his drunken state, but was now very remorseful and incredibly embarrassed. Jailing him, Judge Alistair McCallum told Hoyle, "Never before in my time at the bar or on the bench have I ever had to deal with somebody who voluntarily allowed himself to be buggered by a dog on the public highway. Frankly it is beyond most of our comprehension. It is an absolutely disgusting thing for members of the public to have to witness."

But I digress...that my parents used to read out the names of the recently departed is not unusual. It turns out this happened in the households of all my friends too. How morbid, I used to think. In recent times, however, I've taken to reading the obituaries in The Guardian every day. And not just the great and the good. The Guardian encourages the general public to send in obituaries for their own dearly departed, regardless of whether they've ever graced the pages of Hello or Heat magazine, or been interviewed by Parky. I like this.

I've been moved to tears during my morning coffee in the café recently by a couple of obituaries. One was for Pat Kavanagh, the literary agent. I'd read her name many times in articles over the years, but knew very little about her. Clive James wrote a beautiful piece about a woman who was hugely admired and respected, but didn't suffer fools gladly:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/oct/21/publishing

The second is Oliver Postgate, creator of well-loved characters such as Bagpuss, The Clangers, Ivor The Engine, but also of a less well known favourite of mine, The Pogles of Pogles' Wood. Much has been written about Mr Postgate this week. Well-respected and liked, he was the kind of lovely man to create brilliantly simple cartoons and animation and imbue them with such warmth and humanity. You only have to hear that voice... Here are just some views on his work:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/dec/10/bagpuss-oliver-postgate

But one of the best was the piece written by top journalist, Charlie Brooker. Never afraid to rip the heart out of anything he thinks worthless, Mr Brooker brought a tear to my eye with his piece about King Clanger:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2008/dec/13/charlie-brooker-screen-burn-oliver-postgate

Oh, I Do Like To Rock Beside The Seaside...

As a kid, most of my holidays were spent in little B&B's, presided over by bustling landladies in pinnys and slippers. I used to listen enviously as friends told of holidays at Butlins, with its knobbly knee competitions and Redcoats. How I dreamed wistfully of such glamour...

My chance to visit Butlins for the first time came when some friends had a spare berth in their chalet for an All Tomorrow's Parties weekend to be held in Minehead. The weekend was to be curated by Mike Patton (sigh) and the Melvins. At first, I resisited. When Soulsavers announced they were playing, with the wondeful Mr Lanegan in tow, I buckled and gave in.

We drove down on Friday - me, Tabby, Nads, Chris - taking about 4 hours from London. This included a Tesco stop, so we could stock up on Pot Noodle, Jaffa Cakes and booze (essential Rock fodder). Minehead is a pretty town, nestling in tree-covered cliffs. Butlins is right on the seafront. Our chalet was perfect - a Formica home-from-home. Tom and Ulanda arrived from Whitstable and our party was complete.

Bands seen over the weekend:

• Melvins 1983 - Good way to start. Buzz Osborne's hair is as big and bouncy as ever with tunes to match.
• Dirtbombs - good tunes, but sound was a bit disappointing on the vocals.
• Isis - great drone - superb
• The Locust - wild. Men in insect outfits playing what can only be described as post-punk-jazz-doom-John -Wyndham-core (creating new genres became a fave pastime of the weekend...)
• Meat Puppets - the Kirkwoods done good.
• Os Mutantes - ohmifuckinggod! How to describe - psych-meets-samba-meets-circus-freakery all done with a beaming smile. Brilliant but odd.
• Butthole Surfers - I have a crush (one of my many) on Gibby Haynes. Because he was, and is, at the forefront of making music that pushes people into places they wouldn't normally go. And he's hugely tall and does a brilliant wobbly leg move on stage. And you never know what he'll do next. Swoon.
• Mastodon - considering these guys were a guitarist down, they ROCKED that hall. Consummate metal showbiz. Superb.
• Fantomas - what to say? Mike Patton is a supremely talented individual with an amazing voice. He's joined by an equally amazing line-up - Buzz on guitar, Trevor Dunn on bass, and Dave "Slayer" Lombardo on drums. And they performed the Director's Cut, an album of film orchestration done in metal-thrash style, but often staying faithful in parts to the original. They were simply breathtaking.
• Martina Topley-Bird - lovely voice, lovely frock.  A real breath of sweet air amongst all the Heavy. Did a cover of one of my fave Kate Bush songs Army Dreamers. Didn't murder it either.
• Teenage Jesus & The Jerks - Lydia being Lydia. Jim Sclavunos - yes please. Immaculate drumming and not a man boob in sight under that shirt which got slowwwwly opened button by button. The tease.
• Soulsavers - oh, Mr Lanegan. If only you knew what your voice does to me. I waited up until 2am to see this and he was worth the wait. Nice use of gospel voices too. Lovely.
• James "Blood" Ulmer - saw this cool old blues dude a while back at the Barbican with Vernon Reid and the Punk Funk Allstars. Still got those blues...
• Joe Lally - please, if there is a God, let Fugazi reform. Joe has a sweet voice and plays that bass like an angel. Although all this solo stuff didn't quite hit it, some of the tunes were real growers.

Other highlights included:

• Me being chased by a huge, bearded man (who became known as Treebeard), who insisted that "I only want to touch her" to my doubled-up-with-laughter friends. I had to actually RUN away from him in the venue.
• When the car radio wouldn't work, I said it might if I blew on it, which caused much cynicism. So I blew on it...and it worked. Magic.
• Lovely walk on the seafront
• Seeing Mike Patton up close and realising that he really is still GORGEOUS.

And that's about it. We drove back on Sunday evening (work beckoning - I hate that work rubbish...gets in the way of a good time...). Back next May for the Breeders ATP. Hi-De-Hi!

Shearwater And Other Birds

An old church is a pretty good place for a gig. Great acoustics, impressive decor, and a sense that something truly amazing might happen (with a helping hand from the Big Rock 'n' Roller In The Sky). So two consecutive nights in the same church (St Giles-In-The-Fields) for two top line-ups was like being in...well, er...heaven.

First up - Andrew Bird. The Brummie and Screwster very kindly bought me a ticket to this show as a birthday present (top gift - beats the shit out of talc or soap-on-a-rope). We met up in The Angel (fave pub - second home) for a pint beforehand. Good job too - no beer in the Lord's house! What? Everyone knows that Jesus And The Gang were quaffing red wine like there was no tomorrow back in the Bible Belt. Hypocrites. But as I can actually enjoy myself WITHOUT booze (oh yessir, I can), it matters not a jot. We got nearly the best seat in the house (best seat - naughty pew. Naughty pew is the back pew in the church, so priest/vicar can't see what you're up to, and you can sneak out easy), but we stood behind the naughty pew, so pretty perfect. Not technically a seat, but good nonetheless.

We'd missed the support, and Andrew Bird came on virtually straight away. And what a performance. That boy can sing, play guitar, play violin and whistle. He whistles like a total dream (well-known fact - I love whistling and my Dad was a great whistler). Loops all of this to make an orchestral sound, building up then paring it back down. Hugely talented. I'm not really too familiar with his work, but I had a great time, and his fans were definitely all out to see him. At one point, though, I was distracted by the homeless guy who'd come into the church, who sidled down the side aisle, then walked right in front of the altar (stage) and stuck two fingers up at Andrew Bird. I just pissed myself laughing.

When we left the church, we went back to The Angel for a nightcap and chat about the gig. As I started to say "well, he was just great and very polished and perfect but...", the Brummie piped up "I know what you're going to say" and weirdly enough, she really did. I was thinking about David Thomas Broughton (AKA Ginger Angel), who also loops his guitar, voice, whistle etc, in such a fascinating, shambolic but beautiful way - much more my cuppa. Less immaculate, more imaginative and exciting. Brummie agreed. And then we chatted about their forthcoming wedding, which gets me overexcited. Aaahhhh, romance...

Getting good value for money at a gig is a real priority in these cash-strapped times, so to see 4 acts in one night for £12 is SERIOUSLY cheap. I think you can safely say that any night put on by Howard & Lucy of The Local is always a bargain. Not just acts/£ ratio, but because they put on quality for your buck, and not just slot fillers. My second evening in St Giles' was spent with Bernie and Kieran, and we were joined at the last minute by Nadine (I'll be doing ATP Nightmare Before Christmas at Butlins Minehead with her in a few weeks - hi-de-hi!). Met up in The Angel (where else) for a quickie, then got into the church just in time to see Birdengine take the stage. And we got the naughty pew this time - result. 

I like Birdengine. Sadly, we missed a stellar lineup by The Local at Cafe OTO a few weeks ago (I was ill, it was a Monday) comprising Samamidon, Doveman and Birdengine. I can only imagine how bloody great that was. But finally I get to see him. And he's funny and odd. Anyone who has a song about spending his summer ripping heads off dogs then sewing the heads back on gets a big thumbs up from me. Greg Weekes of Espers comes on next. Good, but he just doesn't float my boat. So we pop back to The Angel for some whistle-whetting...

On our return, Absentee are taking the stage. I've wanted to see them since I read an article in The Guardian by Steven Adams (Broken Family Band) about them and their new album Victory Shorts. I liked the sound of them (thanks to a witty piece by Mr Adams too - looking forward to seeing him play again soon), so was quite excited. And they delivered. The singer, Dan, has a very deep voice (sigh) - the sort that can shift your last meal in your stomach at a hundred paces. From the stuff I've heard previously, I think they did a toned-down set befitting a church. Top stuff, though. Made me want to see them in a different setting soon.

And last but definitely not least - Shearwater. They have such a BIG sound. Haunting, beautiful stuff. And really very spiritual, which sent a shiver down my spine on more than one occasion during their set. This gig-in-a-church lark really does have a lot going for it. Well done to The Local folk.

By the time we left the church, last orders had been called at The Angel (good, old-fashioned pub sticking to 11pm closing), so I turned down a jaunt to the Crobar (not in the mood for Whitesnake after that folky loveliness) and got a lift back to Crouch End with B&K. Called me old mucker Hawkwind and we had a nice candlelit nightcap in the Queens...and then another in the Kings...well, after such a good night, it'd have been rude not to...

Blog Post For Doomed Youth

Once I'd bought my Sunday paper (Observer), I tried to find a quiet café so I could have decent coffee and a long read. No room at my usual inn, so I had to have a bit of a traipse around until I found one that wasn't full of prams and kids (miserable, barren old spinster that I am). Eventually, I got lucky.

Today wasn't just any Sunday - Remembrance Sunday is the closest Sunday to November 11th, a date when countries pay homage to the citizens they have lost in armed conflicts. The date was made official by King George V in 1919, to mark the end of World War I. Each week in the Observer Magazine, there is a one page Q&A called This Much I Know. The subject normally imparts a bit of the wisdom they've picked up along their life's path and a few observations on mankind are normally chucked in for good measure. Today's subject was Henry Allingham, a veteran of World War I, now aged 112. I read his thoughts, observations and memories and was so touched by his basic decency and humility that it made me get tearful in the bloody café (according to this whole blog, I blub at the drop of a hat, it would seem). 

Once I'd finished reading this article, I sighed a huge sigh and turned the page to the next article...about Russell Brand. I closed my mag. After Henry's piece, any glib bit of shite about what a nightmare Russell's life has become since Manuelgate and how he's had to run away to LA to escape the misery might have left me standing screaming and shredding my mag to pieces in front of Crouch End café society.

I watched a top documentary about Wilfred Owen, presented by Jeremy Paxman. It traced his entire history, and gave some insight into his friendship with Siegfried Sassoon, which began when they met at Craiglockhart Military Hospital in Edinburgh. Sassoon helped him with language and worked with him on his technique. As a result of this friendship, Owen's poetry took flight, becoming perhaps the most important from the First World War, if not the most important war poetry of all time. As a kid, I remember reading the following poem by Siegfried Sassoon, and although it's not the most well-known poem of that era, it must have affected me deeply at the time:

Does it matter?—losing your legs?...

For people will always be kind,

And you need not show that you mind

When the others come in after hunting

To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter ?—losing your sight?...

There's such splendid work for the blind;

And people will always be kind,

As you sit on the terrace remembering

And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?...

You can drink and forget and be glad,

And people won't say that you're mad;

For they'll know you've fought for your country

And no one will worry a bit.

Birthday & Barack

When you get to a certain age (and one should never ask a lady her age), you simply stop making a song and dance about celebrating your advancing years. This year, I haven't felt particularly in celebratory mode - working on an unfeasibly stressful HBOS shoot (haven't they gone bust yet?), struggling with a nasty, achey-breaky cold, and no-one to warm my feet on in bed at night. Grumble, grumble...

But thank the Lord for lovely friends. When the Big Day arrived, I was inundated with texts from 8am onwards, cards in the post (including two drumming lessons!!! Look out, Cozy Powell...) and an endless round of cuppas around the eateries of Crouch End with various loved ones. Then a nice evening meet-up with Smiff, Gina, Barto and Marc in the French House, where we drank lots of French bière. Finishing off with JD in the Kings, JD in the Queens, and a Pot Noodle from Somerfield. Can life get any better, I ask you???

Postscript:  a momentous week in world politics. Barack Obama became the 44th president of the United States. Not normally the type to be taken over emotionally by political events (although I was made up when Labour toppled the Tories from power in 1997), I listened to Sam Cooke sing "A Change Is Gonna Come" this week and I actually filled up. Must be me age.

Postscript 2: How long before The Sun uses "Obama-lama-ding-dong" headline if Barack has to get heavy on some dictator's ass?

Big Black Mummy

Halloween is big business nowadays. Back in the day (go on, girl - try sounding like your Granny, whydontcha?), it consisted of having a turnip (yes, as hilarious as that sounds, I don't think there were any pumpkins round my way when I was a kid - I am laughing as I type this, cos it sounds like a Monty Python Northerner sketch starring Terry Jones as some old woman) with its innards scooped out and made into a lantern. And a bit of apple-bobbing. Not much knocking on doors and expecting lavish sweet treats bestowed upon us by a cheery householder. It'd have been more "sod off, you little nuisances, I'm trying to watch Morecambe and Wise". 

So, on Friday, Blondie and I were lucky enough to be given a couple of passes by The Forum Big Fish to the All Tomorrow's Parties Halloween bash. It was aptly named Release The Bats (one of my favourite Birthday Party songs, dodgy ex-Goth that I am). ATP encouraged the gig-goers to dress in Halloween costume or to come as a character linked to any of the bands playing on the evening. My days of dressing like a ghoul ended in 1986...so Blondie and I agreed that if anyone asked what we'd come as, we'd reply that we'd wet our pants earlier and therefore we'd come as...Pissed Jeans! Genius.

It was a pretty good night - nice to catch up with Big Fish, and also see some bands I'd never seen before. Liked Wooden Shjips, realised I only need to listen to Om in a darkened room (not much happening visually), LOVED Les Savy Fav (plenty to look at there - as soon as I saw the length of his mic cable I knew he was going walkabout), but the highlight and total shock of the evening had to be ex-Big Black leader Steve Albini, now of Shellac. 

Before they came on, I'd run a sweepstake with Blondie, Tabby and Tom regarding Mr Albini's fancy dress outfit. Bets ranged from black t-shirt and jeans, black hooded top and jeans, black hooded top AND t-shirt AND jeans. Footwear - black Converse (why change the habits of 30 years?). Imagine our shock, horror and delight when he came on dressed as a mummy. As in, completely bandaged from head-to-toe, with just a couple of holes for eyes and small mouth hole. AND acted the part. Very, very funny and impressive. Yet again, wish I'd had my Canon with me (iPhone has even crapper camera than the Sony Ericsson) to record the event. Maybe if Fugazi do play next year (there are rumours...), Ian MacKaye will come as a pantomime dame...

God Bless Alan Bennett

My morning (when I'm between styling jobs) generally consists of: walk into Crouch End, buying The Guardian from nice, old newspaper seller in hut (we normally have some sort-of jokey exchange, he comments when I'm late and asks if I had a lie-in - top bloke), going to the Sable d'Or (we call it the Stable Door - not too confident on the French accent thing) to sit with a large coffee, chocolate croissant and to read my paper from cover-to-cover, then do the crossword (quick one only, my fastest time is 4 mins 43 secs, and yeah, I time myself sometimes cos I'm an oddbod).

Lately, the paper has been full of misery (government - hopeless; NHS - knackered; celebrities - idiots; general public - skint), ruining my daily treat (apart from anything written by Charlie Brooker, the wag, cos he's hilarious). Is good news not news? Is there a saying about this? Anyways, last week, I read that Alan Bennett (small, speccy Yorkshireman, author, playwright, oft-called "National Treasure) was donating his entire back catalogue to the Bodleian Library (based in Oxford University). 

Normally, authors sell their back catalogue to make even more money. Mr B is a socialist of the nicest kind. He wants the library and anyone who chooses to use it to benefit from his donation. He doesn't want to make money out of his incredibly valuable drafts, manuscripts, scribblings. He thinks he's made enough. He also stated that as he was fortunate to have enjoyed a completely state-funded education (no top-up fees and student loans in those days), that he should give something back. 

This cheered me up no end. I'm a big fan of the grand gesture (important in romance, but pretty cool in everyday life too), although I'm sure Mr Bennett would be mortified if anyone thought he was being grand. Apparently, two blokes from the Bodleian drove over to his house, had a nice cup of tea, he dug out a few cardboard boxes stuffed with papers, put them in the boot of their car, and said 'I'll be glad to see the back of it, to be honest". Total dude.

Free Bird

Sometimes, it's better not to know what's going on in the world. I try not to watch the news on the TV (or anything else on it, for that matter), mainly cos I don't think they report it in an unbiased manner. I remember watching the news on ITV one night when Lou was over from NY - we shrieked with laughter as the reporter as good as told us that Tony Blair was a bad man. It may be true, but that's for us to decide...

So, when I returned recently from my holiday in France (which was followed swiftly by a weekend at a festival in the countryside), I hadn't had my daily dose of the Guardian for 10 days, and I genuinely didn't have a clue what was going on in the world. I remember ringing one of my contacts that morning ( to touch base, maybe get a bit of work out of him) and him saying "well, what with everything that's going on in the world...), and me saying "eh? Have I missed something? What IS going on in the world?". It turns out that the biggest financial crash for years was going on. For the next two weeks, at least the first ten pages of the Guardian were full of impending dosh doom. Until Gordon saved the world, that is.

And so, I reckoned it was time to batten down the cash hatch and do some free stuff. Free is one of my favourite words - Blondie likes it too, and we often marvel at all the stuff you can do for absolutely nowt. The problem is that seeing lots of lovely live music often involves paying for a ticket. But not if you go to the Sheepwalk in Leytonstone on a Wednesday evening.

The Sheepwalk is a big, old boozer, very trad decor, large wooden bar. Upstairs, there is a function room, and this is where the free fun begins. Each Wednesday, a lovely Irish guy called Stephen runs a night called What's Cookin'?, which usually has a couple of acts/bands on...and it's free. Yes, that's right - entry costs NOTHING. And he gets some great acts. Last Wednesday, me, Blondie and Smiff drove up there in Betty Ford and watched Black Diamond Heavies:



(that organ player - sigh - brunette, voice like crushed glass mixed with a single malt). And we needn't have paid a penny. Stephen has a clever plan - he hands round this huge, oversized, decorative 1970's brandy glass and has a whipround for the band. I love this. This fits perfectly with the venue, which is just one room with a small bar in the corner, and is done out in a kitsch Hawaii-meets-working-mens-club style, of which I heartily approve. Very cool, with a whiff of the homemade about it all. And Stephen is a total sweetheart. I'd love to know if he makes any money at all out of this, but I suspect he does it for the love of it. Maybe some of those greedy City Boys could learn something from a chap like this.

Thursday brought another bargain - the lovely Mr C came up trumps with a guestlist treat for little ol' me to go and see Archie Bronson Outfit at The Roundhouse. I drove over and collected my ticket from the box office, who also gave me a wristband for the aftershow - this was a bit of a bummer, because this could have meant taking advantage of more free stuff (well, bottled water) but I didn't fancy standing around, single and sober, surrounded by a shitfaced Bobby Gillespie and Kate Moss. Gig was bloody good, though. ABO were top, although the audience clapped quite politely, as they were clearly all Spiritualized fans. This is funny, because I am no fan of Spiritualized at all and clapped and whistled loudly and enthusiastically for ABO. Man next to me looked at me in an odd way - "who does this small, noisy thing belong to???". Spiritualized were actually pretty impressive - I'm a sucker for a bit of rock with added gospel/religious overtones.

By Friday, the "free" thing went tits up. As it had been the Brummie's birthday, I'd bought two tickets for her and Screwster to The Local at The Kings Head to see Voice Of The Seven Woods. As I also wanted to go to the gig, I bought another ticket for me. If you can do the math, that's three tickets. As it turned out on the night, they thought that the two tickets were for me and the Brummie, so Screwster bought himself a ticket too. NO! NO! NO! That's four tickets for three people! TOO MANY TICKETS PAID FOR! This made me feel like I'd totally undone all my good "free" work from earlier in the week. So, as penance, I'll be living off Tesco Value beans all week and sitting in the dark.

All That Jazz

Marsden is famous for a few things - home to: League Of Gentleman 'local' shop, Simon Armitage the poet, Standedge Tunnel (longest canal tunnel in Britain), burial place of Enoch Taylor (built the first mechanical textile croppers way back in the early 1800s, an opportunity for  the Luddites to name a big fat hammer after him, which they used to smash his creation), last village before the Pennines head into Greater Manchester (Greater Manchester being "wrong side o' t'hills"), my Mum and an annual Jazz festival.

The Marden Jazz Festival runs for three days, normally held over the second weekend in October. For a small village nestling in the Colne Valley, the festival manages to attract some pretty big names in the jazz world. In the past, I've watched John Etheridge (who also gave a great talk about his times with Stephane Grappelli), Polar Bear (top stuff) and even a bit of Humphrey Lyttelton (RIP, you funny clever man). This year I was lucky enough to catch Empirical, a young quintet from London, who won Mojo's Jazz Album of the Year in 2007. As they started off, I thought that sleepy Marsden wouldn't be ready for such modern jazz. How very dare I... Marsden was clearly wearing its jazzhead and applauded each individual as they showed their prowess. Empirical were a cool, young bunch, dressed in a 20s-Cotton-Club-meets-Jazz-Café look. Loved them.

The rest of the weekend was spent with my family, as this weekend was also the first anniversary of my sister Liz passing away. We spent a lovely Saturday evening together, raising a toast (toasts, actually, and lots of 'em) and general fat-chewing...

Sunday was a beautiful day. Marsden really is spectacular in Autumn - the colours are so vibrant, and it'd have been sacrilege not to don the wellies (any excuse) and go for a bit of a wander:

I was joined by The Gay Fashion Designer and his spaniel Sid. We walked out towards Standedge, and then up the road to Hey Green, a country house hotel. The grounds were bathed in autumn sunshine, making the warmth of the colours seem even richer:

We saw this foxy lady lurking in a dry stone wall:

Walking along, you forget how friendly people are up North - virtually everyone we passed said hello. I might try it up Hampstead Heath ("Darling, did you hear that Northern type trying to strike up a conversation with us? How quaint they are"...). After a couple of hours, we walked back, and I returned to the most heavenly home-cooked Sunday lunch. Naturally, Yorkshire Pudding was a main feature...plain and simple, there's nowt jazzy about the brilliance of that.

The Shows Must Go On...And On...And On...

The plan was to have a quietish week...so when Blondie rang me on the Monday to ask if I fancied going to the Astoria 2 to see the last-ever Hellacopters UK show, obviously I said...yes. Well, it'd be rude to say no to a guestlist place to a sell-out, never-to-be-repeated night. Few pints in the Pillars of Hercules, met up with Tez, Lee & Will Rise Above, Frenchie...and the gig was great. 

Tuesday - lovely quiet night in.

Wednesday - met up with Smiff at teatime, went to the flicks to see Tropic Thunder. Completely hilarious in parts, guffaw-out-loud funny. Am now more in love with RD Junior than ever. Afterwards, we went for a drink at The Big Chill House in Kings Cross. Cool building, with lots of little rooms, nooks and crannies. And then on to King's Place, for the opening of the first purpose built concert hall in London for over 25 years.

Very modern, huge, light, bright - bit like a museum, really. We were here to see John Smith play. John is a guitarist and singer, who I first saw play when he was supporting John Martyn at The Roundhouse a few years ago. He is superb, has a lovely, soft but rasping voice. Does a great cover of No One Knows by QOTSA, but is particularly good on traditional folk, but done his own way. He wasn't on until 11.15pm, so once he'd finished, we had to leg it sharpish for the last tube.

Thursday - another day, another gig...Concrete and Glass is a two day festival, set in all the small venues in the area. Ours was in Hoxton Bar & Kitchen. I met up with Bernie & Kieran, and also with Tabby & Nads (I'll be partaking in holiday camp larks at All Tomorrow's Parties in December with them). We were there for O'Death, but also on the bill were Frightened Rabbit (Scottish indie-rockers - good) and Bodies Of Water (OK...sadly, my main preoccupation was with the main girl singer. She was wearing an all-in-one black leotard, and all I could wonder was..."is she wearing any knickers under that get-up???". Very distracting perhaps, but an interesting insight into the workings of my sorry mind). O'Death were brilliant yet again - they truly go for it, completely unselfconsciously mad and fun and riotous.

Friday - decisions, decisions...I could go to Shoreditch again, to see the wonderful David Thomas Broughton. But would I be overdoing him? Or should I go to The Forum to see Killing Joke (guestlist treat courtesy of dear Tez and the Forum Big Fish)? I opted for The Forum - and what a great choice. I'd thought that it'd just be a bit of nostalgic fun, harking back to my youth. But they more than delivered. From the opening strains of "Requiem", they had the whole crowd with them. Albeit a crowd of forty-something überfans, so no surprises there...finished the night at the aftershow, having a drink with the Germans over from Metalblade and Nuclear Blast. And then Jaz Coleman appeared and kindly let the Germans take a pic with him (they were also überfans). And then I went for a chip butty :) Perfect end to a brilliant and exhausting week. Next stop - Marsden Jazzfest - nice...

Dead Meadow (again) @ 229

It really is no hardship to spend a Saturday evening with my dear friends, watching a band who have the knack of building swirling drone racket down pat. I love these chaps. GuitarGuy is cool (but vocals were a bit quiet). DrumDude has some great chops (skills/hair on face). BassBoy was pissed out of his mind, and I swear when he came back on for the encore, he had to put his glasses on because he wasn't certain if the blurriness was due to whisky or his short-sightedness. They rock, as the young folks say.

Just Wild About Harry

Big day today. My nephew Harry moves to London to study Medicine at UCL. I am so bloody proud of this kid. He was an early talker, always bright as a button:

• I used him as a model on one of my photoshoots years ago, and the photographer nicknamed him The Professor, because Harry asked him for his views on the way the Labour Party was going - he was eight years old...
  
• Once, when going over a bump on a hill in the car, he exclaimed "Mummy, my willy just went beserk!" Which other three year old kids use the word "beserk" to describe that funny pit-of-your-stomach feeling???
• He called me a drunk from an early age, and revels in telling people of my mammoth hangover at his 7th birthday party.
• He was such a stiff a few years ago, so me and his Mum made him have a restyle. I completely changed his look, got him a decent haircut, and from then on, his confidence soared. And the ladies started to notice him too...
• He had a bad knee as a kid. His doctor tried to make out it was all in his head. Dickhead doctor. Luckily, the folks at Great Ormond Street had some better ideas. He still walks with a limp, and it's likely he'll specialise in orthopaedic surgery, so he can help other people who've had problems like him. God bless him.

Nine Go Mad In Dorset (EOTR 2008)

September always makes me excited. It feels like a time of new beginnings (probably going back to the thrill of returning to school after the summer break - and yes, this freak loved going back to school in September). And I love Autumn. So it was pretty much a given that a weekend in Dorset with eight truly brilliant friends, listening to amazing music, eating good food, drinking fine booze and generally pissing about in the beautiful English countryside would be one of the highlights of my September, and probably my 2008. 

Drove down in Betty Ford with Smiff and Marc as passengers. The Brummie and Screwster were in convoy for a big chunk of the way. The journey was uneventful, apart from a small detour when I tried to go back on to a roundabout the wrong way (having just come back from France, I think this was excusable). We hooked up at the festival site with Bernie and Kieran, then found with Steve J and Jo, who'd got to the site earlier and set out to save a chunk of field for our encampment. Giles and Vicky had called Screwster to say they'd hit the campsite too. The weather was looking OK, although a few dark clouds were hovering...

We all managed to get set up sharpish and the kettle went straight on. Suitably refreshed, we all set off for whichever act took our fancy. My first choice of the day was Kelley Stoltz (good). Followed by a second trip back to the car for more beer. Then the heavens opened. And it pissed down royally. Thank the lord for wellies and pac-a-mac. Luckily, I had packed my sunny disposition, so this didn't even come close to dampening my spirits (and I'd had a pint of nuclear waste cider, so I didn't care). Other acts I watched on Friday were: Micah P Hinson (good), Dirty Three (great - Warren Ellis is unfeasibly cool), Dead Meadow (brilliant again) and the most amazing David Thomas Broughton (nicknamed Ginger Angel by me and the Brummie), who never fails to surprise me with his style and invention. I could watch this man forever. And lovely Howard Local on drums, proving that he is more than just a sarcastic git from Rochdale who promotes folk bands (or "industry schmoozer" - DTB's very own words).

Saturday greeted us with brilliant sunshine and blue skies. This was a real treat. And the couple who'd turned up in the dark the previous night whilst it was pissing rain and plonked their tent in the first space they could see, which happened to be in the midst of our little circle of tents...got up and moved their tent. This wasn't an act of kindness on their part. I think one of our party (he knows who he is) may have suggested he might vacate his bowel (but he used some other words) on them and their tent the night before. Still, it worked and peace resumed. We cooked a massive breakfast in Camp Kitchen:

I'd made a little present for the Brummie the night before we set off. A couple of months earlier, we'd had a lovely trip to Heaven Farm in Sussex, where we'd camped and eaten and drank a lot of booze. Their new tent had an awning/porch thing, which became an impromptu stage where we held the very first Elvis Idol. Very, very funny. So I knocked this up for her:

The rest of the day was faultless. The sun continued to shine, I wore my favourite dress:

And I watched some bloody good musicians: The Accidental (they looked so much more relaxed than when I first saw them at a Health & Happiness a few months back and sounded brilliant), Seabear (cute, odd Scandinavians), Noah & The Whale (good), Karima Francis (what a voice from such a wee thing), Sennen (a surprise find in The Local tent), Steven Adams (foolishly, I went off to see Mercury Rev on the Garden Stage after Sennen - they just didn't do it for me, so I went back to watch Mr Adams and realised I should never have left The Local tent, as he was brilliant and funny, has a lovely voice and very cute teeth), Shearwater (very good, but the singer pulled a freaky face when he was hitting the high notes, so I had to watch with my eyes closed). The highlight of the day, however (if not the entire festival) was Bon Iver on the Garden Stage. It was just the most lovely performance of some of the most gorgeous and heartfelt lyrics I've ever seen. Something pretty magical happened. And Justin got the crowd involved in a singalong. An entire crowd in the palms of their hands.....

The evening ended with me and Smiff being very drunk and watching the riotous Folk Orchestra in the Local tent. I saw them when they won Folk Idol at Christmas and again, they were a right laugh, but also very good indeed. Bumped into Ginger Angel (DTB) outside and had an interesting conversation about what timescale would constitute a nap. It was agreed that anything from mere minutes up to 2 hours was OK. Anything more than this, and you have officially gone to bed. This is the sort of important and weighty topics I was discussing with headline acts at 1.30am.

Sunday brought more brilliant acts - except I had a bigger hangover than Saturday, which I battled bravely to combat with painkillers and chocolate. Killer combo - works every time. First up, the Pyramids. I've been waiting so long to see this band. They were due to play with Dead Meadow at the Scala, but cancelled at the last minute. Well worth waiting for. After this, there was a lot of lolling about in the sun at the Garden Stage waiting for my hangover to subside, whilst being serenaded by Kimya Dawson (good, witty, silly - just what the doc ordered). 

I had to leave when Jason Molina came on - my head couldn't take that misery, so I went to see Bob Log III with the Brummie. What a dude. In fact, the word "dude" was invented for this man. He is just a sight to behold, in his black, shiny, mirror-encrusted jumpsuit and motorbike helmet (yes, folks - you read that right). And the man OOOOZES sex. I'd heard he asks for a lady volunteer to come on stage and stir his whisky - with her boob. Boob whisky. I think he has song called this. There are pics on his website to prove this has taken place at least once.

Listening to live music can be a very emotional experience. In a setting like End Of The Road, which is held in the beautiful gardens and woods of a small country house in Dorset, with peacocks wandering among the festival goers, it would be hard not to be moved by a man who can write love songs like Richard Hawley can. The man has such a way with words. I knew that the Brummie and Scewster were massive fans of his. They'd seen him at a tiny gig at The Barfly before he went stellar, and had raved about him. So, the entire group of us went to watch him on Sunday teatime. As the words to each song unfolded, I fell in love with his voice and his lyrics - and in between songs (when dealing with hecklers) with his dry,sarcastic Yorkshire wit. I had a bit of a moment with Smiff, where we talked about me finding love worth having and not settling for less, while he sang of the very same. And then she hugged me at the wrong (or right) time and I burst into tears. Being a bit of a dry, sarcastic Northerner myself, this is not really the norm. Richard obviously hit the right chords with the romantic hidden within me...

Other highlights of the day: pissing about with mates, taking pictures of nonsense (a peacock theme prevailed, naturally):

The evening was spent mainly in the Local Tent. Watched Essie Jain (beautiful girl with a wonderful voice and very clean-looking hair...made me feel like a right scruffy Herbert with my 3-day-dirty-caked-in-dry-shampoo-hair-and-no-shower-baby-wet-wipe-skin) play guitar and keyboard, ably assisted again by Mr Monk on drums and the very brilliant Johnny Bridgwood on bass (double). JB has the loveliest smile and looks at Miss Jain like he is SO honoured to be on stage with her, even though he is clearly a genius on his own instrument.

But the musical highlight of the evening has to be watching the Constantines with my dear mates Bernie and Kieran. I'm not sure how to describe Constantines...massive, massive sound...amazing, animated drummer (ripped his shirt open in the most hilarious-but-cool showoff way)...tight, on-the-button, LOUD, confident, exciting, amazing. They just knew they had it. It was funny to watch Steven Adams and Howard acting like a couple of teenagers getting giddy over a favourite band. But rightly so. I don't use the word "awesome" lightly. I reserve it for things like the Grand Canyon or The Great Pyramid or The Chrysler Building. Not to be used to describe new shoes or a new handbag or a new hairdo. But maybe I could use it for their performance.

Bit by bit, our party broke up, mainly due to inebriation/weariness/middle-age. Not before we lit lots of sparklers and fed Lucy Local a thimble of brandy for looking after us (the thimble of brandy was such a good idea for warming the cockles without sinking into instant pissedness). But the hardcore (me, Smiff and Marc) stayed up and went to the Bimble Inn. I'd had some insider info from Mr Monk that Kimya Dawson and Jeffrey Lewis were to play a secret show at 1.30am. Surely not to be missed...? Except that the info was duff. Next time I see Monk, he's a dead mofo. We waited...and waited...and waited. No show. But we had fun nonetheless. Particularly when the closing tune from Bugsy Malone came on and the entire tent sang along. Accompanied by me on kazoo...We rolled back to our tents at about 4am...

Weakness and weariness were the order of the day as we packed up the next morning. We were all starving, and the clever, eagle-eyed Screwster spotted a chalkboard saying that some stalls were still serving breakfast in the main area. And I quote, "it was only a bit of chalk on a board, but it stood out like neon to me" - funny guy. We all had breakfast burritos. The people who ran the mexican food stall were lovely:

And finally, it was time to say goodbye. Hugs all round, then we climbed back into the car to wind our way back to the big main road and head for The Smoke. A top weekend, in the company of great friends at the very best little festival in Dorset (if not the universe).

PS forgot to mention knee-nook (clever Kieran). If any witty, hairy brunettes with all their own teeth read this blog and want to offer their knee-nook to warm my little feet this winter...

Je Ne Regrette Rien (apart from the snoring)

A while back, part of my family asked me if I'd like to accompany them to the south of France on holiday. I was so touched to be asked that I said yes. I got back from les vacances avec famille today. Things I have learnt this week include:

• Some people play drum and bass and raging techno at breakfast time. These people have now been introduced to John Martyn and Nick Drake.
• Some people wear aftershave. Lots of it.
• Some people snore very loudly. When they're sharing a room. And are lucky not to be smothered in the middle of the night.
• Some people want to watch television when they are on holiday in France. English television via satellite. Programmes like GMTV, Emmerdale Farm and that hospital thing on the BBC.
• Some people are related to me. And I love them regardless.

France is quite lovely. Spectacular countryside. Went to Monaco for the day, as Bro-In-Law is a Grand Prix fan. I never expected a road tunnel to create so much excitement in a 58 year old man.


But I got to see the Casino, which is a lovely example of Art-Nouveau-era architecture, so all was not lost. 

There's an awful lot of dosh floating around in Monaco - literally. Massive yachts fill the harbour, virtually every other car is a Bentley. Liked this little ship best:

Did a bit of pottering about - popped out to the village shop one day, and saw this fella watching the world go by from his balcony:

Un trés cool chien. He couldn't have been any cooler if he'd been wearing Raybans and smoking Gauloises.

I also played with my great-nephew (GREAT??? Who are you - Miss Havisham? You sound about a hundred). He is very cute, as small human beings go:

My niece's snoring became such a problem, I went to the pharmacy to see if I could get some earplugs. The conversation included me saying "je veux acheter quelque choses pour me aider pas d'ecoute" which I thought was pretty good. She seemed to be getting the picture, when I hit her with the pièce de resistance, "l'autre fille dans ma chambre - elle *insert loud imitation of snoring*, at which the lady laughed out loud and went into a drawer and pulled out some ear plugs. Result.

I read (again) Robert Graves' autobiography "Goodbye To All That". I swear I could read this book every year. I might have to ration it. And I listened to lots of Zep, Vetiver, Black Mountain, Cave Singers, John Martyn...and Smog, who I've only just discovered and I am a bit in love with his voice already.

All in all, a few days well spent. If my sister Liz were still alive, she'd have loved it. Even the snoring and the techno.

Pretty Vacant Tuesday

Punk's not dead. In fact it's alive and well and has reinvented itself in the style of a pantomime dame dressed as John Lydon. The very dear Mr C asked us along to Hammersmith Apollo last night for an Audience with The Sex Pistols. While he was whizzing about fixing stuff onstage, we were listening to a sell-out crowd sing-a-long-a-Lydon. Very entertaining. After a summer of festivals, the fellas have obviously got into their stride (unencumbered by bondage pants). Looked much more relaxed than Brixton last year. Got nearly squashed by Phil Jupitus, the big pillock. After-show party wasn't too crazy, though, but fun nonetheless. No Pot Noodle supper this time.

Hot 'n' Nasty (© Humble Pie)

I often find a dose of tequila and dancing my tits off to Hendrix, Zep and The Faces cures most ills. And so, after a particularly stressful week juggling photoshoots, I met the Blonde and Smiff to partake in our monthly worship of all things 70's down at Heavy Load. All gets a little vague, but found this in my Inbox today, so I know I had a good time. Note the attractive sweat patch. Quality.

Sunday involved a huge hangover and eating for England. And my living room resembled an episode of Take Hart, as I painted the backdrop for "The Truth About End Of The Road...". Clearly, I ain't no Rembrandt.

Stiffs

Today started off with a planned walk over to the Heath. I donned my wellies, stuck my headphones on, and set off in the drizzle. The Pixies, QOTSA, Black Mountain got me into my stride. But soon the sun came out, and it was a gorgeous day. As I hit the bottom of the park, I decided to sidetrack and headed into Highgate Cemetery. The last time I came here was when Lou was stranded here from NYC without a visa. That was some time ago, and as we'd gone into the cemetery, the weather turned freaky, like the scene out of The Omen where the priest fella gets spiked...

Nothing like that today - brilliant sunshine followed the earlier downpour, so the cemetery smelled lovely - fresh damp greenery, loads of lavender (not a whiff of rotting flesh to be had). I was looking for some of the headstones I'd found on the last visit, so I could snap them and send them over to Lou in NY (is it a bit odd to send someone pics of gravestones? Hmmm...). My favourites are:

I like the fact that Gordon didn't think Ernest was an important middle name

Great - "Grand Artificer of Mysteries"...much better idea than putting 'playwright' for Mr Sleuth (bet he's turning in his grave about that Jude Law remake, though)

Old Big 'ead himself (no, not Brian Clough, it's Karl Marx)

But taking first prize in the Best Headstone in Highgate competition by a bloody long chalk:

Stunning. I laughed out loud when I saw it. It belongs to Patrick Caulfield, a Pop generation artist, who taught at Chelsea Art School and was a fellow of the Royal Academy. Funnily enough, he's a major inspiration for Julian Opie, who owned the studio I used to work in. Don't know Mr Caulfield's work, but that's a cracking idea for a headstone.

I listened to Vaughan Williams' Greensleeves and The Lark Ascending while I was in the cemetery - suddenly, Josh Homme didn't quite fit in...

On the way back, I walked through the park. I sat on a bench and watched some oddbod with a metal detector. Every time his stick thing made a bleep, he got his trowel (oh yeah, the dude had digging tools) and dug a bit of the lawn up to see what treasure lay beneath. I prayed for Parkie to spot him and kick his fat hairy arse for making holes all over the lovely green pastures. Then, Treasurehunter spots me on the bench and shouts out, "nice wellies, I wish I had some, cos my feet are getting a bit wet". WTF do I say to that? I smiled weakly. He was a Northerner too. Oh, the shame.